I walked out of Birmingham alone, just before noon, heading for the
bombed-out old building in which I had left the Jaguar, with my
Gladstone bag locked in her dickey, or rumble seat. I had not carried
any baggage with me into the city except my razor, toothbrush, knife
and automatic, and my pipe.
It occurs to me that, since she played nearly as useful a part in
my adventures as did my human colleagues, I should perhaps devote a
moment to describing my black Jaguar. I had bought her late in 1937 for
a matter of some four hundred pounds, and except for the war years,
which she waited out in a barn near my home in Coventry, we had been
inseparable ever since. She was one of the mighty Standard Swallow
100s, with a wonderfully reliable three-and-a-half-liter engine, and
as I've said, I once clocked her at a hundred and fourteen m.p.h.
and believed she could do more. She would go from a standstill to
eighty m.p.h. in a matter of twenty-seconds, for her acceleration was
ferocious. Yet she was the smoothest-riding jade I ever owned. Her
brown leather upholstery had faded through the years to a rich old tan,
but her heart was as young as ever. I had lavished on her the affection
that might more properly have gone to a wife or a kennel of hounds; in
my lonely careering about the countryside in these last days she had
amply repaid me. She had been companion and steed and confidante to a
very homesick man.
It was a clear day, with a promise of sultry heat to come that prickled
my body with sweat under the old tweed suit. I tramped briskly along,
thinking of Marion--I thought of her whenever I could, for her sweet
face shut out the menacing usurpers from my mind--until I came in sight
of the wrecked building. As I swung down the hill toward it, I heard
voices raised in argument.
* * * * *
Cautiously I slowed a little, looking nonchalant and disinterested. I
walked past the ruin and from the corner of my eye saw a number of men
(and monsters) clustered around the Jaguar looking at her curiously.
"Aye," said one of them, "that's his, right enough. Black Jaggiar, it
says here on the prints." Two of them were constables. I ambled over.
Now this was a particularly idiotic thing to do, but I must plead
extenuating circumstances. In the first place, I had just been a
partner in the commission of a messy homicide, and was strung up as
high as a barrage balloon. Secondly, I had been hardheaded and coldly
practical for many hours--indeed, since the night of my last murder in
Manchester I had not done an impetuous act, nor played the swaggering
gambler with death for any stakes except the highest. It suddenly came
to me that I must do a doughty deed, act the bold Quixote for once,
to liven up my interest and tone up my reflexes. I was never born to
be an ice-brained plotter, although I had been forced by fate into
that uncongenial role. Rather for me the swirling cape and impetuous
rapier, the big-plumed hat and gallant gesture, the fiery and slightly
ridiculous _beau geste_. So I ambled into the wrecked building.
The men (and monsters) turned to stare at me. I could see the great
brutes of aliens turning orange and green with interest. I had learned
that they often swelled and changed color when intrigued or alarmed.
"Cheero," I said vacuously. "What's up?"
One of the group, a portly constable with a red face, eyed me dourly
and said, "Stranger 'ereabouts, sir?"
"I'm on a walking tour," said I. "Just spent a night in Birming'm. Saw
you chaps in a rum sweat over something, thought I'd have a dekko.
Dashed sleek-lookin' car, what?"
"Ar," said the constable, observing my boots. They were stout and old,
the very thing for a walking tour. "You know anything about motors,
sir?"
"Me? Lord, no," said I. I then giggled, which pained him visibly. "I
wouldn't touch one. Cousin owned one, name of Algy; cousin, you know,
not the car. Turned over in a treacherous manner and simply squashed
him like a bloomin' bug. What's up with this one?"
* * * * *
The monsters were scrutinizing me intently. I told myself that I
needn't be afraid of their inspection: in addition to my quite ordinary
features, which could scarcely have been described in much detail by
their compatriot who had seen me, I was at the moment wearing the
shell-rimmed spectacles which I ordinarily used only for reading, being
far-sighted as an eagle. I had put them on a few moments before, just
in case.
An alien said, leaning his human form toward me, "We think it may be
the Manchester Slasher's."
If he thought to startle me into betraying myself, he was disappointed.
I fluttered my hands and bleated. "Gad! Not that murderer chappie? The
one who killed about ninety people up north?"
"Twenty, sir." The alien appeared to relax. "Yes, it fits the
description, all right." He turned to another. "Tom, you'd best go
and telegraph Manchester. Sam, you go with him and bring back another
couple o' boys. We'll just lay us a trap."
I walked all about the Jaguar, prodding her bonnet and peering at the
dashboard gingerly. "Deuced mysterious affairs, motors," I said. "Don't
see how anyone can tell what gadget to push next."
"We're a-going to lay an ambush for this 'ere Slasher, sir, if you
don't mind," said one of them.
"Hear, hear," I said. "Chop the blighter, what? Pip him in the early
counties, right?"
"There's liable to be trouble, sir," insinuated another.
"Rather," I yammered. "Oh, rather."
"We'd like to get ready now, _if_ you please, sir."
"Oh, absolutely. Carry on. Lay a snare for the wretched person, lads,"
said I heartily.
"You'd better leave now, sir," said the constable firmly. "Before
there's trouble, you know. Wouldn't want to get hurt."
"Heavens, no," said I. "I say, officer, could I just sit in that seat a
mo'? Give one something to boast of, what?"
"No, sir. There may be fingerprints in the thing."
* * * * *
"I won't touch a bally thing," I assured him, and as there was no one
within six feet of me, I hopped in behind the wheel. At once they all
shouted angrily; but there was no suspicion of me yet. It is the firm
belief of the lower-middle classes that anyone who bleats and says
"bally" and "dashed" is a regular Bertie Wooster character and as
harmless as a sheep, although somewhat less attractive. "Come out o'
that, sir!" yelled the constable.
"Just want to get the feel of it, you know," said I reassuringly. "Want
to tell old Algy I sat in what's-his-name's seat."
"I thought you said Algy was killed in a wreck."
"That was Algy Witherspoon, my cousin," I told him reproachfully,
secretly extracting the ignition key from my pocket. "This is young
Algy Pope, my _other_ cousin. Regular ripping chappy on murders and
all that, Algy is. Tell you all about Crippen, and whoozis that did
in his maiden aunt over at that little place in Sussex, and all such
bloody--pardon the expression--goin's-on. Likes birds, too. Sits about
in swamps watchin' them. Deuced rum feller."
Suspicion must have dawned just about then. _They_ moved toward me,
while the humans still hesitated. I slid the key in under cover of
my bent body, chortling something inane about the mythical Algy, and
stepped on the clutch. A hand was laid heavily on my shoulder. The
Jaguar leaped backwards at the same instant, hit someone who reeled
away with a scream, rocked crazily over the rubble and struck the
road. I twisted her madly around, waved my hand in an appropriately
cavalier-like manner, and sped off south-eastward on the great road
that leads to London. Shouts of rage followed me. I patted the Jaguar's
wheel. "Everything's all right, baby," I said. "Old Will is back. It'll
all be all right now."
I devoutly hoped that it would be.