No Way Of Telling (15 page)

“But it does make a difference, Harris, you blockhead—all the difference in the world. If he’s
not quite
dead he may still be able to speak. Don’t you realise that we can’t afford to let there be any possibility, however slight, of that man speaking?”

“There’s no one round here could understand a word he said if he did open his mouth. And besides, we don’t know for sure if old Alvarez told him anything, do we? It’s only guesswork.”

“Are you trying to exasperate me, Harris, or can you really be so stupid? He was boxed up at sea with the old man for more than a week. He was the only one on board who spoke the same language as Alvarez. He took him his meals. He looked after him when he was ill—nursed him, the captain told Oscar, as a mother nurses her child. Don’t you think it likely that in such a situation old Luis Alvarez would have passed on his secrets, would have shared his information? Why, of course he did! There’s nothing more certain! And that sailor knows very well indeed the value of what he’s been told. He’s seen a man killed so as to stop it going any further—he only saved his own life by the skin of his teeth. He knows, all right! And because he knows he has to be dead, Harris; he has to be quite dead, with no doubt about it, either. It’s not good enough for you to hope he is and think he might be. We’re here to make sure of it. I say he’s still alive and I’m right, Harris, because I was born with an extra sense which you haven’t got. It’s the jungle instinct. It warns the stalking tiger when his victim’s close. Tigers can tell, Harris—and so can I. And I know that he’s somewhere close now—I can feel it.”

Amy shuddered. Supposing his instinct told him more, that she was there, even closer than the man they hunted, listening to them from behind this very door? Panic welled up in her, stopped her ears. She shut her eyes and pressed against the side of the staircase, afraid. But nothing happened. The door was not snatched violently open. No one had heard her sigh of terror, the loud clamour of her heartbeats. Gradually, as her panic receded, her ears became aware again of Mr Nabb’s aggrieved voice, grumbling on:

“...and then this other game of yours—this Catcher and Nabb stunt, eh? What’s the idea of it? Supposing they’d spotted what you were up to, poking fun—they might have started to wonder a bit more. It’s the sort of a carry-on that leads to trouble—and where’s the sense of it, anyway?”

“It was a little joke of mine, Harris—a very small joke to amuse myself, that’s all. Why not? One has to amuse oneself. And even if they did have enough intelligence to understand, it wouldn’t matter in the very least. What can they do to us? Absolutely nothing! They’re entirely at our mercy, Harris; and mercy they shall have, in exact proportion to the hospitality they show us. That seems perfectly fair—don’t you agree?”

“One day you’re going to make a little joke that won’t turn out so funny, Vigers, you mark my words. You say you’re always right—but that’s where you’re going to be wrong, one day. People aren’t always as stupid as you think they are. Take that old woman upstairs—so far as you’re concerned, what is she? Nothing but an old fool—and that girl of hers the same. But I know better—I’ve watched them. They’re sharp, the two of them. And I’ll tell you something else, Vigers—I don’t trust them. You’ve got your instinct, you say—well, I’ve got mine. And if I find out that they know more than they’ve let on to know, they’re going to be sorry for it, I promise—they’re going to be very sorry indeed—”

“Put that bottle away, Harris, and hold your tongue. You’re like an old woman yourself, the way you chatter on. You bore me. You’re talking absolute rubbish. These people are stupid, and if you waste your time watching them it merely means you’re as stupid as they are. Now make up the fire. I’m going to sleep.”

“Oh! So it’s me now, is it? I bore you, do I? My company’s not good enough for you, I suppose. Bores and fools, that’s what you think—that’s your opinion of everyone—of everyone except for yourself, Mr Brilliant—”

“Be quiet!” said the voice of the man who had told them his name was Catcher, and it was not soft any more; it cut like a knife, so that even Amy, listening, shrank away. “The only reason you’re sitting in the same room as I am tonight, Harris, is because you happen to be able to ski. Do you think that gives you the right to speak in such a way—to
me
? You’ve made a mistake, as you’ll discover when once this job’s done. I shan’t forget it. I never do.”

Then there was silence from the front-kitchen. But Amy sat on in the dark and the cold, unmoving, minute after minute, while the voices repeated over and over in her head odd fragments of sentences muddled together, incomprehensible and terrifying:

“...Catcher and Nabb... poking fun... a little joke of mine, Harris... people aren’t always as stupid as you think they are... a little joke... I’ve watched them, they’re sharp, the two of them... it’s the jungle instinct, tigers can tell... didn’t Oscar say he’d as good as cut his arm clean off him... seen a man killed to stop it going any further... tigers can tell... Catcher and Nabb... entirely at our mercy, Harris... it was a little joke of mine...”

Amy went up the stairs at last on hands and knees, too stiff to be careful; but if a board or two did creak no one appeared to notice. She crawled into her grandmother’s bed. At her frozen touch the old woman awoke.

“Why, child! You’re like a stone! Where have you been?”

“Listening. And oh, Granny—they’re not policemen at all—they’re not the police! They can’t be!”

“Not the police! Whatever do you mean, they’re not the police?”

“Shush, Granny—shush! Don’t say it!”

“It’s you’ve just said it, not me.”

“But not so loud—”

Mrs Bowen heaved herself round in bed and lit the candle. Then, propped on one elbow, she looked at Amy, and Amy looked at her; and as they looked the fearful possibility became for both of them a certainty.

“Do you know, Amy, I feel as though somewhere deep inside of me I always knew it,” said Mrs Bowen. “From the very beginning I was uneasy about those two. And yet again, there was no way of telling for sure they weren’t what they said they were. How could we have known?”

“We should have guessed. Catcher and Nabb—that’s not their names, of course it’s not—he was making a joke on us. Fancy us being so dull! And when you mentioned Victor Pugh—remember?—they didn’t know he was the policeman, not till you said. If they’d been real police, Granny, no matter even if they did come from London, they’d be bound to know that. I don’t believe they’ve so much as spoken to Mr Pugh.”

“But who are they, then? said Mrs Bowen.

“I don’t know. I couldn’t make out the meaning of half of it, but I think they’re just as bad as ever they can be.”

And sitting up whispering in the candlelight, holding both her grandmother’s hands tightly for comfort, Amy told her all she had heard; and anxiously at the end of it she asked her:

“What are we going to do?”

Mrs Bowen was silent for a while. Then she said:

“That poor man, Amy. It’s not us they’re after—it’s him.”

“And he’s not a murderer—that was a lie they told us, like all the rest.”

“It seems likely, indeed.”

“Granny—if he went back to Tyler’s Place they’ll find him. The big one said he was somewhere close—he said he knew it. They’ll find him. And when they find him, they’ll kill him. They said he’d got to be
quite dead.
That’s what they said, those very words. I heard them.”

Again Mrs Bowen was silent.

“What are we going to
do
?” whispered Amy.

Many a night in the past Mrs Bowen had sat up in that same feather-bed and asked herself the same question, to which there had seemed to be no answer but the one she suggested now:

“We can say our prayers, Amy.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be enough, Granny.”

“Sometimes it has to be,” said Mrs Bowen.

“But you’ve told me and told me—prayers aren’t meant to be instead of doing something, they’re as well as.”

“Amy,” said Mrs Bowen more firmly and louder, “there’s one thing you’re going to promise me here and now—you’re not going down to Tyler’s Place, nor anywhere near.”

Amy was mute.

“Amy,” said Mrs Bowen, very earnestly, “those are bad men, you said it yourself. You’ve got to promise me.”

“All right then,” said Amy, staring in front of her and seeing, not the brass knobs at the foot of the bed or the flickering outline of the chest-of-drawers, but the dark and ruined walls of Tyler’s Place. “We don’t know for sure he’s there, anyway. But supposing he is, then it must be because he thinks he’s got more of a chance, hiding, than out in the snow on a hill where they’d see him plain and catch him easy with those ski things of theirs. They wouldn’t have to catch up with him, even. That little one—he’s got a gun. I saw it, night before last, when they were searching. They’ve both of them got guns, I daresay. You needn’t worry about me, Granny—I don’t want to show them the way down to Tyler’s Place, and I might if I went, so I shan’t go—I promise. But if only there was something we could do—there must be
something
.”

The day was a burden almost too heavy for Amy to bear. Each minute pressed upon her like a separate and agonizing weight. What could she do? Which way could she turn? There was no relief. She was afraid to speak for fear she might say something that would tell them what she knew; afraid to say nothing for fear her silence might appear suspicious; afraid to look up for fear they should read her thoughts in her eyes; afraid to look down for fear it might seem she was avoiding their gaze; she was afraid to go out and afraid to stay in and whatever she did or did not do, danger surrounded her, invisible, unavoidable as the air she breathed. She could eat no breakfast.

“I’m not hungry, Granny.”

“Leave it, then—or give it to Mick. It’s being cooped up and no exercise—no wonder you’ve lost your appetite. But you can’t go out this morning, Amy—there’s nobody could be out this morning,” said Mrs Bowen, touching Amy’s shoulder as she passed.

For the snow was driving across, an impenetrable blanket, and if it was impossible for anyone to start looking for the way to London in such weather, so was it also impossible for any person to set out to look for any other person. Mr Nabb—as Amy felt she would always think of him now, whatever his real name might be—prowled restlessly round the front-kitchen, opening, shutting, tapping, humming; and yet, when she pushed away her bacon and egg and glanced up, she found that in spite of all the fidgeting his eye was steadily on her. “I’ve been watching them”—she remembered his words.

“Shall I polish the brasses, Granny?”

“Well, yes, Amy—why don’t you?” said Mrs Bowen as heartily as though she had no recollection of Amy rubbing every bit of brass they had only the day before yesterday.

Inspector Catcher, whose name, like Mr Nabb’s, was really something quite different, lay back in Mrs Bowen’s basket-chair, his legs stretched out across the hearthrug like the long straight legs of a heron. The tips of his fingers rested together; he appeared to be thinking. Amy, her head well down, polishing, peeped at him through her hair. Mr Brilliant!—what a good name it was for him, better than Inspector Catcher, better than Vigers. Even lying as he was now, supine in front of the fire, there was a sort of a dangerous gleam about him.

“Mr Brilliant,” she said softly, trying it out; and immediately, horrified, looked up to encounter again the gaze of Mr Nabb fastened upon her.

“They come up nicely, don’t they?” she faltered, giving the candlesticks a push towards him. “Brilliant they are, with a bit of a polish.”

Would that do? Perhaps he had not heard her first murmur after all. But he had said she was sharp; he was watching her. She must be careful, so very careful.

“Shall I turn the radio on, Granny?”

“Why, yes, Amy, let’s have some music—that’s a good idea.”

But instead of music they heard the nine o’clock time-signal, and then the news and the weather forecast: snow everywhere, still coming.

“Is there to be no end to it?” said Mrs Bowen. “Funny they made no mention of that criminal you’re after, ’specially as he’s a murderer—they usually put it on the news, don’t they, when there’s a prisoner got out, so as to warn people not to open their doors.”

Amy caught her breath: was this wise of her grandmother? She dropped her head lower still and polished harder. Mrs Bowen was stirring a pudding at the other end of the table. A stream of pop music poured out of the radio into their little front-kitchen.

“Turn that noise off,” said Inspector Catcher.

“Oh, no—I like it!” declared Mrs Bowen, stirring away briskly.

“Harris—you heard what I said. Turn it off.”

Abruptly the music ceased. Mrs Bowen said nothing for a while, only her lips folded together tightly and she beat a little faster. She paused, scattered in currants, beat again.

“Inspector, I’m sure you won’t mind me asking—but I understood you to tell me yesterday this gentleman’s name was Mr Nabb. Why was it you just called him Mr Harris, then?”

In her mind Amy begged her to say no more—to wipe out somehow what she had already said. She knew what her grandmother was doing: she was setting Amy an example of courage; she was telling these men that whoever they were she was not afraid of them. She was defying them. It might be brave, but was it wise? Through a protective screen of loose falling hair Amy, deeply apprehensive, watched Inspector Catcher, who was not really Inspector Catcher, and waited for his annihilating reply.

It seemed at first that he was going to ignore Mrs Bowen, or even that he had not heard her. He neither moved nor spoke for a whole long minute. Then very slowly he turned round and looked at her.

Blue, pale, his eyes, intently focused, reminded Amy of the eyes of the Post Office cat, that huge fluffy creature whose time was spent dozing in the sunshine apparently unconscious but coming, at the faintest rustle or squeak, instantly alert. The Inspector looked at Mrs Bowen as though all at once she was of interest to him. One hand hung lax over the side of his chair, but Amy noticed that the tips of the fingers were crooked slightly inwards. Again she was reminded of the Post Office cat; and then, with a sense of shock, realised why she had felt that the soft voice and easy manner were a disguise, and what it was they disguised: he was cruel.