The Thirty-Nine Steps, John Buchan [best book club books txt] 📗

the little black book in my pocket! A giddy lot Scudder’s friends cared for peace and reform.

Yet in a queer way I liked the speech. You could see the niceness of the chap shining out behind the muck with which he had been spoon-fed. Also it took a load off my mind. I mightn’t be much of an orator, but I was a thousand percent better than Sir Harry.

I didn’t get on so badly when it came to my turn. I simply told them all I could remember about Australia, praying there should be no Australian there⁠—all about its labour party and emigration and universal service. I doubt if I remembered to mention Free Trade, but I said there were no Tories in Australia, only Labour and Liberals. That fetched a cheer, and I woke them up a bit when I started in to tell them the kind of glorious business I thought could be made out of the Empire if we really put our backs into it.

Altogether I fancy I was rather a success. The minister didn’t like me, though, and when he proposed a vote of thanks, spoke of Sir Harry’s speech as “statesmanlike” and mine as having “the eloquence of an emigration agent.”

When we were in the car again my host was in wild spirits at having got his job over. “A ripping speech, Twisdon,” he said. “Now, you’re coming home with me. I’m all alone, and if you’ll stop a day or two I’ll show you some very decent fishing.”

We had a hot supper⁠—and I wanted it pretty badly⁠—and then drank grog in a big cheery smoking-room with a crackling wood fire. I thought the time had come for me to put my cards on the table. I saw by this man’s eye that he was the kind you can trust.

“Listen, Sir Harry,” I said. “I’ve something pretty important to say to you. You’re a good fellow, and I’m going to be frank. Where on earth did you get that poisonous rubbish you talked tonight?”

His face fell. “Was it as bad as that?” he asked ruefully. “It did sound rather thin. I got most of it out of the Progressive Magazine and pamphlets that agent chap of mine keeps sending me. But you surely don’t think Germany would ever go to war with us?”

“Ask that question in six weeks and it won’t need an answer,” I said. “If you’ll give me your attention for half an hour I am going to tell you a story.”

I can see yet that bright room with the deers’ heads and the old prints on the walls, Sir Harry standing restlessly on the stone curb of the hearth, and myself lying back in an armchair, speaking. I seemed to be another person, standing aside and listening to my own voice, and judging carefully the reliability of my tale. It was the first time I had ever told anyone the exact truth, so far as I understood it, and it did me no end of good, for it straightened out the thing in my own mind. I blinked no detail. He heard all about Scudder, and the milkman, and the notebook, and my doings in Galloway. Presently he got very excited and walked up and down the hearthrug.

“So you see,” I concluded, “you have got here in your house the man that is wanted for the Portland Place murder. Your duty is to send your car for the police and give me up. I don’t think I’ll get very far. There’ll be an accident, and I’ll have a knife in my ribs an hour or so after arrest. Nevertheless, it’s your duty, as a law-abiding citizen. Perhaps in a month’s time you’ll be sorry, but you have no cause to think of that.”

He was looking at me with bright steady eyes. “What was your job in Rhodesia, Mr. Hannay?” he asked.

“Mining engineer,” I said. “I’ve made my pile cleanly and I’ve had a good time in the making of it.”

“Not a profession that weakens the nerves, is it?”

I laughed. “Oh, as to that, my nerves are good enough.” I took down a hunting-knife from a stand on the wall, and did the old Mashona trick of tossing it and catching it in my lips. That wants a pretty steady heart.

He watched me with a smile. “I don’t want proof. I may be an ass on the platform, but I can size up a man. You’re no murderer and you’re no fool, and I believe you are speaking the truth. I’m going to back you up. Now, what can I do?”

“First, I want you to write a letter to your uncle. I’ve got to get in touch with the government people sometime before the 15th of June.”

He pulled his moustache. “That won’t help you. This is Foreign Office business, and my uncle would have nothing to do with it. Besides, you’d never convince him. No, I’ll go one better. I’ll write to the Permanent Secretary at the Foreign Office. He’s my godfather, and one of the best going. What do you want?”

He sat down at a table and wrote to my dictation. The gist of it was that if a man called Twisdon (I thought I had better stick to that name) turned up before June 15th he was to treat him kindly. He said Twisdon would prove his bona fides by passing the word “Black Stone” and whistling “Annie Laurie.”

“Good,” said Sir Harry. “That’s the proper style. By the way, you’ll find my godfather⁠—his name’s Sir Walter Bullivant⁠—down at his country cottage for Whitsuntide. It’s close to Artinswell on the Kenner. That’s done. Now, what’s the next thing?”

“You’re about my height. Lend me the oldest tweed suit you’ve got. Anything will do, so long as the colour is the opposite of the clothes I destroyed this afternoon. Then show me a map of the neighbourhood and explain to me the lie of the land. Lastly, if the police come seeking