"If you've got a chair in a corner somewhere..."
"Stay here," Anthony said, indicating his office.
"I'll be down in the operations room. I'll wake you as soon as we've
got something. Make yourself comfortable."
Anthony went out, and Bloggs moved to an easy chair and sat back with
his eyes closed. Immediately, he saw Godli-man's face, as if projected
on to the backs of his eyelids like a film, saying: "There has to be an
end to bereavement... I don't want you to make the same mistake."
Bloggs realized suddenly that he did not want the war to end, for that
would make him face issues like the one Godliman had raised. The war
made life simple, for he knew why he hated the enemy and he knew what
he was supposed to do about it. Afterwards ... the thought of another
woman seemed disloyal, not just to Christine but, in some obscure way,
to England.
He yawned and slumped farther into his seat, his thinking becoming
woolly as sleep crept up on him. If Christine had died before the war,
he would have felt very differently about remarrying. He had always
been fond of her and respected her, of course; but after she took that
ambulance job respect had turned to awestruck admiration, and fondness
turned to love. Then they had something special, something they knew
other lovers did not share. Now, more than a year later, it would be
easy for Bloggs to find another woman he could respect and be fond of,
but he knew that would never be enough for him. An ordinary marriage,
an ordinary woman, would always remind him that once he had possessed
the ideal.
He stirred in his chair, trying to shake off imponderables so that he
could sleep. England was full of heroes, Godliman had said. If Die
Nadel got away England would be full of slaves. First things first...
Someone shook him. He was in a very deep sleep, dreaming that he was
in a room with Die Nadel but could not pick him out because Die Nadel
had blinded him with the stiletto. When he awoke he still thought he
was blind because he could not see who was shaking him, until he
realized he simply had his eyes closed. He opened them to see the
large uniformed figure of Superintendent Anthony above him.
Bloggs raised himself to a more upright position and rubbed his eyes.
"Got something?" he asked.
"Lots of things," Anthony said.
"Question is, which of 'em counts? Here's your breakfast." He put a
cup of tea and a biscuit on the desk and went to sit on the other side
of it.
Bloggs left his easy chair and pulled a hard chair up to the desk He
sipped the tea. It was weak and very sweet.
"Let's get to it," he said.
Anthony handed him a sheaf of five or six slips of paper.
Bloggs said: "Don't tell me these are the only crimes in your area '
"Of course not," Anthony said.
"We're not interested in drunkenness, domestic disputes, blackout
violations, traffic of fences or crimes for which arrests have already
been made."
"Sorry," Bloggs said.
"I'm still waking up. Give me a chance to read these."
There were three house burglaries. In two of them, valuables had been
taken jewellery in one case, furs in another. Bloggs said: "He might
steal valuables just to throw us off the scent. Mark these on the map,
will you? They may show some pattern." He handed the two slips back
to Anthony. The third burglary had only just been reported, and no
details were available. Anthony marked the location on the map.
A Food Office in Manchester had been robbed of hundreds of ration
books. Bloggs said: "He doesn't need ration books -he needs food." He
set that one aside. There was a bicycle theft just outside Preston and
a rape in Birkenhead.
"I don't think he's a rapist, but mark it anyway," Bloggs told
Anthony.
The bicycle theft and the third of the house burglaries were close
together. Bloggs said: "The signal box that the bike was stolen from
is that on the main line?"
"Yes, I think so," Anthony said.
"Suppose Faber was hiding on that train and somehow we missed him.
Would the signal box be the first place at which the train stopped
after it left Liverpool?"
"It might be."
Bloggs looked at the sheet of paper.
"An overcoat was stolen and a wet jacket left in its place."
Anthony shrugged.
"Could mean anything."
"No cars stolen?" Bloggs said sceptic ally
"Nor boats, nor donkeys," Anthony replied.
"We don't get many car thefts these days. Cars are easy to come by
it's petrol people steal."
"I felt sure he'd steal a car in Liverpool," Bloggs said. Hethumped
his knee in frustration.
"A bicycle isn't much use to him, surely."
"I think we should follow it up, anyway," Anthony pressed.
"It's our best lead."
"All right. But meanwhile, double-check the burglaries to see whether
food or clothing was pinched the losers might not have noticed at
first. Show Faber's picture to the rape victim, too. And keep
checking all crimes. Can you fix me transport to Preston?"
"I'll get you a car," Anthony said.
"How long will it take to get details of this third burglary?"
"They're probably interviewing at this minute," Anthony said.
"By the time you reach the signal box I should have the complete
picture."
"Don't let them drag their feet." Bloggs reached for his coat.
"I'll check with you the minute I get there."
"Anthony? This is Bloggs. I'm at the signal box."
"Don't waste any time there. The third burglary was your man."
"Sure?"
"Unless there are two buggers running around threatening people with
stiletto knives."
"Who?"
"Two old ladies living alone in a little cottage."
"Oh, God. Dead?"
"Not unless they died of excitement."
"Eh?"
"Get over there. You'll see what I mean."
"I'm on my way."
It was the kind of cottage which is always inhabited by two elderly
ladies living alone. It was small and square and old, and around the
door grew a wild rose bush fertilized by thousands of pots of used tea
leaves. Rows of vegetables sprouted tidily in a little front garden
with a trimmed hedge. There were pink-and-white curtains at the leaded
window sand the gate creaked. The front door had been painted
painstakingly by an amateur, and its knocker was made from a horse
brass.
Blogg's knock was answered by an octogenarian with a shotgun.
He said: "Good morning. I'm from the police."
"No, you're not," she said.
"They've been already. Now get going before I blow your head off."
Bloggs regarded her. She was less than five feet tall, with thick
white hair in a bun and a pale, wrinkled face. Her hands were
matchstick-thin, but her grasp on the shotgun was firm. The pocket of
her apron was full of clothes-pegs. Bloggs looked down at her feet,
and saw that she was wearing a man's working boots. He said: "The
police you saw this morning were l
ocal. I'm from Scotland Yard."
"How do I know that?" she said.
Bloggs turned and called to his police driver. The constable got out
of the car and came to the gate. Bloggs said to the old lady: "Is the
uniform enough to convince you?"
"All right," she said, and stood aside for him to enter.
He stepped down into a low-ceilinged room with a tiled floor. The room
was crammed with heavy, old furniture, and every surface was decorated
with ornaments of china and glass. A small coal fire burned in the
grate. The place smelled of lavender and cats.
A second old lady got out of a chair. She was like the first, but
about twice as wide. Two cats spilled from her lap as she rose. She
said: "Hello, I'm Emma Parton, my sister is Jessie. Don't take any
notice of that shotgun it's not loaded, thank God. Jessie loves drama.
Will you sit down? You look so young to be a policeman. I'm surprised
Scotland Yard is interested in our little robbery. Have you come from
London this morning? Make the boy a cup of tea, Jessie."
Bloggs sat down.
"If we're right about the identity of the burglar, he's a fugitive from
justice," he said.
"I told you!" Jessie said. We might have been done in -slaughtered,
in cold blood!"
"Don't be silly," Emma said. She turned to Bloggs.
"He was such a nice man."
"Tell me what happened," Bloggs said.
Well, I'd gone out the back," Emma began.
"I was in the hen coop, hoping for some eggs. Jessie was in the
kitchen ' "He surprised me," Jessie interrupted.
"I didn't have time to go for me gun."
"You see too many cowboy films," Emma admonished her.
"They're better than your love films all tears and kisses ' Bloggs took
the picture of Faber from his wallet.
"Is this the man?"
Jessie scrutinized it.
"That's him."
"Aren't you clever?" Emma marvelled.
"If we were clever we'd have caught him by now," Bloggs said. "What
did he do?"
Jessie said: "He held a knife to my throat and said: "One false move
and I'll slit your gizzard." And he meant it."
"OK, Jessie, you told me he said: "I won't harm you if you do as I
say." ' "Words to that effect, Emma!"
Bloggs said: "What did he want?"
"Food, a bath, dry clothes and a car. Well, we gave him the eggs, of
course. We found some clothes that belonged to Jessie's late husband
Norman ' Would you describe them?"
"Yes. A blue donkey jacket, blue overalls, a check shirt. And he took
poor Norman's car. I don't know how we'll be able to go to the
pictures without it. That's our only vice, you know -the pictures."
What sort of car?"
"A Morris. Norman bought it in 1924. It's served us well, that little
car."
Jessie said: "He didn't get his hot bath, though!"
"Well," Emma said, "I had to explain to him that two ladies living
alone can hardly have a man taking a bath in their kitchen..." `;0<3' She
blushed.
Jessie said: "You'd rather have your throat slit than see a man in his
combinations, wouldn't you, you silly fool."
Bloggs said: "What did he say when you refused?"
"He laughed," Emma said, "But I think he understood our position."
Bloggs could not help but smile.
"I think you're very brave," he said.
CI don't know about that, I'm sure."
"So he left here in a 1924 Morris, wearing overalls and a blue jacket.
What time was that?"
"About half-past nine."
Bloggs absently stroked a marmalade cat. It blinked and purred.
"Was there much petrol in the car?"
"A couple of gallons but he took our coupons."
A thought struck Bloggs.
"How do you ladies qualify for a petrol ration?"
"Agricultural purposes," Emma said defensively. She blushed.
Jessie snorted.
"And we're isolated, and we're elderly. Of course we qualify."
"We always go to the corn stores at the same time as the pictures,"
Emma added.
"We don't waste petrol."
Bloggs smiled and held up a hand.
fast does the cargo?"
Emma said: "We never exceed thirty miles per hour."
Bloggs looked at his watch.
"Even at that speed he could be seventy-five miles away by now." He
stood up.
"I must phone the details to Liverpool. You don't have a telephone, do
you?"
"No."
"What kind of Morris is it?"
"A Cowley. Norman used to call it a Bullnose."
"Colour?"
"Grey."
"Registration number?"
"MLN 29."
Bloggs wrote it all down.
Emma said: "Will we ever get our car back, do you think?"
"I expect so but it may not be in very good condition. When someone is
driving a stolen car he generally doesn't take good care of it." He
walked to the door.
"I hope you catch him," Emma called.
Jessie saw him out. She was still clutching the shotgun. At the door
she caught Blogg's sleeve and said in a stage whis157 per: Tell me
what is he? Escaped convict? Murderer? Rapist?"
Bloggs looked down at her. Her small green eyes were bright with
excitement. She would believe anything he chose to tell her. He bent
his head to speak quietly in her ear.
"Don't tell a soul," he murmured, 'but he's a German spy."
SEVENTEEN
Faber crossed the Sark Bridge and entered Scotland shortly after
midday. He passed the Sark Toll Bar House, a low building with a
signboard announcing that it was the first house in Scotland and a
tablet above the door bearing some legend about marriages which he
could not read. A quarter of a mile farther on he understood, when he
entered the village of Gretna: he knew this was a place runaways came
to get married.
The roads were still damp from the early rain, but the sun was drying
them rapidly. Signposts and name boards had been re-erected since the
relaxation of invasion precautions, and Faber sped through a series of
small lowland villages: Kirkpatrick, Kirtlebridge, Ecclefechan. The
open countryside was pleasant, the green moors sparkling in the
sunshine.
He had stopped for petrol in Carlisle. The pump attendant, a
middle-aged woman in an oily apron, had not asked any awkward
questions. Faber had filled the tank and the spare can fixed to the
offside running-board.
He was very pleased with the little two-seater. It would still do
fifty miles an hour, despite its age. The four-cylinder, 1548 cc
side-valve engine worked smoothly and tirelessly as he climbed and
descended the Scottish hills. The leather-upholstered bench seat was
comfortable. He squeezed the bulb horn to warn a straying sheep of his
approach.
He went through the little market town of Lockerbie, crossed the River
Annan by the picturesque Johnstone Bridge, and began the ascent to
Beattock Summit. He found himself using the three-speed gearbox more
and more.
He ha
d decided not to take the most direct route to Aberdeen, via
Edinburgh and the coast road. Much of Scotland's east coast, either
side of the Firth of Forth, was a restricted area. Visitors were
prohibited from a ten-mile-wide strip of land. Of course, the
authorities could not seriously police such a long border.
Nevertheless, Faber was less likely to be stopped and questioned while
he stayed outside the security zone.
He would have to enter it eventually later rather than sooner and he
turned his mind to the story he would tell if he were interrogated.
Private motoring for pleasure had virtually ceased in the last couple