The Amazing Chance

by Patricia Wentworth

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  The Amazing Chance

  Patricia Wentworth

  I

  Anton Blum was chopping wood. It had got very dark in the last half-hour; night came early here in the Königswald; the small clearing farmed by Josef Müller was ringed with trees which looked black long before sunset, and to-night there was no visible sun. The wind had been rising all day; trees groaned and strained against it.

  Anton went on chopping steadily; he was so strong that he never got tired. Anna Blum had set him to chop wood, and he would go on chopping until she came out and said, “Na, Anton, that is enough. Come in.”

  Once, when she had been away all day, she came home to find him still washing the kitchen floor. She had told him to wash it, and then she had gone out; and when she came home, there was Anton on his hands and knees still washing the floor. But that was long ago, before they came to live in the Königswald. Tante Anna was more careful now.

  Anton went on chopping wood. Down in the village they said “As strong as Anton Blum,” where in other villages they might have said “As strong as an ox.” To a naughty child one said “Take care, or Anton Blum will carry you off,” and to a dull scholar, “You’re as stupid as Anton Blum.”

  No one knew what Anton thought of it all. He lived with Anna Blum, who was his aunt, and Josef Müller, who was Anna’s brother. He knew that. Anna was his aunt, and Josef was her brother. Anna was also a widow. The words aunt and widow belonged to Anna; and the word brother belonged to Josef. Anton did not get further than that. Since he had been wounded in the head, nine, ten years ago, he did not speak. From Josef he would take no orders. And he never went down into the village, because the children threw stones at him. But what Anna Blum told him to do, he did.

  He went on chopping wood. If he heard the sound of storm in the rising wind, it did not trouble him. If he thought at all, he thought only of what he was doing. When the chips flew it pleased him. The swing of the hatchet pleased him too. Really his mind was very like the clearing in which he stood. There was a space that was clear, and all the rest was dark. In the midst of the clear space there was someone who was Anton Blum; he knew that that was his name; and he knew that he loved Tante Anna, and that he was afraid of the village children and of strangers. When Tante Anna spoke he could understand her well enough; but with strangers he became very easily confused, and then he did not know what was wanted of him.

  Anna Blum came out into the yard, a square-built woman, very clean.

  “Come then, Anton!” she called, and Anton stopped chopping and dropped his hatchet beside the pile of logs. Anna came a little nearer. “Na, Anton, the hatchet will rust. Pick it up and put it in the shed.” She spoke as one speaks to a very small child, every word very distinct.

  Anton did as he was told. He had the docility and gentleness of a large, house-trained dog. When he had hung up the hatchet, he followed Anna Blum into the house. They came into the kitchen, which was warm and smelt of paraffin because the lamp had just been lighted and the wick was still turned down. It was a cheap lamp with a tin reflector, and the light from it made a sort of yellow dusk in the room.

  Josef Müller sat in his own chair taking off his boots. As Anna turned up the light, the likeness between them seemed stronger than it really was; the same square build, the same light brown hair, the same blue eyes. That was the first impression. Then in a flash it was gone, and one saw, instead, Josef’s ill-tempered mouth and shifty gaze.

  Josef threw his boots into the corner, where they fell with a clatter.

  “There’s a fine storm coming.”

  Anna looked over her shoulder at the unshuttered window.

  “I must go down into the village,” she said. “I must see Mina.”

  “Dummes zeug! Mina will do very well without you.”

  Anna looked across the lamp at him, and did not trouble to keep contempt out of look and voice.

  “What an affectionate father you are! Your first grandchild a bare forty-eight hours old, and to you it is foolishness that I went to see Mina yesterday, and that I go again to-day! You, naturally, would not put yourself about to go—why should you?”

  Josef scowled.

  “When a girl marries, her husband can keep her,” he grumbled. “What did you take with you when you went yesterday?—and what are you taking now? That is what I should like to know.”

  “Yesterday,” said Anna composedly, “I took milk and six eggs. To-day I am taking milk. To-morrow I shall take eggs again.”

  Josef’s scowl deepened. He swore under his breath; but his eyes shifted. His wife and his daughter had been afraid of him; but Anna was not afraid of him. He had struck her once, nearly three years ago now; and the moment that he struck her was nearly his last. Anna, standing between him and the frightened, cowering Mina, had seen his face change suddenly as Anton reached for his throat—Anton, whom they had all ignored in the heat of this family quarrel. There was a horrible moment of uncertainty, a moment in which Josef felt himself as weak as a new-born kitten in Anton’s terrible grip; and then, in response to Anna’s “No, no, Anton! No!”, the grasp relaxed and Anton stood away with an inarticulate sound that was only half human.

  Josef had never struck either his sister or his daughter again. Secretly, he went in fear of Anton. He turned in his chair as Anna crossed to the door.

  “If you are going, you will at least take that lump with you. Do you hear?” He jerked his elbow in the direction of Anton, crouched on a stool in the chimney-corner, his hands spread out to the warmth.

  “He has only just come in.”

  “What difference does that make? I won’t be left with him.”

  “You are very brave!” said Anna with an ironic glance. Her eyes softened as she turned to Anton and called,

  “Come then, Anton. I go out, and I have a basket to be carried.”

  He got up at once, stretched himself, and crossed the kitchen with an awkward, shuffling walk. Anna patted his shoulder, and they went out together.

  II

  By the time that Anna Blum had paid her visit to Mina and admired Mina’s baby, the threatened storm had broken. Out upon the Cologne road the rain ran like a river and the wind came in such gusts that Anna was glad enough of Anton’s arm.

  Anton, fortunately, did not mind the storm. The sudden flare of the lightning pleased him; and the crashing thunder that followed pleased him too. If he had been alone, he would have waved his arms and shouted, but he knew that he must hold Tante Anna steady and on no account drop the basket which she had given him to carry.

  As they struggled against the wind, the wet road shone white for a moment in the glare of two powerful headlights, and a car went by them, heading for Cologne. Anna Blum clutched her old cloak about her, and felt the rain drive in her face.

  “What a night!” she thought, and remembered another night of staring lightning and rending storm.

  It was just as they came to the footpath which led from the main road to Josef’s clearing that the lights of a car showed again, coming up this time from the darkness that hid Cologne. There was so much noise that the car seemed to be sliding towards them without any sound. Suddenly it stopped and a man called out “Hullo!”

  Anna moved towards the car and said, “What is it?”

  A man next the driver leaned out.

  “Can you direct me to Josef Müller’s farm?”

  “Josef Müller?”

  The men in the car were English officers. The little light on the dashboard showed the uniform coats and the faces. One bent over the wheel, young, handsome; the other, the ol
der man, the one who had spoken, very ugly and dark.

  Anna put her hand on the edge of the car and repeated, “Josef Müller?”

  The man in the driver’s seat spoke now in stumbling German.

  “Yes, an old man upon the road told us to ask for Josef Müller.”

  Then the first man again:

  “Dry up, Dugdale! No one can understand your German. I’ll do the talking.”

  “What is it?” said Anna calmly.

  “There’s a tree down across the road. We were told we could get help to shift it at Josef Müller’s.”

  It was at this moment that Anton shuffled into the glare of the headlights. They puzzled him because they were so bright, and yet when he went close to them they did not warm him.

  “Who’s that?” said Major Manning sharply.

  “My nephew, Anton Blum.”

  “We want help to shift the tree; my friend and I can’t quite manage alone. Your nephew looks strong. Will he give us a hand?”

  “He’s the strongest man in the Königswald. But”—she hesitated—“he is dumb.”

  Young Dugdale laughed.

  “Well, we don’t want him to make speeches,” he said in his execrable German.

  Anna took no notice of him. She leant on the door and spoke to the older man:

  “He is as strong as an ox; but he is not like other people. I do not know if he will go with you.”

  Anton had left the headlights and come close up to them, drawn by the sound of the voices.

  “Ask him,” said Major Manning.

  There was a lull in the extreme violence of the wind. Major Manning’s words sounded unnaturally loud. Anna let go of the door, took Anton by the arm, and began to talk to him.

  “There is a tree across the road. The carriage cannot go on because of the tree. It would be a fine play to lift the tree out of the road. Will you show the gentlemen how strong you are, and go with them to lift the tree? You will get a fine ride, and they will see how strong you are.”

  She turned suddenly and spoke to Major Manning:

  “Is it far? I would not like him to go far. He is like a child; he gets confused.”

  “A mile and a half at the outside—not so much really.”

  “Na, that is nothing. Wilt thou go, Anton?”

  To her surprise Anton stepped forward, nodding his shaggy head. Never for one instant had she supposed that he would go. A little, sharp stab of anger edged with fear went through her as Major Manning reached backwards to throw open the rear door.

  “All right. Get in,” he said; and Anton, stumbling at the step, knocked his forehead against the wet canvas hood, thrust awkwardly into the car, and sank sprawling on the back seat.

  Anna Blum held her cloak about her with stiff hands. She watched the car back and turn, and she saw the tail light grow small and disappear in the darkness. Then she turned and went up the footpath towards the light that shone from the uncurtained kitchen window. There was nothing to be afraid of—but she was afraid.

  As the car picked up speed, young Dugdale laughed.

  “What’s the matter?” snapped Major Manning.

  “Well, we seem to have commandeered the village idiot; and I was thinking that the joke would be on us all right if we got him there and found he wouldn’t play.”

  “You stop thinking and attend to business.”

  “We’ve some way to go yet.”

  “How d’you know? Half the Königswald may have come down since we turned. You keep your eyes skinned.” Major Manning’s voice rasped, his ugly face was very cross and puckered. Philip Dugdale took a glance at it, grinned, and dried up.

  “No wonder they call him Monkey,” he thought. “I wish I knew whether he’s really shirty. That’s the worst of it with the Major—you never can tell—always looks as if he was in a tearing temper, and you never know whether he’s going to bite your head off or suddenly start ragging.”

  “Filthy night!” said Major Manning explosively. “Why did we ever come to this rotten country? Here, go dead slow—that damn tree is just round the next bend.”

  Anton, on the back seat, listened to the voices. This was a fine carriage. He was having a fine ride. He had none of his usual fear of strangers; he was quite content to do as Tante Anna had bid him and go with these men whose voices gave him a curious pleasure. Presently he was to show them how strong he was. That would be fine too. He was proud of being so strong. The strangers would praise him, and Tante Anna would praise him. It was all very fine indeed.

  When the car stopped and the two men got out, Anton was ready enough to follow their example. The headlights of the car showed the block in the road very plainly. The bank on the right had slipped, bringing down with it a pine, which lay right across the wet road. Anton ran forward and kicked the tree with his foot. It was not large; but it was too large for him to lift alone. He turned, waving his arms, beckoning, a wild, uncouth figure with the rain streaming from his long, rough hair and beard. As Manning and Dugdale came up, he ran, still waving, to the head of the tree and began to tug at it. He had lifted it a couple of feet by the time they came up, and the three of them hauling together were able to drag it round so as to leave room for the car to pass. Rain was falling in sheets; their boots squelched in it; it beat into their eyes; and a raging, veering wind drove it first this way and then that. Every now and then wood and sky swam in a blue wave of lightning. The roll of the thunder never stopped.

  Manning straightened himself.

  “Good Lord, the fellow’s strong!” he said, and pushed his wet hand down into his pocket, fumbling for his money. The fellow certainly deserved a good tip. “Where is he?” he called; and then one of those blue flares showed him Anton close in under the bank, staring up at the gap which the tree had left, at the matted roots, the raw, torn earth—and at something else.

  The flare died, and suddenly Dugdale was shouting at the top of his voice:

  “Come back! Here, you—oh, I say, come back!”

  Even as he shouted, Manning had him by the arm and they were both running. There was a flash that was white, not blue, an intense and brilliant white, a molten light that showed them the falling, sliding bank, with the trees a-top of it tilting, falling too. Then with the darkness there came such a crack of thunder as neither of them had ever heard before. When it had passed into a long roll that echoed from every side at once, they found themselves close to the car, almost touching it. The rain had redoubled, and came sluicing down quite straight, for the wind seemed to be holding its breath.

  “I say,” said Dugdale, rather breathlessly. “That poor devil!” His voice sounded extraordinarily small and weak.

  Major Manning summoned his parade voice and shouted back,

  “Have you got a torch?”

  “There’s one in the car.”

  “Get it!”

  Dugdale was shaken by an unseemly gust of recollection: “Have you the pen of the gardener?”—“No, but my sister has the writing-case of her aunt.” He rummaged for the torch, looking in every pocket but the right one; and in the end had it snatched from him by Manning, who at the same time cursed him for the slowest and stupidest young ass in the service.

  As soon as he had snatched the torch and switched it on, he set off at a run, Dugdale, rather aggrieved, at his heels. It was not easy to see just what had happened; the darkness was very dark. The beam from the torch wavered in the rain-shot gloom, showing little enough. That more of the bank had fallen, bringing with it at least one other tree, was certain. Manning turned the light here and there, barked his shins on a boulder, floundered into a mess of leaves and branches, tripped, swore, and came sprawling, but as he fell saw the ray of the torch glance on an upturned hand. He was up again in a moment, shouting to Dugdale, climbing over the fallen tree.

  Anton Blum lay on his back where a branch of the second tree had swept him down. The branch must have struck him on the head, for there was blood running from his forehead into the rain and mud of the road
.

  With an odd sense of irritation Manning reached for one of the great wrists, and felt the pulse beat strong.

  Then the thing happened. The wind had fallen silent. Dugdale was coming up. He, Manning, had dropped the fellow’s wrist and turned the light on to his face, when suddenly the thing happened. The man opened his eyes, blinked at the light, and pushed it away. The beam lit Manning’s cross, anxious face, showed for an instant the little black eyes, the bottle-brush moustache, the numberless puckers, the white scar on the chin. Anton Blum looked up, laughed, and said:

  “Hullo, Monkey, that was a bit of a crump—wasn’t it?”

  III

  The dazzle of light in his eyes; the laugh; the unbelievable words! Manning felt as if he had been hit three times in rapid succession. The impact was terrific. In sudden, furious resentment he pushed with all his might against the iron strength that was keeping the light on his face. He pushed, and it was like pushing against a crowbar. And then all at once the arm, Anton Blum’s arm, fell like a broken thing, and Manning lost his balance and came down with his face amongst pine needles, his hands clutching at bark and gravel. Next moment Dugdale was pulling him up. The torch had gone out. They were there in the dark, and Manning was gasping and spitting out pine needles.

  Dugdale had a sense of catastrophe—beastly awkward if the man was dead.

  “What’s happened? Is he dead?” he asked, and was cursed for every sort of a fool and told to find the torch.

  Found, it emitted a faint, expiring flash, and then declined to function. The flash had, however, shown them Anton Blum lying at their feet, one arm outstretched on the tangled branches, the other across his body; his eyes, the eyes that had looked at Manning with recognition, were shut.

  Dugdale’s sense of catastrophe increased. He had caught a glimpse of his Major’s face before the light went out. There was something there that he had never seen there before. Afterwards, when they had got Anton into the car, it came to him that the Major had looked rattled—yes, that was it, rattled—Monkey Manning rattled.