Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “Believe me, sir,” said Colette, “he is the life of the show.”

  “I can well believe you,” I said. “If I were free, I would come to your show tonight.”

  Jasper regarded me straitly.

  “You are a man that has done many things in his time. You have sweated and shivered, and you have walked with death. I can read these things in your face, and I know I am right. Add, then, to your wisdom, sir, and be our strong man. Just for a month, till we come to Padua. There, I think, I can find one to take Ulysses’ place. I swear you shall want for nothing and shall have a tent to yourself. You will, in fact, be our guest. And the life will entertain you. . . .”

  I laughed.

  “I’m sure it would,” I said, “but I have too much to do. My holiday here is ending, but I must leave for England in two or three days.”

  “Extend your holiday, sir, for I will wager no desk awaits your return. And your duties with us would be nothing.”

  “The weights,” said Colette, “can be altered to suit your strength. Though you are stronger than most, the lifting of weights is an art. But our weights have a plate at the bottom, by which we can let out the sand. And then even I can move them. It is meant to be used when traveling, but we have given that up, for we had to take the sand with us in any event. Still, the plates are there.”

  I sat very still.

  “In such a case,” I said, “what would happen if somebody questioned the weights?”

  Jasper fingered his chin.

  “The fact remains, sir, that nobody ever has. No ordinary man can judge between forty and fifty pounds. But come, my friend, you do not know your strength. And weight lifting is a knack. After two days you will pick up a hundredweight.”

  I put a hand to my head.

  “I ought to get back,” I said, feebly, striving to hide my excitement from those keen eyes. “But Italy is a country which I have never seen.”

  “Then here is your chance,” said the girl. “With us you will see the country as tourists never see it.”

  “That is true,” said Jasper. “You will see the heart of the country—and not the smirk on its face.”

  “We know,” said Colette, “that we cannot offer you money, but do us this favor and you shall be our guest.” Jasper bowed.

  “Our honored guest, sir. Stroll for a month with us, and you’ll find that we poor players know our place.”

  I got to my feet.

  “My very good friends,” I said, “if I were to come, be sure I should ask no better than to be one of you. To live and laugh, to labor and rest as you do. To be frank, your suggestion attracts me. Once I worked with a circus, because it served my turn. And I know that, hard though it be, the life is good. And Italy is a country which I should like to see. But I must think it over, before I decide. Can you meet me here tomorrow?”

  “Name your hour, sir,” said Jasper.

  “What time is your show?”

  “At half past seven. Yes, Colette, we must be going.”

  “Will half past ten be all right?”

  “At night?” said Jasper.

  “At night.”

  “We shall be here, sir, to take our good fortune up.”

  “Don’t be too sure,” I said. “I may not be able to come.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Colette. “We will strive to make you happy, and I will wash your linen day after day.”

  “Bless your heart,” said I. “I shan’t ask that. I’d like to travel with you. But I have made other arrangements, and whether or no I can break them, I cannot tell.”

  “Let him be,” said Jasper. “He knows his mind.” He turned to me. “Until tomorrow, sir.”

  With that, he made me a bow, and Colette, a smile. Then they turned and passed down the dell, by the side of the busy brook. Before they entered the greenwood, they turned and waved.

  I put up a hand and waved back.

  “William,” said Mansel, “I think you’ve driven the nail. I have no doubt that the gems can go into the weights, and I simply cannot imagine a safer vehicle. Indeed, so far as I see, there’s only one fence to fly. And that is, of course, that, unless you resemble Ulysses—and that I beg leave to doubt—you cannot go by a post, but must take the smuggler’s way. And that means taking Jasper into your confidence.”

  “To a certain extent,” said I. “That the Boche is laying for me will be more than enough.”

  “Then that’s all right. But, if you go, Bell must go with you. They’ll see nothing strange in that. And Bell can come and go, can keep in touch with Carson, and at the appropriate moment, load your weights.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Bell will be quite invaluable. I only wish they were leaving the country at once.”

  “You must learn the date tomorrow. If you’re to come in, you’ve got to know where you stand.”

  “I wish,” said I, “you were going to play the hand.”

  “You’ll play it much better,” said Mansel. “Besides, I quite expect to have my hands full. Friar will be back before long, and the Boche may stumble upon us at any time. And your absence will take some explaining. Oh, no. I’m better here. But I feel that you should sign on as soon as you decently can. I have a hunch that a tempest is on the way. And you must have disappeared before it breaks loose.”

  “You said last night that the Boche had put Diana on to Friar. How do you make that out?”

  Mansel wrinkled his brow.

  “The English police could have done it within twelve hours. I think the Boche could have done it in twenty-four. The ground was hard in the drive, but soft in the valley below. So Friar’s second car left prints. And one of the tires was new, but the rest were old. If a policeman is properly served, it shouldn’t be very hard to follow that up.”

  “Say you’re right,” said I. “He got on to Friar. But he never took any action.”

  “The Boche doesn’t care about failures, and Friar had failed.”

  “He’d done willful murder,” I said.

  “Be your age,” said Mansel. “What’s murder count with a German, if he can smell gold?”

  At ten o’clock the next evening I left to keep my appointment, driving the Rolls myself, with Bell by my side. I berthed the car half a mile from the little dell in a convenient thicket, fed by a track.

  I led the way.

  “Stay in the background,” I said, “and listen to what is said. If I want you, I’ll say so, and you will appear. But I don’t think I shall.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  For this very strange instruction, my instinct was to blame. Not a very fine instinct, I fear, as my tale will show. Still, I had a feeling that trouble was out that night, and I have learned not to ignore the nudge of fancy. It may, of course, be misleading; but to take such a hint is worth while, though four times out of five your fear is proved vain. For the fifth time you honor the whim may save your life.

  I had been in the dell for ten minutes when Jasper appeared with Colette.

  “Ah, my good sir,” he cried, “I knew that you would be here. Whether or no, you have come, because you passed your word.”

  “Naturally,” said I. “I keep the appointments I make.”

  “Not everyone does. Never mind. We await your decision, sir.”

  “Upon certain conditions,” I said, “I will join your troupe.”

  “There you are,” cried Colette. “I said he would.”

  “We accept your conditions, sir, without hearing what they are.”

  “Italy attracts me,” I said. “Were you not bound for Italy, I should not come. When will you enter that country?”

  “In ten days’ time,” said Jasper.

  I frowned.

  “We can leave before that,” said Colette.

  “Yes,” said Jasper, “we can. We had not intended to, but we can leave next Thursday, if you insist.”

  “I insist upon nothing. But if I am to come—well, I was leaving for England, for I have been here long enough. If, instead, I ca
n leave for Italy, well and good.”

  “Next Thursday evening, sir.”

  “Good enough. Next, I must bring my servant. He is the best of men and will pull his weight.”

  Jasper bowed.

  “We shall be most happy to have him. Another mouth means another pair of hands.”

  “You will have no complaints,” I said.

  “But no man can wash,” said Colette. “Your linen will be my affair.”

  “He shall assist you,” I said.

  “He shall watch and learn,” said Colette.

  “Finally,” said I, “my incognito must be respected. No one outside the troupe must ever have any idea that I am an amateur.”

  “That,” said Jasper, firmly, “is understood. You will be our strong man, for so long as you stay. And no one outside the troupe will have the faintest idea that you are not what you seem.”

  “In case of emergency, I think I had better be French.”

  “You do not look like a Frenchman, but as you will.”

  “Those, then, are my conditions.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Jasper. “Now I will tell you mine. You will have a tent to yourself, though, if you like, your servant shall sleep with you. You will do no sort of work, except that you will rehearse and will play the strong man. You will rise and retire when you please, your table will be as good as we can afford, and from first to last you will be our honored guest.”

  “I think,” I said, “that we shall get on very well. But I want no special fare, for I do not do things by halves. If I am to join your troupe, then I shall be one of you. Do you give two shows tomorrow?”

  “No, only one, sir, as usual, at half past seven o’clock. And on Monday we move to Godel. That is a handsome village, four miles from where we stand.”

  (In fact, it was not so far—perhaps three miles and a half.)

  “Very well,” said I. “I think I should join you at Godel. I mean, if I meet you there, my arrival will cause less remark.”

  “That is most true,” said Jasper, “for I can say I had written and asked you to come. We travel betimes, sir, so we shall arrive before noon.”

  “I will await you there from ten o’clock on.”

  Jasper bowed.

  “That will be excellent. There is an inn commanding the great cascade. It is known as The Vat of Melody—no one knows why.”

  “Come there direct,” I said, “and pick me up. My servant and I will help you to pitch your tents; and then you shall teach me my duties, and I will try the weights.” Jasper regarded Colette.

  “I cannot,” he said, “regret Ulysses’ demise.”

  “No, indeed,” said Colette. “And if we are nice to him, perhaps he will stay with us.”

  “You have my permission,” said Jasper, “to do your worst.” At that, we laughed and shook hands. Then we bade one another good night, and I watched them go. As before, they turned to wave at the edge of the trees.

  As I rose out of the dell, Bell stepped out of the shadows and fell in behind.

  “They’re honest souls,” I said.

  “I think so, sir. I take it they’re Austrian.”

  “That’s right. Of the rest of the troupe I know nothing, but we must hope for the best. I think we should be able to manage.”

  “It’s not for long, sir.”

  “No. And once we’re out of this country, I shall not care. Come along. Let’s get back to the car.”

  When we found the Rolls safe and sound, I was greatly relieved; for while I was talking with Jasper, a sudden fear for the car had taken hold of my heart. No one, of course, could have moved her, because she was locked; but, had the German found her, to use a colloquial expression, it might not have been too good. The truth is that her precious freight was beginning to loom in the background of every movement we made; and when it was not under our hand, I began to imagine vain things. This may seem foolish enough, and Mansel declined to give the matter a thought; but when you are treating millions much as you treat a spare wheel, contingencies lift up their heads—and may look you down.

  We drove back quietly enough—for most of the way without lights, for though the moon had not risen, the air was clear and the sky was without a cloud, so the starlight had a fair field; and for me, who was well accustomed to watching and moving by night, the darkness had lost its sting.

  Now Wagensburg had been built on the edge of a cliff, the foot of which was washed by a river, as, a year or two back, we had good reason to know. The road we must use this night ran close to the bank of the river upon the opposite side, and we had to pass the castle, before we could come to our bridge. I knew that I could not see it, for the quarters which we were using lay on the farther side—and even so, we were careful to keep the curtains drawn. But perhaps because I knew where it was, as we passed, I glanced up at the courtyard—to be more precise, at where the courtyard hung. And as I looked, I saw the flash of a flashlight.

  Without thinking what I did, I set a foot on the brake and threw out the clutch, but the flash was not repeated, and, after a little, I took the car slowly on.

  “I saw a light on the terrace,” I said to Bell.

  “I thought you seen something, sir, the way you stopped.”

  “And what does that mean?” I said. “It means the devil and all, for they’ve found us out. I must leave the car at the junction and go on on foot. You will stay at the junction, keeping the engine running, ready to move. If anything comes, you’ll have a choice of three roads, so you can’t go wrong. And when all’s clear, you will return to the junction and wait for me.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  (The junction was a spot by the river where three roads met; one ran north to Villach, one east—the road we were using—and one ran west.)

  A moment later we came to the junction itself.

  I passed the spot and stopped dead, then I took the Rolls back and round, until she was off the road and was facing north. And then I was out of the car and was running down the road to the bridge which lay to the west.

  I had about two miles to cover, before I could come to the house; but I dared not make too much haste, for my hand must be steady when I got there, in case I ran into a storm. Then, again, if I was to do any good, my approach must not be made known to the strangers within our gates.

  There was, so far as I saw, no car at the foot of the combe or near the house; but the servants’ quarters were screened by a little covert, and what there was behind this, I could not tell.

  I padded through the meadows, past Wagensburg’s famous well; then I slipped into the covert—and stood very still.

  A man was stooping by a window which served the servants’ hall, trying to peer between the curtains, which had been drawn. The window being open, after a moment I saw him put up a hand and move the curtain a little, just as a breeze might have done. Then he let it go and stood up, as though he had seen what he wished, and, after looking about him, went stealing toward the garage, which had no doors.

  I knew as well as he what the fellow had seen—Mansel reading or writing and the table set for two, for Carson would be in the kitchen, making ready some soup against my return.

  When he had entered the garage, I stepped across to the window and pitched my cigarette case into the room. This was made of leather and made but the slightest sound. Then I moved to the mouth of the garage and stood there, straining my ears.

  “Do as I tell you,” hissed Friar. “I’m not going to wait any more.”

  “Or right, or right,” said Sloper, “but don’ blame me. An’ wot if the car comes in before we done? If you’d wait to get Chandos first, you’d ’ave the other for tea.”

  “I’ll have him now,” said Friar. “Go and get Orris in.”

  As I stood against the wall, Sloper left the garage and turned to his left. This almost certainly meant that Orris was in the courtyard—the beam I had seen was probably that of his flashlight. If I was right, at least two minutes must pass before Sloper cam
e back.

  I dared not enter the garage, for while I could not see him, Friar would surely see me against what light there was, so I stood where I was and willed the man to come forth.

  I thought that perhaps he would, for to watch the back door was natural—I should have done it myself. And so he did. . . .

  As he came abreast of me, I hit him under the jaw with all my might; he made no sound at all, but crumpled and fell.

  “Well done, indeed, William,” breathed Mansel, as I got my hands under his arms. “And where do we go from here?”

  “Two others coming,” I said. “We move him out of their way and wait for them. Carson round to the courtyard, to see what’s what. But he must let them go by.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Carson’s voice.

  We picked my victim up and laid him down by the door he had come out to watch.

  “And now what?”

  “They’ll enter the garage,” I said. “I’d like to hear what they say.”

  “Right. We let them go in and close up.” As we reached the edge of the covert—“And now expound to me, William. Whom have you laid to rest?”

  “Friar,” I said.

  “Friar? And how in the world—”

  “It’s just occurred to me. Punter.”

  “Oh, my God,” said Mansel. “Of course you’re right. When I picked this place, I never thought of Punter. Of course Punter knew in an instant that this was where we should go.”

  (I have mentioned before that we had known the castle in other days; others, too, had known it, and Punter was one of them. Not to have thought of this was careless, indeed; but we had had much to think of during the week, and the Boche had been more in our minds than had Friar and his gang.)

  “Never mind,” Mansel continued. “What is the special idea?”

  “Your liquidation, I fancy, and mine when the car comes in.”

  “What could be better? And here they come—to report to the fountainhead. As the fountain is out of order, I wonder what they will do.”

  Two figures passed into the garage, and we drew near.

  “ ’Ere we are,” said Sloper.

  There was, of course, no reply.

  “Mus’ be outside,” said Sloper. “You wait ’ere.”