The Thousand Faces of Night

He dropped off the bus at the next stop and went into a hardware store where he purchased a cheap screwdriver. Then he crossed the road and plunged into a maze of back-streets. He walked quickly, head lowered against the driving rain, and finally emerged into another main road where he caught a bus for the City.

A little more than an hour after giving Masters the slip he was in the vicinity of Paddington Station. It was raining harder than ever now and the streets were almost deserted. He crossed the road towards the station and turned into a narrow street that was lined on each side with tall, decaying Victorian houses.

About half-way along the street he paused and looked up at one of the houses. Above the door a grimy glass sign carried the legend ‘Imperial Hotel’ in faded letters. It was typical of a certain type of establishment to be found in the area. Places where a room was usually required for only an hour or two and never longer than a night. He mounted the steps slowly and passed inside.

He found himself in a narrow hall with several doors opening off it. Directly in front of him stairs that were covered with a threadbare carpet lifted to a gloomy landing. On his left a middle-aged woman was sitting in a cubicle reading a newspaper. She looked up and blinked red-rimmed watery eyes, and then carefully folded the paper. She spoke in a light, colourless voice. ‘Yes, sir. What can I do for you?’

Marlowe’s eyes moved quickly over the rows of keys that hung on the board behind her head. ‘I’d like a room,’ he said. ‘Just for three or four hours.’

The woman’s wet eyes flickered briefly over him. She produced a battered register and pen, and said, ‘Sign here, please.’

Marlowe took the pen and hastily scrawled ‘P. Simons – Bristol’. The woman examined the entry and said politely, ‘Any luggage, sir?’

He shook his head. ‘I’ve left it at the station. I’m catching a train for Scotland this afternoon. Thought I could do with some sleep while I’m waiting.’

She nodded. ‘I see, sir. That will be fifteen shillings.’

He gave her a pound note and, when she turned to the board, said, ‘I’ll take number seven if it’s vacant.’ He laughed lightly. ‘My lucky number.’

The woman handed him the key. ‘It’s facing you at the top of the stairs, sir,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to give you a call?’

He shook his head. ‘No thanks. I’ll be all right.’

He mounted the stairs quickly and stood on the landing listening. The hotel was wrapped in quiet. After a moment he unlocked the door of room seven and went in.

Light filtered palely through one dirty window, giving a touch of colour to the faded counterpane that covered the double bed. The only other furniture was an ancient mahogany wardrobe and a plain wooden chair which stood on the far side of the bed. There was a door marked ‘Toilet’ in one corner.

Marlowe wrinkled his nose in disgust. The room smelt musty and damp. Somehow there was an odour of corruption over everything. He went to the window and wrestled with the catch. After a moment it gave, and he lifted the sash as far as it would go and leaned out into the rain.

The hotel backed on to a maze of railway lines and he could see Paddington Station over to the left. Beneath the window a pile of coke reared against the wall, and there was an engine getting up steam not far away. He lit a cigarette and leaned out into the rain. There was a hint of fog in the air and already things were becoming misty and ill-defined. He shivered suddenly as a gust of wind lifted rain in his face, but he did not shake because of the cold. He was afraid. For one brief moment his courage deserted him and he allowed the thought to creep into his mind that perhaps the long years had been wasted. Perhaps what he had come for was no longer here.

With a sudden convulsive movement he tossed his cigarette far out into the rain and crossed to the toilet door. A small rounded oval plate had ‘Toilet’ printed on it in black letters, and was secured by two screws. Marlowe took out his screwdriver and started to unscrew the plate with hands that trembled slightly.

When he had taken one screw completely out, the plate swivelled and the thing which had been concealed behind it fell to the floor. He dropped to one knee and picked it up with trembling fingers. It was a small metal key. He held it in the palm of his hand, staring at it, and a sudden exultation lifted inside him. It was there. After all this time it was there.

He heard nothing and yet some instinct told him that he was not alone. He was conscious of a slight draught on one cheek and knew that the door was open. He turned slowly. Faulkner was standing just inside the door. He held up what was obviously a duplicate key to the room and twirled it gaily round one finger. ‘I’ve got one too, old man, though nothing like as valuable as that one. What’s it open, a safe-deposit box? Very clever of you.’

He came into the room followed by Butcher and Harris, who closed the door and leaned against it. Marlowe slipped the key into his pocket and said, ‘How the hell did you manage to follow me?’

Faulkner sat down on the bed and fitted a cigarette into an elegant holder. ‘We didn’t need to, old man. You see, I knew something the police didn’t. The day you were arrested I had a bit of luck. A pal of Butcher’s happened to see you coming out of this place. I took the room for a couple of days, and we went over it with a fine-tooth comb. Couldn’t find a thing, but I always had a hunch about it. There had to be a connection.’

Marlowe took out a cigarette and lit it carefully. ‘I’m surprised at you, Faulkner,’ he said. ‘You must be slipping.’ He looked quickly towards the two men at the door. Butcher was watching his every move, hate blazing out of his eyes. Harris had produced a flick-knife with which he was quietly cleaning his fingernails.

Faulkner said, ‘Actually it was a damned ingenious hiding place, Hugh. But then you always were a cut above the average.’ He smiled and leaned forward. ‘Now come clean like a good chap and tell me where I can find the lock that key fits.’ His smile became even more charming. ‘I wouldn’t try anything silly if I were you. Butcher and Harris are praying for an excuse to cut you into pieces.’

A quick fierce anger surged in Marlowe, and he grabbed Faulkner by the tie and jerked him up from the bed. ‘You lousy bastard,’ he said coldly. ‘Do you think I’m scared of you and your third-rate toughs?’

Faulkner’s eyes started from his head as he began to choke, and then Marlowe was aware of a movement to his left. He released Faulkner and turned as Harris cut viciously at his face with the knife. He warded off the blow with his right arm and was conscious of pain as the knife ripped his sleeve. He caught the small man by his left wrist and with a sudden pull, jerked him across the room to crash against the wall.

As he turned, Butcher struck at him with a heavy rubber cosh, the blow catching him across the left shoulder and almost paralysing his arm. He chopped Butcher across the right forearm with the edge of his hand and the big man cried out in pain and dropped the cosh. Marlowe turned towards the door and Faulkner pushed out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily to the floor. Butcher moved in quickly, kicking at his ribs and face. Marlowe rolled away, avoiding most of the blows and scrambled up. Harris was back on his feet, shaking his head in a dazed fashion. He stumbled across the room and stood beside Butcher. For a moment there was a brief pause as the four men stood looking at each other and then Faulkner pulled an automatic out of his inside breast pocket.

Marlowe moved backwards until he faced them from the other side of the bed, the open window behind him. Faulkner appeared to be having difficulty with his voice. He choked several times before he managed to say, ‘I’ll take that key, Hugh, and you’ll tell me where the money is. I don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.’

‘I’ll see you in hell first,’ Marlowe said.

Faulkner shrugged and covered him carefully with the automatic. ‘Go and get the key,’ he told Butcher.

The big man started forward. Marlowe waited until he was almost on him and then he grabbed the wooden chair and tossed it straight at Faulkner. In the same moment he turned and vaulted through the open window.

He landed knee-deep in the pile of coke and lost his balance, rolling over and sliding to the bottom. He got to his feet and looked up. Butcher and Faulkner were at the window. For a moment they stared down at him and then they were pulled aside and Harris scrambled on to the windowsill. As he jumped, Marlowe turned and ran across the tracks towards some railway coaches which were standing in a nearby siding.

The fog was thickening rapidly now and visibility was poor. He stumbled across the tracks into the shelter of the coaches and paused for a moment to look back. Harris was running well and the blade of his knife gleamed dully in the rain. Marlowe started to run again. There was a terrible pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him and blood was dripping from his left arm.

As he emerged from the shelter of the coaches he saw a goods train moving slowly along a nearby track, gathering speed as it went. He lurched towards it and ran alongside, pulling at one of the sliding doors until it opened. He grabbed at the iron rail and hauled himself up.

As he leaned against the door Harris appeared, running strongly, his face white with effort. As he grabbed for the handrail, Marlowe summoned up his last reserve of strength and kicked him in the chest with all his force. The small man disappeared and then the train moved forward rapidly, clattering over the points as it travelled away from London towards the North.

For a moment longer Marlowe leaned in the opening and then he pushed the sliding door shut and slid gently down on to the straw-littered floor.

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He lay face downwards in the straw for a long time, chest heaving as his tortured lungs fought for air. After a while he pushed himself up and sat with his back against a packing case.

The wagon was old and battered with many gaps in its slatted sides through which the light filtered. Gradually his breathing became easier and he stood up and removed his raincoat and jacket. The slash in his arm was less serious than he had imagined. A superficial cut, three or four inches long, where the tip of the knife had sliced through his sleeve. He took out his handkerchief and tied it around the wound, knotting it with his teeth.

He shivered and pulled on his jacket as wind whistled between the slats carrying a faint spray of cold rain. As he buttoned his raincoat he examined the packing cases that stood about him and was amused to find they were addressed to a firm in Birmingham. So the wheel had come full circle? He had escaped from Birmingham in a goods train five years before. Now he was on his way back again. Masters would have been amused.

He sat down with his back against a packing case by the door and wondered what Masters was doing now. Probably making sure that every copper in London had his description. Faulkner would be doing exactly the same thing, in his own way. Marlowe frowned and fumbled for a cigarette. London was out of the question for the moment. With every crook in town on the watch for him, he wouldn’t last half an hour.

He thrust his hands deep into his pockets and considered the position. Perhaps things had worked out the best after all. A week or two in the Midlands or the North to let things cool off and then he could return quietly and collect what he had left in the safe deposit of the firm near Bond Street.

His fingers fastened over the key in his jacket pocket and he took it out and examined it. Twenty thousand pounds. He smiled suddenly. He had waited for five years. He could afford to wait for another week or two. He replaced the key in his pocket, pulled his cap down over his eyes, and went to sleep.

He came awake slowly and lay in the straw for a moment trying to decide where he was. After a while he remembered and struggled to his feet. He was cold and there was a dull, aching pain in his side where Butcher had kicked him. The train was moving fast, rocking slightly on the curves, and when he pulled the door open a gust of wind dashed violently into his face.

A curtain of fog shrouded the fields, cutting visibility down to thirty or forty yards. The cold air made him feel better and he sat down again, leaving the door open, and considered his next move.

Birmingham was out. There was always the chance that Faulkner might have discovered the train’s destination. There could easily be a reception committee waiting. Faulkner had friends everywhere. It would be best to leave the train at some small town farther along the line. The sort of place that had a name no one had ever heard of.

He emptied his pockets and checked on his available assets. There was an insurance card, his driving licence which he had renewed each year he had been in prison, and fifteen shillings in silver. He still had ten cigarettes left in the packet he had bought in the snack bar. He smiled ruefully and decided it was a good job he had the licence. With luck he might be able to get some sort of a driving job. Something that would keep him going until he was ready to return to London.

The train began to slow down and he got up quickly and closed the door leaving a narrow gap through which he could stare out into the fog. A signal box loomed out of the gloom and a moment later, the train moved past a small station platform. Marlowe just had time to make out the name Litton before the station was swallowed up by the fog.

He shrugged and a half-smile appeared on his face. This place sounded as good as any. He pushed open the door and as the train slowed even more, he dropped down into the ditch at the side of the track. Before him there was a thorn hedge. He moved along it for a few yards until he found a suitable gap through which he forced his way into a quiet road beyond. The rain was hammering down through the fog unmercifully and he pulled up his coat collar and began to walk briskly along the road.

When he came to the station he paused and examined the railway map that hung on the wall in a glass case. He had little difficulty in finding Litton. It was on the main line, about eighty miles from Birmingham. The nearest place of any size was a town called Barford, twelve or fifteen miles away.

The hands of the clock above the station entrance pointed to three and he frowned and started down the hill towards the village, dimly seen through the fog. He had obviously slept on the train for longer than he had imagined.