Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “Roses?” spat Goat. “Roses? Bunch o’ red-’ot barb wire, if you ask me. Be yer age, Sloper. Led daown the garding path—”

  “ ’E’s bin double cross,” said Sloper. “That Palin’s a dirty —. Arms roun’ ’is neck, an’ wirin’ reports to Mansel every night.”

  “See ’ere,” said Goat. “If I fall down, there aren’t no excuses for me. Well, ’e’s fell down, good an’ proper. Danced bung into the muck. An’ more. ’Ad ’is nose rubbed in it, Sloper. Well, wot’s sauce for the bloody gander’s damn’ well sauce for the goose. I’ve lorsse me confidence. Mansel’s the better man.”

  “It does look like it,” said Friar. The others started to their feet. “And yet I’ve a feeling that I shall have those gems. You see, they’re worth having; and when I want something worth having I usually get it before the end of the match. Palin fooled me, of course. He put up a beautiful show. I could have sworn he was simple. But now I know where I am. And that is back where we started. Well, be it so. Mansel is here, of course, to get those jewels out. I shall let him get them out—of the chamber. That will save us a lot of wearisome work. And when they are out of the chamber . . . Those gems are worth two million—two million pounds. And that’s rock bottom. I don’t think I can let Mansel in on a thing like that. No, I think we shall have to have them. . . . Sloper, back to the Lowland, and pull your weight. Goat with me. We’re going to move that ladder—you never know.”

  With that, he made for the meadows, and Goat fell in behind; but Sloper turned and went back the way he had come.

  Mansel and I followed Sloper for two or three hundred yards; then we left the road and took to the woods, to come out on the main highway in a quarter of an hour.

  “Ignorance,” said Mansel, as we turned to the left, “is bliss. If Friar knew what we knew, the knowledge would shorten his life. Honestly, it was a very near thing. And we have emerged triumphant. We have compelled a respect which we in no way deserve.”

  “You’ve shaken his fellows,” said I.

  “Goat, yes,” said Mansel. “But Friar will deal with him. That’s what he followed them for.”

  “How,” said I, “did he know that you were in on this show?”

  “Ferrers must have been watched,” said Mansel. “And when my name was mentioned, Punter filled in the gaps.”

  That that was the explanation, I have no doubt; for Punter had good reason to know what Mansel could do. And Friar’s recognition of Mansel’s masterly ways shows, I think, what the man had been led to expect.

  “What line will he take?” said I.

  “I wish I knew,” said Mansel. “Of course he’ll do as he said and let us unearth the gems. It sounds very fine, but he can’t do anything else. But how will he prevent us from taking them out? I mean, he can’t watch the castle by day and night. Never mind. Our job is to go ahead as though he didn’t exist, and sooner or later he’s bound to show his hand.”

  And there Bell fell in beside us, to lead us up to the Rolls.

  As we drove back to the inn, Mansel related to Palin what had occurred.

  Then—

  “Tell me this,” he said. “Tomorrow morning will Hohenems send for the police? I mean, that the castle has been entered will be most evident.”

  “No,” said Palin. “The steward will report to me. I am in loco parentis. He will report to me and ask what he should do.”

  “You’re quite sure of that? I mean, the last thing we want to do is to catch the eye of the police.”

  “I’m sure of that,” said Palin.

  “Good,” said Mansel. “That means we can take our rest.”

  So we came back to the inn; and twenty minutes later we were asleep.

  It was ten o’clock the next morning, when Mansel glanced again at his wrist watch and started to fill a pipe.

  “I should have said,” he said, “that the steward was late.”

  “I confess,” said Palin, “I thought he’d have been here by now. But he’s not the man to panic. After all, nothing has been stolen. The house has been entered and one of the carpets moved—a circumstance, I may say, which will confound the staff. More coffee?” I shook my head. “The steward will certainly acquaint me with what has occurred. But, if he’s busy this morning. . .”

  He broke off and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I expect you’re right,” said Mansel. “Hullo, this may be him.”

  But it was not. It was a delivery van—belonging to a firm of cleaners that did their business at Robin, the nearest town.

  We had broken our fast in the forecourt, and as the driver went by, he lifted his hat. Then he stopped in his stride and came back.

  Then he spoke in German.

  “The gentlemen will excuse me,” he said, “but I have a letter here, addressed to a Mr. Palin, said to be staying here. I have brought it from Hohenems.”

  Palin put out his hand.

  “I’m Mr. Palin,” he said.

  The letter passed.

  Palin read it frowning.

  Then he gave it to Mansel and got to his feet.

  “Come,” he said to the driver. “You’ve earned a flagon of beer.”

  When Mansel had read the letter, he gave it to me.

  Sir,

  As the police will allow no one to leave the castle, I cannot report to you in person, as is my duty and desire. But the bearer has promised to bear this note to you.

  At five o’clock this morning the stable telephone rang. It was the stud groom speaking. The body of a man had been found, not very far from the foot of the postern steps. He had died from a heavy blow on the back of the head. He was a stranger. I said I would come down at once. I roused the staff and dressed. As I was about to descend the postern steps, one of the men came running, to say that a terrace window had been broken and that the house had been entered during the night. I saw these things for myself. Then I sent for the staff, and called the roll. But all were safe. I then hastened down to the stables; but the stud groom, tired of waiting, had sent for the police. I reproved him, for not waiting for my instructions, although I think that I should have had to report the matter, without waiting for your advice. For murder is serious. I viewed the body and gave orders for it to be covered, but not touched. I had never before seen the man. I then returned to the house. So far as I could see, nothing at all had been taken, but a carpet had been dragged from the gallery into a passage in the older part of the house. Why, I cannot conceive; but that is the fact. I had just told Ernst to make ready to drive me to you, when the police arrived. I had, therefore, to postpone my departure. Whilst I was accompanying them on their investigation, more important police arrived from Robin itself. And they had to be dealt with. I then asked them to excuse me, while I reported to you; but they at once declined to allow me to leave the scene. I then proposed to send a letter by Ernst. But they would let no one leave. It was while we were arguing that the cleaners’ van arrived; and the driver has kindly consented to carry this note.

  Yours very respectfully,

  HANS KIRSCHNER

  Steward

  Palin returned.

  “Riposte,” said Mansel. “This fellow, Friar, is a very clever man.”

  Palin put a hand to his head.

  “I’m not there, yet,” he said.

  Mansel fingered his chin.

  “Friar threatened to go to the Boche. He won’t, and I told him so. But he made up his mind there and then that the Boche must be put on to me. Not on to the gems, of course, but on to Hohenems. His eyes must be fastened on the castle—the one thing we do not want. The question was how to do it, without involving himself. And then he perceived an instrument, ready to hand—‘a goat caught in a thicket by his horns’. . .

  “Goat was of no more use. I can’t believe such a man was ever valuable; but, after the show last night, he was against going on. More. His outlook was dangerous, for rotten apples tend to corrupt the good. There, then, was Friar’s sacrifice. He took him back to the car, and the
re he offered him up. So he killed two birds with one stone. He got rid of an awkward appendage and gravely embarrassed us.”

  Palin’s face was a study.

  “D’you mean to say,” he said, “that Friar slew one of his men, to put a spoke in our wheel?”

  “Well, we didn’t kill him,” said Mansel. “Nor did the staff. He was there alone with his master—that we know. He had lately given the latter grave offense, and I think it’s pretty clear that his death will embarrass us. A very mysterious murder at Hohenems’ gates, a curious house-breaking, and our fingerprints all over that blasted ladder—that’s just bad luck, of course. Friar didn’t know that.”

  “And I hobnobbed with that monster. He asked me to play him Chopin, and I complied.”

  “Oh, he’s a big stuff,” said Mansel. “You can’t get away from that. And now I think you ought to get off. We, of course, must fade out. The wicket is rather too sticky for us to go in. I mean, every stranger will be suspect—and we were abroad last night. And then those fingerprints . . . Oh, no. We shall reappear all right; three or four days in Salzburg will dry the pitch.”

  “Shall I stay at the castle?” said Palin.

  “If you please. And write to Ferrers, just for the look of the thing. I’ll write to him, too. He’ll have to come out, of course. And I think he might bring us with him. Yes, that will be best. And please report to me at considerable length. I want to know the police angle and what you make of the Boche who is sure to be there.”

  Twenty minutes later, Palin was gone.

  The hotel which we used at Salzburg was little known; but that was Mansel’s way. Whenever he could, he stayed at a very quiet house; but the service which he received was beyond all praise. Indeed, I know for a fact that we always fared very much better than many people that stayed in the smart hotels. But at times we went forth to dine at a first-class restaurant. And this we did upon our fourth evening at Salzburg.

  As we were drinking our soup, Friar came in, with a very good-looking girl.

  “What could be better?” said Mansel. “William, you’ve a way with the ladies. I think you must take her on.”

  “I’m damned if I will,” said I.

  “We shall see,” said Mansel. “I’ll lay he comes up.”

  “D’you think he’ll recognize us? I mean, it was pretty dark.”

  “He has recognized us,” said Mansel. “He might not have known me again, but you took his pistol away.”

  Sure enough, when dinner was over, Friar asked his guest to excuse him and crossed to where we sat.

  “Good evening, Captain Mansel.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Friar. Let me introduce Mr. Chandos. You haven’t officially met.”

  “How d’you do,” I said.

  “May I sit down?”

  “You may.”

  Friar took his seat.

  “So you’re tired of Hohenems?”

  —“An occasional visit to Salzburg suits me well.”

  “You see, I’m a man of my word.”

  “I have,” said Mansel, “no evidence to that effect.”

  “I said I should go to the Boche.”

  “And I said you wouldn’t go. And you haven’t.”

  “Technically, no. But the Boche has come to you.”

  “I expect you’re right,” said Mansel.

  “You know I’m right,” said Friar. “That’s why you’re here.”

  “As you please.”

  “Do you still refuse to come in?”

  “Be your age,” said Mansel.

  Friar raised his eyebrows.

  “An equivocal saying,” he said.

  “Then let me be plain. I do not deal with thieves or with murderers. Except as I have—and shall. And I never submit to blackmail.”

  Friar lighted a cigarette.

  “Fine words,” he said.

  “Plain words. You are a thief and you are a murderer. I never strike a bargain with people like that.”

  “You don’t think much of me?”

  Mansel shrugged his shoulders.

  “Palin beat you,” he said.

  I saw the man wince.

  “That’s perfectly true,” he said. “I slipped up there.”

  “If Palin could beat you,” said Mansel, “I think I can.”

  “You’d be much wiser,” said Friar, “to do a deal.”

  “Wiser, yes. But so far I have clean hands.”

  “You’ve killed your man, Captain Mansel.”

  “That’s as may be. I repeat that I have clean hands.”

  “Goat was a blackguard,” said Friar.

  “It ill became his confederate to put him down. Dog shouldn’t eat dog, you know.”

  Friar threw back his head and laughed.

  “It is now seven years,” he said, “since I left the narrow path. At the time at which I did so, I made up my mind to one thing—never to resent insult from the caste which had been mine.”

  “A prudent decision,” said Mansel.

  “On occasion, it has stood me in stead. And how d’you think I do it?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “By minding a line of Virgil’s. Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit.” He rose to his feet. “Which, being interpreted, means, ‘It is the last laugh that counts.’ ”

  “That’s a very free translation,” said Mansel.

  Friar looked at him very hard.

  “Are you also among the scholars?”

  “By no means. But I can translate forsan.”

  “I see. Well, au revoir”

  With that, he was gone, and rejoined the lady.

  “And the true translation?” said I.

  “ ‘Perhaps someday it will be pleasant to remember these things.’ ”

  “I see. And forsan?”

  “Means ‘perhaps.’ ”

  “He’ll never forgive you,” I said, “for ‘dog eating dog.’ ”

  “I said what I did, to make him step out of his ground. He covered up very well, but I think he must hate my guts. And when you hate a man’s guts, you desire to hit him for six.”

  “He’s leaving,” said I.

  “Good,” said Mansel. “We’ll give him half an hour’s start. And then we’ll use our back door. I mean, if it has come off, we shall see him again.”

  Fifty-five minutes later, I peered through our sitting-room window, to see a figure erect in an easy chair. I think that it held a pistol in either hand. But of this, I cannot be sure, for the light was dim.

  I made my report to Mansel.

  “What could be better?” he said. “D’you think he came in this way?”

  “There’s dirt on the window sill.”

  “Good,” said Mansel. “We’ll take him as he comes down.”

  Friar did not come down for three hours—three of the longest that I have ever spent. But they must have been long for him.

  As he turned, after reaching the ground, Mansel hit him square on the point of the chin.

  I went for Bell and Carson, who were waiting at the front of the house.

  By the time I returned, Mansel had searched the man, to find two pistols, his passport, his note case and nothing else.

  Mansel addressed the servants.

  “Turn out the Rolls very quietly and keep her here in the yard. In five minutes’ time we shall come down as he did, and then we’ll be off.”

  With that, we went round to the front and entered the house with our key.

  In our rooms we went through the note case, to see what it held. But there was nothing but money and two or three visiting cards. These bore no address, but the name of a London club. I should not think of saying which club it was; but it bears a distinguished name and it stands in Pall Mall.

  Mansel locked the pistols away.

  “Pillows and blankets,” he said. “The man is seriously ill. We’re rushing him to Munich, in the hope of saving his life. He’s had special treatment there from a doctor he knows. A car is to meet us halfway, at a
little village past the frontier.”

  Five minutes later we were upon the road.

  The plan was a very good plan, but it was very bold. To cross the frontier with Friar was easier said than done. But Mansel was a master of bluff, and would jest with customs officials, while I dared not trust my voice.

  Happily, the frontier was close, though when we came to the post the sky was pale.

  While Bell and I succored Friar—the man was still unconscious, for Mansel knew how to hit—the latter swept the officers off their feet. “It’s a matter of life and death. As you see, we’ve come straight from a party; we haven’t had time to change.” They came and peered at the figure, pillowed and rugged. And then they stamped his passport and let us go.

  So we entered Germany . . .

  After thirty miles we turned off, and when we were deep in the country, we set the man down.

  We kept his passport and note case and propped him against a tree, with his face to the rising sun. Then we reentered the Rolls, bypassed the little town at which Mansel had said we were meeting another car, and then returned through this to the frontier post.

  Ten minutes later we were on Austrian soil.

  I heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I hope and believe,” said Mansel, “that Friar will be off our map for nearly a week. He dare not go to the police, for if the police get on to us, well, we know he killed Goat. He’ll have to go to a consul, to get another passport, and that will not be issued for several days. Inquiries will have to be made and references taken up. Besides, he’s got to get money.”

  “He’s badly placed,” said I. “And Palin said his German was very poor.”

  “It’s a question of time. If he has friends in Munich, they can identify him, and push the thing through. But unless he has friends in Munich, he’ll have to wait.”

  “What would you do?” said I.

  “Wire to London for funds, get a pass from the consul for England—he’d give him that—go to the passport office and start again. In case he does that, we’ll post his passport back to the passport office. That will complicate things, especially if we amend it before it goes.”