Читать книгу The Serpent In The Garden - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 10

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He had not gone many yards along the platform before he heard the sound of running feet behind, and a man wearing a porter’s badge dashed up and swung the suitcase out of his hand.

He turned in some surprise as a voice cried, “Vite—vite! Allons donc! Suivez-moi, monsieur!”

On the verge of indignant protest the words were choked in his throat. The face that smiled up at him under the porter’s cap was the face of Pierre.

“What on earth——” began Peter and was instantly cut short.

“Yes, yes! You would like to know! I will tell you later. Follow me now!” And Pierre ran ahead, gripping the suitcase and driving all and sundry from his path.

Peter strode after him, bewildered, but determined to play his part.

He admired the dexterity with which Pierre threaded his way. There was something superlatively artistic about it. He might have been a porter all his life.

They dodged through the great station at a tremendous pace, up steps and along corridors, until finally Pierre dived through a half-open door into what appeared to be a small office and dropped his burden upon the floor.

“Ah, mon Dieu!” he ejaculated. “But what a chase! This is where we make another—what do you call it?—lightning change. Peter—mon très cher—you have very nearly cooked my goose!”

“I don’t see——” began Peter.

“Ah no! You would not see.” Pierre’s eyes chaffed him openly. “But you should never quarrel with your victim. You should be patient—always patient. Why did you not hand over the lady without hesitation? Surely you did not want her yourself!”

“It’s a damnable position!” burst from Peter. “The man’s an infernal scoundrel—anyone can see. She didn’t want to go with him.”

Pierre chuckled derisively. “My dear good fellow, that goes without saying. But now wait! You shall tell me everything presently. First, let me put on my own attire! Second, let us catch our train! Et après cela, we will smoke our cigars and breathe.” He flung off his porter’s cap and badge and snatched his own black hat and coat from a peg. “Now we are ready, hein? We must hurry, Peter, hurry. Wait! This is for you.”

He suddenly produced a broad-brimmed hat similar to his own and presented it to Peter.

“You have a mackintosh? Put it on! Turn up the collar and cover up your so-English face as much as possible! Remember you are my colleague! We are two journalists and we travel at the very end of the train—in the luggage van if we must—if only we keep out of sight. Are you ready? We will go.”

He swept Peter along on the tide of his impetuosity, and in a few seconds they were out once more in the turmoil of the station, hurrying unheeded through the varying crowds, heading for a destination with which Pierre was obviously familiar.

Peter gave himself up to his guidance with a curious sense of exhilaration. When Pierre took the helm in this energetic fashion there was nothing else to be done, and he inspired a confidence that was highly satisfying.

He was somewhat surprised that Pierre did not stop to obtain tickets, but when they reached the turnstile a folded paper snatched from his pocket passed them through. The official nodded without a word.

As they walked on to the platform at which the train was waiting, Pierre’s pace became more leisured.

Peter began to look about him for his late travelling companion, but was instantly reproved. “Keep your head down, foolish! Get into the first empty carriage! Ah, this will do. There is no one here. Get in, I tell you! Here is a paper! Read it!”

He seized a crumpled newspaper from the seat and thrust it into Peter’s hands with a threatening frown that provoked a faint snigger from his half brother.

“You laugh at nothing,” said Pierre sternly. “Here are some glasses!” He pulled a case from his pocket. “Put them on—and read—read!”

Peter complied, huddling himself down obligingly to hide as much of his so-English face as possible. Pierre remained on the platform, glancing up and down with casual interest and guarding the door.

No one attempted to enter the carriage, but Peter had a suspicion that Pierre would have produced some very cogent reason for diverting any intruder had one presented himself. He waited patiently, asking no questions, while the turmoil outside increased and the train began to fill.

Finally, as a warning whistle sounded, Pierre got in and banged the door.

“All is well,” he said. “They are in a wagon-lit in front. Now, my friend, you shall tell me everything and why in heaven’s name you quarrelled with the count.”

“I think I had some reason,” said Peter, and proceeded to give an account of his doings to which Pierre listened with concentration and some amusement.

“And the lady played your game and let him think you were old friends and had travelled together from England!” he said. “That was very subtle of her.”

“Well, it was pretty obvious,” Peter retorted. “She didn’t like the look of the ruffian any better than I did. What are we going to do about it, Pierre? I loathe the thought of her being cooped up with him all night. We can’t keep an eye on them at this distance.”

Pierre patted his arm soothingly. “She will be all right,” he said with conviction. “The man is a scoundrel, yes. But he too has a game to play. If he had stayed in Paris, it would have been different, but he is taking her straight back. He is afraid to do anything else. She will be quite safe for the present.”

“You might let me into your side of the secret,” observed Peter, only slightly reassured.

Pierre smiled at him. “There is not much to tell. He has been watched but he eluded us. It was only this afternoon that we discovered that he had gone to meet the Calais train. Then I guessed that he had managed to fulfil his mission and would return with Madame’s daughter forthwith. Doubtless he carries with him documents for the agent in the south which I would give much to obtain. But I shall not succeed yet. I can only follow and watch.”

“And what am I to do?” said Peter in a voice from which any enthusiasm was markedly absent.

“You!” said Pierre. “You are going to be quite invaluable. You have already done wonders. Your only mistake was to quarrel with the count, and that can be remedied. Except for that, you will go on as you have begun. You will become the man who controls the traffic lights. I shall look to you for the signal—the red light for danger—the green light for safety. And the amber light—which you must never forget, my Peter—for marking time.”

The train was gathering speed. Peter gave a glance towards the darkness through which they were rushing. His eyes were a trifle sullen. “That’s all very fine,” he said. “I’m quite willing to be made use of. But I don’t quite see how it’s going to work. I’ve been shouldered out of it.”

“You can shoulder yourself in again,” said Pierre. “This demoiselle—she trusts you. She will welcome you back. She will turn to you as a friend.”

“Yes, but she’s in the brute’s power now. How am I going to get her out of it? I can’t very well force my way in through locked doors.” Peter’s voice held resentful perplexity.

Pierre laughed. “You can do that—and more, if I know you. In fact, it should be easy for you now. You have established yourself as her friend and cousin. You have only to follow that up. You are not afraid?”

“Afraid!” echoed Peter.

“Well, but that is all you need—a little courage—a little originality—and patience. You will always need patience, Peter.” Pierre took out a cigar and lit it with an air of smiling philosophy. He was evidently far from despair.

“You’ll have to explain a bit more,” said Peter.

The Frenchman made a small grimace. “I must remember that you are only an apprentice. Later—I shall expect more of you. Écoutez donc! We return to Le Beau Rivage and there we remain—or shall I say, you remain—for three days—passive. Then, seeing no sign of the lady, you become tired of your inactivity, and—being English—you decide upon a bold step. Something must be done about it, you say. I will not be cut off thus from my new-found relative. You go therefore to the Villa des Sirènes in broad daylight, having nothing to hide. You send in your card, and you ask to be allowed to see the belle cousine.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do!” commented Peter. “The door will be shut in my face—if it’s ever opened.”

“That is possible,” admitted Pierre. “But, remember, you are English and you do not know when you are beaten. We will take it that the door is opened, but that you are refused admittance. You then remember that in France it is customary to ask for la mère. You bribe the porter to take in your card.”

“Well? Go on!” said Peter. “She also refuses. What do I do then?”

Pierre’s eyes twinkled. “Then, mon ami, if that should happen, you betray some slight awkwardness—toujours à l’anglais, you understand—and you ask if the Count himself will have the goodness to receive you, in order that you may offer him an apology for a small misunderstanding that has arisen between you.”

“I’m damned if I’ll do that!” exclaimed Peter.

“Oh yes, you will.” Pierre leaned back to smoke at his ease. “That apology must be made sooner or later—the sooner the better. And it must be a very ample and sufficient one. You will ask his pardon for any offensive language you may have used in the heat of the moment. You will tell him that you hold yourself greatly to blame, but that you did not fully understand his position and travelling as your cousin’s escort had given you—possibly—too exalted an idea of your own. And you will ask him with your nice English smile to shake hands with you and forget it.”

“I’m damned!” said Peter again.

Pierre turned upon him and laughed. “Not yet, mon frère. There is still hope for you. You will lay yourself in the dust and let the Italian wipe his shoes on you—even kick you if he desires. And you will then get up, humiliated but without any resentment, and tell him that the punishment was well deserved but that you now rely upon his national generosity to forgive you.”

“Is it a joke?” said Peter.

“No—no! It is what you have to do before you can hope to establish the traffic lights. When you have appeased him—and you will, my friend—you have an aptitude if you will but use it—you will then revert to your relationship with mademoiselle and ask him very humbly to allow you to renew your acquaintance with her. He will probably demand as a condition that you repeat your apology in her presence, and to this you will gladly accede, in the spirit that will accept any conditions to attain its end. After that, the wound to his vanity will be healed, though he may continue to treat you with contempt which you will endure with the respect of an inferior.”

He paused. There was a dangerous light in Peter’s eyes, but he did not give vent to his feelings for several seconds, while the train roared through the night making a dull background to mental tumult.

He spoke at length with a certain amount of restraint. “I wonder precisely why you say all this to me, Pierre, when you know perfectly well that I’ll see that dirty dog in hell before I’ll do anything of the kind you mention.”

Pierre took the cigar from his lips, and it was as if he removed the smile with it. “Why do I say it, you ask? Because, Peter, if you are going to be of the smallest help to a girl who is in a very difficult and even perilous situation, and who, heaven knows, may need your help urgently on a day that may not be very far away, I think it best to show you the only manner in which you can hope to approach her. I will not speak any more of your desire to serve me since I see that that will not avail. But if your pride is of the brainless sort which cannot take the strain, I will say no more at all.”

“Good heavens!” said Peter, startled. “Well, that’s pretty straight from the shoulder, anyway.”

“When I hit—I hit straight always,” rejoined Pierre. “It is more simple and more effective. But I do not hit unless I am sure of my mark. And I do not waste my ammunition upon men of straw.”

Peter uttered a gloomy grunt of appreciation. “Thanks for that compliment, anyway. Well, of course I want to be of use, but I can’t quite see the point of eating dirt to that extent.”

“I have eaten many spoonfuls,” said Pierre quietly. “To me it is only the aftertaste that matters. It is only children who refuse medicine because it is unpleasant.”

Peter grunted again. “You have a convincing way of expressing yourself,” he remarked. “I’ll think it over.”

“Yes, think carefully!” said Pierre. “And remember that pride is after all only a luxury which most of us can renounce with advantage. You are young, Peter. You have yet to learn these things.”

He laid a kindly hand upon Peter’s knee with the words, and in spite of himself Peter melted. “You’re a good chap, Pierre,” he said. “But you’ve given me a pretty tough task. I’ll see what I can do with it.”

“I am sure you will succeed,” smiled Pierre. “When you have thought it over you will see that it is worth the sacrifice. But you shall choose for yourself. I shall ask nothing of you until you have decided.”

Peter looked at him with a grin. “You’re pretty safe there, you old rascal,” he said. “You know I couldn’t back out of this if I tried.”

Pierre’s eyebrows made a most expressive gesture upwards. “Good, Peter, good!” he said. “Enfin, we will work together.”