“I know, and I am going to discourage him still further from going out at the front by leaving you to keep a lookout. Your window faces the front, doesn’t it? Very well, then, you will sit in your room playing patience, but right in the window-seat, please, and with the blind up.”
“But I say, if he goes out by the front way, have I got to track him? Because—”
“No, you haven’t. Mr. Eames is to do that. You sit still where you are and go on playing patience. Mr. Eames, if Brinkman goes out by the front door, you will see him; you will wait till he is round the corner, and then follow him at a distance. That, of course, is only to make sure what he does on the way to the garage; you are not to overtake him or interfere with him.”
“I see.”
“And what am I to do?” asked Angela.
“Well, I was wondering if, on returning from our false start, you would mind going up unnoticed to your husband’s room? The back stairs are very handy for the purpose. You could sit there reading, or anything, and then if Brinkman does leave by the front, your husband, while still sitting at the window and pretending not to notice, could pass the word to you. You would then go downstairs and ring up the garage, so that we shall be ready for Brinkman when he comes.”
“That will be a thoroughly typical scene. And are you taking poor Mr. Pulteney to the post of honour and of danger?”
“If Mr. Pulteney does not object. He knows his way about the garage.”
“I shall be delighted to go where glory waits. If I fall, I hope that you will put up a plain but tasteful monument over me, indicating that I died doing somebody else’s duty.”
“And what about your two men?” asked Bredon.
“One of them will be told off to watch Simmonds. As I told you, I can’t afford to leave Simmonds out of account. The other will wait out at the back, in a place I have selected; if (or rather when) Brinkman comes out at the back door to make his way to the garage, my man will follow him at a distance, and will take his post at the garage door, in case there’s any rough work there. That, I think, accounts for the whole party.”
“How long does our vigil last?” asked Eames.
“Not, I imagine beyond nine o’clock. That is the hour at which the garage shuts; and, although there is a bell by which the proprietor can be fetched out if necessary, I hardly think that Brinkman would take the risk. The dusk is closing early this evening, with all these clouds about; and if, as I strongly suspect, there is a thunderstorm, it will be a capital night for his purpose. It’s a nuisance for us, because I haven’t dared to leave any of my watching-parties out of doors for fear of a deluge.”
If tea had been an embarrassing meal, supper was a positive nightmare. But when the barmaid, carefully coached by Angela, asked for leave to go out to the pictures, a perfect piece of acting began. Angela’s suggestion to her husband was beautifully done, so was his languid reply; Mr. Pulteney excelled himself in the eagerness with which he offered to be her cavalier; Leyland’s show of reluctance over the programme, and Eames’s humorous resignation to his fate, completed the picture. Brinkman, after one nerve-racking pause, said he thought on the whole he would rather be excused. He found the cinema tiring to the eyes. “Good,” said Bredon; “then you and I will keep the home-fires burning. It’s true I shall be sitting upstairs, because I’ve got my patience all laid out up there, and I haven’t the heart to desert it. But if you’re frightened of thunder, Mr. Brinkman, you can always come up and have a crack with me.”
The alleged cinema party left at five minutes to eight. By that time Bredon was already immersed in his mysteries upstairs; and it was Brinkman, smilingly apologetic, who saw them off at the front door. “Don’t sit up for us if we’re late, Mr. Brinkman,” said Angela, with the woman’s instinct of overdoing an acted part; “we’ll throw brickbats in at my husband’s window.” The inn door, with its ridiculous panes of blue and yellow, shut behind them, and they heard the unsuspecting footsteps of their victim climbing the stairs. As they passed down the street, a few drops of rain were falling, uneasy presages of the storm. Angela quickened her pace; she had not carried realism to the extent of arming herself with an umbrella. It was, in truth, but a short distance she and Eames had to travel; they were only just out of sight round a bend of the street when they doubled back upon the lane by which they were to return to the inn. At the entrance of it they met Emmeline, with the Boots in attendance; it was difficult not to believe that, upon arrival at the cinema, he would be replaced by a more favoured escort. Leyland and Pulteney just stood long enough at the turning to make sure that all had gone well, and then continued their journey to the garage.
Here all was clearly in readiness; the proprietor was waiting for them at the door to receive his orders.
“Look here,” said Leyland, “this gentleman and I are going to watch for a bit in here. Where’s the telephone? Ah, that’s all right; very well, we’ll get behind this lorry. If anybody comes into the garage and wants you, he can ring that bell, can’t he? And if anybody rings up on the telephone, we’ll take the
