Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “Your orders were clear,” I said. “Why didn’t you carry them out?”

  Orris swallowed.

  “The Capting says ‘Come to the ’ouse,’ an’ so I did. But when I gets there, there isn’t nobody there.”

  I nodded.

  “By the time you came, we had gone. But he didn’t say ‘Come with Friar.’ ”

  This was a bow at a venture, but from the fellow’s face I saw I was right. Friar had come back to Wagensburg, only to find us gone.

  “I’m through with ’im now, sir. ’E picked me up that night, an’ wot could I do?”

  “Quite sure you’re through with him?”

  “Strike me dead, sir.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Jus’ lookin’ roun’, sir.”

  “For Captain Mansel or me.” As the fellow began to protest, “Your only chance with me is to tell the truth. There’s a river a mile away, and I’ve carried a blackguard’s body further than that. You’d better get this, Orris. I’ll put you down, like a dog; but I’ll never give you away.” Orris moistened his lips. “And think this over, Orris. The police have their hand on Friar for the murder of Goat.” I saw the man start. “But they’re waiting to pull him in, till he’s served their turn. Anyone running with him will naturally be involved.”

  With vehemence and at some length, Orris declared that he had no hand in the deed.

  “I know you hadn’t,” said I. “But police will be police, you know. And if I were you, I’d get out while the going was good.”

  “ ’Arf a chance,” said Orris. “That’s all I want. — about, I’ve bin. Firs’ the stuff’s in a castle, be’ind a wall. Yes, but ’ow joo get at the wall? Nice sort o’ death, I don’ think—to go down that bloody well. ‘Oh, we mus’ ’ave a carpet.’ An’ when I gets back, wiv me fingernails arf tore out, cursed silly an’ tole to beat it. . . . An’ then you comes up an’ smears ’im, all over the bloody road. But that’s all right,’ he says. ‘Let ’im crack the safe. An’ when ’e’s full up, we’ll meet ’im an’ take the jools.’ An’ orf he goes to Salzburg. . . . Never see ’im again for the nex’ ten days, an’ Sloper an’ me on tick, an’ the lan’lord as rude as rude. But we ’adn’t no money to pay ’im. Never a drink nor a smoke for seven days. That’s wot I’ve ’ad to put up with, an’ that’s Gawd’s truth. I tell you, sir, I’ve ’ad some. Seven days wivout a fag or a drop of anythin’. An’ the victuals the lan’lord give us not fit for a dog. An’ then ’e comes back, an’ orf to Wagensburg. Another bloody washout. . . . ’E an’ Sloper buys it, an’ I’m picked up. Talk about claowns in a circus. . . An’ then ’e ’as the nerve to talk about comic relief. ‘I can see the comic,’ I says, ‘but where’s the relief?’ An’ then ’e turns nasty. ‘Goat’s found that,’ ’e says. ‘D’you want to find it, too?’ An’ then he talks about fortunes an’ bein’ made rich for life. Course ’e’s got them jools on the brain; ’e’d sell ’is soul to ’ave them, an’ damn’ cheap at the price. ‘ ’Istorical gems,’ ’e calls them, ‘an’ wurf ’alf Lombard Street.’ But wot I says is wot fence is goin’ to touch ’istorical gems? ’Coz they can’t be broken, I says. But ’e says ‘That’s all right; I’m goin’ to sell the stuff. An’ I’m goin’ to sell it big.’ Then back to Wagensburg. Not up to the ’ouse. ’Ave to crawl the las’ three miles, to catch you out. An’ when we gets there, you’ve gone. Another bloody washout. . . So ’e says, ‘They’re for the border. I’ll ’ave them yet.’ So ’e gets out ’is maps an’ starts in. ’Alf mad, ’e is, for fear you’ll beat ’im to it. Seems ’is passport ain’t right for enterin’ Italy. So it’s got to be done this side. So Sloper’s dropped at Doris, an’ me at Godel, while ’e drives up an’ down like a rangin’ beast. ‘Look everywhere,’ ’e says. ‘They’re somewhere about. Be on the main road at ’alf past seven tomorrow, to make yer report.’ Well, I don’ work that way. So I ’as a bite at a pub an’ comes to the show. An’, Gorblime, there you are, sir. An’ then Mr. Bell pulls me in. ’E ain’t up to your weight, you know. Punter said ’e wasn’t, right from the first.”

  Of this I was not so sure. Friar had a very fine instinct—and now he had got a long way. If Bell had not seen Orris . . .

  “Where were you to meet him?” I said.

  “A mile toward Doris, sir, where ’e set me down. Jus’ the other side of a bridge, with ’alf its parapet gone.”

  “And if you don’t meet him—what then?”

  Orris wrinkled his brow.

  “I take it,” he said slowly, “ ’e’ll come to Godel, ’isself.” There was a little silence.

  I dared not trust the man. He might have been honest with me; but once he was out of my hands, he would make a beeline for Friar. Apart from anything else, he would not return empty handed; he had an offering worth having to lay at his master’s feet, for he had run me to earth.

  I glanced at my watch.

  “Take him outside, Bell. I’m going to change.”

  Godel was eight miles from Kalitch, and Kalitch was a small junction upon the main line. The Salzburg express would stop there—so far as I could remember, at about a quarter past two. And Orris must take that train—and must not leave it until it came to Salzburg at eight o’clock.

  I changed as fast as I could. Then I unlocked my dispatch case and called the two in.

  “Let’s see your passport, Orris.”

  Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Orris produced the thing.

  I took out a check book and sat down and wrote a check.

  Pay Mr. Samuel Orris the sum of fifty founds.

  This, on a Salzburg Bank.

  Then I wrote a note to the bank, stopping the check.

  I handed the check to Orris, who read its burden, wide eyed. Then he looked up.

  “I’m sure it’s very good of you, sir. An’ you can take it from me I ’aven’t seen nothin’ tonight.”

  I regarded him grimly.

  “The trouble is, Orris, you’ll have to cash it damned quick.” I passed him the note to the bank. “Give that the once over, will you?”

  As Orris read its contents, I watched his face change.

  “ ’Ere, wot’s this?” he cried.

  I took the note out of his hand.

  “Bell will post that letter tonight in the box of the Post-Office van on the Salzburg express. At a junction called Kalitch, Orris, eight miles from here. The train will reach Salzburg at eight, so the letter will be delivered about ten o’clock. But the bank will open at nine. So if you were to take that train, you could cash your check before the letter arrived.”

  Orris’ face was a study.

  The man had thought me a fool and had hoped to eat his cake and to have it, too.

  “Orright, sir,” he said at length. “I’ll jus’ nip back to the pub an’—”

  “You’ll leave with Bell,” I said, “in two minutes’ time.”

  “But—”

  “Hold your tongue.” I covered the letter and stamped it and gave it to Bell. “Take him to Kalitch, Bell, buy him a ticket for Salzburg and put him onto the train. And post that letter in the van. If he wants his fifty quid, he can damned well go and get it. If he gives the slightest trouble, bump him off.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “You should be back here by five. Anyway, I’m going to meet Friar. So, if you should be late, you’ll know where I am.”

  “I shan’t be late, sir.”

  “All right.”

  Bell turned to Orris.

  “Come on.”

  Looking ready to burst, the other went out before him into the night.

  (If what Orris had said was true, I had cooked his goose, for when I met Friar the next morning, Friar would know that Orris had opened his mouth. That being so, for him to return to Friar would be bad for his health. Indeed, as I saw it, he would be well advised to draw his fifty pounds and make his way back to England as fast as he could. But if, in fact, he had lied, any useful attempt to reach Friar would ent
ail his throwing the money to the winds.)

  As soon as their footsteps had faded, Colette appeared.

  “May I come in?” she said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She came in.

  “I saw you had someone there.”

  “That’s right, Colette. A blackguard. Bell’s seeing him off.”

  She looked at me very hard.

  “But not the Boche, Adam?”

  “Oh, no,” I said. “Much smaller fry. Still, I didn’t want him around.”

  “I think you are in danger,” she said.

  “Not at the moment, Colette. And on Friday morning I shall be out of the wood.”

  “In thirty-six hours. Dear God, how I wish that we had been leaving tonight.”

  With an effort, I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Tomorrow will serve, Colette.”

  “Oh, it will serve—yes. At least, I suppose it will.” With a sudden movement, she pushed back her thick fair hair. “You are very good to play at The Vat of Melody. I begged Jasper not to ask you; but he said that you should decide. And I think you are a very good actor, for he came back and said that you were as pleased as Punch.”

  “I don’t suppose the Boche will be there.”

  “But someone who knows you may.”

  “Then I shall have to beat it. I cannot be taken now.”

  A hand went up to her chin.

  “Why did you join us, Adam? If you knew a way out, you ought to have gone at once.”

  “I had to wait for a message.”

  “You have it now?”

  I nodded.

  She caught my arm.

  “Then leave at once, Adam, I beg you. The night is young. And I will explain to Jasper. And you shall join us when we are in Italy.”

  I took her hand and put it up to my lips.

  “You are very sweet, Colette. But I cannot do that.”

  “And you are very—resolute, Adam.”

  “I try to be.”

  Colette looked out of the tent and up at the moonlit sky.

  “I still do not understand why you joined the troupe. You could have waited for your message without doing that.”

  “Call it a whim, Colette.”

  “I will call it what you bid me. I may not share your secrets—as others do.”

  “This is not mine—I told you. And one day you will thank me for not revealing the truth.”

  Colette shook her head.

  “Never. If you had done murder, I would be glad to know it, for two can bear such a burden better than one.”

  I smiled.

  “I have done no murder, Colette.”

  “You need not tell me that. And if ever you slew a man, it would be because he was better dead than alive.”

  “Listen,” I said. “You have not yet told Jasper that I shall not leave with you.”

  “I shall tell him tomorrow, Adam, when you have slipped away. Then he cannot try to dissuade you, because it will be too late. He has a great regard for you, Adam, and he will be very much troubled until we see you again.”

  “He is a good man,” I said. “I like and admire and respect him with all my heart.”

  “I have no parents,” said Colette, “but for twelve years now he has been my father and mother—and more than that. He has often gone hungry, that I might eat. When I had typhoid fever, he spent the whole of his savings to put me into a ladies’ nursing home. And once he sold his watch, to buy me a length of silk. He is but a strolling player, but he has a great gentleman’s heart.”

  “You’re perfectly right,” I said—and so she was.

  Had Jasper been born to a title, he would have adorned the estate of, say, some landowner of the Victorian age. Shrewd, benevolent, masterly, he would have used his tenants as tenants should be used; his servants, I think, would have loved him; and he and his would have prospered, because he was in command.

  Colette smiled.

  “I like great gentlemen,” she said.

  “Tomorrow,” I said, “I may be late for breakfast. I have an appointment to keep a little way off. But I shall be back in time to help strike the camp.”

  Colette regarded me gravely.

  “I shall be glad,” she said, “when you are in Italy.”

  “So shall I, Colette. And I have a friend there whose coming will warm your heart.”

  Colette raised her eyebrows.

  “I do not think that is likely. Now I must go. Do not be too late for breakfast, or—Jasper will be concerned.”

  I laughed.

  “Give Jasper my love and tell him not to worry.”

  Colette looked down at the ground.

  “I did not mean—Jasper,” she said.

  I took her fingers and kissed them.

  “Neither,” I said, “did I.”

  She raised a glowing face.

  “Good night, Adam.”

  “Good night.”

  Chapter 5. The Vat of Melody

  At a quarter to seven the next morning, I was lying behind a hedge. Peering through this, I could see the end of the bridge, which was short of a parapet, and the road running off to Doris for half a mile. Bell was a little behind me, watching the road to Godel, which I could not see.

  Between the hedge and the road was a ditch that was half a gully, which gave to the stream that was tumbling beneath the bridge. This ditch was covered with bracken, and I had been much inclined to take cover in that. But, moving across the country, I had come first to the hedge, and since I was not yet sure of the line I should take, but Friar was “quick on the trigger,” I felt that I should be wiser to stay where I was.

  That I did so was just as well, for, after, perhaps, five minutes, I had the shock of my life.

  On a sudden, a match was struck—I heard the scrape and the flare—and smoke rose up before me out of the ditch.

  Somebody, sitting there, had lighted a cigarette.

  Then—

  “Wake up, you bastard,” said Friar. “This isn’t Mayfair.”

  “You’re telling me,” groaned Sloper. “Why did I come?”

  “For the same reason as I did,” said Friar. “You like the fat of the land.”

  “ ’Aven’t seen much of it lately.— ’aunch o’ gristle, if you ask me.”

  “Cultivate faith,” said Friar. “You’ve been with me fourteen years, and when have I let you down?”

  “Orright, orright,” said Sloper. “But you didn’ ought to ’ave let that bloody Boler in.”

  Friar raised his head, to peer up and down the road.

  “I think we’ve lost him,” he said. “That’s the Boche all over. The bastard can’t do his job, so he sticks to someone who can. I’m to rake out his chestnuts, but he’s going to pick them up. But you’re wrong, Sloper, as usual. To hang Boler round Mansel’s neck was a very nice move. The mistake I did make was to touch Diana Revoke.” I heard the man suck in his breath. “By God, I’d like to meet her—one of these nights. I’d wring her head from her body and— Gently. I hear a car.”

  I had heard a car coming from Doris before he declared the fact. He lowered his head and Sloper rose into my sight. The three of us watched the car pass at a pretty high speed. It was gray and closed and I could see men within.

  “Police,” spat Friar. “God damn their bloody souls. If Orris is coming, will he have the sense to drop?”

  “I think so,” said Sloper. “I damn well rammed it in.”

  I saw Friar glance at his watch.

  “He ought to be here any minute—with nothing, of course, to report.”

  “Lazy,” said Sloper. “That’s Orris. ’E won’t go after ’is man. But point ’im out to ’im, an’ ’e’ll never let go. An’ talk about deception. . . You ought to of let ’im go back that night at Wagensburg. They’d ’ve bin trustin’ ’im blind in twenty-four hours.”

  “Not Mansel,” said Friar. “Chandos, perhaps: but not Mansel. He’s nobody’s fool. Three times he’s bested me.”

  �
�Twice,” said Sloper.

  “Three times. But I’ll get him at last, Sloper. It’s time his score was paid. He could have come in, but he wouldn’t. And now he’s stuck. He cannot get the stuff out. I told him he couldn’t—you heard me. And now my words have come true. And if we don’t find him first, he’ll lose to the Boche.” He started up. “By God, where is he?”

  “It ain’t seven yet,” said Sloper.

  “Five minutes to,” said Friar. “And he’s not in sight.” (Orris had said “half past seven”—not “seven o’clock.” I began to respect the rogue. Had I been placed as he was, I very much doubt if I should have done so well.)

  “An’ if ’e’s nothin’ to say . . .?”

  “We keep our eyes skinned,” said Friar. “I know we’re warm. Any time now they’re going to try and get out. They’re going to take a chance, Sloper, and that is where we shall come in.”

  “Or Boler.”

  “Boler be damned. The bastard is trailing us—it’s all he can do. We’ve lost him now; and as long as he doesn’t find us, we can count Boler out.”

  “Sez you,” said Sloper. And then, “I don’ like these three-’anded games. Say you comes up with Mansel and takes the stuff . . . an’ then Boler steps out o’ the laurels an’ says ‘ ’scuse me’?”

  “In that case Boler will meet it.”

  “Gawd,” said Sloper. “An’ ’alf the police be’ind ’im. I wish I was back in London. An’ you can ’ave Mayfair. Wappin’ ’d do me praoud.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” said Friar. “This is the biggest thing that anyone’s ever touched. No one has ever played for such stakes before. Gems worth three or four million—whatever we like to ask. No fences to take our winnings out of our mouths. And Ferrers dare say nothing; for if he does, he incriminates Mansel and Chandos as well as himself—and the stuff goes back to Austria, whence it came. I tell you—if it comes off, you can live in Mayfair as I do . . . with half a million behind you, all to yourself. South of France, if you like. I tell you, man, you’ll be rolling—for as long as you like to live. Well, that’s worth working for—worth running every risk. Or is it? What d’you think?”

  “Oh, I don’t say, if it comes orf, it won’ be jam. But—”