by W. F. Morris
“And where is Griffin?” asked Baron.
“Why, gone back to Munster. He is coming out for me in the morning.”
“Well, at least you might have kept Griffin with you.”
“Oh no, Dicky!” she exclaimed with mock horror. “People would think that I had eloped with my chauffeur!”
“Not if they saw old Griffin,” said Baron. And they all laughed.
“But what are you two doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were going to Colmar.”
“We did,” answered Baron. “But we soon tired of the flesh pots of Egypt and yearned for the simple life.”
“Baron wanted to sit on a mountain top,” explained Pagan. “And so we decided to go to the Honneck.”
“And we should have done so,” put in Baron with a malicious twinkle. “Only Charles did the map work, and according to him we had to stay at least one night in Munster. It was rather curious because we were there last night, and if you had not gone to Gerardmer we should have all met,” he added innocently.
“That would have been a pleasant coincidence,” remarked Pagan unabashed. “We were going off to the Honneck this morning, but as a matter of fact, it was only when we got to Munster that we realised how close this place was, and we decided then and there to come up and have another look at it.”
She nodded her small head and glanced round the long bare, brick-floored room. “I am awfully glad I came. It’s so terribly primitive and brutal, like … like …”
“Hollywood’s idea of Russia,” suggested Pagan with a smile.
She made a little grimace. “How cynical you are! But, yes, I suppose that is what I mean. I have the quaintest old bedroom you ever saw—a wooden ceiling and a huge old bed.”
Pagan nodded. “Is yours the third door along that balcony arrangement or the fourth?”
“The third.”
Pagan nodded again. “We were rather interested in those two doors. In fact we would have had a peep behind them if Bertha had not appeared at the crucial moment. We wanted to know whether there were just bedrooms behind them or whether there was a back staircase leading up to this balcony.”
“There may be,” she said; “because I do not think that the door beyond mine leads to a room—at least not directly. I heard someone walking past my room on that side and it sounded rather like a corridor.”
Baron nodded. “We must have a peep in there, Charles.”
“And there is another door in my room,” continued Clare.
“Leading into the corridor?” asked Pagan.
“No. It is on the other side of the room. It has a key in it but it will not open, because it opens outwards and there is something against the other side.”
“The opposite side to the presumed corridor?” asked Pagan. “Is that on the left as you go in?”
Clare nodded.
Pagan turned to Baron. “Your room must be next to hers on that side. But there is no door there. By jove yes, the press! It must be behind that big press.”
“That’s it,” agreed Baron. “You see, Clare, Charles thinks that when they locked …”
“Take care,” whispered Pagan. “I believe that girl understands more English than we think.”
Bertha had come into the room with a fresh course.
“What are you two going to do?” asked Clare when Bertha had retired again.
“We are going to take a stroll across the old battlefield,” answered Baron.
“To look for the ghost?” she exclaimed.
“Well, yes, I suppose so. You see, we heard the most amazing yarn down in Munster—all rot of course. We will tell you about that later. Anyway, that’s the programme.”
“It is a glorious night and it will be terribly thrilling. I shall love it,” she asserted.
“But you are not coming too!” protested Pagan.
“Of course I am.”
“But really I don’t … I mean to say, you never know.” He turned to Baron for support.
“Why not?” asked Baron. “This Ghost business is all rot.”
“But still …” persisted Pagan.
“You don’t think I am going to stay quietly here—alone in a lonely inn,” she said with a mischievous smile. “Dicky wouldn’t let me, would you, Dicky?”
Baron grinned and Pagan shrugged his shoulders with a helpless gesture.
“You don’t know Clare yet, Charles,” said Baron. “If she has made up her mind to come, she will come, and short of physical force nothing you or I can do will stop her.”
“All right then,” agreed Pagan, smiling at her. “But if I were her brother I’d spank her.”
“Charles means well,” commented Baron with a grin.
She smiled back at Pagan. “I’m sure he does. And so as soon as we have finished this meal we put on our bonnets and shawls and walk across the battlefield.”
Baron nodded. “That’s the idea.”
The landlord came from the other end of the room and made them a bow. He hoped the meal was to their satisfaction. They assured him it was. “A poem in proteids,” Pagan told him.
The landlord smiled gravely and bowed his thanks. “There is but one thing, Messieures, Madame, that I regret,” he said. “This inn, being situated as it is.” He made a movement with his hands. “It is not practicable for my guests to take a walk after dinner—a thing so good for the digestion and conducive of good sleep.”
Pagan glanced at Clare and kicked out at Baron’s foot under the table. But he missed it, and Baron blurted cheerfully, “But that is just what we are going to do, Herr Kleber. Up over the battlefield on a fine night—what could be nicer!”
The landlord looked grave and shook his head. “It would be very dangerous, M’sieu,” he said. “In the dark, one might slip into an old trench and break one’s leg … or the roof of an old dug-out might collapse beneath one. Besides, there is much barbed wire and even unexploded bombs and shells. It is too, too dangerous, M’sieu.”
Baron laughed. “It is very good of you, Herr Kleber, to be so solicitous about us, but it will not be by any means the first time that Charles Pagan and I have wandered about on a battlefield at night. And besides, we want to see the Ghost,” he added recklessly.
Pagan, watching the landlord narrowly, could detect no change of expression on his face, except perhaps a slight flicker of the eyelids. The man smiled at the word ghost.
“M’sieu, who has been a soldier, does not believe the idle tales of the village folk,” he said half-chaffingly. And he went on in the same joking tones. “How comes it that I, who live so close, have not seen this apparition!” And then he became serious again, and there was an underlying firmness in his tones that was half a threat despite his respectful words. “But no, M’sieu would be most unwise to go up there. And I as your host could not allow guests who have been so courteous and appreciative of the hospitality of my poor house”—here he bowed gravely to each in turn—“to go where they might come to harm. That indeed would be poor Alsatian hospitality.”
Baron was about to continue the discussion, but again Pagan kicked out under the table, and this time his foot found its target.
“I agree with you, Baron, that we ought to be able to look after ourselves,” he said. “But personally, I think it would be a very shabby return for all Herr Kleber’s thoughtfulness if just for the sake of—well, a lark, we were to go up there and meet with an accident for which Herr Kleber would feel himself responsible. It was quite an amusing idea of yours to go up there to-night, but it really would be much more sensible to leave it till to-morrow. I vote we turn in early and make a day of it to-morrow.”
“Right ’o,” agreed Baron, taking the cue. “It certainly is very comfortable here. Well, Herr Kleber, we will take your advice.” He turned to the others. “How about a Benedictine? Clare? Charles? Three Benedictines, Herr Kleber, please—and perhaps you will have one too.”
The landlord bowed his thanks and withdrew.
“What is the great idea,
Charles?” asked Baron in a low voice.
“Didn’t you twig?” whispered Pagan. “These people understand English a darned sight better than we give them credit for. He must have overheard us talking about going out. That was why he brought up the subject—to put us off it. And he meant to stop us if necessary; that was why I butted in and agreed.”
“But hang it, Charles, we are not going to do just what that cove tells us.”
“Of course not,” agreed Pagan. “But we don’t want any trouble if it can be avoided, and it will be much easier to slip out if he thinks we have given up the idea.”
Clare nodded agreement. “I think, Dicky, we ought to elect Mr. Pagan our leader in this adventure. Evidently he has the Sherlock Holmes complex.”
“Right ’o,” agreed Baron. “You propose him then.”
“Proposed,” from Clare.
“Seconded,” from Baron.
“Carried nem. con.,” smiled Clare.
“Well, Charles, you are C.O. now,” said Baron with a mock salute.
“We will obey you absolutely and follow you to the death,” smiled Clare.
Pagan grinned, but there was an undertone of seriousness in his voice as he looked at her and said, “Will you?”
She did not answer.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I
COFFEE was brought to them, at the more comfortable padded bench by the wall, and while they drank it and enjoyed cigarettes, the subject of their intended excursion was not mentioned. Presently, however, Pagan said in a low voice without changing his position, “Don’t look round; but Kleber is going out. He put his head out of the kitchen door just now, and he had a hat and coat on. I saw him in that ghastly plush-framed mirror on the wall. We will give him ten minutes: then we’ll go.” He turned to Clare. “I hope you have some warm clothes and stout shoes. What you have on is simply ravishing, but it’s not the regulation kit for a battlefield at night, is it, Baron? So if you really are coming, you ought to change.”
Clare rose with a smile. “Captain’s orders,” she said.
“Now I think we are all ready,” said Pagan as she disappeared up the stairs. “The torch is in the pocket of your mack, and the candles are in mine. And the macks are on the pegs over there. All I need now is a pipe.” He unrolled his oilskin tobacco pouch and filled his pipe with deliberation. “You know, I’m immensely cheered up since comrade Kleber said his piece. I really believe we are on the track of something.”
Baron nodded thoughtfully. “Looks like it,” he admitted.
Pagan drew at his pipe and put the burnt match in the ashtray. “But I am not too happy about taking Clare with us,” he said doubtfully.
Baron shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t prevent it, Charles. She has made up her mind.”
Pagan nodded his head gloomily. “But I never can see,” he grumbled, “why just because a woman says she has made up her mind, that should be taken as ending the matter.”
“I suppose it is because it usually does,” suggested Baron sagely.
A few minutes later Clare came down the stairs. She was dressed in a close fitting tweed hat, a long mackintosh and brogue shoes, and she carried a walking-stick.
“We are going to have trouble with Bertha,” whispered Pagan as they met at the table. “I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, and she shied like a horse when she saw you coming downstairs all dressed for going out.”
He took his mackintosh from the peg and put one arm in the sleeve. Bertha came hesitatingly towards him. There was suppressed agitation in her broad placid face.
“M’sieu is going out?” she faltered.
Pagan turned to her as he struggled with the other arm in the sleeve. “Just a little walk before by-byes,” he answered cheerfully. “Pour encourager des bons rêves.”
She looked at him appealingly. “But you promised my father …” she began.
Pagan laughed. “Promised! Come, come, Bertha, that’s a grand mot! Cannot we poor men change our minds sometimes like les belles dames?”
She did not answer, and there was no answering smile on her stubborn face.
Pagan turned to Clare and Baron. “Well, are you ready?” he asked. He moved towards the door, but Bertha was there before him, her back to it, her face white, her bosom heaving.
“You may not pass,” she cried.
Pagan shot an eloquent glance at Clare and Baron, but there was only amusement in his face as he stood, hands on hips, surveying her. He shook a finger paternally. “Bertha, you’re a dark horse—un cheval noir,” he cried. “You have a lover outside that door, n’est ce pas. Cherchez l’homme, eh! Well, I suppose frauleins will be frauleins.” He took a pace forward. “But we are not spoil-sports are we, Baron? And we will not tell pa—honour bright.”
Bertha’s taut expression did not relax. She flung her arms wide as though she were crucified upon the door. “You shall not pass,” she repeated sullenly.
“Admirable, my dear Bertha,” said Pagan with the same air of amused tolerance, “But this is not Verdun. Really …”
“Let Clare have a go,” put in Baron. “She is the linguist.”
Pagan smiled at Clare. “Ask her, would you, why ‘we shall not pass’. ”
Clare spoke in her fluent idiomatic French, but Bertha only shook her head and repeated sullenly, “You may not pass.”
“But this is preposterous,” cried Baron. “Tell her, Clare, that we don’t want to have to remove her by force.”
Pagan shook his head. “You won’t frighten Bertha,” he declared.
“We will try, anyway. Tell her, Clare.”
Bertha’s reply was to call loudly, “Henri, Henri!”
Pagan grinned. “That will be our friend of the black fingernails,” he murmured. “And I would rather tackle him than Bertha if it comes to a rough house. But we can’t have that. All right, Bertha. Kamarad!” He held his hands high above his head. “You are quite safe. Baron is far too much the little gentleman to lay hands on a lady and I’m far too frightened.”
“But dash it all, Charles, she has either got to get out of the way or else tell us why we may not pass,” cried Baron angrily.
“I think that is only reasonable,” agreed Clare.
“Look here, Bertha, we are jolly well going through that door or else …” began Baron.
But Pagan turned on him and snapped, “Shut up.”
Baron subsided with bad grace and an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.
“But really, Mr. Pagan, I agree with Dicky that it is ridiculous that the girl should behave like this and give us no reason for it.”
Pagan turned to Bertha and his voice and face expressed the same amused tolerance. “You hear, Bertha? They think that you ought to give us some reason. Won’t you satisfy our curiosity? I am dying to know what is on the other side of that door.”
Bertha changed neither her position nor her expression. She only shook her head.
“If it’s a secret, tell me. I can keep it,” he said in tones of wheedling raillery. “You people stand further off—Baron. Miss Lindsey, please.” He waved his hand imperiously, and they went back in answer to his look. Then he stepped up to Bertha and put his ear close to her mouth. He was obviously playing the fool, but there was gratitude in her frightened eyes in spite of her agitated breathing. She seemed to have confidence in Pagan.
“Oh, please, please, M’sieu,” she said in an agonized whisper, “make them take off their coats.”
Pagan straightened himself and put a hand over his face in mock shame. “Bertha, Bertha!” he cried in shocked tones. “I would not have thought it of you. But your secret is safe with me.”
“What is it?” asked Baron.
“You’re too young,” retorted Pagan.
“Stop rotting, Charles. What are we going to do?”
Pagan peeled off his mackintosh. “We are going to have another coffee, and then we are going up to bed,” he answered as he brought his foot down gently on Baron’s toe.
>
Clare looked rebellious, but Pagan spoke first. “Miss Lindsey,” he said with a smile. “In King’s Regulations there is a crime called ‘dumb insolence’. If I were really your company commander you would be up at orderly room to-morrow charged with that crime.”
Clare regarded him for a moment or two in silence, but his eyes did not waver nor did the look of determination that lay behind the smile. Then she grimaced and laid her stick upon the table.
“To the death,” Pagan reminded her with a smile.
“At least tell us what that girl said,” she retorted.
Pagan shook his head. “Obedience absolute and unquestioned,” he reminded her.
Clare regarded him with rebellious eyes. “This very temporary authority seems to have gone to his head,” she said coldly.
Baron guffawed, but Pagan merely smiled and bowed. He sat down. “Coffee, Bertha, Coffee bitte,” he called.
Bertha, who had remained standing near the door, hesitated a moment, and then she withdrew the key from the lock and hurried to bring the coffee.
Baron grimaced. “Not taking any chances,” he said. “What are we going to do, Charles?”
“Drink our coffee …”
“Even if we have not ordered it and do not want it?” put in Clare truculently.
Pagan turned to her with a smile. “It is not compulsory,” he answered blandly, “but desirable.”
Baron grinned. “Well, Charles, we are going to!”
“Drink our coffee or not as the case may be,” repeated Pagan, “and then go upstairs.”
“And what then? Try to slip out when Bertha is not looking or has gone to bed?”
Pagan nodded. “If we can. Meanwhile we don’t talk about it, since she understands English far too well and it’s rude to whisper.”
They drank their coffee in silence, and then Pagan rose. “We go up now,” he said. “You go first, Baron. And take your coat and mine. I will say good night to Bertha.”
Baron went up the stairs. Pagan wandered down the room to where Bertha sat, her back towards them, sewing. “At huit heures to-morrow Bertha, s’il vous plait,” he said. “I’m sorry we gave you a fright. Good night and bon rêves.”
