Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [59]
One of the sailors wanted to play cards.
“How can we play cards in the dark?”
“Feel the edges. All Harry’s cards are marked.”
The train stopped unaccountably at about 4 A.M. A cultured voice—the dried-egg-sandwich supplier, Faber thought—said, “My guess is we’re outside Crewe.”
“Knowing the railways, we could be anywhere from Bolton to Bournemouth,” said the cockney.
The train jerked and moved off, and everyone cheered. Where, Faber wondered, was the caricature Englishman with his icy reserve and his stiff upper lip? Not here.
A few minutes later a voice in the corridor said: “Tickets, please.” Faber noted the Yorkshire accent; they were in the north now. He fumbled in his pockets for his ticket.
He had the corner seat, near the door, so he could see into the corridor. The inspector was shining a flashlight onto the tickets. Faber saw the man’s silhouette in the reflected light. It looked vaguely familiar.
He settled back in his seat to wait. He remembered the nightmare: “This is an Abwehr ticket”—and smiled in the dark.
Then he frowned. The train stopped unaccountably; shortly afterward a ticket inspector began; the inspector’s face was vaguely familiar…. It might be nothing, but Faber stayed alive by worrying about things that might be nothing. He looked into the corridor again, but the man had entered a compartment.
The train stopped briefly—the station was Crewe, according to informed opinion in Faber’s compartment—and moved off again.
Faber got another look at the inspector’s face, and now he remembered. The boarding house in High-gate! The boy from Yorkshire who wanted to get into the Army!
Faber watched him carefully. His flashlight moved across the face of every passenger. He was not just looking at the tickets.
No, Faber told himself, don’t jump to conclusions. How could they possibly have got on to him? They could not have found out which train he was on, got hold of one of the few people in the world who knew what he looked like, and got the man on the train dressed as a ticket inspector in so short a time….
Parkin, that was his name. Billy Parkin. Somehow he looked much older now. He was coming closer.
It must be a look-alike—perhaps an elder brother. This had to be a coincidence.
Parkin entered the compartment next to Faber’s. There was no time left.
Faber assumed the worst, and prepared to deal with it.
He got up, left the compartment, and went along the corridor, picking his way over suitcases and kitbags and bodies, to the lavatory. It was vacant. He went in and locked the door.
He was only buying time—even ticket inspectors did not fail to check the toilets. He sat on the seat and wondered how to get out of this. The train had speeded up and was traveling too fast for him to jump off. Besides, someone would see him go, and if they were really searching for him they would stop the train.
“All tickets, please.”
Parkin was getting close again.
Faber had an idea. The coupling between the carriages was a tiny space like an air-lock, enclosed by a bellowslike cover between the cars of the train, shut off at both ends by doors because of the noise and drafts. He left the lavatory, fought his way to the end of the carriage, opened the door, and stepped into the connecting passage. He closed the door behind him.
It was freezing cold, and the noise was terrific. Faber sat on the floor and curled up, pretending to sleep. Only a dead man could sleep here, but people did strange things on trains these days. He tried not to shiver.
The door opened behind him. “Tickets, please.”
He ignored it. He heard the door close.
“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.” The voice was unmistakable.
Faber pretended to stir, then got to his feet, keeping his back to Parkin. When he turned the stiletto was in his hand. He pushed Parkin up against the door, held the point of his knife at his throat, and said, “Be still or I’ll kill you.”
With his left hand he took Parkin’s flashlight, and shone it into the young man’s face. Parkin did