Room 13

Over the grim stone archway was carved the words:

Parcere Subjectis

In cold weather, and employing the argot of his companions Johnny Gray translated this as “Parky Subjects”⁠—it certainly had no significance as “Spare the Vanquished” for he had been neither vanquished nor spared.

Day by day, harnessed to the shafts, he and Lal Morgon had pulled a heavy handcart up the steep slope, and day by day had watched absently the red-bearded gate-warder put his key in the big polished lock and snap open the gates. And then the little party had passed through, an armed warder leading, an armed warder behind, and the gate had closed.

And at four o’clock he had walked back under the archway and waited whilst the gate was unlocked and the handcart admitted.

Every building was hideously familiar. The gaunt “halls,” pitch painted against the Dartmoor storms, the low-roofed office, the gas house, the big, barn-like laundry, the ancient bakery, the exercise yard with its broken asphalt, the ugly church, garishly decorated, the long, scrubbed benches with the raised seats for the warders⁠ ⁠… and the graveyard where the happily released lifers rested from their labours.

One morning in spring, he went out of the gate with a working-party. They were building a shed, and he had taken the style and responsibility of bricklayer’s labourer. He liked the work because you can talk more freely on a job like that, and he wanted to hear all that Lal Morgon had to say about the Big Printer.

Though the day was bright and hot, and not a cloud was in the sky, the four electric lamps in the carriage lit up suddenly. In the powerful light of day they seemed pale ghosts of flame, queerly dim. As the sunshine fell upon them their shadows were cast upon the white cornice of the carriage.

“There’s a tunnel coming,” said Emanuel. “It will give you a chance of seeing them at their best⁠—feel ’em, Johnny! The real paper; bankers have fallen for ’em⁠ ⁠…”

With a roar the train plunged into the blackness of the tunnel. Emanuel stood with his back to the carriage door, the note held taut between his hands.

“There’s only one flaw⁠—the watermark. I’m giving away secrets, eh? Look!”

He stretched his arms up until he held the note against one of the bracket lamps. To see, John Gray had to come behind him and peer over his shoulder. The thunder of the train in the narrow tunnel was almost deafening.

“Look at the F,” shouted Emanuel. “See⁠ ⁠… that F in ‘Five’⁠—it’s printed too shallow⁠ ⁠…”

As Johnny bent forward the old man thrust at him with his shoulder, and behind that lurch of his was all the weight and strength of his body. Taken by surprise, John Gray was thrown from his balance. He staggered back against the carriage door, felt it give and tried to recover his equilibrium. But the thrust was too well timed. The door flew open, and he dropped into the black void, clutching as he did so the window ledge.

He grunted.

“They’re clever,” he said. “It must be wonderful to be clever. Who’s this?” He scowled across the lawn at a strange figure that had appeared, apparently by way of the cliff gate.

She rose and walked to meet the stooping stranger, who stood, hat in hand, waiting for her and smiling awkwardly.

“I’m so sorry to intrude,” he said. “This is a beautiful place, is it not? If I remember rightly, this is the Dellsea Vicarage? I used to know the vicar⁠—a very charming man. I suppose you have taken the house from him?”

She was half amused, half annoyed.

“This is Dellsea Vicarage,” she said curtly. “Do you want to see anybody?”

“I wanted to see Mr. Jeffrey”⁠—he screwed up his eyes and stared at the sky, as though trying to withdraw from some obscure cell of memory a name that would not come without special effort⁠—“Mr. Jeffrey Legge⁠—that is the name⁠—Mr. Jeffrey Legge.”

“He is very ill and can’t be seen.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the stranger, his mild face expressing the intensest sympathy. “Very sorry indeed.”

He fixed his big, round glasses on the tip of his nose, for effect apparently, because he looked over them at her.

“I wonder if he would see me for just a few minutes. I’ve called to inquire about his health.”

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Reeder⁠—J. G. Reeder.”

The girl felt her colour go, and turned quickly.

“I will ask him,” she said.

Jeff heard the name and pursed his lips.

“That wouldn’t get me the girl.”

Emanuel turned his head slowly toward his heir.

“If they found the Big Printer, they’ll have to find the big printing,” he said deliberately. “That means we should all have to skip, and skip lively. We might have a few hours start, and in these days of aeroplanes, three hours is four hundred miles. Jeff, if we are caught, and they guess I’ve been in this printing all the time, I shall never see outside again. And you’ll go down for life. They can’t give you any worse than that⁠—not if you took the girl away with you.”

“By force?” asked the other in surprise. The idea had not occurred to him.

The father nodded.

“If we have to skip, that’s the only thing for you to do, son. It’s no offence⁠—remember that. She’s your wife.” He looked to left and right, to see if there was the faintest shadow of a chance that he would be overheard, and then: “Suppose we ask Peter and his girl and Johnny Gray to dinner? A nice little dinner party, eh?”

“Where?” asked the other suspiciously.

“In Room 13,” said Emanuel Legge. “In Room 13, Jeff, boy! A nice little dinner. What do you think? And then two whiffs of sleep stuff⁠—”

“You’re mad,” said the other angrily. “What’s the good of talking that way? Do you think he’s going to come to dinner and bring his girl? Oh, you’re nutty to think it!”

“Trust me,” said Emanuel Legge.

Mr. Reeder sidled into the room apologetically, closing the door behind him.

“All alone, Mr. Legge?” he asked. “I thought you had company?”

“I had some friends, but they’ve gone.”

“Your son gone, too?” Reeder stared helplessly from one corner of the room to the other. “Dear me, this is a disappointment, a great disappointment.”

Emanuel was thinking quickly. In all probability the shabby detective had been watching the front of the house, and would know that they had not left that way. He took a bold step.

“They left a quarter of an hour ago. Peter and Johnny went down the fire-escape⁠—my boy’s car was in the yard. We never like to have a car in front of the club premises; people talk so much. And after the publicity we’ve had⁠—”

Mr. Reeder checked him with a mild murmur of agreement.

“That was the car, was it? I saw it go and wondered what it was all about⁠—Number XC. 9712, blue-painted limousine⁠—Daimler⁠—I may be wrong, but it seemed like a Daimler to me. I know so little about motorcars that I could be very easily mistaken, and my eyesight is not as good as it used to be.”

Emanuel cursed him under his breath.

“Yes, it was a Daimler,” he said, “one we bought cheap at the sales.”

The absentminded visitor’s eyes were fixed on the table.

“Took their wineglasses with them?” he asked gently. “I think it is a pretty custom, taking souvenirs of a great occasion. I’m sure they were very happy.”