Джон Бакен
The Thirty-Nine Steps. Selected Stories / 39 ступеней. Избранные новеллы

© Шитова А. В., адаптация, сокращение, словарь, 2025

© ООО «ИД «Антология», 2025

The Thirty-Nine Steps

1

I returned from the City[1] at about three o'clock on that May afternoon feeling disgusted with life. I had been three months in the Old Country[2], and was fed up with it. That was the fact. The weather and the ordinary Englishmen made me sick, I couldn't get enough exercise, and the amusements of London were boring. 'Richard Hannay,' I was telling myself, 'get the hell out of here.' I thought of the plans I had been making while in Bulawayo[3]. Quite a lot of plans! When I was six, my father had brought me out from Scotland[4], and I had never been home since. So England was like a wonderland to me, and I planned to stay there for the rest of my days.

But now I was disappointed with it. In a week I was tired of sightseeing, and in a month I had had enough of restaurants, theatres and races. I had no real friends, which probably explains things. Lots of people invited me to their houses, but they weren't interested in me. They asked me a question or two about South Africa, and then told me about their own affairs. A lot of ladies asked me to tea, and that was the worst thing of all. Here was I, thirty-seven years old, healthy, with enough money to have a good time, but doing nothing all day. I had almost decided to go back to Africa because I was the most bored man in the United Kingdom.

That afternoon I had been thinking about investments just to give myself something to work on, and on my way home I went into my club. I had a drink and read the evening papers. There was an article about Karolides, the Greek Premier. I liked the chap. He was a big man in South-Eastern Europe, and he played a fair game too. As I understood, they hated him in Berlin and Vienna, but not in London. I remember thinking that I could get a job in those parts of Europe. For example, Albania sounded like an interesting place.

At about six o'clock I went home, dressed, had dinner at the Cafe Royal[5], and went into a music-hall. It was a silly show, and I did not stay long. The night was fine and clear as I walked back to the flat I had rented. The busy crowds went past me, and I envied the people for having something to do. There and then I finally decided I would give the Old Country just one more day to get me into something; if nothing happened, I would go back to Africa.

My flat was on the first floor in a new block. There was a staircase, a porter and a lift-man, but there was no restaurant or anything like that. Each flat was quite isolated from the others.

I was just unlocking the door when I noticed a man standing right next to me. I had not seen him coming, and the sudden appearance made me start[6]. He was slim, with a short brown beard and small blue eyes. I knew him as the person living in a flat on the top floor because I had sometimes met him on the stairs.

'Can I speak to you?' he said touching my arm. 'May I come in for a minute?' He could hardly control himself.

I opened my door and let him in. As soon as he walked in, he rushed to check my back room.

'Is the door locked?' he asked nervously. 'I am very sorry, but you look like the man who will understand. I've been thinking about you all week when things got worse. Will you do me a favor?[7]'

'I'll listen to you,' I said. 'That's all I can promise.' The behavior of this nervous little fellow worried me.

There were drinks on a table, so he made himself a whisky-and-soda and drank it quickly.

'I'm sorry,' he said, 'I'm a bit shocked tonight. You see, I happen to be dead at this moment.[8]'

I sat down in an armchair and lit my pipe.

'What does it feel like?' I asked. Now I was sure that I was dealing with a madman.

He smiled a little. 'I'm not mad yet. Let's say I've been watching you, and I believe you're an honest man. I think I can trust you. I need help, and I want to know if I can count on you.'

'Well,just tell me your story,' I said, 'and then we'll see.'

He paused for a moment and then told me the strangest tale. I didn't even understand it at first, and I had to stop him and ask questions. But here it is.

He was a well-off American, and after college he had decided to see the world. As a war correspondent, he wrote a bit for a Chicago paper, and spent a year or two in South-Eastern Europe. He had learned the languages and got to know the society in those parts. He mentioned many names that I knew from the newspapers. He had been interested in politics, he told me. He was a sharp fellow who always wanted to get to the roots of things[9]. But he got a little further than he wanted.

Behind all the governments and the armies there was a big movement going on, organized by very dangerous people. Most of the people in that movement were the financiers and educated anarchists that make revolutions. He had learned about it by accident; it fascinated him, so he went further and then got caught.

He told me some queer things – things that happened in the Balkan War[10], how one state suddenly came out on top, why alliances were made and broken, and why certain men disappeared. The aim of the whole conspiracy was the conflict between Russia and Germany, he said. When I asked why, he said that the anarchists thought it would give them their chance. They were behind it, and they hated Russia, too.

'Do you understand?' he cried. 'They are everywhere; they are ruling the world just now!'

'If so,' I said, 'then your anarchists have lost.'

'Yes and no,' he said. 'They'll win because they got a bigger thing than money, a thing that couldn't be bought – the old fighting instinct of man. But they haven't played their last card yet, and if I cannot stay alive for a month, they are going to play it and win.'

'But I thought you were dead,' I said.

He smiled. 'I'm coming to that, but I've got to tell you about a lot of things first. If you read your newspaper, I guess you know the name of Constantine Karolides?'

I started because I had been reading about him that very afternoon.

'He is the man that can ruin all their games. He is the one big brain in the whole show, and he is also an honest man. That's why he has been marked down[11], and I found out the way they're going to get him. That knowledge is deadly. That's why I had to die.'

He had another drink, and I mixed it for him because I was getting interested in the story.

'They can't get him in his own country because he has a bodyguard. But on the 15th of June he is coming to this city. The British Foreign Office[12] is holding a big International tea-party on that date. Karolides is the main guest, and if my friends do what they have planned, he will never return to his country.'

'That's simple,' I said. 'You can warn him.'

'And play their game?' he asked. 'If he does not come, they'll also win. He's the only man that can sort things out.'

'What about the British Government?' I said. ' They're not going to let their guests be murdered. Tell them, and they'll take measures.'

'No. Even if they doubled the police force, Constantine would still be in danger. My friends want a big occasion, with the eyes of all Europe on it. He'll be killed by an Austrian, and there'll be enough evidence to show the involvement of Vienna and Berlin. It will all be a lie, of course, but it will look bad enough to the world. But it's not going to happen if there's one man who knows it, alive, right here, in London, on the 15th of June. And that man is going to be me, Franklin P. Scudder.'

I was beginning to like the little chap. 'Where did you find out this story?' I asked.

'I heard it first in an inn in Tyrol[13]. Then I collected my other clues in a shop in Buda[14], in a club in Vienna, and in a little bookshop in Leipzig[15]. I got its last details ten days ago in Paris. I can't tell you all now. When I was quite sure, I decided to disappear, and so I came to this city incognito. I left Paris as a young French-American, and I sailed from Hamburg as a diamond merchant. In Norway I was an English student, but when I left Bergen I was a cinema-man.

Then I came here and till yesterday I was feeling pretty happy. Then… Then I saw a man standing in the street outside this block. I used to stay in my room all day, and only get out after dark for an hour or two. I watched him from my window, and I thought I recognized him. He came in and spoke to the porter. When I came back from my walk last night, I found a card in my letter-box. It had the name of the man I didn't want to meet.'

I think that the look in his eyes and the fear on his face told of his honesty. I asked him what he did next.

'I realized that I was finished, and that there was only one way out. I had to die. If they knew I was dead, they would go to sleep again.'

'How did you do it?'

'I told my servant that I was feeling pretty bad, and I made myself up to look ill. That wasn't difficult because I'm good at disguises. Then I got a corpse. You can always get a body in London if you know where to go for it. I brought it back in a trunk and asked to take it upstairs to my room. I went to bed, and my servant wanted to call a doctor. I told him no and asked him to leave. When I was finally alone, I started to work on that corpse. He was my size, but didn't look like me. So I shot him in the face with a revolver. I am sure there will be somebody tomorrow to say they have heard a shot, but there are no neighbors on my floor, that is why I could risk it. So I left the body in bed, dressed up in my clothes, with a revolver, and a great mess around. I couldn't get into the streets, of course, but I had had you in my mind all day, and there seemed nothing to do but to ask you for help. I watched from my window till I saw you come home, and then went down the stairs to meet you…'

By this time I was quite convinced that he was honest with me. It was the wildest story, but in my time I had heard many strange tales which had turned out to be true.

'Give me your key,' I said, 'and I'll take a look at the corpse. Excuse me, but I'd like to verify what I can.'

He shook his head. 'I thought you'd ask for that, but I haven't got it. It's left on the table. I had to leave it behind because I couldn't leave any clues to make them suspicious. The people who are after me are pretty smart. You'll have to trust me for tonight, and tomorrow you'll get proof of the corpse.'

I thought for an instant or two. 'Right. I'll trust you for the night. I'll lock you in this room and keep the key. Just one word, Mr. Scudder. I believe you're honest, but if it's not so, I should warn you that I'm quite good with a gun.'

'Sure,' he said, jumping up. 'And please lend me a razor because I haven't had the time to shave.'

I took him to my bedroom and left him there. In half an hour a figure came out that I could hardly recognize. Only his eyes were the same. He was shaved clean and his hair was combed. Combined with his tan, it made him look like some British officer who had spent a long time in India. He had a monocle[16] in his eye, too.

'My God! Mr. Scudder…' I began.

'Not Mr. Scudder,' he corrected, and I noticed that his American accent had gone. 'Captain Theophilus Digby, now home on leave[17]. Please remember that, Sir.'

I made him a bed in my smoking-room and went to sleep on a couch. I was more cheerful than I had been for the past month.

I woke up next morning and heard that my servant, Paddock, was trying to open the smoking-room door. Paddock was a chap I had known in Scotland, and I hired him as my servant as soon as I got back to England. He was not a great servant, but I knew I could count on him.

'Stop that, Paddock,' I said. 'There's a friend of mine, Captain… uhm… (I couldn't remember the name), sleeping in there. Get breakfast for two and then come and speak to me.'

I told Paddock a fine story about how my friend ended up in the smoking-room, and Scudder played up[18] when he came to breakfast. I left Scudder with the newspaper and a box of cigars, and went to the City for lunch.

When I got back, the lift-man had an important face.

'Nasty business has happened here this morning, Sir. Gentleman in No. 15 has shot himself. The police are up there now.'

I went to No. 15 and found a couple of policemen and an inspector there, making an examination. I asked a few silly questions, and soon they kicked me out. Then I found Scudder's servant and questioned him, but he knew nothing.

I learned the next day that the jury decided it was a case of suicide, and a few things were handed over to the American Consul to deal with. I told Scudder all about it, and it interested him greatly.

The first two days he stayed with me in that back room, he was very peaceful. He read and smoked, and made notes in his note-book. Every night we played chess, at which he beat me. But on the third day, I could see, he was beginning to get restless. He made a list of the days till June 15th, and crossed each off with a red pencil. Then I could see that he began to get nervous again. He listened for little noises, and was always asking me if Paddock could be trusted. I didn't blame him. It was not his own safety that troubled him, but the success of the business he had planned.

'Listen, Hannay,' he said one night, 'I think I should let you a bit deeper into this business. I cannot go without leaving someone who would also know it.'

And he began to tell me in detail the story I had already heard from him.

I did not pay much attention to the details though. In fact, I was more interested in Scudder's own adventures than in the politics. I decided that Karolides and his affairs were not my business, leaving all that to him. So a lot of what he had said I just didn't remember. But I remembered that he had been very clear that the danger to Karolides would not begin till he had got to London. He mentioned the name of a woman, Julia Czechenyi, who had something to do with the danger. She would be the decoy, I understood, to get Karolides alone, without his guards. He also talked about a Black Stone, a man that lisped, and he very carefully described an old man with hooded eyes[19] and a young voice, whom he feared. He spoke a lot about death, too.

Next day he was much more cheerful, and in the evening I went out to dinner with an engineer I had to see on business.

I came back at about half past ten, in time for our game of chess. I remember I pushed the smoking-room door open. The lights were not lit, which was odd. I wondered if Scudder had gone to bed already. I turned the lights on, but there was nobody there. Then I saw something in the far corner which made me freeze[20].

My guest was lying on his back. There was a long knife through his heart which pinned him to the floor.

2

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for maybe five minutes. I couldn't look at the white face on the floor, so I covered it with a tablecloth. I had seen men die violently before – I had killed a few myself – but this cold-blooded business was different. Still I managed to pull myself together[21]. I looked at my watch and saw that it was half past ten.

I suddenly got an idea and went to examine the flat. There was nobody there, nor any trace of anybody, but I closed all the window shutters and put the chain on the door. By this time I could think again. It took me about an hour to figure the thing out, and I did not hurry. Unless the murderer came back, I had the time to think till about six o'clock in the morning.

I was in trouble – that was pretty clear. The men who knew that Scudder knew what he knew had found him. Yes, but he had been in my rooms four days, and his enemies must have realized that he had told me his story. So I would be the next to go. It might be that very night, or the next day, or the day after.

Then suddenly I thought of another probability. What if I went out now and called the police, or went to bed and let Paddock find the body and call them in the morning? What kind of a story could I tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about him, and the whole thing already looked strange. If I told the police everything he had told me, they would simply laugh at me. I would be charged with the murder, and the evidence would be strong enough to hang me. Few people knew me in England; I had no real friends here. Those secret enemies could at least have me locked in an English prison till after June 15th.

Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was believed, I would be playing their game. Karolides would stay at home, which was what they wanted. Scudder was gone, but he had told me his whole story, and now I had to carry on his work – that was the way I looked at it. I am an ordinary fellow, but I hate to see a good man killed, and that long knife would not be the end of Scudder if I could play the game in his place.

It took me an hour or two to figure this out, and by that time I had come to a decision. I must disappear somehow till the end of the second week in June. Then I must somehow find a way to get in touch with the Government people and tell them what Scudder had told me. I wished I had listened more carefully to the things he had told me. I knew nothing but the facts. There was a big risk that I would not be believed in the end. I must hope that something might happen which would confirm my tale in the eyes of the Government.

My first job was to keep going for the next three weeks. It was now the 24th of May, and that meant twenty days of hiding. I decided that two kinds of people would be looking for me: Scudder's enemies to kill me and the police who would want me for Scudder's murder. It was strange how this prospect excited me. I had been bored for so long that any activity was welcome.

My next thought was if Scudder had any papers on him to give me a better idea of the business. I took off the table-cloth and searched his pockets. There was nothing much in there – no sign of the little black book in which I had seen him making notes. It had been taken by his murderer.

But as I looked up, I saw that some drawers had been pulled out in the writing-table. Someone must have been searching for something, perhaps for the pocket-book.

I went round the flat and found out that everything had been clearly searched. There was no trace of the book though. Most likely the enemies had found it, but they had not found it on Scudder's body.

Then I took an atlas, opened it, and looked at a big map of the British Isles. My plan was to go to some wild district. I thought that Scotland would be best because my people were Scotch, and I could pass as[22] an ordinary Scotsman. I could also pretend to be a German tourist because I knew the language pretty well. In the end, I chose Galloway as the best place to go. It was the nearest wild part of Scotland where not so many people lived.

Another search informed me that there was a train that left at 7.10, which would bring me to any place in Galloway in the late afternoon. That was great, but a more important question was how I could get to the station because I was pretty sure that Scudder's friends would be watching outside. This troubled me for a bit, but then I had an idea. On that I went to bed and slept for two hours.

I got up at four and opened my bedroom shutters. It was a fine summer morning. I was determined to go on with my plan.

I put on a well-used suit, a pair of strong boots, and a flannel shirt. I stuffed my pockets with a cap, some handkerchiefs, and a tooth-brush. I had taken a good sum in gold from the bank two days before, in case Scudder needed money, and now I put it in a belt which I had brought back from Africa. That was all I wanted.

Then came the next step. Paddock usually arrived at 7.30 and let himself in with a key. But before that, about twenty minutes to seven, the milkman came with a great clatter of cans. I had seen that milkman sometimes. He was a young man about my own height, and he wore a white overall. On him I staked all my chances.

I went into the darkened smoking-room where I put a pipe in my pocket and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the table by the fireplace. As I put my fingers into the tobacco, they touched something hard, and I took out Scudder's little black pocket-book… That seemed to me a good sign.

'Goodbye, old chap,' I said to the body. 'I am going to do my best for you. Wish me luck.'

Then I stayed in the hall waiting for the milkman. That was the worst part of the business. Six-thirty passed, then six-forty, and yet there was no sign of him. The milkman had chosen this day of all days to be late.

At a quarter to seven I heard the clatter of the cans outside. I opened the front door, and there was my man. He was surprised to see me so early.

'Come in here for a moment,' I said. 'I want a word with you.' I let him into the room.

'I want you to do me a favor. Give me your cap and overall for ten minutes, and here's a sovereign[23] for you.'

His eyes opened at the sight of the gold, and he smiled. 'What's the game?' he asked.

'A bet,' I said. 'I haven't got time to explain, but to win it I've got to be a milkman for the next ten minutes. All you've got to do is to stay here till I come back. You'll be a bit late, but nobody will complain.'

'Right!' he said cheerfully.

I put on his blue hat and his white overall, picked up the cans, closed my door, and went downstairs. The porter there did not recognize me.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I saw a policeman a hundred yards away and some man walking past on the other side. On impulse, I looked up at the opposite house, and there at a first-floor window was a face. As the man passed it, he also looked up, which was like a signal.

I crossed the street, imitating the milkman. Then I turned into the first side street. There was no one in the little street, so I left the milk-cans, the cap and overall behind a board fence. I had only just put on my own cap when a postman came round the corner. I said good morning to him, and he answered me. At that moment the clock of a church struck seven.

There was not a second to waste, so I ran. The clock at the station showed five minutes past seven. I had no time to take a ticket, nor to choose my destination. A porter told me the platform, and there I saw the train already leaving. I managed to jump into the last carriage.

Three minutes later, the guard[24] wrote out a ticket to Newton-Stewart for me – a place name which had suddenly come back to my memory – and took me to a third-class compartment, occupied by a sailor and a fat woman with a child.

There I started my new life and couldn't even believe that a week ago I had been so bored.

3

It was fine May weather, and I had a quiet time traveling north that day. I didn't dare go to the restaurant car, but I got lunch at Leeds[25] and shared it with the fat woman. Also I got the morning's papers with some paragraphs about Balkan affairs. When I had done with them, I took out Scudder's little black pocket-book and studied it. It was filled with writings. Most of them were figures, but now and then there was a name. For example, I found the words 'Hofgaard', 'Luneville', and 'Avocado' pretty often, and especially the word 'Pavia'.

I was sure that Scudder never did anything without a reason, and I was sure that there was a cipher in all this. That is a subject which has always interested me, and I did a bit of it myself once as intelligence officer[26] during the war in Africa[27]. I used to be pretty good at reading ciphers. This one looked like the sets of figures corresponding to the letters of the alphabet. But any man can find the clue to that cipher after an hour or two's work, and I didn't think Scudder would've been using anything so easy. So I focused on the words because you can make a pretty good numerical cipher if you have a key word.

I tried for hours, but none of the words answered. Then I fell asleep and woke just in time to get out and then catch the slow Galloway train. There was a man on the platform whose looks I didn't like, but he never glanced at me. No wonder[28]: with my tanned face and my old suit I looked like one of the many farmers who were traveling in the third-class carriages.

At about five o'clock the carriage was finally empty, and I was left alone. I got out at the next station, a little place set right in the heart of a bog. Soon I found myself on a white road that went over the brown moor. It was a fine spring evening. The air had the queer smell of bogs, but it had the strangest effect on me. I felt light-hearted like a boy on a spring holiday, and not a man of thirty-seven, wanted by the police. I decided that I was still far ahead of any pursuit. There was no plan in my head, only just to go on and on in this hill country.

I was getting very hungry when I came to a shepherd's cottage beside a waterfall. A woman, who was standing by the door, greeted me. When I asked for a place to spend the night, she said I was welcome to the 'bed in the loft', and very soon she set before me a meal of ham and eggs.

In the evening her husband came back from the hills. They asked me no questions, but I could see they thought I was a kind of cattle dealer. So I spoke a lot about cattle, of which they knew very little, and I learned from them a lot about the local Galloway markets.

I woke up at five the next morning, had breakfast at six, and then was on my way again. My kind hosts didn't take any payment. My plan was to get to the next railway station and to go some way back. I thought that that was the safest way because the police would think that I was always going farther from London.

The station, when I reached it, was ideal for my purpose. The moor was around it, making it quite isolated. There was no road to it from anywhere. I waited in the heather till I saw the smoke of a train on the horizon. Then I came up to the tiny booking-office and took a ticket for Dumfries.

The only passengers in the carriage were an old shepherd and his dog. The man was asleep, and beside him was that morning's newspaper. I took it, hoping it would tell me something.

There were two columns about the Portland Place Murder, as it was called. My man Paddock had called the police, and the milkman had been arrested. Later the milkman had been let go, I read, and the true criminal had got away from London by one of the northern lines. There was a short note about me as the owner of the flat. I guessed the police had put that in, trying to tell me that I was not a suspect.

There was nothing else in the paper, nothing about foreign politics or Karolides, or the things that had interested Scudder. I put the paper back and saw that we were coming to the station at which I had got out yesterday. On the platform three men were talking to the station-master. I supposed that they were the local police, who had been called by Scotland Yard. Sitting in the shadow, I watched them carefully. One of them had a book and took notes. All four men looked at the moor and the white road.

As we moved away from that station, the shepherd woke up. He looked at me, kicked his dog, and asked where he was. I told him. Clearly he was very drunk.

'That's what happens when you're a teetotaler,' he said.

I showed my surprise.

'Ay, but I'm a strong teetotaler,' he said. 'I haven't touched a drop of whisky for a long time.'

'What did it then?' I asked.

'A drink they call brandy. Being a teetotaler, I kept off the whisky, but I was drinking this brandy,' he explained and fell asleep again.

My plan had been to get out at some station, but the train suddenly gave me a better chance because it came to a standstill at the end of a culvert. I looked out and saw that every carriage window was closed and there was no one in the landscape. So I opened the door and jumped into the bushes that grew along the line.

It would've been all right, but that shepherd's dog started to bark. I crawled through the bushes for a hundred yards or so. Then from there I looked back and saw the guard and several passengers standing at the open carriage door and staring in my direction. My departure was not unnoticed. When after a quarter of a mile's crawl I looked back again, the train had started and was disappearing into the distance.

There was moorland and the high hills around me, and not a sign or sound of a human being. Yet, for the first time I felt the terror. It was not the police that I thought of, but the other people who knew that I knew Scudder's secret and would not let me live. I was certain that they would follow me and when they found me, they would have no mercy. I looked back, but there was nothing in the landscape which was the most peaceful sight in the world. Nevertheless, I started to run.

I ran till I had reached the top of a mountain high above the moor. From there I could see the railway line. I have eyes like a hawk, but I could see nothing moving in the whole countryside. Then I looked east and saw another kind of landscape. There were green valleys with plantations and roads. Last of all, I looked into the blue May sky and froze.

In the south a small plane was rising into the sky. I was certain that that airplane was looking for me and that it did not belong to the police. For an hour or two I watched it hiding in the heather. It flew low along the hill-tops, and then in circles over the valley from which I had come. Then it rose to a greater height and flew away back to the south.

I did not like this espionage from the air, and I began to think about the countryside I had chosen for hiding. These heather hills were no good if my enemies were in the sky, and I had to find another place to hide. I looked at the green country beyond where I could find woods and stone houses.

At about six in the evening I came out of the moorland to a road which went along the narrow stream. As I followed it, in the twilight I reached a small house. The road went over a bridge, and there stood a young man. He was smoking a pipe and looking at the water. In his left hand was a small book.

He turned round when he heard my footsteps, and I saw a pleasant boyish face.

'Good evening to you,' he said. 'It's a fine night for the road.'

The smell of smoke and some tasty roast reached me from the house.

'Is that place an inn?' I asked.

'At your service,' he said politely. 'I am the landlord, Sir, and I hope you will stay the night. To tell you the truth, I have had no company for a week.'

'You're young to be an innkeeper,' I said and took out my pipe.

'My father died a year ago and left me the business. I live there with my grandmother. It's a slow job for a young man, and it wasn't my choice of profession.'

'Which was?'

He blushed. 'I want to write books,' he said.

'Well, I've often thought that an innkeeper would make the best story-teller in the world.'

'Not now,' he said. 'Maybe in the old days. But not now. Nothing happens here. There is not much material. I want to see life, to travel the world.'

'I've traveled the world a bit, and I wouldn't say that adventure is found only in the tropics. Maybe it's standing right next to you at this moment. Here's a true tale for you then,' I cried, 'and a month from now you can make a novel out of it.'

Sitting on the bridge in the soft May evening, I told him a lovely story. It was mostly true, though I changed some details. I said that I was a mining magnate from South Africa, who had had a lot of trouble with a gang. They had pursued me across the ocean, and had killed my best friend, and were now on my tracks. I told the story well. I described an attack on my life on the voyage home and the Portland Place murder.

'You're looking for adventure?' I cried. 'Well, you've found it here. The devils are after me, and the police are after them.'

'My God!' he whispered.

'You believe me?' I asked.

'Of course I do,' he said. 'I believe everything out of the ordinary.'

He was very young, but he was the man for my money.

'I think I must lie low[29] for a couple of days. Can you take me in?'

He pointed towards the house. 'You can lie low here. I'll make sure no one asks you questions. And you'll give me some more material about your adventures?'

As I was walking into the inn, I heard an engine. There, in the sky, was my friend – the little plane.

The young man gave me a room at the back of the house. I never saw the grandmother, but an old woman called Margit brought me my meals, and the innkeeper was around me all the time. I wanted some time to myself, so I invented a job for him. He had a motorcycle, and the next morning I sent him for the daily paper. I also told him to keep his eyes open for any strange figures, motors or airplanes.

He came back at midday with the paper. There was nothing in it, except some evidence of Paddock and the milkman, and the statement that the murderer had gone north. But there was a long article about Karolides and the affairs in the Balkans, though it did not mention any visits to England.

In the afternoon I sat down to work on Scudder's note-book. As I told you, it was a numerical cipher. The trouble was the key word, and I felt hopeless. But about three o'clock I had a sudden inspiration.

I remembered the name, Julia Czechenyi. Scudder had said it was the key to the Karolides business, and I decided to try it on his cipher. It worked. The five letters of 'Julia' gave me the position of the vowels. 'Czechenyi' gave me the numerals for the consonants. I wrote them on a piece of paper and sat down to read Scudder's pages.

In half an hour, while I was still reading it, I glanced out of the window and saw a big car coming towards the inn. It stopped at the door, and two people got out.

Ten minutes later the innkeeper came into the room. His eyes were bright with excitement.

'There are two chaps below, looking for you,' he whispered. 'They're in the dining-room, having drinks. They asked about you and said they had hoped to meet you here. Oh, and they described you well, even your boots and shirt. I told them you had been here last night and had gone off on a motorcycle this morning, and one of the chaps swore.'

I asked him to tell me what they looked like. One was a thin, dark-eyed fellow with thick eyebrows, and the other smiled and lisped in his talk.

I took a piece of paper and wrote these words in German: '…Black Stone. Scudder had got to this, but he could not act for two weeks. I doubt if I can do any good now, especially as Karolides is uncertain about his plans. But if Mr. T. advises I will do the best I.'

I made it look like a page of a private letter.

'Take this to them and say it was found in my bedroom, and ask them to give it to me when they see me.'

Three minutes later I heard the car engine start, and the innkeeper came back in great excitement.

'Your paper woke them up,' he said. 'The dark fellow went as white as death and cursed like hell, and the fat one whistled. They paid for their drinks and didn't wait for change.'

'Now I'll tell you what I want you to do,' I said. 'Get on your motorcycle and go to the police station. Describe the two men and say you think they have something to do with the London murder. You can invent reasons. The two will come back, that's for sure. Not tonight, as they'll follow me forty miles along the road, but probably tomorrow morning. Tell the police to be here early tomorrow.'

He went off, and I worked on Scudder's notes. When he came back, we had dinner together, and when he went to bed, I finally finished with Scudder. I smoked sitting in a chair till daylight because I could not sleep.

At about eight the next morning I saw the arrival of the policemen. They left their car behind the inn and entered the house. Twenty minutes later, I saw from my window a second car, coming from the opposite direction. It did not come up to the inn, but stopped two hundred yards off in the wood. A minute or two later I heard steps outside the window.

My plan had been to hide in my bedroom, and see what happened. I had an idea that if I could bring the police and my other more dangerous pursuers together, something might work out of it. But now I had a better idea. I wrote thanks to my host, opened the window, and quietly jumped down into a gooseberry bush. I ran to the trees along the road to where the car stood. I jumped into the driver's seat and started the engine. Almost immediately the road went downhill, so I couldn't see the inn, but the wind brought me the sounds of angry voices.

4

That shining May morning I was driving the car at high speed along the moor roads, thinking of what I had found in Scudder's pocket-book.

The little man had told me a lot of lies. All his tales about the Balkans, and the anarchists, and the Foreign Office Conference were lies, and so was Karolides. Yet not quite[30]. I had believed in his story enough to risk my own life, but he had let me down. His book was telling me a different tale, and I believed it absolutely. Why, I don't know.

The fifteenth of June was going to be a big day of destiny. It was so big that I wasn't surprised Scudder hadn't told me all about it. He had told me something which sounded big enough, but the real thing was so big that he – the man who had found it out – wanted it all for himself.

The whole story was in the notes with gaps. The four names he had written were authorities, and he had given them a numerical value. There was a man, Ducrosne, who got five, and another fellow, Ammersfoort, who got three. There also was one queer phrase which appeared several times, in brackets. It was '(Thirty-nine steps)', and the last time he used it, he wrote: '(Thirty-nine steps, I counted them, high tide 10.17p.m.)'. I could not understand that.

The first thing I learned was that it was not about preventing a war. The war was coming anyway. Karolides was going to be dead on June 14th, and nothing could prevent that.

The second thing was that this war was going to be a surprise for Britain. Karolides' death would anger the Balkans, and then Vienna would give an ultimatum. Russia wouldn't like that, but Berlin would play the peacemaker at first, then find a reason for a conflict and attack us. That was the idea.

But all this depended on the third thing, which would happen on June 15th. I had known back in my days in Africa that there was an alliance between France and Britain, and that the two countries could act together in case of war. Well, in June a very important man, Royer, was coming to London from Paris, and he was going to get information about the disposition of the British Fleet.

But on the 15th of June, other important people were going to be in London, too. Scudder simply called them the 'Black Stone'. They were not our allies, but rather our enemies. So the information intended for France could end up in their pockets.

This was the story I had deciphered in the country inn.

My first impulse had been to write a letter to the Prime Minister, but then I thought that it would be useless. Who would believe my tale? I must have some proof first. But what could that be? Most importantly, I had to keep going despite the fact that the police and the Black Stone were pursuing me.

I had no clear idea of my journey, but I kept going east. I drove along a river, through little old villages, over peaceful streams, and past gardens and parks. The land was so peaceful that I could hardly believe that in a month the country men would be lying dead in English fields.

At about midday I came to one village where I had planned to stop and eat. A policeman saw me and tried to make me stop. I almost did. Then I realized that the description of me and the car had been already sent to thirty villages through which I might pass. I sped up again and thought that main roads were no place for me. I turned onto a narrow lane, but without a map I could be turning onto a farm road and ending up in someone's yard.

What a fool I had been to steal the car! But even if I left it, it would be found in an hour or two, and I wouldn't get far enough either. The only thing to do now was not to take the main roads. The road I was driving along was taking me too far north, so I turned east along a bad track and finally reached a big double-line railway. Beyond it I saw another valley, and thought that if I crossed it I might find some inn to stay for the night. I was tired and hungry. Just then I heard a noise in the sky, and there was that airplane, flying low, coming towards me.

There were no trees on the moor, so I hurried to get to the valley. I went downhill, turning my head round to watch that plane. Soon I was on a road between hedges and slowed down a bit.

Suddenly on my left I heard the hoot of another car, and realized to my horror that I was running into a couple of posts of a private road. I stepped on my brakes, but it was too late. So I did the only thing possible and drove into the hedge on the right.

But it was a mistake. My car went through the hedge and then started falling forward. I saw what was coming. I tried to jump out and got caught on a branch of hawthorn which held me, while my car dropped fifty feet down to the stream below. This was a good way of getting rid of the car, I thought.

Slowly I crawled back to the road where a scared voice asked me if I was hurt. It was a tall young man from the other car.

'My fault, Sir,' I said to him. 'That's the end of my Scotch motor tour, but it might have been the end of my life.'

He looked at his watch. 'I have a quarter of an hour, and my house is two minutes away. I'll see that you have something to put on and eat. Where are all your things, by the way? Are they in the car?'

'They're in my pockets,' I said. 'I'm a Colonial and travel light.'[31]

'A Colonial,' he cried. 'Are you by any chance a Free Trader?[32]'

'I am,' said I, not knowing what he meant.

We got into his car, and three minutes later we stopped before a comfortable-looking cabin. He took me inside and first showed me half a dozen of his suits because my own had been torn. I chose a blue one, which made me look very different. Then he took me to the dining-room, where there was some food on the table, and told me that I had just five minutes to eat. I had a cup of coffee and some cold ham.

'You can take a snack in your pocket, and we'll have supper when we get back. I've got to be at the Masonic Hall at eight o'clock. I'm in a mess right now, Mr… you haven't told me your name. Twisdon? Well, Mr. Twisdon, you see I'm Liberal Candidate for this part of the world, and I have a meeting tonight. The Colonial ex-Premier, Crumpleton, was supposed to come[33] and speak for me, but he got ill. Here I am, left to do the whole thing myself! I had planned to speak for ten minutes and must now go on for forty. The problem is I cannot think of anything to say, and you've got to help me. You're a Free Trader and can tell our people about the Colonies. I'll be for ever in your debt.'

I thought how odd it was to ask a stranger who had almost died and had lost an expensive car to speak at a meeting for him. I knew very little about Free Trade, but I saw no other chance to get what I wanted.

'All right,' I said. 'I'm not a good speaker, but I'll tell them a bit about Australia.'

On the way he told me the simple facts of his history. He was an orphan, and his uncle who was in the Cabinet had brought him up. His uncle had advised politics, and the young man had no preference in parties. 'Good friends in both,' he said, 'and plenty of enemies, too. I'm Liberal, because my family have always been Whigs[34].' Altogether, he was a very clean, decent young man.

As we passed through a little town, two policemen stopped us.

'Pardon, Sir Harry,' said one. 'We've been looking for a car like yours.'

'All right,' said my host. After that we didn't speak anymore because he was busy thinking about his coming speech, and I began to prepare myself for a disaster. I tried to think of something I could say, but my mind was dry.

Finally we stopped outside a door in a street, and were welcomed by some noisy gentlemen. The hall had about five hundred people in it, mostly women and old men. The chairman commented on Crumpleton's absence and introduced me as a 'leader of Australian thought'. Then Sir Harry started. I never heard anything like it. He didn't know how to talk. He had a lot of notes from which he read. He talked about the 'German menace', and said it was a Tory[35] invention. He was for reducing our Navy and then sending Germany an ultimatum telling her to do the same.

Yet I liked his speech. It took a load off my mind. I wasn't much of a speaker, but I was much, much better than Sir Harry.

When it was my turn, I simply told them all I could remember about Australia. I doubt if I ever mentioned Free Trade, but I said there were no Tories in Australia, only Labor and Liberals. Altogether I think I was a success.

When we were in the car again, my host was in good spirits[36]. 'Excellent speech, Twisdon,' he said. 'Now, you're coming home with me. I'm all alone, and if you stay for a day or two, I'll show you some very decent fishing.'

We had a hot supper and then drank grog in a big smoking-room. I thought it was the time for me to put my cards on the table. I saw that he was the man I could trust.

'Listen, Sir Harry,' I said. 'I've something very important to say to you. You're a good fellow, and I'm going to be frank. What you said about Germany.'

'Why? What's wrong? Was it that bad?' he asked. 'But you don't think Germany would ever go to war with us?'

'If you give me half an hour, I am going to tell you a story,' I said.

It was the first time I had ever told anyone the truth. I left out no detail. He heard all about Scudder, and the milkman, and the note-book, and my adventures in Galloway.

'So you see,' I said, 'I am the man that is wanted for the Portland Place murder. You could call the police and give me up. I don't think I'll get very far.'

He got very excited and was looking at me with bright eyes. 'What was your job in Rhodesia, Mr. Hannay?' he asked.

'Mining engineer,' I said.

He watched me with a smile. 'I may be a bad speaker, but I can see that you're no murderer and you're no fool, and I believe you are telling the truth. I'm going to help you. 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.'

'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 have a better idea. I'll write to the Secretary at the Foreign Office. He's my godfather. What do you want?'

He sat down at a table and wrote what I said. The plan was that a man called Twisdon (I chose to keep that name) would come before June 15th.

He would be whistling a popular tune and would mention 'Black Stone', and the godfather needed to hear his story.

'Good,' said Sir Harry. 'By the way, you'll find my godfather, his name's Sir Walter Bullivant, at his country cottage in Whitsuntide. Now, what's the next thing?'

'You're about my size. Give me the oldest suit you've got. Then show me a map of the neighborhood. Lastly, if the police come looking for me, just show them the car in the stream. If the other fellows come, tell them I went south after your meeting.'

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Примечания

1

Сити – район Лондона, исторический центр города.

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2

зд. старая добрая Англия

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3

Булавайо – крупный город в Зимбабве, в Африке.

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4

Шотландия является частью Великобритании.

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5

Пятизвёздочный отель в Лондоне.

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6

заставило меня вздрогнуть

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7

Не могли бы вы мне кое в чём помочь?

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8

Получается так, что я сейчас мёртв.

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9

хотел докопаться до сути

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10

конфликт на Балканах

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11

зд. его судьба предрешена

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12

министерство иностранных дел

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13

Тироль – регион на западе Австрии.

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14

Буда – часть города Будапешт в Венгрии.

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15

Лейпциг – город в Германии.

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16

монокль

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17

приехавший домой на побывку

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18

подыграл мне

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19

полуприкрытые глаза с нависшими веками

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20

что заставило меня застыть на месте

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21

сумел взять себя в руки

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22

сойти за

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23

Соверен – британская золотая монета.

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24

зд. билетёр/контролёр/кондуктор (брит.)

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25

Лидс – крупный город в Йоркшире.

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26

офицер разведки

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27

Имеются в виду военные действия в Африке на рубеже ХХ в., в которых участвовала Великобритания.

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28

ничего удивительного

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29

затаиться / залечь на дно

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30

Но не совсем.

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31

Я приехал из страны третьего мира и путешествую налегке.

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32

Вы случайно не имеете отношения к свободной торговле?

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33

должен был приехать

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34

Виги – старинное название британской партии либералов.

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35

Тори – партия земельной аристократии Великобритании.

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36

в приподнятом настроении

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