The Adventures of General-Major Richard Hannay: 7 Espionage & Mystery Classics. Buchan John

      ‘I judged so. But it don’t do to begin counting risks. I believe in an all-wise and beneficent Providence, but you have got to trust Him and give Him a chance. What’s life anyhow? For me, it’s living on a strict diet and having frequent pains in my stomach. It isn’t such an almighty lot to give up, provided you get a good price in the deal. Besides, how big is the risk? About one o’clock in the morning, when you can’t sleep, it will be the size of Mount Everest, but if you run out to meet it, it will be a hillock you can jump over. The grizzly looks very fierce when you’re taking your ticket for the Rockies and wondering if you’ll come back, but he’s just an ordinary bear when you’ve got the sight of your rifle on him. I won’t think about risks till I’m up to my neck in them and don’t see the road out.’

      I scribbled my address on a piece of paper and handed it to the stout philosopher. ‘Come to dinner tonight at eight,’ I said.

      ‘I thank you, Major. A little fish, please, plain-boiled, and some hot milk. You will forgive me if I borrow your couch after the meal and spend the evening on my back. That is the advice of my noo doctor.’

      I got a taxi and drove to my club. On the way I opened the envelope Sir Walter had given me. It contained a number of jottings, the dossier of Mr Blenkiron. He had done wonders for the Allies in the States. He had nosed out the Dumba plot, and had been instrumental in getting the portfolio of Dr Albert. Von Papen’s spies had tried to murder him, after he had defeated an attempt to blow up one of the big gun factories. Sir Walter had written at the end: ‘The best man we ever had. Better than Scudder. He would go through hell with a box of bismuth tablets and a pack of Patience cards.’

      I went into the little back smoking-room, borrowed an atlas from the library, poked up the fire, and sat down to think. Mr Blenkiron had given me the fillip I needed. My mind was beginning to work now, and was running wide over the whole business. Not that I hoped to find anything by my cogitations. It wasn’t thinking in an arm-chair that would solve the mystery. But I was getting a sort of grip on a plan of operations. And to my relief I had stopped thinking about the risks. Blenkiron had shamed me out of that. If a sedentary dyspeptic could show that kind of nerve, I wasn’t going to be behind him.

      I went back to my flat about five o’clock. My man Paddock had gone to the wars long ago, so I had shifted to one of the new blocks in Park Lane where they provide food and service. I kept the place on to have a home to go to when I got leave. It’s a miserable business holidaying in an hotel.

      Sandy was devouring tea-cakes with the serious resolution of a convalescent.

      ‘Well, Dick, what’s the news? Is it a brass hat or the boot?’

      ‘Neither,’ I said. ‘But you and I are going to disappear from His Majesty’s forces. Seconded for special service.’

      ‘O my sainted aunt!’ said Sandy. ‘What is it? For Heaven’s sake put me out of pain. Have we to tout deputations of suspicious neutrals over munition works or take the shivering journalist in a motor-car where he can imagine he sees a Boche?’

      ‘The news will keep. But I can tell you this much. It’s about as safe and easy as to go through the German lines with a walking-stick.’

      ‘Come, that’s not so dusty,’ said Sandy, and began cheerfully on the muffins.

      I must spare a moment to introduce Sandy to the reader, for he cannot be allowed to slip into this tale by a side-door. If you will consult the Peerage you will find that to Edward Cospatrick, fifteenth Baron Clanroyden, there was born in the year 1882, as his second son, Ludovick Gustavus Arbuthnot, commonly called the Honourable, etc. The said son was educated at Eton and New College, Oxford, was a captain in the Tweeddale Yeomanry, and served for some years as honorary attaché at various embassies. The Peerage will stop short at this point, but that is by no means the end of the story. For the rest you must consult very different authorities. Lean brown men from the ends of the earth may be seen on the London pavements now and then in creased clothes, walking with the light outland step, slinking into clubs as if they could not remember whether or not they belonged to them. From them you may get news of Sandy. Better still, you will hear of him at little forgotten fishing ports where the Albanian mountains dip to the Adriatic. If you struck a Mecca pilgrimage the odds are you would meet a dozen of Sandy’s friends in it. In shepherds’ huts in the Caucasus you will find bits of his cast-off clothing, for he has a knack of shedding garments as he goes. In the caravanserais of Bokhara and Samarkand he is known, and there are shikaris in the Pamirs who still speak of him round their fires. If you were going to visit Petrograd or Rome or Cairo it would be no use asking him for introductions; if he gave them, they would lead you into strange haunts. But if Fate compelled you to go to Llasa or Yarkand or Seistan he could map out your road for you and pass the word to potent friends. We call ourselves insular, but the truth is that we are the only race on earth that can produce men capable of getting inside the skin of remote peoples. Perhaps the Scots are better than the English, but we’re all a thousand per cent better than anybody else. Sandy was the wandering Scot carried to the pitch of genius. In old days he would have led a crusade or discovered a new road to the Indies. Today he merely roamed as the spirit moved him, till the war swept him up and dumped him down in my battalion.

      I got out Sir Walter’s half-sheet of note-paper. It was not the original—naturally he wanted to keep that—but it was a careful tracing. I took it that Harry Bullivant had not written down the words as a memo for his own use. People who follow his career have good memories. He must have written them in order that, if he perished and his body was found, his friends might get a clue. Wherefore, I argued, the words must be intelligible to somebody or other of our persuasion, and likewise they must be pretty well gibberish to any Turk or German that found them.

      The first, ‘Kasredin‘, I could make nothing of. I asked Sandy.

      ‘You mean Nasr-ed-din,’ he said, still munching crumpets.

      ‘What’s that?’ I asked sharply. ‘He’s the General believed to be commanding against us in Mesopotamia. I remember him years ago in Aleppo. He talked bad French and drank the sweetest of sweet champagne.’

      I looked closely at the paper. The ‘K’ was unmistakable.

      ‘Kasredin is nothing. It means in Arabic the House of Faith, and might cover anything from Hagia Sofia to a suburban villa. What’s your next puzzle, Dick? Have you entered for a prize competition in a weekly paper?’

      ‘Cancer,’ I read out.

      ‘It is the Latin for a crab. Likewise it is the name of a painful disease. it is also a sign of the Zodiac.’

      ‘V. I,’ I read.

      ‘There you have me. It sounds like the number of a motor-car. The police would find out for you. I call this rather a difficult competition. What’s the prize?’

      I passed him the paper. ‘Who wrote it? It looks as if he had been in a hurry.’

      ‘Harry Bullivant,’ I said.

      Sandy’s face grew solemn. ‘Old Harry. He was at my tutor’s. The best fellow God ever made. I saw his name in the casualty list before Kut… Harry didn’t do things without a purpose. What’s the story of this paper?’

      ‘Wait till after dinner,’ I said. ‘I’m going to change and have a bath. There’s an American coming to dine, and he’s part of the business.’

      Mr Blenkiron arrived punctual to the minute in a fur coat like a Russian prince’s. Now that I saw him on his feet I could judge him better. He had a fat face, but was not too plump in figure, and very muscular wrists showed below his shirt-cuffs. I fancied that, if the occasion called, he might be a good man with his hands.

      Sandy and I ate a hearty meal, but the American picked at his boiled fish and sipped his milk a drop at a time. When the servant had cleared away, he was as good as his word and laid himself out on my sofa. I offered him a good cigar, but he preferred one of his own lean black abominations. Sandy stretched his length in an easy chair and lit his pipe. ‘Now for your story, Dick,’ he said.