Her wonderful eyes opened more widely; she stared at me like a bewildered child—a pose, I told myself, perfectly acted.
“But I mean—what brings you here, to this place? You are not of the police.”
“No, I am not ‘of the police.’ My name is Bart Kerrigan; I am a journalist by profession. Now I am going to ask you what brings you here to this place. What is your name?”
Her expression changed again; she lowered her lashes disdainfully
“You could never understand and it does not matter. My name—my name—would mean nothing to you. It is a name you have never heard before.”
“All the more reason why I should hear it now.”
Unwittingly I said the words softly, for as she stood there wrapped in that soiled raincoat, her little feet in muddy riding boots, I thought there could be no more desirable woman in the world.
“My name is Ardatha,” she replied in a low voice.
“Ardatha! A charming name, but as you say one I have never heard before. To what country does it belong?”
Suddenly she opened her eyes widely.
“Why do you keep me here talking to you?” she flashed, and clenched her hand. “I will tell you nothing. I have as much right to be here as you. Please stand away from that door and let me go.”
The demand was made imperiously, but unless my vanity invented a paradox her eyes were denying the urgency of her words.
“It is the duty of every decent Christian,” I said, reluctantly forcing myself to face facts, “to detain any man or any woman belonging to the black organization of which you are a member.”
“Every Christian!” she flashed back. “I am a Christian. I was educated in Cairo.”
“Coptic?”
“Yes, Coptic.”
“But you are not a Copt!”
“Did I say I was a Copt?”
“You belong to the Si-Fan.”
“You don’t know what you are talking about. Even if I did, what then?”
I was drifting again and I knew it. The words came almost against my wilclass="underline"
“Do you understand what this society stands for? Do you know that they employ stranglers, garroters, poisoners, cutthroats, that they trade in assassination?”
“Is that so?” She was watching me closely and now spoke in a quiet voice. “And your Christian rulers, your rulers of the West—yes? What do they do? If the Si-Fan kills a man, that man is an active enemy. But when your Western murderers kill they kill men, women and children—hundreds—thousands who never harmed them—who never sought to harm anybody. My whole family—do you hear me?—my whole family, was wiped from life in one bombing raid. I alone escaped. General Quinto ordered that raid. You have seen what became of General Quinto . . .”
I felt the platform of my argument slipping from beneath my feet. This was the sophistry of Fu Manchu! Yet I hadn’t the wit to answer her. The stern face of Nayland Smith seemed to rise up before me; I read reproach in the grey eyes.
“I think we’ve talked long enough,” I said. “If you will walk out in front of me, we will go and discuss the matter with those able to decide between us.”
She was silent for a moment, seeming to be studying my considerable bulk, firmly planted between herself and freedom.
“Very well.” I saw the gleam of little white teeth as she bit her lip. “I am not afraid. What I have done I am proud to have done. In any case I don’t matter. But bring the notebook it might help me if I am to be arrested.”
“The notebook?”
She pointed to the open cupboard out of which I had stepped. I turned and saw in the dim light among the other objects which I have mentioned what certainly looked like a small notebook. Three steps and I had it in my hand.
But those three steps were fatal.
From behind me came a sound which I can only describe as a rush. I turned and sprang to the doorway. She was through—she must have reached it in one bound! The door was slammed in my face, dealing me a staggering blow on the forehead. I took a step back to hurl myself against it and heard the click of the padlock.
Undeterred, I dashed my weight against the closed door; but although old it was solid. The padlock held.
“Don’t try to follow me!” I heard. “They will kill you if you try to follow me!”
I stood still, listening, but not the faintest sound reached my ears to inform me in which direction Ardatha had gone. Switching on my lamp I stared about the hut.
Yes, she had taken the mandarin’s cap! I had shown less resource than a schoolboy! I had been tricked, outwitted by a girl not yet out of her teens, I judged. I grew hot with humiliation. How could I ever tell such a story to Nayland Smith?
The mood passed. I became cool again and began to search for some means of getting out. Barely glancing at the notebook, I thrust it into my pocket. That the girl had deliberately drawn my attention to it I did not believe. She had had no more idea than I what it was, but its presence had served her purpose. I could find nothing else of importance.
And now I set to work on the small shuttered window at the back of the ledge upon which those fragments of food remained. I soon had the shutter open, and as I had hoped, the window was unglazed. I climbed through on to a rickety landing stage and from there made my way around to the path. Here I stood stock still, listening.
One mournful boom of that strange solitary bird disturbed the oppressive silence, this and the whispering of reeds in a faint breeze. I could not recall ever to have found myself in a more desolate spot.
Fog was rapidly growing impenetrable.
At The Monks’ Arms
I found myself mentally reviewing the ordnance map I had seen at the policeman’s cottage, listening to the discursive instructions of the sinister but well-informed Constable Weldon.
“After you leave the cottage where old Mother Abel hanged herself”—a stubby finger moved over the map—”there’s a path along beside a little stream. You don’t take that”—I had—”you go straight on. This other road, bearin’ left, would bring you to the Monks’ Arms, one of the oldest pubs in Essex. Since the by-pass was made I don’t know what trade is done there. It’s kept by an old prize fighter, a Jerseyman, or claims to be; Jim Pallant they call him—a mighty tough customer; Seaman Pallant was his fightin’ name. The revenue officers have been watchin’ him for years, but he’s too clever for ‘em. We’ve checked up on him, of course. He seems to have a clean slate in this business . . .”
Visualising the map, I decided that the route back via the Monks’ Arms was no longer than the other, and I determined to revive my drooping spirits before facing Nayland Smith. Licensed hours did not apply in my case for I was a “bonafide traveller” within the meaning of the act.
I set out on my return journey.
At one time I thought I had lost my way again, until presently through the gloom I saw a signboard projecting above a hedge, and found myself before one of those timbered hostelries of which once there were so many in their neighborhood, but of which few remain today! I saw that the Monks’ Arms stood on the bank of a stream.
I stepped into a stuffy bar. Low, age-blackened beams supported the ceiling; there were some prints of dogs and prize fighters; a full- rigged ship in a glass case. The place might have stood there when all but unbroken forest covered Essex. As a matter of fact though not so old as this, part of it actually dated back to the time of Henry VII.
There was no one in the barroom, dimly lighted by two paper-shaded lamps. In the bar I saw bottle-laden shelves, rows of mugs, beer engines. Beyond was an opening in which hung a curtain composed of strings of colored rushes. Since no one appeared I banged upon the counter. This produced a sound of footsteps; the rush curtain was parted, and Pallant, the landlord, came out.