Lex by this time had complete trust in us, and was convinced that the life we had led him for the last twenty-four hours was all for his own good. Every one of our actions was consistent with a desperate attempt to pass him through a cordon of police and private enemies, and deliver him to Heyne-Hassingham. Of course–for that was just what we were trying to do. He no longer worried about his briefcase; in any event he could be sure it hadn’t been tampered with, since it had not gone up in a burst of flame.
Sandorski undid our precious brown paper parcel. The bottom of the briefcase, relieved of string, gaped. The stuffing of paper fell out.
“Can you ever make a job of it?” I asked.
“Must,” he answered. “And I made my own shoes in prison camp. How long have I got?”
“Well, expresses take an hour and a half. We can safely add another hour for this train.”
I think I never admired him so much as during that journey. I had no idea that he could be so meticulous. Every stitch that I had cut was lifted out, and with infinite care he drove his needle through the same holes. First he sewed the cardboard roll back to the inner side of the bag, leaving slack the wire between the latch and the incendiary, so that even when the device was set it wouldn’t go off. Then he put back the loose paper and stitched up the seam. The only thing he could not restore exactly as we found it was the sealed tape that ran the length of the roll and round the two ends. We stuck the cut edges of the tape to the cardboard, and hoped that Heyne-Hassingham, in his general state of agitation, wouldn’t notice. The trigger wire of the incendiary still ran through the tape, so it was pretty certain he would cut, withdraw his documents and never look at roll or tape again.
Lex had not seen his briefcase at all since he packed. He had only seen the parcel, which was beginning to look disreputable. We brushed the drying mud from our clothes, remixed it and smeared it artistically here and there over the case to hide the newness of the thread. Then we wrapped up the parcel again, and soaked the lower end in mud and water. When Lex handled it, the paper would certainly disintegrate and the dirt of the case would need no explanation.
While Sandorski was working on his long task I stood in the corridor, in case Lex should take it into his head to get up and disturb us. He didn’t. He was only too thankful to be able to lie down in peace. I visited him occasionally. At Winchester he stared into the night, and burbled something about King Alfred and Law. He was a well-read blighter.
After Basingstoke, where the line from Salisbury joined that from Southampton, we were–potentially, at any rate –in danger again. I felt it was slight. To the police, after checking the likely trains, it must appear that we were still in or around Salisbury. It was certain, however, that there would be a routine control at Waterloo. I wanted to leave the train at one of the suburban stations, but Sandorski wouldn’t have it; he feared that, as the only passengers getting out, we should attract attention.
Three quarters of our job, he said, was now done. Lex had his briefcase and papers seemingly intact, and so long as he kept away from us there was nothing to prevent him from leaving the terminus and taking a taxi to 26 Fulham Park Avenue. The police had no description of him. What happened to us didn’t matter much, but it would be more comfortable and discreet to be arrested in Fulham Park Avenue than elsewhere.
We woke up Lex, who was feeling brighter, and Sandorski gave him instructions in rapid German, which he translated to me afterwards. Early in the morning Lex was to telephone Heyne-Hassingham and tell him that he had escaped during some trouble or other at the landing of the plane, which looked like an attempt to kidnap him. He had got clear, had spent the day in a village, lying low and finding out where he was, and had then taken a late train to London. He was to obey his instructions to hand over his briefcase to Heyne-Hassingham in person, and he was to ask Heyne-Hassingham to come to London to receive it. He was not to talk of his adventures or to mention his address on the telephone, but simply to say he was where he had been told to go in any emergency.
The train pulled into Waterloo. We pushed Lex out onto the platform, and said goodby. Then we hid under the seats, feeling unnecessarily cowardly. It was wiser, however, to reach Sandorski’s friend Roland, if we could, without a chance of police or Hiart or Hiart’s agents intervening.
We stayed under the seats for about twenty minutes while the train was trundled out, and banged back and forth in the yards. It stopped at one or two unpromising places, where we were in a blaze of lights and suspended above South London on arches. We didn’t like the look of them, and remained. Then an army of cleaners swarmed over our train.
“Quick! Sleep!” Sandorski ordered.
He pulled the cork out of the rum, and dropped the bottle on the floor. We lay back snoring. A fearsome female, all dirt, muscles and overalls, poked us with the end of her broom.
” ‘Ere!” she exclaimed. “Look what ‘appened to the drop you were tykin’ ‘ome for muvver!”
“Where are we?” I murmured, with a stage hiccup.
“On the bleedin’ British Rylewyes,” she said. “And don’t think because you own ‘em, you can myke ‘em a bleedin’ ‘otel.”
We staggered to our feet, and I’m damned if Sandorski didn’t try to kiss her. That got him altogether too much good will, and if some kind of official hadn’t come along I doubt if anything would have saved him from a fate worse than death right there in the compartment. The official was sternly humorous. He was evidently quite accustomed to finding bits of rubbish like ourselves routed out by cleaners from late trains. He collected our tickets, escorted us firmly to a gate and left us free in London.
It was dark and cold and raining. Somewhere near Vauxhall Bridge we found a taxi, and told the driver to take us to Fulham Park Avenue and stop at the corner. He seemed to know what corner, so I left it at that. The empty, mournful streets were unending. I hoped the children were asleep. I knew Cecily wouldn’t be.
“Now look here, Colonel, my lad!” said Sandorski. “You leave it all to me. Not a word about Riemann! You’ve just been helping me. I picked you up on your shoot. Thought you were obviously a useful chap. We don’t know anything about the corpse in the car. Leave him out altogether. Tell the rest as it happened.”
No. 26 was an unassuming block of flats, three stories high. No lift. No porter. Just the place for quiet comings and goings with no questions asked. As we hesitated invitingly in front of the closed door, I thought I saw somebody in the wet and gleaming patch of darkness across the road flash a torch quickly towards the roof of No. 26. Sandorski waited, confident in his friend’s arrangements.
The front door opened quietly.
“Well, Peter?” whispered a voice. “Got here after all, by Jove!”
“Anyone come in?” Sandorski asked.
“Yes. He’s up there.”
“With parcel?”
“With parcel.”
“Then you won’t have anything to do till morning. Take us where we can talk.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said the voice. “It’s cold up there on the water tank.”
Two men came out of the house and closed the door behind them. We all walked away together. The chap next to Sandorski was slim and fair. In dark sweater and wind-breaker, with a disreputable hat, he looked much like my idea of an enterprising burglar. His walk and bearing, however, were free and casual. The man as my side–and very close to my side he was–had a conventional hat and overcoat. His face was heavy but intelligent–and, at the moment, remarkably expressionless. We walked to the police car, which was parked some distance away, in an embarrassing silence. When we got there, my companion asked me if I were Colonel Taine.