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

that start of recognition which would confirm my theory. But when I found myself in that neat hall the place mastered me. There were the golf-clubs and tennis-rackets, the straw hats and caps, the rows of gloves, the sheaf of walking-sticks, which you will find in ten thousand British homes. A stack of neatly folded coats and waterproofs covered the top of an old oak chest; there was a grandfather clock ticking; and some polished brass warming-pans on the walls, and a barometer, and a print of Chiltern winning the St. Leger. The place was as orthodox as an Anglican church. When the maid asked me for my name I gave it automatically, and was shown into the smoking-room, on the right side of the hall.

That room was even worse. I hadn’t time to examine it, but I could see some framed group photographs above the mantelpiece, and I could have sworn they were English public school or college. I had only one glance, for I managed to pull myself together and go after the maid. But I was too late. She had already entered the dining-room and given my name to her master, and I had missed the chance of seeing how the three took it.

When I walked into the room the old man at the head of the table had risen and turned round to meet me. He was in evening dress⁠—a short coat and black tie, as was the other, whom I called in my own mind the plump one. The third, the dark fellow, wore a blue serge suit and a soft white collar, and the colours of some club or school.

The old man’s manner was perfect. “Mr. Hannay?” he said hesitatingly. “Did you wish to see me? One moment, you fellows, and I’ll rejoin you. We had better go to the smoking-room.”

Though I hadn’t an ounce of confidence in me, I forced myself to play the game. I pulled up a chair and sat down on it.

“I think we have met before,” I said, “and I guess you know my business.”

The light in the room was dim, but so far as I could see their faces, they played the part of mystification very well.

“Maybe, maybe,” said the old man. “I haven’t a very good memory, but I’m afraid you must tell me your errand, sir, for I really don’t know it.”

“Well, then,” I said, and all the time I seemed to myself to be talking pure foolishness⁠—“I have come to tell you that the game’s up. I have a warrant for the arrest of you three gentlemen.”

“Arrest,” said the old man, and he looked really shocked. “Arrest! Good God, what for?”

“For the murder of Franklin Scudder in London on the 23rd day of last month.”

“I never heard the name before,” said the old man in a dazed voice.

One of the others spoke up. “That was the Portland Place murder. I read about it. Good heavens, you must be mad, sir! Where do you come from?”

“Scotland Yard,” I said.

After that for a minute there was utter silence. The old man was staring at his plate and fumbling with a nut, the very model of innocent bewilderment.

Then the plump one spoke up. He stammered a little, like a man picking his words.

“Don’t get flustered, uncle,” he said. “It is all a ridiculous mistake; but these things happen sometimes, and we can easily set it right. It won’t be hard to prove our innocence. I can show that I was out of the country on the 23rd of May, and Bob was in a nursing home. You were in London, but you can explain what you were doing.”

“Right, Percy! Of course that’s easy enough. The 23rd! That was the day after Agatha’s wedding. Let me see. What was I doing? I came up in the morning from Woking, and lunched at the club with Charlie Symons. Then⁠—oh yes, I dined with the Fishmongers. I remember, for the punch didn’t agree with me, and I was seedy next morning. Hang it all, there’s the cigar-box I brought back from the dinner.” He pointed to an object on the table, and laughed nervously.

“I think, sir,” said the young man, addressing me respectfully, “you will see you are mistaken. We want to assist the law like all Englishmen, and we don’t want Scotland Yard to be making fools of themselves. That’s so, uncle?”

“Certainly, Bob.” The old fellow seemed to be recovering his voice. “Certainly, we’ll do anything in our power to assist the authorities. But⁠—but this is a bit too much. I can’t get over it.”

“How Nellie will chuckle,” said the plump man. “She always said that you would die of boredom because nothing ever happened to you. And now you’ve got it thick and strong,” and he began to laugh very pleasantly.

“By Jove, yes. Just think of it! What a story to tell at the club. Really, Mr. Hannay, I suppose I should be angry, to show my innocence, but it’s too funny! I almost forgive you the fright you gave me! You looked so glum, I thought I might have been walking in my sleep and killing people.”

It couldn’t be acting, it was too confoundedly genuine. My heart went into my boots, and my first impulse was to apologize and clear out. But I told myself I must see it through, even though I was to be the laughingstock of Britain. The light from the dinner-table candlesticks was not very good, and to cover my confusion I got up, walked to the door and switched on the electric light. The sudden glare made them blink, and I stood scanning the three faces.

Well, I made nothing of it. One was old and bald, one was stout, one was dark and thin. There was nothing in their appearance to prevent them being the three who had hunted me in Scotland, but there was nothing to identify them. I simply can’t explain why I who, as a roadman, had looked into two pairs of