Billy Barcroft, R.N.A.S Part 24

"Give it up," said Peter the optimist. "All I know is that we are top dog, and everything will pan out all right in the end."

"Granted," agreed Entwistle. "The Navy's all right; the New Army is splendid--we'll muddle through somehow, in spite of the miserable legacy of the Wait and See crowd. There's a hymn beginning 'A people who in darkness sat.' That sums up the whole state of the civil population of Great Britain. To my mind the nation resembles a ma.s.s of iron filings spread out on a sheet of paper--all sixes and sevens. A magnet will instantly cause those particular pieces of metal to fly into orderly formation following the lines of magnetic force: a Man will be able to do the same with the nation, only, unfortunately, we haven't yet found the Man. We as Britons trust too much to chance--to a sort of voluntary organisation of labour.

Result, every man is asking why some one else doesn't do his bit and tries to persuade himself that he is a sort of indispensable himself, I shouldn't be surprised if the war ends in a patched-up peace."

"No fear," a.s.serted Barcroft firmly--so emphatically that Entwistle almost relaxed his grip upon the steering wheel and narrowly avoided collision with a brewer's dray. "There'll be nothing of the sort.

The men who are now fighting mean to see the business through and not leave the horrors of war to be repeated with triple violence as a legacy to their children and their children's children. It's got to be done--and done it will be, even if it takes another two years."

When in due course the car arrived at the narrow lane leading to Ladybird Fold, Entwistle, somewhat to his companion's astonishment, insisted upon driving right up to the house.

"No hurry," commented the vet. "I like taking a car along a tricky path. Hullo! there are your dogs, Barcroft. They seem to know that I'm something in the animal line, and wish to be run over in order to give me a job."

The car came to a standstill at the house. Peter descended, to be overwhelmed with the noisy and frantic attentions of Ponto and Nan.

"Come in," he said, "May as well have tea with us."

"Thanks, I will," replied Entwistle; then pointing in the direction of "The Croft," the tiled roof of which was just visible above the ridge of a hill, "Is that where Norton hangs out? I've heard of the place. What sort of a show is it?"

"Come and see for yourself," said Barcroft. "There'll be time for a stroll before tea. I have the key, thanks to the magnificent condescension of Mrs. What's-her-name, Norton's generalissimo and domestic help. Why are you anxious to see the place? Thinking of renting it and being my nearest neighbour if Norton fails to return?"

"Perhaps," laughed Philip Entwistle. "When I retire, and I cannot see myself doing that yet."

"I wouldn't," said Peter gravely. "Retirement is a rotten state for a professional man to enter into. Sudden dislocation of his routine, nothing to occupy his mind--result, he generally pegs out in a couple of years. I've noticed it scores of times."

"It's all very well for you literary fellows to talk," protested Entwistle. "You can never complain of overwork."

"There you are mistaken," said Barcroft. "I admit I slack off a little now, but at one time I dare not. It may seem easy for a fellow to knock off a couple of thousand words a day, but try it for a year and see how it feels. Remember, it isn't the actual work of putting pen to paper. One has to think, and think jolly hard. Do you remember some years ago a man tried to cover a thousand miles in a thousand consecutive hours? One mile an hour day and night. Doesn't seem much, but imagine what it means."

"You seem to have done pretty well out of it," remarked Entwistle.

"It took some doing," confessed Peter. "I can recall a certain Christmas Eve when, with two other congenial spirits, I sat in a fireless attic in Town. We were literally on our beam ends--too jolly proud to sample the fatted calf that awaited us in our respective parents' homes. I think we had sevenpence halfpenny between us."

"Sounds cheerful."

"Precisely. However, being fresh-air fiends even in those days, we had left the window open----"

"And some philanthrophic soul threw in a big parcel of provender?"

"Into the attic window of a six-storeyed house? Hardly. No; a pigeon flew in. It never flew out again, for in less than twenty minutes it was roasting in front of the landlady's kitchen fire. That same evening one of my companions in distress received an unexpected guinea for a pot-boiler, and there was no longer famine in the land."

The two men had now climbed the hill and were outside the front door of The Croft. The house was considerably smaller than Ladybird Fold, although built on the same principle. At one time it had been a farm house, but most of the outbuildings had been removed. Standing on higher ground it commanded even a more extensive outlook than that enjoyed by the Barcrofts; in fact, almost the whole of Barborough could be discerned.

Within, the place was plainly furnished. The ground floor consisted of stone flags on which were spread large mats. The fireplace was large and at one time boasted of a chimney corner and settle. In the grate a fire had been laid in antic.i.p.ation of Mr. Norton's return.

"I'm just going upstairs to shut those windows," said Peter. "I suppose Norton's D.T. forgot to close them. Do you want to have a look round the upper rooms?"

"Not with this ankle. It feels a bit painful," replied Entwistle.

"If you don't mind I'll wait here."

Directly he heard the sound of Barcroft's footsteps through the raftered ceiling Entwistle stole softly to the desk that stood in the corner of the room. Slipping on a pair of thin gloves and producing a bundle of keys from his trouser's pocket he set deliberately to work to open the locked drawers, for in contrast to Peter Barcroft's easy-going methods Andrew Norton had locked everything up, notwithstanding his supposedly temporary visit to Ladybird Fold on the night of the raid.

In less than thirty seconds Entwistle had the desk open. Deftly he went through a pile of papers, as brazenly as Andrew Norton had examined the ma.n.u.script on Peter's bureau. In quant.i.ty there was very little: a small batch of tradesmen's receipts, a notebook half filled with calculations evidently referring to electrical problems, a few letters that seemed of no interest except to the writers and their recipient, and an unfinished ma.n.u.script written on two sheets of foolscap, the opening sentences of which were as follows:

"Whenever you have an opportunity of visiting Dartmoor I should strongly advise you to take it. It is fairly easy to reach from Plymouth. Even in the depth of winter the rugged uplands have their charm. When last in that neighbourhood I took coach to Totnes: Every few hours a boat runs to Dartmouth. If tide permits, I ought to add. The Dart is a charmingly picturesque river. In the town itself there is much to be seen. Several of the old houses, especially in the b.u.t.ter-walk, are worthy of close inspection. The castle is open to visitors. Every facility for tourists and visitors in the town. Some fis.h.i.+ng to be had in the river. Better hauls are to be obtained in Start Bay. It is advisable to take a professional boatman, as the tide is tricky and at times dangerous. Sailing boats can be hired by the day or hour. Zealous devotees of the piscatorial art will have no cause to regret their choice of this fis.h.i.+ng centre. Up the river, above Totnes, trout abound. Rules and regulations relating to the close seasons are by no means drastic."

Philip Entwistle chuckled as he perused this doc.u.ment.

"Sort of thing that would easily pa.s.s the Press Censor," he said to himself, "At first sight a kind of extract from a guide book to Devons.h.i.+re. Quite harmless--I think not. _Now let me jot down the first letter of each sentence_: WIE (that's promising) WEIT (better) IST (better still) ES (now we begin to see light. German for a dead cert) BIS ZUR KLIPPEN HOHE, which, translated, means, 'What is the distance to the summit of the cliffs?' That's good enough. I'll take the liberty of borrowing this doc.u.ment. I must risk friend Norton returning before to-morrow."

Carefully refolding the papers the vet, placed them in his inside coat-pocket, then having slipped the catch of the window, he awaited Peter's return.

"Hope I haven't kept you?" inquired Barcroft.

"Not at all," was the prompt reply.

"By the bye," remarked Peter as the pair retraced their steps to Ladybird Fold, "this might interest you. I meant to have shown it you before, but somehow I forgot."

He handed Entwistle a copy of the doc.u.ment that had been found on the body of the German airman.

Philip Entwistle read it carefully.

"Ha! A price on your head, eh?" he remarked.

"I don't take it seriously," said Peter. "It may be genuine. Billy handed it to me just as the train was leaving the station. He had no time to explain. Usual family failing, I suppose--leaving things to the last minute."

Entwistle made no reply to his companion's remarks. He was thinking deeply, trying to piece together certain items that had already been brought to his notice.

"I won't tell him just yet," he soliloquised. "Must make sure of my ground first."

After tea Entwistle drove away, ostensibly to visit a farmer at Windyhill. As a matter of fact he stopped at the Waterloo Hotel, retired to a private room and made a careful copy of the doc.u.ment he had annexed from The Croft.

"So that's how they communicate with him," he mused. "Simple solution when you've been given the tip. The next point is: how does he convey his information to them?" Late that night Entwistle returned from Windyhill by a loop route that pa.s.sed within half a mile of The Croft. Driving his car off the road and on to a patch of waste land he extinguished the lights. This done he walked over the moor to The Croft, opened the unlatched window, entered the house and replaced the borrowed doc.u.ment.

Then, conscious of a good day's work accomplished, he went home, to gather up the tangled skeins of the complicated task in hand.

CHAPTER XXI

ON THE TRAIL

AT ten o'clock the following morning Peter Barcroft had a visitor.

The announcement, delivered by Mrs. Carter, was greeted with a flow of forcible language.

"Tell the blithering idiot I can't see him now," shouted Mr.

Barcroft. "I'm busy. He must call again in an hour's time."