Among Those Absent, page 4
part #9 of Hambledon Series
“Oh dear,” said Tommy Hambledon. “Which way’s he going? You know, I don’t like this particularly.”
“He’s not coming straight at us, I think—is he? No, I don’t think so. We must wait, that’s all.”
The Dakota passed by upon its lawful occasions and Hambledon looked at it enviously.
“I wish I were there instead of here,” he said. “ ‘Lights are burnin’ brightly, sir, an’ all’s well.’ Warmed, steered, powered and under control, how lovely.”
“ ‘How different from us, Miss Beale and Miss Buss,’ ” quoted Cobden. “It’s getting frightfully cold, too.” He flapped his arms to warm himself.
“You know, this was a very brilliant idea,” said Hambledon. “This balloon would pack down on its basket in the lorry and nobody would see anything. When they reached their destination all they had to do was to roll back the roof cover, connect a tube or tubes from the hydrogen cylinders to the appointed spot on this blister above us, and the specific gravity of hydrogen would do the rest.”
“Suppose somebody’d come along just when the egg was rising from the nest. A bit of a risk, wasn’t it?”
“I expect they chose a pretty lonely spot, and as soon as the balloon rose it would disappear into the fog, leaving only connecting ropes and the afore-mentioned tube. Besides, people don’t look up as a rule, especially if they’re afraid of losing their way. An Industrial Gas Association’s lorry is not such a novelty, I wonder whether they stole a real one or faked one up.”
“Very interesting,” said Cobden absently. “Where’s that pocket altimeter he gave you? I think we’re dropping.”
Hambledon confirmed this. “We are, slowly but steadily. Why is that? The increasing cold?”
“I don’t know. There may be ice forming on the envelope, or she may be leaking. It doesn’t look as though we’ll stay up for ten hours, does it? What’s the time?”
“A quarter-past ten—nearly. The fog’s getting thicker.”
“Yes,” said Cobden. “We’re getting down into it again. How high are we according to that gadget?”
“Eleven hundred feet, but he said it wasn’t reliable.”
“Margin of error unknown. I wish we could see something.”
The time dragged on as they drifted helplessly. Half-past ten, a quarter to eleven. Just as Hambledon said: “Eleven o’clock. Seven hundred feet,” Cobden said: “Hush!” There drifted up to them through the murk the distant sound of a church clock chiming the hour.
“Did you say seven hundred feet?” asked Cobden.
“The church may be on a hill.”
“There is that, yes.”
Tommy Hambledon turned his torch upon the balloon envelope above his head, examined it carefully and then laid his hand upon a thin cord tied to one of the guy-ropes.
“This is it.”
“What?”
“The rip-cord. When you pull it it rips out that panel and we descend.”
“You don’t want to do that too high up, do you? I mean, she won’t turn into a parachute for two?”
“I wish I’d studied aeronautics, if that’s the right term for ballooning,” said Tommy. “Even a short correspondence course would have been a help. I do know you mustn’t bail out with a parachute from too low down or you’ll break your bones. Or get spiked on a church steeple as in the comic pictures.”
“Too high, too low,” said Cobden, “which are we?”
“You know,” said Hambledon thoughtfully, “I can’t help feeling that our well-intentioned rescuers didn’t think out this scheme carefully enough. Too many adverse possibilities.”
Just before twelve another sound floated up to them, a familiar sound near to the kindly earth, it was the bark of a dog.
“That makes me feel homesick,” said Hambledon. “If I were sitting firmly on the ground within ten yards of him I’d be so happy I’d bark back. Do you think—Good Lord, look at that!”
Something loomed up out of the fog so close that it seemed they must brush against it—it was a factory chimney. Tommy turned his torch on it and they could even distinguish the brickwork.
“This won’t do,” he said, and leaped at the rip-cord. “Hang on, Cobden, I’m going to bring her down.”
There was a tearing sound as he pulled with all his strength, and a long narrow strip tore out of the fabric of the balloon. The envelope tilted and swung them, the basket dropped beneath their feet with a sickening sensation of weakness. Tree branches slewed them round and released them, spinning. They dropped again and were dragged, clinging like monkeys, through a screen of thin trees and then, with a sound of breaking sticks, through a rose pergola and across a lawn. The balloon ahead of them settled, sank and billowed to rest as Tommy rolled out among vegetables.
“I always did like brussels sprouts,” he said.
IV
THE COLONEL HAS VISITORS
Tommy Hambledon rose to his feet, brushing mud from himself, replaced his hat which had been crushed over his nose and called: “Cobden! Are you all right?”
“Quite, thank you. I am among, I think, raspberry canes. I say, do you feel as though you were still floating? How wonderful—show a light, I can’t see you—how wonderful to know it’s only an illusion. Hullo, there’s a house here and lights are going on. What do we do, run?”
“Certainly not, I’m surprised at you. Leave it to me.”
In the silence they heard distinctly the sound of bolts being drawn and a key turning in a lock: the next moment a door opened and laid a path of light across the lawn. A large figure appeared silhouetted against the light and a typical parade-ground voice demanded, with menaces, to know exactly what the hell was happening in his garden, and if it was a runaway steam-roller they would hear about it on the County Council. A torch was then switched on and the speaker advanced.
“This is the goods,” said Tommy. “Come on.”
Followed by Cobden, he went forward to meet the large figure, removed his hat, and said: “Sir, I owe you a thousand apologies, but before I begin, tell me, is this England?”
“England? Of course it’s England——”
Tommy uttered a yell of triumph and flung his hat in the air.
“We’ve won! We must have won. At least, it’s been a damn good trip.”
“What is all this——”
Tommy laughed apologetically.
“Sorry to appear so excited, sir. This is a balloon race, though why they call it a race when it’s a question merely of who goes furthest has always been a mystery to me. A duration test would be a better title.”
“Balloon race? Good God, I didn’t think anybody went in for that sort of thing nowadays.”
“They’ve only just started them again,” said Tommy, blinking in the light of a torch directed steadily upon his face. “In fact, I believe this is the first since some time before the war.”
“Indeed. And where’s the balloon?”
“Here, sir,” said Tommy, and led the way to the collapsed balloon which sprawled limply across the cabbages or bulged weakly in places where pockets of gas were still retained in the folds. The basket lay on its side with loose ropes wreathed about, the newcomer directed his torch upon it and remarked that it looked very small.
“Cramped,” said Hambledon with feeling, “very cramped. But lightness is the primary object.”
“How many of you in it?”
“Two. May I introduce my friend and accomplice, Mr. Cookson——”
“How d’you do?” said Cobden.
“And my name’s Harrington.”
“How d’you do? My name’s Waterbury, Colonel Waterbury. I should think it was damned cold floating about in that thing, what? Better come in and get warm.”
“I am nearly frozen,” said Tommy, allowing his teeth to chatter, “and Cookson’s about as bad.”
“Come in and we’ll blow up the fire,” said the Colonel. “What d’you want to do with that balloon?”
“If we might leave it for a short time to allow the gas to dissipate, we’ll pack it up later. Valuable things, balloons.”
“Certainly, certainly. Come along to the house,” said the Colonel, leading the way. “What’s it made of?”
“Silk,” said Tommy, who had not the faintest idea.
“Nylon,” said Cobden. “Doped nylon.”
“Well, it looked like silk—it’s not my balloon, I borrowed it,” said Hambledon truthfully. “I believe the latest models are made of nylon.”
“So that’s where the stockings go,” said the Colonel, chuckling. “Next time my nieces moan at me about nylon stockings I’ll tell them to apply to you.”
“Delighted,” murmured Hambledon.
“And what’s the gas inside it?”
“Hydrogen.”
“Oh. Very inflammable. Have to be careful with that stuff.”
“That’s why I proposed leaving it for a time,” said Tommy. “It’ll soon disperse.”
“Quite right. Quite right. Well, here we are, come in.”
The Colonel was now visible in detail as a big man with a bald head and a white moustache, and dressed in pyjamas and a Paisley-patterned dressing-gown. He urged them down a passage and into a lounge with the dying embers of a fire still glowing in the grate. Hambledon and Cobden went straight towards it and crouched down, rubbing their hands.
“You look perfectly blue with cold, let me put some more logs on. It will soon burn up. Tell you what, I’ll get a firelighter. Splendid things, firelighters.” He left the room.
“What do we do now?” whispered Cobden.
“Get warm,” answered Hambledon. “Gosh, I didn’t realise how cold I was.”
Colonel Waterbury returned, thrust a firelighter among the logs, lit it, and was rewarded by leaping flames. Hambledon said “Ah!” in a comforted voice and relaxed into a heap on the hearthrug.
“Spot of whisky?” said Waterbury.
“You ought to have been a doctor,” said Cobden. “You’d have been a world-famous Harley Street consultant.”
The Colonel laughed and took a decanter and glasses from a corner cupboard. “Soda? Or, I say, wouldn’t a drop of hot water do you more good? Yes, I shall prescribe it, that’s the word, isn’t it? Won’t take a minute, a kettle on that fire.” He hurried away.
“I’d rather have something to eat,” murmured Cobden.
“Consider the poor man’s rations.”
“Think he’s got any bread and dripping?”
Waterbury came back with a kettle in his hand, thrust it among the blazing logs, and said it wouldn’t take long, he’d filled it from the hot tap. “I gather you started from the Continent since you asked if you were in England. Where have you come from, Paris?”
“No,” said Hambledon. “Monte Carlo.”
“Monte? Monte Carlo? Not really? That’s a hell of a long way. How long did it take you?”
“Fifty-seven hours,” said Tommy, yawning. “I beg your pardon, so much fresh air. Very fresh. Yes, fifty-seven hours and eleven minutes to the moment when we touched down on your lawn. We left Monte at three in the afternoon two days ago, went up to three thousand two hundred and found a nice steady breeze, so we carried on at that level. As no doubt you know, Colonel, in ballooning the idea is to rise to a level where there’s——”
“I don’t know anything about ballooning,” said the Colonel, “but I should think you must be damned hungry.” Hambledon smiled. “I suppose you carried rations! Of course, and ate them up far too soon, I’ll bet. I’ll go and raid the larder——”
“No, Colonel, certainly not,” said Hambledon firmly. “We’re not going to eat your rations, we shouldn’t think of it. If you’d be so good as to direct us to the nearest hotel—incidentally, where are we?”
“At Agersfield, near Swaffham, in Norfolk. Rations my foot, there’s some cold partridge, nice plump birds though I shot them myself. You won’t get anything like that at the local pub, believe me, and anyway they’re all in bed hours ago. Look here, let me give you a shake-down here for to-night and I’ll drive you into Swaffham in the morning. You’re going to London, I suppose? Yes, I can drop you at the railway station. I’ve got to go in before ten, anyway, I’m on the Bench. The kettle’s boiling.”
They were refreshed, fed and warmed, and the Colonel’s kindly but open curiosity about them only added interest to a cheerful hour. He asked about ballooning and said it seemed very risky to him, suppose the wind changed and they were blown out into the Atlantic? He then abandoned a topic which he was plainly only pursuing out of politeness, and asked Cobden if he were any relation of the Cooksons of Malvern, particularly old George Cookson who had been a subaltern with him—Waterbury—in the Middlesex Regiment in ninety-seven and eight. Good fellow, old George, would have done well in the Army only, of course, his father died and he had to sell out and go home to look after the property. After which he turned upon Hambledon and asked if he were any connection of Bill Harrington who was killed in the South African War, his sister married that extraordinary Dago fellow who played the ’cello, they went to live in New York and had been lost sight of years ago. Hambledon said that he’d heard his father speak of a cousin Bill who was killed in South Africa, and added modestly that his late father, Erasmus Harrington, had been Professor of Archaeology at the Sorbonne. The Colonel nodded thoughtfully and said he believed he’d met the man once at a party in one of those big Kensington Palace Gardens houses in Bayswater Road. “Damned dull party, I remember. I only went there to meet a girl and then the hussy went off and married a Major in the Guards. Let’s have some port.”
After which the party became practically a family affair, and it was as in a dream that they went into the garden, folded up the now flaccid balloon into its basket and stowed it in a disused stable. Hambledon said that he would arrange to have it taken away in two or three days, and the Colonel told him to come and fetch it himself and stay longer next time. “Well, I hate to break up a jolly evening, but d’you know it’s past two? Haven’t been up so late since the last Reunion Dinner when some of us fellows went round to Fortescue’s rooms in Albany and yarned till the milkman came. I’ll put you in the spare room together, if you’ll forgive me, there are two beds in it and I know they’re aired. Not made up, or whatever they call it, though. You can manage with blankets, can’t you? You’ll be called at seven-thirty, breakfast eight-fifteen. Well, good night.”
Hambledon, his eyelids dropping with sleep, warmth and port, sat down at once and pulled his shoes off. Cobden watched him with surprise.
“Are you going to bed?”
“Of course I am. What else d’you suppose I’d do at this hour?”
“Get away. We’ll have five hours’ start before we’re missed.”
“Look here, Cobden, don’t be an ass, there’s a good fellow. We’re going to be seen off at the station in the morning by a pillar of the local magistracy who’s known our families for five generations and will tell everyone so. If the station platform’s crowded with police two-deep waiting for us they’ll only stand at attention and open the carriage door. Take the gifts the good gods send and sleep on a spring mattress for a change. We shall have to borrow razors in the morning. Turn out the light when you’re ready. G’night.”
“You know,” said Cobden in an almost awestruck tone, “you ought to be the con man, not me.” But Hambledon did not hear him, for he was asleep.
At Swaffham station next morning the Colonel insisted upon coming on the platform to see them off. Hambledon and Cobden bought first-class tickets for London, and passed the barrier in company with their escort who was kept busy exchanging greetings with practically everyone he met, including two police-constables in uniform. They were standing inside the barrier watching the people come and go; when they saw Colonel Waterbury they came to attention and saluted.
“Oh, hullo! Morning, Griggs. Morning, Simpson. What are you doing here?”
“On duty, sir.”
“So I see, but why?”
“Two convicts escaped last night, sir, we’ve had orders to look out for them.”
“What, those two from Northern Moors? Saw it in the paper. They won’t come here, man, why should they? They’re hiding in a haystack five miles from the jail, that’s where they are. Wasting your time.”
“We often do, sir.”
The Colonel laughed. “Used to it, eh? Well, I expect you have to be. Here’s your train, Harrington, dead on time for once. Look here, I haven’t got your address, or yours, Cookson.”
“The Royal Aero Club will find us,” said Tommy libellously. “Good-bye, and a thousand thanks——”
The Colonel waved his hat in farewell as the train pulled out, his pink bald head shining in the morning sun. Hambledon and Cobden settled down in the compartment they were lucky enough to have to themselves and laughed.
“Nice old boy,” said Cobden, “but what an obvious victim! The con man’s dream.”
“Now then, where’s this address I’ve got to find; Sixty-seven North End Road, Neasden, N.W. Doesn’t sound very aristocratic, does it?”
“What did you expect? A number in Park Lane?”
“You never know,” said Tommy. “You aren’t coming with me, are you?”
“I think not. There seems no point in our both going, and I might be more useful if they don’t know me. You can say I ran away, can’t you?”
“I shall say you baled out of the balloon half an hour before she grounded and I haven’t seen you since. In fact, I think we’d better not be together too long now, the next time this train stops one of us had better find another compartment. Where can I get in touch with you in Town?”
“I must find somewhere to live,” said Cobden. “We’d better not live at the same address, either, had we? No, I was afraid not. Then you’ll have to find somewhere to live, too. We’d better meet for dinner to-night, I think. There’s a restaurant called The Kobold at the top of Edgware Road—the Marble Arch end—about a hundred yards up on the west side. Lots of small tables. Meet you there at a quarter to seven?”
