The Bat that Flits Read online

  But the fact that I was no longer active, as the phrase went, did not mean that I’d stopped being a Communist. I was still definitely of the Left. And that was all that seemed to matter. Every religion has its adherents who don’t adhere so closely as to get in anybody’s way. But they shouldn’t be scorned. They still can be relied on for half a guinea when the Appeals Committee writes to them.

  I was one of those. I remained that way right up to 1939, quietly confident that civilisation would reach Western Europe, like epidemic influenza, from somewhere east of the Vistula. Then something happened. Again, it wasn’t a very dramatic something. That’s because my mind doesn’t work in flashes and revelations. I was never converted: I’d merely joined. And when I decided that I’d had enough of it, I didn’t immediately do a penitential strip-tease in the market-place, and then apply for the post of news commentator on Vatican Radio. I just said, “O Gawd,” and packed up.

  It was the Lysenko affair that settled it. And this bit has got to be personal. Unless you follow it, you’ll never know the sort of man you’ve been out with. I’ve given you one or two hints already. You know, for example, that I drink.

  You know that I’m the answer—usually only a short-term answer—to a maiden’s prayer. And you know that I don’t usually give a straight “yes” or “no” to any question, because with my sort of nature I’ve found that it’s much more comfortable to go quietly cruising about on the surface of most things than to wade in waist-high with jaws clenched. But if you imagine that I haven’t got a moral standard of my own, and that I’m not an amalgam of Jew, Catholic, Moslem and Thug when somebody transgresses it, then you’re right out on the limb so far as James Wendell Hudson is concerned.

  My religion has to do with facts. Things that other people have found out. Things that I can find out for myself if I go through the same processes. And remember that in my religion it is just as important to find out that something is wrong, as it is to prove to yourself that it is right. More important, in fact. (I’ve never actually said that before, but I’d like to get it printed, and mailed off non-copyright to every schoolmaster, priest, politician, parent and Commissar in the world.) The one thing that I can never stomach is to find someone believing something merely because he’s been told to believe it. And the one thing that I can never forgive —because it’s the sin against my kind of Holy Ghost—is to find someone playing about with facts just to make them fit into some damn-fool theory.

  Perhaps worst of all is to show up coy when asked to produce the data. That’s criminal concealment. Because data are to theories just about what dough is to bread. And theories aren’t just the bread-and-butter kind of bread in my profession. They’re the bread of Life itself. And you see now why I call my science a religion.

  That’s why I mentioned Lysenko. Because the Lenin Academy of Agricultural Sciences, which had been as respectable as the Royal Society, suddenly went mad. It started a purge, and threw over all the old Neo-Mendelist regulars who taught (after checking up the facts) that heredity depended on something called a gene—and a gene is just a little bit of matter that determines certain characteristics in the process of fertilisation. Instead, the Academy preached something called Michurinism. This was a brand-new doctrine founded by Father Michurin with Comrade Lysenko as his altar-boy. It said that heredity could be transformed by environment. And, in case you don’t know, that is about as startling to a biologist as announcing that water freezes at 100° C. With one breath we all began yelling for the facts. And we went without sleep and drink just waiting for the postman to call.

  But nothing came. A lot of merry Moscow journalists, however, began banging out their bits about it. Overnight, it became pet propaganda theme for the whole of the U.S.S.R. That was because it fitted in so marvellously with everything else that they had been saying. Aristocrats made, not born, was the new siren-song. And when master Lysenko still hadn’t produced his notebook, and even turned nasty when he was asked a few elementary questions a chill began to develop somewhere around what I call my heart. Because, if this was all hooey, it was easily the biggest racket of them all.

  And that was the way it began to look. All theory, no data. All propaganda, no proof. At the end of the first six months when every genuine biologist had been turned away and told not to handle the exhibits, there could be only one conclusion. The Socialist sixth of the world was faking the facts and sending out missionaries into the other five-sixths to make people believe them. It was W. D. P. Inc. on the grandest scale.

  That was when I and little Arthur’s Asiatic comrades parted company. And I wasn’t the only one. There was now a great big hole inside quite a lot of the Left-wing scientists. The bats were flitting in hordes. And to imagine the size of the hole through which they were escaping, you have to imagine how the faithful in Rome would feel at the end of Urbi et Orbi if the Pope suddenly announced that from now on doctrine was under the direction of the Sports Editor.

  I’ve got that hole permanently left in me. And it was because of the draught blowing through it, that I didn’t see why someone else up at the Bodmin Institute who was still all solid casing, should remain in one piece for ever.

  That was what made me determined to go on being bloody-minded. I still needed time to think.

  Chapter XXXVII

  1

  It was six-thirty next morning when they called me. And, as nothing else happened until nearly a quarter to eight, I could feel the whole day going sour on me.

  When the cell door did at last open again, I saw the Inspector and one of the cub-Captains as well as the Station Sergeant all standing there.

  “Morning, boys,” I said.

  Then I noticed that the cub-Captain had a long strip of sticking-plaster down one side of his face. He must have scratched himself while the three of them had been romping together at the bottom of that bunker. And I didn’t see why he should be allowed to forget it.

  “Cut yourself shaving?” I asked. “Surely you don’t have to do it every day.”

  The cub-Captain said nothing, and the Inspector cleared his throat.

  “I have here a warrant authorising your transfer,” he said.

  I turned and faced him.

  “You can’t do that,” I told him. “This may seem a poor sort of place to you. But it’s still home.”

  The Inspector ignored that one altogether.

  “Captain Lawther will be escorting you,” was what he said.

  “I’ll take every care of him,” I promised.

  Captain Lawther was the fair-haired one. The one I disliked. He was in mufti. That meant that he was wearing something pretty deplorable in the way of a sports coat. It had knobbly leather-covered buttons of the sort that should only be allowed on very small children’s overcoats. And I resented the fact that his tailor had given the jacket two slits up the back. The two-slit style is something that should be reserved for men of my age and substance.

  But I didn’t want him to feel awkward or self-conscious about things.

  “Well, come on,” I said. “Let’s get cracking. I haven’t got all day to waste.”

  But they apparently had. In the result, it was nearly teatime, with the lamps of Bodmin shining palely in through the cell window, before we got started. And even then we had to go through the ceremony of the handcuffs again.

  And this gave me an idea. As soon as cub-Captain Lawther had turned the key on us both, I spoke to him. “Sure it’s comfortable?” I asked.

  Q

  There was no answer.

  “Doesn’t hurt anywhere?”

  Still no answer.

  “Quite sure it’s firm?”

  Silence.

  “Better make certain.”

  The jerk I gave it brought Captain Lawther right into my arms with a rush. But I pretended not to notice.

  “That’s fine,” I said. “Now it doesn’t matter if you fall. I’ve still got you.”

  I was about three inches taller than Captain Lawther, and a
t least two stone heavier. The more I thought about it the more I was looking forward to being tied on to him.

  And I had a feeling that it wouldn’t very long remain that way round.

  It was only the first part of the journey that was by car. After that, it was British Railways again. And that suited me perfectly. Captain Lawther was every bit as embarrassed as I was by having to go about like a slave-dealer making a trade delivery. There weren’t very many people on Bodmin platform. Just an old lady and her daughter, a farmer with his hat too far on the back of his head, the Vicar of some-where or other, and a couple of porters. But I didn’t see why any of them should miss the predicament that Captain Lawther and I were in.

  “Show them the pass,” I said rather loudly when we got to the barrier. And then, before my escort could say anything, I added: “You can keep it, son. I shall know where it is if I want it.”

  With that, I gave a knowing wink in the direction of the ticket collector, and began leading Captain Lawther up the platform. It was here that he made the mistake of trying to stand still. But I knew that if it came to a tug-of-war he wouldn’t stand a chance. Soon he was sliding after me like a puppy.

  “None of that, please,” I said sternly.

  The old lady and her daughter heard every word of it. And, as with all really nice people, their sympathy immediately went out towards the little man.

  “Oo, see that, Mum?” the girl asked.

  The daughter stood there glaring at me. The old lady, however, evidently wanted to avoid a scene at all costs. She began to move away. But I saved her the trouble.

  “That’s all right, ma’am,” I said. “He’ll come quietly.”

  That was when I began to lead him up the platform in among the milk-churns. There were rather a lot of milk-churns, and he must have hurt his knee quite badly against one of them. I heard the little beast suddenly cry out in pain. And it was what I had been waiting for.

  “Why not take these things off?” I asked.

  “Not bloody likely,” he replied.

  He was wearing the kind of expression that suggested that at any moment he might burst into tears from sheer torment and vexation. But I could see that he was being very brave about it. And I knew that he was using bad language just to persuade himself that he was really tough and grown up.

  “Well, better keep moving,” I said. “Doesn’t make us so conspicuous.”

  I led him through the milk-churns again, only a bit faster this time. And we got into trouble with a porter’s trolley. Between the two of us the thing nearly went over on to the line, and I fairly barked at him for all the trouble he was causing.

  It was then Lawther asked if I’d mind lowering my voice a little. That pleased me. It showed that the treatment was working.

  “Don’t you think we had better have them off?” I asked again, quite quietly. “They’re only making your wrist sore.”

  This time he paused before replying.

  “Not till we get in the train,” he said.

  “Just as you please,” I answered. “But I’m not standing about here to be stared at by anyone.”

  I was really quite nice to him this time, and I didn’t lead him anywhere near a farm harrow that I’d noticed lying on the platform near the parcels office. There was no need for it. He’d said all that I wanted him to say.

  2

  It was all quite simple and straightforward when the train drew in. The guard and the station-master both knew all about a reserved compartment, and I let Captain Lawther show the pass without saying anything. I even allowed the train to draw right out of the platform before I raised the matter of the handcuffs. Then I thrust my wrist out.

  “You win,” I said. “I might have bolted if you’d done it sooner.”

  Captain Lawther flushed. This was clearly his moment of triumph. He looked like a choir-boy who had just swamped the anthem.

  “I know damn well, you might,” he said.

  But the rumble-rumble of the wheels evidently reassured him. And pulling out his key-chain with his free hand, he unlocked the handcuff that was on his wrist.

  “That’s all right,” I said. “Don’t bother about mine.

  You’ll want to do it up again when we arrive there. I don’t want to start getting you into trouble.”

  This seemed to relieve Captain Lawther. He sat there rubbing his wrist and the bad place on his knee where he’d hurt it on the handle of the milk-churn, and finally he lit a cigarette. I could see that he felt all big and magnanimous because he remembered to offer me one. But I only shook my head.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “Don’t feel like it. It’s all right for you. You’re in for promotion. I’m in for about seven years.”

  That left him glowing all over with thoughts about being Major Lawther, and it left me free to look out of the window. This was rather important. We were getting back towards the moor by now, and the train was putting on more speed than I cared for. The telegraph poles were beginning to whizz past us in the darkness.

  “Mind if we have the window down?” I asked. “You’d better do it. I don’t want you to think that I’m going to jump out or something.”

  Captain Lawther had learnt by now to do exactly what I told him. And he moved over towards the door like an obedient younger brother. This suited me perfectly. His back was towards me, and his overcoat was on the rack just above my head. It was a large mock-Harris ulster that he had been wearing, bought specially to go with that bogus sports suit, I imagine. But I couldn’t have asked for better. There were yards and yards of the material. And when I suddenly wound them round his head and tied the two arms tightly together somewhere just under his chin, he must have thought that we had reached the tunnel. He kicked about a bit. But because he couldn’t see what he was kicking, he didn’t hurt me. And I didn’t even want him to hurt himself. Just so that he shouldn’t roll about and fall out after me, I laid him carefully on the floor and pushed him under the seat like a holdall.

  Then I opened the door—hung for a moment on the footboard, and jumped into the cold and the blackness and the roaring night.

  There are some people—film supers and others—who spend their whole lives jumping off moving trains and fire engine escape towers. They know how to fall.

  I didn’t. I can see now that it would have been more sense to face the way the train was going. It may have been that fact, however, that saved me. Because after the first crack that felt as though I’d run smack into a brick-lorry at about sixty miles an hour, I began to do a series of back somersaults. I dimly remember three of them—all that part is a bit confused—with my face catching the ballast once every revolution. And then, with a final cartwheel that nearly separated my spine, I suddenly found myself feet upwards in a ditch.

  I have to thank the extreme coldness of the water for the fact that I didn’t drown then and there. It brought me to again and I fairly thrashed my way out of it. Then I lay on the edge of the embankment, gasping. I wondered if I was still alive, and felt pretty sure that I must be. That was because I was still thinking the same thought that had been uppermost in my mind as I jumped. “Silly little basket,” it ran. “Who’s going to be made a major now?”

  But there was no time for gloating. Away in the distance there was the quite unmistakable sound of an express train putting its brakes on. That could mean only one thing. Permanent Captain Lawther must have got his nose out of his ulster, and he was evidently hanging on to the communication cord. That meant that I had to set off straight away across the open moor like a cross-country runner.

  The Institute was the one place that I wanted to get to. I had everything worked out in my mind. I was working on one of my hunches—and of Dr. Mann’s. Though I couldn’t prove anything, I was now perfectly certain that it was the great Professor Sonnenbaum, alias Dr. Smith, who was the guilty one. And it all seemed to fit together—his anti-Americanism, the way he had kept out of it when Mann himself had been arrested, his absence during the search for Una’
s assailant, his striking complacency in the face of an inefficient police force. But I was perfectly realist about it. I didn’t even kid myself that I could prove anything. Romantics like me have our place in the world: we’re the yeast in the human mixture. It is the cold, shrewd efficient type that usually does the job when the romantics have shown them how.

  There was only one of the right type in the whole Institute —Gillett. I wasn’t under any illusions about him. If he hadn’t possessed a blood-stream that would have set a Newfoundland cod shivering, he wouldn’t have chased Dr. Mann off to his suicide. There was nothing in the least over-heated about Gillett. The great thing about him was that he possessed the scientific attitude. And if I could drop the hint I knew that he’d go on from there.

  I covered the mile and a half in about thirty-five minutes. I couldn’t make it faster because I’d hurt my ankle when I jumped. And it was from the annexe side that I finally approached the Institute. I saw at once, too, that I was lucky. There was a light on in Gillett’s room. I made my way straight towards it. Literally straight, I mean. I wanted to avoid meeting people. And rather than go up the stairs, I decided to use the window.

  This wasn’t difficult because the ground sloped up from that side of the annexe, and the bedroom windows were on practically bungalow height. Gillett’s window was open about three inches at the bottom. I put my finger through, and drew back the curtain. And I felt a queer pang as I did so. It was the absolute innocence of Gillett’s occupation that overcame me. He had his ski-ing kit out on the table before him, and he was adjusting the guard on one of the sticks. Then I drew my lips in tighter. I’d just remembered what I’d be doing while he was getting on with his jumps and Christianas.

  It was at this moment that I heard somebody coming. Unless I was going to be nabbed again before I had even had time to say my piece, there was nothing for it but to heave up the window, and do the “Spectre de la Rose” leap in reverse. But I was a bad Nijinsky. I landed on the wrong ankle, and fell almost on top of the table at which Gillett was working.