Damn! There was someone out there—there was—
Butler's reflexes had him out of cover, across the path, over a low hedge of lavender and into the flowerbed beyond before he had properly computed the odds.
There was no mistaking that short, belted driving-jacket, even though he had only had one brief glimpse of it from the attic window.
His feet sank ankle-deep into the soft earth of the flowerbed, slowing him, and a rose bush plucked at him. Then he was through the bed and over another path, on to the turf of the playing field, running noiselessly towards the unsuspecting enemy.
He was reminded insanely of the game he played with his girls every weekend, 'Peep the curtain' they called it. Any moment the man would turn round, and if he was caught moving he would have to go back to the beginning again— and any moment the swine
It was as though it was that thought, rather than the sound of his footfalls, that gave him away: the man half glanced over his shoulder, jerked the glance further in sudden panic, and then bounded forward across the last few yards to the doorway, slamming the door behind him.
Butler was by then only a dozen strides behind him. There was no time to test whether the door was locked or merely on the latch. There wasn't even time to stop : there was only time to turn his shoulder into the door like a battering ram, with every ounce of his weight and speed behind it.
The door burst outwards with a crash and Butler hurtled into a muddy lane beyond, his legs skidding from under him. By the time he had gained his balance and his bearings the quarry had won back precious yards and was far down the lane.
Gritting his teeth, Butler rose from the mud and drove himself down after him. But the undignified sprawl in the mud had taken some of the steam out of him, leaving room for caution.
He had already left an elephant's trail of damage behind him, but there was at least a good chance the fire and the firemen between them would obliterate that. At the bottom of this lane, however, must be dummy2.htm
the side road from which he had approached the Hall: civilisation started again there, and to pursue his man further, assegai still in hand, would be to invite awkward attention. It looked as though he'd announced his escape without catching his man—without even getting a proper look at him.
As he laboured the last few yards the slam of a car door backed his worst fear, and as he turned the corner an engine fired.
It was the plain-looking van he'd seen parked in the distance earlier—with a burst of exhaust and a snarl that suggested there was more under the bonnet than had ever left the factory it shot away from the curb, leaving him panting with breathless rage.
He'd made a right bloody dubber of himself and no mistake—his dad's favourite phrase rose in his mind.
The ache came back to his crutch and to the blistered hand clutching the useless spear.
The van roared out of sight at the corner. Then, as he stared at the empty road, there was a shriek of brakes, one heart-stopping second of silence, and an explosive crash of metal and glass.
IV
'AND YOU THINK he said nothing? Nothing at all?'
Butler looked from Sir Frederick to Stocker. He had qualified his statement because from the back of the crowd he had not been able to make absolutely sure. But he was satisfied in his own mind that the fire engine had done a thorough job.
'They had to cut him out and they didn't bother to give him morphine first. If he was alive when he went into the ambulance it was touch and go.'
'He was alive,' Stccker said. 'But only just—they never admitted him to hospital. The ambulance driver called out the casualty officer to have a look, and then they took him straight to the morgue. I believe it saves a lot of paperwork that way. So I think we can rely on Major Butler's assessment there.'
Sir Frederick nodded. 'Hmm . . . And you haven't got anything on him, Bob ? Is that so ?'
'Absolutely nothing, Sir. No name, no address, no next-of-kin. Nobody's lost him and nobody's claimed him. And no prints on record—as far as we're concerned he never existed. He's definitely one of theirs.'
'And his car?'
'Much the same applies. Its documentation's totally false. It was stolen two years ago in Hendon. And Major Butler was right about the engine too. We'd have had a job catching him once he got going.'
dummy2.htm
'And you have no doubt he was the one who set light to your tail-feathers, Jack?'
Butler demurred. 'He was the man I saw from the attic. And the man I chased—unless there were two men wearing that make of driving-jacket. Whether he started the fire behind me, that I can't say.'
Sir Frederick smiled thinly at him. 'I think it reasonable to presume so, Jack. And in that case I think we have emerged, thus far, more satisfactorily than we deserved—wouldn't you agree?'
It was plain to see what he meant even if it didn't make much sense yet, thought Butler bitterly. The dead man must have had a watching brief on Eden Hall—a brief to wait and see if anyone came to check on Neil Smith. Only then, when it was clear that the authorities were interested in Smith, was he empowered to obliterate the evidence.
But if that was how it had been, then things hadn't turned out as planned. Thanks to the freak accident between the van and the fire engine—a truly accidental accident—the enemy would not know what had happened exactly in the Hall. They would know that something had occurred, but not whether the Smith documents were destroyed. Nor would they know the identity or fate of the British agent involved.
