"Good!” she said. “Item one: Can we get him out of the building?"
Smedley nodded again.
"That's your part, Julian,” she said. “But how?"
"Two plans,” he said hoarsely, clenching his fist under the table, struggling not to let his voice quaver.
"Why two?"
"Because we can't trust Stringer! He was altogether too inquisitive. I think he wants Edward to give himself away by trying to escape."
"I see."
He knew what she was thinking.
"I know it sounds crazy.... “Oh, what was the use? He was crazy! They both knew that as well as he did.
Ginger grunted. “You say Stringer said he knew Exeter?"
"Shook his hand the day he got the hat trick."
"No, he didn't."
"What?"
Ginger removed his pince-nez and wiped it on his sleeve. It was a trick of his when he was upset. “Short Stringer never had any use for games. It was his brother who was the cricketer. Long Stringer was the one who was there that day at Eton. I know. I was there too. I sat right behind him. I remember Exeter being mobbed. I know there were dozens of admirers around him, but I'd swear Short Stringer wasn't there."
An unfamiliar sensation around his mouth told Smedley that he must be smiling. Another piece of evidence sliding into place! If distrusting doctors was proof of insanity, then Ginger Jones belonged to the club too.
"Long Stringer's the soldier?” Alice said. “Could he be involved in this? Could he have recognized Edward in Belgium and tipped off his brother?"
"I don't think we can trust anyone,” Smedley said. “Just the three of us.” That was funny, asking them to trust a babbling lunatic.
"I agree! Tell us your two plans."
Keeping Plan Three to himself for the time being, Smedley outlined Plan One, the blind for Stringer's benefit, and then Plan Two, the fire alarm.
His audience did not leap to its feet and applaud.
"Hardly cricket,” Ginger said dourly, “to shout ‘fire!’ in a hospital full of disabled men."
"It's damned near a public service! They haven't had a fire drill since I got there, and the place is a death trap. I just hope the alarm works, that's all.” Truth to tell, Smedley was uneasy about the ethics of Plan Two, perhaps trying to convince himself as much as his listeners.
"You're sure it will work?” Alice demanded.
"Certain. There will be chaos unlimited! The yard wall's only head high. Exeter could vault it one-han—easily."
She shrugged and did not argue. “Good. You've taken care of the first problem. How about the second, the manhunt? Spiriting him up to London?"
"That's Ginger's part. He'll have to be waiting with the getaway car. There's a concealed gateway..."
He was facing two stares of dismay.
"What car?” Ginger growled.
"Boadicea's chariot."
"The Chariot's out of commission. Up on blocks. There's no private motoring now."
"I—I didn't know!” Smedley felt a surge of panic and struggled against it.
"It's not quite illegal,” Alice said quickly. “Not yet. I'm sure it soon will be. There's all kinds of restrictions."
"And the price of petrol!” Ginger added. “It just went up to four and sixpence a gallon! Nobody can afford that!"
Smedley cursed under his breath. He should have thought of this. Bicycles? Horses? No, Plan Two had just sunk with all hands. Oh, God, did that mean he would have to go through with Plan One?
"How much time will he have?” Alice asked.
"He'll be missed pretty soon. I can't cut the telephone wires, or I would. If he can just get up to London, he'll be in great shape, but he's got to go through Canterbury or Maidstone.” The coppers could set up roadblocks and picket the railway stations. Kent was a dead end in wartime, with the ports closed. Stringer must have seen that.
"An hour?"
"At the most."
"The same problem would arise with Plan One, wouldn't it?"
Smedley shivered. Cold torrents ran over his skin as he thought of himself lying bound and gagged in the little summerhouse—that tiny, walls-falling-in, trench-sort-of suffocating summerhouse. “If Stringer snitches, Plan Two's a dead duck. If not, then my paybook and chits will get Exeter clean away. Just depends how long until they find me.” Find a screaming, eye-rolling, mouth-foaming lunatic...
Alice eyed him thoughtfully for a moment. She laid down her glass. “I think Plan Two is better. You'll do it tomorrow?"
"Tonight would be even better, but—"
"I know a car I can borrow."
"You do?” Smedley wanted to hug and kiss her. The expression on her face sobered him.
"But I can't drive."
He opened his mouth and then closed it. He felt a twinge of the willies and suppressed them. He would never drive a car again.
"Edward can't,” Alice said, “unless he's learned how in the last three years."
"I don't think that's too likely. And it doesn't get the car here, anyway."
"I've only ever driven a little bit,” she said, “and I'm certainly not up to driving in London."
They looked at Ginger.
He pawed at his beard, alarmed. “Neither am I! Strictly a back roads driver, I am! And I've never driven anything except the chariot. My license is back at Fallow anyway."
"Come on, old man!” Smedley said. “It's only fifty miles to London from here, and the A2's the straightest damned highway in the country, Watling Street. The bloody Romans built it."
Ginger glowered at Alice. “Where is this vehicle?"
"Notting Hill."
"Don't know London. That's north?"
"West."
"So it's on the wrong side!” The old chap was scowling ferociously, but he had not quite said no—not quite.
Alice drummed fingers on the table. An old, familiar glint shone in her eyes. “Captain Smedley, can you suggest anyone else who might be qualified and willing to assist us in rescuing my cousin?"
"Dozens of chaps, Miss Prescott. All the fellows in his class at school would jump at the chance."
"And where can I find them?"
"Ask around in Flanders. Most of them are there, still fighting the lousy Boche or filling up the cemeteries. The ones back here in Blighty have all had their legs blown off. So they can't help you. Frightfully sorry."
Ginger snarled. “Damn you both! What sort of car?"
"A Vauxhall, I think,” Alice said. “Bloody great big black box on four wheels. You won't get wet."
"Does it have electric lights?"
Alice pursed her lips, a gesture which definitely did not improve her appearance. It suggested hay. “I'm not sure. I've never been out in it in the dark."
"Time, gentlemen!” called the landlord.
"We must go,” Smedley said.
Jones did not budge. “You're sure the owner will be willing to lend us this vehicle?"
"He would not mind!” she said firmly. “I have the key to the lockup."
"And what will he say if I ram a taxi in the Strand?"
"I am sure it is insured.” Her face was bleak. Best to ask no more, obviously.
Ginger polished his glasses vigorously. “Tomorrow night?"
The old chap was not short of courage and definitely long on loyalty. How would Fallow react if one of its senior masters was caught driving the getaway car in a jailbreak?
"Good man!” Smedley said. “But not tomorrow. Tonight! We must get the jump on Stringer and his gang."
Ginger flinched. “Tonight?"
"This is Plan Three! I tried to hint to Exeter that it would not wait until Friday. Even if he didn't understand my hint, though, he'll know as soon as the alarm goes off. I'll bring some spare togs along, in case he has to run in his pajamas.” Smedley sighed happily. “I'm coming too, you see."
Other worlds!