Safe Custody and Laughing Bacchante

by Dornford Yates

  “But what?”

  “You didn’ ought to ’ave let that German in. I don’ say that to Orris, but that’s wot I know. Raoun’ Mansel’s neck, if you like; but the bastard’s raound ours. Look at them police cars. Gives me the creeps each time I see one o’ them. An’ I ’aven’ got over that do at Wagensburg. Bein’ picked up like that, when I couldn’t think straight. I’d like to know ’oo ’it me. I’d spoil ’is guts.”

  “Orris is late,” said Friar, with his eyes on the road. “Where is the — waster?”

  Be sure that was what I was thinking.

  Since Sloper’s appreciation of his colleague, I had been cursing my folly in letting Orris go. “He won’t go after his man. But point him out to him, and he’ll never let go. And talk about deception . . .” Orris had been very clever. By being perfectly frank, he had run under my guard.

  He had set a first-rate trap into which I had very near walked. Not that I had trusted the fellow; but I had underrated his loyalty to Friar. I had actually thought to buy this with fifty pounds. If Orris left the train before Salzburg and managed to get a car, he could be here any minute. I could have done it—I should have. . . but it never entered my head that Orris would. And if he did, I was sunk.

  From Orris I turned to Friar. The man was on edge—of that there could be no doubt. I do not at all suggest that his nerve had gone; but he was apologetic—rather pleading his cause with Sloper than keeping his subordinate up to the bit. He knew, as Sloper knew, that the sands were running out—that unless a break came quickly, the game was up.

  I determined to give him his break. . . .

  The road from Doris to Godel ran roughly from west to east. I lay to the north of that road, and the frontier, some eight miles distant, lay to the south. Twenty paces from the bridge toward Doris, a path was rising sharply into a wood.

  Swiftly I pushed myself back, till I was abreast of Bell.

  “You will move up,” I breathed, “and watch that ditch.

  Friar and Sloper are there, and they’re waiting for Orris to come. I’m coming, instead. And I’m going to draw them off. The moment they’re gone you will take their place in the ditch; and when Orris comes, as I have a feeling he will, pull him in and hold him, until I return.”

  With that, I crawled to the right, until it was safe to rise, and then I ran, bent double, over the fields. When I was well out of sight, I turned to the left. And then I was through the hedge and was padding down the road toward Godel, with, if I am to be honest, my heart in my mouth.

  I dared do no more than walk briskly, for I had a part to play.

  I must pretend to be on the way to our lair, in which we were holding the gems, from which we were proposing to leave for Italy. If this pretense deceived Friar, he would not hold me up, but would decide to follow and see where I went. Now he had but a very few seconds to make up his mind. His instinct would be to stop me—I was a bird in the hand; but a moment’s reflection would show him that, if he could successfully follow, he stood to gain far more than two birds in the bush.

  I confess I did not enjoy the part of a bird in the hand. If Friar decided to take me, I should be badly placed. If he decided to follow, rather than lose me, the man would certainly fire—and a man whose back is turned is a very fair mark. But I felt that Orris was coming, and if that was so, there was no other course to take.

  One piece of luck I had, and that came in the shape of a van that was pelting along from Godel, before I had reached the path. At once I dived for the ditch on my right-hand side—and so assured Friar that I could not afford to be seen. When it was gone, I emerged and walked on till I came to the path. There I hung on my heel for a moment, to glance up and down the road. And then I took the path boldly, trying my best to believe that I was halfway home.

  I dared not go too fast, for I had to allow them good hope of keeping me always in view; of the line the path took I had not the faintest idea, but even if it came to an end, I must by no means falter, for Friar must believe I was taking a way that I knew. Most important—and trying—of all, I must never look back, to see if my ruse had borne and was bearing fruit. Suddenly I knew that it had, for one of the other slipped as he left the road.

  And here a new fear beset me. This was that Friar or Sloper would stumble or make some such noise as I could not pretend not to hear. In such a case, I must either leap for cover or, if there was no cover, take to my heels—and hope very hard that Friar would miss his man.

  However, all went well.

  The path, to my great relief, was by no means straight, but bent to right and to left and, after some sixty paces began to rise. Up it went, over a shoulder, and down to a tumbling stream; and then it crossed a meadow and entered the rising woods.

  I knew they were still behind me, for my ears are country trained, and now and again I heard one of them put a foot wrong and strike a stone with his shoe. Since we had gone near a mile and they must be getting tired, I felt that the time was coming when I should give them the slip. The question was how to do it, for all might well be lost, unless they went on, supposing that I was ahead.

  And then Fate played into my hands.

  As I was approaching a bend, a peasant, with an ax on his shoulder, came striding round. I gave him good day and stopped him.

  “Listen, my friend,” I said. “My servants are coming behind me. Their names are Carson and Bell.” The man repeated the names, which were easy to learn. “When you meet them, tell them to be as quick as they can, because the weather is fine and I wish to be gone.”

  “I will do your bidding, sir. But servants are all the same. I am my own master, and time is money to me; but the servant draws the same wages, whether he hastens or no.”

  We laughed, and I gave him money and told him to drink my health. Then I passed round the bend and, leaving the path, darted into the forest and lay down behind a beech. Almost at once I heard the peasant’s voice.

  Friar’s German was said to be poor, but I like to think that he recognized “Carson” and “Bell.” Be that as it may, after, perhaps, ninety seconds, he and Sloper came hurriedly round the bend, stooping and peering as they did so, breathing hard and simply streaming with sweat. When they saw that the next reach was empty, they shambled into a run.

  When they were out of sight, I took again to the path and made my way back to the road.

  For what it was worth, I seemed to have won that trick.

  As I left the path for the road, Bell’s head rose out of the ditch thirty paces away.

  “You were right, sir,” he said, “I’ve got him. But when he saw me, he turned nasty, and I had to lay him out.”

  “So much the better,” said I, getting into the ditch. “And how did it happen, Bell?”

  “I moved up as you told me, sir, as soon as you’d gone. Friar an’ Sloper was arguing about Orris. Friar was cursing his soul, but Sloper wouldn’t have that. If Orris was late, he said, it meant he was on to something. An’ then they saw you. . .”

  Bell paused and drew in his breath.

  “I thought you were for it, sir. Friar had his pistol out before I could think. They never breathed a whisper—I think they was holding their breath. An’ when you turned off up the path, you took them both by surprise. An’ then they fell over themselves to follow you up. The noise they made—I thought you must ’ave heard them . . .

  “An’ at once I whips over that gate an’ takes their place in the ditch.

  “Eight to ten minutes later a van comes blinding along, claps on its brakes an’ fetches up on the bridge. An’ Orris climbs out of the cab, gives some notes to the driver, an’ then stands back. The van goes on toward Godel, and Orris watches it go. Then he swings round on his heel and makes for the ditch. As he comes up to the edge, ‘Come on in, Orris,’ I says, ‘I’m waiting for you.’ When he hears my voice, he’s just struck all of a heap—didn’ seem able to move, so I reaches out for his ankle an’ pulls him down. An’ then he goes mad, gets up an’ goes for me, shout
ing an’ cursing an’ swearing—you never see such a show. So I puts him out, sir; it seemed the easiest way.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll say he’s a trier,” I said. “It must have been gall and wormwood when you rose up.”

  “I think it did hit him hard, sir. He’d dropped fifty quid to get you. An’ then he meets it again.”

  I parted the bracken and took a look at the rogue.

  I felt suddenly sorry for Orris—a somewhat pathetic figure, flat on his back. His face was pinched and dirty and travel stained; he looked undernourished, and one of his knees was drawn up.

  “He’s a better man than Punter,” I said. “He doesn’t throw in his hand. And so he’s a blasted nuisance, which Punter never was. What on earth shall we do with him, Bell?”

  “We can’t hardly bump him off, sir.”

  “No, we can’t,” I said. “It wouldn’t be fair. He’s only done his duty—and done it well. If something Sloper said hadn’t opened my eyes, by God, he’d have torn it, Bell. We should have split on Orris, and that’s the truth.”

  “I wondered what made you act, sir. It never entered my head that Orris would try and make it.”

  “Nor mine,” said I. “I never dreamed it was in him. But that is Orris, Bell. A very valuable man. And now we must get out of here, in case the others come back.”

  Beneath our ministration, Orris was soon on his feet; but all his fight was gone, and he took the orders I gave him without a word. I led the way out of the ditch and, presently, off the road and over a gate; and the rogue, with Bell behind him, went like a lamb.

  I headed across the country, bearing north, but I did not know the region or what we were going to find. After a full three miles, we came to a little rise which was hiding the lay of the land on its farther side. But I judged there was water there, and that was what I desired.

  I told the others to stop, and breasted the rise alone.

  Below lay grass-grown cross roads, whose finger post was rotten and leaning, soon to come down; all about was a pleasant commonage—close-cropped turf, bestrewn with a parcel of rocks. One road led over a bridge, beneath which the ghost of a river was making its silent way. In the winter, no doubt, this was a notable stream, but now there was little water—no more than ten or twelve inches, it seemed to me.

  After a careful look, I returned to Orris and Bell.

  “Bind his wrists, Bell,” I said.

  Bell took a cord from his pocket and bound them behind the man’s back.

  “And now his eyes.”

  “ ’Ere,” cried Orris, in protest.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not going to kill you yet.”

  “Gawd ’elp,” said Orris.

  “It’s up to you.”

  In silence his eyes were bound.

  “And now follow me.”

  With Bell’s hand fast on his collar, Orris stumbled along.

  I led the way round the crest and down to the roads. I took the one which ran east and over the bridge. As I have said, the water was making no sound, and since the road was metaled, Orris cannot have known that he was crossing a bridge. So for another half mile. And there was a billet lying in the midst of the way—a log of wood, which had fallen off a wagon and been let lie.

  I signed to Bell to steer Orris toward this obstruction.

  Of course he stumbled and fell, and, because his hands were tied, he could not save himself, but rolled all over the road.

  The shock apart, I fear that he hurt himself, for the flood of rebuke which he addressed to Bell was quite unprintable. And I confess with shame that, long before he had done, Bell was shaking with laughter, and tears of mirth were running upon my cheeks. Indeed, it was most unfair, but it had to be done.

  I picked up the billet and laid it down in the ditch. Then we pulled the man up to his feet and—of course unknown to Orris—began to retrace our steps. One minute later, perhaps, we left the road and made our way back to the water over the turf.

  We guided him into the water, which shocked him as much as his fall; then we urged him up the opposite bank. And under a spreading beech tree he came to his journey’s end.

  “Go over him, Bell.”

  All the man had was his passport, in which was my check, and Austrian money amounting to seven pounds.

  Orris was pleading.

  “Don’ take my passport, sir. I wanna get out o’ this country. I’m through wiv Friar.”

  “Give them to me,” I said. “And put your coat over his head.”

  “I can’t see a thing, sir.”

  I put my check into my pocket.

  “I don’t think you can,” I said, “but I want to be sure.”

  Orris’ head was shrouded, as are those of men accused, to embarrass photographers.

  I walked to a boulder some forty paces away. Putting forth all my strength, I managed to roll it aside. I laid the passport and money in the form which the stone had made. Then I rolled back the boulder, so that it lay as before. After that, I inspected the signpost. To snap this off short required no effort at all.

  I made my way back to the beech tree and spoke to Bell.

  “All right. Uncover his head and let him sit down.”

  With that, I sat down myself and lighted a cigarette.

  “Can I ’ave my passport, sir?”

  “You can,” I said, “if you like to look for it. It’s within fifty paces of where you’re sitting now. For that, I give you my word. But you’ll have to look very hard.”

  “You ain’t put it in the water, ’ave you?”

  “No. But if you don’t want to look, you can always go to the consul and—”

  “No — fear,” said Orris. “Wivin fifty yards?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll free me ’an’s an’ me eyes, sir?”

  “No. That will be your affair. If you get down to it, it shouldn’t take very long. And, with luck, some peasant may pass.”

  “Gawd ’elp,” said Orris. “I don’ want no bloody peasan’s — round. An’ supposin’ they fin’ my passport?”

  “I don’t think they will,” I said. “It isn’t too easy to see, and they don’t know it’s there.”

  “ — ,” said Orris. “But wot about this bandidge? Mr. Bell will want ’is ankerchief beck.”

  “I’ll give him another,” I said, and got to my feet.

  “Now, listen ’ere, sir,” said Orris. “If you’ll unbandidge me eyes . . .”

  And that was as much as I heard, for Bell and I were moving over the turf.

  Three minutes later we stood upon the top of the rise. Orris, still blindfold, was making frantic efforts to get to his feet.

  “I think,” I said, “that we can write Orris off. He doesn’t know where he is; he will think that Godel lies on the further side of that stream; the signpost is out of action; and if he desires his passport, I don’t think he’ll come across it for quite a long time.”

  “He won’t budge without it, sir. You never heard what he said when you took it away. It’s his—sort of talisman, sir.”

  “Not a bad talisman, either—for people like that. And now we must hurry, Bell. We’ve both got to have some breakfast, and you’ve got to have some sleep.”

  By noon that day the troupe was ready to move.

  The wagon had been carefully loaded, so that such stuff as would be required at the inn could be removed and replaced without disturbing the rest of the stock-in-trade. As soon as the performance was over, the troupe and wagon would leave for the frontier post. This was six miles from Godel. It seemed that by seven o’clock the cavalcade would be moving in Italy.

  I had arranged with Colette that Bell and I should leave the troupe at the inn. I proposed to repair to the dell in which she and Jasper had found me the week before. There Bell and I would lie low; then, when dusk had come in, we would take the smuggler’s way. The troupe would stay for that and the following nights by a hamlet called Jade. This I soon found on my map. So far as
I could make out, Bell and I could be with them by eight o’clock.

  “So have our tent pitched,” I said, “for we shall be tired.”

  “I do not like it, Adam. What would Eve say?”

  “Eve would say nothing at all, for she is a dutiful wife.”

  Colette set her chin in the air.

  “I think she would say a great deal. Supposing you were to fall foul of a frontier guard. I am told that they fire at sight.”

  “Let us hope that they do not see me. And do you want me stopped at a frontier post?”

  “Ah, no. I could not bear it.”

  “Then let me go my way—and breakfast with you tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

  “Who is this man to stop you? This dirt of a Boche?”

  “Who, indeed?” said I. “Yet Austria does as he asks.”

  “I am ashamed of my country—to use an Englishman so. What is he like, this filth?”

  “He is big and square headed, as many of his countrymen are. His mouth is grim and brutal; his eyes seem to be afire. But he is a coward, Colette.”

  “As most of his countrymen are.”

  “Not all, Colette. Some have a fanatic courage.”

  “Say ‘machine made.’ ”

  “I think you are right,” I said. “It is not natural. But he has not that. He would stamp on a creature he knew was weaker than he; but if a man showed him the whip, he would turn and run.”

  “Such things are not fit to live.”

  “I must confess he’d be much improved by death.”

  “Please do not improve him, Adam.”

  “Not I,” said I, laughing. “If I were to see him, Colette, it would, I assure you, be I that would turn and run.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “All the same, I cannot see you in that role.”

  “I hope very much, my dear, you won’t have the chance.”

  “Is he looking for you?”

  “That is the order which he has given your police.”

  Colette clapped a hand to her mouth.

  “A policeman was here this morning—a plain-clothes man.”

  “While I was out?”

  She nodded.

  “How do you know he was a policeman?”