death now.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Eastwood politely. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong –’
She broke in before he could complete the sentence.
‘Madre de Dios! They are coming. If they find out what I am doing, they will kill me. Do not fail me. Come at once. It is death for me if you don’t come. You know, 320 Kirk Street. The word is cucumber … Hush …’
He heard the faint click as she hung up the receiver at the other end.
‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Mr Eastwood, very much astonished.
He crossed over to his tobacco jar, and filled his pipe carefully.
‘I suppose,’ he mused, ‘that that was some curious effect of my subconscious self. She can’t have said cucumber. The whole thing is very extraordinary. Did she say cucumber, or didn’t she?’
He strolled up and down, irresolutely.
‘320 Kirk Street. I wonder what it’s all about? She’ll be expecting the other man to turn up. I wish I could have explained. 320 Kirk Street. The word is cucumber – oh, impossible, absurd – hallucination of a busy brain.’
He glanced malevolently at the typewriter.
‘What good are you, I should like to know? I’ve been looking at you all the morning, and a lot of good it’s done me. An author should get his plot from life – from life, do you hear? I’m going out to get one now.’
He clapped a hat on his head, gazed affectionately at his priceless collection of old enamels, and left the flat.
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