Storm Music (1934)

by Dornford Yates

  "I expect the police," she said coldly, "will be glad to hear any facts. The station is in the next street."

  My speech was impetuous, I know, and never would have been spoken if I had had but a moment to choose my words: but to whip me so was monstrous, and the blood came into my face.

  "On the other hand," I said thickly "the police may agree with you."

  "Agree with me— what do you mean?"

  "That it's none of my business," said I.

  With that, I made her a bow— for I had no hat to take off—and, inwardly raging at my treatment, turned on my heel and sauntered back to my cafe on the opposite side of the square.

  As I gained the pavement. I heard a step at my side.

  Then a chauffeur was speaking, hat in hand.

  "Her ladyship, sir, would be glad of your name and address." .

  "Tell her ladyship this. My name does not matter, and my address is this cafe— until I have finished my beer."

  The man withdrew, and, more enraged than ever, I sat myself down at my table and mopped my face.

  As I glared at the glass before me I could see the pride of her mouth and the lift of her delicate chin; when I shut my eyes I saw her lovely temples and the sweep of her blue-black hair when I frowned at my watch I saw her aquiline nose and her great grey eyes: and when at last I looked up, there was the car before me with my lady's face framed in its window and the second chauffeur standing beside the door.

  "If you will forgive me, perhaps I can give you a lift."

  This unadorned apology acted on me as a charm. All my resentment vanished, as though it had never been, and I know that my heart leaped up at the sight of her eager beauty and the friendly light in her eyes.

  I got to my feet, laid a coin on the table and picked up my hat.

  As I took my seat beside her—

  "I'm to blame," I said, "and I've nothing at all to forgive. I'm afraid I shook you up. But I— I hadn't rehearsed this meeting and I guess I went off half-cocked. I shall do it again in a minute, so I'd better just tell you my tale."

  "One moment— where shall I take you?"

  "If you please, to the church of St Jacques."

  As the car moved off—

  "I'm Helena Yorick," said the girl, "and Yorick is the name of my home, seven miles off."

  I gave her my name at once and then, without waiting longer, plunged into my tale.

  When I had done—

  "Are you sure you weren't followed?' she said. "I mean, if you were, they now know you're in touch with me."

  "I'm sure I wasn't," said I.

  With my words the car stopped at the church.

  "Well, you can't get out here," said the girl. "We must find a much quieter place. Besides, you must hear my story. Sit back in the car and don't move. It's only a quarter to nine."

  She gave some direction to the chauffeur and then sat back in her seat.

  "My father died last November, leaving my brother and me. We're Austrian, you know: but my mother taught me my English— she was American. My brother is younger than I am, and he's away just now: so I rather run the castle, although, of course, he's the Count. This duty takes me to Salzburg once a month. I made the journey by car four days ago. On the way an attempt was made to waylay me, and when I got through— I was driving— they chased me for thirty miles. I had a man with me called Florin ... Three generations of Florins have served our house. His father's my warden— has charge of all the keys. Well, six men act as night-watchmen, taking the duty by turns. Old Florin chooses the men, and his son was one of the six. He was on duty last night, and this morning he couldn't be found." Her voice began to quaver, and I heard her smother a sob. "He was the finest fellow, and in his sight I think I could do no wrong. If I'd asked for his eyes, he'd have plucked them out of his head. I don't know how to tell old Florin, and that's the truth."

  To see her so near to weeping must have wrung anyone's heart.

  "I'm most dreadfully sorry." I said. "And if you'll let me help you, we'll bring the blackguards to book. But you see my cousin was right. Florin was nothing to them, but he got in their way."

  "Yes." said the girl, "that's clear. The night-watchman got in their way." With a sudden movement she turned. "But you must keep out of this. Can't you go home?"

  "I'm not going home," said I, "till I've seen this through."

  The girl laid a hand on my arm.

  "Don't be foolish," she said. "This quarrel is mine— not yours. Young Florin was not your man. Besides, you can do no good because they've got your number; lift a finger against them and they won't do another thing till they've put you out."

  "The point is this," said I. "That you don't want to fight them with me is natural enough. I fancy you're shy of strangers and you know nothing of me. But if I like to take on the brutes, that's my affair. I've given you information which it was right you should have, and that, I frankly admit, is the end of my duty to you; but I owe that dead man a duty, and, by God, I'm going to do it. If you'd seen him dead, as I did, you'd feel the same. I tell you, he called upon me. . . . Why, if I cleared out to England. I'd never sleep sound again." I broke off to mop my face. "My cousin's with me," I added "and so is his man."

  There was a little silence.

  Then—

  "I wish," said the girl, "I could have a word with your cousin. Do you think he could meet me this evening at— at a farm that I know?"

  "I'll bring him with me," said I, "wherever you please."

  Lady Helena looked away.

  "You can come, if you like," she said. "But I want to see him."

  Then she took up a large-scale map and showed me the farm. This went by the name of "Plumage" and lay some four miles away, quite by itself.

  "At five o'clock then?" says she.

  I nodded.

  "We shall be there."

  "And now," she said, "I must drop you. Do you know where you are?"

  I glanced about me.

  "Yes," said I; "we're five minutes' walk from St. Jacques'."

  "That's right." She peered at the street. "And it seems quiet enough about here." She touched a switch, and the car began to slow down. "Please don't stand still when you're out; start walking at once. And thank you very much for doing your duty to me. And— and don't forget that that's ended."

  As I took her slim hand her steady, grey eyes met mine.

  "True," said I. "But my duty to Florin remains; and I'm not so sure as I was that he called upon me for vengeance."

  "What else?" said the girl.

  "He loved his mistress." I said. "As he died, he may have been thinking that she would be short of a man."

  And then I was out of the car and was sauntering down the pavement as though I had strolled for an hour.

  Except for a crone with a bucket, there seemed to be no one in sight

  Chapter 3

  AS THE Rolls swept over a crossing and on to the Salzburg road—

  "I'm almost sure," said Geoffrey, "that we've stolen a march on our friends. They may have been watching the inn, but I can't believe they expected a movement like this. Of course they may stick to Barley, but that I doubt. And in any event he'll give them the slip at Salzburg."

  "At Salzburg?" I cried.

  "That’s right." said my cousin. "He'll be in that city tonight. Tomorrow he'll come back to Villach, and there we shall pick him up as soon as it's dusk."

  "You're taking no chances." said I.

  "D'you blame me, John? I mean, the return of your letter was pretty good work. Talk about a riposte. . . . And you may have been seen with my lady; in which case, as she observed, the job, whatever it is, will go by the board, and Pharaoh and Co.'s one idea will be to do you in. She's no damned fool, this grey-eyed goddess of yours. That's probably her American blood. And her Austrian made her stand-offish. These old Austrian families are terribly strict."

  "She made amends," said I. "No one could have been more— more gracious."

  My cousin laughed.


  "Goddesses are gracious," he said. "And now please look behind you and keep your eyes on the road. If there's nothing whatever in sight, in three or four minutes I'm going to turn off to the left."

  Five minutes later we were in the depths of a beech wood and the main road was half a mile off.

  We now made no more haste, and since my cousin took us a roundabout way it was long past noon when we stole into Annabel.

  Geoffrey berthed the car in the shade of some limes which grew fifty yards from the inn, on the opposite side of the way.

  "You go in," he said, "and have a look at the rooms. I imagine they're quite all right, but you never can tell."

  I left him filling a pipe and walked to "The Reaping Hook."

  This was a pleasant inn, standing back from the road. The house was old and well built of stone and oak, and though, I fancy, its custom must have been slight, there was nothing mean about it, within or without. We had supped there some three weeks back and had found the service eager and the kitchen uncommonly good, but, while I had not much doubt that the rooms which the host had to offer would do very well, good board does not warrant good lodging, as every traveller knows.

  The day seemed destined to be a day of surprise.

  AS I entered the great, stone taproom, it was clear that all was not well. The room was not swept and garnished as when I had seen last, a settle was lying on its back, with its chest disgorging a medley of household stuff, and a sordid stain on a wall led down to a puddle of beer and a broken glass. As I stood, frowning, the maid that had served us so blithely brushed by me, blowsed and sullen, without a word, and when I passed on to the kitchen, in search of the host, I found his wife railing at a scullion, with tears running down her cheeks.

  It now seemed clear that some brawl or other had lately disordered the house, and I began to wonder whether the host were absent because he had suffered some hurt. The poor woman's state, however, forbade my questioning her— and, indeed, as soon as she saw me she threw her apron over her head and abandoned herself to her grief. I, therefore, turned to the scullion and asked him where his master might be, but the man seemed dull of comprehension and I had to shake him by the shoulder before at last he muttered that the host was upstairs.

  I made my way to the staircase which rose from the hall, and a moment later had gained a fine, broad passage which ran the length of the house. Since the stairs rose again, I was about to go higher, when the door of a room was opened and the maid who had passed me came out, wide-eyed and breathless and trembling, as though some terror or other had teased her and let her go.

  Again she would have gone by, but I caught her arm.

  "What's the matter?" I cried. "Where's your master?"

  She pointed to the room she had left and fled downstairs.

  I now began to think that the man must be dead, for he was a mild old fellow and not at all the sort that drinks himself into a fury and puts his household in fear. However, I made up my mind that, having come so far, I had better go on, and I walked to the door and stood listening before I knocked.

  FOR a quarter of a minute I listened, but heard no sound, and my hand was raised, ready to knock, when somebody spoke— and before he had spoken three words I knew the answers to the riddles which I had been trying to solve.

  I knew why the house was disordered and why I had not been received; I knew why the maid was trembling and why the goodwife was in tears; and I knew that, be they never so pleasing, the rooms at "The Reaping Hook" were not for Geoffrey and me ... for the voice was the voice of Pharaoh, who was speaking pretty fair German and was recommending the landlord to do as he said.

  As I stole away from that door I know that my knees were loose. I am not proud of this truth, but I do not think it is surprising, and, if I am to be honest, so often as I remember that my hand was raised, ready to knock, the sweat will start upon my forehead and the palms of my hands grow wet.

  I passed down the passage a-tiptoe, as well I might, wondering if ever before two men had been at such pains to avoid the foe, only to choose for their harbor the enemy's camp, for that, of course, was the use to which he was putting the inn. My cousin had chosen the village because it was not too distant, yet out of the way. And so had Pharaoh. It occurred to me suddenly that if Geoffrey and I could be gone without being seen we should at least have won some valuable news.

  I was half-way down the stairs, which rose in two flights, and the doorway of the inn was before me, framing a slice of the fore-court ablaze with the midday sun, when there came to my ears the slam of the door of a car. It was not a door of the Rolls, but that of some car in the forecourt, quite close to the inn. I believe that I stopped instinctively, but, almost before I could think, a figure was in the doorway— a little wiry figure— and was heading straight for the stairs.

  It was my old friend, Dewdrop.

  Now I saw in a flash that unless of the four it was he that had been lying in wait to identify me at Lass, I stood a very fair chance of being no more than suspected as I went by And once I was in the forecourt and clear of the inn ...

  I therefore held on my way, and since he was looking down, Dewdrop did not perceive me until he was three steps off. And then our eyes met— for an instant.

  His surprise was his undoing.

  As plain as though he had said so, I knew that he knew who I was, and the second he spent in staring served my turn. As his fingers flew to his mouth, I hit him under the jaw and leaped for the door.

  Now all would have been very well if I had not made one mistake; yet I sometimes think that it was as well that I made it, for the lesson it taught me was such that I never made it again.

  I had had the advantage of Dewdrop, for he had been standing below me and I was the heavier man. But the hall below us was flagged, and I was afraid to hit hard lest he should topple backwards and split his skull on the stone. And so, though the blow was heavy, it was not heavy enough. Lay hold of me he could not, for his balance was gone, but as I gained the forecourt his piercing whistle rang out.

  My cousin heard it— I saw him. He had his back to the inn, and the bonnet of the Rolls was open and he was making some adjustment, spanner in hand. I saw him look up and round with his pipe in his mouth. For an instant he stared. And then the bonnet was shut, and the spanner was in his pocket and a pistol was in his hand.

  Before I could speak—

  "Take the wheel," said Geoffrey "and back her the way we came. There's a corner a hundred yards back. Turn her round there and wait. Is that their car?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Quick," cried my cousin, and started to stroll to the inn.

  What then happened, happened so quickly that no account I can give can render the scene.

  As I flung myself into the Rolls I saw Dewdrop, running towards us, stop in his tracks. As Geoffrey fired, the fellow turned and doubled, dodging from side to side; to my amazement my cousin began to give chase.

  The engine of the Rolls was running and I let in the clutch. Then I lifted the car towards Geoffrey across the road.

  A closed car was standing in the forecourt beside the door of the inn. As Dewdrop whipped behind it, my cousin fired again. Then he turned, to see me waiting six paces away.

  Pharaoh was standing in the doorway, with a hand to his hip: as he drew arms, Rush and the other rogue (I learnt later that his name was Bugle) thrust out from behind him and sent him against the jamb.

  I had never stopped the Rolls, and as Geoffrey leaped for the step I let her go. In that instant two shots were fired, and a bullet went by my face to splinter the driving mirror, twelve inches away. And then we were flashing through the village, and a dog was barking in a doorway and a woman was standing in a garden, gaping and staring, with a dripping spoon in her hand.

  Geoffrey was speaking.

  "I'm much obliged, my son. But another time you simply must do as I say. It's you they're after, not me. And now please put her along. I've holed their petrol-tank, so I hardly think they'l
l start: all the same, I believe in distance. I'm glad to have met your friends, but I didn't like the look in their eyes."

  Twenty minutes later we glided out by a by-road on to a grass-grown track; where this curled into a thicket, I drew out the clutch.

  "My God!" said Geoffrey, and wiped the sweat from his face. "And after all that trouble to cover our tracks. And now tell me exactly what happened. I've a pretty good idea, but I may as well know."

  I told him the truth.

  "Colossal," says he. "Colossal. There's no other word. However, there's no harm done— except, of course, that they'll think you're out for blood. They'll never believe that this was an accident. They'll think we trailed them. Funny I never heard Dewdrop come up with the car; he must have backed her out of the yard. That's why he never saw me. Fluke upon fluke. Never mind. That tank should hold them up for twenty-four hours."

  "They'll shift their quarters," said I.

  "Without a doubt," said Geoffrey. "So we've done 'The Reaping Hook' a very good turn." He pulled out a map. "And now let's see where we are. We ran through a village called Wagen some four miles back."

  We were twenty-two miles from Plumage, and the hour was just one o'clock.

  My cousin fingered his chin.

  "Tea with the goddess," he said, "at five o'clock. What could be better? But I don't want to wait till then. Besides, we must find a lodging." He broke off to stare at the dash. "Oh, hell," he murmured, "why does one do these things?"

  "What things?" said I. My cousin sighed.

  "You spared little Dewdrop— and damned near cost us our lives."

  "I know," I said uneasily. "I— I won't be such a mug again."

  "Neither will I." said my cousin violently. He slammed the arm-rest with his hand. "Damn it, I had him cold— and I fired at his feet."

  Chapter 4

  PLUMAGE lay more than two miles from the high road that bounded its meadows and we welcomed the shade of its woods. The lane that served it was little more than a track, and till we rounded the last of a dozen bends we were by no means sure that we had not mistaken our way; then all of a sudden the lane became a view-point, and there was Plumage before us, making as lovely a picture as ever I saw.