John Buchan

The Thirty-Nine Steps John Buchan

I sat down in an armchair and felt very sick. That lasted for maybe five minutes, and wassucceeded by a fit of the horrors. The poor staring white face on the floor was more than Icould bear, and I managed to get a table-cloth and cover it. Then I staggered to a cupboard, found the brandy and swallowed several mouthfuls. I had seen men die violently before;indeed I had killed a few myself in the Matabele War; but this cold-blooded indoorbusiness was different. Still I managed to pull myself together. I looked at my watch, andsaw that it was half-past ten. An idea seized me, and I went over the flat with a small-tooth comb. There was nobodythere, nor any trace of anybody, but I shuttered and bolted all the windows and put thechain on the door. By this time my wits were coming back to me, and I could think again. Ittook me about an hour to figure the thing out, and I did not hurry, for, unless the murderercame back, I had till about six o'clock in the morning for my cogitations. I was in the soup-that was pretty clear. Any shadow of a doubt I might have had about thetruth of Scudder's tale was now gone. The proof of it was lying under the table-cloth. Themen who knew that he knew what he knew had found him, and had taken the best way tomake certain of his silence. Yes; but he had been in my rooms four days, and his enemiesmust have reckoned that he had confided in me. So I would be the next to go. It might bethat very night, or next day, or the day after, but my number was up all right. Then suddenly I thought of another probability. Supposing I went out now and called in thepolice, or went to bed and let Paddock find the body and call them in the morning. Whatkind of a story was I to tell about Scudder? I had lied to Paddock about him, and the wholething looked desperately fishy. If I made a clean breast of it and told the police everythinghe had told me, they would simply laugh at me. The odds were a thousand to one that Iwould be charged with the murder, and the circumstantial evidence was strong enough tohang me. Few people knew me in England; I had no real pal who could come forward andswear to my character. Perhaps that was what those secret enemies were playing for. Theywere clever enough for anything, and an English prison was as good a way of getting rid ofme till after June 15th as a knife in my chest