Men of Affairs

by Roland Pertwee

With a cheery wave and a smile he started down the jetty at a brisk walk.

CHAPTER 23.

AN ENCOUNTER.

Anyone who is acquainted with the village of Polperro knows the stone jetty which runs parallel with the horizon line of the sea. In length it is perhaps eighty or a hundred yards. At its Western end it turns at right angles past a terrace of old houses whose foundations are washed by the tide. Barraclough had almost arrived at this point when two men turned the corner and came toward him. One was a presentable enough fellow, but his companion was a person of low class. They were obviously in the heart of an altercation for the words, "You fill yourself up with beer like a blasted barrel," preceded their appearance.

Now there was one thing Barraclough never forgot—a man's voice—and as the words came to his ears he stopped dead. The moment of mutual recognition was almost instantaneous, but Barraclough had precisely one second's start to recover from his surprise. Behind him was the jetty surrounded by the sea, and the narrow passage in front was blocked by enemies.

Harrison Smith wasted a fraction of time crying out the name "Barraclough!" Dirk fell back a pace fumbling for the pocket in which he kept his "Mascot." It was a fatal mistake. Running down the length of the jetty between the two men was a fisherman's net, and as Harrison Smith sprang toward him pistol in hand, Barraclough ducked, seized the net and raised it in the air.

It was the barest fluke that the manoeuvre should have worked so well. Harrison Smith stumbled heavily, grabbed at Dirk and missed him. Barraclough's foot just above his waist line destroyed the last of his equilibrium and over the edge he went into the shallow water below. Unquestionably the beer was responsible for Dirk's failure to win the engagement. His quarry was before him in an open position. He should have used his Mascot and used it hard. It was sheer criminal stupidity to have looked over the edge at his fallen commander. Maybe the angry scarlet of Dirk's complexion provoked Barraclough's attack and before the poor man had recovered from his surprise a heavy lobster pot came smashing down over his face with agonising force, the splintering basket-work playing havoc with his features. Then he, too, experienced the unique sensation of gliding downward through space, a delight somewhat marred by the rudeness of its finish.

Barraclough did not stay to behold the result of his offensive, but picked up his heels and ran. Just beyond the open fish market he saw a neglected Ford car and hesitated an instant to debate whether or no he should appropriate it. At the time he did not connect it with the two men wallowing in harbour waters. Had he done so he would certainly have driven it over the edge of the quay into the mud. His own car was waiting less than a quarter of a mile away—an Hispano Suisa built for speed—and the sense of speed ran through his own veins. As he raced up the narrow, twisting street the good wives of the village turned on their doorsteps, open mouthed, to watch him pass. He scarcely bothered to glance over his shoulder satisfied that he had gained an easy five minutes' start. Coming abreast of the three cottages he vaulted the stock yard wall, threw open a gate and made for the stable door fumbling in his pocket for the key of the padlock.

And suddenly an oath broke from his lips crisp, concise, and covering. The first trick had been scored by him but undoubtedly Harrison Smith had won the second. The blocked up keyhole told its own tale. He knew the door very well and it would be half an hour's work to break it down, also he knew the padlock having bought it himself. The Hispano Suisa would have to be abandoned.

He did not waste time cursing, but instead leapt the shale wall and took to the fields. A little footpath lay among the trees at the meadow end and Anthony Barraclough made for it with all possible dispatch jumping a brook and forcing his way through a fringe of thorn and bramble. There had been no rain for some weeks and the going was dry, a circumstance he noted with satisfaction, for your average Cornish footpath is as much a waterway as a thoroughfare for pedestrians. It was half a mile to his destination, a spot where the path converged with the high road and as he ran, Barraclough covered his face with his hand to avoid the swinging branches. A gap in the trees gave a view of the village and as he flashed across it increasing speed to avoid the risk of being seen he had a momentary glimpse of a Ford car with two men in it stopping at the gate he had recently opened.