What hour it was when we came to the barrier torrent, I cannot say, but I know it was later than I had hoped to be there.
From this side, for some strange reason, its vehemence seemed more fearful, its threat more sinister. This may have been because there were fewer rocks, and the speed and might of the race, darker almost than the darkness, argued the awful way of the waters under the earth.
I put an arm round Colette and held her close.
“We shall cross this together, great heart. You will be on my back with your arms round my neck.”
The girl put a hand to her throat.
“We have to cross this, Adam?”
“Yes, Colette. And, believe me, it’s nothing at all. You wait here and watch me.”
With that, I climbed into the beech, and very soon I was back with the rope in my hands.
“You see?” I said. “With a run, this will carry us over, as if we were on a trapeze. We shan’t even get wet, my dear. But when we land, be careful that I don’t fall upon you. When I say ‘Down,’ let go, and you’ll fall very soft.”
“I see,” said Colette, quietly. “When you say ‘Down!’ ”
“That’s right, my sweet. I’ve done it already, you know, and so has Bell. It looks much worse than it is.”
“I am not afraid,” said Colette. “I should be, if I were alone. I should be terrified. But—I am not alone, and so I am not afraid. Shall we go now, Adam dear?”
“On to my back,” I said, stooping . . .
She was very light, but, of course, I could not hold her, because I needed both hands to hold our weight to the rope. What would happen if I failed to land us and we must climb up to the tree, I dared not think.
“Lock your arms round my neck,” I said, “and what ever happens, Colette, you must not let go.”
“Is that too tight, Adam?”
“Lord, no,” said I. “And dig in your knees, as though you were riding a horse.”
I felt her grip my loins.
I reached as high as I could; then I laid hold like grim death, took my run and launched us over the flood.
I suppose two seconds went by before we had crossed, but to tell the truth, it seemed much longer than that.
Then—
“Down!” I croaked.
The arms and knees fell away, and I let myself go.
I sat up with the rope in my hands and the sweat running into my eyes. Then Colette’s arms went about me and her cheek was pressed against mine.
“Adam, Adam,” she cried, “I should not have come. No man can make such an effort and be the same.”
I wrung the sweat from my brow.
“I’m quite all right, my beauty. It wasn’t your weight—you weigh nothing; and I was glad to have you upon my back. But there was just one moment at which we had to alight. And only one. Still, that’s behind us now, and when we do it again, we shall be coming back.”
Then I made fast the rope to the staple. This, in such a way that if any smuggler came to the opposite side, I will lay any money that smuggler went away empty. Perhaps this was not quite fair, but the rope was our way of escape.
And then we rested a little, on the bank of the savage water, hand in hand, like two children who have come safe out of some pass.
The dawn was up, before we came to the road. At once we turned to the right, making good pace along it for nearly a mile. Then we turned to the left, and forty minutes later we turned to the right again. We were now between Doris and Godel, on the road I had reason to know. This was the way to the frontier, by which, some seven miles on, the weights had been left.
Never shall I forget those seven miles.
To hasten was, quite frankly, beyond our power, for we had been on our feet for more than ten hours. How Colette covered this lap, I do not know; I could not afford to spare her, for every minute was precious—and we were behind our time. The way became more dangerous with every second that passed; but take to the woods, I dared not, for, had our way not been smooth, our progress would have dropped to a crawl. And yet the road was deadly—a never ending series of reaches, with, once in a while, a milestone, whose legend broke the heart. Ten miles to the frontier. . . and, after a long time, nine . . . then eight. . . then seven . . . then six . . . Six miles, still to the frontier, which meant we had three to go.
The road did not run through Godel, but passed it by; only, The Vat of Melody stood by the side of our way.
But I was ready for that.
Five hundred yards from the inn, there was, I knew, a footpath which left the road, for I had crossed it on Thursday, when I had left the inn. This joined another footpath which I had actually used, and the latter led back to the road, perhaps a mile to the east. By making this painful detour, we could avoid the inn; but it added much to the distance we had to cover, and though its surface was good, this did not, of course, compare with that of the smooth highway.
As we came back to the road, I shot a glance at my watch—a quarter to eight.
Colette looked pale and drawn, but her head was high. It tore my heart to drive her, but what could I do? I had to get on. Had I proposed to leave her, she would have laughed in my face. After all, she was there to show me the spot where the weights had been left.
To add to our grievous burden, traffic began to share the road with us—motor traffic, I mean, for I had no fear of the carts. Of these we had passed six or eight, but the peasants had done no more than give us good day. Nor had I much fear of the trucks, but when I heard a car coming, I swung Colette into the bracken beside the way. And there we lay down together until the car had gone by. This must have happened twelve times in the last three miles, and every time we lay down, it cost us the world to rise.
Indeed, it was past nine o’clock, when I felt a touch on my arm and Colette breathed, “There!”
“Where, exactly?” I said.
“Just before we come to the barn on the opposite side of the road. There is a little hollow, above and beyond the ditch.”
I liked the look of the spot, for it lay upon the edge of a wood. The boughs, indeed, stretched out to the road itself, and the undergrowth was thick and would harbor us very well. More. From my point of view, it made a most excellent cache; and I felt like forgiving Odin his great delinquency. “Out of sight, out of mind,” says the proverb. And if they were out of his sight, then were they out of the sight of everyone else.
I almost broke into a run . . .
I had still thirty paces to go, when I saw the marks on either side of the ditch. The soil was moist, and the verdure was crushed and trampled. . . and the end of a bough had been broken and left to hang its gay head . . .
I think that my heart turned over within my breast.
Then I perceived that Odin and such as had helped him must have left marks behind them when they had bestowed the boxes containing the weights; for it could have been no child’s play to get them over the ditch. That, then, was the explanation. And so I breathed again. Still, I was not too easy. If I could observe their traces, then so could other eyes.
And so, no doubt, they had. For when I had leaped the ditch, I saw that the hollow was empty and that the weights were gone.
Chapter 7. Two’s Company
To be honest, I cannot remember the next few moments of time. The shock, I suppose, has occasioned a blank in my memory. But I know I was sitting down, with my head in my hands, while Colette was lying beside me, face downward in the hollow, an arm across her eyes, sobbing and sobbing, as though her heart would break.
I have suffered heavier blows. But perhaps because of the effort which we had made, perhaps because the gems were not mine, but Ferrers’, life seemed to have lost its savor. If I had felt tired before, I now felt utterly finished, unfit to lift a hand. Indeed, there was no health in me, and that is the truth. But some wise man has said that there is in every being one more ounce of resistance than he himself thinks there is. And when I saw Colette lying there, worn out, forlorn and weeping, I set abou
t comforting her without thinking what I did. And this, as I shall show, was the saving of me.
I picked her up and held her close in my arms.
“You mustn’t cry, Colette. Because the weights are gone, we mustn’t give up. They probably aren’t very far. We must put our minds to the business of getting them back. For all I know, they may be inside that barn. I don’t think the police have found them, for if they had, they would have left a man here.”
“It—may—be—the—others,” she said.
“It may be anyone. But, just because they’re not here, I’m not going to throw in my hand. We’re going to sit here and breakfast. And then I shall leave you here and have a look round. Don’t say that you will come with me, because I have made up my mind. You are too tired to help me in any search. But when you have rested awhile, your strength will come back. And then you shall help me, my pretty, in all that I do.”
To that she made no answer, and, after a moment, I saw that she was asleep. As gently as I could, I laid her down. Then I got to my feet, picked her up and carried her a few paces into the wood. There, in a fold of the ground, was a bed of leaves; and since I could do no better, I laid her on that.
She made a pathetic picture, pale and wan, still drawing tremulous breaths. Her hat had fallen off, and her tumbled curls declared her a weary Rosalind. But sleep was what she needed, and that she had. When she awoke, she would be herself again.
I opened my kit bag and set some food beside her. Then I returned to the hollow to break my fast, for from there I could watch the road, for what that was worth.
Little enough, perhaps, but something had to be done. If there was no work for my hands, there was work for my eyes and my feet. I must watch and search, and use what wits I had. Just because the hollow was empty, was I to sit still? And then slink back to Jade, with my tail between my legs? Mansel would not have done that, and neither would I.
So long as it was not the police that had found and taken the weights, a chance remained of tracing them—very slender, perhaps, but still a chance. I decided to assume it was Friar. Once Orris had joined his master and made his report, Friar would know at once that the gems were within the weights. He would, therefore, follow the troupe, which meant he would take the same road, keeping his eyes about him, for all he was worth. Now I found it unlikely that the weights had been out of sight. The boxes had been laid to one side, and the hollow had been convenient, because it had made a ledge on the sloping ground. The idea of concealment had entered nobody’s head. The probability was that the boxes could be seen from the road—by a man who was using his eyes. So Friar might well have seen them, and just because he was Friar, instead of an ordinary man, have stopped the car and gone back to see what the boxes held . . . (I did not think this was likely. Indeed, I did not think it was Friar that had taken the weights. But I had to make bricks somehow, and since I had no straw, I had to use meaner stuff.) Now if Friar had found the weights, what would he do? At once, I saw that he would contrive to get them into the barn. This was rising some twenty paces ahead, on the opposite side of the road. With the police all over the place, he would not want to carry them in the car. But the barn offered just the cover he had to have. There he could open the weights and make assurance sure. In other words, it made a retiring room. While I ate, I made up my mind that, before I did anything else, I would visit the barn.
And if it was not Friar that had taken the weights . . .
In that case, it was probably some peasant, using a horse-driven cart. Such a man would be walking along, before or behind or beside his vehicle. Even if he was upon it, his pace would be slow enough to allow him to notice the weights. No man in a car or a lorry was likely to see the things. His eyes would be on the road, because of his speed. But the peasant had time to look about him. He was, no doubt, in the habit of using this road, and so the slightest excrescence upon the familiar scene . . .
Here Friar came out of the barn and stepped to the edge of the road. He stood, looking hard toward Godel, as though for one he expected to come that way. Then, as though in impatience, he savaged his chin. And then he turned on his heel and re-entered the barn. Had he looked across the road, he must, I think, have seen me—or seen that someone was there. But he had eyes for nothing but the road that ran to the west.
The sight of the man revived me as nothing else could have done. My heart leaped up and my weariness fell away, for now I knew that the gems were under my hand. I had only to cross the road, to pick them up. In fact, Friar had done me a service, for the weights were far better with him than lying by the side of the road; then, again, he had carried them into cover, which I should have had to do, before I unscrewed the plates.
I knew for what Friar was waiting. He was awaiting a tool with which to open the weights. Orris or Sloper had taken the car to Godel, there to procure a key to unscrew the plates. This might have to be forged. It was simple enough to make, and if Sloper had the dimensions, twenty minutes or less would do the trick. But it would almost certainly have to be made; for while the nose of a spanner would, I think, have loosened them four days ago, once I had packed the weights I had screwed the plates into place with all my might. And so Friar was waiting for Orris. . . or Sloper. . . or both his men. And I was here, in the greenwood, unknown to anyone.
Before I did anything else, I went to look at Colette. But she was still sleeping like the dead. Praying that she would sleep on, I took out my pistol and put off the safety catch. Then I slid it into my pocket and set out to cross the road.
This I did a hundred yards on, toward the frontier, for Friar might have had a peephole for all I knew. Then I came carefully back and up to the barn.
This was some sixty feet long by thirty wide. It was roughly built of stone and was heavily thatched. There was a substantial gap between the top of the walls and the roof itself, but though this was admitting the air, the eaves of the thatch were long, and I knew that within the barn the light would be dim indeed. And Friar’s eyes would be used to such a half light: but mine would not.
Now Friar had appeared from the opposite side of the barn, using a grass-grown path which led to the road. It was, therefore, manifest that the great door was upon that side, so I stole round the back of the barn, to see if I could conveniently enter that way.
It is obvious, of course, that I held one very good card—namely, the fact that Friar did not know I was here; and since Friar could handle a pistol and I could not, to throw away that card would have been the act of a fool. I do not mean that I am a very bad shot, but I am not quick on the trigger, as some men are. And Friar was in the first class, for the shot he had fired at Mansel was what is called “a snap shot”; yet his aim had been deadly, and if Mansel had not read his movement, he would have been killed.
One leaf of the door was open—wide enough for a man to pass in and out. But I dared not pass that way, while Friar was within, for the sunshine was now very gay and must have been lighting the barn through the open door; the slightest obstruction, therefore, was bound to catch anyone’s eye—and Friar was impatiently waiting for such an obstruction to come.
Now the last thing I wanted was that Sloper or Orris should arrive. And one or both might any minute drive up. So I began to study the walls of the barn, to see if some tree would bring me up to the gap which lay between them and the thatch. This I did from behind an oak, in case Friar should emerge, and since I could see no tree that would help me at all, I was about to retire to the end of the barn, when Friar, swearing under his breath, swung out of the door and started along the path, to peer down the road.
Happily, I was all ready. Whilst his back was turned and before he had reached the road, I had whipped between the leaves of the door and out of his sight.
At once I closed my eyes, for, as I had known it would be, the light in the barn was dim. When I opened them after ten seconds, I saw very well.
To the right of the door, loose mounds of hay were filling about a third of the barn; to the lef
t, a cart and two wagons had all that side to themselves. Only a ladder was lying against the wall. At the foot of the piles of hay were lying the weights; each had been turned on its side, to expose its plate; but all the plates were in place and, apparently, had not been moved. This suggested that I had guessed right—that Friar had sent for a tool; then I saw a screwdriver there and a pair of pliers, which told me that he had been trying to take out the plates. The boxes I could not see, but I had no doubt that they were within the hay.
Whilst I was observing these things, my ears were pricked for the warning of Friar’s return, for I knew I must deal with him before the others returned. Once I had dealt with Friar, the rest would be easy enough. As like as not, I should be gone with the gems, before Sloper and Orris came back.
Without thinking, I took my stand behind the leaf that was shut, with my pistol clubbed in my hand, for, if I could help it, I did not want to fire.
And then I heard the sound of a car . . .
That it was coming from Godel I knew in a flash, but the road was open to all, and it might have been anyone’s car. But somehow I knew it was not. I knew it was Friar’s car . . . and that Sloper and Orris were in it, bearing the tool that was needed to open the weights.
And so it was.
It overran the barn, and I heard Friar howl imprecations before it had stopped. Then I heard the reverse gear engaged, and somebody bringing her back. Then I heard Friar’s excited questions and Sloper reply, “O.K.” Then came hurried footsteps, followed by the slam of a door.
I had already decided to stay where I was.
Friar was my meat. Once he was out of the way, to deal with the others should not be very hard.
The man came in panting—of such is the lust for gold.
As he entered, I struck him behind the ear—a hammer blow, and he crumpled and fell face downward, with the instrument which he had sent for fast in his hand.
Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante Page 45