Red In The Morning (9 page)

So much for the second entrance which we had set out to find. What troubled us was that it was not the entrance to Arx.

So far as we could judge, the château and the house in the dingle stood more or less back to back; but between the two there was a mountain, and this, at its base, must have been six hundred yards thick. That this had been pierced was more than we could believe. The cost would have been gigantic: the work would have been the talk of the countryside: spring after spring of water would have very soon turned the tunnel into an aqueduct: finally, where was the earth that had been displaced? Yet château and house were connected – of that we were sure: tradesmen called at the château – only the day before six crates of beer had been driven up to its door: what was still more to the point, a petrol waggon had entered the
porte-cochère
.

“It doesn’t really matter,” said Mansel. “We know that there is some connection, and that is enough. And the dingle is simply ideal as a bumping-off place.”

John Bagot’s face was a study, but I began to shake with laughter. The thing was so true. As ‘a place of execution’ the dingle was incomparable.

“But what a show!” Mansel continued. “Arx and Petit Arx – of which no one has any idea. My respect for Horace is rising very high. But whatever is his profession – his special line? It’s got to be pretty good to be worthy of a layout like this. No one would ever dream that the château was just a façade. There, to all appearance, the Baron de Parol is leading a normal life. Even if it was searched, I don’t suppose for a moment that anything would be found. And all the time he’s doing his stuff from the dingle…

“Well, William, as always, you have delivered the goods. We know of the dingle, but they don’t know that we do. More. We know the way in. So now we must watch the quarry and learn how to open the door.” He stopped short there, and a hand went up to his mouth. “No, that’s not right. It’s too easy.”

“Yes,” said I. “That’s right. We learn how to open the door. But we don’t open it – just like that. Because, when that door is opened a signal is transmitted to Petit Arx.”

“Quite right,” said Mansel. “We’ll have to be careful there. There’s sure to be a signal of some sort, whenever that curtain’s raised. I mean, it’s just common sense.”

“There may,” said John Bagot, “there may be another way in.”

We both of us looked at him. Then –

“Spill it, John,” said Mansel. “What do you know?” John Bagot moistened his lips.

“I’m thinking of the grotto,” he said. “The grotto that Chandos found. We might have a look at that. They sometimes run for miles. And I think there’s probably one between Arx and Petit Arx.”

There was a long silence. Then –

“I give you best, John,” said Mansel. “Of course you’re right.”

Now, nearly three days had gone by since Brevet had posted his note, and we could not help feeling that Gedge and his host must both be growing impatient to come to grips with us. No doubt, as Mansel had said, they were hoping, by taking no action, to lure us to Arx: but time was money to Gedge and, according to Mona Lelong, the Baron was losing weight. And though, three days ago, we were ready and willing to meet them anywhere else, our outlook was now reversed: not only was Petit Arx a highly suitable spot, but it was, of course, the last place to which they would expect us to come. “So, if we can,” said Mansel, “we must avoid a brush until we can enter the dingle and have things out there. But Gedge may force our hand. I need hardly say that if he had the faintest idea that we know what we do, the fellow would be outside now – and Horace with him.”

“He can’t know yet,” said I. “But he does seem to find things out.”

“I know he does,” said Mansel. “But he – must – not – find – this – out, until we tell him ourselves. That is why this afternoon John Bagot and I are going to drive ninety miles to purchase gear we could certainly purchase at Sarrat and probably nearer than that. Rope and torches and such. I think we’ll take Rowley with us. And you and Bell and Carson shall hold the fort. How wide was the hole, William? The hole admitting to the grotto. And what were its edges like?”

“Less than four feet across,” said I. “And its edges were sound.”

Mansel nodded and got to his feet.

Five minutes later, he and John Bagot and Rowley had left the farm.

I had no mind to sit indoors, for the weather was very fine, so I summoned Carson and Bell and the three of us made for a meadow above and behind the farm. Here was a pleasant spot, where the downward slope of the meadow was stayed for ten or twelve feet, and the little lap thus formed was shaded by chestnut trees. A man lying here in the shade could see the whole of the farm as well as some of the road upon either side.

I take no shame to say that I slept for an hour and more, whilst the servants watched. Then I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and told them to take their ease while I did my turn. And whilst I was watching, I wrote a few lines to Jenny – a poor, disjointed letter, for I am no master of the art of doing two things at once.

I had just made an end and had sealed my envelope, when a car came into my view on the road to the east of the farm. I heard Bell rousing Carson, which meant he had seen it, too.

Now the road was a public road, and cars did sometimes go by: but those that did were few, for, as a thoroughfare, the road was valueless, while, as a promenade, it was, as they say, off the map. And so the chances were that the car now approaching the farm had something to do with Arx.

It was moving slowly enough, and it was a limousine. With my glasses I saw the chauffeur – a man I had never seen. But, because they were sitting back, I could see no one else.

For a moment it passed out of sight; but, when it reappeared, it was moving more slowly still. Whoever was there was proposing either to stop at or to crawl past the farm.

Again it passed out of view – this time behind the farm. Then it appeared again, on the opposite side. And then it stopped.

Now because of the hedgerow which bordered the side of the road, I could see but little more than the top of the car: but its front door was opened and closed, and this suggested that the chauffeur had been told to alight. Sure enough, a moment later I saw the man appear at the gate of the farm. In his hand he carried a basket, which might have held fruit.

He threw a look round as might have done anyone who wanted to ask his way or had some message to give. Then he passed through the gateway and into the yard. I saw him look at the barn, the doors of which were shut: then he turned to the right and up to the door of the house. To reach this, he passed the stairway which led to our flat.

I saw him knock on the door and, after a moment or two, Madame Caillau appear. There was a little conversation: then the fellow presented the basket, which Madame Caillau received with the traditional rapture which the French in such cases observe. Then Madame Caillau retired, basket in hand – no doubt to empty the thing, before handing it back.

Directly she disappeared, I saw the chauffeur lean forward, inclining his head, as though to be sure that he was out of her sight. Then he put a hand in his pocket and, taking something out, threw it well and truly into the road.

That was enough for me.

“Get down to that car,” I said. “Hold up whoever is there, until I come.”

“Both of us, sir?” said Bell.

“Yes.”

As Madame Calliau returned, Punter appeared in the gateway. He stood there in view of the chauffeur, now talking with Madame Caillau. The chauffeur received the basket, leaned against the jamb of the doorway and pushed back his hat. This was clearly another signal, for Punter lifted an arm. Thirty seconds later, another man appeared, bearing what seemed a dispatch case, rather thick through. Punter and this man waited, their eyes fast on the chauffeur, still deep in talk. So for perhaps one minute. Then the chauffeur’s hand went behind him and moved up and down. When it stopped moving, Punter stepped into the road and looked either way. Then I saw his lips move, and the third man whipped up the stairway which led to our flat…

And that was as much as I saw, for there I got to my feet and ran for the car…

As I peered over the hedgerow –

“Empty, sir,” said Carson, who was standing in front of the car. “No key in the switch.”

“Can you see Punter?” I said.

“He’s not looking, sir,” said Bell, who was lying by the side of the way.

“Into the car, Carson, and shut the door.”

Carson was in in a flash.

“Did Punter see him?” I said.

“No, sir.”

Six paces ahead of the car the road fell sharp to a culvert some seventy yards away: there it curled to the left, to climb again to the level which it had left. The meadow in which I was standing fell with the road; so I turned and ran for a gate a few paces down the hill.

Well out of Punter’s sight, I gained the road: there I turned and ran back, keeping the car between us, so that I could not be seen.

“Has Punter moved?” I said.

“No, sir,” said Bell.

“Listen, Carson,” I said. “The car is on the downgrade – but only just: if you were to take off the handbrake, she wouldn’t move. But I’m going to damned well move her… Once I can get her going, she’ll make the dip. That is the moment at which you get out on the step: and, as she gathers speed, you hold her steady, so that she fouls the bend and goes clean through the hedgerow and into the dell. You jump as she meets the hedgerow. Is that quite clear?”

“Quite clear, sir,” said Carson.

“Then take the handbrake off. Is Punter looking, Bell?”

“Not at the moment, sir.”

I laid hold of the bumper bar…

For a moment I thought I should have to call upon Bell, for the car was very heavy and her tyre pressure something low. And then I found she was moving… I pressed this slight advantage with all my might, for, had I once let her stop, I do not think I could have moved her again. But, as though she knew what was coming, that car seemed reluctant to move, and for five out of six of the paces that lay between her and the dip, she really might be said to have stuck in her toes. And then she seemed to throw in her hand…

As I leaped clear –

“Punter’s signalling, sir, but he hasn’t looked this way yet.”

“Too good to be true,” said I, and fell flat on my face.

“Make your way into the dip and into the field on the other side of the road.”

As I spoke, the limousine left the road at thirty-five miles an hour, put her nose over the culvert and then did an elegant somersault into the dell.

As Carson looked round, I jerked my head to the left and crawled into the dip…

Now exactly when Punter perceived that the car was gone, I cannot honestly say. I had made my way into the dip and so out of his view: I had climbed the gate on my left, and had run back beside the hedgerow which covered me from the road. Carson was just behind me, and Bell was out of sight on the opposite side. It was then that Punter came pelting along the midst of the way…

Grimly, I watched him go by – to the head of the dip. There he stopped and stared. Then he began to go down. After, perhaps, ten paces, he clapped both hands to his mouth… Subduing an impulse to laugh, I turned my head to the farm.

Almost at once the man with the dispatch case appeared, whipping out of the gateway and down the road. At first he failed to observe that the car was gone: and, when he saw, he put a foot wrong and stumbled and very nearly fell down. And, as he was standing there, gaping, the chauffeur appeared…

The thing was as good as a play, and that is the honest truth.

The chauffeur at once perceived that his charge had been moved. As he came up at a run, the other let go.

“You left the brake off,
canaille
. She’s run away.”

That this was the Baron de Parol, I had no doubt. He was very plainly a Frenchman – his looks, his manner, his speech declared this fact. His face, which was very much lined, was as grey as his hair, and he had the squarest jaw I have ever seen. And as he looked upon the chauffeur his eyes burned in his head.

The latter was plainly frightened.

“No, I never, Baron – so ’elp me Gawd.”

“Then where is the car? Did Punter give the alarm?”

“No, ’e didn’t give no alarm, but–”

“Filth!” screamed the other. “Do you deny–”

“Filf to you!” roared the chauffeur, cut, I suppose, to the quick. “Look at the — road. That’s where I lef’ the car. An’, — brake on or off, are you goin’ to tell me she moved?”

The Baron regarded the road.

“The slope is down,” he said.

“Yes. One in a nundred,” said the chauffeur. He leaned forward, poking his head. “An’ if she moved on ’er own, why didn’t she start to move before you got out an’ left ’er? Wot about that?”

The other frowned at this excellent argument. Then he looked over his shoulder and round about.

“Eg-zacly,” said the chauffeur.

“But Punter,” mouthed the Baron. “Punter was on the watch.”

“I know,” said the chauffeur. “I know. I – wonder – where – Punter – is.”

The man was an artist. His delivery of the sinister statement left nothing to be desired; and the Baron started with a violence that caused him to drop his case.

At once, a strange thing happened.

The chauffeur let out the screech of a terrified man and cowered away from the other, shielding his face.

Furiously the baron regarded him.

“Dam fool!” he spat. “Dam fool!”

The chauffeur let fall his hands. Then he wrung the sweat from his brow.

“My mistake,” he said. “But you didn’t ’alf give me a turn. It’s natural enough, you know. Wot with the car not ’ere, an’–”

“Had Punter a key of the switch?”

“No,” said the chauffeur, “’e ’adn’t. I’ve got them both here.”

“Then the car has run down the hill.”

“Not unless she was moved – an’ that’d take four strong men.”

The Baron looked slowly round, with a hand to his chin.

“Perhaps it did.”

That the Baron was also an artist was very plain. The chauffeur jumped at his words, stared at the sturdy hedgerows and back the way he had come.