“We shall know when he’s back all right. But, unless I’m much mistaken, it won’t be just yet.” He turned to Diana. “Where were you to address him?”
“C/o the Bank of Austria, Salzburg.”
“Would you like to wire him on Wednesday?”
“If you think it’s wise, Captain Mansel.”
“I think it’s natural. And later, perhaps, you shall write.”
“You’ll tell me what to say.”
“Of course. But I want you to remember, Diana, that if you come in with us, you must do as we say. You can’t play Friar on your own—he’s the very hell of a fish.”
“I swear,” said Diana, quickly.
“Will you stay on here for the present?”
“If Olivia and John will have me.”
“That goes without saying,” said Olivia.
“And what about me?” said Palin. “You must admit that I pull my weight as a clown. I showed the robber chief how to get at the jewels. That’s more than Columbine’s done; so give me another chance to make a fool of myself.”
“Your host was to blame,” said Mansel. “He never warned you that Punter was hereabout.”
“I entirely agree,” said John. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“I must confess,” said Palin, “that if you had told me that, I should have repaired to this mansion, armed the servants and had the drawbridge raised.”
“You can serve us best,” said Mansel, “by going back to your inn and standing by. I’m perfectly sure we shall need you, but when and how we shall need you, I cannot say.”
“It shall be done,” said Palin. “But I shall be very lonely. If Friar should come back for a night. . .”
“Keep him,” said Mansel, laughing. “And let me know. Our address is The Sickle at Villach, but keep it quiet.”
“And we,” said John Ferrers, “for whom you are doing all this, to save whose property you two are risking your lives, are to sit still here and let you lie out in the rain.”
“John,” said Mansel, “I don’t have to argue with you. The moment you leave the castle, they’ll know that the gems are gone. Though you stay here, they may suspect that they’re gone. But the moment you leave, they’ll know. And I don’t want them to know. I want to keep them guessing right up to the last.”
“And now,” said Olivia, rising, “Andrew shall play us upstairs. Jonah and Richard are abnormal, but Andrew and John are half dead for want of sleep.”
Palin passed to the piano.
“It’ll have to be Bohème he said. “But that I can play when I’m tight.”
So, to the strains of Puccini, we went to our beds.
This, at a quarter past ten; and I must confess that, despite what Olivia had said, I liked the look of my sheets. I promised myself a good night, but Fortune ruled otherwise.
It was almost half past twelve when Mansel slipped into my room. Weary or no, I am a very light sleeper, and so I was sitting up, ready, before he spoke.
“Mansel speaking, William. Don’t show a light.”
“More trouble?”
“It might be. The Boche has come back.”
I sighed.
“Only a German,” I said, “would do such a brutal thing.”
“And he’s brought a posse with him. They’re searching the castle now.”
“My God, he’s hot stuff,” said I.
“He’s a cunning swine,” said Mansel, “and I’ll say he had me on. He deliberately gave us to think that he wouldn’t be back just yet; and he led us to see the wisdom of getting the treasure out as soon as ever we could. And then, within six hours, at dead of night he comes back. Good work, you know—you can’t get away from that. I mean, be honest, William. Had we not got the stuff out, after his visit this evening, I’ll lay any money we should have done it tonight.”
“So we should,” said I. “And have been caught out. And that would have been a party. What do we do?”
“We must leave it to Ferrers. I hope he goes off the deep end. But if they search the whole castle, we are going to be found. To withdraw would be worse than futile, for we couldn’t conceal the fact that these rooms have been occupied. But please expect a visit. The Boche is right up in the air.”
With that, he slipped out of the room, and Bell slipped in.
“It’s Bell, sir. Have you any orders?”
“Tell me the worst. Where’s Carson?”
“With Captain Mansel, sir.”
“Thank God,” said I. “They didn’t see him come out?”
“Oh, no, sir. He heard them drive into the courtyard and watched his chance.”
I might have known.
Bell deserved his name, for he was the soundest man with whom I have had to do. In times of stress he was my rod and my staff. He knew what I needed, before I knew myself; before I had time to call him, he was at hand. He set my life above his, because, perhaps, he knew that I set his above mine; he was the finest servant and true as steel. But Carson had caught from his master the precious trick of foresight. He could see the move that was coming, and take his place, so that, when the move was made, Carson was ready to meet it, however startling it was. Twice over, by such a maneuver, he saved my life—and when I made bold to thank him, he very respectfully said he was glad he was there. Working together, the two were incomparable; indeed, without their service, Mansel and I would never have taken the field.
“Well, that’s all right,” said I. “You’d better be found in bed. The Boche would not understand it if you were outside my door.”
“Very good, sir. You’ll ring, if you want me?”
“I promise I will.”
When Bell had gone, I lay down and closed my eyes; and since I was still very tired, I soon fell asleep.
Half an hour later, perhaps, somebody rapped upon the door.
I switched on the bedside lamp, propped myself on an elbow, and cried, “Come in.”
A plain-clothes man opened the door, shot a glance round the bedroom, and then drew back for the Boche.
“Who the devil are you?” I said.
“I am of the police.”
“And what do you want at this hour in a private room?”
“Excuse me.” He drew himself up. “I bear with me a warrant to search this house.”
I put out a hand.
“I wish to see it,” I said.
The fellow turned to the Austrian, standing behind.
“Give me the warrant,” he said.
The thing was indeed a warrant, worded vaguely enough, authorizing the bearer to enter and search Hohenems.
“Very well,” I said. “We do things better in England, but let that go.”
“You are not in England,” said the Boche.
“No,” said I. “Nor yet in Germany.”
“May I see your passport?”
“I suppose so.” I left my bed, took my keys from a table, and opened the little dispatch case in which I kept such things. “There you are,” I said.
The German glanced at the passport and back at my case. “I observe that you carry a pistol.”
“I carry a pistol whenever I travel abroad.”
“I see. Do you also carry a flashlight?”
Remembering the lens which was missing, I felt rather tired. But I could not say no, for the flashlight lay beside the pistol, for him to see.
“I do.”
“Quite so. May I look at that torch?”
I put the thing into his hand.
As he turned it about, smiling, I could have broken his neck.
At last he looked up.
“Its lens is missing, Mr. Chandos.”
“That’s quite true. I lost it a night or two back.”
“Where did you lose it, Mr. Chandos?”
“In the older part of the castle. There’s no light there, and you have to watch your step.”
“Why were you there, Mr. Chandos?”
I raised my eyebrows.
“Old places interest me.
This is a ‘show place,’ you know; the older part of the castle used to be shown.”
“Quite so.” He took a lens from his pocket and fitted it into the flashlight. “There! It is all right now. Strange that it should not have been broken. Did you use a carpet, too?”
“A carpet?” I said, frowning.
“Like the robbers, Mr. Chandos, who came to look for the treasure . . . that wasn’t there.”
“Look here,” said I. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, but it is perfectly clear that you mean to be rude. And that I will not have.”
As the man recoiled, I took the flashlight from his hand.
“Will not?” he spat.
“Will not. I pass over your intrusion, because I know better than to expect manners from your race. But you have no shadow of right to molest, much less insult, a soul in this house.”
“I am of the police. I have my duty to do.”
I looked the brute up and down.
“To define your behavior as duty is to defile the word. Your duty is to succor the public—that’s why you’re paid. Not to locate possessions which one day you hope to steal.”
The fellow’s eyes burned in his head, and I saw the tide of scarlet rising into his face.
“Before we are done,” he said thickly, “you will regret those words.”
“Don’t you believe it,” I said. “You Boches always split on England, because we’re the better stuff.”
For a moment the man stood trembling. Then he turned on his heel and stamped from the room.
As I listened to his footfalls receding, I had an uneasy feeling that Friar had done very much more than bruise our heel.
Mansel was speaking.
“It is written, ‘No peace to the wicked.’ So far as I can see, there isn’t much to the good.”
Be sure I agreed with him.
Less than two hours had gone by, and we were upon the road. In view of what had happened, it would have been folly to stay at Hohenems. And so we had taken our leave. Although we had not said so, we were not bound for Villach, but for a tiny hamlet some thirty miles from that town. It went by the name of St. Martin and boasted an excellent inn, at which Mansel and I had stayed a number of times. Since the little place was retired, it was fair to expect that we should not be disturbed there for forty-eight hours; and that, so to speak, would give us a breathing space. By moving at once and by night, we hoped to cover our tracks; but this meant that our run must be rounded with a respectable sleep, for out of forty-eight hours we should have spent four in our beds, and our labor on Sunday night had been very severe. And so we should be too weary not only to take any action, but to make any valuable plans.
Driving as fast as he dared, Mansel brought us to St. Martin soon after half past six, to find the inn’s doors wide open and the host himself supervising the sluicing down of the hall.
When he saw who it was, he came running, with outstretched arms.
“Oh, my good friends—the best that ever I had! Give you good morning, sirs. Drive the car in, I pray you. See, her stable is ready, all clean and fresh.”
Because the inn had no coach house, by the landlord’s express desire, we always drove the car clean into the great, flagged hall, and there she was lodged for so long as we lay at his house.
Mansel leaned out of the Rolls.
“If I do that, will you shut the doors upon her?”
“Oho! Sits the wind in that quarter? Yes, indeed. The wicket door shall be used, and no one who passes by will know that a car is within.” He called his good wife. “Breakfast at once, Elise. An omelet and coffee, to start with. Our friends have come back.”
At this, the good woman came running, to welcome us in, and to meet such honest good will was better than any breakfast, for food may comfort the body, but kindliness warms the heart.
“And after breakfast,” said Mansel, “a bath and a bed, for we have had next to no rest for forty-eight hours.”
“Sir,” said our hostess, “permit me to know you of old. By the time you have broken your fast, the water will be boiling and the bedrooms will be prepared.”
With that, she bustled away, calling her maids about her and issuing orders as if we were royalty, indeed.
So it fell out that we very soon sat down to a truly excellent breakfast under the limes. Then we strolled for a little, to give our digestions a chance, and then we bathed and lay down, to sleep for a full ten hours.
By seven o’clock that evening we were all different men, and while Carson and Bell were busy about the Rolls, Mansel and I took counsel under the limes.
“By tomorrow at latest,” he said, “the hunt will be up. We must leave here tomorrow evening and go to ground. If Wagensburg is empty . . .”
Wagensburg was a castle in which we had spent some time a few years back; in fact, for a while we had owned it, though we had never lived there as owners usually live. And then we had sold it again to a youth with more money than brains, who was sure that his wife would be charmed with such a residence. I fear that he was mistaken, as husbands usually are, for the castle was again on the market before a year was out. But in that time the house had been modernized and, what was more to the point, a road of approach had been made to the back of the house.
Now if Wagensburg was empty, we could come and go by this road and could use the servants’ quarters in secret; for, though we were, in fact, in possession, the main drive would never be taken, the courtyard would never be entered, and the front of the castle would argue a desolate mansion for all to see.
I took a deep breath.
“And then what?”
“We can reconnoiter a route from there into Italy, and when we are sure of that, we fetch Diana Revoke.”
“I thought that was coming,” I said.
“I can’t say I like it,” said Mansel, “but, thanks entirely to Friar, we cannot share the passage, as I had hoped. Either you or I must cross, while the other covers his going with all his might. Now the best way to cover A’s movement is to direct attention to that of B. And there Diana can help, for she is the very type that appeals to the Boche. If, therefore, she works with B, and pulls her weight, the Boche will persuade himself that he is doing right in sticking to B. And I have an idea that she’ll be a new one on him. When he asked who was in the castle, Ferrers suppressed her name.”
“I think she’s all right,” I said.
“So do I,” said Mansel. “I’m almost sure. But I’m not too good at women, and many a man’s come down on the lady’s smile. Still, we shan’t trust her a lot. She will believe that A is in Italy. And that B is going to meet him, bearing the swag. In any event, I don’t see what else we can do. She wires to Friar tomorrow, and Ferrers will vet the wire. She writes to Friar tomorrow, and Ferrers will steam the letter, to see what she says.”
“Friar should be still off the map.”
“He should,” said Mansel. “I very much hope he is. But I’m not going to bank upon it. I’ve seen Friar’s shape before.”
At dawn the following morning we left for Wagensburg. This, on reconnaissance only. We had to know what to expect.
Each of us knew the way as he knew the palm of his hand, and before an hour had gone by, Mansel had brought the Rolls to a spot within two miles of the road of approach we sought. Though the ways hereabout were lonely, nearer he would not go, lest the car should be marked by some husbandman, early abroad. So there we left Carson, with orders to keep out of sight, and Mansel and Bell and I continued our journey on foot.
Soon we crossed the river we knew so well, and twenty minutes later we came to the road of approach. This must have cost much to make, for the ground was difficult, but it had been well done. It ran through a valley, or combe, to rise by an easy zigzag past blowing meadows and Wagensburg’s famous well. Then it passed into the coppice which masked the back of the house.
Moving along it quietly, we saw no sign of life, and when we emerged from the trees, there was the mansion before us
, gray and cool and silent, its venerable walls in shadow, its roof already alight with the morning sun.
After a careful reconnaissance, we cut a pane from a window and entered Wagensburg.
There was certainly no one there, but the house was dry as a bone, and the servants’ quarters were now much more convenient than had been the masters’ rooms a few years back. There were basins and running water, a mighty electric stove, and a refrigerator fit for a hotel. Better still, there were two bathrooms, each furnished with water heaters, to beat the band. This proved, as did the stove, that the house was supplied by the mains, and that, if we could make some connection, we might enjoy all the comfort that power can bring.
“Carson’s job,” said Mansel. “If the thing can be done, he’ll do it. We’ll leave a fiver behind, to square the account.”
And there we left the mansion and made our way to the car.
On the way back to St. Martin we purchased such gear as we needed, here and there, and we took in a store of tinned food and two cases of beer. Mens sana in corpore sano is what some wise man said.
When at last we sat down to our breakfast at half past ten, we had a free day before us, to spend as we pleased. Mansel, of course, went fishing, and I must confess that I passed the time in a meadow behind the inn, resting in the shade of some chestnuts, and when I was not dozing, composing a foolish letter to Jenny, my wife.
At nine o’clock that evening we took our leave of the innkeeper and his wife, charging them to forget our visit and to expect our return. And less than three hours later we were installed in the mansion we knew so well, the Rolls was fast in a garage built onto the house, and Carson had done his job and had given us power and light.
Chapter 3. Rogues and Vagabonds
We were now quite close to the frontier—no more than eighteen miles, but none of us knew the country through which it ran, for on all our other visits we had come and gone by the west. Now we must go by the south.
Had not the Boche been set on, we should, no doubt, have gone back by Germany; but now that was out of the question, for there his writ would run with the power of the Rhine itself.
The border was mountainous, and was not defined by some river, as so many frontiers are. But to guard a mountainous frontier is easier than it looks, for if frontier posts are well placed, nature will keep the country which lies between. I have known, upon such a border, two posts nine miles apart; but though one would have declared that any young, strong man could contrive to pass between these, only a beast, I think, could have made its way by. A crag would force him aside, and when he had passed round this, a torrent he could not ford would be barring his way; he would find a sudden valley which promised well, and after some weary miles would end in a cul de sac. And so, if the posts are well sited, though they stand some distance apart, it may be most hard to go by. Add to this that the guards know the line which the frontier takes and have their private view points to which they send out patrols; though these are withdrawn at dusk, no man can cross by night, unless he has first made sure of his way by day.
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 33