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Chapter 13
I evacuated Sanstead House unostentatiously, setting off on foot
down the long drive. My luggage, I gathered, was to follow me to
the station in a cart. I was thankful to Providence for the small
mercy that the boys were in their classrooms and consequently
unable to ask me questions. Augustus Beckford alone would have
handled the subject of my premature exit in a manner calculated to
bleach my hair.
It was a wonderful morning. The sky was an unclouded blue, and a
fresh breeze was blowing in from the sea. I think that something
of the exhilaration of approaching spring must have stirred me,
for quite suddenly the dull depression with which I had started my
walk left me, and I found myself alert and full of schemes.
Why should I feebly withdraw from the struggle? Why should I give
in to Smooth Sam in this tame way? The memory of that wink came
back to me with a tonic effect. I would show him that I was still
a factor in the game. If the house was closed to me, was there not
the 'Feathers'? I could lie in hiding there, and observe his
movements unseen.
I stopped on reaching the inn, and was on the point of entering
and taking up my position at once, when it occurred to me that
this would be a false move. It was possible that Sam would not
take my departure for granted so readily as I assumed. It was
Sam's way to do a thing thoroughly, and the probability was that,
if he did not actually come to see me off, he would at least make
inquiries at the station to find out if I had gone. I walked on.
He was not at the station. Nor did he arrive in the cart with my
trunk. But I was resolved to risk nothing. I bought a ticket for
London, and boarded the London train. It had been my intention to
leave it at Guildford and catch an afternoon train back to
Stanstead; but it seemed to me, on reflection, that this was
unnecessary. There was no likelihood of Sam making any move in the
matter of the Nugget until the following day. I could take my time
about returning.
I spent the night in London, and arrived at Sanstead by an early
morning train with a suit-case containing, among other things, a
Browning pistol. I was a little ashamed of this purchase. To the
Buck MacGinnis type of man, I suppose, a pistol is as commonplace
a possession as a pair of shoes, but I blushed as I entered the
gun-shop. If it had been Buck with whom I was about to deal, I
should have felt less self-conscious. But there was something
about Sam which made pistols ridiculous.
My first act, after engaging a room at the inn and leaving my
suit-case, was to walk to the school. Before doing anything else,
I felt I must see Audrey and tell her the facts in the case of
Smooth Sam. If she were on her guard, my assistance might not be
needed. But her present state of trust in him was fatal.
A school, when the boys are away, is a lonely place. The deserted
air of the grounds, as I slipped cautiously through the trees, was
almost eerie. A stillness brooded over everything, as if the place
had been laid under a spell. Never before had I been so impressed
with the isolation of Sanstead House. Anything might happen in
this lonely spot, and the world would go on its way in ignorance.
It was with quite distinct relief that, as I drew nearer the
house, I caught sight of the wire of the telephone among the trees
above my head. It had a practical, comforting look.
A tradesman's cart rattled up the drive and disappeared round the
side of the house. This reminder, also, of the outside world was
pleasant. But I could not rid myself of the feeling that the
atmosphere of the place was sinister. I attributed it to the fact
that I was a spy in an enemy's country. I had to see without being
seen. I did not imagine that Johnson, grocer, who had just passed
in his cart, found anything wrong with the atmosphere. It was
created for me by my own furtive attitude.
Of Audrey and Ogden there were no signs. That they were out
somewhere in the grounds this mellow spring morning I took for
granted; but I could not make an extended search. Already I had
come nearer to the house than was prudent.
My eye caught the telephone wire again and an idea came to me. I
would call her up from the inn and ask her to meet me. There was
the risk that the call would be answered by Smooth Sam, but it was
not great. Sam, unless he had thrown off his role of butler
completely--which would be unlike the artist that he was--would be
in the housekeeper's room, and the ringing of the telephone, which
was in the study, would not penetrate to him.
I chose a moment when dinner was likely to be over and Audrey
might be expected to be in the drawing-room.
I had deduced her movements correctly. It was her voice that
answered the call.
'This is Peter Burns speaking.'
There was a perceptible pause before she replied. When she did,
her voice was cold.
'Yes?'
'I want to speak to you on a matter of urgent importance.'
'Well?'
'I can't do it through the telephone. Will you meet me in half an
hour's time at the gate?'
'Where are you speaking from?'
'The "Feathers". I am staying there.'
'I thought you were in London.'
'I came back. Will you meet me?'
She hesitated.
'Why?'
'Because I have something important to say to you--important to
you.'
There was another pause.
'Very well.'
'In half an hour, then. Is Ogden Ford in bed?'
'Yes.'
'Is his door locked?'
'No.'
'Then lock it and bring the key with you.'
'Why?'
'I will tell you when we meet.'
'I will bring it.'
'Thank you. Good-bye.'
I hung up the receiver and set out at once for the school.
She was waiting in the road, a small, indistinct figure in the
darkness.
'Is that you--Peter?'
Her voice had hesitated at the name, as if at some obstacle. It
was a trivial thing, but, in my present mood, it stung me.
'I'm afraid I'm late. I won't keep you long. Shall we walk down
the road? You may not have been followed, but it is as well to be
on the safe side.'
'Followed? I don't understand.'
We walked a few paces and halted.
'Who would follow me?'
'A very eminent person of the name of Smooth Sam Fisher.'
'Smooth Sam Fisher?'
'Better known to you as White.'
'I don't understand.'
'I should be surprised if you did. I asked you to meet me here so
that I could make you understand. The man who poses as a
Pinkerton's detective, and is staying in the house to help you
take care of Ogden Ford, is Smooth Sam Fisher, a professional
kidnapper.'
'But--but--'
'But what proof have I? Was that what you were going to say? None.
But I had the information from the man himself. He told me in the
train that night going to London.'
She spoke quickly. I knew from her tone that she thought she had
detected a flaw in my story.
'Why did he tell you?'
'Because he needed me as an accomplice. He wanted my help. It was
I who got Ogden away that day. Sam overheard me giving money and
directions to him, telling him how to get away from the school and
where to go, and he gathered--correctly--that I was in the same
line of business as himself. He suggested a partnership which I
was unable to accept.'
'Why?'
'Our objects were different. My motive in kidnapping Ogden was not
to extract a ransom.'
She blazed out at me in an absolutely unexpected manner. Till now
she had listened so calmly and asked her questions with such a
notable absence of emotion that the outburst overwhelmed me.
'Oh, I know what your motive was. There is no need to explain
that. Isn't there any depth to which a man who thinks himself in
love won't stoop? I suppose you told yourself you were doing
something noble and chivalrous? A woman of her sort can trick a
man into whatever meanness she pleases, and, just because she asks
him, he thinks himself a kind of knight-errant. I suppose she
told you that he had ill-treated her and didn't appreciate her
higher self, and all that sort of thing? She looked at you with
those big brown eyes of hers--I can see her--and drooped, and
cried, till you were ready to do anything she asked you.'
'Whom do you mean?'
'Mrs Ford, of course. The woman who sent you here to steal Ogden.
The woman who wrote you that letter.'
'She did not write that letter. But never mind that. The reason
why I wanted you to come here was to warn you against Sam Fisher.
That was all. If there is any way in which I can help you, send
for me. If you like, I will come and stay at the house till Mr
Abney returns.'
Before the words were out of my mouth, I saw that I had made a
mistake. The balance of her mind was poised between suspicion and
belief, and my offer turned the scale.
'No, thank you,' she said curtly.
'You don't trust me?'
'Why should I? White may or may not be Sam Fisher. I shall be on
my guard, and I thank you for telling me. But why should I trust
you? It all hangs together. You told me you were engaged to be
married. You come here on an errand which no man would undertake
except for a woman, and a woman with whom he was very much in
love. There is that letter, imploring you to steal the boy. I know
what a man will do for a woman he is fond of. Why should I trust
you?'
'There is this. You forget that I had the opportunity to steal
Ogden if I had wanted to. I had got him away to London. But I
brought him back. I did it because you had told me what it meant
to you.'
She hesitated, but only for an instant. Suspicion was too strong
for her.
'I don't believe you. You brought him back because this man whom
you call Fisher got to know of your plans. Why should you have
done it because of me? Why should you have put my interests before
Mrs Ford's? I am nothing to you.'
For a moment a mad impulse seized me to cast away all restraint,
to pour out the unspoken words that danced like imps in my brain,
to make her understand, whatever the cost, my feelings towards
her. But the thought of my letter to Cynthia checked me. That
letter had been the irrevocable step. If I was to preserve a shred
of self-respect I must be silent.
'Very well,' I said, 'good night.' And I turned to go.
'Peter!'
There was something in her voice which whirled me round,
thrilling, despite my resolution.
'Are you going?'
Weakness would now be my undoing. I steadied myself and answered
abruptly.
'I have said all I came to say. Good night.'
I turned once more and walked quickly off towards the village. I
came near to running. I was in the mood when flight alone can save
a man. She did not speak again, and soon I was out of danger,
hurrying on through the friendly darkness, beyond the reach of her
voice.
The bright light from the doorway of the 'Feathers', was the only
illumination that relieved the blackness of the Market Square. As
I approached, a man came out and stopped in the entrance to light
a cigar. His back was turned towards me as he crouched to protect
the match from the breeze, but something in his appearance seemed
familiar.
I had only a glimpse of him as he straightened himself and walked
out of the pool of light into the Square, but it was enough.
It was my much-enduring acquaintance, Mr Buck MacGinnis.
Content of Part 2 - Peter Burns' Narrative: Chapter 13 [P G Wodehouse's novel: The Little Nugget]
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