“Say rather, Drake insisting on finishing his game of bowls. Or was it William Tell? I forget. Anyhow, this is the fine old British spirit. What’s the word? Not undaunted—imperturbable, that’s what I mean. The myrmidons of Scotland Yard bustle to and fro outside; the great detective sits calmly within, with all the strings in his hands. My nets begin to close tighter round them, Watson. Dash it all, I believe Pulteney’s let me down. Where’s his other two of spades?”
“I don’t want to be unpleasant, but you will perhaps allow me to remind you that you are supposed to be on the lookout. If Brinky comes out in front, you are to report to me. And how are you to see him, if you will go scavenging about under the window-seat like that?”
“Well, you’ll jolly well have to find my two of spades, then, while I keep an eye on the street. Fair division of labour. Watchman, what of the night? There’s going to be a jolly fine thunder-storm. Did you see that flash? I deduce that there will shortly be a slight roll of thunder. There, what did I tell you?”
“It’s not so much the innate laziness of the man,” murmured Angela, as if to herself, “it’s his self-sufficiency! Here’s your beastly two of spades; don’t lose it again. You ought to have the cards tied round your neck with a piece of string. I say, aren’t you excited? Do you think Brinky will show fight when they nab him in the garage?”
“Don’t fluster me. I wish to be secluded from the world. Here before me lies a very pretty problem, represented by two hundred and eight pieces of pasteboard. Behind that, in the dim background of my half-awake consciousness, lies a very pretty problem in detection. It is my boast that I can do both at once. But how am I to do either if women will chatter at me?”
“Passengers are requested not to speak to the man at the wheel. All right, Aunty, go on with your silly game. I’m going to knit. It doesn’t feel quite womanly to knit, somehow, with a thing like you in the room.”
There was silence for a while, as Bredon sat over his cards, with an occasional glance at the street below him. There is said to be a man who has invented a Chinese typewriter; and since (they tell us) every word in the Chinese language has its own symbol—the fault of Confucius, for not thinking of letters—the machine is said to be of the size and shape of a vast organ, and the typist runs to and fro, pulling out a stop here, pressing down a pedal there, in a whirl of activity. Not otherwise did Bredon appear when he saw the possibilities of a particular gambit in his patience; then he would sit for a while lost in thought, puzzling out combinations for the future. Below him, the street lay in an unearthly half-darkness. Lamps should not have been needed by this time on a June evening, but the thick mantle of clouds had taken away all that was left of the sun’s departing influence, and it was a twilit world that lay below. He could see a broad splash of light from the front door, and, further along, the mellower radiance diffused by the bar windows, with their drawn red blinds. From time to time a sudden flare of lightning illuminated the whole prospect, and shamed these human lights into insignificance.
“Angela,” said Bredon suddenly, without turning round, “I don’t know if it interests you at all, but a stealthy figure has crept out into the moonlight. At least, there isn’t any moonlight, but still, those irritatingly twirled moustaches, that supercilious pince-nez—can it be? It is—our old friend Brinkman. He carries a despatch-box, but no other luggage. He is passing down the street in the direction of the turning; perhaps making for the garage—who shall say? He is looking round at this window. Ha! ’tis well, I am observed. Anyhow, it’s up to you to go to the telephone this time.”
Angela’s self-possession was more of a pose. She sprang up in a hurry, dropping her knitting as she rose, and threw the door open silently but swiftly; then, as silently, as swiftly, it shut again behind her. But not before irretrievable damage had been done. The evening was full of those sudden gusts and air-currents which a thunder-storm brings with it. One of these, synchronizing with the sudden opening of the door, neatly lifted up three of the cards from the window-seat, and swept them out into the open air.
Bredon was intensely annoyed, and somewhat puzzled as to his duty. On the one hand, it was impossible to go on with the game when three cards, whose values he could not remember, were missing from a row. On the other hand, Leyland’s instructions had been explicit; he was to sit at the window without stirring. Then common sense came to his aid. After all, Brinkman was no longer in sight; even if he were still watching from the corner, he would never suspect that a movement in the room upstairs portended discovery. With a great effort Bredon heaved himself up from the chair into which he had sunk, opened the door delicately for fear of fresh draughts, and in half a minute’s time was searching before the front of the inn for his truant pasteboard.