Blind Corner and Perishable Goods

by Dornford YIates

  At a quarter to eight we met our first definite check in the shape of a level crossing, the gates of which were closed.

  To make the best of the business, we halted for a quarter of an hour, and, while Tester was given his freedom, we ate and drank of the food which Bell had brought.

  Mansel was plainly pleased with the pace at which we had come, but insisted that now was the time for Hanbury to take my place; then he turned to Bell and asked if he had recalled the people he had seen at Dieppe.

  “I’ve done my best, sir,” said Bell; “but I fear there’s not very many I’d know again.”

  “That remains to be seen,” said Mansel. “But please try to bear them in mind, and picture to yourself the time you spent on the quay. I expect you walked up and down. Try to remember if anyone was doing the same.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Bell obediently.

  Five minutes later I was sitting with Mansel, and we were again under way.

  We had now come to roads that we had travelled before, but, though the features of the way seemed faintly familiar, I could not have taken it safely without the aid of the map nor have threaded a single town without direction. Mansel, however, drove with the utmost confidence, never hesitating where the road forked or peering at any signpost, but whipping through town after town as though it were the place of his birth.

  When I remarked upon this, he said it was nothing at all and that I knew the way to Salzburg as well as did he, but that he was using his knowledge, while I was not.

  “And that,” said he, “is why I’m badgering Bell. Bell is observant, and I’ll lay a hundred to one that he observed the fellow that left that note. I don’t think I did, for when he saw me coming, he probably made himself scarce. And you were behind the car. But Bell and he were both waiting for the boat to come in. Well, there’s the making of a clue. It’s slight enough in all conscience, but—well, I don’t know where Adèle is, and Austria’s quite a big place.” After a little, he continued thoughtfully. “Memory’s a store-room, that’s all: the store-room of things you observe. If you’re observant, so much the richer your store. But you must be a good storeman—able to produce the requisite, when the moment comes. Some time ago I observed the way to Salzburg; and now I’m producing it. Bell undoubtedly observed the man who carried the note; let’s hope he’ll be able to produce him—when the moment comes.”

  We said no more at the time, and, being, I suppose, more tired than I suspected, I fell asleep.

  When I awoke, it was noon, and the day was immensely hot.

  Mansel was driving in the same effortless way, looking very well content with his lot and seeming to be perfectly fresh.

  When he saw that I was awake, he told me that we should make Strasbourg in two hours’ time. We had stopped for fuel whilst I slept, but that was all.

  Sure enough, we came to Strasbourg at two o’clock, and at half-past two we were lunching on German soil.

  Then I changed places with George, who was white as a miller with dust, for the sun had done its work, and, since there was next to no wind, the cars would have had to travel a mile apart if the second was to escape the clouds which its fellow raised.

  The afternoon was made dreadful by the heat and glare of the sun, which oppressed us mercilessly and made the air so sultry that our pace brought us no relief; I never found shade so grateful in all my life, nor yet so scarce, and how Mansel, who had had no respite, bore the burden of that day so lightly I never shall understand.

  Twice we were checked by the gates of level crossings and once we stopped for fuel, but these delays were too brief to be refreshing, and I, for one, was thankful when we came to rest at sundown by the site of a little stream. Into this we were happy to plunge our heads and shoulders, and, whilst Mansel and I ate and drank, George and the servants cleaned the windscreens and sponged down and sluiced the cars—by no means a fruitless exercise, for we were sick of the dust, and the sight of the glistening coachwork did us all good.

  Night came upon us soon after eight-o’clock, but a fine moon was westering, and two and a half hours later we entered Austria.

  At Salzburg we drove straight to the station, where Rowley lay, stretched on our luggage, fast asleep. It took but a moment to rouse him and lift the trunks into the cars, and I do not think this digression cost us five minutes of time.

  So soon as we were clear of the city, a halt was made, and Mansel called the servants to listen to what he would say.

  “You all know what has happened,” he said. “Mrs. Pleydell has disappeared. Everything points to abduction—by no ordinary gang. As one of the family, I should in any event have done what I could; but, with Captain Pleydell out of action, it’s up to me to take charge. Very well. Here’s my first order. Discuss this business with no one. We’re certainly going to friends, but we’re going to enemies too, and the latter are already in touch. I’ve had two letters already warning me not to proceed.

  “We’re going to drop Rowley at Villach, where he will go to bed. To-morrow he will take four bedrooms and unpack all our things. And he may as well order supper, for we shall surely sleep there to-morrow night.

  “The rest of us go to Poganec, and, whilst we are there, Carson and Bell will stay with and sleep in the cars.”

  Then he told Carson to drive and called for Tester, and a moment later we were moving again.

  All of us knew the way now, so there was no thought of leading or being led, and though I remember little— for Hanbury was driving and I slept most of the way— I know that we stopped at Villach, to find the inn shut, that the landlord looked out of the window, with an old-fashioned cap on his head and that, when he saw who it was, he began to cry to his household that at last his luck had turned, for the best guests he ever had had were come again.

  We were gone, however, before he had opened the door, leaving Rowley in the midst of luggage, with his hand to his hat.

  We were now in most handsome country, very mountainous and closely wooded, with streams and pastures lying in every dale; the air was most soft and rich, and plainly suited the engines, for the cars sailed over the hills like giants refreshed.

  We swept through St. Martin, to hear the church clock strike one, and ten minutes later sighted a long low house, lying in the lap of a meadow, with rising woods behind.

  This was Poganec; and I well remember remarking how fantastic a picture it made, for the moonlight was all about it and made all its windows were open and lights burning in every room.

  It was, I suppose, ten minutes before Mansel came to a window upon the first floor.

  “Will you two come up?” he said.

  The front door was open, and Hanbury and I passed in.

  Major Pleydell met us at the top of the stairs and brought us into a room at the back of the house.

  Daphne Pleydell rose to greet us, and her brother, propped with pillows, called to us from the bed. Beside him sat Mansel.

  As I went to take his hand—

  “Jonah can drive, can’t he?” he said with a smile.

  Before I could answer—for I had some sort of condolence upon my tongue—he began to speak of the cars, reciting their qualities with judgment and remembering runs he had taken against the clock and, so, making smooth an encounter which I had been dreading more than I care to admit.

  “I’ve often followed Jonah,” he concluded, “but I’ve never had to chase him when he had his whip out and, to be perfectly honest, I hope I never shall.” He laughed lightly. “And now sit down, you two—anywhere except on my leg—and Berry will bring you some beer. I think you’ve earned it.”

  I tried to reply, but the words stuck in my throat.

  I could not cope with such bravery. The man was jesting; his eyes were steady and his speech was firm, but the thick, dark hair I remembered was white as snow.

  As Major Pleydell came forward, with a glass in his hand—

  “And now to business,” he said.

  “To-day is Thursday. At seven on
Monday morning Adèle went out for a ride. She rode in the direction of Sava, a village ten miles away. Her mare came in on her own at a quarter past eight. Everyone turned out at once, but found nothing. The mare was clean and unhurt. Inquiries were made at all farms in the direction of Sava. They proved fruitless. Nobody saw Adèle on Monday morning. The day was hot, and she was wearing breeches and boots, a white silk shirt and gloves. She had no hat on.

  “Early on Tuesday morning Fitch found one of her gloves. It was lying by the side of the road almost exactly eleven miles from here, but not in the direction of Sava.

  “Well, there you are. I’m afraid I’ve no more to say.”

  There was a little silence, and presently Mansel spoke.

  “You’ve had no demand for money?”

  His cousin looked away.

  “None,” he said quietly. “I’ve got the money ready; it’s all I’ve been able to do.” He stretched out a trembling hand. “There’s five thousand pounds worth of notes in that chest of drawers. They’ve only to come and ask. But they—they don’t do that.”

  There was something so dark about the way he said this as took us all three by surprise; and this, I suppose, he was expecting, for he let out the ghost of a laugh.

  “I know,” he said. “I didn’t get it at first. You know, I made quite certain that they were out for money. It never occurred to me that Adèle had been taken for herself.”

  Mansel started to his feet.

  “I don’t believe it,” he cried.

  “I know,” said the other calmly. “Neither did I. But you’ll come round in the end and face the facts—when the days go by and you don’t find her, but no demand is made; when the weeks go by and I’m crawling round with a stick and people are forgetting what she looked like—”

  “Oh, Boy, Boy,” wailed Daphne.

  “—but no demand is made; when —”

  “Never,” cried Mansel. “Never.”

  “Then, why don’t they ask?” said the other, with the sweat running down his face.

  “They will,” said Mansel.

  The other shook his head.

  “What about the police?” he said suddenly. “Why don’t you want them called in?”

  “Because I want my hands free. If battle and murder will help, I’m out to do both; but I can’t do either, if I've got to apply for a warrant before I can force a door. We’re six men armed; we know how to work together; and we’re not afraid of lying out in the rain. Call in the police and you put us out of court.”

  “That’s right,” said his cousin, nodding. “The police wouldn’t do any good.” He lay back and closed his eyes. “But, as they’re not out for money, neither will you.”

  “I know they’re out for money,” said Mansel.

  “Face the facts,” said his cousin. “Seventy hours since they took her, and no demand. Face the facts, Jonah; and, when you’ve had a good look at them, come back and try to tell me not to turn my face to the wall.”

  There was a dreadful silence, broken only by Daphne’s sobs.

  At last her brother called her and asked for some drug.

  While she was pleading with him, we others stole out of the room.

  I was confounded by this perversity of Fortune and I dared not look at Mansel, for here, at the outset of our venture, he was faced with a choice of two evils, neither of which, it seemed, he could possibly accept.

  To conceal the truth from his cousin was to withhold water from a dying man; yet how could he ever allow that he, and not her husband, had been offered the lady back? Explain it as he would, the fact must arouse misgivings in the steadiest mind; to a man in his cousin’s condition, it would be plain poison.

  Major Pleydell was speaking.

  “If they don’t make a demand, he’ll lose his mind. He hasn’t slept since she went. His hair was grey on Tuesday, and yesterday it was white. If they’d only hold her to ransom he wouldn’t care. If they asked a million, he wouldn’t care a damn. We might not be able to pay it, but he’d know she was safe and sound. But when the hours go by and there’s no demand—”

  “Where have you looked?” said Mansel.

  The other stared at him.

  “Looked?” he said.

  D you mean to say, cried Mansel, “that you’ve been waiting for it to come by post? Why, man alive, that’s the last agency they’ll use! Haven’t you even looked in the box in the gate?”

  The front door was open and we pelted out of the hall.

  Mansel cried to Hanbury and me to bring some tools and a torch and, in spite of his limp—for he was lame of a wound he had had in the War—ran well ahead of his cousin down the drive.

  It was seldom that he took some action which I could not understand; but now I was bewildered, for I knew as well as did he that the box in the gate would be as bare as my hand. Still there was no time to think, and, Hanbury being gone with the tools, I plucked a torch out of a pocket and ran in his wake.

  The box was a doll’s-house business, cut out of the gatepost itself, with a slit for letters before and a little iron door behind. No doubt it was meant to be used in days gone by, for a man on horseback could reach the slit from the road, but the door had not been undone for many a year, although there was nothing to show this upon the other side.

  I held the torch, while Mansel played with the chisel and presently forced the lock.

  As he wrenched the little door open, Major Pleydell thrust in his hand.

  When he drew out a folded paper, I could hardly believe my eyes.

  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

  Before my wits were in order, Major Pleydell was well up the drive, shouting for Daphne and crying aloud his news.

  “It’s come!” he bellowed. “It’s come! It’s been here since Monday. The demand—”

  As we walked after him—

  “Learn of me,” said Mansel. “Never burn anything.”

  When we came to the house, he called a footman to serve us with food and drink and himself went up to the chamber where Captain Pleydell lay.

  Ten minutes later he returned, to say that the latter was asleep.

  A brief council was held the next morning at a quarter to twelve, and the moment I entered the bedroom I saw with half an eye that the patient was a new man. He spoke with eagerness, and the grey look was out of his face. His sister sat beside him, with shining eyes.

  There was no argument, and everything went our way.

  All were agreed that the sum demanded was fantastic and that the letter be ignored; and, when Mansel said that we should leave after lunch and should not return, Daphne began to protest, but the sick man inclined his head.

  “I thought that was coming,” he said. “You were ever a dark horse, Jonah, and dark horses train alone. But tell me where I can find you and send me word when you can.”

  “That I will do without fail.”

  It was then decided that the Pleydells should take no action, whatever befell, without communicating with us, that they should accept no message as coming from us unless one of us had brought it, but should detail the messenger; and that we should recognize no one as coming from them but Major Pleydell or one of the servants we knew.

  And, so far as I can remember, that was all.

  Mansel had already ridden most of the way to Sava and had driven with Major Pleydell to the spot where the glove had been found; he had also seen and talked with all the servants employed about the farm; “and, since,” he said, rising, “I believe them all to be honest, though painfully unobservant, this is where we come in.”

  Then he asked that Adèle’s dressing-case should be sent for and packed with such things as she would be glad to have. This we were to take with us wherever we went.

  Daphne left to arrange this, and we bade Captain P
leydell “Good-bye.”

  For a moment he held my hand.

  “Adèle’s very lucky,” he said, “to have such good friends.”

  “Oh,” said I, “the boot’s on the other leg.”

  “Sleep well,” said Hanbury.

  Two minutes later the engines of the cars were running, and Hanbury and I were about to take our seats, when Mansel called us into a parlour and shut the door.

  “It is inconceivable,” he said, “that Adèle was taken by chance. Her movements had been watched for some time. Let me go further. They watched her ride out on Monday and met her six miles away.

  “Now no one was seen near Poganec, with or without a car; it follows that their observation post was distant, yet close to a road, so that once they had seen her ride out and the way she went, they could instantly move to meet her—six miles away. Very well. Now turn to the window and lift up your eyes.”

  We did so, to see the breadth of a valley, as fresh and green as you please, and, beyond, a press of high hills, rising up very sudden and wooded cap-á-pie. These lay, I afterwards found, four miles away. High up in their midst rose a fountain that fell by leaps and rushes down to the valley below, a considerable head water, for the trees could not hide it, and, from where we stood, I could see its unbroken length.

  “Can you see the bridge?” said Mansel. “A fifth of the way down the fall.”

  “Yes,” said Hanbury, and after a moment or two I made it out.

  “Good,” said Mansel. “Now their observation post was somewhere about that bridge. A post in the woods would be useless, for the trees would get in the way; but that torrent commands Poganec; and a man sitting there with a glass could see anyone come and go. Then, again, that bridge serves a road to Sava—the only road thereabouts.”

  I took a step to the window, but Mansel stopped me at once.

  “I hope and believe,” he said, “that they’re watching Poganec now. I mean, our movements must interest them no end. So don’t give them food for thought by looking straight into their eyes.