“And now for a bath and some breakfast. We’ll rest this afternoon.”
That morning we dealt with Friar’s passport.
This had, of course, been stamped when he entered Austria. Above this stamp, Mansel wrote in German, ‘Permit exit: refer re-entry to Police HQ.’ Then he wrote on a slip in English, ‘Found in Germany by the side of the Salzburg road.’ This he laid in the passport: then he covered the latter and addressed it as he had said.
The notecase, we sent to Friar’s Club, marking the envelope, ‘Not to be forwarded.’
It had been arranged that John and Olivia Ferrers should be at Salzburg that evening and stay at The — Hotel. There Mansel and I would dine – and meet them ‘by accident’. They would there and then invite us to Hohenems, and we should proceed there together, upon the following day. So all would seem natural enough. They had come out by air; and a Hohenems car would fetch them and lead us in.
At half past eight that evening, we entered The — Hotel.
We had left our coats and were passing through the foyer when there was John Ferrers beside me, touching my arm.
I like to think we did the encounter justice…
Then he led us across to Olivia, lovely as ever, in blue. “Now, isn’t that nice?” she says. “I knew you were out of England, but someone said you were in France.” She turned to her companion. “Captain Mansel and Mr Chandos – Miss Diana Revoke. Her sister was one of my friends, when I was at school.”
We, all of us, bowed and smiled, although we had met before. Not officially, of course. But each knew who the other was.
Miss Revoke was the good-looking girl who had been dining with Friar on Wednesday night.
2: From Pillar to Post
Diana Revoke was speaking.
“Mr Chandos, who is Mr Friar?”
I looked at the big, blue eyes, twelve inches from mine.
“I really couldn’t tell you,” I said. “We know one another by sight, but we’ve never conversed.”
“He seems to know all about you.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“There’s little enough to know.”
“He said that you loved adventure.”
“I like it in reason,” I said. “But I’d much sooner hunt.”
“Are you being adventuresome now?”
“No,” said I, “I’m travelling. Often enough, in the summer, Mansel and I join up and wander abroad.”
“You don’t look a restless person. I should have thought you’d marry and settle down.”
“I have done both,” I said.
The lady’s eyes widened.
“Then, where’s your wife?”
“You must ask Olivia,” I said. “She left her two days ago.”
Diana put a hand to her chin.
“At your home?”
“Yes.”
“So she is alone in England, and you are overseas.”
“Full marks,” said I.
“But I’m sure you’re happy with her.”
“Very happy indeed,” said I.
“But you don’t take her with you, when you are on the job?”
“I don’t take her with me,” I said, “when I go abroad with Mansel for two or three weeks. He and I are very old friends, and Jenny–”
“Friar said you were on the job.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“I expect he knows best,” said I. “Is he adventuresome, too?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” said Diana. “I never set eyes on the man till two days ago. But he used to know my father, or so he says. And I think he must have known him, and known him well. Their Club was the same. That’s why I went out with him. He’s very entertaining, you know. And wonderfully young for his age.”
“That’s an impression,” said I, “that I had already formed.”
“How did you form it, Mr Chandos?”
“From a casual observation. He moves so well.”
And there, to my relief, John Ferrers put in his oar.
“I may call you ‘Diana’, mayn’t I? Olivia knows you so well.”
“I’ll answer to that,” says the lady.
I turned at once to Olivia, seated upon my right.
“Tell me of Jenny, Olivia. She wrote and told me that you’d been staying with her.”
“Won’t you return the compliment – just for a day or two?”
I looked across her to Mansel.
“Olivia invites us to Hohenems.”
Mansel leaned forward and smiled.
“What d’you know, William?”
“As soon as we leave the table, Olivia and you and I must have five minutes together, undisturbed.”
“Consider it done, William. Olivia and I will arrange it, before we get up.”
Then Olivia told me of Jenny and spoke of Maintenance.
Conversation became general.
When coffee at last was served, Olivia announced that we must go on to a nightclub, for half an hour.
Thereupon two taxis were summoned: and while John escorted Diana, I followed Olivia and Mansel into the second car.
“Who is this girl, Olivia?”
“Her father was your Military Attaché at Vienna some time before the war. He was a widower. She and her sister were both at school at Salzburg. She came just before I left. I stayed with them once in England, but, though he was then retired, they spent more time in Austria than anywhere else. They never stayed at Haydn – such was my home, I couldn’t invite a guest: and then I lost sight of them.”
I looked at Mansel.
“Friar’s been talking to her.” Olivia caught her breath. “About us, I mean. He’s told her we’re on the job, though he hasn’t said what. She’s – very curious.”
“Is she running with him?” said Mansel.
“I can’t be sure.”
Mansel fingered his chin.
Then—
“Invite her,” he said to Olivia. “Invite her, too.”
Olivia’s eyes widened.
“Not at the moment, Jonah?”
“At once, if you please. I’m pretty sure she’ll come – and I’d like her under our eye.”
“I’m in your hands, my dear.”
“Then do as I say, Olivia. I’m sorry to put this on you, but the omelette we’re out to make is no ordinary dish. I’ll be more explicit later.”
When the invitation was issued, I do not know: but issued it was – and accepted. When we left the following morning, Diana Revoke was sitting beside Olivia, in the back of the Hohenems car.
“I told you,” said Mansel, “you’d have to take her on.”
“Don’t be absurd,” said I. “If she is running with Friar, she’s much too clever for me. Besides, you hooked her and so you must play your fish.”
“She may require no playing. She may be innocent.”
“She’ll still be curious.”
“I wish we knew more about her. Never mind. Regard that prospect, William – the great house up on the hill, the hamlet peeping below it, the woods enfolding them both. If I had to name that place, I’d call it ‘Jack-i’-the-Green’.”
Our way was lovely indeed, rising and falling and curling through country as rich and as friendly as ever I saw. Some of it I had seen, when we had travelled to Salzburg five days before: but the latter part of the run was new to me, and, as we approached the castle, forest and hill and valley seemed to agree together to tell us a fairytale. This famous introduction, Hohenems justified; for it made an enchanting picture and seemed, to my simple mind, the womb of chivalry. Sunk in the woods, it hung on a mountainside, commanding a smiling valley, laced by a joyous stream: the gracious curve of its ramparts swelled out of a quilt of foliage, as I have seen a tiara swell out of a woman’s hair: and, on the left, twin towers were defying an elegant fall of water, blue and white – and laughing in the face of a sunshine that magnified all it touched.
Five hours after leaving Salzburg, the cars stole over the drawbridge and i
nto the quiet courtyard, where Palin, with the steward behind him, was standing at the foot of the steps.
As he kissed Olivia’s hand—
“The keys,” said Palin, “should be on a velvet cushion, for you to touch. Still, a cold collation is ready – I passed the menu, myself. And all is – well.” Here he was introduced to Diana Revoke. “My report shall be rendered later. John, you’re going my way and putting on weight. And there are Mansel and Chandos. You know, I feel diminished when they are about. They always recall the man who slew a lion in a pit on a snowy day.”
It was after lunch, when Olivia had taken Diana out of the way, that we strolled with our host on the ramparts and listened to Palin’s report.
“The Boche is active. He came here yesterday, in his vulgar, vile-bodied car. This time, the man was alone, and I ventured to ask his business. After some patent indecision whether to answer or no, he said he was ‘of the police’ and had been desired to unravel this very peculiar crime. At this I declared my pleasure and asked him which of the servants he wished to see. He replied that it was his intention to study the scene. I, therefore, proposed to take him down to the meadows: but that didn’t suit his book: he wanted to visit the passage in which the carpet was found. Well, that was all right by me, and we went there at once. But I fear he was disappointed. You see, I’d decided to have some rooms turned out… And the passage was three parts full of benches and chests and arras and servants and buckets and brooms. Progress was just possible, provided you watched your step; but the industry was against him, and after he’d hit his knee on the edge of a Spanish coffer of a quite incredible weight, he spoke at some length of swinehounds and of the destruction of clues. At that, I drew myself up and asked him to make himself clear. He replied that I should have known better than to ‘desecrate’ the scene of the crime. To that I rejoined that this wasn’t the scene of the crime: that if he visited that, he would find the spot roped off: that, when, in England, a gentleman’s house had been entered, it was usual to cleanse the rooms which the thieves might have used. To that, he made no answer, except to look very black: and, making his knee his excuse, he presently took his leave. But I think we shall see him again.”
“Be sure of that,” said Mansel. “Friar’s done his stuff, all right. He’s set the Boche on. And the Boche is painfully thorough. He’s sure that there’s something here and he feels that, after this scare, you will be disposed to unearth it and put it in some safe place. So, if he keeps on coming ‘to visit the scene of the crime’, he may discern some traces of what you have done. That is why your spring-cleaning upset him – that was a very good move. But he has an instinct, this man: and we must make sure of his movements before we start. I mean, if he reappeared when we were in the midst of the job…” Palin covered his face. “Exactly. And that is the very thing that this wallah might do.” He turned to John Ferrers. “From first to last, John, how many hours will it take us to get the gems out?”
“Four,” said John. “I think we might do it in less. But the poison may hold us up.”
Rodrigo Borgia’s age was a poisoner’s age; and his gems had been laid up in linen which had been previously steeped in some deadly bane. This had the way of strychnine with such as unwrapped the gems: and though, in four hundred years, it must have lost some of its power, enough had survived to condemn three of Punter’s colleagues to a most dreadful death. To this the Ferrers and Palin could, all three, speak; for they had watched the felons unwrap the gems. The linen, then so much dust, had covered their hands and had settled upon their faces, while they worked: as like as not, they had drawn it into their lungs. Be that as it may, before they had gathered their spoil, all three had been attacked and, after some hideous convulsions, had died in agony.
“Not for long,” said Mansel. “I’m ready for that. Four hours from beginning to end. I take it you’ve room in your safe?”
“More than enough: but I think we should clean them first.”
“So we will. D’you think we could do the business on Sunday night?”
“Why not?” said John.
“That will give us two days in which to locate the Boche and see that he doesn’t ‘come down, like a wolf on the fold’.”
“And Friar?” said Palin.
“Unless I am greatly mistaken, Friar will be unavoidably prevented from attending, or even attempting to attend, the operation.”
“And from watching the waterfall? Where the water emerges, I mean. If he was, a sudden failure of water would tell him that we were off.”
“Well done,” said Mansel, laughing. “So it would. But Friar has a previous engagement, and I cannot think he’ll be free before Tuesday next.”
With that, he related in detail what we had done. As he made an end—
“Which brings me,” he said, “to Miss Diana Revoke. I felt it was better to have her under our eye: and so I desired Olivia to make her her guest. Now I think the thing to do is to let her in on this show. That will argue our faith in her: and she can do us no harm, unless she can contact Friar: and that, without our consent, will be most difficult. Of course, she may be honest: that, Time will show. And now discourse to me, Palin. I want to pick up the Boche.”
“He’ll be at Robin,” said Palin: “he came with the Robin police. And once you see him, you’ll know him – no doubt about that. His car is a bilious green and bears a swastika flag.”
“And how far is Robin?” said Mansel.
“Forty-five miles.”
On the following morning we saw the German, ourselves. The man was leaving the police-station, and we were within a café on the opposite side of the street: since this was narrow enough and the windows of the café were open, we saw him extremely well, though he did not see us.
He looked the beast he was: and when I say ‘beast’, I mean ‘a dangerous beast’. He was tall and thickset, and his jaw was almost square, because, I imagine, his teeth were forever clenched. So malignant and bitter was his aspect, he gave the impression of being unable to smile, and his eyes seemed to be aflame, as Palin had said.
Over the rim of his tankard, Mansel was speaking low. “‘The glass of German fashion, and the mould of German form.’”
“A wolf in wolf’s clothing,” I said. “See how they’re bowing him out: but I’ll lay they hate his guts.”
“They fear him,” said Mansel. “That is why he was sent here. To peaceloving folk, he is a fearful man. By God, these Germans know how to do their stuff.”
“I give them nothing,” said I. “Because your hand is of iron, you don’t have to wear a barbed glove.”
“You’re perfectly right, Aristides. And now come along, – he’s going to take his car.”
Thanks to Palin’s description, we had already located the German’s car. This was berthed under some trees, a little way off: and Carson, at the wheel of the Rolls, was waiting as close as he dared.
The man was easy to follow and led us at once to a decent, private house on the skirts of the town. The residence might have been his, for he left his car in the drive directly before the front door and then ascended the steps, to let himself in with a key.
“And very nice, too,” said Mansel. “I think we’ll come back when he’s gone.”
And so we did – at a quarter past three o’clock.
This time we came on foot and we went to the back of the house. In the kitchen, a nice looking woman was ironing a dung-coloured shirt with a bright red stripe.
“Good afternoon, Madam,” says Mansel, raising his hat. “Surely it is not your duty to iron the shirt of the Boche.”
“No, sir,” said the woman. “It isn’t. But what can I do? When my husband was ordered to lodge him, the servants left. And so I must wait upon his highness, lest worse befall. I must prepare his breakfast and take it up to his room. Our salon is at his disposal; our bedroom is his. He never opens his mouth, except to complain or to threaten. I have, sir, to clean his shoes – and I am an Austrian woman, the wife of an Austria
n lawyer and the daughter of an Austrian judge.”
“Madam,” said Mansel, “you have my sympathy. My friend and I are English–”
“Alas, sir, we fought against you.”
“Against your will. We know that it was the Boche that forced your hand. England and Austria were always friends.”
“You are very generous, sir.”
“I am speaking the truth, Madam. And now please listen to me. We do not like your lodger; and, if we have our way, he will not be your lodger very long.” The poor woman clasped her hands. “I tell you this, because I trust you, Madam. Were you to breathe a word–”
“Sir, you can count upon me. Not even to my poor husband, will I mention that you have been here.”
“If you please,” said Mansel. “And now will you tell me his ways. The Boche, as a rule, is regular.”
“This one is not, sir. He is abroad to all hours – except at weekends. He never rises on Sunday before midday. Then he will dress himself up and go off in his car: and he always comes in about midnight. The gardener, whom we have to bribe to wash his car, insists that the mud which it bears is mountain mud. If he is right, then he almost certainly visits The Black Oak Inn – a well-known pleasure resort, some thirty miles off. That is his way on Sundays. On other days, we never know when to expect him, though his meals must always be ready, whether or no he returns.”
“I’m much obliged,” said Mansel. “You have the telephone?”
“Yes, sir.” She gave the number. “And, except on Sundays, I am always alone about noon.”
“I shan’t ring you up, if I can help it. One can’t be too careful today.”
“Alas, that is very true.”
“Have you a cousin, or someone, whose name I may use?”
“I have an uncle, sir, of whom I am very fond. His christian name is Ludwig. Will you use that?”
“I will, indeed. I shall be Uncle Ludwig, and the Boche will be Cousin Paul. Will that be all right by you?”
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