Our plan was simple, and I imagine it would have worked. I was going to sneak Sandorski and Lex into the garage after dark–which could be done provided my house was not watched at very close range–make them lie in the bottom of the car till we were clear of the immediate neighborhood, and then drive them to a bus stop. I couldn’t drive them far, in case there was a police cordon round the district; if we were stopped and questioned, Lex, who spoke with a strong foreign accent and had no identity documents, would put the lot of us under suspicion. On a country bus, however, and then a train to London, it was certain they would pass through as any other citizens.

The children came back from school, and Cecily arranged to walk up to the village with them on an ice-cream expedition in order to get them out of the way while Sandorski and Lex descended from the roof. It was growing dark and she was just about to start, when we had another call from the inspector of police.

“We have been checking the footprints on Mr. Blossom’s land, sir,” he said after some polite preliminaries, “and we would like to get clear the people who had every right to be there. Would you mind showing me your shooting boots?”

Fortunately I had cleaned them. He took the measurements and a note of missing studs on the sole. He looked puzzled, but preserved a beautiful mask of official cordiality.

“When were you last at the northern end of the down?”

“Let me see,” I said. “Where exactly do you mean?”

“A little east of the curve of the valley. There’s a big holly bush halfway down, if you remember.”

“I know. I was there last Saturday.”

“Not later?”

“No, inspector.”

He was on to something, but I wasn’t worried. I felt quite certain that the short, springy turf wouldn’t reveal a measurable footprint, and certainly not the time when it was made.

“Mr. Taine,” he said. “Suppose I were to tell you that I had good reason to believe you were on the down sometime yesterday or last night?”

“My dear man, my wife and children have already told you that I was in bed with a touch of flu. And all yesterday I was in the office, and there are dozens of people to prove it. May I ask why you think I wasn’t, or wouldn’t it be professional?”

“I don’t see why you shouldn’t know,” he answered. “I have two sets of prints, apparently yours, in wet cow dung. Now can you help me, Mr. Twaine? We know perfectly well that your life is an open book and that you don’t run secret aircraft.”

Possibly I should have helped him. On the other hand I didn’t feel like explaining to my local inspector that I had first killed, then buried, then burnt an unknown male. That kind of thing was obviously better handled, if it ever had to come out at all, on a high level, between Sandorski and his friend Roland.

“Well, but look here–how long does wet cow dung take to dry in damp weather? Surely that is a bit beyond the county police?”

“It’s beyond me, Mr. Taine,” he laughed. “But we’ve got some assistance from Scotland Yard on this case–and better still.”

I said that I didn’t know there was anything better than Scotland Yard.

He told me. After all, he was dead certain that I was innocent; and I was a respectable neighbor, entitled, after all this trouble, to a bit of thrilling and confidential gossip.

“There’s a gentleman staying with Mr. Robert Heyne-Hassingham. Catches spies, and all that. You know. Well, Mr. Taine, if you don’t mind my taking your boots away with me, I’m sure they’ll find that those prints were made on Saturday. Maybe Scotland Yard knows more about bull than cows. Ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha!” I answered dutifully.

“And meanwhile, Mr. Taine–just as a matter of form– I’m afraid I must ask you to be at home or at the office tomorrow. And I’ll bring you a statement to sign in the morning.”

When he had gone, I got Sandorski down at once from the roof.

“Peter,” I said, “there was a policeman here. It will take him twenty minutes to get back to county headquarters, and about ten minutes after that Hiart will know it was me. Now what?”

He opened a rapid fire of questions and got the position clear.

“Hiart is trying an impossible bluff,” I insisted. “I have only to produce those documents, and you to back me up.”

“Colonel, my lad, Sandorski forged them. Sandorski told you a yarn. Sandorski got you to help him land a plane. Sandorski and you murdered the man who came in it. Can you prove that isn’t true?”

“The beacons,” I said.

“My lad, they used gloves, and we were in a hurry and didn’t.”

“Lex, then.”

“Hiart thinks Lex is dead. He’ll get a shock when he finds he isn’t. But he’ll manage to have a word with him before the police.”

“But Hiart and Pink and his chaps. We heard them and saw them,” I protested.

“Indeed you did. And they nearly caught you and me in the act of landing that plane.”

“But it’s a nightmare.”

“I’ve never put the blame on the staff,” he said, “and I’m not going to start now. I’ll keep you out of it.”

I didn’t like the idea of surrender, and I told him so.

“Too many noncombatants about,” he replied, nodding his head towards the uproarious noise that was coming from the living room. “They have no business in this sort of thing.”

“I’m going to give ‘em a better world than this even if I go to gaol for it.”

“Ten minutes of your better world is up,” he said.

“I can’t help feeling Lex is the key.”

“Produce him to the police, you think?”

“It’s bound to rattle Hiart.”

“For a moment, until he can get a word with him. Then all Lex has to say is the truth–ha?–that we did receive him, and that Hiart tried to get him away.”

Sandorski shot out a hand to me for silence. His left eye sparkled with life, showing up the artificial right in fierce contrast that I had never noticed before.

“Lex!” he said. “Quick!”

He did the rope trick into the roof, with me after him.

“Lex, if we can get you away from here, where do you go?”

He used Lex’s real name, which I needn’t repeat. That gave the man confidence.

“Where I go? Why?”

“The police are on to us. But there’s still a chance of delivering your bag. Where were you to go if the plane made a forced landing?”

“Why don’t you know?” Lex replied stolidly.

“Because my orders were to take you here. But it’s bust open, my lad. It’s hot. We’ve got to get out.”

Lex thought it over and decided to trust us.

“Flat 9, 26 Fulham Park Avenue, London.”

“Who do you ask for?”

“I think empty. I have keys.”

“Get a stiff needle and black thread from your missus,” Sandorski ordered me. “And tell her to hop it now with the children.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Bolt. Skip. Now–ha? If we can get Lex to London, we’ll beat ‘em yet.”

I left Sandorski to tidy up the roof space; he hadn’t time to hide all traces of occupation, but he hoped to indicate that only one man had been there, not two.

“Go out now with the children, my darling,” I said to Cecily, “and get them that ice cream. When you come back, we shan’t be here. But Hiart will be, and the police. They are bound to find out that someone was in the roof, but say you knew nothing about it. Say I was certainly behaving oddly, but stick to your story that I never went out last night. When you took the children to the village, I said I would follow you in a minute, and we’d have a quick one at the local. Got it?”

“But where will I be able to find you?” she cried.

“Safe as can be. In the hands of the police. But I don’t want to be caught till we’ve sunk this People’s Union for good and all.”

Our parting wasn’t as sentimental as either of us would have liked, but one gets used to that in a family. The children were exasperating. They were deep in a game and decided that they didn’t want ice cream. They wouldn’t put on their coats. A hat couldn’t be found. And all the time the precious minutes were ticking away. My last view of George was of the little scamp dragging back on Cecily’s firm hand, and howling loudly.