Now, unless the murdered man had been carried away by car from the district to which he belonged, it was clear that he must have been staying not far from where he had lain on the Salzburg Road; and Mansel had asked George and me to go on ahead of him and do our best to discover the inn or, maybe, the farm-house at which he had lodged. We were to ask no questions, but only to use our eyes and to play the rôle of tourists, fishing and enjoying the country and caring not where we went.
In the last three hours we had visited several villages all within a few miles of where, as near as we could make it, Mansel had found the body a fortnight ago; but Latchet was the first one which showed any promise at all, for the inns of most of the others were very rough, and few, I think, could have offered a decent bed. But Latchet’s inn stood far above any of these, and, indeed, as soon as we saw it, we made up our minds we were home.
As we left the car—
“Not a shadow of doubt,” said George, with his eyes on the house. “And very nice, too. You order the beer; I want to think out our approach. Why the hell can’t we talk German?”
There he did himself less than justice, for he could, what is called, ‘get along.’ And I knew odd words and phrases, but that was all. Still, to converse in German was wholly beyond our power. Which was embarrassing; for, if there was to be nothing for us to see, only by idle conversation could we find out whether Bowshot had stayed at some house.
George took his seat on a table, and I walked into the inn. Bell had stayed with the car and was wiping the windscreen clean of the endless dust.
I was half way down the flagged hall, when I heard a voice speaking English – and stood very still.
“I don’t see what more we can do. He disappeared on the first and today’s the fifteenth. Hopeless of course. When did they first report it?”
Another voice spoke in German, and a woman’s voice made reply.
Then–
“She says on the eighth – a week ago today.”
“Ask her again why she didn’t report it before.”
The question was put and answered.
“She says she didn’t want to make trouble – that if Bowshot had come back, he would have been very angry to find they had made a fuss.”
There was a pause. Then—
“She says that he carried a note-case. Can she say whether there was anything in that note-case besides money? Visiting-cards, for instance. She must have seen him use it time and again.”
When the interpretation was done—
“She says he had a photograph in it, but she doesn’t think anything else.”
“How does she know that?”
“One day he took out the photograph and showed it to her. He said it was a picture of his home. And she said how lovely it was, and he laughed and said he’d give her the photograph to keep, when he went away.”
There was another silence, broken by the sobs of the woman – no doubt, the hostess.
“Tell her not to cry. It may only be a case of loss of memory.”
The translation was made, and the sobbing began to subside.
“How much does she consider that he owes her?”
“Seven pounds fifteen.”
“Well, tell her this. If she wants to see her money, she’d better do as I say.”
The interpreter spoke again, and the woman replied.
“She will obey implicitly.”
“We’re going to pack his things and to leave his bags here. I shall take his passport and cheque-book. If he should come back or communicate with her in any way, she is to wire us immediately. Better write down the address – just British Consulate, Salzburg. Oh, and if any letters should come, she must send them to me at once.”
The translation was being made, when I heard the scrape of a chair.
At once I slipped out of the house, made a sign to George and ran for the car. Bell, on the watch, saw us coming and opened the doors.
As I took my seat—
“I want to know if we’re seen. Keep your eyes on the inn.”
Forty seconds later we had left Latchet behind. And had seen no one.
“Anyone see us, Bell?”
“I don’t think so, sir. If they did, they never showed up.”
“Inform me,” said George. “And I want a damned good reason for being done out of my beer.”
“Here it is,” said I, and told him my tale.
When I had done—
“Good enough,” said George. He sighed. “It’s always the way. I sit still and flog my wits, and you walk into the grocer’s and pick up the figs. And now what?”
“Salzburg and Mansel,” said I, “as quick as ever we can. He may be there tonight. If he is…”
“Go on,” said George. “Go on. I’m beginning to see.”
“Well, the special idea is for us to prevent an announcement that Bowshot has disappeared. The very best way to do that is to give people reason to think that he is alive and well. Supposing tomorrow morning the hostess at Latchet goes into Bowshot’s room – to find his luggage gone and, left on the table, seven pounds fifteen and the photograph of his house?”
“I hand it to you,” said George. “I think I should make it ten pounds, but the photograph is the thing. That will be proof positive. For only Bowshot knew that he had said she should have it before he went away. Oh, very good indeed. An’ then she wires to the Consul, an’ he marks his file ‘No action’ and that is that.” He slewed himself round in his seat. “You’re growing quite cunning, Bill. It must be being so much with Mansel and me.”
How burglars feel, I cannot pretend to say, but I know that I felt ashamed of the work that we did – not that, but the following night. The thing was too easy. Latchet slept like the dead, and the door of the inn was not locked. The whole business took six minutes from first to last. Mansel and I went in, while Bell stood on guard by the doorway and George remained with the car. The dead man’s luggage was piled in a first-floor room – a trunk, two suitcases, a rug and a fishing-rod. I set the trunk on my shoulder and picked up a case, and Mansel brought down the rest. On the table we left an envelope, containing the photograph and ten pounds in Austrian notes. And then we were all four gone, like the thieves we were.
And about the time, I suppose, at which the British Consul received his telegram, the cloak-room at Salzburg station accepted the stolen goods. But Mansel lodged the receipt at a Salzburg Bank – under sealed cover and marked ‘For Safe Custody.’
Here I should say that not until then did I learn that, while George and I were waiting for him at Salzburg, Mansel, Carson and Rowley were doing a dreadful duty some hundred odd miles away.
“It was always clear,” said Mansel, “that it had to be done. In the first place, the dead deserve burial. In the second place, so long as it lay unburied, the body might well have been found, and, rightly or wrongly, it is our present aim to deny to those who killed Bowshot all evidence of his death. As things stand, we’ve done more than that, for we have convinced the Consul that Bowshot is still alive. And so his disappearance will not be announced. That will perplex the murderers: they will not know what to think: but they will be forced to the conclusion that for some reason or other the body has not been found. What action they’ll take, I don’t know. But if, as I think, they are anxious that Bowshot should be known to be dead, they may pursue the matter. Putting myself in their place, if there was a lot at stake, I should have a stab. I may be entirely wrong, but I think I’m right. I can’t get over that label’s being pulled out. Why pull it out, if they only wanted Bowshot out of the way? They didn’t only want that. They wanted more. They wanted proof that Major John Bowshot was dead. And it must be provoking for them, when they know he is dead, to think that they’re losing their labour because the Austrian police don’t know their job. So very provoking that they may feel compelled to come back. I mean, that’s what I should do…”
It was two days after our raid that we took up our quarters at Goschen – a decen
t farm, some fourteen miles from Latchet and twelve from the fatal spot on the Salzburg–Villach road. This was very much better than any inn, for the house was agreeably placed and as private as we could wish. Though few would have guessed it, it was in fact served by two drives, the lesser of which ran out of the stable-yard: from there it passed through woods for a quarter of a mile, before slipping into a byroad which led to a hamlet called Talc. And here were crossroads. But the principal drive ran out of the Villach road. We, therefore, had a ‘back door,’ the approach to which was well masked; so that, if we took ordinary care, to keep a watch on our movements would be very hard. Then, again, there was a very fair trout stream, five minutes’ stroll from the house. But, best of all, the people were used to the English and had received them as guests before the Great War. It is, I think, common knowledge that during those four lean years their country was ranged against us largely against its will, and these poor peasants were not only plainly thankful to see some English again, but clearly most anxious to prove the goodwill which they felt. This was, of course, of great value; for our goings out and our comings in were pretty sure to be most irregular.
Still, fortunate as we were, it was no good sitting still and wondering what was toward. If things were going to happen, they were going to happen at Latchet or close to the Salzburg road. So within six hours of our settling down at the farm, Mansel took George and myself to show us as much as he knew. And Bell went with us.
Before leaving, we studied the map. This showed that, as the crow flies, Latchet lay less than three miles from where Mansel had found the body in the midst of the way.
“There may be a path,” said Mansel, “but that is for us to find out. By road, as you see, it’s nearly eleven miles; and it is not clear that Bowshot had the use of a car. You heard no mention of one. Now I said, if you remember, that his body had been dragged from the woods. That was going too far. I can only swear it was dragged from the side of the road. So he may have been brought there by car. But I don’t think he was. If I am to speculate, I think he was on his way to or from Latchet, when he was done in. A path would bear out that suggestion. Assume that he was in the habit of taking this walk. The murderer finds that out and lies in wait close to the road. The rest is too easy.
“Now we’re going to leave the car about a mile and a quarter from the spot where the body lay. This, for two reasons. First, we are out to observe – not to be observed; secondly, at that distance, there’s a very convenient place in which to bestow the car.
“Tonight I shall show you round. Then we shall make for Latchet, of course on foot; and if there is a path, we should strike it at once. But, path or no, we must find the way there and back – and find it so well that we shall know it again. All this we must do in silence and without any light. Don’t think I’m being foolish, because I’m not. I just don’t want to be murdered, as Bowshot was. And in a show like this, you can shove your shirt on the man who sees, or even hears, the other man first.”
That night there was no moon, but the sky was clear and the stars were luminous. Mansel drove slowly, so that we could study the way, and half an hour went by before he stole off the road and up a track into the woods. After about a furlong a second track crossed the first, and here it was very easy to turn the Rolls. This Mansel did forthwith, so that, when she stopped, she was facing the way we had come.
Mansel turned in his seat and spoke very low.
“I told you this place was convenient, and so it is. You saw that second track. Well, that leads back to the road; and it actually meets the road a short two hundred yards beyond where the body lay. So that is the way we’ll go.” Here he left the car and we followed him out. “Single file, if you please, and watch your step.”
After about six minutes we came to the end of the track and the Salzburg road. All was very still, and, there being no wind at all, the silence of the woods all about us was that of death. The trees met over the track, which was therefore as dark as pitch; but the Salzburg road was lit by the stars above.
Mansel stood listening a moment. Then he made a gesture for us to come up with him.
“Before we go any further, I want us to wait for a car. I want you to see for yourselves, first, how its headlights show up the sides of the road, and, secondly, how very short is the warning of its approach. From either direction. This particular reach of road is about six hundred yards long. But at either end of this reach, there’s a hell of a bend. The woods being very thick, unless your ears are pricked, you cannot hear a car coming until it rounds one of those bends; and, if it’s moving, you’ve got to be quick and careful if you don’t want to be seen. I don’t mean, seen by the occupants of the car; I mean, seen by someone who might be glad of the sight.”
As the words left his mouth, I heard a sudden snarl, and Mansel dropped. Instinctively, we all did the same. An instant later, the road upon which we had been looking was bright as day… And then some car swept by, and the darkness came back.
As we got to our feet—
“You see,” breathed Mansel. “These woods don’t give you a chance. Still, it’s not quite as bad as that, if you use your ears. I mean, you’d have heard it before, if you hadn’t been listening to me. And now we’ll cross the road – one at a time, of course. Over the ditch and into the bracken beyond. Then turn right and go on till you see a culvert ahead. If another car comes, there’s the bracken. But keep your eyes on its beam: it might reveal something that you hadn’t known was there.”
We had all four crossed the road, before another car passed. This time, crouched in the bracken, I marked how its lights illumined the sides of the way. Had a man been standing there, I must have seen him. I saw the stone parapets of the culvert, one hundred and fifty yards off. There we came up with Mansel, who once again spoke very low.
“Thirty yards on from this culvert is where the body lay. If a path to Latchet exists, it won’t be far from here. I’m going to see if there is one: I shan’t be long.”
As he moved away—
“Let us pray,” said George. “Let us pray very hard indeed. Mansel’s in the mood to move mountains – an exercise denied to weaker vessels like me. I’ve already fouled three roots and walked into two trees. And that in two hundred yards. And Latchet is three miles off. At this rate, therefore, if we don’t discover a path, my face will want lifting before the night is out. So let us pray all we know that a path exists.”
Be sure I agreed with him.
Whilst we were waiting, another two cars fled by. And then a lorry came pounding, defiling the sweet of the night with its sound and its smell. As the last of its rumble faded, Mansel appeared.
“Yes, there’s a path,” he said. I heard George sigh with relief. “And if you’re as thankful as I am, that’s saying a lot. I can’t swear it goes to Latchet; but if it doesn’t, I shall be much surprised. Anyway, come along. It’s not very far.”
Mansel did well, I think, to find that path by night, without any torch. Even by day one could have missed it, for, where it met the ditch, there was no break in the bracken and what depression there was was of no account. But once you were on it, to keep to it was easy enough; and the four of us made good progress for more than a mile.
Then we met with a check, for the forest came to an end and we entered a sloping meadow, in which not even Mansel could find the track of men’s feet. For a moment, he stood very still. Then I saw him lift his head, as a man who is straining his ears. And then I heard the whisper of water…
At the foot of the sloping meadow was flowing a decent stream; and, walking along its bank, we came to the little foot-bridge which we had been sure must be there. We climbed another meadow and entered the woods again. Here the path was as clear as it had been before, and soon more than one path joined it, to make it still more distinct. All this time we were rising, and, when at last we had surmounted some crest, we heard at once the song of the sturdy water which George and I had looked on three days before. That Latchet lay below u
s, there could be no doubt.
To make certain, we went on down; to find that the path ran into the place between walls, quite close to the inn.
It was now three hours since we had climbed out of the Rolls, and I was expecting that we should retrace our steps. But Mansel thought otherwise.
“I want,” he said, “to have a look at the coach-house which serves the inn. I want to see what it contains. So William will stay with me, and George and Bell will go back and get the Rolls. Don’t bring her into the village.” He pointed South. “Do you remember crossroads just under a mile that way?”
“Yes,” said George.
“D’you think you can get there all right?”
“Yes.”
“Then pick us up there an hour and a half from now. And then we’ll go home and spend a morning in bed.”
“Every time,” said George.
The next moment, he and Bell were out of our sight. “The thing is this,” said Mansel. “This inn is a magnet. It attracted the British Consul and it attracted us. I think it will attract others. Now I doubt if we can watch it by day – at present, at any rate. And to watch it by night would be futile. But we can check up on its garage. No car tonight; but two tomorrow, for instance. I mean, that would make us think.”
An alley on the left of the inn brought us into a stableyard, and there, on the right, stood a coach-house of a considerable size. It had two mighty doorways, each shut by two leaves of oak which must have been twelve feet high, and I think the place had been built to accept the berlines and coaches of bygone days. We could have opened a door, but we did not like to do this, for fear of making a noise: for one thing, the leaves had dropped and were resting upon the cobbles of which they should have hung clear; for another, their hinges were rusty and might well have lodged a protest which would have waked somebody up. But when we looked for a window, there was none to be seen. Since the coach-house ran all the width of the stable-yard, we could not approach its sides; for the yard itself was walled and the coach-house was really no more than a slice of the yard which had been fronted and roofed.
Eye For A Tooth Page 2
