The Secret Vanguard (19 page)

Hetherton, who was placidly making a fresh supply of coffee, spoke over his shoulder. ‘Thoroughness? My friend Appleby must really be credited with something of the same quality. Those photographs – I don’t understand them, but I suspect they are part of what might fairly be called thoroughness all round.’

‘The photographs?’ Appleby was standing by a window peering cautiously through the shutter. ‘Less thoroughness than just routine. And only one photograph: the real Orchard’s. Whenever there may be a possibility of impersonation I provide myself with that: two copies, you know – one positive and one negative. And when I saw that Hetherton had his suspicions I tried them out.’

‘Two copies?’ Sheila stared at him in bewilderment.

‘Give a man two copies of a photograph of himself, one positive and the other negative, with a story such as I put up. He will pick out the negative one – the
wrong
one – as himself, because that’s how he knows himself in the mirror. But give the copies to an impostor – an impersonator – and he will choose the positive one – the
right
one – because that’s how he knows the person he’s impersonating. A simple trick, and occasionally saves a lot of time cross-questioning and identifying. And at that moment, of course time is all important. That’s what this is about. We were all to sit tight guarding a fake Orchard here while they got the real man just round the corner.’

‘This matter of a formula–’ began Hetherton.

‘Represents, we think, the actual situation. They hope to steal something from Orchard as soon as he perfects it. And the thing is going to happen a mile from the last lonely fountain – the spot where we both found our bogus friend meditating. That is to say, it is going to happen within two miles of this cottage. We’re right on the spot.’

‘Perhaps in more senses than one.’ The false Orchard, bound to a chair in a corner of the room, gave his old strained laugh.

The young man Mackintosh turned round. ‘I wonder are you a potential enemy, or a mercenary neutral, or just a plain traitor? We’ll suspend all rancour till we know. But I’m afraid you’ll suffer a certain amount of inconvenience meantime. Appleby, do you think the loft?’

Appleby, who had returned from exploring the cottage, shook his head and walked over to the bound man. ‘I put you down as plain traitor, and your own skin as your chief concern. Which may make things easier.’

‘Easier?’ The false Orchard looked at him with narrowed eyes.

‘You’re lucky not to have been shot: what more likely than that there should have been a rumpus in which we had to put a bullet through you? And it may happen yet.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

Appleby was untying his bonds. ‘I think you do. You have signals to give that all is going well in here; that you are sustaining your role as Orchard and keeping us sitting tight. Ten to one those signals are simply more of your loony walks. And the question is an easy one. Are you going to take those walks, or are you going to be shot?’

The man rose and stretched himself. ‘I’d like you to know,’ he said, ‘that I’m not a traitor; nor a devoted enemy either. My pedigree’s Mitropa out of Wagons-Lits. I’ll take the walks. But you must promise to get me safely into jail if you can. Because they won’t be too pleased with me afterwards, will they?’ He grinned strangely. ‘In fact, from this point you can virtually put me down as on your side.’

Hetherton interrupted the sipping of coffee to make a distressed noise. ‘How right I was,’ he said, ‘to feel an early distrust of this abominable man.’

‘No doubt.’ Appleby nodded briefly. ‘Now listen. The cottage has a keeping-cellar that opens from the back room and lies partly under the yard behind. And there’s a little trapdoor up from it which seems to be pretty well screened by whins. It may be possible to escape unseen that way and get over the brow of the hill behind. Our best chance of finding Orchard lies in that.’ He swung round. ‘Mackintosh, you must stop behind and put our friend through his exercises: just up and down in front of the cottage looking worried. If he tries to signal or break away you drop him – dead, remember – and make a bolt to join us. Hetherton and Miss Grant had better come with me: it won’t greatly add to the chances of detection and they may be abundantly useful’ – he turned to Sheila ‘once more abundantly useful, later on.’

Again Sheila noticed his eye: during this brisk talk it was taking in the room by inches. For a moment it paused searchingly on an oil-lamp hanging from the middle of the ceiling: then it turned towards a far corner of the room as if caught by something there. ‘Everyone understands?’ he asked. ‘Mackintosh covers the impostor here, and the rest of us make a dash out of the cellar at the back.’ He had taken some paces in the direction of his glance; the movement took him behind the false Orchard; suddenly his arm swung and the man had tumbled on the floor. His other arm rose, commanding silence. ‘And now,’ he said – and he spoke to air, for the man was insensible – ‘you can get ready, my friend, for your first stroll.’ He knelt down and was rapidly stripping off the man’s outer garments.

Hetherton was the first to recover himself. ‘I’ll just explore,’ he said, ‘the way through the cellar.’ He stood quite still.

‘Good.’ Appleby was bundling himself into the false Orchard’s jacket and trousers. Sheila’s eye left him for a moment to scan the hanging lamp; running unobtrusively down the chain by which it was suspended ran a thin electric flex. A microphone: something like that.

Appleby was scribbling on a scrap of paper on the table. They all drew together to look.
As hard as you can after me
, he had written,
when I’ve got fifteen yards away
. And then once again he spoke. ‘Mackintosh, we’re going down to the cellar now. Tap on the floor when our friend’s gone about fifteen yards on his walk – he mustn’t go farther than that – and we’ll make our dash from the back.’ He picked up a tweed cap, thrust it negligently on his head, and motioned to them to gather together by the front door. ‘You’re to walk fifteen yards in your random way,’ he said, ‘and then turn back.’ He paused for some thirty seconds. Then he opened the door and strolled out. From somewhere before the cottage came the call of a bird.

They waited. Through the narrow chink of the door Sheila could see Appleby, head down and a meditative hand covering the lower part of his face, mooning along. So suddenly had the situation complicated itself that she was uncertain whether she had got it straight. He was pretending to be the false Orchard being used to cover a retreat by the back. At the back therefore the enemy would be concentrating. Whereas really they were to follow him straight ahead. That was it. And at fifteen paces –

Mackintosh had her by the elbow. ‘Go!’ he cried. They ran out. Ahead, she saw Appleby twist round and drop behind a boulder, a revolver in his hand.

They were abreast of him. He called out, ‘Up the hill and over the ridge: then follow it.’ He was covering the cottage; there was a shout from behind it now; an answering shout from farther away; the crack of a revolver shot. They were up the farther slope of the little glen. Mackintosh, running beside her, tumbled into heather, so that she thought he must be hit. But he too had a revolver; she glanced back and saw Appleby running; Mackintosh in his turn was covering the retreat. From the sides of the cottage came vicious little spurts of flame. Under fire again. But now she and Hetherton were over the brow of the hill and Appleby had come up with them. ‘Run,’ he said – although they were already running. And they ran.

The reports, fainter but distinct behind them, stopped. Appleby quickened their pace and Sheila guessed that this was more than flight. They had a goal. Half a mile to the right she saw what appeared to be a barn. She pointed. Appleby nodded. ‘They’re probably operating from there. But our mark’s a mile towards tomorrow… There’s the pool.’

Sheila looked ahead. They were indeed almost back at the last lonely fountain: she could see the spot where the false Orchard had waylaid them a few hours before. And beyond that the glen ran straight and narrow: it was a fair guess that the path to the true Orchard lay that way.

There were footsteps on the turf behind them and Sheila glanced back to see Mackintosh overtaking them with the ease of a crack runner. ‘They’ve left us,’ he panted, ‘and are making for that barn. Looks as if they have transport which will take them quicker a longer way round. So long.’ He drew ahead and had soon outdistanced them by the length of the tarn.

Sheila remembered the sinister six-wheeled vehicle of the previous morning. All this, she saw, was a forlorn hope – unless Appleby had supports near at hand. And even as she wondered he spoke. ‘Hetherton, can you manage? I’ve another gun here, so it may be useful if you can keep up. Perhaps not more than half a mile. And we’ve only ourselves. Mackintosh and I came hell for leather and it will be hours before they pick us up.’

So it was like that. In fact she was on her travels again: this time with the support of a panting scholar and a grimly determined policeman. Well, she had another half mile in her at least… And suddenly the glen twisted and they climbed steeply. Before them stood a cottage much like the one they had left. Smoke curled idly from a chimney. There was a little garden, neglected and overgrown. No, not quite like the other cottage. About this one there was something deliberately picturesque.

No resistance. No one on guard. Mackintosh was sprinting up a weed-covered path, his revolver still in his hand. Hetherton, with a blotched face on which the expression was yet mild and controlled, put on a spurt. Dog roses. Hollyhocks. They were all inside.

‘Orchard!’ Mackintosh’s voice rang through the cottage. ‘Orchard – friends!’ The sound echoed dully. The place was deserted, silent – and ransacked.

‘Too late.’ Appleby spoke rather as if they had missed a train. He strode over to the fireplace. ‘But not by long: that peat must have been put on within the last hour.’ He turned and ran outside.

Hetherton sat down, panting. ‘An artist’s cottage,’ he said. ‘This Orchard had borrowed it, I suppose.’

Sheila looked round. It was evidently that – which explained the place’s deliberately picturesque air. There was an easel with a roughed-in canvas; a table littered with oils; sketches here and there about the walls; a couple of large portfolios, open and with their contents scattered about the floor as if in the course of some violent search.

Appleby was back. ‘There’s a track leading away behind. Something on it quite recently. They’ve got away on some species of tractor or car. And taken Orchard with them.’ He glanced about the littered room. ‘And anything else they could find.’

‘An artist’s cottage.’ Mechanically, Mackintosh repeated Hetherton’s words.

‘Yes.’ Hetherton himself spoke – a curious doubt in his voice. He began poking about among the scattered sketches. ‘Do you know, I should be inclined to say
two
artists?’

‘A dozen, if you like.’ Mackintosh was impatient. But Appleby turned quickly.

‘Two
artists, Hetherton?’

‘Yes. Notice the canvas, and the sketches on the walls, and the stuff scattered from this larger portfolio. Just what one would expect here. Highland scenery. But the stuff from this other portfolio is quite different. Figure sketches and rough notes of quite elaborate compositions.’ He rummaged about. ‘Dozens of them. And done with extraordinary rapidity. Most odd. Not at all contemporary in feeling.’ He rummaged again, like an absorbed connoisseur who carried the British Museum about with him. They stared at him, fascinated. ‘And – I would venture – not really by an artist. Scholarly, rather… These violent diagonals – most Baroque.’

Sheila, who had sunk down on a chair, sat up as if mysteriously impelled. ‘Baroque, Mr Hetherton?’

Hetherton looked up, learned and benign. ‘Caravaggio,’ he said. ‘That’s it.’

‘Dick,’ said Sheila; ‘Dick Evans.’

They all wheeled on her.

‘That’s what he knows about: Caravaggio. He got his catapult – what he called his sling-shot – from Caravaggio’s
Boy David
. He’s going to write a book about him.’

‘Then,’ said Hetherton equably, ‘the mystery solves itself. I am almost certain that each of these sketches is a rough note of an actual sketch by Caravaggio. I recognize several. A remarkable knowledge is involved. It is the work of Mr Evans that is before us.’

‘Mackintosh,’ said Appleby, ‘will you keep a lookout?’ He turned to Sheila. ‘And will you explain?’

Sheila explained – briefly telling her whole story. He listened silently. ‘Hetherton,’ he asked when she had done, ‘are the sketches numbered?’

‘There is a number on each.’

‘Any duplicates?’

‘Indeed, yes. Eight, nine, and ten, for instance, are virtually the same sketch.’

‘And there will be in existence a definitive catalogue of Caravaggio’s work, in which each item will have a received title?’

‘Undoubtedly.’

‘Then what we have in the body of these sketches is what the enemy has been hunting for: Orchard’s formula. Suppose the first sketch is of a sketch or picture that turns out to be called
Holofernes
. That gives H. And suppose the second simply repeats that. You have H
₂
. Evans has managed to leave us the whole thing built up in sketches. I should say that as an art critic his talents are wasted.’

Sheila sprang up. ‘Mr Appleby, where will he be now?’

‘Captured again. And Orchard, too. We’ve got a record of the formula and they’ve got the man. They couldn’t wait longer for an opportunity to act more unobtrusively and so they’ve simply kidnapped him… Mackintosh, any sign?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Nor any need of it until we attempt a getaway. And that we must do. No one has a line on them except ourselves.’

‘But they can’t be certain of that.’ Sheila spoke vigorously. ‘They can’t be quite certain of what happened to me after I got away from Castle Troy. Somewhere between that and meeting the bogus Orchard I might have contacted someone other than Mr Hetherton. Will they risk neglecting that possibility?’