The Moving Toyshop (11 page)

“Prosing away… ” Fen grumbled He untied the thick string from his ankles, and hoisted himself stiffly out of the cupboard. “What’s the time, Wilkes?”

“Half past kissing time,” said Wilkes. Time to kiss again.” He freed Cadogan’s wrists. The college clock whirred and struck two. Cadogan extricated himself and stood upright, feeling very groggy.

“Now, listen, Wilkes,” said Fen with great earnestness, “because this is important—”

“Can’t hear a word.”

“I said
THIS IS IMPORTANT.”

“What’s important?”

“I haven’t told you yet.”

“I know you haven’t; that’s why I asked. Heh.” Wilkes rubbed his hands together delightedly and capered about on the stone paving. Fen stared at him malignantly. “But you needn’t think I don’t know. It’s that girl you’ve been chasing. I saw you.”

“Yes, yes. Have you seen
her?
”

“Casanova Fen.”

“Oh, my fur and whiskers.”

“I saw her,” said Wilkes, “when I was coming in here.”

“Well?”
Fen could not contain his impatience.

“The bogles have got her.”

“No, really, Wilkes. This is desperately urgent—”

“Heh,” said Wilkes. “Hah. Urgent, eh? I don’t believe a word of it. Anyway, she was in the quadrangle when I came over, talking to a couple of thugs. They seemed in a hurry to get her away—”

He got no further, for Fen and Cadogan had gone. As they pounded through stone-flagged corridors and Gothic arches, to emerge into the front quadrangle beneath the decaying stone bust of the founder, Cadogan, puffing and groaning with the effort, envied Fen his unexpected athletic ability. The under­graduates who had lunched in hall were wandering back to their rooms, but no outsider was to be seen. A united rush took them to the gate, and showed them, on the opposite side of St. Giles’, the girl, the Dalmatian, and the two men in the act of boarding a black Humber  sedan which stood there. They ran into the road, shouting and waving, but the only effect of this was to hasten matters. The doors were rapidly closed, the engine started, and the big car moved off up the Banbury road.

“Lily Christine!” said Fen, like one invoking a genie. “Where is Lily Christine?” he demanded more peremptorily on perceiving no sign of the car.

“You left her outside the ‘Mace and Sceptre’,” Cadogan reminded him.

“Oh, my dear paws,” Fen exclaimed dis­gustedly. He stared up and down the road. If there had been a car parked he would certainly have stolen it, but there was not And the only vehicle heading in the Banbury direction was a large eight-wheeled lorry. None the less, he hailed it, and it lather surprisingly stopped.

“’Ullo,” said the driver to Cadogan. “you’re that mad bloke I picked up last night.
Telegraph poles.”
He laughed a mellow, reminiscent laugh.

“Hello,” said Cadogan. “We want to chase a black Humber—look, you can still see it”

The driver looked. “Godelpus,” he said. What do yer think this thing is—a ruddy tornado? Not but what,” he appended modestly, “she won’t do a fair lick if yer don’t mind breakin’ a few bones over it.”

Cadogan looked desperately up the road, but no other vehicle was in sight. He became aware that Fen was engaged in a muted altercation with old Wilkes, who had just scampered up. “No, no, Wilkes,” he was saying. “you’ll only be a terrible hindrance. Go back to your rooms.” He flapped his hands at Wilkes, shooing him away.

“For heaven’s sake, come on,” said Cadogan impatiently, “or we might as well not go at all.” With a good deal of bickering, the three of them scrambled up into the cabin, and the lorry started.

It certainly could move. The effect was something like vibro-electric massage between two mill-stones.

“She’s empty now,” the driver explained, as the speedometer needle wavered on forty. They went over a rut and he bounced into the air and swore. “That blasted car’s out of sight. We’ll never catch ’er.”

Fen seemed disposed to agree. Owing to the exigencies of space in the lorry’s cabin, he was obliged to have Wilkes on his knee, and he had left no one in doubt as to his feelings about this arrangement. His temper was not improved by Wilkes’s evident pleasure at the situation. Cadogan had begun to want his lunch again. The driver was relatively impassive, apparently reg­arding such invasions of his cabin as all in the day’s work. They made an odd spectacle.

“I can’t think why you had to come, Wilkes,” Fen grumbled bitterly. “You’re only getting in the way.”

“Pah,” said Wilkes contemptuously. “What’s it all about? Eh? You just tell me that. Heh.” He banged his head on the roof. “Damn,” he said. “Damn, damn, damn,
blast.”

The houses of the Banbury road fled by them. They were getting into more open country now, and the lorry was doing fifty, regardless of the speed limit. But still, as Fen reminded them, it was custom more honoured in the breach than the observance. “What’s the betting that car’s turned off somewhere along here?” he added.

“About a hundred to one, I should imagine,” Cadogan replied. “But it’s a nice ride, anyway.”

“What?”said Wilkes.

“I said it was a nice ride.”

“I’m glad you think so,” said Wilkes huffily. “If you had this man’s bony knees sticking into you, you wouldn’t be so pleased with yourself.”

They came to a cross-roads where there was an A.A. man, and the driver slowed down.

“’Ere, mate,” he called. “You seen a black ’Umber go by ’ere?”

The cops’ll ’ave yer,” said the A.A. man. “The cops’ll ’ave yer if yer go on at that speed. Breakin’ the lor.”

“Never mind that, cocky,” said the driver. “What abaht that ’Umber? You see it?”

“Coupla minutes ago,” the A.A. man conceded reluctantly. “Drivin’ like a bloody maniac. ’E turned left.”

Satisfied, the driver swung the wheel round, and they roared off in the direction which had been indicated. Soon they were away from all houses except for an occasional cottage or farm. The fields stretched flat on either side, with a low range of hills on the northern horizon. Several times they passed over narrow, humped bridges spanning little winding streams, bordered with willows and alders. The hedges were white and fluffy with clematis, dark with ripe blackberries. The sun of that lovely Indian summer glowed hot overhead, and the sky, a porcelain blue, was cloudless.

“Industrial civilization,” said the driver unexpectedly, “is the curse of our age.” Cadogan stared at him. “We’ve lorst touch with Nachur. We’re all pallid.” He gazed with severity at Fen’s ruddy countenance. “We’ve lorst touch”—he paused threateningly—“with the
body.”

“I haven’t,” said Fen acrimoniously, jogging Wilkes.

Enlightenment was upon Cadogan. “Still reading Lawrence?” he asked.

“Ar,” said the driver affirmatively. “Thass right.” He felt about him and produced a greasy edition of
Sons and Lovers
for general inspection, then he put it away again. “We’ve lorst touch,” he continued, “with
sex—
the grand primeval energy; the dark, mysterious source of life. Not,” he added confidentially, “that I’ve ever exactly felt that—beggin’ your pardon—when I’ve been in bed with the old woman. But that’s because industrial civilization ’as got me in its clutches.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t say that.”

The driver raised one hand in warning. “But it ’as. A soul-less machine, that’s all I am—nothin’ but a soul-less machine—” He broke off. “’Ere, wot do we do nah?”

They were approaching a fork in the road, the first turning they had come to since leaving the A.A. man. There was a cottage, set well back from the road, on their left, but no human being from whom they could inquire about the black Humber. It was a hopeless dilemma.

“Let’s go left,” Cadogan suggested. “After all, Gollancz is publishing this book. I wonder—”

What he wondered they never knew. For at that moment from the cottage which they were passing, they heard a shot.

“Halt, driver!” Cadogan shouted excitedly. “Halt, in the name of Lawrence!” The driver pulled up sharply, flinging them back in their seats. Wilkes hurled his arms round Fen’s neck.

“Clinging on,” Fen groused, “like the Old Man of the Sea—”

But he did not continue. Something pushed its way through the thick hedge and out on to the grass verge. It was a Dalmatian, and there was a spreading red stain on its side. It took a few shaky steps towards them, barked once, and then whimpered and lay down on its side and died.

Sally Carstairs was hating life—the more so as up till now life had always treated her so well. Not financially, of course; she and her mother had had little enough to manage on since her father died. (But somehow they had managed, and made a comfortable home, and got on well together, apart from ordinary small squabbles.) Not, for that matter, in the way of riotous enjoyment and halcyon days; working at Lennox’s, the drapers, was scarcely an ennobling or creative occupation. But apart from these handicaps, life was almost compelled to treat Sally Carstairs well; she took it easily in her stride, and was not daunted and abashed by the small doubts and anxieties which afflict
hoi polloi;
she had, in fact, a total lack of affectation, an unfeigned interest in the world and in other people, and a superabundance of that natural vitality on which (though she did not know it), a lorry-driver was at this moment lecturing two dons and a major English poet. “You’re a noble filly,” a middle-aged man had once told her. “Golly, what an insult,” Sally had said, firmly removing his hands from the direction in which they were straying. But there had been an element of truth in it; Sally had that high nervous energy and air of first-rate physical breeding which is rare in any stratum of society, but most often found in what are euphemistically termed the lower classes; and that she had no pretension to intellect was very largely beside the point. Life had been a good and pleasant thing to her—until last night.

She looked round the small parlour of the cottage. It was ugly and badly furnished—the very opposite of her own little parlour at home. The chairs and table and cupboards were of cheap wood, stained a dull, depressing brown; the covers and curtains were a sickly green, and very threadbare; and the pictures on the walls gave evidence of a cheerless religiosity—St. Sebastian transfixed by arrows, hapless Jonah being tumbled overboard, and (more surprisingly) a voluptuous Susannah disporting herself before the eyes of two bored-looking Elders. Sally shuddered elaborately, and then, becoming conscious that she really was shivering, sat down with her bag on her knee and tried to pull herself together by gazing through the grimy, leaded window at the neglected garden outside. In the next room, she could hear the two men conferring together in low tones. If only she weren’t so helpless and alone… But she hadn’t dared say anything to her mother.

Her mind went back over the events of the day. She had not intended to go to that rehearsal of the Handel Society, though she knew she ought to: she had been far, far too worried to want to sing. But that man with the cold eyes had shouted out something about her, and she had panicked. After all, they
might
have been the police. And then when the taller of the two, whom she vaguely remembered having seen about the town, turned out to be Professor Fen, she had been more alarmed than ever, though she remembered being vaguely surprised at the same time, that a man whose exploits as a detective were so well known should wear such an amiable aspect; adding to herself afterwards: “Idiot! Whatever did you expect?” The chase had been a nightmare, even when it became obvious that they weren’t the police (they would certainly have stopped the rehearsal if they had been). But she had been to St. Christopher’s chapel before, and knew that if they followed her in there she would have a chance of eluding them at the end of the service; in any case she was so alarmed that she hadn’t been able to think of any other way. She had not, at the time, asked herself what good this headlong flight was supposed to be doing; it had been instinctive, and she was inclined to think now that it had also been absurd. Still…

Then there were the other two men, the ones who were with her now. They had caught up with her just after she left the chapel, when she thought she really was free again. But despite their appearance—“like something out of a bad thriller,” she told herself—she had felt some confidence in them. For one thing, they spoke politely, and Sally instinctively trusted courtesy. The older of the two—the one with the squashed nose, who was obviously the leader—had said:

“Excuse me, miss, but I’m afraid you’re being bothered by those two men. don’t let them trouble you—they’re not the police, you know, and they haven’t any information, not about what went on last night.”

She turned to him sharply. “Do you know—”

“A little bit, miss. Berlin told us—you remember Berlin?” She nodded. “And as a matter of fact, miss, it was him that sent us out to find you. Seems he’s discovered something about last night which pretty well clears you. He wants us to take you along for a talk with him now.”

She hesitated, torn between a sudden, overwhelming relief and an irrational anxiety. “I—Where is it? Is it far?”

“No, miss, it’s out Banbury way. We”ve got a car outside, and it won’t take ten minutes.” Then, noticing her hesitation: “Come, come, miss, there’s no reason for us to wish you any harm, is there? From what I’ve heard, you’re in such a mess already that nothing could make it worse. And look at the thing this way: even if Berlin was the murderer—which he isn’t—the last thing he’d want to do would be to harm the one person that hasn”t got a watertight alibi. isn’t that true?”

She winced, but the reasoning seemed sound, so in the end she assented. “What about those two who were following me?”

The younger man grinned. “That’s all right, miss. We set them off on a false scent. They’ll be well away by now.”

So she had gone with them. Someone had shouted at them as they were getting into the car, but they had started off so quickly that she had been unable to see who it was. And now—well, now they had arrived, and it seemed odd that there was no one here to meet them. The men had said that he must have been delayed, and had suggested she wait; they had then excused themselves and gone out to talk. And now she no longer wanted to wait, and was uneasy, and hated the ugly little room she was in.