Enigma Read Online Free

he came within sight of the new base and stood beside
the road watching three Flying Fortresses take off in the distance,
one after the other—vast aircraft, almost too heavy, or so it
seemed to Jericho, to escape the ground. They lumbered along the
fresh concrete runway, roaring with frustration, clawing at the air
for liberation until suddenly a crack of daylight appeared beneath
them, and the crack widened, and they were aloft.
    He stood there for almost half an hour, feeling the air pulse
with the vibrations of their engines, smelling the faint scent of
aviation spirit carried on the cold air. He had never seen such a
demonstration of power. The fossils of the Pleistocene era, he
reflected with grim delight, must now be so much dust. What was
that line of Cicero that Atwood was so fond of quoting? “Nervos
belli, pecuniam infinitam.” The sinews of war, unlimited money.
    He looked at his watch and realised he had better turn back if
he was going to reach the college before dark.
    He had gone about a mile when he heard an engine behind him. A
jeep overtook him, swerved and stopped. The driver, wrapped in a
heavy overcoat, stood up and beckoned to him.
    “Hey, fella! Wanna lift?”
    “That would be kind. Thank you.”
    “Jump in.”
    The American didn’t want to talk, which suited Jericho. He
gripped the edges of his seat and stared ahead as they bounced and
rattled at speed down the darkening lanes and into the town. The
driver dropped him at the back of the college, waved, gunned the
engine, and was gone. Jericho watched him disappear, then turned
and walked through the gate.
    Before the war, this three-hundred-yard walk, at this time of
day, at this time of year, had been Jericho’s favourite: the
footpath running across a carpet of mauve and yellow crocuses, the
worn stones lit by ornate Victorian lamps, the spires of the chapel
to the left, the lights of the college to the right. But the
crocuses were late, the lanterns had not been switched on since
1939, and a static water tank disfigured the famous aspect of the
chapel. Only one light gleamed faintly in the college and as he
walked towards it he gradually realised it was his window.
    He stopped, frowning. Had he left his desk light on? He was sure
he hadn’t. As he watched, he saw a shadow, a movement, a figure in
the pale yellow square. Two seconds later the light went on in his
bedroom.
    It wasn’t possible, was it?
    He started to run. He covered the distance to his staircase in
thirty seconds and took the steps like an athlete. His boots
clattered on the worn stone. “Claire?” he shouted. “Claire?” On the
landing his door stood open.
    “Steady on, old thing,” said a male voice from within, “you’ll
do yourself a mischief.”
    §
    Guy Logie was a tall, cadaverous man, ten years older than
Jericho. He lay on his back on the sofa facing the door, his neck
on one armrest, his bony ankle dangling over the other, long hands
folded neatly on his stomach. A pipe was clamped between his teeth
and he was blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. Distended haloes
drifted upwards, twisted, broke and melted into haze. He took his
pipe from his mouth and gave an elaborate yawn which seemed to take
him by surprise.
    “Oh, God. Sorry.” He opened his eyes and swung himself into a
sitting position. “Hello, Tom.”
    “Oh please. Please, don’t get up,” said Jericho. “Please, I
insist, make yourself at home. Perhaps I could get you some
tea?”
    “Tea. What a grand idea.” Before the war Logie had been head of
mathematics at a vast and ancient public school. He had a Blue in
rugger and another in hockey and irony bounced off him like pebbles
off an advancing rhinoceros. He crossed the room and grasped
Jericho by the shoulders. “Come here. Let me look at you, old
thing,” he said, turning him this way and that towards the light.
“Oh dear oh dear, you do look bloody terrible.”
    Jericho shrugged himself free. “I was fine.”
    “Sorry. We did