Chapter Two. The Milkman Sets Out on his Travels

The Thirty-Nine Steps

by John Buchan

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for
maybe five minutes, and was succeeded by a fit of the horrors. The
poor staring white face on the floor was more than I could bear, and
I managed to get a table-cloth and cover it. Then I staggered to a
cupboard, found the brandy and swallowed several mouthfuls. I had
seen men die violently before; indeed I had killed a few myself in
the Matabele War; but this cold-blooded indoor business was
different. Still I managed to pull myself together. I looked at my
watch, and saw that it was half-past ten.

An idea seized me, and I went over the flat with a small-tooth
comb. There was nobody there, nor any trace of anybody, but I
shuttered and bolted all the windows and put the chain on the door.
By this time my wits were coming back to me, and I could think again.
It took me about an hour to figure the thing out, and I did not
hurry, for, unless the murderer came back, I had till about six
o'clock in the morning for my cogitations.

I was in the soup - that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a
doubt I might have had about the truth of Scudder's tale was now
gone. The proof of it was lying under the table-cloth. The men who
knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and had taken the best
way to make certain of his silence. Yes; but he had been in my rooms
four days, and his enemies must have reckoned that he had confided in
me. So I would be the next to go. It might be that very night, or
next day, or the day after, but my number was up all right.

Then suddenly I thought of another probability. Supposing I
went out now and called in the police, or went to bed and let Paddock
find the body and call them in the morning. What kind of a story was
I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about him, and the
whole thing looked desperately fishy. If I made a clean breast of it
and told the police everything he had told me, they would simply
laugh at me. The odds were a thousand to one that I would be charged
with the murder, and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough to
hang me. Few people knew me in England; I had no real pal who could
come forward and swear to my character. Perhaps that was what those
secret enemies were playing for. They were clever enough for
anything, and an English prison was as good a way of getting rid of
me till after June 15th as a knife in my chest.

Besides, if I told the whole story, and by any miracle was
believed, I would be playing their game. Karolides would stay at
home, which was what they wanted. Somehow or other the sight of
Scudder's dead face had made me a passionate believer in his scheme.
He was gone, but he had taken me into his confidence, and I was
pretty well bound to carry on his work.

You may think this ridiculous for a man in danger of his life,
but that was the way I looked at it. I am an ordinary sort of
fellow, not braver than other people, but I hate to see a good man
downed, and that long knife would not be the end of Scudder if I
could play the game in his place.

It took me an hour or two to think this out, and by that time I
had come to a decision. I must vanish somehow, and keep vanished
till the end of the second week in June. Then I must somehow find a
way to get in touch with the Government people and tell them what
Scudder had told me. I wished to Heaven he had told me more, and
that I had listened more carefully to the little he had told me. I
knew nothing but the barest facts. There was a big risk that, even
if I weathered the other dangers, I would not be believed in the end.
I must take my chance of that, and hope that something might happen
which would confirm my tale in the eyes of the Government.

My first job was to keep going for the next three weeks. It was
now the 24th day of May, and that meant twenty days of hiding before
I could venture to approach the powers that be. I reckoned that two
sets of people would be looking for me - Scudder's enemies to put me
out of existence, and the police, who would want me for Scudder's
murder. It was going to be a giddy hunt, and it was queer how the
prospect comforted me. I had been slack so long that almost any
chance of activity was welcome. When I had to sit alone with that
corpse and wait on Fortune I was no better than a crushed worm, but
if my neck's safety was to hang on my own wits I was prepared to be
cheerful about it.

My next thought was whether Scudder had any papers about him to
give me a better clue to the business. I drew back the table-cloth
and searched his pockets, for I had no longer any shrinking from the
body. The face was wonderfully calm for a man who had been struck
down in a moment. There was nothing in the breast-pocket, and only a
few loose coins and a cigar-holder in the waistcoat. The trousers
held a little penknife and some silver, and the side pocket of his
jacket contained an old crocodile-skin cigar-case. There was no sign
of the little black book in which I had seen him making notes. That
had no doubt been taken by his murderer.

But as I looked up from my task I saw that some drawers had been
pulled out in the writing-table. Scudder would never have left them
in that state, for he was the tidiest of mortals. Someone must have
been searching for something - perhaps for the pocket-book.

I went round the flat and found that everything had been
ransacked - the inside of books, drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the
pockets of the clothes in my wardrobe, and the sideboard in the
dining-room. There was no trace of the book. Most likely the enemy
had found it, but they had not found it on Scudder's body.

Then I got out an atlas and looked at a big map of the British
Isles. My notion was to get off to some wild district, where my
veldcraft would be of some use to me, for I would be like a trapped
rat in a city. I considered that Scotland would be best, for my
people were Scotch and I could pass anywhere as an ordinary Scotsman.
I had half an idea at first to be a German tourist, for my father
had had German partners, and I had been brought up to speak the
tongue pretty fluently, not to mention having put in three years
prospecting for copper in German Damaraland. But I calculated that
it would be less conspicuous to be a Scot, and less in a line with
what the police might know of my past. I fixed on Galloway as the
best place to go. It was the nearest wild part of Scotland, so far
as I could figure it out, and from the look of the map was not over
thick with population.

A search in Bradshaw informed me that a train left St Pancras at
7.10, which would land me at any Galloway station in the late
afternoon. That was well enough, but a more important matter was how
I was to make my way to St Pancras, for I was pretty certain that
Scudder's friends would be watching outside. This puzzled me for a
bit; then I had an inspiration, on which I went to bed and slept for
two troubled hours.

I got up at four and opened my bedroom shutters. The faint
light of a fine summer morning was flooding the skies, and the
sparrows had begun to chatter. I had a great revulsion of feeling,
and felt a God-forgotten fool. My inclination was to let things
slide, and trust to the British police taking a reasonable view of my
case. But as I reviewed the situation I could find no arguments to
bring against my decision of the previous night, so with a wry mouth
I resolved to go on with my plan. I was not feeling in any
particular funk; only disinclined to go looking for trouble, if you
understand me.

I hunted out a well-used tweed suit, a pair of strong nailed
boots, and a flannel shirt with a collar. Into my pockets I stuffed
a spare shirt, a cloth cap, some handkerchiefs, and a tooth-brush. I
had drawn a good sum in gold from the bank two days before, in case
Scudder should want money, and I took fifty pounds of it in
sovereigns in a belt which I had brought back from Rhodesia. That
was about all I wanted. Then I had a bath, and cut my moustache,
which was long and drooping, into a short stubbly fringe.

Now came the next step. Paddock used to arrive punctually at
7.30 and let himself in with a latch-key. But about twenty minutes
to seven, as I knew from bitter experience, the milkman turned up
with a great clatter of cans, and deposited my share outside my door.
I had seen that milkman sometimes when I had gone out for an early
ride. He was a young man about my own height, with an ill-nourished
moustache, and he wore a white overall. On him I staked all my
chances.

I went into the darkened smoking-room where the rays of morning
light were beginning to creep through the shutters. There I
breakfasted off a whisky-and-soda and some biscuits from the
cupboard. By this time it was getting on for six o'clock. I put a
pipe in My Pocket and filled my pouch from the tobacco jar on the
table by the fireplace.

As I poked into the tobacco my fingers touched something hard,
and I drew out Scudder's little black pocket-book ...

That seemed to me a good omen. I lifted the cloth from the body
and was amazed at the peace and dignity of the dead face. 'Goodbye,
old chap,' I said; 'I am going to do my best for you. Wish me well,
wherever you are.'

Then I hung about in the hall waiting for the milkman. That was
the worst part of the business, for I was fairly choking to get out
of doors. Six-thirty passed, then six-forty, but still he did not
come. The fool had chosen this day of all days to be late.

At one minute after the quarter to seven I heard the rattle of
the cans outside. I opened the front door, and there was my man,
singling out my cans from a bunch he carried and whistling through
his teeth. He jumped a bit at the sight of me.

'Come in here a moment,' I said. 'I want a word with you.' And
I led him into the dining-room.

'I reckon you're a bit of a sportsman,' I said, 'and I want you
to do me a service. Lend me your cap and overall for ten minutes,
and here's a sovereign for you.'

His eyes opened at the sight of the gold, and he grinned
broadly. 'Wot's the gyme?'he asked.

'A bet,' I said. 'I haven't time to explain, but to win it I've
got to be a milkman for the next ten minutes. All you've got to do
is to stay here till I come back. You'll be a bit late, but nobody
will complain, and you'll have that quid for yourself.'

'Right-o!' he said cheerily. 'I ain't the man to spoil a bit of
sport. 'Ere's the rig, guv'nor.'

I stuck on his flat blue hat and his white overall, picked up
the cans, banged my door, and went whistling downstairs. The porter
at the foot told me to shut my jaw, which sounded as if my make-up
was adequate.

At first I thought there was nobody in the street. Then I
caught sight of a policeman a hundred yards down, and a loafer
shuffling past on the other side. Some impulse made me raise my eyes
to the house opposite, and there at a first-floor window was a face.
As the loafer passed he looked up, and I fancied a signal was
exchanged.

I crossed the street, whistling gaily and imitating the jaunty
swing of the milkman. Then I took the first side street, and went up
a left-hand turning which led past a bit of vacant ground. There was
no one in the little street, so I dropped the milk-cans inside the
hoarding and sent the cap and overall after them. I had only just
put on my cloth cap when a postman came round the corner. I gave him
good morning and he answered me unsuspiciously. At the moment the
clock of a neighbouring church struck the hour of seven.

There was not a second to spare. As soon as I got to Euston
Road I took to my heels and ran. The clock at Euston Station showed
five minutes past the hour. At St Pancras I had no time to take a
ticket, let alone that I had not settled upon my destination. A
porter told me the platform, and as I entered it I saw the train
already in motion. Two station officials blocked the way, but I
dodged them and clambered into the last carriage.

Three minutes later, as we were roaring through the northern
tunnels, an irate guard interviewed me. He wrote out for me a ticket
to Newton-Stewart, a name which had suddenly come back to my memory,
and he conducted me from the first-class compartment where I had
ensconced myself to a third-class smoker, occupied by a sailor and a
stout woman with a child. He went off grumbling, and as I mopped my
brow I observed to my companions in my broadest Scots that it was a
sore job catching trains. I had already entered upon my part.

'The impidence o' that gyaird!' said the lady bitterly. 'He
needit a Scotch tongue to pit him in his place. He was complainin'
o' this wean no haein' a ticket and her no fower till August
twalmonth, and he was objectin' to this gentleman spittin'.'

The sailor morosely agreed, and I started my new life in an
atmosphere of protest against authority. I reminded myself that a
week ago I had been finding the world dull.