I flew on, and at one mid-air moment – as I bounded the final three steps of the second or third landing – I thought I heard the crack of a gun – or was it a cry? – from the floors above.
I pounded on down the red-carpeted stairs, past the doors of all the sleeping artists, until I was at the front door of the hotel, and out of it and away, flying along shuttered streets, boots rattling crazily on the cobbles, with two cabs rushing along beside me. I tried to gaze through the windows as I ran, half expecting to see Sampson in there, taking aim with his shooter. The two cabs both turned left at the end of the street, so that was a direction leading… somewhere.
I took that turning myself, and was galloping alone in a wide street with thin trees on either side. I had to believe that Hopkins had been spinning a yarn; that no order had been given to Mike, for it was a queer sort of thing to ask: do such and such a thing unless you hear from me. Or that Mike would not obey. Or then again, I might be able to beat Mike to Thorpe- on-Ouse. Would he go out in the middle of the night? If not, there was hope, for I might be able to return by morning.
But this was all a gamble, with Lydia's life as the stake.
I ran on. Why was Sampson not giving chase? (For I was taking for granted that he'd won the scrap.) Perhaps he was, but in the wrong direction. Had I thrown him off already, by taking just one turning? He must know I'd be making for the station. This street was all signs. Without slackening my pace at all, I read 'Boulangerie', 'Glaces', 'Dentiste', 'Pharmacie'… but everything was closed, it being so late.
The only thing moving in my line of sight was a clock on an archway but there at the end of the street I saw my goaclass="underline" the mighty window of the Gare du Nord, the eye looking outwards this time. I ran into the station, clattering on to the circulating area where three men in uniform looked at me, as if to say: 'What do you mean by running inside this palace of ours?' One train was leaving as I looked towards the platforms; the others in the station looked dead, stabled for the night.
Feeling the weight of the guide book in my coat pocket, I took it out, and scrabbled through the pages, finally looking up and asking the three: 'A quelle heure part la premier train… for London?'
No answer. You'd have thought one of the bastards would have stirred. I turned about and a lady of middling years in a very broad white hat was standing a little way off and saying, in the most beautiful of voices (meaning an English voice): 'The next boat train for London is in half an hour's time, but it goes from Saint-Lazare. There isn't another from here until 4.30.'
One of the men said a single word, and it sank in slowly with me: 'Metro'. The Metropolitain. The underground railway. They had understood her English better than mine. The human angel was still standing behind the men, still smiling, and not speaking now but pointing with a gloved hand to a spot on the station wall. I ran over, and saw a plan showing… a tangle. I looked behind me at the station clock: midnight. I looked again at the map, which was called a plan. The three guards had gone now and so had the lady, but that meant I would be able to work it out for myself. The glass globes stretched away along the empty platforms, and they lit the way north to Calais. I turned again to the map. At the top, at the north was 'G. du Nord', but it was joined only to a thin pencil stroke of a Metro line. This was a line not yet existing. But the thick black lines were different. They were more useful, for they existed.
Saint-Lazare must also be somewhere to the north if it sent trains to London. I roved immediately right, then left from the spot marked G. du Nord, and there was Saint-Lazare. It was to the left, and connected to a thick black line. The nearest station on the thick black line to Gare du Nord was called… well, it began with 'B', and it was the longest French word I'd so far struck.
I was running again through empty streets, heading left from Gare du Nord. I had twenty-five minutes remaining at the outside. I was checked by the sight of two men walking towards me under a metal bridge: one was broad, the other thin. I watched them, putting my hand into my pocket, and touching the folded left-luggage ticket. It seemed a very poor sort of prize. I ought not to have gambled with Lydia's life, but with my own. I had not been gentlemanly.
The two men moved towards me, becoming by degrees ordinary Frenchmen; behind them, an electrical train went over the metal bridge.I ran towards the bridge – and in fact it was a station, with the ticket offices below. Electrical train, electrical station. All bright lights and a smiling Frencher at the ticket window. 'Saint-Lazare' I said, reaching into my pocket… all my pockets… but there were only the two ten-pound notes. I had no French money. I looked around, and I believe that I was searching for the Angel-lady in the broad white hat, but the ticket was there waiting on the window ledge, pushed out by the clerk.
I held up a ten-pound note.
'Just remembered,' I said, 'only English money.'
What he made of that I don't know, because I took the ticket and ran for the stairs that led to the platform. It was the Underground but you went up to reach it. The train came in: a line of boxes. It stopped in a heap, the doors flew open with a sneezing sound, and an official walked slowly out from one of the carriages. He watched me carefully as I climbed aboard into a carriage containing four men, all smoking. The train ran along level with the rooftops for a little way, before dipping down into a tunnel. At a station called Villiers I climbed down to look for another line, as I knew I must according to the plan I had seen. After charging along white tunnels following blue arrows that I didn't understand, I came onto a platform where an electrical train waited. I climbed aboard without any notion of where it was going. One station later, its doors opened on the words 'Saint-Lazare'. I ran up into the mainline station passing a ticket gate with no checker. Into the station: few people, low roof, smoke everywhere. A clock dangled in the smoke: 12.25 ~ five minutes remaining. I looked at the signs: 'Bar', 'Consigne', 'Billets Internationaux', 'Telegrammes'. I could send a telegram. Who to? The Chief. But he would be in bed asleep, or he might just be dead. It came to me then: the Chief knew my address.I looked at the signs again: 'Telephone'. I could not telephone. I was not up to it; did not know how. I looked again at the clock: 12.27. There were some electrical trains in the bays; but smoke floated over from somewhere beyond. I saw the ticket windows. Would they accept English money? 12.28. I could not see the money-changing place. I dashed to the ticket window – Billets Internationaux – and slammed down one of the tenners. 'London' I gasped out, 'boat train, second-class', and then I added for good measure, 'deck', which I'd heard Sampson say at Charing Cross. The man was writing out the ticket before I'd finished. But this writing out took an age. I looked at the clock. Dead on half past.
The ticket was pushed across to me, and the man began counting out the change. But he stopped half way because he was short of English money; he had to go off into some back room to fetch more. I was gone, flying past the ends of the electrical trains, looking for the source of the smoke and steam. It came from an engine on the furthest platform – an engine that was leaving. I ran after the last carriage; it was moving slowly, and soon I was level with the buffers. I ran on, so that I was level with the rear windows, but now it was all I could do to keep up. The passengers inside were all looking dead ahead. I yelled out, but now I was only level with the back of the rear carriage once again, and then I was staring at the strange looking red lamp on the retreating back of the train.
I came to a stop, and drew a long breath. I looked to the right, and there was the whole business over again: a long train, steam locomotive at the front, pulling forwards. I ran across the platform, and was up and inside in no time. I found a seat next to a woman in Victorian black, who said: 'You're in a rare hurry.'