Audrey nodded.
“I’m there,” she said. “Just when and where shall I pass?”
“Not just yet,” said I. “Let her down a little: he’s just in front of that car.”
I made quite sure he was making for Pont de l’Arche. Then we followed him up a hill and bore to the right. And then I told Audrey to pass him – and go like hell.
The road was broad and empty and looked like a racing-track. And as such, indeed, we used it, for, because it was so inviting, the chauffeur had chosen this moment to let the Swindon go.
God knows at what pace we passed her, for Audrey’s foot was right down – and my head was between my knees; but when I ventured to lift it, the Swindon was not to be seen.
“They can’t have seen much,” said Audrey, and fell down another hill.
So we came to the River Seine and Pont de l’Arche.
Over the bridge we went, and in and out of the town. Then into the forest and up the punishing hill…
With my eyes on the cross roads, I waited until I could see them no more. And then I told Audrey to stop, snatched my binoculars, flung out of the Lowland and ran the way we had come.
It was very nearly two minutes before the Swindon appeared. With my heart in my mouth, I watched her come up to the crossroads…
And then she came on, as we had, to tackle the punishing hill.
As she started to climb, I saw what I thought was the Vane emerge from a cobbled street.
I ran for the Lowland, exultant.
“OK,” I cried. “He’s coming. Put her along. As it’s worked all right, I guess we’ll do it again.”
As Audrey let in her clutch—
“Just what d’you mean, St John?”
“We’ll try and lead him, sweetheart. Follow him with the glasses, but always keeping ahead. If he lets us down, Bell’s got him: and all we’ve got to do is to catch him up. But I don’t think he’ll twist our tail: I believe he’s through with his tricks and he’s going for Chartres.”
I will not set out in detail the rest of the journey we made on that blazing afternoon: indeed, if I did, I think it would fill up a book, for the way was long and every bend was a hazard – and every town was a nightmare, because a miss was so much worse than a mile.
Louviers, Evreux, Dreux – somehow we survived them all: and by hook and crook we led the Swindon to Chartres. And when I say ‘led,’ I mean it. For the whole of those sixty-odd miles, she was never once out of my sight for as much as two minutes of time.
It took a lot of doing, and that is the truth. Between the towns, we did little but spurt and stop and I continually left and re-entered the car: we proceeded, so to speak, by short rushes, as infantry used to do – a very exhausting business as well for Audrey as me.
Down, full tilt, to some valley and up the opposite side, to stop just over the crest and so out of sight: back on foot, to take cover behind some wayside tree: and then, when the Swindon appeared, back again to the Lowland and off, full tilt again, for the nearest bend: more slowly then, because of a road on the right, and coming to rest in a hollow a drive and a chip ahead: out of the car again, and ten steps back: and then off again, like fury, to gain our proper distance before the Swindon appeared.
On the level, our task was less wearing and yet more difficult, for we had to keep further ahead and I had to kneel on the seat and look through the window behind, continually turning my head to see what country was coming and how the road itself ran: then again, we could seldom stop, but could only play with our pace, losing ground when obscured by some lorry, and things like that.
But the open country was nothing compared with the towns.
Luckily these were well posted and Audrey’s sense of direction was very fine: her eye being very quick, she managed to pick her way through them without going wrong, but we had to make up our minds to let the Swindon come up uncomfortably close and to aim at keeping no more than a street ahead. And that was the devil and all, for we were not the only stuff on the road. At times the traffic stopped Plato, and more than once it stopped us – to bring the Swindon so close that, though by that time I was kneeling down on the floor-boards with my head as low as the seat, the sweat of apprehension was running upon my chest.
From what I have said, it will be manifest not only that Plato had seen us again and again – that is to say, seen the Lowland and Audrey sitting inside – but that we had made no attempt to keep out of his ken. This may have been a mistake: but, if it was, it was mine, for Audrey had no say in the line which I took. But, for what it is worth, this is the way I saw it that nerve-racking afternoon.
If a man is afraid of being followed, he will pay no attention at all to a car which is moving ahead – and that, for the very good reason that followers stay behind: and though a car is persistently leading his own, he will at the most assume that it is carrying someone whose way is his: his interest may be excited – faintly enough, but so long as that car behaves in a rational way, he will attach no importance to the something ding-dong business of alternately losing distance and gaining ground. But a car which stays behind him is doing as followers do, and so becomes more and more suspect with every mile.
The risks which we ran, by leading, are so very obvious that I will not point them out: but no man can have it both ways, and since we were running through country which I had never set eyes on, which Audrey had seen but once, I felt any risk was better than that of arousing suspicions which I believed to be dead. I was, of course, terribly worried about the Vane and wished a thousand times that I had told Rowley to fall rather further behind: still, I was ready to swear that, until he was this side of Rouen, Plato was unaware that there was such a car on his road; and that and the thought of the cunning which Bell would certainly show did something to combat misgivings which were, of course, as futile as they were importunate.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder if we should have done any better if I had had time to think: but I do not believe that we should, for the business was such a gamble from first to last that the instinct on which I relied served us as well as or better than could have circumspection itself.
Of level-crossings I went in the greatest fear, for had we come to one closed, we must have stood still while the Swindon came up to our tail – and, as like as not, Plato descended, to walk about the Lowland and look at her points: but this ordeal we were spared, though once we escaped it by seconds, and Plato was left behind. But though we thanked our stars, in a sense we had passed from the frying-pan into the fire, for the check which he thus received was more than enough to let us swim out of his ken; yet we had to let him catch up – yet not let him think we had loitered, to gain this end. Whilst I was racking my brain for some way out of this pass, I saw a filling station three furlongs ahead, and though we needed no petrol – for Bell had somehow or other replenished both tanks at Rouen – I told my lady to make for the apron of concrete and bring the Lowland to rest by one of the pumps.
Since the train had not yet gone by, we took in a gallon of petrol for the good of the house, and then, whilst I watched the road, she held the attendant in talk until the Swindon appeared. When I was sure they could see us, I gave her the order to go, and we took up our old position, as though by accident.
That was but one of the narrow escapes which we had, for though I must frankly admit that Plato played into our hands, we dared take nothing for granted and had to work just as hard and to think as fast as we had done that morning when first we had left Dieppe. I shall always believe that we actually guided the Swindon through more than one town, but though, from this distance of time, I am able to focus the humour of this absurdity, I never felt less like laughing than when it in fact took place.
I never can say how wonderful Audrey was. The whole of that afternoon, she not only never failed me, but picked up the cues I tossed her as though she had read my mind. More than once she had served my turn before I had said what it was, and she actually made me eat, getting the sandwiches ready,
whilst she was sitting still, and handing them, whilst she was driving, with such a casual air that I took and began to eat them without thinking what I did. In fact, though I never spared her, she did her best to spare me – and she comforted me in the most understanding of ways, if ever I gave her to think that I was in some distress.
There, perhaps, I am giving myself away, for I never saw Mansel or Chandos show any sign of strain. But I know there were times that day when I drifted from speaking to her into thinking aloud, and my thoughts were not always as cheerful as I could have wished. Each contretemps that we met with rammed home the brutal fact that luck alone had brought us to where we had come, and seemed designed to argue the manifold changes and chances of such a venture as ours. One error of judgment could put as out of the running: one guess that was wrong could sink us for good and all. And France is a pretty big country: and more than two thirds of her acres lie south of Chartres.
For some extraordinary reason, for which I can never account, both Audrey and I were quite certain that Plato would spend that night at the city of Chartres.
But whether he did or did not, he would have, she said, to enter the Place des Epars, for there stood the best hotels and from that oval the principal roads ran forth.
“He must see us stop, too,” said I. “If you circle the place can he see us ? I don’t want him up too close.”
“From what I remember, it’s spacious: with a very good view all round.”
“Then go round slowly,” said I, “as if you were taking stock. Where’s that hotel you lunched at?”
“Le Grand Monarque? On the right – on the side we come in.”
“Steady. I don’t see him yet.” The Lowland slowed down. “Yes. There he is. Carry on. I hope to God the Vane isn’t right on his heels. And yet I don’t know. If she isn’t, she’ll go right on, not knowing he’s stopped. I’ve got to this – that I don’t know what to hope for…except an earthquake or something, to slow things up.”
“Poor St John. You must be so frightfully tired.”
“It’s the pace that kills,” said I. “I only want time to think. A little faster, my beauty: he’s coming up.”
“We’ll be in the place in a minute, and that’ll give you a chance.”
A moment later, we entered the Place des Epars and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw the truth of her words. The place was a great arena, the whole of which could be seen from wherever you took your stand.
We passed Le Grand Monarque and swung to the left. Then we circled slowly, to see what the Swindon did.
With the width of the oval between us, we saw her extremely well.
She passed Le Grand Monarque, but she did not swing to the left.
She took the Vendôme road – and passed out of our sight.
As things turned out, I think our dismay was misplaced, for Plato must have seen us turn off to the left, and to stop for a drink at Chartres was natural on such a day. In his eyes, therefore, we did as a tourist does; and though we overtook him some twelve miles on, I doubt if he saw more in this than a friendly rivalry. Then, again, I was able to intercept Rowley and Bell – and to tell them to take any risk but that of arousing suspicion by keeping too close. But I had been so certain that Plato would stop at Chartres that I felt I could never again rely on what instinct I had. And I could have spared that feeling at that particular time, for all we had was my instinct to get us home.
I sent on Bell and Rowley the way the Swindon had gone. Then I waited for two more minutes – to colour the illusion that Audrey had stopped for refreshment and taken her time. And then we swung out of the place for the Vendôme road.
Châteaudun…Vendôme…Tours…
There are times when I dream of that stretch – eighty-six miles long.
For seventy-four of those miles we ran in front of the Swindon, as we had done to Chartres.
Three times we thought we had lost her, and twice the tears were running on Audrey’s cheeks.
As she brushed them away—
“Sorry, St John. These women. But take no notice, my dear. It’s only my safety-valve.”
I put my arm about her and held her close. Then I called upon her again, as one calls on a thoroughbred: and she responded at once, as a thoroughbred does.
And so we came to Tours – at twenty-five minutes past six.
And there the Swindon stopped – at the best hotel. I saw Plato enter the house: and his chauffeur drive round to the garage and put the Swindon away.
And when I saw this happen, I very near wept myself – and that, out of sheer relief, for to ask any more of Audrey was more than I could have done, and I was so much exhausted that I could hardly stand up.
By seven o’clock that evening, we had, in a manner of speaking, consolidated our gains.
We were, all four, installed at a little hotel. Audrey, too tired to bathe, was lying full length on her bed, with her shoes and stockings off and her beautiful arms stretched out: Bell was going over the cars in the yard below: three hundred yards away, Rowley was watching the garage in which the Swindon was lodged: and I was speaking to Mansel, two hundred and thirty miles off.
“Tours? I can’t believe it. By God, John Bagot, you’ve lighted a candle this day. And you’re at the Panier d’Or. Well, don’t let up, old fellow. Chandos and I are coming, and then you shall take your rest.”
I was glad to hear him say that. I had made what arrangements I could: but if Plato saw fit to go on, we were not fit to follow – and that is the truth.
Audrey was out of the running – until she had had some rest. The drive itself was nothing – many a day we had covered far more than three hundred miles; but it must be remembered that she had been up all night, and the constant stopping and starting and changing gear, the spurting and slowing down, the effort of picking her way through towns which she did not know, above all, the ceaseless strain of being ever ready to do whatever I said and sharing with me a burden which was not hers – these things had conspired together to wear her resistance down. In fact, they had failed of their purpose. But now she had surrendered, because the danger was past.
The duty was, therefore, divided between the servants and me. One must watch the garage in which the Swindon stood – and be ready to run for his life to the Panier d’Or: one must be with the Vane, all ready to leave the yard and resume the chase: and the third could be off duty, taking his ease. Four hours on and two off seemed the obvious way. Two hours by the Swindon’s garage: two in the yard with the Vane: and two at the Panier d’Or.
I took my two hours off until nine o’clock. I bathed and I changed my clothes and I broke my fast – and I sat in a chair beside Audrey, now fast asleep. And then I got up, feeling better, and went to see Bell.
Bell had sent for petrol and filled the tank of each car, and he had been over them both, oiling and greasing and wiping and making sure all was well.
I told him that Audrey was sleeping and asked him to stay within call in case she woke up, and in any event to wake her at ten o’clock and to do his best to persuade her to take some food.
And then I went on to Rowley.
He showed me Plato’s chauffeur, dining in style at a café, not thirty yards off, and he said he had entered the garage and talked with its keeper within. The latter had told him the orders which he had received – to wash and polish the Swindon and have her ready by nine o’clock the next day.
This was most comforting news: but though I was very much tempted to return with Rowley forthwith to the Panier d’Or, I knew that, if I did so, I should not be able to rest, because we were not keeping the watch which ought to be kept. So I sent him back to relieve his faithful companion – who was himself due to relieve me in two hours’ time.
The light was failing now, because we had come so far south, and since I was moving in the shadows, I had no fear of the chauffeur’s seeing my face: but I could see the man well, for he sat without the café, and a light was hanging directly above his head. But so long as he ke
pt his distance, I was not concerned with him: I was concerned with the garage in which the Swindon was lodged. So I strolled up and down with my eyes on its narrow entry, thankful for the cool of the evening and wondering how long it would be before Mansel arrived.
And then I got the shock of my life, for a car came out of the garage with both its headlights on, and I could not see what it was, because its surroundings were dark, but its lights were full in my eyes. It had entered the stream of traffic, before I had time to think, and since this was moving fast, was away in a flash, and I only saw its number by the skin of my teeth.
In fact, it was not the Swindon, although it was very much like her in several ways: but the incident showed me that I must cross the street and stand quite close to the entry, if I was to do any good – or else must watch the chauffeur and let the Swindon go.
After a moment’s reflection, I decided to cross the street…
The entry which served the garage was really more of a tunnel than anything else: and that is why, no doubt, the drivers of cars which used it employed their lights: and the garage itself was very dimly lighted, although it was very spacious and seemed to be full of cars.
It was I think this condition which showed me that I should do better to enter the garage itself, for out on the pavement I had no cover at all and if the chauffeur appeared, he might very easily see me before I saw him; but in the garage itself a troop of men could have lurked without being seen.
And so I walked into the garage, slipped between two of the cars and began to look round.
At the far end lights were burning, but they were round some corner and so in fact out of sight. But the light which they threw illumined indirectly the rest of the place. This illumination was naturally very faint, and I saw at once that I had done well to come in, for that here I could go as I pleased without being seen.
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