THE MAN WHO DIED
I returned to my flat at about three o’clock on that May afternoon very unhappy with life. I had been back in Britain for three months and I was already bored. The weather was bad, the people were dull, and the amusements of London seemed as exciting as a glass of cold water. ‘Richard Hannay,’ I told myself, ‘you have made a mistake, and you had better do something about it.’
It made me angry when I thought of the years I had spent in Africa. I had spent those years working very hard and making money. Not a lot of money, but enough for me. I had left Scotland when I was six years old, and I had never been home since. For years I had dreamt of coming home to Britain and spending the rest of my life there, but I was disappointed with the place after the first week. And so here I was, thirty-seven years old, healthy, with enough money to have a good time, and bored to death.
That evening I went out to dinner and sat reading the newspapers afterwards. They were full of the troubles in south-east Europe, and there was a long report about Karolides, the Greek Prime Minister. He seemed to be an honest man, but some people in Europe hated him. However, many people in Britain liked him, and one newspaper said that he was the only man who could prevent a war starting. I remember wondering if I could get a job in south-east Europe; it might be a lot less boring than life in London.
As I walked home that night, I decided to give Britain one more day. If nothing interesting happened, I would take the next boat back to Africa.
My flat was in a big new building in Langham Place. There was a doorman at the entrance to the building, but each flat was separate, with its own front door. I was just putting the key into my door when a man appeared next to me. He was thin, with a short brown beard and small, very bright eyes. I recognized him as the man who lived in a flat on the top floor of the building. We
had spoken once or twice on the stairs.
‘Can I speak to you?’ he asked. ‘May I come in for a minute?’ His voice was shaking a little.
I opened the door and we went in.
‘Is the door locked?’ he asked, and quickly locked it himself.
‘I’m very sorry,’ he said to me. ‘It’s very rude of me. But I’m in a dangerous corner and you looked like the kind of man who would understand. If I explain, will you help me?’
‘I’ll listen to you,’ I said. ‘That’s all I promise.’ I was getting worried by this strange man’s behaviour.
There was a table with drinks on it next to him, and he took a large whisky for himself. He drank it quickly,
And then put the glass down so violently that it broke.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m a little nervous tonight. You see, at this moment I’m dead.’
I sat down in an armchair and lit my pipe.
‘How does it feel?’ I asked. I was now almost sure that the man was mad.
He smiled. ‘I’m not mad – yet. Listen, I’ve been watching you, and I guess that you’re not easily frightened. I’m going to tell you my story. I need help very badly, and 1 want to know if you’re the right man to ask.’
‘Tell me your story,’ I said, ‘and I’ll tell you if I can help you.’
It was an extraordinary story. I didn’t understand all of it, and I had to ask a lot of questions, but here it is:
His name was Franklin P. Scudder and he was an American, but he had been in south-east Europe for several years. By accident, he had discovered a group of people who were working secretly to push Europe towards a war. These people were clever, and dangerous.
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