“And now come and look at this map.
“Here’s Poganec, and there’s the bridge—due South. We’re all going there at once. But Chandos and I are going to come up from the West, while Hanbury, Carson and Bell will drive from St. Martin to Sava and come from the East. We may find; we may draw blank; we may meet our friends by the way.” He turned to Hanbury. “Your way will be much the longer, so, if, when you come to the bridge, Chandos and I are not there, drive on round to St. Martin and thence to Villach. If you find anyone suspicious, detain him, but not by force; if he won’t be detained, follow him; drop Bell at the first cross roads, to put us wise; but, whatever you do, don’t lose him, for he’ll show us the way to Adèle.”
With that he put up the map, and two minutes later the cars were clear of the drive and were making towards St. Martin at a leisurely speed. Not until we parted were we to let them go.
“There’s a road on the left,” said Mansel, “somewhere just here.”
With his words the turning appeared, and, as we swung round, Hanbury flashed past our trail-lamp in a pother of dust.
Our road ran into the valley and lay in full view of the bridge, and, since anyone who was watching must now suspect our move, we went like lightning till we came to the foot of the hills and a pretty, white-walled hamlet where four roads met.
A woman, busy at a runnel, gave us good-day.
“I’m looking for some friends,” said Mansel. “Have you seen any car go by?”
“I only came in from the fields, sir, a quarter of an hour ago. But no car has passed since then.”
Mansel thanked her and immediately turned to the left.
Almost at once the road rose into the woods, doubling upon itself, like any serpent, and so beset with foliage as to afford no view of anything beyond a ribbon of sky.
For a while there was no sound at all, except the brush of our tires; but, after a while, we could hear the roar of water some distance away. This grew gradually louder, until it quite stopped our ears, so that we knew less than ever what each bend of the road might bring forth.
It was, I suppose, an ideal site for an ambush, for with every turn you entered an inner bailey of the wood, and, though upon such a score we had nothing to fear, I remember thinking that, where two men were at variance, the odds were on him who came first to such a place. Be that as it may, our ears being stopped, there was nothing to be done but watch; and this I know I did with a quick pulse, for the scene was set for a surprise as I have never known it.
It was soon evident that we were approaching the bridge, for the noise of the fall was thunderous and the pleasant smell of wet earth was unmistakable. Indeed, an instant later we saw the bridge not sixty paces away, and at half that distance a car in the midst of the road, with a man bent double beside it, trying to pull off a wheel.
He was so much engaged that we had stopped alongside before he knew we were there, and, when on a sudden he was aware of our presence, he gaped at us and the Rolls as at an apparition.
Now this was not the way of a spy; and, indeed, it was easy to see that the fellow had nothing to do with those we sought. His cloth apart—for he wore a clergyman’s habit—one look at his face was enough. The man was a genial simpleton, in whom there was no guile. And I think Mansel would have gone by, for his hand went out to the brake, if the other’s delight to see us had been less manifest.
“You’re English,” he cried, twittering.
“Yes,” said Mansel. “And we were to meet a man here. By that bridge. But we’re late for our appointment, and I’m afraid he may have gone.”
“No one was there,” said the other, “ten minutes ago. And I’ve been there more than an hour. But he might have come since.”
With that, before we could stop him, he started to run to the bridge. We overtook him halfway, for, fool though he looked, it seemed prudent to be there first; but he only sought to step on to our running-board and, fouling the tool-chest, fell heavily into the road.
And there you have Hannibal Rouse, clerk in holy orders. He was, I think, the embodiment of that imaginary curate who has for years been the target of an unkind age. The man was futile. He was most garrulous, seldom said anything worth saying and laughed at everything he said; he was prodigal of energy, seldom did anything worth doing and bungled everything he did. I have never known anyone whose company was so distracting; and the patience with which Mansel endured it was more than human. Yet out of the fool came wisdom, and, but for this pelting idiot. I do not believe we should ever have traced Adèle.
I helped the man to his feet, and, since, in view of his report, there was nothing to be gained by proceeding, Mansel berthed the Rolls by the bridge and walked with us back to his car.
Rouse may be fairly judged by the fact that he was seeking to change a wheel without first raising his car by means of a jack; and, when, perceiving that the wheel was sound, we asked him why he wished to change it, he insisted that its tire was punctured and seemed dumbfounded to find it as tight as a drum. It presently emerged that another of his tires was flat and that he had confused the two. He was not at all abashed by these errors, but attributed them boldly to his being “no engineer.”
He then told us that he was touring and cared not where he went, but proposed to stay at Villach and prove the country round. This was ill news enough; but when, after staring upon Mansel, he presently addressed him by name and then, in an ecstasy of triumph, went on to remember White Ladies and how he had attended some fete there before the War, I know that I groaned in spirit and wished the man at the devil. But Mansel was perfectly civil, though something cold.
We had changed his wheel, in spite of his assistance, and were upon the point of leaving, when Hanbury arrived. This necessarily delayed our going and gave Rouse time to remember that he had a camera with him with which he must photograph us all. We protested that we could not wait, but, while we were still protesting, the thing was done. I confess that it did not delay us, for he took his picture as we re-entered the cars, laughing the while like a maniac and promising to show us a proof.
“The man’s a scourge,” said I, as we sped back the way we had come. “He’ll make Villach untenable.”
Mansel shrugged his shoulders.
“I think we must suffer him,” he said. “He may be of use.”
“‘Of use?’” said I.
“Of use,” said Mansel.
With that, he drove very fast to where Adèle’s glove had been found, and set us all to seeking some mark of a tire; “for here,” he said, “I am certain that she changed from one car to another and, while she did so, contrived to drop her glove, for they would have watched her too closely to let her throw it out as she went.”
In proof of this, he showed us where oil had been dripping on the edge of the grass by the road, as is sometimes the way of a car which is standing still.
“The relay was waiting,” said he, “half on and half off the grass, close to the hedge. The other ran up alongside, and the transfer was made. And now we’ll all work in a line, searching the ground as they do on a dairy farm.”
We did so for more than an hour, but found nothing.
Then we took to the cars and drove very slowly west, now travelling together, now parting and presently meeting again, until by evening we had come to a great hog’s back, some fifty miles from the spot where the glove had lain. There we rested and watched the sun go down, and then Mansel led us to Villach as fast as he could.
There, more to my disgust than surprise, we found that Rouse was to lodge in the very same inn. Indeed, he announced his presence by springing out like a child from behind the parlour door, so that even Mansel was short with him, while I could have taken the fool and wrung his neck.
I will not dwell upon his follies, the tale of which was enough to make the angels weep, but merely record that for the next three days he continually invited violence, taking the most curious interest in all we did, pressing his company upon us whenever we were at han
d and openly trying to follow us when we went forth.
This we did every morning at break of day, as best we could to search the country towards the west, for, to that quarter, we made sure, Adèle had been carried off. Mansel, who alone could speak German, visited the villages in turn, stopping at wayside inns and engaging in conversation men and women whose business kept them in sight of the roads. George or Carson or I went always with him. The others repaired to the hog’s back, from which four men with glasses could command a very great view; if ever a car was sighted it was carefully watched, and two would leave in pursuit, so soon as the line it was taking could be fairly presumed. But questionings and scrutinies alike bore us no fruit, for Mansel learned nothing of value, and the occupants of the cars, which were few, gave us no cause to doubt their honesty. Indeed, at the end of three days, we seemed to be no nearer Adèle than when we left Cleveland Row. In that time, however, we received a savage monition that, though we had no idea where Rose Noble was, he had his hand upon us and could, so to speak, twist our tail whenever he pleased.
3. In Touch
When we came in at nightfall, at the end of our second patrol, Rouse was still abroad in his car. For this relief we were thankful, for the evening before he had sat with us during our supper and, hungry though we were, had gone far to spoil the meal. Our respite, however, was short, for we had scarcely sat down before we heard him arrive, and a moment later he thrust his head into the room.
“Guess who I’ve seen,” he said archly.
No one vouchsafed any answer; but Tester spoke for us all, by leaving his cushion and passing beneath the bed.
“Mr. Wilberforce,” said Rouse triumphantly.
The name meant nothing to me, and a glance at Mansel and Hanbury showed that their case was the same.
At length—
“Who’s Wilberforce?” said Mansel wearily.
Rouse’s grin faded, and his eyes grew round with surprise. Then he came into the room.
“He—he said he knew you,” he stammered. “He said he knew you quite well. I met him by the side of the road. He asked me the way to Salzburg, and then we got talking and, when I said you were at Villach, he asked how you were.”
“What was he like?” said Hanbury.
Rouse described some man I had never seen. “When was this?” said Mansel.
Rouse said about six-o’clock.
“I think you must know him,” he added. “He said that he lived near Bournemouth and he asked all about you and how you were getting on. I said you were out a great deal and— There now, I’ve left them in the car.” As he turned to the door—
“Left what in the car?” said I.
“The flowers, of course, stupid,” said Rouse. I could have choked, but Mansel and Hanbury began to shake with laughter. “I tell you he gave me some flowers. Carson, will you be so good? The box in the car.” With a resigned look, Carson left the room.
“The man’s mad,” murmured Hanbury.
“No, he isn’t,” said Rouse excitedly. “He said you were a great gardener.”
“He said I was?” said Mansel.
“Oh, yes,” said Rouse. “I’ve no doubt about it at all. We were talking of horticulture and he said—”
“You must have got the name wrong,” said Mansel. “I know nothing of gardening.”
“You must mean fishing,” said Hanbury.
“No, it must have been gardening,” said Rouse. “Why else should he give me the flowers?”
Here Carson appeared in the doorway, with a shallow, white cardboard box, fastened with string.
“There you are,” said Rouse, handing the box to Mansel, as though there were no more to be said. “He asked me to give them to you.”
“I’m sure you’re mistaken,” said Mansel, taking a knife. “I’m certainly fond of flowers, but—”
“He cut those himself,” said Rouse, “and he said he could think of no one who would value them more than you. James Wilberforce, his name was, and, when I asked—”
“My God!” said Mansel, and Hanbury and I cried out.
The box was full of beautiful, soft, brown hair.
In an instant the room was in an uproar.
As I leapt to my feet, my head struck the electric light and put it out; but I saw George throw himself forward, as Rouse recoiled against the wall. There was a lamp by the bed, and I sought like a madman for the switch, while Tester was barking and George and Rouse were shouting and Mansel was calling George to order in a steady, metallic voice.
As the light went up—
“It’s beyond a joke,” said Rouse, painfully getting to his feet. “You might have hurt me very much. Supposing—”
“How did you come by that box?” said Mansel.
“I tell you,” said Rouse, “he told me to give it to you. I understood they were flowers and that you—”
“You say he was going to Salzburg?”
“I think so,” said Rouse, wincing. “He—”
“Please describe him again.”
Rouse gave the particulars, staring.
“And now describe his car.”
When he had done so, Mansel stepped to the door.
“I’m sorry for what’s happened,” he said. “The fault was not yours. And now please go. We’ve plans to make and rather a lot to discuss.” Without a word, Rouse turned and limped from the room.
For a little, none of us spoke.
Then—
“Do you believe him?” said Hanbury.
“Why not?” said Mansel. “If the enemy knows we’re here, you can bet he hasn’t missed Rouse. And there you are. I said Rouse might be of use, and I was right. He’s just been of use to Rose Noble. Perhaps to-morrow he’ll be of use to us.”
My room and Mansel’s shared a small balcony, and that night Tester waked me by putting his nose on my arm. I was up in an instant, for the dog was plainly uneasy and I feared that something was wrong. As I passed barefoot to the window, I saw that the light was burning in Mansel’s room . . . .
Mansel was on his knees by the side of the bed, with one arm across his eyes, like a weeping child and the other hand full of the curls which lay in a little heap in the midst of the counterpane.
For a long time he never moved, but at last he lifted his head and, when the dog came running, he picked him up in his arms.
I stole back to bed.
The next day was Sunday.
Mansel started for Salzburg at seven o’clock, taking Carson with him, and the rest of us left for the hog’s back within the hour.
I ran into Rouse on the doorstep, as I was leaving the inn.
“I must beg your pardon,” he said, “for the way I spoke last night. It was very wrong of me. And I feel you were most justly provoked.” He laughed inanely.
I was very disappointed myself. But I do hope Captain Mansel won’t take it up with Mr. Wilberforce. After all, we’re all liable to make mistakes, and I’m sure he had no intention of playing a joke.”
At first I could make no reply.
At length—
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’m afraid we were rather— rather hasty. Supper’s a bad time, you know.”
With that, I rushed off, before he could clasp my hand.
When I told Hanbury—
“The man’s half-witted,” he said. “And I’m ashamed of myself for bringing him down. I don’t wonder Rose Noble hangs his hat on him. I think we should soon find Adèle, if he had a comic idiot round his neck.” “Yet Mansel has hopes of him,” said I.
“As a hat-stand,” said George. “That’s all.”
Not until ten that night did Mansel return to the inn. We had come in at sundown, and Rouse had badgered us nearly out of our lives, for, remembering our offences of the night before, we felt constrained to be civil, and the fact that the day was Sunday seemed to entitle his cloth to consideration. Before retiring, he asked if he might read us the Gospel. We could hardly refuse, but I fear it did us no good and only enla
rged the sympathy we felt for his flock.
Very soon after, we heard the sigh of the Rolls, and a moment later Mansel entered the room.
“Gone to bed?” he said, looking round.
“Ten minutes ago,” said I, “by the grace of God.”
“Then you’re friends again,” said Mansel.
I told him how Rouse had spoken on the steps of the inn and what we had suffered since sundown at the hands of the fool.
“Good,” said he. “Any news?”
“Devil a bit,” said I. “And you?”
“Salzburg’s no earthly,” says he. “Indeed, I was so sure of that that I’ve been at Poganec all day.” We opened our eyes. “But don’t tell Hannibal R.”
“He never dreamed you’d gone to Salzburg. If he had—”
“Oh, yes, he did,” said Mansel, sitting down in a chair. “But he knew I should waste my time. I tell you, he’s pretty hot stuff, is Hannibal R. And you must admit he’s put up a wonderful show. Talk about sheep’s clothing.”
Hanbury was looking at me in a helpless way, and I fancy he found slight comfort in my expression, for he soon returned to Mansel, and I did the same.
“Last night,” said Mansel, “you asked me if I believed him. The true answer was ‘No’; and the whole truth, ‘I never did.’
“And now listen.
“The moment I saw him, I felt sure that he was our man. He was where I had expected to find him, and he couldn’t escape, because he had a flat tire. Yet in the first five minutes he played the fool so beautifully that against my better judgment I found my suspicions failing and I had to fight with myself to keep them alive. And then he made a mistake. It was a very slight one, and I don’t think he thought I saw. He did a thing that no clergyman that wears a round collar would ever do. He put up two hands, as though to straighten a tie.”
He paused there, to pour himself some ale; and, when he had drunk, he lighted a cigarette.
“Well,” he continued, “the obvious thing to do was to play his game—satisfy him that we didn’t suspect him at all. And that’s why I didn’t tell you. Your undisguised contempt for him has been simply invaluable. I should think he’s been revelling in it—I know I have. By the way, I’m telling you now, because you won’t see him again—at least, not upon the same terms.
Blind Corner and Perishable Goods Page 24