I’d a bit of trouble finding out where Churt Row and Olding Crescent were-no one ever seemed to have heard of either of them. I had to go down to Mrs. Bell’s cousin, who keeps a little newspaper shop, and ask him to let me have a look at a tape map-he sells that sort of thing as a side line. I found I should have a longish walk. Churt Row was in Putney, and there was something that might have been Olding Crescent running out of it, but there was a worn place where the map had been folded, and I couldn’t be sure of the name. I thought it was good enough.
It was a darkish evening and warm. I allowed plenty of time and meant to get there early, but after I crossed the bridge I took the wrong turning and it got dark suddenly. There was some heavy clouds about, and I wondered if it was going to rain at last. I found Churt Row, a little quiet street with trees on either side and houses with pocket-handkerchief gardens in front of them. Olding Crescent ran out of one end. The houses were bigger and only ran along one side of it; on the other there was the high brick wall of some big garden.
I began to walk up and down and wonder whether Mr. Smith was going to keep me waiting. I heard ten o’clock strike on a church clock, and before the air was quiet again a car drew up at the curb-a Morris four-seater with the hood up. The driver put out his head.
“Mr. Fairfax?” he said; and then, “Get in behind, please.”
There wasn’t much light. There was no lamp-post at the corner. It went through my head that he must have known about that. The nearest lamp was fifty yards away. The headlights made everything behind them look inky black. I groped for the handle and got in, not knowing whether there was any one else in the car or not. I sat down, shut the door, and as I leaned back I smelt violets and I heard some one give a deep, trembling sigh in the darkness beside me. I don’t know what I had been expecting-but not this. I couldn’t see a thing except the driver’s head straight in front of me and the bare outline of the closed side-screens.
The car began to move, and as we passed the first lamp-post I looked into the dark corner beyond me and saw what I thought was a woman with her head bent and her face hidden in her hands. The hands were bare, and she wore a ring, for the yellow light touched the facet of some bright stone. I don’t know whether she moved, or if it was just a trick of light, but I thought a quiver went over her. After that she didn’t move at all, and neither she nor the driver spoke a word. I wondered where on earth they were taking me.
We drove for the best part of an hour. For a time we followed the Kingston by-pass, but after we passed Esher I lost myself hopelessly. The road lay amongst trees, and there were no lights but our own. We had not met another car for perhaps a quarter of an hour, when we slowed down and stopped. The driver got down, opened my door, and stood by whilst I got out. I turned instinctively, but no one moved behind me in the car.
“This way,” said the driver. He had a torch in his hand and set the light dancing down a grassy path to the right.
When I said “The lady?” he answered me with an effect of surprise.
“What lady?” His voice was thick and indistinct.
“In the car.”
And at that he turned the light and let it shine upon the back seat. It was empty. I thought the far door hung open, but the light just flashed and came back. She must have been both quick and silent to have got out without my hearing anything. I wondered if she was standing on the other side of the car laughing to herself or sighing.
He switched off the headlights, and we went along the grassy path.
VIII
The path turned almost at once. It was just wide enough to take two people abreast. We walked along, and neither of us spoke. There was a dense undergrowth on either side.
The driver swung his torch carelessly. Now that I had him walking beside me, I could be sure that he was not the fat man whom I had seen in the tobacconist’s-he wasn’t nearly fat enough. For all I could see, he was exactly like any other taxidriver. He had spoken three times, and only a word or two each time. He seemed to have a cold-his voice sounded thick. I thought he might have been Benno, but I couldn’t be sure. The fat man’s voice still bothered me. I knew it, and I didn’t.
We took another turn, and the light flickered on to a rough hut or shelter. The door stood open, and as I stepped across the threshold, I knew that I was not the first arrival. The driver had switched off his light, and the place was in pitchy darkness, until a match spurted. A man’s hand came round it, sheltering it and keeping the light down. I could only see the hand, part of the arm, and a black hump of head and shoulder.
The hand moved, and I saw a lantern-an old-fashioned affair with a tallow candle and a dark slide. The match caught the wick, and in a moment the light was turned in my direction, and the dark slide came down with a jerk. I saw four bare walls, a wooden table, one chair, and a rough bench. Between the bench and the table, the black bulk of a man, with a hat well pulled down over his face and a coat turned up about his chin. He had some sort of scarf too, and the whole effect was of a large shapelessness.
I thought it was the fat man, but I couldn’t have sworn to him. He sat down on the bench, and as the chair was on my side of the table, I reached out for it and sat down too. The candlelight shone straight into my face. As far as I could see, we were alone. The driver certainly hadn’t come into the hut.
I reached back and shut the rickety door.
“Well?” I said.
“Mr. Fairfax?”
I nodded.
“Mr. Carthew Fairfax?”
I nodded again. If it was the fat man, he was disguising his voice. I thought he was disguising it. One voice sounds very much like another if you get it down to a sort of flat whisper, and that’s what he was doing. It was very tiresome to listen to.
“Well, Mr. Fairfax,” he said, “I’m sorry to have brought you such a long way, but my client’s interests-you see, the matter is confidential.”
“Yes-you said so on the telephone.”
He made a little pause at that. I thought he didn’t like being identified with Mr. Smith and his telephone conversation. I began to feel sure that he was Mr. Smith, but not so sure of his being the fat man at the tobacconist’s. He went on in a moment.
“It probably occurred to you when you saw the advertisement. Five hundred pounds is a large sum of money.”
I didn’t say anything. I thought he seemed vexed as he went on:
“My client is willing to pay this large sum, but he wishes to be assured in advance of your absolute discretion.”
“What does he want me to do?”
“He would like to have your word of honor that you will treat the whole of this interview as confidential, whether you accept his offer or not.”
I thought for a moment. Suppose they were planning murder… Well, I didn’t really suppose it, but the thing certainly had the air of being on the wrong side of the law.
I said, “I can’t give an absolute undertaking. I want to know a lot more before I can do that.”
“That’s very difficult.”
“Why is it difficult? You say your man is offering five hundred pounds, and I want to know what he’s offering it for. If it’s too confidential for you to tell me, the thing’s off so far as I’m concerned.”
He put up his hand and then began to fidget with the lantern, pushing it a little nearer me and fiddling with the slide. Then he went on in that embarrassed whisper.
“My client-” He jerked the lantern back. “My client-” And there he stuck.
I wondered if it was murder.
“Well,” I said, “he’s either done something shady, or else he wants me to do something shady for him. Which is it?”