Out of sight, where the lights were burning, some man was washing a car – I could hear the hiss of the jet and the sudden snarl of the water striking the wings. I assumed that this was the watchman, for I could see no one at all.
Carefully moving forward, towards the light, I presently found the Swindon, standing in line.
With an eye on the narrow entry, I stole round about the car – my shoes, which were soled with rubber, making no sound. All the windows were down, and I looked inside.
And then I noticed something.
The luggage was still in the car.
The cushions which made the back seat had been taken away, and suitcases – four, I think – had been stacked in their place – a wise enough proceeding, for, though the floor was empty, the weight of the baggage was lying above the back axle and so must help to hold the wheels down on the road.
And then I heard a voice raised – and almost jumped out of my skin.
“Hi, you there,” someone shouted. And then again, “Hi!”
Of course I knew it was Plato; and of course I knew that he was addressing me: and my knees were loose, as I turned to saunter away.
Once, as I thought, out of sight, I darted behind a car, to peer in that direction from which Plato’s voice had come. And then I saw that he was not addressing me, but was trying to make himself heard by the man who was washing the car.
I saw him plainly now, standing framed in some doorway which afforded a private entrance to the hotel, and he had a small case in his hand and a hat on his head.
The noise of the water had ceased, and the washer was shambling forward towards where the other stood.
“Where’s my chauffeur?” cried Plato – and spoke such very bad French that even I could understand what he said.
I do not know what the man answered, but he pointed towards the entry, and Plato looked that way and then walked into the garage and met the man in its aisle.
Now I ought to have left there and then. I had seen and heard quite enough. But, while I hesitated, the chance was lost: for the two of them turned together, to walk towards the entry and so cut off my escape.
And then I saw that I ought to have had the Vane waiting – not three hundred yards away, but somewhere just round the corner, as we had done at Rouen and Neufchatel. I had employed half measures: and half measures never pay.
With two minutes’ start in the darkness, the Swindon was going to vanish, as though she had been swallowed up.
Mansel told me later that, had he been in my place, he would have unscrewed a valve and let the air run out of one of the Swindon’s tyres, but such was my state of mind that I never thought of that.
Instead, my tired brain offered a truly desperate shift; and since it was that or nothing, and I had not a moment to lose, I entered the back of the Swindon, shut the door behind me and then went down on my knees.
It was a very tight fit, for I am not a little man but, so long as the darkness held, I could see no reason why Plato should know I was there – always provided, of course, that neither he nor his chauffeur looked into the back of the car.
My position was that of a Moslem, saying his prayers, and since the floor was flat and the carpet was thick, I was not uncomfortable. But such was the slam of my heart, I began to think that that must give me away.
Then I noticed the sound of my breathing, and when I endeavoured to curb it, I thought I was going to sneeze…
In fact, to tell the truth, I was halfway to regretting what I had done – when something happened to kick me the rest of the way.
It was, in a way, a query.
I had entered the car unseen: but how was I going to get out? The next time that Plato stopped, he would stop for the night…and the luggage would have to come out…and, to get the luggage out, the chauffeur would open the doors which gave to the back of the car.
At once I felt for a handle, to let myself out.
And then I heard Plato’s voice.
“I told you half-past nine: and it’s nearly twenty to ten.”
I let the handle go.
It was too late now.
8: The Stolen March
I shall never forget how I felt when Plato flung open his door and flounced into his bucket seat. No doubt because the space we were in was confined, his presence was overwhelming, and all he did was, so to speak, magnified.
He was breathing hard through his nose, as an angry man: he settled himself in impatience – against my back: and when he cried to the chauffeur to ask if the tank was full, he seemed to speak in my ear.
Indeed, at that moment I gave myself up for lost, for it seemed impossible that he could be so close, yet stay unaware of my presence within the car; and I waited, as one may wait for the chime of a clock which is slow, for the sudden, abrupt exclamation which would tell me that I had been seen.
Yet this did not come.
The chauffeur took his seat and started the car. Then the doors were slammed and the Swindon began to move.
It was as we passed out of the garage that Plato let fly. The control which his cloth had insisted that he must display had, I am sure, inflamed him as nothing else, for the violence with which he rent the chauffeur was quite unprintable. No ordinary servant would have endured such abuse, but the other only waited till his master paused to take breath and then advised him curtly to ‘whip behind.’
“When we’re clear of the town,” growled Plato. “It’s no good yet. And anyway, what’s the odds? We’re going to settle it later for good an’ all.”
“It’s settled already,” said the chauffeur, “if you ask me. I had a ’unt round just now – that’s why I was late.”
“Hunt-round be —,” said Plato. “A man that can tail you for close on two hundred miles is not going to wait round the corner while you have tea.”
“Imagination,” said the chauffeur. “That’s what it is. Look at the Vanes on the road. The wonder is—”
“I’m taking no risks,” said Plato. “Either there’s nothing in it, or else that has tailed a car before. Well, we’ll know the answer tonight: and if I don’t like its shape, we’re going straight home.”
There was a little silence, of which I was more than glad.
My sudden admission to the counsels which I had sought to divine, the blunt confirmation of my particular fear, and the blinding revelation that had I done as I had planned and run for the Vane, we must have walked into the trap which Plato was going to set – these things were a gift from the gods, if I could only escape. Then I saw that, before I escaped, I must learn where Plato was going – at any cost. And then I saw that I should never escape…
In such disorder of mind, I knelt as flat as I could with my cheek pressed tight against the carpet and my knees and my insteps already beginning to ache, while the Swindon whipped over the pavé at a pace which I reckoned as thirty-five miles to the hour.
Now when we had left the garage, I felt the car swing to the left: since then we had not turned nor so much as slowed down, and as, by the grace of God, I had studied the plan of Tours at the Panier d’Or, I knew the way we were taking out of the town.
The main highway runs straight as a ruler through Tours, slicing the city in two from north to south. As luck will have it, the garage stood in this street, so that when we had swung to the left I knew we were going south. Once it is clear of the city, the highway splits into four – as a family tree: and each of its offspring is heading a different way.
And that was as much as I knew.
Plato extended my knowledge almost at once.
“Straight as you can,” he said. “Chatellerault’s the name.”
“I thought you said Poitiers.”
Chatellerault first,” said Plato. “Look out for that.”
We had left the pavé now, which meant we were clear of the town. Then we whipped under some bridge: and then we bent to the right and back to the left.
“Chatellerault,” muttered the chauffeur, as though he were reading
some sign.
“And now,” said Plato – and brought my heart into my mouth.
The man had turned in his seat, to look out of the window behind – and was speaking across my body, twelve inches below his chin.
“Faster,” he added, shortly. “Let her out all you know.”
Very soon we were doing sixty – or so I judged.
“Anythin’ doin’?” said the chauffeur.
“Not yet,” said Plato, turning. “They may be afraid of their lights.”
“If you ask me.” said the chauffeur…
“You’re here to drive,” said Plato. “Put her along.”
We were fairly flying now, and I remember hoping the Swindon’s lights were good.
After a little the chauffeur re-opened his mouth.
“Funny seeing that piece in the paper. It give me a turn.”
“Funny be —,” snapped Plato. “I wish I’d known it before. If Bagot’s in Mansel’s pocket, he’s gone as he — well pleased.”
“An’ wot can he do?” said the other. “I’ve seen these ‘’untin’ cronies.’ They’re all backside.”
“St Omer, for instance?” sneered Plato. “You blind fool, this Bagot was jam for Mansel. I’ll lay a monkey he’s spread him all over the place. An’ that’s why you’re going back.”
“Me goin’ back?”
“Tonight. From Poitiers. There’s a train that leaves for Paris at twelve o’clock.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue with me. You’re going straight back to London and you’re going to put Bogy on. He’s got to run down Bagot at any price. I don’t care where he is. He’s got to be found.” I heard him expire. “These blasted Willies. You never know where you are.”
“You’re seein’ things,” said the other. “What with the Vane an’ Bagot—”
“I’ve eyes to see,” spat Plato. “That Vane was being driven by someone who knew his job.” Again he slewed himself round, to look back at the road behind. “An’ Mansel’s been lying too low. I thought it was queer – the two of them sitting so still.”
“Queer?” said the chauffeur. “They’re windy. That accident made them think. An’ windy or no, they’re stuck. They don’t know where to begin.”
As though he were thinking aloud—
“This Bagot fits,” said Plato. “You can’t get away from that. He’s just what Mansel needed – a Willie we didn’t know.”
“Easy, Kingdom, easy. He’ll be in the Vane in a minute – talking like this. This Bagot’s a ‘huntin’ crony.’ What does he know about snooping? If he started to watch a tea-shop, the coppers’d move him on.”
“Maybe,” said Plato, “maybe. But Mansel’s no sucking Holmes, and the — fits. I’ve got to know where he is before I go on. You’ll be in London tomorrow, and Bogy’s to get right down. The moment he’s placed him he wires me where Bagot is. Poste Restante, Poitiers. I’m sitting tight as hell till I get that news.”
“Code or clear?” said the chauffeur.
“Clear,” said Plato. “Signed ‘Arthur.’ And no guess-work, either. He’s got to be sure.”
“I see. Am I comin’ back?”
“I guess I’ll do without you.”
“I guess you will,” said the chauffeur, and let out a laugh. “You don’t trust no one, do you? Last time I got down at Tours.”
“What a memory,” said Plato, slowly – and if ever DANGER was signalled, it showed itself in his tone. “Do you remember The Mule?”
“I should say so,” said the other. “I’d like to see him again.”
“You will – one day.” said Plato. “He had a memory…too.”
I despair of describing the manner in which he spoke those words. I can only say that he lent them a significance so dreadful that all my body tingled and the hair rose up from my head. His voice was not cold or brutal, but quiet and clear; and his meaning stood out as some doom written up on a wall.
In fact, he nearly ended all three of our lives, for the Swindon swerved to glory and Plato himself cried out. Then the car slowed up, and the wretched chauffeur was pleading and Plato was shouting him down and using most hideous imprecations because he had slackened speed. Twice I heard him strike him, but the man only whimpered back, and very soon we were moving as fast as before.
As he whipped through some sleeping village—
“You’re all the same,” said Plato. “You can’t stand corn. I let you talk to me because this is a two man job. Result – you think you’re promoted: and there you’re wrong. I’m using you – that’s all. I hang my thoughts on you, to see how they look. And because you sit by my side, you needn’t climb on to my knee. Get that and hold it, buddy. You’ll find it better than Bovril for keeping you fit.”
“All right, Kingdom,” gulped the chauffeur. “You – you needn’t keep on.”
“And not so much of the ‘Kingdom,’ you green-faced rat.”
“No – no offence,” quavered the chauffeur. “I didn’t mean nothing wrong.”
Plato spat out of his window.
Then—
“Put her along,” he said.
I now had but one idea – to get out of that car.
Though Plato talked for an hour, I had no more to learn. But what I had learned was vital. Unless we could act upon it, the game was up.
And I had another reason for wishing to leave that car.
I had seen a side of Plato I did not like. And I knew that if I was discovered, my life, like that of The Mule, would come to an end.
I mean, the thing was too easy. Night, in France, in the depths of the countryside…two desperate men to one – whose legs were already so cramped that their power was gone…and that man the very man whose activities Plato suspected, not to say feared…
If the situation was ugly, my state was miserable.
I was not so much bent double as folded in three: I was jammed between the two seats: and, worst of all, I was choking for want of air, for the night was very warm and, though the windows were open, the breeze passed over my body and never approached my face. My knee-caps seemed to be splitting: the agony in my insteps will hardly go into words: the springs of sweat had broken, and all my flesh was creeping with wandering rivulets. I would have given a fortune to have been able to shift. But I dared not move a muscle in case the movement was heard.
I was, of course, quite frantic to save the game – in other words, to escape without being seen. The news I had won was so precious that I could not bear the thought of having to let it go. And yet I had little hope of a triumph so great as that. Indeed, what concerned me most was the bitter reflection that if it came to a fight, I could not do myself justice because of the cramp in my legs. This was a serious matter. Had I been lifted out, I could not have stood.
So mile after mile went by, and still the chauffeur maintained a very high speed. Now and again we slowed down – I rather fancy, because of somebody’s lights: but the traffic must have been slight, for such checks were few. Sometimes Plato would turn, to look out behind: but I think he saw nothing suspicious, or if he did, he never reported the fact. Indeed, for a very long time, he never opened his mouth – as though to ram home the fact that the chauffeur had gone too far. I found the silence more trying than any speech, for speech is an occupation, and I did not like Plato beside me with nothing to do.
It was, as I afterwards found, about twenty minutes past ten when I began to feel faint.
Now I had never fainted since I was a little boy at my private school, but I knew the symptoms at once and they gave me the shock of my life.
There can, I think, be no doubt that it was the lack of fresh air that brought this condition about; but my powers of resistance were low, because I was very tired and in great discomfort and pain. Be that as it may, I now knew that, unless I could breathe some fresh air, my senses were bound to leave me before very long and that though I could fight off the faintness for, possibly, several miles, the time would come when I must raise myself u
p or else lose consciousness.
That anything was better than fainting was very clear, but to raise my head to a level at which I could catch the breeze would be to put that member into the lion’s mouth. Though he did not see my movement with the tail of his eye, once my head was lifted, Plato had only to turn to perceive me twelve inches away.
I think I can fairly say that I know what it means to have your back to the wall…
With a frightful effort, I pulled myself together and tried to focus the facts with which I was faced.
How far Poitiers was, I had no idea. All I knew – and that from what Plato had said – was that Poitiers was beyond Chatellerault. And we had not even come to Chatellerault yet. Of that, though I could not see, there could be no doubt: villages we could rush, but we could not take a town in our stride.
An embryo problem bewildered my failing wits. If Poitiers was as far from Chatellerault as Chatellerault was from Tours…
My head was going round, when Plato opened his mouth – to lug me back from the brink.
“Chatellerault twelve,” he quoted. “That’s just over seven miles. Slow when you come to the streets: we’re going to turn off. Just off the main road – that’s all: we’re going to lie up. I’ll see if I’m being followed. And if I’m not, we’ll go on – at eleven-fifteen. Poitiers is only a matter of twenty-one miles.”
Had he given me a cup of cold water, he could not have done me more good. If Plato turned off the main road, he could not watch the main road without getting out of the car. That meant that in seven more miles my chance would come. Not, perhaps, my chance of escaping – the two might be standing too close: but at least, my chance of breathing, of filling my lungs with the blessed, life-giving air.
Seven more miles…
Reducing miles to minutes, I made the answer nine.
Nine more minutes…and then my release would come.
I remember that I tried to keep going by counting the seconds away: but the faintness began to return, and I had to fight like a madman to beat off its subtle attack. By the time the mists had cleared, I had, of course, lost my reckoning for good and all, and so was deprived of that chance of cheering my struggling wits. And then I found that Plato was talking again… And then, to my horror, I found that his voice seemed a great way off – which told me what I had not known, that my senses were unobtrusively stealing away.
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