Blind Corner and Perishable Goods

by Dornford YIates

  To my great surprise, when Bell had been given his cheque, he said that, if I was content to keep him, he had no wish to leave my service; when I pointed out that he was now a man of means, he said that, for his part, that did not alter the case; and since Hanbury and I were proposing to share an estate in the country, I told him to take a holiday and report to me in three weeks’ time.

  Both George and I found it hard to part with Mansel; and, when the latter suggested that we should come down to Hampshire and spend a week with him there, we were only too glad to accept.

  And there, in the midst of the New Forest, he brought us back to the world; for our doings of the last two months had thrown our focus out, and, when we looked upon the future, this seemed intolerably grey. But Mansel pointed the virtue of quiet enjoyment, maintaining that only those who knew the quality of peace could, when the moment came, taste the full flavour of battle; “for,” said he, “for the last two months we have been against the peace, and that is a condition which is all very well for a time but, if it is too much prolonged, will surely lose its sweetness and, what is infinitely worse, will sour the years that are left in the cellar of Life.”

  So he did us an enduring service, for, but for that week in Hampshire, I do not think that either George Hanbury or I would have ever settled down, but, having the means to do so, would have gone out to rove the world in search of more excitement and so have dropped substance for a shadow and thrown our birthrights away.

  As it is, I can now look back upon those seventy days as a man regards some picture, the contemplation of which never fails to bring him infinite delight, for they stand clean out of a quiet, orderly existence and, by the contrast, gain immeasurably.

  Their burden is as vivid today as it was that sunshiny morning when we unloaded the tool-box, not far from the London road—the murder of the Englishman, and the quiet contempt of his prophecy that Ellis would come to grief; the level-crossing, and the fierce pounding of my heart as we sat awaiting the train; the courtyard of Wagensburg, and Mansel against the lime-tree with Rose Noble stretched at his feet; the ear-splitting crash of the bomb, and Mansel’s steady voice calling the roll; the heat of the closed car’s engine scorching my back; the smell of tanning, and Tester’s menacing bark; Rose Noble’s weight upon me, and his heavy breathing as he set out to take my life; our last, stupendous effort to reach the chamber, and Ellis dead and staring against the bars; and then, our terrible battle with that most jealous of wardens, the great well.

  The memory of these things I find as valuable as my share of the treasure itself, and I doubt if ever a man was so well paid for undertaking the care of a master-less dog.

  The latter is with me always, and I think her life is happy. I have called her “Rafter,” for, as the name of a dog, the word does well enough, while it will always mean a great deal to me.

  And here I may say that Tester was more fortunate than she, for he never went into quarantine, but, instead, into the tool-box of the second car, to emerge upon Ashdown Forest with, to judge from his spirits, a new lease on life. But, then, he was a hardened smuggler, and had cheated the Customs this way a dozen times.

  The End

  PERISHABLE GOODS

  Dornford Yates (Cecil William Mercer)

  1928

  1. First Blood

  It was October, 1926, that George Hanbury and I first set up house in Wiltshire; and, since for the next six months we hunted four days a week, yet would commit to no one the pleasant task of setting our home in order, I do not think we slept out of Maintenance—for from time immemorial that has been the name of the place— more than seven times. But two of the visits I paid stand out of my memory, and, as they bear upon the matters which I am to tell, I will set them down.

  In the first week of December the wedding of one of my cousins took me to town.

  Now neither Hanbury nor I would have dreamed of visiting London without calling on Jonathan Mansel, whose flat was in Cleveland Row; for we three had made our fortune together and together had proved the stuff of which friendship is made. That apart, Mansel was the very finest gentleman that ever I knew: his ways were quiet, and his address was simple; but there was a natural royalty about him such as, I think, few monarchs have been able to boast.

  I started betimes and travelled to London by road, and the clock of St. James’s Palace was striking nine as I turned out of Marlborough Gate into Cleveland Row. Except for my servant, Bell, I was alone.

  Here let me say that it was Mansel who had taught me the virtue of being early abroad and, particularly, of taking a journey before the world was awake; “for,” said he, “the dawn you may nearly always have to yourself, and, since it is the fairest of the hours, that a free man should lose it is more than lamentable.”

  I had no need to ring, for, when I had mounted the stairs, I found Mansel’s hall-door open and his body- servant, Carson, watching two workmen who were busy about his lock. He took me directly to the study, where Mansel was standing before a cheerful fire.

  “Ah, William,” says he, “I’m glad to see you. How was it you didn’t ring?”

  I told him.

  “That’s right,” said he. “Those fellows are changing the lock. Yesterday this flat was entered—by some person or persons unknown.”

  “Thieves?” said I.

  “Thieves,” said Mansel.

  At once I looked at the wall, where I knew there had hung a monstrance. This was golden and jewelled, and, though there was plate-glass about it, I could have forced the case in two minutes of time. But the monstrance was there.

  “And they missed that?” said I, pointing.

  “They didn’t come for that,” said Mansel.

  For a moment we looked at each other; then I sat down in a chair and took out a cigarette.

  “They came for my papers,” said Mansel. “And got them.” He pointed to his writing-table. “In the right-hand pedestal of that is a little safe. They cut it open and took my papers away. There were fifty sovereigns there and five hundred pounds in notes; but they didn’t take them; so it looks as though they meant me to understand that they came for my papers alone.”

  “Were there papers of value?” said I.

  Mansel frowned. Then he moved swiftly to a window and stood, looking down upon the street. So he stayed for some moments, because, I am sure, he would not trust his voice.

  Presently—

  “They were of interest,” he said, “to no one but me.”

  I was concerned, for Mansel was plainly moved, and, though I knew no more than the man in the moon the nature of the stolen papers, I had never before seen him betray himself.

  At length—

  “What’s to be done?” said I.

  “Nothing,” said Mansel, turning. “But, as you know, Chandos, I have a dangerous enemy, and, if he should study those papers, he might see a line of attack which would hit me hard.”

  “Us,” I said quickly.

  “Us,” said Mansel, and smiled.

  And there we left the business, for that was clearly his will; but, though we spoke of it no more, I could not get it out of my mind, for I knew as well as did Mansel that the theft was the work of “Rose” Noble and that it was not to be thought of that he would fail to perceive the significance of his spoil.

  Rose Noble was a sinister man, and, though he came but seldom into the light, was undoubtedly concerned in some of the greatest robberies of his time. He was never taken, and the police of more than one country feared his name, for he had a reputation so evil as to be almost fabulous and was commonly believed by those who knew him to be gifted with second sight. That he deserved this fame I can testify, for Mansel, Hanbury and I had made our fortune in his teeth: we had more than one brush with him and found him a monster of iniquity, bold, swift and strong, in whom there was no pity at all. I do not say that he had second sight; but his instinct was supernatural, and I do not think that any living being could deceive this terrible man.

  Now,
had we not made our fortune, Rose Noble would have made his; and, since nine hundred thousand pounds is a huge sum of money to forego, I was not greatly surprised that he was, so to speak, returning to the charge; and, as it was Mansel that had captained our enterprise, it was, I suppose, natural that Rose Noble should pitch upon him. How he would use the papers which he had stolen I could not think, but Mansel had said plainly that they could be turned to his hurt, and his demeanour had shown me that this hurt might be very sore.

  On my return to Maintenance I told George Hanbury my news, to find that he shared my concern; but, since Mansel had promised to apprise us if trouble came, yet week after week went by and brought no message, we began to believe our apprehension baseless and the robbery nothing more signal than a flash in the pan.

  It was early in the following April that Hanbury and I spent three fine days at White Ladies in the New Forest, that is to say, at Mansel’s country home. This he shared with his cousins, whose name was Pleydell. It was not our first visit, but the Pleydells were absent when we had been there before, and, though the four Sargents in the gallery had told us what to expect, I do not think that either of us believed that all five members of one family could prove so charming.

  Adèle Pleydell was the youngest and had married Captain Pleydell five years before; I learned later that she was American by birth. She and her husband seemed very young for their age. Major and Daphne Pleydell were clearly older and were by one consent treated as the heads of the house. Yet all were equal; and, when once Adèle Pleydell affirmed that she was an interloper and the only one of them whose ancestors had not known White Ladies, there was an amicable uproar, an Major Pleydell said gravely, “That I regard as one of the misfortunes of our House.”

  She was a tall, slim girl, very graceful and wonderfully and beautifully made. Her face was lovely; her thick, dark hair, lustrous; the light in her fine, brown eyes, a glorious thing. She was quiet, yet tireless and seemed to do all things well; she could drive a car and could ride with any man; yet she was always maidenly and looked as delicate a-cock-horse as when, in silk and satin, she sat to a piano and lifted her exquisite voice. She was naturally eager and responsive, and I shall always see her, as did Sargent—with her beautiful lips parted and her soft, brown eyes alight.

  If the others were less attractive, that was no fault of theirs, for I think Adèle Pleydell would have diminished anyone. She was plainly their darling, yet did not seem to know this; and, since she was very quick-witted, this one simplicity made her the more worshipful.

  Hanbury and I, as was natural, fell down at her feet, and I am proud to remember that she made us free of her friendship, before we had known her an hour.

  So, indeed, did they all; and I do not think I ever paid a visit one half so agreeable.

  Much was made of the adventure to which I have already referred, and, when Major Pleydell proposed that they should go fishing in Carinthia later that year and then explore the very scenes of our endeavor, the idea was heartily received.

  “And you’ll come and stay with us,” said Daphne Pleydell, addressing Hanbury and me. “If they will let us the farm we rented before, we shall have plenty of room, and Jonah’s a poor showman when it comes to talking to himself.”

  That this was so I proved the very next day, for I rode with Adèle in the morning at six-o’clock and found she knew next to nothing of what Mansel had done. Be sure I enlightened her, if only for Justice’ sake. When I finished, she set her chin in the air.

  “Tell me,” she said. “Is Rose Noble the man to take this lying down? I mean, nine hundred thousand is a bag of money to lose.”

  I suppose I hesitated, for her head was round in an instant, and her steady, brown eyes were on mine.

  “Didn’t you know,” I said, “that Mansel was lately robbed?”

  She let out a cry of excitement and checked her horse. “I never knew,” she said. And presently, “Go on.”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s not my secret,” I said. “As it is, I’ve said too much.”

  With that, I would have gone forward, but she leaned down and caught my rein.

  “Tell me,” she pleaded, “tell me. I swear I’ll not breathe a word.”

  In the end I yielded, and, before we were back at White Ladies, she knew as much as I.

  When I said I was concerned, she laughed.

  “I snuff a romance,” she cried. “Jonah, the celibate, has had some passionate affair, and he’s frightened to death that Rose Noble will bring it out. But he never will. You can’t blackmail a man for playing the game; and Jonathan Mansel’s never done anything else.”

  “That I believe,” said I. “But why was he troubled?”

  The lady shrugged her shoulders.

  “A celibate sees a scandal in every bow. The memory of the most harmless flirtation is a millstone round Jonah’s neck.”

  Her interpretation relieved me, for I was sure she was wise; but though I was greatly tempted to share it with George, I did not care to admit that I, and not Mansel, had told Adèle of the theft. So I held my peace.

  The next day we left for Wiltshire promising soon to return. Yet we did not, though our homes were but fifty miles apart; for with the coming of summer there was much to be done at Maintenance, and, though the hunting was over, we had our hands full.

  The Pleydells and Jonathan Mansel left for Carinthia in July.

  Mansel was soon to come back, for he had business at home; and then, on the first of September, he and George Hanbury and I were to go out together by road.

  And so it fell out—though not as we had expected: for, though Mansel came leisurely to England, he took the road back to Carinthia, like a man possessed. And Hanbury and I with him.

  On the thirtieth day of August we dined in Cleveland Row, to settle the hour of departure and other things.

  Our plans were simple and soon laid.

  We were to meet at Folkestone and cross by the morning boat; and, since it seemed idle to take two cars, yet send three servants by train, we arranged to keep two with us and to send the third to Salzburg in charge of our heavier stuff. As luck would have it, all three had done this journey before—for Rowley, Hanbury’s old servant, had lately re-entered his service— and, since they were all efficient, any one of the three could be trusted to shift for himself; but, as Carson and Bell were accustomed to handling a car, but Rowley was not, the latter was chosen to take our baggage by train.

  Not until the cloth had been drawn did Mansel tell us that he had some unfortunate news.

  “Boy Pleydell,” he said, “Adèle’s husband, has broken his leg. I heard this morning. Years ago, not twenty-five miles from the scene of his accident, he broke a couple of ribs; so it looks as though Carinthia was bad for his health. However, there’s nothing to be done. He’s under a Salzburg surgeon, and I’m taking out thirty novels to help him pass the time.”

  Here the door was opened, and Carson came in with a note. This was addressed to Mansel and marked “Immediate.”

  “Who brought this?” said Mansel, taking it up.

  “The porter found it on the steps, sir, one minute ago.”

  Mansel asked us to excuse him and broke the seal.

  After a little he gave me the letter to read.

  The stolen goods will be returned on the receipt by the Manager of the — Bank, Zurich, of your cheque for five hundred thousand pounds. This sum you can raise, if you please. No time should be wasted for the goods are perishable.

  August 30th

  The body of the letter was written in a clerkly hand, but the date had been rudely added, I suppose, that day.

  I passed the letter to George and turned to Mansel.

  “‘Perishable?’” said I. “‘Perishable?’ What does he mean?”

  “I can’t think,” said Mansel slowly, knitting his brows. “And why has he waited nine months?”

  “It must be Rose Noble,” said Hanbury, looking up from the sheet; “for nobody else w
ould know you could raise such a sum. Otherwise, I should say that the writer was out of his mind. I mean, half a million for some papers . . . ”

  “I agree,” said Mansel. “It’s fantastic. I value them certainly; but I wouldn’t give more than a hundred to get them back. If as much. I can’t understand it,” he continued, taking the letter again; “for Rose Noble must know what they’re worth rather better than I.”

  For a while we sat silent, for there was nothing to say; but I could not help wondering what was the nature of the papers which Rose Noble held and reflecting that, until we knew that, neither George nor I could make any useful remark.

  Mansel was speaking in a quiet, even tone.

  “The papers are the letters of a girl—occasional letters and notes—in all, I suppose ten or twelve. Their matter is so casual and ordinary that I feared that Rose Noble would wonder why I had kept them safe. They were in order of date, with her photograph, I feared he would think that she meant something to me. I mean, that was the only explanation of my keeping so carefully such artless documents.”

  There was a long silence, and all that Adèle had said came to my mind with a rush. And I could have laughed for relief, but that I knew that Rose Noble was no fool. At length—

  “I still see no daylight,” said Hanbury. “He offers you those letters back. When you ignore his offer, what will he do?”

  Mansel shrugged his shoulders.

  “He may send them to her husband,” he said. “I would very much rather he didn’t, but that’s as far as I go.”

  Again I took the letter and read it through.

  “‘The goods are perishable,’” I said. “That’s a curious way of saying I’m going to send them to him.”

  “I agree,” said Hanbury. “And it’s not at all like Rose Noble. He always made himself clear.”

  “Painfully clear,” said I, and could have bitten out my tongue.

  But Mansel gave no sign of having heard what I said.