HE RUNS TO EARTH
As the fox seeks an earth, he was seeking for a hole to hide in. Across
the road a narrow house, set between a fishmonger's shop and a sea-side
library, displayed in one of its lower windows a card with the word
"Apartments." Jones crossed the road to this house and knocked at the
hall door. He waited a minute and a half, ninety seconds, and every
second a framed vision of Hoover in pursuit, Hoover and his assistants
streaming like hounds on a hot scent. Then he found a decrepit bell and
pulled it.
Almost on the pull the door opened, disclosing a bustless, sharp-eyed
and cheerful-looking little woman of fifty or so, wearing a cameo brooch
and cornelian rings. She wore other things but you did not notice them.
"Have you rooms to let?" asked Jones.
"Well, sir, I have the front parlour unoccupied," replied the landlady,
"and two bed-rooms on the top floor. Are there any children?"
"No," said Jones. "I came down here alone for a holiday. May I see the
rooms?"
She took him to the top front bed-room first. It was clean and tidy, just
like herself, and gave a cheery view of the shop fronts on the opposite
side of the street.
Jones, looking out of the window, saw something that held him for a
moment fascinated and forgetful of his surroundings and his companion.
Hoover, no less, walking hurriedly and accompanied by a man who looked
like a gardener. They were passing towards the sea, looking about them
as they went. Hoover had the appearance of a person who has lost a purse
or some article of value, so Jones thought as he watched them vanish. He
turned to the landlady.
"I like this room," said he, "it is cheerful and quiet, just the sort of
place I want. Now let's see the parlour."
The parlour boasted of a horsehair sofa, chairs to match, pictures to
match, and a glass fronted bookcase containing volumes of the Sunday
Companion, Sword and Trowel, Home Influence, and Ouida's "Moths" in the
old, yellow-back, two shilling edition.
"Very nice indeed," said Jones. "What do you charge?"
"Well, sir," said the landlady--her name was Henshaw--"it's a pound a
week for the two rooms without board, two pounds with."
"Any extras?" asked the artful Jones.
"No, sir."
"Well, that will do me nicely. I came along here right from the station,
and my portmanteau hasn't arrived, though it was labelled for here, and
the porter told me he had put it on the train. I'll have to go up to the
station this evening again to see if it has arrived. Meanwhile, seeing
I haven't my luggage with me, I'll pay you in advance."
She assured him that this was unnecessary, but he insisted.
When she had accepted the money she asked him what he would have for
supper, or would he prefer late dinner.
"Supper," replied Jones, "oh, anything. I'm not particular."
Then he found himself alone. He sat down on the horsehair sofa to think.
Would Hoover circularise his description and offer a reward? No, that
was highly improbable. Hoover's was a high class establishment, he would
avoid publicity as much as possible, but he would be pretty sure to use
the intelligence, such as it was, of the police, telling them to act
with caution.
Would he make inquiries at all the lodging-houses? That was a doubtful
point. Jones tried to fancy himself in Hoover's position and failed.
One thing certainly Hoover would do. Have all the exits from
Sandbourne-on-Sea watched. That was the logical thing to do, and Hoover
was a logical man.
There was nothing to do but give the hunt time to cool off, and at this
thought the prospect of days of lurking in this room of right angles and
horsehair-covered furniture, rose up before him like a black billow.
Then came the almost comforting thought, he could not lurk without
creating suspicion on the part of Mrs. Henshaw. He would have to get
out, somehow. The weather was glorious, and the strip of seaweed
hanging by the mantelpiece dry as tinder. A sea-side visitor who sat all
day in his room in the face of such weather, would create a most
unhealthy interest in the mind of any sea-side landlady. No, whatever
else he might do he could not lurk.
The most terrible things in dramatic situations are the little things
that speak to one for once in their lives. The pattern of the carpet
that tells you that there is no doubt of the fact that your wife has run
away with all your money, and left you with seven children to look
after, the form of the chair that tells you that Justice with a noose in
her hand is waiting on the front door step. Jones, just now, was under
the obsession of _the_ picture of the room, whose place was above the
mantelpiece.
It was an oleograph of a gentleman in uniform, probably the Prince
Consort, correct, sane, urbane--a terrible comparison for a man in an
insane situation, for insanity is not confined to the brain of man or
its productions--though heaven knows she has a fine field of movement in
both.
A thundering rat-tat-tat at the hall door brought Jones to his feet. He
heard the door answered, a voice outside saying "N'k you" and the door
shut. It was some parcel left in. Then he heard Mrs. Henshaw descending
the kitchen stairs and all was quiet. He turned to the bookcase, opened
it, inspected the contents, and chose "Moths."