Cost Price (16 page)

I did my best to put the matter out of my mind, but I had an uneasy feeling that the wind that had served us so well was beginning to back; and, sure enough, that evening I found I was right.

Because he had been meeting Carson, Bell had not seen the performance on Monday or Tuesday nights. This evening, therefore, when he had helped me to dress, he left to sit with the audience and see the play out. Now although I did not appear till towards the end of the show, I used to watch the whole from what might be called ‘the wings’. And so I did, as usual – to find Bell standing beside me before ten minutes had passed. And his hand was up to his chin. (This meant that he had something to say for my ear alone; for that was the gesture the servants always used, when they wished to communicate something which other ears must not hear.)

Casually enough, I led the way into the shadows…

“Orris is here, sir. Sitting right at the back.”

I thought very fast.

“Alone?”

“I think so, sir. There’s no sign of Friar or Sloper. Nor any car.”

“I must appear,” I said. “Don’t let him see you, but watch him. He may not recognize me. If he does, he’ll certainly show it: and then we must pull him in.” I bit my lip. Then I went on slowly, thinking aloud. “If he’s still running with Friar…and he reports that I’m here, Friar will join us before we know where we are…and Friar will know in a flash that those gems are within the weights…This is damned awkward, Bell. We can pull him in all right: but, when he doesn’t report, Friar will smell trouble and come to look for him. We must pray that Friar gives him some law, for this time tomorrow we shall be off the map.”

“You say ‘pull him in’, sir.”

“If he seems to recognize me. Wait till he does, of course: but don’t let him get very far. Friar may be at the inn, for all we know. And take him into the tent and wait for me.”

“Very good, sir.”

And then he was gone.

I was now much more than uneasy – and would have given the world to be able to talk with Mansel for only five minutes of time. But trying as was Bell’s news, for some strange, merciful reason, I was immensely relieved that I had to deal with Friar and not with the Boche. Had it been one of the police that Bell had seen, I do not know what I should have done, for by now Diana Revoke would have made her deposition and Kerrelin would be forced to act upon what she deposed. And he would be well aware that we had thrown dust in his eyes.

An hour and a half later, I entered my tent.

As I did so, Bell jerked his head, and Orris got to his feet.

I took my seat on a stool and lighted a cigarette.

Then—

“Your orders were clear,” I said. “Why didn’t you carry them out?”

Orris swallowed.

Then—

“The Capting says ‘Come to the ’ouse’, an’ so I did. But when I gets there, there isn’t nobody there.”

I nodded.

“By the time you came, we had gone. But he didn’t say ‘Come with Friar.’”

This was a bow at a venture, but from the fellow’s face I saw I was right. Friar had come back to Wagensburg, only to find us gone.

“I’m through with ’im now, sir. ’E picked me up that night, an’ wot could I do?”

“Quite sure you’re through with him?”

“Strike me dead, sir.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Jus’ lookin’ noun’, sir.”

“For Captain Mansel or me.” As the fellow began to protest, “Your only chance with me is to tell the truth. There’s a river a mile away, and I’ve carried a blackguard’s body further than that. You’d better get this, Orris. I’ll put you down, like a dog: but I’ll never give you away.” Orris moistened his lips. “And think this over, Orris. The police have their hand on Friar for the murder of Goat.” I saw the man start. “But they’re waiting to pull him in, till he’s served their turn. Anyone running with him will naturally be involved.”

With vehemence and at some length, Orris declared that he had no hand in the deed.

“I know you hadn’t,” said I. “But police will be police, you know. And if I were you, I’d get out while the going was good.”

“’Arf a chance,” said Orris. “That’s all I want. — about, I’ve bin. Firs’ the stuff’s in a castle, be’ind a wall. Yes, but ’ow joo get at the wall? Nice sort o’ death, I don’ think – to go down that — well. ‘Oh, we mus’ ’ave a carpet.’ An’ when I gets back, wiv me fingernails arf tore out, cursed silly an’ tole to beat it… An’ then you comes up an’ smears ’im – all over the — road. ‘But that’s all night,’ he says. ‘Let ’im crack the safe. An’ when ’e’s full up, we’ll meet ’im an’ take the jools.’ An’ orf he goes to Salzburg… Never see ’im again for the nex’ ten days, an’ Sloper an’ me on tick, an’ the lan’lord as rude as rude. But we ’adn’t no money to pay ’im. Never a drink nor a smoke for seven days. That’s wot I’ve ’ad to put up with, an’ that’s Gawd’s truth. I tell you, sir, I’ve ’ad some. Seven — days wivout a fag or a drop of anythin’. An’ the victuals the lan’lord give us not fit for a — dog. An’ then ’e comes back, an’ orf to Wagensburg. Another — washout… ’E an’ Sloper buys it, an’ I’m picked up. Talk about claowns in a circus… An’ then ’e ’as the nerve to talk about comic relief. ‘I can see the comic,’ I says; ‘but where’s the relief?’ An’ then ’e turns nasty. ‘Goat’s found that,’ ’e says. ‘D’you want to find it, too?’ An’ then he talks about fortunes an’ bein’ made rich for life. Course ’e’s got them jools on the brain; ’e’d sell ’is soul to ’ave them, an’ — cheap at the price. ‘’Istorical gems’, ’e calls them, ’an’ wurf ’alf Lombard Street.’ But wot I says is wot fence is goin’ to touch ’istorical gems? ‘Coz they can’t be broken, I says. But ’e says ‘That’s all right; I’m goin’ to sell the stuff. An’ I’m goin’ to sell it big.’ Then back to Wagensburg. Not up to the ’ouse. ’Ave to crawl the las’ three miles, to catch you out. An’ when we gets there, you’ve gone. Another — wash-out… So ’e says, ‘They’re for the border. I’ll ’ave them yet.’ So ’e gets out ’is maps an’ starts in. ’Alf mad, ’e is, for fear you’ll beat ’im to it. Seems ’is passport ain’t right for enterin’ Italy. So it’s got to be done this side. So Sloper’s dropped at Doris, an’ me at Godel, while ’e drives up an’ down like a rangin’ beast. ‘Look everywhere,’ ’e says. ‘They’re somewhere about. Be on the main road at ’alf past seven tomorrow, to make yer report.’ Well, I don’ work that way. So I ’as a bite at a pub an’ comes to the show. An’, Gorblime, there you are, sir. An’ then Mr Bell pulls me in. ’E ain’t up to your weight, you know. Punter said ’e wasn’t, right from the first.”

Of this I was not so sure. Friar had a very fine instinct – and now he had got a long way. If Bell had not seen Orris…

“Where were you to meet him?” I said.

“A mile towards Doris, sir, where ’e set me down. Jus’ the other side of a bridge, with ’alf its parapet gone.”

“And if you don’t meet him – what then?”

Orris wrinkled his brow.

“I take it,” he said slowly, “’e’ll come to Godel, ’isself.”

There was a little silence.

I dared not trust the man. He might have been honest with me: but once he was out of my hands, he would make a bee-line for Friar. Apart from anything else, he would not return empty handed: he had an offering worth having, to lay at his master’s feet; for he had run me to earth.

I glanced at my watch.

Then—

“Take him outside, Bell. I’m going to change.”

Godel was eight miles from Kalitch: and Kalitch was a small junction upon the main line. The Salzbung express would stop there – so far as I could remember, at about a quarter past two. And Orris must take that train – and must not leave it until it came to Salzburg at eight o’clock.

I changed as fast as I could. Then I unlocked my dispatch case and called the two in.

“Let’s see your passport, Orris.”

Slowly and with obvious reluctance, Orris produced the thing.

I took out a cheque book and sat down and wrote a cheque.

Pay Mr Samuel Orris the sum of fifty pounds.

This, on a Salzburg Bank.

Then I wrote a note to the Bank, stopping the cheque. I handed the cheque to Orris, who read its burden, wide eyed. Then he looked up.

“I’m sure it’s very good of you, sir. An’ you can take it from me I ’aven’t seen nothin’ tonight.”

I regarded him grimly.

“The trouble is, Orris, you’ll have to cash it damned quick.” I passed him the note to the Bank. “Give that the once over, will you?”

As Orris read its contents, I watched his face change.

“’Ere, wot’s this?” he cried.

I took the note out of his hand.

“Bell will post that letter tonight in the box of the Post Office van on the Salzburg express. At a junction called Kalitch, Orris, eight miles from here. The train will reach Salzburg at eight, so the letter will be delivered about ten o’clock. But the Bank will open at nine. So if you were to take that train, you could cash your cheque before the letter arrived.”

Orris’ face was a study.

The man had thought me a fool and had hoped to eat his cake and to have it, too.

At length—

“Orright, sir,” he said. “ I’ll jus’ nip back to the pub an’–”

“You’ll leave with Bell,” I said, “ in two minutes’ time.”

“But–”

“Hold your tongue.” I covered the letter and stamped it and gave it to Bell. “Take him to Kalitch, Bell, buy him a ticket for Salzburg and put him on to the train. And post that letter in the van. If he wants his fifty quid, he can damned well go and get it. If he gives the slightest trouble, bump him off.”

“Very good, sir.”

“You should be back here by five. Any way, I’m going to meet Friar. So, if you should be late, you’ll know where I am.”

“I shan’t be late, sir.”

“All right.”

Bell turned to Orris.

“Come on.”

Looking ready to burst, the other went out before him into the night.

(If what Orris had said was true, I had cooked his goose, for when I met Friar the next morning, Friar would know that Orris had opened his mouth. That being so, for him to return to Friar would be bad for his health. Indeed, as I saw it, he would be well advised to draw his fifty pounds and make his way back to England as fast as he could. But if, in fact, he had lied, any useful attempt to reach Friar would entail his casting the money into the draught.)

As soon as their footsteps had faded—

“May I come in?” said Colette.

“Of course,” I said.

She came in.

“I saw you had someone there.”

“That’s right, Colette. A blackguard. Bell’s seeing him off.”

She looked at me very hard.

“But not the Boche, Adam?”

“Oh, no,” I said. “Much smaller fry. Still, I didn’t want him around.”

“I think you are in danger,” she said.

“Not at the moment, Colette. And on Friday morning I shall be out of the wood.”

“In thirty-six hours. Dear God, how I wish that we had been leaving tonight.”

With an effort, I shrugged my shoulders.

“Tomorrow will serve, Colette.”

“Oh, it will serve – yes. At least, I suppose it will.” With a sudden movement, she pushed back her thick fair hair. “You are very good to play at The Vat of Melody. I begged Jasper not to ask you; but he said that you should decide. And I think you are a very good actor, for he came back and said that you were as pleased as Punch.”

“I don’t suppose the Boche will be there.”

“But someone who knows you may.”

“Then I shall have to beat it. I cannot be taken now.”

A hand went up to her chin.

“Why did you join us, Adam? If you knew a way out, you ought to have gone at once.”

“I had to wait for a message.”

“You have it now?”

I nodded.

She caught my arm.

“Then leave at once, Adam, I beg you. The night is young. And I will explain to Jasper. And you shall join us when we are in Italy.”

I took her hand and put it up to my lips.

“You are very sweet, Colette. But I cannot do that.”

“And you are very – resolute, Adam.”

“I try to be.”

Colette looked out of the tent and up at the moonlit sky.

“I still do not understand why you joined the troupe. You could have waited for your message without doing that.”

“Call it a whim, Colette.”

“I will call it what you bid me. I may not share your secrets – as others do.”

“This is not mine – I told you. And one day you will thank me for not revealing the truth.”

Colette shook hen head.

“Never. If you had done murder, I would be glad to know it, for two can bear such a burden better than one.”

I smiled.

“I have done no murder, Colette.”

“You need not tell me that. And if ever you slew a man, it would be because he was better dead than alive.”

“Listen,” I said. “You have not yet told Jasper that I shall not leave with you.”

“I shall tell him, tomorrow, Adam, when you have slipped away. Then he cannot try to dissuade you, because it will be too late. He has a great regard for you, Adam, and he will be very much troubled until we see you again.”

“He is a good man,” I said. “I like and admire and respect him with all my heart.”

“I have no parents,” said Colette: “but for twelve years now he has been my father and mother – and more than that. He has often gone hungry, that I might eat. When I had typhoid fever, he spent the whole of his savings to put me into a ladies’ nursing home. And once he sold his watch, to buy me a length of silk. He is but a strolling player, but he has a great gentleman’s heart.”

“You’re perfectly right,” I said – and so she was.

Had Jasper been born to a title, he would have adorned the estate of, say, some landowner of the Victorian age. Shrewd, benevolent, masterly, he would have used his tenants as tenants should be used: his servants, I think, would have loved him: and he and his would have prospered, because he was in command.

Colette smiled.

“I like great gentlemen,” she said.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “I may be late for breakfast. I have an appointment to keep a little way off. But I shall be back in time to help strike the camp.”

Colette regarded me gravely.

“I shall be glad,” she said, “when you are in Italy.”