JOHN BUCHAN Ultimate Collection: Spy Classics, Thrillers, Adventure Novels & Short Stories, Including Historical Works and Essays (Illustrated). Buchan John
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This happened twice, and I got wary, but I was nearly caught before we reached Oxford Circus. There was a front of a big shop rebuilding, and the usual wooden barricade with a gate. Just as we passed it there was a special throng on the pavement, and I, being next the wall, got pushed against the gate. Suddenly it gave, and I was pressed inward. I was right inside before I realised my danger, and the gate was closing. There must have been people there, but I could see nothing in the gloom.
It was no time for false pride. I yelled to Chapman, and the next second his burly shoulder was in the gap. The hustlers vanished, and I seemed to hear a polite voice begging my pardon.
After that Chapman and I linked arms and struck across Mayfair. But I did not feel safe till I was in the flat with the door bolted.
We had a long drink, and I stretched myself in an armchair, for I was as tired as if I had come out of a big game of Rugby football.
“I owe you a good deal, old man,” I said. “I think I’ll join the Labour Party. You can tell your fellows to send me their whips. What possessed you to come to look for me?”
The explanation was simple. I had mentioned the restaurant in my telephone message, and the name had awakened a recollection in Chapman’s mind. He could not fix it at first, but by-and-by he remembered that the place had cropped up in the Routh case. Routh’s London headquarters had been at the restaurant in Antioch Street. As soon as he remembered this he got into a taxi and descended at the corner of the street, where by sheer luck he fell in with his Wensleydale friends.
He said he had marched into the restaurant and found it empty, but for an ill-favoured manager, who denied all knowledge of me. Then, fortunately, he chose to make certain by shouting my name, and heard my answer. After that he knocked the manager down, and was presently assaulted by several men whom he described as “furrin muck.” They had knives, of which he made very little, for he seems to have swung a table as a battering-ram and left sore limbs behind him.
He was on the top of his form. “I haven’t enjoyed anything so much since I was a lad at school,” he informed me. “I was beginning to think your Power- House was a wash-out, but Lord! it’s been busy enough to-night. This is what I call life!”
My spirits could not keep pace with his. The truth is that I was miserably puzzled—not afraid so much as mystified, I couldn’t make out this sudden dead-set at me. Either they knew more than I bargained for, or I knew far too little.
“It’s all very well,” I said, “but I don’t see how this is going to end. We can’t keep up the pace long. At this rate it will be only a matter of hours till they get me.”
We pretty well barricaded ourselves in the flat, and, at his earnest request, I restored to Chapman his revolver.
Then I got the clue I had been longing for. It was about eleven o’clock, while we were sitting smoking, when the telephone bell rang. It was Felix who spoke.
“I have news for you,” he said. “The hunters have met the hunted, and one of the hunters is dead. The other is a prisoner in our hands. He has confessed.”
It had been black murder in intent. The frontier police had shadowed the two men into the cup of a glen, where they met Tommy and Pitt-Heron. The four had spoken together for a little, and then Tuke had fired deliberately at Charles and had grazed his ear. Whereupon Tommy had charged him and knocked the pistol from his hand. The assailant had fled, but a long shot from the police on the hillside had toppled him over. Tommy had felled Saronov with his fists, and the man had abjectly surrendered. He had confessed, Felix said, but what the confession was he did not know.
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