Blind Corner and Perishable Goods

by Dornford YIates

  “Now, first, what was his job? His job was to keep in touch. Rose Noble holds a fine hand, but he knows us too well to sleep sound when we’re out of his ken. So Rouse was to keep in touch—an extremely difficult job. We were six to one, you see, and ready to find a spy under every hat. So what does he do but step in under our guard? It was done in the War, you know; but only a born artist can bring it off. And Rouse is an old master.

  “And now for his value to us. It may become imperative that a spy should return to his chief. Very well. If Rouse thought we suspected him, he’d never return, until he had shaken us off. Never. But, now that he knows we don’t, he’ll go when he thinks he’s better and never take the trouble to look behind. And I think he’ll think he’d better before very long, for he’ll have some news for Rose Noble which will not wait.

  “And now, if you please, we shall all go to bed at once, for I’ve no idea when or where we shall sleep again.”

  I had slept very ill for three hours when I heard a car making like fury towards the inn. At once I sat up, for, in view of what Mansel had said, I fully expected that it was bound for our door; but it swept up the street, like a squall, and presently turning some corner, passed out of earshot.

  A moment later, however, I heard it coming again.

  Again it went by the inn, but stopped, with its brakes screaming, a score of paces away. Then the reverse gear was engaged, and the car shot back with a snarl, to come to rest under our windows, before the inn.

  The next instant someone was pounding upon the front door.

  As I rushed to the window—

  “What is it, Berry?” said Mansel, from the balcony.

  Major Pleydell stepped back on the pavement and threw up his head.

  “Jonah,” he cried, “she’s sent word. She’s got a message through.”

  “I’ll come down,” said Mansel.

  But George and I were before him and had the front door open, while he was still on the stairs.

  For a moment the cousins spoke together; then Mansel turned to us.

  “The man’s at Poganec,” he said. “We must go there at once.”

  For all our haste, Mansel was ready before us, and I heard him call Carson and tell him to follow with Rowley and that Bell was to pack our light luggage and load the second Rolls.

  Two minutes later we left in Major Pleydell’s car; Mansel was driving, while the chauffeur sat by his side.

  We did not go to Poganec, but, instead, twenty miles to Crayern—the first station after Villach, if you are travelling east.

  Arrived there, Mansel descended, and, wondering what was to happen, we followed him out of the car.

  To our surprise, he bade Major Pleydell “Good-bye.”

  “And thanks very much,” he said. “You did it most awfully well.”

  “I wish it had been true,” said his cousin.

  “So do I,” said Mansel. “So long.”

  “Good night, you two,” said the other.

  George and I cried “Good night.”

  Then the car slipped into the darkness and Mansel turned to us.

  “You must forgive me,” he said. “I’ll never blind you again. And now let’s walk to the station, and talk as we go along.

  “Rouse’s room’s above mine. I’m sure the car must have waked him, and I’m sure he heard what was said. She’s got a message through. And that’s the news for Rose Noble which will not wait.

  “Very well. What will Rouse do? He’ll clear out at once. Well, that’s all right, but I don’t think his car will start. He’ll try to locate the trouble, and so will Bell— they’re probably sweating blood now—but they’ll only waste their time. And so Brother Rouse will have to take to the train. I think it more than likely that Bell will drive him to the station, for an Innsbruck train leaves Villach at a quarter to three. The same train leaves Crayern at a quarter past two, that is to say, in exactly ten minutes’ time. So, if we’re quick and that’s the station ahead, we four shall travel together as far as Rouse wants to go.

  “Now it’s all very well to make plans for somebody else. I think Rouse will start right away and I think he will take this train. But Rowley will be on the platform to see if he does. If he doesn’t, look out for a flash from Rowley’s torch. If, as the train moves out, we see a flash, we leave the train at the next station; and there we shall find Carson waiting to bring us home. If we don’t get out, he’ll follow the train along, calling at every station until he finds one of us waiting to pick him up.

  “Well, there you are. I’ve set my trap and I’ve tried to look ahead. I’d have given a very great deal to have your counsel, but I dared not tell you that Rouse was Rose Noble’s man.”

  “Thank God you didn’t,” said Hanbury. “I couldn’t have played the hand to save my life.”

  “I covet his nerve,” said I.

  “You may well do that,” said Mansel. “Look at that— those flowers. Of course it made you suspect him, but he had you back in your place by eight the next day.”

  By now we had come to the station, and ten minutes later we had our tickets for Innsbruck and were aboard the train.

  As luck would have it, there was a sleeping car; and, as this was nearly empty, we were able to buy a compartment which held three beds. Comfort apart, this would save us no end of trouble, for now we could lock ourselves in and put out the light. To insure against interference, we told the attendant to make our beds at once and on no account to disturb us till Innsbruck was reached.

  He was a talkative fellow and proud of what English he had, and I was soon in a fever lest we should come to Villach before the beds were made; indeed, as the minutes went by, I could hardly sit still, but at last he had set all to his liking and wished us good night.

  Two minutes later the train began to slow down.

  “Draw the blinds,” said Mansel, “because of the station lamps.”

  When we had done so, he took his stand by the window and Hanbury put out the light.

  As the train drew into the station, we stood as still as death, and to this day I remember every sound.

  From the resonance of all noise, I judged the station empty, except for those on duty and a handful of freight. There was no haste or clamour, and, if passengers came or went, they gave no sign. After a little, a gong clanged five or six times, and a moment later somebody slammed a door. Then the guard, I suppose, wound a horn, the engine whistled in answer and the train began to move.

  As Mansel was lifting the blind—

  “I must be alone,” said Rouse.

  I think we all started.

  “Orright, orright,” said the attendant.

  The voices came from the corridor outside our door.

  “Well, get a move on,” said Rouse. “I’m pretty tired. What time do we get to Lass?”

  Then the two passed on down the passage, and we could hear no more.

  It was safe enough now to move and to switch on the light; yet we did neither, but continued to stand breathless, each of us busy with his thoughts.

  For those of Hanbury and Mansel I cannot answer, but I know that I was thinking neither of what was before us nor of the secret which Mansel had so brilliantly won. I was thinking how the tone of a man’s voice may show the colour of his heart; for the voice was Rouse’s voice, but the tone was that of a harsh and evil man.

  At length Mansel let the blind go and asked me to switch on the light.

  A short study of the map suggested that we should reach Lass not later than six o’clock. The place lay fifty miles from Innsbruck and was either a fair-sized village or a very small town. The country about was highly mountainous.

  It was then arranged that each should watch for one hour, while the others slept. I was to take the first watch, and Mansel the last; “although,” said he, “I think that may be a short one, for, before we get to Lass we must settle one or two things. Still, I shall begin to get pensive at five o’clock, and so, if you two don’t mind, I’ll sleep till then.�
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  Then the light was put out, and he and George lay down, whilst I sat still by the window, to watch the landscape go by, very fair and peaceful and, under the rule of the moonlight, like an enchanted land.

  When Mansel waked us, I found to my surprise that it was half past six, but it seemed that at some small station we had waited nearly an hour, because of some disorder a few miles ahead.

  “Which is all to the good,” said Mansel, “for now, when we get to Lass, there will be more people about and we ought to be able to follow without being seen.”

  Then he arranged that, until Rouse was off the platform, we should not leave the train, and that, once outside the station, we should immediately disperse; we were then to ignore one another and each in his own way contrive to keep Rouse in view. I was not to follow for more than a quarter of a mile, but was then to return to the station and wait for Carson to come.

  Rough as were these proposals, I believe they would have wholly succeeded, had not Fortune served us a very ill turn; for Rouse left the train as casually as though he travelled to Lass every day of his life and made his way out of the station without, so far as I saw, once looking behind.

  He paused outside for a moment, to light a cigarette, and then started down the short road which served the station alone. The road was planted with lime trees six paces apart, and, as he walked down the middle, we had but to keep to the path to be out of his view. Mansel and I took the left path, and Hanbury the right.

  All of a sudden, Mansel, who was leading, stopped dead.

  I instantly looked at Rouse, still sauntering carelessly on, with his head in the air, as yet completely unconscious of the two Rolls stealing towards him, perhaps fifty paces away.

  In a flash I knew what had happened.

  The delay on the line had put a spoke in our wheel, and Carson, with Bell behind him, had caught up the train.

  Even as I looked, my gentleman saw the two cars.

  For an instant he faltered. Then he glanced over his shoulder and walked straight on.

  As they approached, he spread out ridiculous arms, and, when Carson stopped, he stepped abreast of the car and engaged him in talk, laughing and stamping and stooping and slapping his thighs, as though he found the encounter a matter of infinite jest, and completely ignoring the approach of a small motor bus. This had met our train, in the hope, I suppose, of custom for some hotel, and, the hope proving vain, was at last going empty away.

  Of the little road the Rolls took more than its share, and, since Rouse with his antics occupied all that was left, the bus could not have gone by without running him down. This it very nearly did, for its driver did not seem to believe that the man would not budge; but, in spite of all manner of warnings, Rouse held his ground to the last, so that the driver was forced to clap on his brakes and actually lock his wheels to let the other get clear. Some argument followed, and this seemed natural enough; but, before it was over, Rouse took his seat by the driver and under the eyes of us all was rapidly driven away.

  Maybe we were fools, but the thing was cleverly done.

  The cars were facing the station and were far too long to be at all quickly turned; the town lay five hundred yards distant, and no other car was in sight.

  Too late Rowley leapt from his seat and flung up the road, in a vain endeavour to mount the bus from behind; too late Carson spurted for the station, to turn in the yard; only, as the bus disappeared, a figure flashed out of the lime trees and into its dust. This was Hanbury; and, since Rouse could not have known that he was behind, I think we all had some hope that he might be able by his speed to pull the unfortunate business out of the fire.

  I do not mean to submit that we had cause for complaint. If Adèle was not lying at Lass, she was in the neighborhood; our quest, from being desperate, had become full of promise; and we had passed, so to speak, at one stride into the running. Yet, but for the train’s delay, we might well have been led clean up to the prison gates and, taking Rose Noble unawares, have had his prisoner out before he knew we were there. And there was the rub. To have lost Rouse was tiresome; to have shown him that we were at Lass, and that in full force, was nothing less than a disaster. There is an old saying that a miss is as good as a mile; but, unless we could overtake Rouse without his knowledge, we were like to lose half the ground we had been at such pains to win.

  Such thoughts and the like slid into and out of my mind, as the cars went about in the yard and, waiting a favourable moment, I boarded the second and took my seat by Bell.

  Only pausing to take up Rowley, we tore after Mansel and Carson, now well under way.

  Had the town lain further away, we must have come up with the bus, but the road this had taken was crooked and after a quarter of a mile ran into the streets. These were as narrow and faithless as any I know, for almost at once Carson was in a blind alley, and, though I saw his mistake in time to save Bell, the way we took brought us into a miniature market and left us there to get out as best we could.

  At once I jumped out of the car and, calling to Bell to follow, began to run back. A passage presenting itself, I took this at once, in the hope of striking that quarter which we had failed to find, but, though it led into a street, I had to turn right or left, whereas, to my way of thinking, I needed to hold straight on. I ran to the right and turned up the first street I saw, but this curled round in a hoop, and, as soon as I had the chance, I turned again.

  It follows that within five minutes I knew neither where I was nor how I had come, and, since I could speak no German, I had no means of obtaining any direction. Bell I must have outrun, for he was not to be seen.

  Now why I called Bell to follow, instead of Rowley, I never can tell; it was against all reason, for Bell could handle the Rolls, but Rowley could not, and we had left the car so blocking the jaws of the market that nothing could come or go. It was, indeed, so unnatural a mistake to have made that I have often wondered whether Providence itself did not put his name into my mouth, for had I called Rowley instead, we should have lost a chance which would not have come again.

  I had walked for another five minutes, without result, and was standing at a corner, where a very ancient fountain was playing behind a grill, wondering which way to take and thinking how childish it was to be lost in a town the size of St. James’s Park, when a soft, green fig fell suddenly down at my feet. I at once looked up and around, to see Hanbury’s face at a window and Bell’s behind.

  As our eyes met, George beckoned to me to come up, but, before I could give any sign, they had disappeared.

  The window at which I had seen them was that of a handsome oriel, serving a fine, old house, which must once, I think, have lodged persons of high degree, for a coat of arms had been cut above the doorway and each of the oriel’s corbels was charged with some device. The floor below was now used as a bookseller’s shop, and little but the doorway remained to show what it had been.

  I immediately crossed the street and entered the shop, when an old man at once came forward and, using very fair English, inquired of what service he could be. Before I could answer, Bell came from behind a bookcase and said that I was a friend, whereupon I was ushered upstairs without a word.

  A moment later we entered a handsome room, more than half of which was loaded with books, while the hither or oriel end was curtained off and made an agreeable parlor, full of light.

  George was sitting on a table, gazing out of the window from which he had beckoned me up; this was commanding a close, at the comer of which played the fountain by which I had stood.

  “Bill,” said George, “where’s Mansel?”

  “God knows,” said I. “Where’s Rouse?”

  “Down in that close,” said George. “He went into one of those houses, but I’ve no idea which.”

  “How on earth did you do it?” said I, clapping him on the back.

  “I don’t know,” said George. “I couldn’t stand up when I got here, but just fell down in the shop. The old fellow was quite up
set. By the grace of God he speaks English, and, when I could breathe, I pointed to Alison’s Europe and asked him how much it was. He said ‘Two pounds—English money.’ So I said I’d give him five if he’d let me sit up in this window as long as I pleased. He threw the figs in, but don’t touch them—they’re the only munitions I’ve got. And not everyone stands by that fountain; I had to throw three at Bell. And now what’s to be done? I know how to hurry, but I look to you for the brains.”

  Standing well back from the window, I stared at the close.

  How many houses there were I could not tell, for they were irregularly built and several were overhung; but the close was shallow—a bare fifty paces in depth, with a heavily timbered mansion blocking the farther end. The place was plainly most aged and would have been a feature of any city I know, but Lass was so old and curious and had been so little touched that the close was no more than in keeping with the rest of the town.

  “I think one thing is certain,” said I, “that Adèle is not in this town; it’s much too busy for Rose Noble. Rouse has gone to ground in some house of call—some lodging or other they’ve taken down in that close. And, unless there’s a back way out, I don’t think he’ll leave before dark. If I am right and the house is a meeting-place, there’s no reason why he should, for he can send word to Rose Noble by someone we’ve never seen.”

  “That’s encouraging,” said Hanbury. “Not that it seems a very popular walk; only five people have used it since I’ve been here. But it’s early yet and—well, there’s a man coming now. He doesn’t look very likely, but then they never do.”

  “I don’t see what we can do,” said I, “until we know which is the house. You can’t run after a man just because he comes out of that close. It’s suspicious, of course, but we’re only six, all told, and, until we’ve got more to go on—”

  “Sir,” said Bell, “that’s the man. He was on the quay at Dieppe.”