The Drums of Jeopardy - Page 151/202

Hawksley heard the lift door close, and he knew that at last he was

alone. He flung out his arms, ecstatically. Free! He would see no more

of that nagging beggar Ryan until tomorrow. Free to put into execution

the idea that had been bubbling all day long in his head, like a fine

champagne, firing his blood with reckless whimsicality.

Quietly he stole down the corridor. Through a crack in the kitchen door

he saw Kuroki's back, the attitude of which was satisfying. It signified

that the Jap was pegging away at his endless studies and that only the

banging of the gong would rouse him. The way was as broad and clear as

a street at dawn. Not that Kuroki mattered; only so long as he did not

know, so much the better.

With careful step Hawksley manoeuvred his retreat so that it brought

him to Cutty's bedroom door. The door was unlocked. He entered the room.

What a lark! They would hide his own clothes; so much the worse for the

old beggar's wardrobe. Street clothes. Presently he found a dark suit,

commendable not so much for its style as for the fact that it was the

nearest fit he could find. He had to roll up the trouser hems.

Hats. Chuckling like a boy rummaging a jam closet, he rifled the shelves

and pulled down a black derby of an unknown vintage. Large; but a runner

of folded paper reduced the size. As he pressed the relic firmly down

on his head he winced. A stab over his eyes. He waited doubtfully; but

there was no recurrence. Fit as a fiddle. Of course he could not stoop

without a flash of vertigo; but on his feet he was top-hole. He was

gaining every day.

Luck. He might have come out of it with the blank mind of a newborn

babe; and here he was, keen to resume his adventures. Luck. They had not

stopped to see if he was actually dead. Some passer-by in the hall

had probably alarmed them. That handkerchief had carried him round the

brink. Perhaps Fate intended letting him get through--written on his

pass an extension of his leave of absence. Or she had some new torture

in reserve.

Now for a stout walking stick. He selected a blackthorn, twirled it,

saluted, and posed before the mirror. Not so bally rotten. He would

pass. Next, he remembered that there were some flowers in the dining

room--window boxes with scarlet geraniums. He broke off a sprig and drew

it through his buttonhole.

Outside there was a cold, pale April sky, presaging wind and rain.

Unimportant. He was going down into the streets for an hour or so. The

colour and action of a crowded street; the lure was irresistible. Who

would dare touch him in the crowd? These rooms had suddenly become

intolerable.