Six Feet of Earth
Outside the blast of the whistle rose mockingly, and through the half-open window you could hear a deeper clackety-roar of the wheels. I balanced myself against the wall, attempting to read sense into Mr. Joseph Serpos's conduct.
What most struck me was the realization of how consummate an artist this young man had been. There was another clerical outfit in the bag: naturally, since he had a steamship ticket and would have to stand a customs inspection somewhere: there was no other sort of garb at all. Even the book was a devotional work called Sermons from a Sussex Parish. Now, all the clergymen I have ever known have been thoroughly good fellows, the sort who were as much interested in sport as in anything else, and with whom you could sit up all night yarning over a pipe and glass without thinking of them as parsons. But Serpos had chosen to get himself up like a comic-opera vicar, and he had got himself up well. The passport was made out in the name of the Rev. Mr. Thomas Caulderon, The Vicarage, Grayling Dene, Somerset, and "missionary work" was noted on it. His ticket was taken by the cargo-and-passenger-boat Northern Sultan, sailing on Wednesday, June 17th, from Tilbury Docks to Odessa.
This man was not as young, either in age or in experience, as he looked. The photograph on the passport was his own, showing him with lank black hair cut straight across his forehead, and an expression of piety which seemed to be mocking me: even the government-seal looked genuine. If he was such a thorough-paced artist as this, why had he burst out in fear and blubbering when he was accosted at the station? — and then, afterwards, why had he slipped into that amazing change of cunning behind the sallow face? This man was as big a puzzle as Hogenauer himself. Somehow, I felt, there was one little fact which in about half a dozen words could explain all the vast incongruities of this case, if we could find it; but that fact had slipped round the corner as neatly as Mr. Serpos.
Again this theorizing would not do. I must hurry up and get into the black coat so that I could go to find Evelyn. Whereupon, after examining each of the articles of clothing to make sure nothing was hidden, I discovered the next item of cussedness. There was a black coat, all right. But it was a damned long thin morning-coat, with a tail.
I tried it on, and the effect was so awful that I took it off again. Whereas my arms stuck two inches out of the sleeves, and the coat threatened to burst across the shoulders, still Serpos's taller build made the tail of the thing come down to my calves: the whole giving a pleasing effect with a blue-serge suit and a rather loud tie. To walk through an English train in that garb, when at the next stop they would be looking for a fugitive, would be to ask for capture. There was only one refuge, since nobody expects parsons to be models of sartorial elegance…
Five minutes later (at precisely eleven-thirty, twelve hours before the wedding) I walked out of that lavatory in full clerical costume, including the collar. The ensemble, while tight and rickety, should pass muster; and I endeavoured to adjust my face to it. In one hand I had the valise containing relics of a departed policeman, and in the other hand a volume of sermons. I walked as pontifically as possible, though with a simmering temper. The train was a long one; and being a boat-train, pretty well filled. The passengers appeared to be mostly Americans or Canadians: there were jollifications in progress in several of the compartments. I passed through the corridors of three coaches, peering into each compartment in search of Evelyn; and I must have looked so ecclesiastical that one girl hastily got up off some young fellow's lap, and another swallowed whisky the wrong way. It was at the beginning of the fourth coach that I found Evelyn. She was sitting in an outside corner seat, and her eyes looked as though she were on the verge of tears; a circumstance so remarkable that I hastened to pull open the door. Across from her sat Mr. Johnson Stone. Stone saw my costume, and his jaw dropped. He took the cigar out of his mouth.
"Jesus-Christ!" he said.
This was too much.
"Look here," I said, and got my breath, ‘I ask you, for the last time, will you for God's sake give up that blasted joke about disg "
"Ss-st!" warned Evelyn, and her eyes moved in the direction of the corner seat towards the corridor. I glanced down, and found myself looking into the frosty gaze of a genuine Anglican clergyman.
He did not seem (from casual inspection, at least) to be the dominie for your money. He was on the long and thin side, but he had a large, pale, sideways-turned face like a watch-dog, and grizzled hair brushed in thin strands across his skull, and half-glasses over which he was peering up. His legs were crossed, and one of them was pressed back against the seat in order to let me pass by, which made him look as though he were doing contortion-exercises. He did not say anything. But he had The Times, and he rustled it. He continued to peer up.
On the spur of the moment the only thing I could think of to say was, "Pax vobiscum"; and, as that had a somewhat pedantic sound, I did not venture to say it. There was one of those heavy silences which can exist at their worst in railway carriages, when people want to speak to each other but are restrained by the presence of strangers. It was broken only by the clacking of the wheels and the rustle of a cool breeze through the half-open window. In the midst of it I moved decorously past to sit down beside Evelyn.
The wench was looking a trifle stuffed-up with unseemly mirth, but I must admit she played her part well. Her hazel eyes were rapt. Evelyn's. skin glows with that brownish-gold flesh-tint which is so seldom seen in real flesh, and on occasion she can assume a more innocent look than anything off an Easter-card. She spoke in that bright, eager, gushing tone which animates many women on the approach of the clergy.
"Oh, I'm so glad you're here," she cried. "I was so afraid we'd missed you! We saw you get on the train, of course, but I've been searching all over for you, and I simply couldn't find. Oh, excuse me. Mr. Stone, this is the Rev. Mr. She stopped, in beautiful confusion and perplexity. "Oh, I say, how awfully stupid of me! The Rev. Mr.-T'
"Caulderon," — I said. "Thomas Caulderon."
"Of course! Mr. Stone, this is the Rev. Mr. Caulderon."
Stone looked as though it had been on the tip of his tongue to say, "Oh, yeah?" His fresh-complexioned face glowered behind the pince-nez. But he responded like a gentleman, inclining his head gravely and making a slight gesture with the cigar.
"Glad to meet you, sir," he said gruffly. "You'll have to excuse my language; I was a little startled at seeing you. Sit down. Put your bag up on the rack. This young lady's been very worried about you, and she's been looking all over the train for you. Where have you been?"
"Only in the lavatory," I said affably. "These things-ah-take time, you know."
This was a mistake. Considering my extremely pontificial Manner, I realized instantly that it was a mistake. There was another silence. My fellow-pastor did not exactly look up from The Times; but I felt a sort of aura as his eyes slid sideways. He was very leisurely; he folded up his paper, and seemed to consider for a time; then he got up, went slowly out of the compartment, and pulled the door shut after him. We had not got rid of him, since his luggage remained in the rack above the seats, but the air of tensity had been lifted from that compartment.
Evelyn sat back in the corner..
"Well, Ken," she said meekly.
"Well," I said, "you got yourself into it after all, didn't you?"
She remained meek, but her eyes were dancing. "Honestly, old boy, wasn't it the only thing to do? Seriously, now. If by any chance you'd failed to appear tomorrow, you know what would have happened, don't you? Whereas now that we're both in it
After all, I suppose it was. At the very sight of this girl, my whole attitude towards this adventure had changed. It remained black, it remained dangerous, but now I was beginning to enjoy it. All things looked excellent. I picked Evelyn up and sat her in my lap: becoming conscious at the same time that my fellow-preacher was peering fishily through the glass from the corridor. So I shoved her off again decorously, not before she had given demonstration of affection, and instead I picked up Sermons from a Sussex Parish. Stone spoke ventriloquially, without opening his lips.
"That's fine," he said. "Now why don't you go out and tell him to put his shirt on `Gay Tomato' for the 3.30 at Gatwick?" But my clerical friend had disappeared — wondered uncomfortably just how suspicious he had become — and Stone went on in the tone of a parent lecturing his elder son for staying out late. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he continued, "gallivanting around the country in fancy-dress, when you've got a fine girl like that waiting for you of home!" Quite suddenly he stopped, as something appeared to occur to him, and looked coldly out of the window.
"Now, now! Not again," pleaded Evelyn. "Ken, Mr. Stone isn't speaking to any of us. There was the most awful row back there, and it was all H.M.'s fault. I don't know quite what it was: something about H.M.'s new hat: I only got to Colonel Charters's house when it was all over. But no sooner had Mr. Stone got there than H.M. wouldn't listen to him and chucked him out of the house, and they were both standing there swearing at each other and threatening to punch each other in the nose. I ran after Mr. Stone down the drive, because I know what H.M.'s like, but by that time he wouldn't listen. I think it's a jolly shame, because Mr. Stone came all the way from America just to tell H.M. something…. "
"Forget it," growled Stone, much mollified, nevertheless. "I told you this was a pleasure trip — I came over to see my daughter and son-in-law in Bristol. That's all. But I tried to see Merrivale in order to oblige a friend of mine on the other side. Anyway, Miss Cheyne, I'm glad I met you again. I'm glad there's somebody connected with that old so-and-so who appears to have a grain of sense."
Evelyn frowned. "You see, Ken, I met Mr. Stone again at the Moreton Abbot station, when we were both taking this train. And I've been trying to find out what it was he wanted to tell H.M. He isn't — well, very communicative. But it's something that concerns a person called `L'."
There was a pause. Evelyn was looking at me steadily, and I wondered how much she knew. They must have seen by my expression that this meant a great deal. The whole atmosphere of that compartment had subtly changed. Stone was regarding me with narrowed eyes.
"Something's up, eh?" he asked quietly.
"Something is very damnably up," I said, and looked at Evelyn. "Do you know the whole story?"
"I know what H.M. told me," she answered, "and part of what you said over the 'phone. But that's not what I want to know, Ken. What on earth have you been up to? I've got a whole suit of clothes for you," she indicated a valise in the rack above. "It's an old one that Colonel Charters wore before he got so thin, and he says it should fit you. He's very thorough. He even put in a clasp-knife in case you should have to do some more burglaring. Oh, and I've also got a ticket for you, to prove you got aboard the train in legal style. But did anyone see you get aboard in that policeman's outfit? Did anybody get suspicious? I saw you run across and get on the train, when I was just ready to jump out myself; and then I couldn't find you anywhere afterwards"
"I don't know. That's what has been worrying me. Does the train make any stops between here and Bristol?'
"Just one: Exeter, I think. We should be there very shortly."
"We'll know, then, anyhow. But that's not the point. Mr. Stone, you had some information to give Sir Henry Merrivale about an international agent, or plain spy, once known as L?"
"That's right," said Stone, studying me. He had now become like a man playing poker, or like a man in a witness-box.
"Did you ever hear of Paul Hogenauer?"
'No.’
"Hogenauer now lives in England, apparently at peaceful business. During the war be was a member of the German intelligence service in Berlin. He has always been known as a conscientious and honest man. Recently he has been working on an experiment or invention, for which he said he needed money. Therefore, he offered to betray the identity of L. for two thousand pounds."
Stone's expression did not change: he remained puffing gently and almost tenderly at his cigar.
"To-night Hogenauer was murdered. He was poisoned with strychnine, under some very curious circumstances. This may or may not be connected with L. but you can see the probability. If you know anything about L., it's vitally important that you should tell us what it is. We don't have any credentials on us, but at least you know who we are. If we could find out who L. is, and what he's doing"
"I know who he is," said Stone, "and what he's doing."
He sat back into the corner, squaring his shoulders into it. Briefly, I thought I could see in those deceptive blue eyes something like scepticism, but he appeared to come to a decision. First, he solemnly got out his cigar-case and offered it to me, as though it were a handshake to seal a bond. Then he took a wallet from his breast-pocket, and a sheaf of papers.
"That's fair enough. I'll tell you," he said. "But first I want to hear something from you: you'll see why. So I suppose you'll want to see my credentials. I'm from Pittsburgh — I happen to be Assistant Commissioner of Police. Understand, I only came into this semi-officially, and because the Secretary of War at Washington happens to be a great friend of mine. Take a look at these. Also, here's an introductory letter from the Secretary of War. Also a passport….
"Now then," he added, lighting a match for my cigar, "if you think you can trust me, tell me the whole story from A to Izzard. Then I'll swap information, and I don't think you'll be the loser. Well?"
"Go on, Ken," said Evelyn. "I want to get it straight myself. And there are a couple of questions H.M. told me to ask you."
This time I went over the business at great length, while the night-wind grew cooler through the window, and the wheels clacked drowsily, and Stone's white suit accumulated cinders.
so," I said, "we've got another instalment of puzzles since H.M. got the last bulletin. It's now not only an affair of furniture changed in a room, and two missing books, and four pairs of cuff-links. Add to that a £100 note hidden away in a newspaper which Mrs. Antrim says she found cast away in the scullery. I'm not for a moment suggesting that Mrs. Antrim poisoned Hogenauer. She'd hardly feed a man with strychnine out of her own laboratory, and then rush over to make sure he'd taken it. But just how does she figure in the muddle? Then there's Serpos. Who is Serpos? What is he? On the face of it, there's nothing whatever to connect Serpos with Hogenauer. Yet the evening Hogenauer is poisoned is the evening Serpos chooses to run away with… whatever he did run away with. Look here, Evelyn, you were with H.M. back there. What the devil did Serpos steal, anyway?"
She shook her head. She was hunched back into a travelling-coat, her hands cradled in her sleeves, and the hazel eyes looked more subdued now.
"I don't know. You don't seem to realize, Ken, that it's only been a couple of hours since this whole thing started. Back there they were all rushing about, and swearing, and I rather got elbowed aside. They only saw a use for me, and said what a nice gal I was, when you were stranded in Moreton Abbot without money or clothes." She looked up and grinned. "You seem to have done fairly well for yourself, though," she crowed. "Ken, I hate to say it, but I'm almost proud of you."
Stone grunted.
"Well, if you ask me," he said, "it's taking fool risks. I tell you, this fellow Merrivale is even crazier than he's made out! This is no place for you, young lady." He glowered at Evelyn, who wrinkled her nose at him, and then she commenced to study the floor with an expression of sinister wisdom. "If I understand you… by the way, fhat is your name, actually?"
`Blake."
"You're absolutely positive of that?" "Yes."
"All right," said Stone, in some relief. "If I understand you, you're sent smack-bang to burgle a hotel room before Keppel gets back to Bristol. It seems to me you're taking a whale of a big risk, because you don't know just when Keppel is due back. Hogenauer thought he'd be out to-night, yes. But I wouldn't call Hogenauer too good a judge of what's likely to happen: Hogenauer's dead. There's something rotten in the whole set-up, especially as-" He checked himself, and brooded. "Seems to me you treat burglary pretty lightly over here. How are you going to work it? Do you know Bristol?"
I know Bristol very well, for I like it above all English cities. And I paritularly remembered the Cabot Hotel, which is at the top of College Green, just after you pass the Cathedral and the Library; large, old-fashioned, comfortable, and sedate. -
"It shouldn't be very difficult," I told him. "I'll engage a room on the same floor as Keppel. Even if he's got his door locked, it's an old-fashioned place and you can almost open the doors with a hairpin."
"H'm," said Stone. "Well, it's your funeral. But what does Merrivale think of it?"
Evelyn had been peering out of the windows; we were coming into Exeter. She turned round as though she fere about to say something, in a worried fashion. Then she regarded Stone, and shook her head.
"No fair play! Never mind what H. M. thinks of it, for the moment. But it's your turn now, Mr. Stone. You said, if Ken fould tell you everything that happened, you'd make an exchange. Right? You said you'd tell us who L. is, and what he's doing?"
Stone contemplated her with the same sceptical and half-amused expression. He nodded.
"All right," he conceded. "I'll tell you just exactly what you want to know. L.'s real name is Lord — John Stuart Lord, to be exact. He was originally an American citizen, though he's pretended to be a good many nationalities and always got away with it. And you want to know what he's doing now? He's lying under six feet of earth in Woodlawn Road Cemetery…. What I'm trying to tell you is that L died of pneumonia, in Pittsburgh, over six weeks ago."