by Sapper
“I doubt it,” said Standish, “but go on.”
“What is the next thing the police will do? They know our names, and when no information of the car comes to hand, they will assume we have taken to the railway. Which is what, incidentally, I suggest we should do at the earliest possible moment. And here comes the vital difference between our cases. Whatever Menalin and Co. may think of me, the police don’t want me. You two are all that count in their young lives. And so I propose that we separate. I’ll go to Paris and cross to England in the ordinary way, but what are you going to do? Let’s work it out. Every railway frontier will be watched for you two by name. It is just possible, and it seems to me to be your only hope, that the road frontiers will be watched for by car.”
“My God!” cried Drummond, “you don’t suggest we should walk across France, do you?”
Gasdon laughed.
“Not quite. I suggest that we should all make for the Grenoble line. That I should go to Paris, and that you should make for Geneva. Go to Aix-les-Bains. There hire a car and drive to Evian on the Lake Geneva, where you can pick up one of the steamers. And once you’ve done that you’re in the straight run home.”
“It sounds feasible,” said Standish. “The only drawback to my mind is that if we are caught, such a very elaborate scheme makes us look infernally guilty.”
“You’ll have to chance that,” answered Gasdon. “Don’t forget you can always tell the police the real reason for what you’ve done.”
“That’s so. Just now, however, the pressing need is the immediate future. It is almost dark, and, I take it, that’s Grasse in front of us.”
“Go slow,” said Gasdon. “Here is the turning to the left. It’s a bad road, but we can skirt the town and come out beyond it on the Digne road. Then we’re safe as far as Castellane.”
“Thank the Lord you know the old terrain,” laughed Drummond. “What a fun, boys, what a fun! But could little Hugh do with a pint? The answer, jolly old speaker, is in the affirmative.”
“It is definitely a sound idea, Gasdon,” said Standish after they had driven in silence for some time. “If we can make Switzerland, we’re on velvet. Through Germany to either the Hook or Ostend.”
“Just so,” said Gasdon. “And before we separate we’ll agree where we meet in England.”
“Sure bill,” cried Standish. “But since you will certainly be there first, get in touch at once with Lawson – Major Lawson – at the War House, and tell him the whole story.”
Once more silence fell. By now it was quite dark, and the road was rising rapidly, though the car made light of the gradient. Mile after mile fell away behind them, and soon the lights of Castellane appeared ahead. And it was then that Drummond had a brain-storm.
“What’s wrong with you taking the car on, Gasdon?” he exclaimed. “As you said, the police don’t want you. Standish and I will get out now and walk to the town. It goes to my heart to leave her in some wretched little garage here. If the police should stop you, you are merely driving the car to Paris at my request, and we are still, as far as you know, on the Riviera.”
He stopped the car and lit a cigarette.
“If the police don’t stop you, you might even take her on to Boulogne,” he continued. “But if you think that’s unwise park her in some good garage in Paris.”
“I’m not sure you’re not right,” said Gasdon. “It might help to throw ’em still off the scent. What do you think, Standish?”
“I think it’s a good idea. Where’s our nearest station?”
“Hire a car and make for Sisteron. It’s about sixty miles. And now about England. Where do we meet?”
“Keep in touch with Lawson. We’ll get at you through him.”
“Right. Well, so long, chaps. And good luck.”
“Little did I think, old boy,” said Drummond resignedly as the lights of the car vanished round a bend, “that I should ever be marooned amongst the virgin snows in the middle of the night. Come on, I could do with a spot of solids.”
Ten minutes’ walk brought them to the bridge over the river Verdon, that marks the entrance to the town; another five and they were in the main square. And there with a gendarme on each side, stood the car.
Matters had evidently reached a deadlock. One gendarme was scratching his head, the other was sucking a pencil. And Gasdon, a picture of outraged innocence, was haranguing them from the driver’s seat in fluent French.
“It is monstrous,” he cried. “It is of an imbecility incredible. Is it the car that is required for these formalities at Cannes? The owner, my great friend, knowing he must await the police investigation, lends me his car to go to Paris. Is not that sufficient proof, you fatheads, that he is still there? If he had wished to go himself, would he not have been in the car? And in any case, why should he go? He was not accused of anything. It is merely a question of his evidence.”
“Our instructions are that there are three men in the car.” The pencil sucker had produced his notebook. “Le Capitaine Drummond: M’sieur Standish and M’sieur Gasdon. And the M’sieur Gasdon has a scar on his face.”
“Name of a name,” cried Gasdon. “Regard the scar. Obtained, mon brave, at Fricourt. I am Monsieur Gasdon, and when I left Nice le Capitaine Drummond and Monsieur Standish were with me in the car. But I dropped them near Cagnes.”
“At what house, m’sieur?” demanded the gendarme.
“The house of a lady friend.” Gasdon dug the pencil sucker in the ribs, and they all laughed. “And now since you are both satisfied that neither of them are in the car, I must get on.”
He let in the clutch and drove off, and after a while the two gendarmes went indoors. Assuredly very peculiar: if three men were reported to be in the car, it was obviously most irregular that there should only be one. And, as they disappeared the two onlookers did likewise in the opposite direction.
“They lose no time,” said Standish gravely. “And I have my doubts if Gasdon gets through.”
“Which makes it the more imperative that we should,” answered Drummond. “There’s a garage on the other side of the road. Let’s see if we can raise a car.”
They could – an incredibly ancient Renault. And three hours later they bumped into Sisteron. The first part of their journey was over.
“And now, old boy,” said Drummond as they paid off the car, “we separate. It gives us two chances instead of one. Make for the Hotel les Bergues at Geneva.”
CHAPTER 6
Drummond Alone
During the season Evian-les-Bains is a charming spot. On the high ground behind the town there are tennis courts and golf links set in delightful surroundings, for those who will to use. A tiny harbour filled with gaily coloured boats abuts the casino: beautiful women and brave men lounge gracefully over their “five o’clock”. That is during the season.
Out of the season Evian-les-Bains resembles a town of the dead. The links are shut; holland covers encase the casino furniture. The beautiful women have departed long since; the inhabitants appear to have fallen into a coma. And it was out of the season when Drummond, paying off his taxi on the outskirts of the town, proceeded to enter it on foot.
The time was midday, and the boat, so he had discovered from the concierge at Aix, arrived at two-thirty. Which left him two and a half hours to put through, and made him regret that he had left his hotel quite so early. Not that he hankered after Evian in gala mood, but because, if the police were on the lookout, he was so much more conspicuous in the deserted streets.
Strolling towards the harbour he espied a sports shop, in the window of which some rucksacks were hanging. And it struck him that it might help to account for his presence if he pretended to be on a walking tour.
So he purchased one, and a long stick with an embossed handle. A hunting horn he refused: likewise a little green hat with feathers
in it. To overdo a part is bad art…
Leaving the shop he walked on towards the lake. And then, finding a small café within sight of the landing-stage, he entered and enquired about lunch. It seemed that an omelette and a bottle of wine was all that Madame could run to, so he ordered it and lit a cigarette.
Since the morning before he had practically not seen Standish. They had travelled in the same train from Sisteron to Aix, but in different compartments, whilst at Aix they had stayed at different hotels. And now Drummond began wondering where he was. The two-thirty was the only boat he could catch, since the service was greatly curtailed as soon as the summer tourist season ceased.
Slowly the time went by, until suddenly Madame pointed over the lake.
“Voilà, m’sieu: le bateau.”
The paddle boat had just heaved in sight coming from St Gingolph, and he frowned a little. Standish was cutting it fine. Faint human stirrings in the square outside began to manifest themselves: evidently this was the event of the day. He could hear the thresh of the paddles now, so, paying his bill, he rose to go. And at that moment a car drove up with Standish inside.
From the doorway Drummond watched. The engines of the boat were in reverse: cables fore and aft were being flung ashore. And then he saw them. Advancing majestically towards the shore end of the gangway were two gendarmes in gorgeous uniforms. Moreover it appeared that they wished to see Standish’s passport.
Drummond’s eyes narrowed: rapid thought was necessary. They were stopping Standish in spite of his indignant protestations. And if they stopped Standish they would also stop him. Madame was adjuring him to hurry if he wished to catch the boat, but he only smiled at her and came back into the café. It would not do to arouse her suspicions in any way, so he told her that he had decided to continue walking, and ordered another bottle of wine. From outside came again the sound of paddle wheels: the boat was leaving. And in a few minutes peace once more reigned in Evian.
Convinced by now that the large Englishman was more than usually mad, Madame had retired into some inner fastness, leaving Drummond alone in the café. What was the best thing to do? Any attempt to rescue Standish or even to communicate with him would be madness. The police were merely doing their duty, and the only result would be that he would be stopped as well.
Equally would it be madness to wait on with the idea of catching the boat on the following day: the police would still be on the lookout. In fact any idea of leaving France by Evian must be abandoned. Where, then, could he go?
A map was hanging on the wall, and he rose and studied it. There, just across the water – so near and yet so far – lay Lausanne and safety. Should he wait for darkness, steal one of the boats in the harbour, and row across the lake? But after a few moments’ reflection he dismissed the idea as too dangerous. The police headquarters were too close: the risk of being seen or heard too great. So the only alternative was to cross the frontier by land.
To the east lay St Gingolph only about twelve miles away. But to reach that he had to cross the square in front of the police station, and moreover do so fairly soon. For it had dawned on him that this café was not too safe. The gendarmes, exhausted by their labours, might decide to recuperate their strength with alcohol at any moment, and the café was very handy.
So there was only one course open. He would strike westward towards Geneva and cross at Hermance. That they would be on the lookout for him there, was obvious, but the same thing applied to every douane. So the only thing was to hope for the best when he got there.
He slipped into the street, and heaved a sigh of relief when he was out of sight of the police station. He had twenty-five miles to cover, and the prospect of walking did not amuse him. On the other hand if he hired a car and arrived in broad daylight, the attempt was foredoomed to failure.
He strode along thinking things over, and wishing that he knew the country he would have to negotiate when he came to the frontier. For it had soon occurred to him that by far the best, if not the only, chance of getting through would be to cross between douanes. That would entail leaving the road before he got to the frontier: skirting round the village and rejoining the road again farther on when he was safe in Switzerland.
What difficulties there would be he had no idea: as a performance it was a new one on him. But he assumed that in peace time any system of patrols between posts would be of a very perfunctory nature.
And so, when it came to the point, it proved to be. Save for falling into a wet ditch the whole thing passed off without incident. As soon as the lights of the douane showed up in the distance he struck off left-handed across the fields.
Once a dog began barking furiously, but, except for that, the night was still. Hardly a light was showing; the whole countryside was asleep. And at 11.41 p.m. Drummond stepped back on to the road with France a kilometre behind him. In the distance glittered the lights of Geneva: a far more welcome sight, however, was a faint chink filtering through the wooden shutters of an inn just ahead. A room was available, and ten minutes later Drummond, having taken off his shoes and coat, was fast asleep.
It was past ten when he awoke next morning and the sun was streaming in through the window. So at peace with the world, and no longer feeling that at any moment he might feel a gendarme’s hand on his shoulder, he drank two large cups of coffee. Then, having hired a taxi, he drove into Geneva over the Pont de Mont Blanc.
It was his first visit to the Hotel les Bergues and the concierge eyed him a little doubtfully. With a certain amount of excuse let it be admitted: Hugh Drummond’s general appearance was not such as is generally to be observed in that hotel. He wanted a shave, and his shoes still bore record to yesterday’s walk. But at that moment an exquisite individual came sauntering down the stairs, who paused, stared, then with a cry of amazement held out his hand.
“What in the name of all that’s fortunate are you doing here, old boy? And why this strange garb with rucksacks and things?”
“Hullo! potato face,” said Drummond. “Glad to see you. I didn’t know any of you blokes ever got up before midday.”
The Honourable James Tagley grinned amiably. A younger son of old Lord Storrington, he had drifted peacefully into the Foreign Office, where he remained a monument of beauty and a joy for ever.
“We do every second Friday,” he remarked. “But joking apart, Hugh, what does bring you here?”
“A desire to study Swiss architecture first-hand,” said Drummond with a smile.
“Are you up to some of your games?” demanded the Honourable James.
“My dear potato face, I don’t understand you. I am now a respectable member of society.”
“You’re a damned old liar,” said the other. “I say, what a shocking thing that was – those swines murdering Talbot.”
“You’re right,” agreed Drummond. “Any inside information come through to this centre of gossip?”
“No. But the motive must have been political.”
Drummond raised his eyebrows.
“I shouldn’t have said that he was much mixed up in politics. However, doubtless you know best, James. Tell me; how stands the international barometer?”
The other lowered his voice.
“Officially, old boy, set fair. Unofficially – not quite so good. There are vague mutterings and signs and portents.”
“Are you allowed to tell?”
“The devil of it is that there’s nothing to tell. Nothing definite, that’s to say. But in some ways, you know, this place is as sensitive as the Stock Exchange. Whispers go round in the most incredible fashion, and when you’ve been here some time it’s amazing how quickly you become aware of them. There’s something in the air, Hugh: there has been for some time.”
“What sort of thing?”
“I don’t know: I can’t tell you.”
“Do you mean there’
s a possibility of war?”
My dear fellow, that possibility is always there – League of Nations, or no League of Nations. But I don’t mean war this time. It’s something else, and” – his voice sank to a whisper – “we are involved.”
Drummond lit a cigarette.
“You interest me profoundly, James,” he remarked.
“Mind you, Hugh,” said Tagley, “this is not to go beyond you. Good morning, sir.”
A well-known figure in English public life nodded as he passed through the hall.
“Do you want a lift?” he called out.
“Thank you, sir. I must go, Hugh. Shall I see you at lunch?”
“Perhaps, potato face. I don’t know.”
For a moment or two Drummond stood motionless as Tagley hurried after the great man to a waiting car. Then he turned to the concierge.
“I want a call to London,” he said. “How long will it take?”
“It depends, sir. But if you will give me the number I will get through for you. It would be well to remain at hand. Sometimes one connects almost at once.”
Taking a pencil Drummond wrote down Ginger Lawson’s number at the War Office. Then he sat down on a chair nearby. So James Tagley confirmed the fact that something was in the wind. … Strange – very strange…
“God!” he muttered to himself. “If only Latimer had put those papers in an envelope and posted them in Paris!”
For perhaps ten minutes he sat there, idly watching the people as they passed in and out of the hotel. Every nationality: every colour… Every nationality, that is to say, except three… What a farce: what a roaring farce…
Suddenly he saw the concierge approaching him.
“M’sieur’s call to London.”