Watcher in the Shadows (22 page)

To one or the other I had to make a followable trail. When he came across the matted blood and leaves behind the branch where I had collapsed, it must be clear to him in what direction I had crawled on. Whether I chose wall or hollow, he would not walk straight up to it, but would try to work his way round and take a look from any convenient cover.

I could not distinguish clearly all the details of gray mass. I was looking, however, into a part of the copse to the right of the central clearing which I had reconnoitered carefully on my first arrival at the barn in some previous existence and into which I had dodged when escaping from St. Sabas’s mounted attack. So the blurred picture, though without detail, made sense.

The hollow was very simple to outflank, and if he were reasonably careful while engaged in stalking it I had no chance of ambushing him. The wall was more promising. There were two low bramble bushes on the edge of the windbreak which commanded it. The way to put a last shot into an old goat lying helpless behind the wall was to pass round the outside of the copse, re-enter it and look down on him between or over the brambles.

That was all right so far as it went. Yet the plan was no more than a sick man’s dream unless I could find the strength to carry it out. I raised myself to hands and knees. They did not belong to me, but they worked.

I had to cover thirty flat and simple yards over a sparse carpet of last year’s fallen leaves. I assured myself that it was easy, provided I took it slowly and remembered to collapse quietly. The handkerchief had adhered to my forehead. To pull it off was the hardest task. I was absurdly terrified of the result, and my hand twice refused to do it.

The final jerk overdid the job. When I started to crawl the blood trail was spectacular. I forced myself to remember that it was only a surface cut, that one could lose pints of blood and that all I had lost probably didn’t add up to one. I tried to convince myself that this fast dripping had nothing to do with my weakness and that I was just suffering from concussion. That —a purely mental thing — ought to be under the control of the will, and it had to be if I wanted to live.

Halfway to my destination I think I began to laugh a little, for I recall being shocked at such levity. What had amused me was the thought that all this was in vain. Savarin was a fighter, not a tracker. Would he ever notice blood on red-brown beech leaves? I swore at him and dripped on to a flat white stone. Then I found another and dripped on that.

I reached the tumbledown wall and dropped behind it. I had been right; the damp patch of shadow between the mossed stones and the bramble bushes was just the sort of refuge which a wounded animal would choose. Binding the flap of scalp back into position, I rested. My hands could now tie a knot of sorts, which gave me confidence. I suppose the effort had done me good — had held off the effect of shock perhaps. Shock seems to be a killer of birds and the smallest mammals and man, not of a large and angry beast.

It was time for the second move — the move which left no trail at all. The full twilight of dawn had come, but most of the barn was now between me and my enemy — if, that is, he were still behind it or on the western side of it. And if he wasn’t, it was all up anyway.

I rose to my feet and staggered from tree to tree until I was out of that hated, loathsome windbreak and could drop onto the thyme-scented hill turf. The fold of ground along which I had attacked after leaving Nur Jehan was close and would do for my purpose. I squirmed into it, facing the bramble bushes so that I would not have to move again to fire. The grass hid me well enough so long as St. Sabas did not look for me. Light suddenly grew very much better. I think I must have had a short period of unconsciousness.

The windbreak appeared surprisingly small It seemed incredible that there had been room in it for so much juggling with the art of murder. But its darkness was understandable. That canopy of dripping leaves, now nearly green, was solid enough for some lush, wooded valley.

The dawn chorus of birds was of splendid volume and variety. I could hear nothing else. All depended on sight, yet I dared not raise my head for a level look at the copse. I had to content myself with a swift glance every few seconds, for it gave me an intolerable headache to keep my eyes strained upwards. Even so nothing was clear. I did not know that I had seen St. Sabas until I noticed that what I had taken to be a tree trunk glimpsed between branches was no longer there.

My plan then was working. If he had come from the fallen branch to the edge of the windbreak it could only mean that the blood trail was dictating his movements. I lay very still, for it was certain that he would take no risks.

He quietly emerged from the trees at the far corner and began to work his way towards me. He was very tired and a little unsteady on his feet. His left arm was tucked into his coat; the sleeve was darker than the rest of the cloth. That was my shot when escaping from the barn, and that was why he had preferred to fight on his feet rather than his stomach. I like to think — but it may be hypocrisy — that I felt a stirring of pity for him, which fear all night had prevented.

It was very quickly extinguished. He began the stalk of the bramble bushes. His body, slanting forward, followed the black Colt in his right hand. He was intent as any beast of prey nosing inch by inch into the wind. Once he stopped and looked straight over me across the colorless turf. It was a possible chance, but I was in no state for snapshooting. He would have seen me as I raised head and shoulders to fire, and jumped into the trees. I needed a lot of time to aim; even an unhurried shot when he reached the bushes might be beyond me. The range was all of thirty-five yards.

He arrived at his objective and crouched behind the brambles. Evidently he did not like the prospect of putting his head over the top to see what was between them and the wall. He tried to find a gap, but there wasn’t one and the undergrowth crackled as he pressed against it. I heard him over the singing of the birds. He realized that he was going about it the wrong way and that it was much safer to stand up and look quickly into the recess.

It was now or never. I rested my elbows squarely, holding the wrist of my right hand with my left. The barrel of the Mauser was reasonably steady, but blood dripped over my eyes at the critical moment. I forced myself not to hurry the shot, to take all the time in the world, to remember that it did not matter if he looked round and saw me.

He discovered that there was nothing behind the wall, no man dying or still dangerous. He stood up to his full height with a movement of impatience, turned and caught sight of that deadly little triangle on the ground formed by my head and forearms.

With the speed which was characteristic of him he took his only chance and fired. I paid no attention. I knew that only an aimed shot could hit at that range — or perhaps I was concentrating so desperately that I could not be distracted. I squeezed the trigger.

It was low for the heart, but it would do. St. Sabas spun with the shot, holding his side. I never expected him to move any more after such a raking internal wound. It was not enough to stop a beast, but a man, yes. Men knew what had happened to them.

But he came on. Staggering on feet which would hardly carry him he came on, with nothing but bare hands. It was automatic, a last flare of his insanity of revenge. I was at the end of my resistance. Whenever I covered him the barrel of the Mauser sagged. He must have traveled five hideous, agonizing paces before I got him in the sights, more by accident than anything else, and this time heard the bullet strike. I had hit him high up on the thigh and smashed the bone. Poor devil. Magnificent fighter. He lay down, rather than dropped, and put his head in his hands.

For me the night returned. I was hunting through dark woods, trying to find Benita or sometimes hunting Benita herself with an appalling sense of guilt which I tried to persuade myself I had no need to feel. There were policemen in Gestapo uniforms, though I knew they were British, and the forest extended over the whole sphere of the world so that there was never any way out of it and never any more fight to be. It was wrong and worrying when at last there was a great deal of sunlit grass beyond my toes. I opened my eyes still further. I was lying on my back, and there was a blue-peaked cap bending over me and taking up too much of the glorious, relieving sky. I twitched my hand to push it away.

“Feeling better, Mr. Dennim?”

This time I really lifted a hand. My head was beautifully bandaged. I was covered with a blanket. The policeman supported my shoulders and offered me hot, sweet tea. It worked like alcohol.

“A flesh wound only, isn’t it?” I asked.

“Well, yes — if that’s what you call ‘only.’”

“He is dead?”

“He’s in a bad way. We’re waiting for the ambulance. Meanwhile would you care to tell us what happened?”

An inspector appeared from behind me, cleared his throat and slightly shook his head. He looked sympathetic, but extremely neutral. I vaguely remembered that there was some rule about not questioning persons to be charged with a crime until they were in a fit state to be cautioned.

“What brought you here?” I asked.

“That stallion of yours rampaging down the Tewkesbury road. Traffic police picked him up together with a mare. Both of them were saddled so it looked as if there had been an accident. They got one of the hunt whips out of bed to catch the horses, and he did some telephoning and found out who they belonged to. An aunt of yours said there was a Miss Gillon staying at Stow-on-the-Wold who would probably know where you were, and she did.”

“What did you tell Miss Gillon?”

“We couldn’t tell her anything except that you might have had a fall. Your aunt was very insistent that Miss Gillon should stay where she was instead of getting lost herself, so that she could guide an admiral somebody up to the barn. A lot of sense the lady has, though I wouldn’t say her telephone manner was what I’d call good.”

“How long have you been here?”

“About half an hour. It all took time.”

I longed for the admiral and Georgina, but the car which came slowly bumping over the turf was not his. The hill gave an impression of early morning before a race meeting. There were little groups of people drifting up from the villages and looking for places with a good view from which they would not be ordered back by the police.

The car was allowed to drive right up to us. Out of it jumped Sir Thomas Pamellor, more shrimplike than ever —for he was unbrushed, unshaven and bristling with anxiety and importance. He didn’t recognize me, didn’t even look. I was just a vulgar and unpleasant casualty.

“I say, Callender, what’s all this?” he asked.

“We are a little doubtful, Sir Thomas,” the inspector answered. “On the face of it, there seems to have been a quarrel.”

“What? Teddy boys at it again? But what’s it got to do with my guest never coming home? He said he might be late, so I wasn’t bothering till I heard the mare had been picked up on the Tewkesbury road. I hope they haven’t molested him in any way. Such a shocking example for a distinguished Frenchman!”

“What is his name, sir?”

“The Vicomte de Saint Sabas. And very pro-British, Callender! His mother’s family … God bless my soul, what was their name? Two little ‘f’s.’ Not fforde, not ffolliot, not ffoulkes. Anyway his grandfather owned a lot of land in Northamptonshire. Oh, a very useful friend to this country! At heart he is just as English as I am French. Now, if only there were a few more people like us …”

“Would that be him, sir?”

I felt able to sit up and look round. A little way out from the edge of the copse, where he had fallen, two constables and a doctor were bending over him. Sir Thomas bustled across and cried out:

“St. Sabas! Good God!”

The man was unkillable. He appeared to murmur something, for I could see Sir Thomas listening. He came bounding back.

“Look here, Inspector, what has been going on? I am a magistrate and I have a right to be told.”

“We don’t know, sir. A neighbor of yours, Admiral Cunobel, called up headquarters as soon as he heard about the Arab horse and told them that Mr. Dennim was in danger of his life. But the vee … the, er … your friend cannot explain yet.”

“In danger of his life? From St. Sabas? Quite impossible, Callender!” Sir Thomas exploded. “I knew the vicomte well before the war. Used to shoot with rum. I don’t say he wouldn’t engage in an affair of honor. I’m French enough myself to understand that a quiet meeting is preferable to all that nasty English publicity of a libel action. But where are the seconds? We should find them here. To my mind this is a perfectly plain case of attempted murder, and you should charge this fellow at once. I know him. Lunched with me! I had a very unfavorable impression. An international adventurer, I understand. The French thought somebody wanted to blow him up. I should advise you to let Scotland Yard know immediately.”

He turned on me, as if I were unfortunate enough to be under his command.

“What have you got to say for yourself, Dennim?”

“Nothing,” I answered.

“But you —you may have killed him.”

I said I thought it very likely.

“This was a — duel, what?”

“You could call it that.”

“What are you?” he blustered. “I don’t believe you’re English at all.”

“More, sir, at any rate than I was yesterday.”

He stared at me, outraged.

“Caution him and take a statement, Inspector!”

“I think we had better be patient a little longer, Sir Thomas,” said Inspector Callender imperturbably.

I lay back, for I had used up too much energy answering insolence with insolence. I had an uneasy feeling that when St. Sabas prophesied in the inn garden that I should be tried for my life, he was probably right. The police were very kind and —which surprised me — gentle. But I was too conscious of their passionless faces; I mean that closed expression which assumes the worst of human nature while assuring you that everything is for the best, that juries are sensible and warders understanding and cells very comfortable and that you may pin up a picture of your wife after the first six months. It’s what we pay ‘em for, Jim Melton said.