Men of Affairs

by Roland Pertwee

"All ri' soon—qui' all ri'. Fac' is I'm one of the ruins Crom'll knocked about a bit." The voice tailed away into a deep, slumberous groan.

A minute later Harrison Smith was at the door of Barraclough's flat on the landing below. The fourth key on the bunch turned the latch and silently as a cat he slipped into the hall. A quick observation of the chambers above had given him a fair idea of which room was which and he had no trouble in locating the study door in the dark. Before turning on a light he assured himself that the window curtains were drawn. He realised the need to be very silent in all his actions since Barraclough's servant was in all probability sleeping on the premises and ex-service men of the regular army have an awkward knack of sleeping lightly. He closed the door without even a click from the latch, then turned up a standard lamp that stood on the writing table. In the pen tray beneath the lamp was a blue pencil—a new one—since obviously it had never been sharpened and the chalk point was scarcely worn at all. The other end of the pencil had been deeply bitten in a dozen places, a circumstance which Harrison Smith noted with satisfaction. The other pencils and pens in the tray bore no teeth marks. It was reasonable, therefore, to surmise that its owner had been engaged in some knotty and puzzling problem at the time of use.

"I believe the girl was on the right track," he muttered to himself and turned his attention to the bookshelves. One of the cases was given over entirely to a collection of local guide books surprisingly complete in map and detail. There were four volumes dealing with Cornwall and it was only the matter of a moment to find the one to which Isabel had referred. Bringing it to the light Harrison Smith hastily turned over the pages until he came to the squared map that showed the village of Polperro. But here disappointment awaited him—for not a sign of the blue pencil mark showed upon the page. He was on the point of closing the book when he made a discovery.

The light striking across the paper revealed the fact that the surface in places bore a polished appearance. The reason was significant. Barraclough, leaving nothing to chance, had erased the pencil marks with indiarubber. If anything could emphasise the value of his discovery surely it was this and Harrison Smith fairly tingled with excitement. He picked up a magnifying glass and closely examined the erasement. There had been a line drawn round the village and on the outskirts, where three cottages clustered together, was the impression of a single dot. At roughly a mile inland from the village where a footpath converged with the road was another dot, seemingly situated in the middle of a clump of trees.

Harrison Smith was satisfied. He hastily dropped the book into his pocket, restored its fellows to their former position on the shelves and tiptoed across the room to extinguish the light. Thus far Fortune had favoured him, but she is a capricious lady wont to change her allegiance with startling suddenness. If there had been a length of yellow flex to the electric standard the accident would never have happened. It is simply asking for trouble to use red flex on a red carpet. Harrison Smith's foot tangled in the wire and down came the table lamp with a crash. Simultaneously there came a shout from another part of the flat. For a second Harrison Smith stood spellbound at the disaster he had caused—robbed of the power of action.

It was the sound of bare feet pattering on the parquet of the hall that restored his senses and as the door of the room flew open he stamped on the still burning electric bulb lying at his feet. The detonation as it flew into fragments came simultaneously with the sharp, stinging report of a small calibre pistol. The room was plunged into utter darkness in which could be heard the sound of two men breathing and the zinging of the mantelpiece brasses from the double explosion. Then silence—no movement—and the mind of Harrison Smith worked like a streak of lightning. His hand was on the back of a heavy arm chair and the touch of it suggested an idea.

He gave a thin, whispering sigh and cried out in a high pitched voice.

"My God! You've killed me!"

Then he tilted back the arm chair and allowed it to fall with a soft thud to the floor.

Another silence, then the sound of a man moving forward. Harrison Smith side stepped and, keeping in touch with the wall, navigated through the darkness toward the door.