Blind Corner and Perishable Goods

by Dornford YIates

  Punter took a deep breath.

  “This time to-morrow,” he said, “we’ll be on the — road.”

  “Out of the country, you mean, and pushing for France.”

  Bunch looked up from his victuals.

  “Wot price the Customs?” he said. “I’ll shift the — Rolls, but there’s photos stuck on to ’er papers, an’ I don’ wan’ to be asked why I’m drivin’ a stolen car.”

  Rose Noble yawned.

  “I guess we’ll give one of the Willies a lift to France. They’ll have to go back to London to raise the wind. An’ he’ll put us through the Customs—if we remember to ask him while Mansel’s up on the wall.”

  Punter spoke over his shoulder.

  “What ‘Poky’ was that you mentioned? There was a ‘Poky’ Barrett I saw in a Boston bar. But he was a little old screw, with a jerky leg.”

  Rose Noble laughed.

  “‘Poky’ Barrett” he said, “is forty-two.”

  “Go on,” said Punter incredulously. “Forty-two,” said Rose Noble. “But he had . . . an illness . . . not quite seven years ago...”

  Somehow I got to my knees and tried to speak.

  The three watched me curiously.

  I threw myself down and rubbed my head on the ground in a wild endeavour to tear the gag from my mouth. I heard Punter laugh and say something about a dog. The attempt exhausted me and was utterly vain. When I got again to my knees, my face was streaming with sweat.

  Rose Noble looked at me and lifted his lids.

  “An illness,” he said softly. “Some people might say ‘an attack.’ It changed him . . . unbelievably— And the jerky leg came on about the same time. You see, when he wouldn’t answer, somebody happened to touch his sciatic nerve.”

  With a bursting head, I flung myself back on the turf . . . .

  I can never describe the agony of that hour.

  I knew that Mansel would come, and I knew he would come before dark. He would never wait for ten hours before starting to my relief; and Carson had to be saved from walking clean into a trap. He had not rope enough to go by the cliff—the spur was his only way. And so he would come . . . by daylight . . . up to the wood . . . If he came, he was doomed. He could be seen approaching for two hundred yards or more, and no cunning would ever avail him against an ambuscade. There was no scope for cunning. The wood was dense, while, except for four or five trees, the spur was bare. I had no hope for him, and, if I had, Rose Noble’s air would have killed it, for he, the soul of prudence, was awaiting his enemy’s coming with his hands, so to speak, in his pockets and his sword in the rack.

  Of what was to follow his wounding, I tried not to think.

  Whoever was with him would be taken alive or dead; and Carson would walk into the shambles soon after the sun had set. With me for spokesman, those that were left in the castle would be apprised of the truth, and no doubt, at dawn the next day Adèle and Hanbury and I would be pleading with prayers and fortunes for the life of a broken man. And so the play would finish— in a welter of blood and tears. Redress was not to be thought of: the chances of vengeance would not be worth taking up. Then The Law would step in, pick over the ghastly business, madden us all with its ritual, ask unanswerable questions and believe what it chose. A hideous publicity would follow’: the names of Adèle and Mansel would be in everyone’s mouth; reporters would cluster round Poganec; char-a-bancs would be run to The Castle of Gath . . . .

  In this affliction of spirit I again and again forgot my bodily distress. This was as well, for the gag choked me and had broken the sides of my mouth, my wrists seemed to be on fire, the pain in my head was raging, and I might have been covered with blankets, so fast was I streaming with sweat. At times I made sure I was sickening for some disease, but I think that it was the tightness as well of my clothing as my bonds which joined with the heat of the day, not only made me so hot, but caused my blood to rebel against such usage.

  Bunch drained his bottle of wine and lay down to sleep. Before he did so, he took a scarf from his pocket and bound my feet, and so put out the spark of hope I had cherished that, when the moment came, I could hurl myself into the bushes and betray his danger to Mansel by means of the noise I made.

  Rose Noble was speaking.

  “I guess you’ll remember to-day. It’ll spoil the greenwood for you for the rest of your life. When you see the sun on the leaves and you hear the birds piping around, I guess you’ll remember to-day, and, when you remember, I reckon you’ll wish it was raining and that the boughs were bare.

  “May be it’ll learn you something that they don’t teach at Oxford or the school for pretty, young boys.

  Stick to your — last. Live an’ let live. If somebody pulls your nose, go to the police. Keep your — tadpoles, an’ watch ’em turn into frogs, but leave the deep-sea fishing to them that know . . . .

  “When Mansel climbed into that strongbox, he cut his throat. He gave me this wood for the taking—just the kind of damn-fool error a squirt like Mansel would make. The poor trash couldn’t see that, if ever it got to a dog-fight, the — that had this thicket was hound to win.”

  If the fellow’s words enraged me, I think that they angered him.

  He knew as well as did I that we could not have taken the castle and held the wood as well and that Mansel had had to stake all upon freeing Adèle; he knew that Mansel had taken trick after trick, though the game was not of his choosing and every card was marked—that Mansel could still win the odd . . . and the game and the rubber arid all . . . if he would hut sit still in the castle and let Carson and me take our chance. He had sought to belittle the man who in fourteen days had achieved what Rose Noble himself had believed three impossible feats, first of all finding a needle out of a bottle of hay, then seizing a very bastille and, finally, plucking his lady out of the lion’s mouth. He had sought to diminish Mansel, and he had failed, because the facts were against him and he had no sort of material with which to build his case. This poverty made him wroth, and, could he have called back his words, I think he would. But since he could not, he started to curse and swear, reviling Mansel in filthy and blasphemous terms and working himself into a very passion, because, I fancy, he knew that with every execration he was, so to speak, but further exposing his sores.

  Throughout this exhibition, Bunch was pretending slumber, and Punter never moved, whilst I, of course, lay as I was, for, now that my feet were bound, I could not stir.

  At last the storm blew itself out, and, after a decent silence, Rose Noble turned to the future and left the past.

  “I guess Jute’ll bite his thumbs, when he finds we’re gone.”

  Bunch propped himself on an elbow and let out an oath.

  “Serve ’im — well right,” he spouted, “the dirty goat. Sits down in that crooked village an’ leaves us to get the wet. I know ’is — idea of keepin’ the background warm. Oysters an’ girls an’ movies an’ a skinful every night.”

  “He had his orders,” said Rose Noble, “an’ he’s broken ’em twice. If he’d done as I told him, we shouldn’t have had this fuss. But maybe it’s as well. It don’t amuse me to suckle an insubordinate — that’s let me down.”

  This definite intimation that no claim by Jute would be paid was greeted by Punter and Bunch with the highest glee, partly, no doubt, because each was expecting to profit by such a rule, but mainly, I think, because they detested Jute and the thought of his losing his share did their hearts good. Indeed, had they known the truth—that Jute was no longer alive to lodge his claim, they could not have been better pleased. They crowded and giggled like children, abused the dead man with a relish which must have made him turn in his grave, and showed an impatience for action which all their approaching welfare had failed to inspire.

  Punter shook his fist at the castle and cried aloud.

  “Come out, you one-legged — , and take your gruel.”

  “Easy now,” said Rose Noble. “He knows that he’s for the high jump, and I guess you’d
straighten your tie before buying that hop.”

  “Rose,” says Bunch, all of a twitter, “are you sure we’d better not spread? You know. Just in case—”

  Rose Noble sat up.

  “If and when I say so, but not before. What the hell’s the use of spreading before they show up? Or even then?”

  “None whatever,” said Mansel.

  Then a shot was fired just behind me, and Rose Noble fell back, staring, with the blood running into his eyes.

  Himself, Mansel unbound me and took the gag from my mouth, while Carson and Bell, who were with him, stood covering Punter and Bunch—in a way, a needless precaution, for the two seemed stupefied and gazed about them slowly, as though they had just been translated into another world. And so, I suppose, in a sense, they had been, for Rose Noble was stone dead, shot through the brain.

  When he saw the state of my mouth, Mansel drew in his breath. Then his hands went under my arms, and he lifted me up.

  There was a rill in the wood—we had heard the fuss of its water, whenever we used the drive. This we sought in silence, for I was past speaking, and Mansel held his tongue. Indeed, he had his hands full, for though I could walk, I had lost my sense of balance and but for his arms, must have fallen a score of times.

  The water revived me, but, when I would have spoken, Mansel stopped me at once.

  “All in good time,” said he. “Those swine must be disposed of, and the cord’s way back with the cars. You will stay here and rest, and I’ll come back and find you as soon as ever I can.”

  With that, he was gone, and I turned again to the water and drank my fill . . . .

  After a little, I lay back and gazed at the sky.

  To tell the truth, I was thankful to be alone.

  I had been just as much shaken as Punter and Bunch, and the world seemed out of focus to my labouring brain.

  One moment the enemy was rampant, and the next Rose Noble was dead; before he had left the castle, Mansel had appeared in the wood; the inevitable had not happened, the impossible come to pass.

  More than once an absurd fear seized me that it was all a dream, and, indeed, I was still uneasy when I heard a comfortable sound—the sigh of one of the Rolls.

  Ten minutes later Tester was licking my face . . . .

  “It’s very simple,” said Mansel, filling a pipe. “The whole of the credit is yours. You cut the Gordian knot; and when, because of my failure, our case was ten times worse than it had been before, you pulled the whole show round and did the trick.”

  To this I demurred, but he brushed my protests aside. “Listen,” he said. “They carried me in and laid me down on a bed in the middle room of the tower. They took my pistol and knife, locked them up in a cupboard and took the key. Then they locked every door, except the door to the roof and that of the room in which I lay. Well, that washed out George and the servants, for they were in the oratory, very properly biding their time. Then they hand-cuffed Adèle to my bed-post, and, when she slipped out of the cuff, they clipped her ankle instead. Then Rose Noble sat down and watched me—from a chair at the foot of the bed. Adèle told me afterwards that he never took his hand from his pocket or his eyes from my face . . . . If you can conceive a tighter place than that, I’d like to hear what it is.

  “Well, the ‘doctor’ appeared, and, before he’d said thirty words, Rose Noble was out of the room. When I rose to follow, Adèle almost bent it again. She started up, forgetting her ankle was fast to the leg of the bed. I just managed to catch her in time . . . .

  “I shut the door to the roof and started to look for the keys. I found them at last, high up in a niche in the wall. Then I unlocked the doors. I had no idea where George and the servants were, and, as luck would have it, I tried the oratory last. Not until then did I go back to the ‘doctor’ and ask about you. To my horror, I learned he had left you up on the roof . . . .

  “Of course I realized I had shut the door in your face, and, when I rushed back to listen, I could hear Rose Noble speaking and you reply. I took Bell’s pistol, posted George and Rowley as best I could and cautiously opened the door, to find that the roof was empty and the opposite door was shut. This made me think very hard. Although he knew we had rope, Rose Noble was giving us the roof; but the gifts of a man like that are always dangerous, and I instantly wondered if he meant to take to the wood.

  “A moment’s reflection convinced me that this was so.

  “In the first place, to use his own words, ‘if ever it got to a dog-fight, the fellow that had this thicket was bound to win’; in the second, the dog-fight was coming—there was any amount to suggest that the servants were in; the castle would soon be unhealthy, because of the doctor’s friends; and, then, the cars for the taking and Carson as well; finally, he knew I should seek you, and the very best place in which to hold you prisoner was, therefore, the wood.

  “There was not a moment to lose. We couldn’t go down the cliff, for we hadn’t sufficient rope, and our only chance was to reach the wood by the spur not only before Rose Noble, but before he was in a position to see us go.

  “I left George and Rowley with Adèle, who was now as safe as a house, and Bell and I slid down from the roof to the spur. The ‘doctor,’ a gallant old fellow, drew up the rope behind us and then slipped back to the tower. Believe me, I ran for this wood, with my heart in my mouth . . . .

  “When we made the drive, I sent Bell off for Carson and lay in wait. Almost at once you appeared. I watched you come out of the window and start for the wood, but, when I felt for my pistol, it wasn’t there . . . .

  “I’d given it back to Bell, before I went down the rope, and in the rush I’d forgotten to ask for it back.

  “Well, there was nothing to be done. I retired, marked you to cover and then went off to pick up Carson and Bell. I’m afraid the delay cost you dear, for I had to be careful to meet them a long way back and, of course, we had to come up without snapping a twig. But I think, perhaps, after all, it was better so, for the sprint had unsteadied my hand, and, if I had missed or anything else had slipped, you were a pretty good hostage and I was but one to three.

  “The rest you know.” He rose to his feet and stretched luxuriously. “And now, if you feel like moving, we’ll get into one of the cars and go back to Adèle. Carson and Bell are digging a certain grave, I think we’ll leave them to it—and him to them. To tell you the truth, I don’t want to see him again. The sight of him rouses feelings that one shouldn’t have against the dead. In his way, he was a great man, and, if he’d had the help I’ve had, he’d have wiped me off the map. He hadn’t a servant worth having—they let him down right and left; he practically stood alone; and, even so, it took six of us all we knew to bring him down.”

  It is not for me to review that valediction; I heard it in silence, and in silence I leave it now. The quarrel was not mine, but Mansel’s, and I will not pick over the blossoms he chose to lay upon the grave.

  Without a word, we made our way to the cars, and, taking the first, drove slowly out of the drive and down to the castle gate.

  Then Mansel climbed in by the window that had the loose bar, and two minutes later he swung the great leaf open and I drove in.

  When I was in the courtyard, I stopped and sounded the horn. Before its echoes had died, a casement of the oratory was opened, and Hanbury put out his head.

  “All over,” said Mansel simply. “Open the doors.”

  He was on his way to the guard-room, before I was out of the car, with Tester scrambling before him, agog to prove the promise of so unusual a field.

  I followed leisurely, still thinking on the death of Rose Noble and of all that had passed, and trying to believe that the clock in the dashboard of the Rolls was telling the truth when it said that the hour was no more than half-past nine.

  So I came to the guard-room and down the winding stair.

  The passage door was open, and Mansel was standing in the passage, fronting Adèle. His back was towards me, but I saw that his he
ad was bowed and he had her hand to his lips. The back of her other hand was across her eyes.

  And between them and me crouched Casemate framed in the passage doorway, pistol in hand.

  I let out a cry that might have been heard in Lass, but, as I did so, he fired, and I saw Mansel stagger a little and then sink down on his knees.

  Before Casemate could turn, I had knocked him flat on his face and was kneeling upon his back. Then I took my knife and drove it into his spine.

  But the mischief was done.

  Mansel was still alive, but the bullet had entered his stomach, and there was death in his face.

  9. Full Measure

  I shall never forgive myself for forgetting that Casemate was still at large. I had thought of him twice since my rescue—once as I lay by the brook, waiting Mansel's return, and again whilst Mansel was gone to open the castle gate; and each time, befor he was back, I had let some other matter thrust Casemate out of my mind.

  I have no excuse to offer. It was a monstrous negligence, for which I can never account, though sometimes I strive to believe that Rose Noble’s familiar possessed me to let Mansel down.

  We bore him into the lovely bedchamber and laid him upon the King’s bed.

  When we would have taken his coat, he shook his head.

  “He’s got me all right,” he whispered; “so let me be.”

  I tried to say I was sorry, with the tears running down my face.

  But he only smiled.

  “Rot,” he said gently. “Luck of the battle—that’s all.”

  Upon the great bed sat Adèle, steady-eyed as ever, but very pale. She might have been Eve, as Milton has pictured her, sitting upon the green bank, looking into the pool. Her left arm propped her, and she was sitting sideways, after the way of a child; one ring of the broken handcuffs was still about her slim leg. Her hand was in Mansel’s, and their two hands lay in her lap; her beautiful head was bowed, and her eyes never left the eyes of the man she loved.