The pinnace was at the steps, so we wasted no time. But the parrot was not the bird to let a good audience down.
“Pas de — —!” he screamed. And then again, “Pas de — —!”
The sentiment was laudable. Of that there can be no doubt. He who cries “No nonsense!” deserves to be commended, rather than blamed. The trouble was that the word he used was not “nonsense.” It was a word which Christians are not supposed to use—and to say that the customs “ate” it, is less than true.
It was his Parthian shaft. He had kept the good wine until now.
All the same, I was not ungrateful. The cage was a fearful weight—and the customs were helpless for mirth.
Colette’s face was flaming, and two red spots were burning in Jenny’s cheeks.
“You’re a wicked bird,” said Jenny as I handed the cage to Bell. “You did it on purpose, because you knew they were waiting to hear what you’d say. Directly you get on board you’re going to be covered up. And so you’ll stay till tomorrow.”
I must confess that the parrot looked something abashed.
And then the pinnace went off, with its precious freight.
That summer afternoon was one of the very longest I ever knew.
When Jasper had left with Carson about a quarter past three, time seemed to slow to a standstill, and more than once I thought that my watch had stopped. Of such is the hell of waiting, when you can do nothing else. . . when time is arrayed against you, and can, if your enemy knows it, be used to bring you down.
It was oppressively hot, and Mansel and I sat out in the little courtyard, smoking and drinking beer and hardly exchanging a word. We were very nearly home. But I knew I should not be easy, until we were on the high seas. Neither would Mansel. Within the three-mile limit, the yacht could be stopped.
There was little enough to fear. We had flown the last of our fences and flown it well. And now we were in the straight. But we were not home. And Carson had lately reported that there were now two policemen watching the inn. It is when you are almost home that the slightest risk increases in menace and stature, and peril is magnified.
I was to go aboard first, for we did not know how much the Italians knew, and for us to be seen together might verify some report. So I was to take my leave, as soon as Colette and Jasper returned to The Heart of Gold.
And then, at last, some clock chimed a quarter past five.
“Any minute now,” said Mansel. “You’ll leave in a quarter of an hour. Send the pinnace for us at seven o’clock. We may be a little while, for they’ll probably comb my baggage as they combed yours. But try not to worry, William. It’s going to be quite all right.”
“Those wallahs outside,” I said. “When they see you leaving with luggage—”
“They won’t,” said Mansel. “I thought of that yesterday morning, before the police came on. While you were aboard, Carson took it off to the station and parked it there. And he’s not coming back to the inn. When he’s driven you down to the quay, he will return the car. And he will meet me at the station at six forty-five. From there we shall take a taxi down to the quay.”
I sighed.
“Talk about staff work . . . You do deserve to win. If you’re not aboard by eight, I shall come ashore.”
Mansel set a hand on my shoulder.
“No, my faithful William. I had to leave you, and now you may have to leave me. Whether or no I’m on board, the yacht will weigh anchor at eight. Those are the Captain’s orders, and he will carry them out. And you must stay with the gems. It’s about a hundred to one that I shall fetch up. But, if I don’t—well, they can do nothing to me. They have got something on you, for you have forced a frontier and flattened a Boche. But they have nothing on me. They can make me miss the boat, but that is all they can do. And if they do that—well, I shall be in England before you and shall come aboard at Fowey instead of Trieste.”
And there Colette and Jasper came into the court.
“Come, Jasper,” said Mansel, rising. “I want to talk to you.” As they left the courtyard, I turned to Colette.
“Well, my sweet, are you happy?”
“I have never been so happy in all my life. And I owe it all to you, Adam.”
“Don’t be absurd. You owe it all to yourself.”
“I am not absurd,” cried Colette. “Except that I found you, I have done nothing at all. But you have taken my hand and raised me to your estate. I know very well that I am a daw among peacocks—”
“Colette, my beauty, I cannot stay here and listen to talk like this. Please believe that it hurts me. And it is not fair to Andrew, who loves you so well. Think what you please of yourself, but remember this. Andrew Palin would never marry beneath him—he is not of that kind. You do not know who your father and mother were; but I think they must both be rejoicing to see their daughter taking her rightful place.”
Colette raised her eyes to mine; her lovely face was transfigured by some most powerful emotion, I could not share. Her parted lips were trembling; her eyes were brimming with tears.
“I do not know which I love best—you, my darling, or Eve.”
I drew her into my arms.
“I knew you two would get on.”
“Adam, Adam, you never told me the half. I know I have named her rightly, for she belongs to Paradise, body and soul. Once you called me a nymph, but she is the goddess to whom the nymphs belong. We talked till two this morning, and all about you.”
“My God,” said I. “Were you stuck as fast as that?”
“Why not?” said Colette. “You are the biggest thing in both of our lives.”
I held her off.
“Colette,” I said, “you are going to marry Andrew—a very good friend of mine and one of the best of men. He will make you a splendid husband, and you will make him an equally splendid wife. When you know him as you know me, you will see the truth of my words. God forbid that you should endure together what you and I endured a fortnight or so ago. But together you will encounter the rough as well as the smooth; and it is sharing the rough that ties men and women together—ties them more tightly together than a lifetime of halcyon days.”
“But I loved you before,” said Colette. “That was why I went.”
So much for my homily. But I never could argue with women—I have not the art.
I took a deep breath.
“I must be going, sweetheart. I think, perhaps, I shall see you before very long. And then you will be Mrs. Palin, and—”
“No, no. Just Colette. And you will always be Adam; and Eve will always be Eve . . . She—she said I was to kiss you, my darling, with all her heart and mine.”
I bent my head, and her arms went about my neck.
“Say it once more,” she breathed, “once more, my very darling, and never again.”
“Light of my eyes,” I whispered, and wondered what I had done to be honored like this.
Then I went off to find Jasper and bid that good man good-by.
“It was a good day for us, sir, when we found you asleep in the greenwood a month ago.”
I smiled.
“It was a good day for me.”
“Of that, I am not so sure. Never mind. I want you to know precisely what you have done for me. You have reached me down the moon and have given it into my hands. I have never cried for it, sir; but I have longed for it for the last ten years—an idle thing to do, for strolling players have nothing to do with moons. And then you gave it to me. In a word, you have raised Colette to her proper place. I have no words to thank you—I know that you want no thanks. But now I can live and die happy, because I have seen my darling come by her own.”
“Let us put it like this,” said I. “No one of us three, by himself, could reach the moon. But I climbed on to your shoulders, and then Colette climbed up and stood upon mine. And so she was able to reach it and give it into your hands.”
Twenty minutes later, I was again on board.
Jenny was standing beside me,
and I was watching the quay with my binocular.
“There they are,” I said. “The taxi’s just come to rest. . . Mansel is paying the man, and the customs are telling the porters to take the luggage away . . . They’re taking it into a shed; Carson is going with it, and Mansel is strolling behind . . . They’re out of sight now.” I laid the binocular down. “I don’t see how they can waste more than a quarter of an hour.”
A slim arm slid within mine.
“Come and walk, my darling. It’s better than standing here.”
For twenty minutes we strolled the deck of the yacht and Jenny made me tell her some of my tale again. She found the scene in the barn as moving as any other—except of course, the battle I had with the torrent, to save my life. And I think, perhaps, she was right, for when I was in the barn, I was badly placed. Tired as I was, I had to work very hard and, while I was working, to watch two desperate men. The car was outside, to give our presence away. Any moment the police might have entered, and found me with the gems in my hands—and Friar lying dead in the wagon, for what that was worth. But the very finger of Fortune was on my shoulder that day.
“Poor Sloper,” said Jenny. “I’m sorry he lost his life.”
“So am I,” said I. “He was a merry rogue; he was very decent to me; and he was faithful to death. But if he hadn’t died and if he’d kept up with Orris, it’s very much more than likely that they would have got me down.”
“That’s right. He had to die, if you were to live. But I’m glad you didn’t do it. Just look at the lives, my darling, these gems have cost. Three, five years ago, and now four more. You know, it was a shame about Goat.”
“My sweet,” I said, “I couldn’t agree with you more. Friar will not be forgiven for putting Goat down. Goat was in his service—and had no reason to think that his master was going to strike. It was a cold-blooded murder, done to suit Friar’s convenience; and Friar thought no more of it than you or I would think of stopping a passing car, to ask for a lift.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” said Jenny.
“So am I. I’m sorry I had to do it, but he was a dangerous man. And did he want those gems? But his staff work was very bad. That very first night he posted no sentinel. And Punter had told him and Palin had actually shown him what he was up against, yet he brought no planks or trestles to build a stage.” I broke off, to glance at my watch. “My God, it’s half past seven. They ought to be here by now.”
I hastened to where I had laid the field glasses down.
These showed me the pinnace, waiting at the foot of the steps, but Mansel was not to be seen, and only one customs officer lounged on the quay.
Another ten minutes dragged by, while I kept using my glasses and laying them down, and Jenny stood beside me, her eyes on the distant quay.
“There’s somebody coming, William.”
Up went my glasses again.
It was Carson, shepherding the porters. . . .
As the luggage went into the pinnace, Mansel appeared, with two or three uniformed customs and one in plain clothes. As he came to the head of the steps, he said something which made them laugh. Then he raised his hat, and the others saluted him. Thirty seconds later, the pinnace had left the steps.
Mansel came aboard at exactly twelve minutes to eight. Three minutes later, the pinnace was being shipped; and before eight bells had been struck, the yacht was under way.
“It wasn’t too bad,” said Mansel. “Perhaps I should say that it wouldn’t have been too bad, if it hadn’t been perfectly clear that they were playing for time. I think they were expecting instructions. . . So they went through my stuff as slowly as ever they could. I stood it as long as I dared. Then I threw the cards on the table. ‘You’re wasting time,’ I said, ‘and you know it as well as I. If you have orders to detain me, say so and let me see them. If—’ They declared that they had no such orders. ‘Then chalk my baggage,’ I said, ‘and let me go.’ They looked to their chief for instructions. The latter glanced at his watch; then he shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head. And that is as much as I know. But I don’t mind admitting, William, that the sooner we leave the three-mile limit behind, the better pleased I shall be.”
“Does the Captain know?”
Mansel nodded.
“In his orders,” he said. “ ‘Once under way, you will leave the three-mile limit as soon as ever you can.’ ”
“I’m no sailor,” I said. “Will ten minutes bring us clear?”
“I don’t know,” said Mansel. “Anything doing on the quay?”
Jenny had my binocular up to her eyes.
“Two men are talking to the plain-clothes customs man.”
“That’s the head wallah,” said Mansel.
“They all seem rather excited—they keep on lifting their arms. There’s somebody running now . . . It’s another customs man . . . He’s speaking to the head wallah . . . And now they’re both running off the way he came.”
“Telephone call for a monkey. That’s what he was waiting for.”
There was a little silence.
Then—
“What’s the procedure,” I said, “for stopping a ship?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Mansel. “Wireless, I suppose, from some superintendent or other. Let’s hope he’s having a drink.”
“I can’t see very well,” said Jenny. “It’s getting small. I don’t think the man’s come back.”
There was another silence.
Then Jenny put up the glasses and said she could see no more.
“I have a feeling,” said Mansel, “that there won’t be much more to see. Anything else that happens will happen off stage. My God, is that the wireless?”
Above our heads there was a crackling noise.
“I think it’s us,” said I. “I may be wrong.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen.”
We turned, to face the officer with whom I had spoken for a moment the day before.
“The Captain’s compliments, sir, and we are upon the high seas.”
Chapter 9. We Consider a Dimple
We had bathed and changed and had eaten an excellent dinner, squired by champagne. And now we were sitting, smoking, on Jenny’s private deck.
“Looking back,” said Mansel, “some bad mistakes were made. The worst was made by John Ferrers, who failed to let Palin know that Punter had been seen in the district, not far from Hohenems. Then I made a very bad one, by asking Olivia Ferrers to receive Diana Revoke. I’ve no excuse to offer. It was an error of judgment—which cost us extremely dear. Then we both made one, by going to Wagensburg. That was excusable, for we didn’t know where to turn, and ‘out of sight, out of mind.’ We had forgotten Punter, because he had never shown up, but of course we should have remembered that he was advising Friar. And but for Orris’ lapse, that mistake would have been the end of us. I daresay we made some others—in fact, I know we did. When I deported Friar, I should have taken his life. When you deported Orris, you should have taken his. But that is the fault of the upbringing we have had.
“To be frank, I’ve not much to be proud of. You have, William, for pulling the whole thing round. Your retrieval of those gems was an epic. You’ll never do anything greater, however long you live. But the fact remains that, though we have brought it off, it has been an untidy business from first to last. I mean, not one to be proud of. Nothing clean cut about it. Up to the last, it was on the knees of the gods.”
“Be fair,” I said. “We got off to a rotten start. We were in it up to the neck the very night we arrived.”
“I’m going to be fair,” said Mansel. “You’re perfectly right—we got off to a rotten start. But that is not the reason why we only got home by a very short head. The reason is clear as paint. From first to last in this business, we have suffered from a complaint from which, thank God, we have never suffered before. And that complaint was fear. Not fear of losing our freedom or even our lives, but fear of betraying our charge. There lies the explanation. If the
gems had been ordinary treasure, we’d have had them out of the country within three days. But because they were what they are—ten times as precious a thing as the world has ever seen, risks that were hardly risks seemed to be very grave dangers . . . we dared not do this or that. . . we were obsessed by precaution. . . we went all lengths to mislead the unfriendly eye . . . thus causing ourselves incredible inconvenience and generally failing to see the wood for the trees.
“Now, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think we can be blamed. The burden we had to carry was very sore, the responsibility greater than any two men should take. And that, I think, is the answer and the excuse for the haphazard way in which we have done the job.”
“Of course, you’re right,” I said. “Their value has been a nightmare from first to last. So far as I can remember, we’ve never worried before; but this time, as you say, we’ve never done anything else.”
“I think that’s true,” said Jenny. “You both look quite different already. And when William first came aboard, I saw the strain in his eyes.”
“I’m not surprised,” said Mansel. “It has been a very great strain. Day and night, from the moment we left the castle twenty-nine days ago. The strain was eased a bit, when William got back to Jade and I got his wire. But it was always there, and it began to get tighter the moment we reached Trieste.
Germany missed a chance there. Greed, of course. She told Italy something, but not enough. If she had told her the truth, they’d have pulled down The Heart of Gold, to find those gems.”
“She couldn’t,” said I. “It was an Italian collection, transferred to Austria.”
“So it was,” said Mansel, laughing. “Talk about being hoist with their own petard.” He stretched luxuriously. “Ah, well . . . It’s all over now.”
“I’d like to say this,” said Jenny. “I haven’t heard every detail of all you did; but I know how you left the castle, stayed at St. Martin and went to Wagensburg. I know William joined the troupe and how the gems were transferred from the car to the weights; and when you run down what you’ve done and talk about its being haphazard, I don’t think you’re being fair. When people are being hunted, they have to—to—What’s the word I want, William?”
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