A Rough Shoot by Geoffrey Household Page B

here, my lad!” Sandorski said with an air of triumphant mystery.
    “He is then alive?”
    “Go and wash your face,” I said. “I can hear a stream down there to the right somewhere.”
    I had grabbed a bottle of rum as last-minute baggage, and when Lex had gone we had a couple.
    “One thing I didn’t have time to tell you,” the general remarked. “Mustn’t use our names before this chap.”
    “I haven’t, I think. Nor you–except that you will call me ‘colonel.’ But that’s all right, as nobody else does.”
    “We’ll make it,” he said.
    “We’ll want a lot of luck. Do you realize I’ve got to stop for petrol somewhere?”
    “And I’ve got to telephone.”
    “What on earth for?”
    “Didn’t I tell you?”
    “You told me to get out of the house and bring a needle and thread.”
    “That’s to sew up Lex’s briefcase,” he explained. “Must be in decent condition when he delivers it to Heyne-Hassingham.”
    “Lord! Can you arrange that?”
    “Yes, of course. And room wired for sound. If I ask for a chance to prove my innocence I’ll get it. Enough influence for that, ha? But nobody’s going to know me if I get arrested. Why should they? Might be guilty. I’m not trusted. I’m just a source of information.”
    It was a wild scheme, but I could see that if we could deliver Lex to that flat at 26 Fulham Park Avenue it might succeed. It seemed to me, however, that our chance of ever reaching London was slim. In the course of the night the movements of my gray car were certain to be reported by some policeman. On the other hand, to judge by the newspapers, England was full of criminals regularly escaping with stolen cars. I suppose that they were prepared for the game, chose neutral body work, and had handy false number plates such as Hiart himself used.

The telephoning had to be tackled as soon as possible before the description of me and my car had been circulated too widely. It was improbable, we thought, that the police had any description of Sandorski or even his name. Hiart wouldn’t tell them, for he couldn’t be sure that Sandorski was in England at all, and he was not likely to commit himself when he didn’t know what questions he would have to meet. Though he held a possible winning hand, he must be just as alarmed as we were. It was a comforting thought. About the only one available.
    Lex came back from the stream, pale and dirty, but looking slightly more like a traveling lawyer than a criminal. I drove on, steering a slow and uncertain course through the byroads. I was trying to find a safe route round Salisbury, well to the north of it.
    We crossed the main road to London between Sherborne and Shaftesbury, using quite unnecessary caution. Half a mile further on, running through Hinton FitzPaine, we saw a telephone kiosk just clear of the last houses. It seemed to be as remote as any, so I drove up a stony little lane, where there was certain to be no traffic at that time of night and where we could safely wait while Sandorski went into the village.
    I could not go with him. Lex was the difficulty. We couldn’t very well walk off with the brown paper parcel for which he was responsible. On the other hand, we didn’t want to leave him alone with it. So I had to stay.
    “Have you got enough small change?” I yelled after the general.
    He was doubtful, so I emptied my trouser pocket into his. There was a fair supply of shillings and sixpences and coppers, enough for a couple of trunk calls to London, especially as it was only eight o’clock and he would get the cheap evening tariff.
    I sat there for half an hour talking to Lex. He was a lot more likable than his ideas–a solemn and mistaken crusader, but definitely a crusader. Even war and the law courts hadn’t cured him of a boyish sense of romance. He still believed that-–possibly with himself as chancellor–a despotism could be benevolent. So, I suppose, did Heyne-Hassingham, on condition that he was the