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 us, 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.
I glanced at Mansel, who was standing with a hand to his chin.
“How deep,” he said, “how deep would that coach-house be?”
After a moment’s thought—
“Say thirty-five feet.”
“Thereabouts. Say fourteen paces. Let’s measure the depth of the yard.”
This was twenty-six paces dead.
“Forty paces in all,” murmured Mansel, and led the way down the alley. As we came to the road, “And now how far from here to the mouth of the path?”
Together we paced the distance, making it forty-two paces or thereabouts.
“As I dared hope,” said Mansel. “The path runs past the back of the coach-house wall.”
“Now all we want,” said I, “is the length of the alley.”
“Twenty-two paces,” said Mansel. “I took it as we came down.”
I walked up the path behind him, looking up and straining my eyes…
Its height alone assured us that here was the coach-house wall, but, though we could make out the eaves, we could see little else; for here the path was a canyon some four feet wide, and trees which grew in some garden beyond the opposite wall, were stretching over their branches, to hide the stars.
At length—
“There’s something there,” I said; “about twelve feet up. It doesn’t look like a window. It has the look of a shadow; and yet I don’t think it is.”
“Use your torch,” said Mansel. “For one second only, of course.”
It was the edge of a shutter that I had seen. And three feet below was foothold, upon the branch of an oak.
I mounted on Mansel’s shoulders…
One minute later, I had my hands on the wood.
The shutter was not even latched. As I pulled it open, I saw that it hid a window that had no glass and no frame. I leaned well over the sill. Then I stretched down my arm and switched on my torch.
Three vehicles stood in the coach-house, which could have accepted twelve. One was a farmer’s gig, one was an old landau and one was a very old car, with a tiller instead of a wheel and a tonneau as big as a sty.
I switched off my torch, swung the shutter to, found an easy way down and made my report.
Mansel nodded, and led the way back to the road.
Not until we were clear of Latchet did he open his mouth.
“We’ve had a good night,” he said. “Fortune favours the patient as well as the brave. But one thing bothers me, William. It seems pretty certain that Bowshot had no car. And that seems strange to me. You don’t want a car in a city, but Latchet is right off the map.”
“We’re very car-minded,” I said, and Mansel laughed.
“That’s true enough. All the same…”
“You don’t think the car was pinched by the fellows who did him in?”
“Not on your life. They staged a running-down case. If he’d had a car, they’d have staged a smash, instead. No. Bowshot had no car; but I don’t know why.” I saw him shrug his shoulders. “And that’s only a minor query. Except that some person or persons stood to gain by his death, when published, I don’t know anything. And yet I feel there’s a lot behind this case… Well, we shall see – before long. Of that, I’m perfectly sure: ‘for wheresoever the carcase is, there will the eagles be gathered together.’”
So we came to the crossroads.
And not very long after that, the Rolls slid out of the shadows and picked us up.
From that time on, every night we patrolled the path to Latchet from dusk to dawn; and every night we looked within the coach-house, to see whether any car-owner had come to stay at the inn. For such duty, two were enough: so Mansel and Carson did it one night, George and Rowley the second, and Bell and myself the third. In our spare time we took our ease, fishing and visiting Salzburg and getting to know the country round and about the farm. The weather continuing fine, we did very well: but, as the days went by, yet nothing took place, I sometimes wondered if Mansel’s judgment was wrong.
Perhaps because I was doubting, I was the first to have something to report.
When Bell and I went out, our procedure was this. First, we inspected the road and the side of the road, and we proved the verge of the forest from the culvert up to the path. Then we followed the path to Latchet and, after inspecting the coach-house, made our way back. For the rest of the night, one was moving between the road and the meadow, and one was watching the edge of the Salzburg road.
It was my third turn of duty, and I was peering into the coach-house, about to switch on my torch, when I became aware of the presence below of a car that had been moving at speed and was not yet cold. For full three minutes I waited, straining my ears; then I lighted my torch, to see a wine-coloured saloon, all covered with dust. I could neither read its number, nor recognize its make: but it carried a ‘GB’ plate and one of its off-side windows was badly starred.
I put out my torch, carefully closed the shutter and made my way down to the ground.
When I told Bell what I had seen–
“Looks like we’re off, sir,” he said.
I agreed with him.
Instead of retracing our steps, we then stole on and round, to have a look at the inn; for, had some window been lighted, we might have been able to see the people who had come in the car. But here we were disappointed, for every window was dark. This was not surprising, for the hour was half-past eleven; and if they had come some distance, as like as not they had been glad to retire. So, after a careful survey from every side, we turned again to the path and our not unpleasant walk to the Salzburg road.
By the time we had reached the meadows, the moon was up, so, for what it was worth, I left Bell at the edge of the forest, to watch the open ground. He was to follow me in a quarter of an hour; if half an hour went by, but he did not arrive, I was to go to him as fast as I could.
There is a saying ‘It never rains, but it pours.’ Be that as it may, as I came to the verge of the woods, through which the road ran, I saw a car at rest by the side of the way.
Its lights were out, but the moon was showing it up and I saw it well. It was black or blue – a coupé, and looked American.
For a moment, I stood very still. Then, since I was still in the shadow and full thirty paces away from the edge of the road, I began to move on very slowly, keeping my eyes on the car…
And there I made two mistakes, which Mansel would never have made. In the first place, I ought at once to have left the path; in the second, I should have been careful to keep my eyes off the road, for, looking out of the darkness into the light, they were, of course, far less fitted to pierce the darkness itself, and anyone in the forest, with his back to the road, would have been able to see me before I saw him.
And that is just what happened.
I heard a gasp and a rustle: and, as I turned, two arms went about my neck.
“Oh, John, John! I’m so thankful. I–”
The sentence snapped off short, and the girl recoiled and stood peering, with one of her hands to her head.
“My God,” she breathed. “Who are you? I – I thought…”
“I’m very sorry,” I said. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“You’re English. Have you brought me a message?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t,” I said.
“Then why are you using this path at this time of night?”
“Mere chance,” said I. “I don’t sleep well and I wander a lot at night. May I know who ‘John’ is? I might be able to help.”
“You must be staying at Latchet. Is there anyone ill at the inn?”
“I’m not staying there, but I daresay I could find out. Won’t you tell me who to ask for?”
I could see her looking at me and biting her lip.
“I suppose I can trust you,” she said.
“I suppose you can.”
“I want news of Major John Bowshot. He is – a great friend of mine. I – I haven’t seen him lately, and I have a – a dreadful feeling that he may have been taken ill.”
“I’ll do my best,” said I. “When and where can I meet you again?”
“Today is Tuesday. Can you be here on Thursday?”
“Not here,” I said, quickly. I had the sense to say that. “Do you know the crossroads beyond Latchet?”
“Of course. But why not here?”
“I shall be tired on Thursday, and this is too far.”
She looked at me very hard.
“Very well. The crossroads. Between half-past ten and eleven on Thursday night.”
“I will be there, I promise.”
She hesitated. Then—
“He was staying at Latchet,” she said, “and I had to go away. He knew that, of course. But when I got back and came here, he never came. And that’s not – like him. If you could find out what’s wrong…”
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
She turned and took the path, to go back to the car.
When she found me behind her—
“You needn’t trouble,” she said.
I took no notice and handed her over the ditch and into the road.
I saw a coronet painted upon the door of the car.
I opened this, and she took the driver’s seat.
“May I know your name?” she said.
“Perhaps on Thursday,” said I, and shut the door.
I felt her eyes on me.
“Why didn’t you slam it?” she said.
“Till Thursday,” said I, and stood back.
“You make me uneasy,” she said. “Will you tell me only one thing?”
“On Thursday, perhaps.”
“Do you know John Bowshot?”
“No,” said I. “But I’ll do my best for you both.”
“Thank you,” she said, and started her engine up.
As she let in her clutch, she inclined her head.
I made her a bow in return, and the car slid away.
Ten seconds later, I was once more out of sight.
Mansel was sitting upon the foot of my bed.
I got your note,” he said. “And I couldn’t wait any longer. It’s past midday.”
“Sorry,” said I, and, with that, I told him my tale. When I had done, he rose and moved to a window and stood looking out.
“
Cherchez la femme
,” he said. And then, “I might have known. Go and have your bath, William. You’ve given me food for thought.”
But when I came back he was gone.
After lunch we discussed the matter – Mansel and George and I.
It was my desire – and I said so – that Mansel should come on Thursday and keep my appointment with me; but this he refused to do.
“Not this time,” he said. “You are very well able to play the hand. All that you must be sure of is that the girl is straight. If she is, you can tell her whatever you please. And see what she says.”
“I can’t tell her that Bowshot is dead.”
“I think it will be your duty. I’m very sorry, William, but, if you decide that she’s honest – and of that, from what you tell me, there can be no doubt – I think you will have to tell her, there and then. And then you can tell her our mission – to find his murderers out.”
“It’s all damned fine,” I said.
“I know. It’s a hellish business. But we simply cannot lead her along the garden-path. Not even for twenty-four hours. If we did, she’d never forgive us – and she would be right. Once we are sure of her, we cannot have her on. What line she will take, I don’t know. If she takes the bit in her teeth, we can but go home. But if she was in love with Bowshot, then she has a right to know that Bowshot is dead. Whether or no she can throw any light on his death, I’ve no idea. But she may be able to.
“And now for the strangers at Latchet.
“This may be a mare’s-nest. Still, it’s an English car, and Latchet is off the map. Any way, it’s for us to make sure whether or no these are the fellows we want. So I think that tonight we should all go out on the job. And that, in good time. If they were concerned in the murder and mean to inspect the scene, I simply cannot believe that they will do it by day. A man’s got to have an iron nerve to dispense with the cover of darkness on such an occasion as that.
“Now if they do visit the spot which we know so well, our principal object will be to overhear what they say. We are out after proof. Once they stand convicted by what we have heard them say, we have got to see what they look like. This may mean that we have to declare our presence. It may mean – anything. What is quite certain is that, once they know we are there, our relations will not be cordial. And, for that reason, I think we had better go armed.”
That was as much as he said; but I know that I dreaded the appointment which I had made with the girl even more than I looked forward to the clash which might come that night. And that is saying a great deal.
I will not set down in detail the orders which Mansel gave before we set out; but I will make one point – that if the strangers at Latchet were indeed proposing to visit the scene of the crime, we could not possibly tell whether they meant to do so on foot or by car. It was, therefore, arranged that I should stay by the road, for I had seen the car and should know it again. And Bell and Carson with me. But Mansel and George and Rowley would answer for the path. George’s post was to be in the meadows, and Mansel’s by the side of the path, two hundred yards from the road. Rowley would move between them, playing connecting-file. Being, so to speak, in the centre, Mansel would be ready and waiting to move either way.
Carson and Bell would each carry a heavy chock. If the car I had seen were to stop not far from the path, and its occupants were to alight, they were to place these chocks beneath a front and hind wheel; so that, should the men take alarm and run for the car, although they gained it, they would not be able to leave.
The evening was overcast, and dusk came in soon after we left the farm. It was as good as dark when we came to the Salzburg road. We did not use our lights, but though I, who was driving the Lowland, was close to the Rolls, I could only just see her leave the road for the track and, once I had left it myself, I could see nothing at all. Carson at once alighted, to move in front of the car, taking with him one end of a cord which was tied to my arm. So long as this was drawn tight, I knew that the way was clear and that I could proceed. Five minutes later, both of the cars had been turned where the two tracks crossed, and had been berthed as usual, facing the road.
And then on foot and in silence we moved down the second track.
Arrived at the road, as usual, we crossed it one at a time. George crossed first, for he had the farthest to go; then Rowley; and, after him, Mansel. And I was about to follow, when I heard the sound of a car.
At once I left the track, stepping into the bracken which grew upon either side. And there I stood waiting until the car should have passed.
And then I suddenly knew that it was not going to pass.
Peering between the stems, I watched its lights approaching more and more slowly, until they stopped altogether, about a hundred yards off. Then they came on again at a walking pace. Twice more they stopped, as though the driver were looking for something he thought should be there. Craning my neck, I tried to follow their beam… As I did so, this reached the culvert – or, rather, the twin parapets which showed where the culvert was. The car stopped again. Then again it came slowly on, until it was almost abreast of where – by this time – I was kneeling, by the side of the track.
And then it swung to its right, and I fell on my face.
I might have guessed for what the driver was looking; I should have been ready for what he was going to do.
Be that as it may, all the forest directly about me was suddenly bright as a stage with the footlights on, and the car swung into the track, whilst I lay four feet from its wheels, with my sleeves tight across my face.
The next few moments were among the worst I have passed.
I was not so much concerned about Carson and Bell, for they could be counted upon to do the right thing. But what made me want to cry out was the thought that the driver might do as we had and make for where the tracks crossed, in order to turn his car. If he did that – or even if he went too far up – his headlights would certainly show him the marks of our wheels, while, if he backed round to the right, they would show him the Rolls and the Lowland, some fifty paces away.
In this anxiety, I was, of course, not alone. Mansel, who saw the whole thing from the opposite side of the road, was on tenterhooks the whole time, and he told me later that George, who was crouching beside him, was praying aloud.
Whether George’s prayers were heard, I cannot say: but the fact remains that, to my immense relief, the car stopped short of the cross, and, after what seemed an age, somebody switched off her engine and turned out her lights. And then I heard her doors opened and presently shut.
I was on my feet by now and was standing well back from the track by the side of a tree. This was as well, for somebody lighted a torch and threw its beam down the track and waved it from side to side.
“Keep that light on the ground, you fool.”
The words were spat, rather than spoken – by one of four men: and since I was soon to learn that he went by the name of Forecast, I may as well set it down now.
His order was obeyed – under protest.
“Got to see where I’m goin’,” said the man with the torch in his hand. “You ask me to–”
“See and be seen,” snapped Forecast. “And damned well put it out when we come to the road. I don’t want any cars stopping – to see what our trouble is.”
“I always said,” said a third man, “we oughter ’ave come by day. You wait till you’re over the road. No — drives like this. Nothin’ but ferns: an’ trees with — great roots all over the place.”