Trouble on the Thames: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 1) by Bridges Victor

Author:Bridges, Victor [Bridges, Victor]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2015-10-05T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter VIII

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

A metallic boom floated vaguely into his consciousness, and with a protesting grunt Owen rolled over on to his elbow and reluctantly opened his eyes. His first sensation was one of utter bewilderment. For a moment or two he lay staring round the unfamiliar room with its long array of shelves and cupboards, and then, flinging off the rug that covered the lower part of his body, he struggled up stiffly into a sitting position. Where the deuce was he, and why— His hand went up to his head and his exploring fingers encountered a bandage. The effect was what is sometimes described as “electrical.” It was just as though he had pressed a button and some obstructing curtain had been suddenly whisked aside.

“My holy aunt!” he muttered. “The angel’s workshop, of course!” Like a queer unrolling film the events of the previous night began to crowd back into his mind. Curiously enough, they seemed to be taking place in reverse order. From the moment when Sally had spread the rug over him and told him to go to sleep his memory travelled in swift stages through what seemed to be a positive nightmare of strange and almost incredible experiences. Only when he arrived at the point when he was sitting dazed and half-conscious in the darkness of the bungalow did the stream of recollections suddenly peter out. Cudgel his brains as he might, all his further efforts were useless. Beyond that, everything was still a complete and maddening blank.

Getting off the couch a trifle unsteadily, he picked up his watch, which was lying on the table. The hands were pointing to three o’clock. The next instant he realised that he had omitted to wind it, and laying it down again with an impatient frown, he crossed over towards the small window opposite and peered out between the protecting iron bars.

He found himself gazing into a miniature back yard, the distinguishing feature of which was a large, rather dilapidated dustbin. The place was enclosed by a high, dirty-looking brick wall, with a flight of steps leading up to a door in the centre. Above this barrier rose an irregular line of chimney-pots, their black shapes standing out fantastically against a narrow strip of leaden-coloured sky.

As to what time of day it was, or how long he had been unconscious, there was nothing to afford the remotest indication. It was true that he was distinctly hungry, but since his last meal must be verging upon ancient history, such a state of affairs was only to be expected. The one fact about which there could be no question was that the rest and sleep had done him a world of good. Apart from a slight headache he felt in astonishingly good shape.

A gilt-framed mirror hanging on the wall suddenly caught his eye. With a certain hopeful excitement he walked towards it, but at the first glimpse of his own reflection the same chill feeling of bewilderment swept over him again with renewed force.

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