“If you walk quickly,” she said, “it takes less than ten minutes.”
Taylor hated waiting. He had a notion that people who waited were people of no substance: it was an affront to be seen waiting. He pursed his lips, shook his head, and with an ill-tempered “Good night, lady,” stepped abruptly into the freezing air.
Taylor had never seen such a sky. Limitless, it curved downward to the snowbound fields, its destiny broken here and there by films of mist which frosted the clustered stars and drew a line round the yellow half-moon. Taylor was frightened, like a landsman frightened by the sea. He hastened his uncertain step, swaying as he went.
He had been walking about five minutes when the car caught him up. There was no footpath. He became aware of its headlights first, because the sound of its engine was deadened by the snow, and he only noticed a light ahead of him, not realizing where it came from. It traced its way languidly over the snow-fields and for a time he thought it was the beacon from the airport. Then he saw his own shadow shortening on the road, the light became suddenly brighter, and he knew it must be a car. He was walking on the right, stepping briskly along the edge of the icy rubble that lined the road. He observed that the light was unusually yellow and he guessed the headlights were masked according to the French rule. He was rather pleased with this little piece of deduction; the old brain was pretty clear after all.
He didn’t look over his shoulder because he was a shy man in his way and did not want to give the impression of asking for a lift. But it did occur to him, a little late perhaps, that on the Continent they actually drove on the right, and that therefore strictly speaking he was walking on the wrong side of the road and ought to do something about it.
The car hit him from behind, breaking his spine. For one dreadful moment Taylor described a classic posture of anguish, his head and shoulders flung violently backward, fingers extended. He made no cry. It was as if his entire body and soul were concentrated in this final attitude of pain, more articulate in death than any sound the living man had made.
The car carried him for a yard or two then threw him aside, dead on the empty road, a stiff, wrecked figure at the fringe of the wilderness. His trilby hat lay beside him. A blast seized it, carrying it across the snow. The shreds of his pebble-weave coat fluttered in the wind, reaching vainly for the zinc capsule as it rolled gently with the camber to lodge for a moment against the frozen bank, then to continue wearily down the slope.
TWO
Avery’s Run
There are some things that no one has a right to ask of any white man.
—John Buchan
Mr. Standfast
Two
Prelude
It was three in the morning.
Avery put down the telephone, woke Sarah and said, “Taylor’s dead.” He shouldn’t have told her, of course.
“Who’s Taylor?”
A bore, he thought; he only remembered him vaguely. A dreary English bore, straight off Brighton Pier.
“A man in courier section,” he said. “He was with them in the war. He was rather good.”
“That’s what you always say. They’re all good. How did he die, then? How did he die?” She had sat up in bed.
“Leclerc’s waiting to hear.” He wished she wouldn’t watch him while he dressed.
“And he wants you to help him wait?”
“He wants me to go to the office. He wants me. You don’t expect me to turn over and go back to sleep, do you?”
“I was only asking,” Sarah said. “You’re always so considerate to Leclerc.”
“Taylor was an old hand. Leclerc’s very worried.” He could still hear the triumph in Leclerc’s voice: “Come at once, get a taxi; we’ll go through the files again.”
“Does this often happen? Do people often die?” There was indignation in her voice, as if no one ever told her anything; as if she alone thought it dreadful that Taylor had died.