The Ka of Gifford Hillary (51 page)

Suddenly he leant forward and kissed me on the forehead. ‘Good-bye, Giff. The best of luck whatever happens. But to all the world you are dead. And I think the best thing you can do is to remain so.’

When Johnny had gone I took two of the pain-killers and soon after fell asleep. Since then I have several times been the victim of the most frightful nightmares and, believing myself back in my coffin, woken screaming. But on this occasion I was spared that. On waking, a glance at the bedside clock showed me that it was ten-past three. I had slept for over eight hours and nothing is so healing as sound sleep. My headache had gone, my neck no longer hurt, and there was only a dull ache in my hand; but my mind was far from being restored to normal.

Had it been I might have acted differently. My health had not been seriously impaired; so if I had stayed where I was for another day or two I might have gone out into the world under another name. It would have been hard to start life again from scratch at my age, but I was strongly built and by no means lacking in intelligence. With so many good jobs going begging owing to full employment I could soon have got one without too many questions being asked; first as a casual labourer, then something better until I had saved enough to get abroad, perhaps to Germany, where shipbuilding of all kinds was booming and my experience would soon have commanded a salary large enough to keep me in comfort.

But my brain was not normal. For seven days and nights my Ka had registered an almost continual succession of frightful doubts, acute anxieties and harrowing experiences; then for some twenty-seven hours I had lain imprisoned in my coffin. It is true that many of those hours must have been passed in spells of unconsciousness, but anyone need only imagine what it would be like to be buried alive for ten minutes to judge the mental strain I had been through.

My mind was lucid about some things but confused about others and events during the first few days after my presumed
death had been pushed into its background by more recent occurrences. The succession of tragedies at Longshot now seemed to me to have happened months ago, and no longer to be of much importance; so despite Johnny’s warning of the complications that I should be faced with if I resumed life as Sir Gifford Hillary, I hardly gave them a thought. On the other hand the problems which had confronted me when I forced my Ka back into my body were still fresh in my mind.

That of Johnny had been dealt with, but there remained that of Sir Charles. The recollection of the whole night and day that I had spent vainly trying to get a warning to him, and the fact that it had been mainly to do so that I had gone down into my grave, now drove out all other memories. By an act of Providence he had been prevented from going down to his cottage the previous night; but he might do so that evening or, perhaps, was already on his way there. Looking at the clock again I saw that it was twenty-past three. Galvanised into action by the thought that I had not a moment to lose, I got out of bed.

My long sleep had done me a power of good. I found that I could walk quite well without assistance; but when I went into the bathroom I received a terrible shock. As I saw my face in the mirror I did not recognise myself. That I had eight days’ stubble on my chin was no surprise, but it was white. So was my hair—snow white; and my eyes were sunk back in my head, making me look like a corpse.

When I recovered a little from the shock I did my best to freshen up and tidy myself. As every minute counted I had to deny myself a bath, and my injured right hand put shaving out of the question; but with my left I splashed some cold water over my face and combed back my hair. Getting into my clothes was far from easy and with movement my hand again began to hurt. I could not get a collar or tie on, and had to leave the laces of my shoes undone; but by twenty to four I was on my way downstairs.

Out in the square I was lucky enough to pick up a cruising taxi. Its driver gave me an astonished look, and probably thought that I had escaped from an asylum; but as I stumbled in I shouted at him:

‘Storey’s Gate! Ministry of Defence! Quick! Double fare if you can get me there in fifteen minutes!’

From long habit he let in his clutch without argument.

As it was Sunday afternoon, he made it. I paid him off out of Johnny’s money, and heard Big Ben chime four as I entered the building.

In the hall I was received by an elderly bald man wearing the blue serge uniform with gold crowns on its lapels of a Whitehall messenger. His pale blue eyes popped as they took me in, but before he could utter a word, I cried:

‘I must see the Minister; and at once. It’s very urgent.’

‘Have you … have you an appointment?’ he stammered.

‘No,’ I said sharply. ‘But that doesn’t matter. Is he here, or has he left for the country?’

The messenger cast a worried look towards a policeman who had been standing at the far end of the hall, but now approached with slow majestic tread, eyeing me dubiously.

‘Come on!’ I insisted. ‘Is Sir Charles here or not?’

‘I … I’ve only just come on duty,’ faltered the messenger. ‘I haven’t seen him leave, but …’ he looked appealingly at the policeman, who volunteered:

‘He hasn’t gone out this way; but he may be round at Downing Street or across at one of the Service Ministries. I expect he’ll be leaving soon though, because his car’s just driven up.’

‘Thank God he hasn’t gone yet!’ I exclaimed. ‘But wherever he is I’ve got to see him. It’s terribly important. Please ring through to his office and find out where he is.’

As the two men continued to eye me askance, I went on hurriedly: ‘Don’t pay any regard to my appearance. I’ve been involved in a car smash. I expect I’m looking pretty ghastly but I know perfectly well what I am doing.’

‘Quite, Sir, quite,’ said the policeman soothingly. ‘But all the same Ministers don’t see people without their having appointments. Wouldn’t it be best if you went home now and just dropped him a line?’

Ignoring him, I turned back to the messenger. ‘If you don’t ring through to Sir Charles’s office at once I’ll make an issue of it that will end by your getting the sack.’

The little bald man drew himself up. ‘Threats won’t get you
nowhere; and unpleasant things is likely to happen to them as makes them.’

‘He’s right, Sir,’ the policeman added. ‘Using threatening language to a government official in the course of his duty. I could charge you with that. But seeing you’re ill I don’t want to press matters unless you force me to. Be sensible now, and let me call you a taxi.’

The state I was in was so much against me that had the argument continued my chances of ever getting to Sir Charles would have been far from good. I might have persuaded them to let me see a secretary, who would probably have proved equally obdurate, or I might equally well have landed up in Cannon Row Police Station. As it was, matters were brought to a head with unexpected swiftness. Quick footsteps sounded on the broad stone stairs, and turning I saw Sir Charles coming down them on his way to his car.

Brushing past the messenger I took a couple of strides towards him, but I got no further. The policeman grabbed me by the arm.

Sir Charles came to a halt in the middle of the hall, and asked quietly: ‘What’s the trouble?’

‘This man, Sir …’ began the policeman.

‘Trying to force ‘is way in,’ said the messenger simultaneously.

But I was more determined to be heard than either of them, and my cry drowned their voices; ‘Sir Charles! I’ve got to see you! I must! I’ve been very ill, but I’m not out of my mind. Don’t you recognise me? I’m Gifford Hillary.’

At the sound of the rumpus another policeman and two more messengers had appeared from somewhere. Sir Charles gave me a quick look through his thick-lensed glasses and said:

‘No, you are not.’ With a glance at the policeman who held me, he added. ‘Have the poor fellow taken home, officer, unless he proves obstreperous.’ Then he went on his way to the door.

‘You heard,’ said the policeman warningly. ‘Come now, or …’

But I was shouting after Sir Charles. ‘I am! We last met in Martin Emsworth’s flat.’

At that, he halted and came back. After another look at
me, he said: ‘You certainly resemble Sir Gifford, but I really can’t believe …

‘I am he,’ I cut in. ‘But I’ve been very ill and my hair has gone white.’

He nodded; but the puzzled look remained on his face as he muttered: ‘I still don’t understand. I thought you were dead.’

‘My death was reported in the press, but it was a mistake,’ I told him. ‘And you
must
give me a few minutes. Your own safety hangs on it.’

‘Very well, then,’ he said after a moment. ‘Come up to my room.’

As I followed him up the short flight of broad stone steps, the policeman said: ‘Wouldn’t it be as well, Sir, if I came up and stood outside your door?’

Sir Charles turned and gave him his boyish smile. ‘No thank you, officer. It is just possible that this gentleman is who he says he is, and if he isn’t he doesn’t look very formidable in his present state.’

We got into the small, slow, ancient lift which must have so astonished Americans like General Eisenhower when, during the war, they had been taken up in it to confer with the British Chiefs of Staff. At the second floor we got out. Sir Charles led me to his room, sat down at his desk and waved me to a chair.

I sank gratefully into it. Getting into my clothes, the journey from Earls Court, and the altercation in the hall had taken more out of me than I thought. My wretched hand now seemed to be on fire and sweat had broken out on my forehead. I knew that I must be running a temperature.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘If you were shaved and properly dressed you would look like a twenty-year-older edition of Sir Gifford; but however ill a man might be I find it difficult to believe that he could age that much in the space of ten days. And someone might have told you about my meeting with Sir Gifford at Emsworth’s flat. Above all Sir Gifford’s death was not just reported in the ordinary way. Owing to the tragedy in which he was involved it was splashed all over the place; and the whole press doesn’t often allow itself to be misled about matters of nation-wide interest. I warn you now that if I find that you have been wasting my time by trying to play some
silly game, I shall hand you over to the police. But my impression is that you have a bee in your bonnet and ought to be under medical care. Anyhow, I want a lot more evidence before I am prepared to accept you as Sir Gifford Hillary.’

His attitude was perfectly understandable for, except to nod to, he had met me only once, and as I now looked such a scarecrow it was not at all surprising that he thought me to be some harmless lunatic. But as I gave him particulars of our meeting, his expression began to alter, and when I had finished about the E-boat business I mentioned the fact that he had put soda-water into his last liqueur brandy. Anyone who was giving a description of the meeting received from someone else could hardly have known that, and it clinched matters.

‘I’m satisfied,’ he declared. ‘I would have been anyway after you had been talking for a bit, as your voice hasn’t changed. But you poor fellow, you look in the very devil of a state. What in the world has been happening to you?’

I told him that I still felt very weak and that it would be too much of an effort to go into that now; so if he didn’t mind we would get down right away to the reason I had come to see him.

‘Go ahead, then.’ He waved a hand. ‘Down in the hall you said something about being concerned for my safety.’

‘I am. Very much so,’ I replied. ‘But first I’d like to deal with another matter. It’s about Johnny Norton.’

He frowned. ‘I don’t think I know anyone of that name.’

‘He is a nephew of mine and a Wing Commander on your Planning Staff. I mentioned him to you when we were at Emsworth’s.’

‘Oh yes, I remember now. But he hasn’t been here very long so I haven’t met him yet.’ Suddenly Sir Charles straightened in his chair. ‘Norton! Why, that is the chap I had a report about on Friday, in connection with a breach of the Official Secrets Act.’

‘Exactly,’ I commented dryly. ‘He is now under close arrest at Uxbridge; and between us you and I are responsible.’ I told him then about Sir Tuke Waldron’s reactions at our board meeting, and how the Admiral had later laid an information
against Johnny accusing him of having given me my facts and figures.

When I had done, Sir Charles said at once: ‘I’m sorry; terribly sorry. But as I was asking you to do something for me which was entirely contrary to your own interests, I felt that it was only fair to give you the whole picture. I thought you would have realised that I was speaking in the strictest confidence, and that when I gave you discretion to use the gist of what I had said to win over your board, you would have confined yourself to a general statement. Still, it’s too late to worry about that now, and as far as Norton is concerned you needn’t give the matter another thought. I take entire responsibility. I will telephone before I leave here and arrange for his release. Now, tell me about this other business?’

‘It is your cook-housekeeper,’ I replied. ‘In no circumstances must you eat another meal in that country cottage of yours before you have had her arrested. I have found out that she is a Russian agent and intends to poison you at the first opportunity.’

To my amazement he sat back and roared with laughter. As I stared at him indignantly he stopped, took off his spectacles, wiped them and said:

‘I’m sorry, Hillary. I shouldn’t have treated your fears for me so lightly. But really, you are talking the most utter nonsense. Old Maria is a Pole. She was driven from her country in nineteen thirty-nine, and hates the Russians more than the most blimpish Colonel Blimp in the country. She has been with me for close on ten years, and the idea that she intends to poison me is fantastic.’

‘You may think so,’ I retorted grimly. ‘But there is such a thing as pressure being exerted on refugees from the countries behind the Iron Curtain. She probably has an old mother, or a husband, or a son, still in Poland whom she cares for much more than she does you; and has been told that they will be put through the loop unless she carries out the orders that she is given.’