Read-aloud uses AI-generated Orakel narrator voices when available. Voice names are Orakel styles, not provider names.
Chapter VIII.: The Coming of the Black Stone I came down to breakfast next morning, after eight hours of blessed dreamless sleep, to find Sir Walter decoding a telegram in the midst of muffins and marmalade. His fresh rosiness of yesterday seemed a thought tarnished. “I had a busy hour on the telephone after you went to bed,” he said. “I got my Chief to speak to the First Lord and the Secretary for War, and they are bringing Royer over a day sooner. This wire clinches it. He will be in London at five.
Odd that the code word for a Sous-chef d’État Major-General should be ‘Porker.’” He directed me to the hot dishes and went on. “Not that I think it will do much good. If your friends were clever enough to find out the first arrangement they are clever enough to discover the change. I would give my head to know where the leak is.
We believed there were only five men in England who knew about Royer’s visit, and you may be certain there were fewer in France, for they manage these things better there.” While I ate he continued to talk, making me to my surprise a present of his full confidence. “Can the dispositions not be changed?” I asked. “They could,” he said. “But we want to avoid that if possible. They are the result of immense thought, and no alteration would be as good. Besides, on one or two points change is simply impossible.
Still, something could be done, I suppose, if it were absolutely necessary. But you see the difficulty, Hannay. Our enemies are not going to be such fools as to pick Royer’s pocket or any childish game like that. They know that would mean a row and put us on our guard. Their aim is to get the details without any one of us knowing, so that Royer will go back to Paris in the belief that the whole business is still deadly secret.
If they can’t do that they fail, for, once we suspect, they know that the whole thing must be altered.” “Then we must stick by the Frenchman’s side till he is home again,” I said. “If they thought they could get the information in Paris they would try there.
It means that they have some deep scheme on foot in London which they reckon is going to win out.” “Royer dines with my Chief, and then comes to my house where four people will see him—Whittaker from the Admiralty, myself, Sir Arthur Drew, and General Winstanley. The First Lord is ill, and has gone to Sheringham. At my house he will get a certain document from Whittaker, and after that he will be motored to Portsmouth where a destroyer will take him to Havre.
His journey is too important for the ordinary boat-train. He will never be left unattended for a moment till he is safe on French soil. The same with Whittaker till he meets Royer. That is the best we can do, and it’s hard to see how there can be any miscarriage. But I don’t mind admitting that I’m horribly nervous. This murder of Karolides will play the deuce in the chancelleries of Europe.” After breakfast he asked me if I could drive a car. “Well, you’ll be my chauffeur today and wear Hudson’s rig.
You’re about his size. You have a hand in this business and we are taking no risks. There are desperate men against us, who will not respect the country retreat of an overworked official.” When I first came to London I had bought a car and amused myself with running about the south of England, so I knew something of the geography. I took Sir Walter to town by the Bath Road and made good going.
It was a soft breathless June morning, with a promise of sultriness later, but it was delicious enough swinging through the little towns with their freshly watered streets, and past the summer gardens of the Thames valley. I landed Sir Walter at his house in Queen Anne’s Gate punctually by half-past eleven. The butler was coming up by train with the luggage. The first thing he did was to take me round to Scotland Yard. There we saw a prim gentleman, with a clean-shaven, lawyer’s face.
“I’ve brought you the Portland Place murderer,” was Sir Walter’s introduction. The reply was a wry smile. “It would have been a welcome present, Bullivant. This, I presume, is Mr Richard Hannay, who for some days greatly interested my department.” “Mr Hannay will interest it again. He has much to tell you, but not today. For certain grave reasons his tale must wait for four hours. Then, I can promise you, you will be entertained and possibly edified.
I want you to assure Mr Hannay that he will suffer no further inconvenience.” This assurance was promptly given. “You can take up your life where you left off,” I was told. “Your flat, which probably you no longer wish to occupy, is waiting for you, and your man is still there. As you were never publicly accused, we considered that there was no need of a public exculpation. But on that, of course, you must please yourself.” “We may want your assistance later on, MacGillivray,” Sir Walter said as we left.
Then he turned me loose. “Come and see me tomorrow, Hannay. I needn’t tell you to keep deadly quiet. If I were you I would go to bed, for you must have considerable arrears of sleep to overtake. You had better lie low, for if one of your Black Stone friends saw you there might be trouble.” I felt curiously at a loose end. At first it was very pleasant to be a free man, able to go where I wanted without fearing anything. I had only been a month under the ban of the law, and it was quite enough for me.
I went to the Savoy and ordered very carefully a very good luncheon, and then smoked the best cigar the house could provide. But I was still feeling nervous. When I saw anybody look at me in the lounge, I grew shy, and wondered if they were thinking about the murder. After that I took a taxi and drove miles away up into North London. I walked back through fields and lines of villas and terraces and then slums and mean streets, and it took me pretty nearly two hours. All the while my restlessness was growing worse.
I felt that great things, tremendous things, were happening or about to happen, and I, who was the cog-wheel of the whole business, was out of it. Royer would be landing at Dover, Sir Walter would be making plans with the few people in England who were in the secret, and somewhere in the darkness the Black Stone would be working. I felt the sense of danger and impending calamity, and I had the curious feeling, too, that I alone could avert it, alone could grapple with it. But I was out of the game now.
How could it be otherwise? It was not likely that Cabinet Ministers and Admiralty Lords and Generals would admit me to their councils. I actually began to wish that I could run up against one of my three enemies. That would lead to developments. I felt that I wanted enormously to have a vulgar scrap with those gentry, where I could hit out and flatten something. I was rapidly getting into a very bad temper. I didn’t feel like going back to my flat.
That had to be faced some time, but as I still had sufficient money I thought I would put it off till next morning, and go to a hotel for the night. My irritation lasted through dinner, which I had at a restaurant in Jermyn Street. I was no longer hungry, and let several courses pass untasted. I drank the best part of a bottle of Burgundy, but it did nothing to cheer me. An abominable restlessness had taken possession of me.
Here was I, a very ordinary fellow, with no particular brains, and yet I was convinced that somehow I was needed to help this business through—that without me it would all go to blazes. I told myself it was sheer silly conceit, that four or five of the cleverest people living, with all the might of the British Empire at their back, had the job in hand. Yet I couldn’t be convinced. It seemed as if a voice kept speaking in my ear, telling me to be up and doing, or I would never sleep again.
The upshot was that about half-past nine I made up my mind to go to Queen Anne’s Gate. Very likely I would not be admitted, but it would ease my conscience to try. I walked down Jermyn Street, and at the corner of Duke Street passed a group of young men. They were in evening dress, had been dining somewhere, and were going on to a music-hall. One of them was Mr Marmaduke Jopley. He saw me and stopped short. “By God, the murderer!” he cried. “Here, you fellows, hold him!
That’s Hannay, the man who did the Portland Place murder!” He gripped me by the arm, and the others crowded round. I wasn’t looking for any trouble, but my ill-temper made me play the fool. A policeman came up, and I should have told him the truth, and, if he didn’t believe it, demanded to be taken to Scotland Yard, or for that matter to the nearest police station. But a delay at that moment seemed to me unendurable, and the sight of Marmie’s imbecile face was more than I could bear.
I let out with my left, and had the satisfaction of seeing him measure his length in the gutter. Then began an unholy row. They were all on me at once, and the policeman took me in the rear. I got in one or two good blows, for I think, with fair play, I could have licked the lot of them, but the policeman pinned me behind, and one of them got his fingers on my throat.
Through a black cloud of rage I heard the officer of the law asking what was the matter, and Marmie, between his broken teeth, declaring that I was Hannay the murderer. “Oh, damn it all,” I cried, “make the fellow shut up. I advise you to leave me alone, constable. Scotland Yard knows all about me, and you’ll get a proper wigging if you interfere with me.” “You’ve got to come along of me, young man,” said the policeman. “I saw you strike that gentleman crool ’ard. You began it too, for he wasn’t doing nothing.
I seen you. Best go quietly or I’ll have to fix you up.” Exasperation and an overwhelming sense that at no cost must I delay gave me the strength of a bull elephant. I fairly wrenched the constable off his feet, floored the man who was gripping my collar, and set off at my best pace down Duke Street. I heard a whistle being blown, and the rush of men behind me. I have a very fair turn of speed, and that night I had wings. In a jiffy I was in Pall Mall and had turned down towards St James’s Park.
I dodged the policeman at the Palace gates, dived through a press of carriages at the entrance to the Mall, and was making for the bridge before my pursuers had crossed the roadway. In the open ways of the Park I put on a spurt. Happily there were few people about and no one tried to stop me. I was staking all on getting to Queen Anne’s Gate. When I entered that quiet thoroughfare it seemed deserted. Sir Walter’s house was in the narrow part, and outside it three or four motor-cars were drawn up.
I slackened speed some yards off and walked briskly up to the door. If the butler refused me admission, or if he even delayed to open the door, I was done. He didn’t delay. I had scarcely rung before the door opened. “I must see Sir Walter,” I panted. “My business is desperately important.” That butler was a great man. Without moving a muscle he held the door open, and then shut it behind me. “Sir Walter is engaged, sir, and I have orders to admit no one.
Perhaps you will wait.” The house was of the old-fashioned kind, with a wide hall and rooms on both sides of it. At the far end was an alcove with a telephone and a couple of chairs, and there the butler offered me a seat. “See here,” I whispered. “There’s trouble about and I’m in it. But Sir Walter knows, and I’m working for him. If anyone comes and asks if I am here, tell him a lie.” He nodded, and presently there was a noise of voices in the street, and a furious ringing at the bell.
I never admired a man more than that butler. He opened the door, and with a face like a graven image waited to be questioned. Then he gave them it. He told them whose house it was, and what his orders were, and simply froze them off the doorstep. I could see it all from my alcove, and it was better than any play. I hadn’t waited long till there came another ring at the bell. The butler made no bones about admitting this new visitor. While he was taking off his coat I saw who it was.
You couldn’t open a newspaper or a magazine without seeing that face—the grey beard cut like a spade, the firm fighting mouth, the blunt square nose, and the keen blue eyes. I recognized the First Sea Lord, the man, they say, that made the new British Navy. He passed my alcove and was ushered into a room at the back of the hall. As the door opened I could hear the sound of low voices. It shut, and I was left alone again. For twenty minutes I sat there, wondering what I was to do next.
I was still perfectly convinced that I was wanted, but when or how I had no notion. I kept looking at my watch, and as the time crept on to half-past ten I began to think that the conference must soon end. In a quarter of an hour Royer should be speeding along the road to Portsmouth.... Then I heard a bell ring, and the butler appeared. The door of the back room opened, and the First Sea Lord came out. He walked past me, and in passing he glanced in my direction, and for a second we looked each other in the face.
Only for a second, but it was enough to make my heart jump. I had never seen the great man before, and he had never seen me. But in that fraction of time something sprang into his eyes, and that something was recognition. You can’t mistake it. It is a flicker, a spark of light, a minute shade of difference which means one thing and one thing only. It came involuntarily, for in a moment it died, and he passed on. In a maze of wild fancies I heard the street door close behind him.
I picked up the telephone book and looked up the number of his house. We were connected at once, and I heard a servant’s voice. “Is his Lordship at home?” I asked. “His Lordship returned half an hour ago,” said the voice, “and has gone to bed. He is not very well tonight. Will you leave a message, sir?” I rang off and almost tumbled into a chair. My part in this business was not yet ended. It had been a close shave, but I had been in time.
Not a moment could be lost, so I marched boldly to the door of that back room and entered without knocking. Five surprised faces looked up from a round table. There was Sir Walter, and Drew the War Minister, whom I knew from his photographs. There was a slim elderly man, who was probably Whittaker, the Admiralty official, and there was General Winstanley, conspicuous from the long scar on his forehead.
Lastly, there was a short stout man with an iron-grey moustache and bushy eyebrows, who had been arrested in the middle of a sentence. Sir Walter’s face showed surprise and annoyance. “This is Mr Hannay, of whom I have spoken to you,” he said apologetically to the company. “I’m afraid, Hannay, this visit is ill-timed.” I was getting back my coolness. “That remains to be seen, sir,” I said; “but I think it may be in the nick of time.
For God’s sake, gentlemen, tell me who went out a minute ago?” “Lord Alloa,” Sir Walter said, reddening with anger. “It was not,” I cried; “it was his living image, but it was not Lord Alloa. It was someone who recognized me, someone I have seen in the last month. He had scarcely left the doorstep when I rang up Lord Alloa’s house and was told he had come in half an hour before and had gone to bed.” “Who—who—” someone stammered.
“The Black Stone,” I cried, and I sat down in the chair so recently vacated and looked round at five badly scared gentlemen.