Rolling Stone Read Free Page B

Foreign Office.
    Peter contemplated the impossible—the plan which had come surging up in the middle of his neat picture—and found angles from which the impossible began to look possible. Of course if the doctor were to come butting in, the whole thing blew up. But there didn’t seem to be any sign of the doctor. The Dupins didn’t hurry, hadn’t hurried, wouldn’t hurry. There would be time enough and to spare.
    No harm in having a look at the passports anyhow. He went through into the next room. Took out Reilly’s pocketbook, extracted Reilly’s passport. Took out his own pocketbook, extracted his own passport.
    Well, here they were, side by side.
    James Peter Reilly.
    Accompanied by his wife? (Apparently and most fortunately not. Children ditto.)
    National status—British subject by birth.
    He turned the page.
    Place and date of birth—Glasgow, 1907. (Glasgow Irish, was he?)
    Domicile—Glasgow.
    Colour of eyes—grey.
    Colour of hair—brown.
    Special peculiarities—scar on back of right hand.
    Peter laughed suddenly.
    â€œAnd that settles it,” he said, “because—” He lifted his own right hand and made a fine wide gesture. The impossible, thus warmly invited, advanced and made itself at home. Peter’s hand with the long white scar across the knuckles came down on his own passport.
    John Peter Carmichael Talbot. (Also, thank heaven, without a wife or any other encumbrances.)
    National status—British subject by birth.
    And over page:
    Place and date of birth—Harrogate, 1910.
    Domicile—Europe, but the passport said London.
    Colour of eyes—grey.
    Colour of hair—brown.
    Special peculiarities—scar on back of right hand.
    â€œAnd a very nice usual place to have a scar. Mine was old Ellen Updale’s cat—the time Peggy and I did her up in red white and blue streamers on Armistice Night. I wonder what his was. One of life’s unsolved mysteries. Not my fault if the doings at Preedo’s Library are another of them. Well now, what about the photographs? They’re the real snag.”
    He stared at the two passport photographs. Spike Reilly had a good bit more hair on him than Peter Talbot. The photograph showed no parting, and a sort of all-over, brushed-back appearance.
    Peter went into his own room, tousled his hair, damped it, and slicked it back. The effect was quite revolting, but a good deal more like the photograph of Mr. Reilly. Spike Reilly was clean shaven, and so was Peter Talbot. He went over to the glass and experimented. He could get that sulky twist of the mouth and the frown between the eyes well enough. With chewing-gum to bulge the cheeks, he ought to be able to scrape past anyone who hadn’t an unnaturally suspicious mind. The trouble was that Suspicion was that sort of bloke’s first, last, and middle name.
    All the same he could do it. He felt the sort of certainty with which a leap is measured and accomplished before the muscles tense and the body rises. He could get away with Spike Reilly’s passport.
    But what about Spike Reilly getting away with his? The Dupins had seen them both. Well, it had been very, very dark in the office—rain outside and thrift within—one didn’t waste good electricity at four o’clock in the afternoon. The Dupins had seen precious little of Peter Talbot—a hat, a raincoat and a muffler. As for Spike Reilly, no one is surprised if a dead man looks a bit different from his photograph when alive.
    Of course he mustn’t let the Dupins see him again—not to say see him. He must leave at once while the light was bad—pay something, not too much, and get out. A corpse in the next room would be a good enough excuse. Yes, that was it. He’d march down with his suit-case, call for a drink—he could do with one—say he hadn’t bargained for corpses, and clear out. They couldn’t stop him.
    â€œAnyhow,