Jonah and Co. (29 page)

The lights of the car were powerful and focused perfectly. The steady, bright splash upon the road, one hundred yards ahead, robbed the night of its sting.

Rabbits rocketed across our bows; a bat spilled its brains upon our wind-screen; a hare led us for an instant, only to flash to safety under our very wheels. As for the moths, the screen was strewn with the dead. Three times Piers had to rise and wipe it clear.

Of men and beasts, mercifully, we saw no sign.

If Houeilles knew of our passage, her ears told her. Seemingly the hamlet slept. I doubt if we took four seconds to thread its one straight street. Next day, I suppose, men swore the devil was loose. They may be forgiven. Looking back from a hazy distance, I think he was at my arm.

As we ran into Casteljaloux, a clock was striking…

Nine o’clock.

We had covered the thirty-five miles in thirty-five minutes dead.

“To the left, you know,” said Piers.

“
Left
?” I cried, setting a foot on the brake. “Straight on, surely. We turn to the left at Marmande.”

“No, no,
no
. We don’t touch Marmande. We turn to the left here.” I swung round obediently. “This is the Langon road. It’s quite all right, and it saves us about ten miles.”

Ten miles.

I could have screamed for joy.

Only fifty-five miles to go – and an hour and a quarter left.

The hope which had never died lifted up its head…

It was when we were nearing Auros that we sighted the van.

This was a hooded horror – a great, two-ton affair, a creature, I imagine, of Bordeaux, blinding home like a mad thing, instead of blundering.

Ah, I see a hundred fingers pointing to the beam in my eye. Bear with me, gentlemen. I am not so sightless as all that.

I could steer my car with two fingers upon the roughest road. I could bring her up, all standing, in twice her length. My lights, as you know, made darkness a thing of nought… I cannot answer for its headlights, nor for its brake-control, but the backlash in the steering of that two-ton van was terrible to behold.

Hurling itself along at thirty odd miles an hour, the vehicle rocked and swung all over the narrow surface – now lurching to the right, now plunging to the left, but, in the main, holding a wobbling course upon the crown of the road – to my distraction.

Here was trouble enough, but – what was worse – upon my sounding the horn, the driver refused to give way. He knew of my presence, of course. He heard me, he saw my headlights, and – he sought to increase his pace…

I sounded the horn till it failed: I yelled till my throat was sore: Piers raged and howled: behind, I heard Berry bellowing like a fiend… I cursed and chafed till the sweat of baffled fury ran into my eyes…

For over five hideous miles I followed that bucketing van.

I tried to pass it once, but the brute who was driving swerved to the left – I believe on purpose – and only our four-wheel brakes averted a headline smash.

At that moment we might not have been on earth.

My lady stopped as a bird stops in its flight. With the sudden heave of a ship, she seemed to hang in the air. Wild as I was, I could not but marvel at her grace…

Out of the check came wisdom.

It was safe, then, to keep very close.

I crept to the blackguard’s heels, till our headlights made two rings upon his vile body.

With one foot on the step, Piers hung out of the car, watching the road beyond.

Suddenly the van tilted to the right…

I knew a swerve must follow, if the driver would keep his balance.

As it came, I pulled out and crammed by, with my heart in my mouth…

A glance at the clock made me feel sick to death.

Fifteen priceless minutes that van had stolen out of my hard-earned hoard. I had risked our lives a score of times to win each one of them. And now an ill-natured churl had flung them into the draught…

I set my teeth and put the car at a hill at eighty-five…

We flashed through Langon at twenty minutes to ten.

Thirty-five minutes left – and thirty miles to go.

We were on the main road now, and the surface was wide, if rough. What little traffic there was, left plenty of room.

I took the ashes of my caution and flung them to the winds.

Piers told me afterwards that for the first twenty miles never once did the speedometer’s needle fall below seventy-two. He may be right. I knew that the streets were coming, and the station had to be found. It was a question, in fact, of stealing time. That which we had already was not enough. Unless we could pick some out of the pocket of Providence, the game was up.

I had to slow down at last for a parcel of stones. The road was being re-made, and thirty yards of rubble had to be delicately trod. As we forged through the nick at twenty, Piers stared at the side of the road.

“BORDEAUX 16,” he quoted.

Ten more miles – and nineteen minutes to go.

The traffic was growing now with every furlong. Belated lorries rumbled about their business: cars panted and raved into the night: carts jolted out of turnings into the great main road.

When I think of the chances I took, the palms of my hands grow hot. To wait for others to grant my request for room was out of the question. I said I was coming… I came – and that was that. Times out of number I overtook vehicles upon the wrong side. As for the frequent turnings, I hoped for the best…

Once, where four ways met, I thought we were done. A car was coming across – I could see its headlights’ beam. I opened the throttle wide, and we raced for the closing gap. As we came to the cross of the roads, I heard an engine’s roar… For an instant a searchlight raked us… There was a cry from Berry…an answering shout…the noise of tyres tearing at the road…and that was all.

A moment later I was picking my way between two labouring waggons and a trio of straggling carts.

“BORDEAUX 8,” quoted Piers.

Five more miles – and eleven minutes to go.

Piers had the plan of the city upon his knees. He conned it as best he could by the glow of the hooded light. After a moment or two he thrust the book away.

“The station’s this end of the town. We can’t miss it I’ll tell you when to turn.”

Three minutes more, and our road had become a street. Two parallel, glittering lines warned me of trams to come.

As if to confirm their news, a red orb in the distance was eyeing us angrily…

“We turn to the right,” said Piers. “I’ll tell you when.”

I glanced at the clock.

The hour was nine minutes past ten.

My teeth began to chatter of sheer excitement…

There was a turning ahead, and I glanced at Piers.

“Not yet,” he said.

With a frantic eye on the clock, I thrust up that awful road. The traffic seemed to combine to cramp my style. I swerved, I cut in, I stole an odd yard, I shouldered other drivers aside, and once, confronted with a block, I whipped on to the broad pavement and, amid scandalised shouts, left the obstruction to stay less urgent business.

All the time I could see the relentless minute-hand beating me on the post…

At last Piers gave the word, and I switched to the right.

The boulevard was empty. We just swept up it like a black squall.

Left and right, then, and we entered the straight – with thirty seconds to go.

“Some way up,” breathed Piers.

I set my teeth hard and let my lady out…

By the time I had sighted the station, the speedometer’s needle had swung to seventy-three…

I ran alongside the pavement, clapped on the brakes, threw out the clutch.

Piers switched off, and we flung ourselves out of the car.

Stiff as a sleepy hare, I stumbled into the hall.

“
Le train pour Paris!
” I shouted. “
Où est le train pour Paris
?”

“This way!” cried Piers, passing me like a stag. I continued to shout ridiculously, running behind him.

I saw him come to a barrier…ask and be answered try to push through…

The officials sought to detain him.

A whistle screamed…

With a roar I flung aside the protesting arms and carrying Piers with me, floundered on to the platform.

A train was moving.

Feeling curiously weak-kneed, I got carefully upon the step of a passing coach. Piers stepped on behind me and thrust me up to the door.

Then a conductor came and hauled us inside.

I opened my eyes to see Adèle’s face six inches away.

“Better, old chap,” she said gently.

I tried to sit up, but she set a hand upon my chest.

“Don’t say I fainted?” I said.

She smiled and nodded.

“But I understand,” she said, “that you have a wonderful excuse.”

“Not for ser-wooning,” said I. “Of course we did hurry, but…”

Piers burst in excitedly.

“There isn’t another driver in all—”

“Rot,” said I. “Jonah would have done it with a quarter of an hour to spare.”

So he would.

My cousin would have walked to the train and had a drink into the bargain.

While the train thundered northward through a drowsy world, a council of five sat up in a
salon lit
and laid its plans. By far its most valuable member was Señor Don Fedriani, travelling by chance from Biarritz to the French capital…

It was, indeed, in response to his telegram from Poitiers that, a few minutes before seven o’clock the next morning, two detectives boarded our train at the
Gare Austerlitz
.

Five minutes later we steamed into the
Quai d’Orsay
.

Jill, carefully primed, was the first to alight.

Except for Piers, Duke of Padua, the rest of us followed as ordinary passengers would. It was, of course, plain that we had no connection with Jill…

That Mr Leslie Trunk should meet her himself was quite in order. That, having thus put his neck into the noose, he should proceed to adjust the rope about his dew-lap, argued an unexpected generosity.

‘Yes, he had sent the wire. He had taken that responsibility. How was Piers? Well, there was plenty of hope.’ He patted her delicate hand. ‘She must be brave, of course… Yes, he had just left him. He was in a nursing-home – crazy to see her. They would go there at once.’

We all went ‘there’ at once – including Piers, Duke of Padua.

Mr Leslie Trunk, Señor Don Fedriani, and the two police-officers shared the same taxi.

‘There’ we were joined by Mrs Trunk.

The meeting was not cordial, neither was the house a nursing-home. I do not know what it was. A glance at the proportions of the blackamoor who opened the door suggested that it was a bastille.

It was thirty hours later that Berry pushed back his chair.

It was a glorious day, and, viewed from the verandah of the Club-house, that smiling pleasaunce, the rolling plain of Billère was beckoning more genially than ever.

So soon as our luncheon had settled, we were to prove its promise for the last time.

“Yes,” said Berry, “puerile as it may seem, I assumed you were coming back. My assumption was so definite that I didn’t even get out. For one thing, Death seemed very near, and the close similarity which the slot I was occupying bore to a coffin, had all along been too suggestive to be ignored. Secondly, from my coign of vantage I had a most lovely view of the pavement outside the station. I never remember refuse looking so superb…

“Well, I don’t know how long I waited, but when it seemed certain that you were – er – detained, I emerged from my shell. I didn’t like leaving the car unattended, but as there wasn’t a lock, I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered that just as the beaver, when pursued, jettisons some one of its organs – I forget which – and thus evades capture, so the careful mechanic removes some vital portion of his engine to thwart the unauthorised. I had a vague idea that the part in question was of, with, or from the magneto. I had not even a vague idea that the latter was protected by a network of live wires, and that one had only to stretch out one’s finger to induce a spark about a foot long and a shock from which one will never wholly recover… I reeled into the station, hoping against hope that somebody
would
be fool enough to steal the swine…

“Yes, the buffet was closed. Of such is the city of Bordeaux… When I recovered consciousness. I sought for you two. I asked several officials if they had seen two gentlemen. Some walked away as if nettled: others adopted the soothing attitude one keeps for the inebriated. Upon reflection, I don’t blame them. I had a weak case…

“At last I returned to the car. Alas, it was still there. I then had recourse to what is known as ‘the process of exhaustion.’ In fact, I found it extremely useful. By means of that process I was eventually successful in starting the engine, and, in the same elementary way, I got into top gear. I drew out of that yard with a running backfire nearly blowing me out of my seat.

“Well, the general idea was to find a garage. The special one was to hear what people said when I stopped to ask them the way. The fourth one I asked was a chauffeur. Under his direction, one first of all reduced the blinding stammer of the exhaust to an impressive but respectable roar, and then proceeded in his company to a dairy, a garage, another dairy and a hotel – in that order. I gave that chap a skinful and fifty francs…

“Yesterday I drove home. I can prove it. All through the trams, like a two-year-old. I admit I took over six hours, but I lunched on the way. I trust that two of the poultry I met are now in Paradise. Indeed, I see no reason to suspect the contrary. So far as I could observe, they looked good, upright fowls. And I look forward confidently to an opportunity of apologising to them for their untimely translation. They were running it rather fine, and out of pure courtesy I set my foot positively upon the brake. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the brake, but the accelerator… My recollection of the next forty seconds is more than hazy. There is, so to speak, a hiatus in my memory – some two miles long. This was partly due to the force with which the back of the front seat hit me in the small of the back. Talk about a blue streak… Oh, it’s a marvellous machine – very quick in the uptake. Give her an inch, and she’ll take a hell of a lot of stopping. However…”