THE people who poured into the garage were Jack Hobart, Douglas Randall, a taximan, and four policemen.
The four policemen had been collected locally, after the taxi had tracked the pursued van to its lair and reinforcements had been deemed necessary—for Hobart now limped, and the taximan was seventy: but Hobart and Randall had met and formed the nucleus of the army as far back as Jowle Street. The former, recovering from the effects of a nasty descent from a second-floor window, had been leaving No. 26 by a dark side alley. The latter, himself suffering from a different kind of a shock received earlier in the day, was approaching with hush money for the murder of the very man he now saw before him. The meeting had been emotional. It required explanation. But since, at the same moment, a box was being carried from No. 26 to a waiting motor van, and Hobart suddenly recalled that he had been particularly instructed to follow this box, the explanation had had to wait until a taxi had been requisitioned for the pursuit.
It was in the taxi that Hobart and Randall resumed their emotions, exchanged stories and, putting two and two together, made a very ugly four.
These facts, briefly stated, may interest the reader who has stayed the course. They were, however, of no immediate interest to Ben. He, with considerably more taken out of him, had also stayed the course, and for a space he could not measure he was not interested in anything at all. Matters were now out of his hands. The girl had been saved. The gang of blackmailers had been rounded up. Above him was the great, silent night. He just lay on a patch of grass, and, stared up at it.
He did not know how he had got on the patch of grass. Somebody, presumably, had carried him there, it didn’t matter. He did not know why there was a tiny warmth in his stomach. Somebody, presumably, had devised something for his stomach. It didn’t matter. He did not know what tomorrow was going to bring. Whether it would be a long, long sleep, or a continuation of the strange, fretful business that preceded the long, long sleep. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Nothing.
Vague things happened about him. People moved. People whispered. People murmured…
‘Everybody been got out?’
‘The bomb—any one found it?’
‘S’pose we’re far enough off?’
Silence. Only the night and the stars again. Then:
‘What about the Indian?’
‘No thanks! A bit too risky!’
‘Yes, but anybody seen him?’
‘Ain’t he dead?’
One of the stars moved. It seemed to separate itself from its neighbours and flash across the blackness.
‘Oi—don’t do that!’ thought Ben. A dull sound answered him…
‘Boom!’
Something descended near him, with a little, unnatural flop. It was a fragment of brick. A few seconds ago it had been a portion of a garage. Ben sat up suddenly.
‘’Ere—wot’s ’appenin’?’ he gasped.
He found himself staring into two soft eyes. The strength that had shot him up into a sitting position left him as suddenly as it had come. The owner of the eyes was speaking to him. What was she saying?
‘Lie down again.’ The voice was even softer than the eyes. ‘Lie down. Everything’s safe.’
He obeyed. The grass seemed warmer, somehow. And the stars seemed brighter. And the tension that held the world together seemed to be relaxing.
Ben lay very silent, staring up into the enigma of space and wondering what it all meant, while cool fingers touched his forehead. And then Ben ceased to wonder. For that is the greatest enigma of all. A woman’s touch, even on a battered brow, can dispel the need of inquiry.
THE END