The streets of Pau between one-thirty and two in the morning are empty and silent, but outside the Heriot mansion there was a glare of light from the first-floor windows, and the sound of music and voices; numbers of cars were drawn up along the drive and on the broad gravel sweep—Colin looked round for a place for his own. Bonnecourt however pulled up at the front door, and got out.
‘Where is Pierre?’ he asked of several chauffeurs who were hanging about, smoking.
‘Chez-lui—he entertains us, a few at a time’ one of the men replied, grinning.
‘Fetch him!’ Bonnecourt said, curtly—he turned to Colin, who had parked his car. ‘Just wait a second—I shall put my car away’ he said in English, and drove off towards the garage, converted from the former ample coachhouses. Pierre, the old chauffeur, met him; he knew the hunter well, and readily unlocked the door of an empty garage, and re-locked it after Bonnecourt had driven his car in. ‘Monsieur remains for the night?’
‘Probably. Keep the key, Pierre.’
‘Monsieur has no luggage?’ the old man asked, looking doubtfully at Bonnecourt’s rather worn climbing-suit and dusty mountaineering boots.
‘No—I do not dance! Merci, Pierre.’
In fact neither Colin nor Bonnecourt were in the least dressed for a ball; both were travel-stained, dusty, and sweaty, and the hired butler, laid on for the evening, looked at them with hostility when he opened the door of the flat.
‘Milady has guests’ he said, repressively. Colin took over.
‘First I wish to speak with the Comtesse d’ Ericeira, who is staying in the house—but also with Milady, if she is free.’ He stepped into the hall past the man, followed by Bonnecourt—‘My name is Monnro’ he said firmly.
As always on such occasions the regular servants were about, including old Jeanne, the housemaid—she overheard Colin’s request for Luzia, whispered to the butler, and slipped away; in a moment the Portuguese girl appeared, ravishing in her new dress.
‘Alors! What goes on?’ she asked. ‘Colin, you look very dirty!’
‘I am—and starving too! You know Bonnecourt?’ The hunter bowed. ‘Listen, Luzia—Julia’s baby has come prematurely; Bonnecourt brought her down tonight to the clinic here—probably saved her life.’
‘But why were you not there? You said you would be.’
‘I was held up—never mind about that,’ Colin said impatiently.
‘The baby is born? Is it a boy or a girl?’
‘It isn’t born yet—she’s having a Caesarian at this moment.’
‘What is this, Caesarian?’ Colin explained.
‘Ai Jézush! Luzia exclaimed distressfully. ‘Why did I leave her? Oh, what can I do?’
‘Get us each a whisky, and some supper, if there’s any going. And take me somewhere where I can telephone—I’ve got to ring up London.’
At that moment the music stopped, and many of the dancers came out into the hall, Lady Heriot among them; she caught sight of her two unexpected guests, looking so strange among the ball-dresses and white ties, and went over to greet them. Luzia spoke hurriedly.
‘Julia is being operated on for a baby; it comes too soon’ she said. ‘And they want whisky, and Colin—Monsieur Monnro—desires to telephone.’
Lady Heriot took everything in turn, calmly. ‘Is Mrs. Jamieson at Professor Martin’s clinic? Ah, well then she’ll be all right—he’s wonderful. Mr. Monro, you’d better come and telephone from my bedroom—there are people everywhere else!’ She led him into a room where the bed and all the furniture were covered with bright evening wraps; she pushed some of these aside from the head of the bed. ‘There’s the telephone; I’ll get Jeanne to bring you some whisky. I’m afraid that butler-man isn’t much good—these people laid on by the day never are. The boys will see to Bonnecourt. Don’t worry about your cousin—though it’s terribly tiresome for her, and anxious for you. Where’s her husband?’
‘I don’t know, but the Office will; I want them to cable to him. Thank you very much, Lady Heriot.’
Colin put through his call to the Office, and noticed with relief that there was an ashtray with a butt in it on the bed-table; he lit a cigarette himself—clearly Her Ladyship didn’t mind smoke in her bedroom, and he wanted one badly. When the number answered—‘The Duty Officer, please. A call from France’ he said. When the night Duty Officer spoke the young man gave his name, and then started to dictate ‘an urgent cable’ to be sent to Colonel Jamieson.
‘But he’s back’ the Duty Officer said.
‘Back where?’
‘Here in London—at his house, I imagine. He got home this morning.’
‘Oh, good. That will save time. Well ring him up at once and give him a message, will you? Got a pencil?’
‘Now? It’s after two’ the Duty Officer protested.
‘Yes, now—his wife’s ill.’ Colin dictated the gist of the cable that he had composed in his head as he drove to the Heriots, and gave the address and telephone number of the clinic.
‘And where will you be, Sir?’
‘Either at the Clinic, or the Hotel Victoire—I don’t know the number, but it’s on the Route de Toulouse too, close by. Look it out and tell the Colonel.’ (Colin knew that the Office had telephone directories for every town in Europe.) He made the Duty Officer repeat the message and the two addresses over to him, and rang off—then he dialled the Exchange again, and told them to ring back and give the price of the call. At this point old Jeanne came in bearing a small tray with a bottle of whisky, a syphon, and a tumbler; thankfully Colin poured out a drink for himself, and swallowed two or three mouthfuls—they did him good, and glass in hand he went out into the hall.
There he encountered a fresh scene of excitement. Three uniformed agents de police were interviewing Bonnecourt, while the guests looked on in fascinated consternation. The sergeant on the motor-cycle, primed by Julia’s helpful neighbour up at Larége, had reported on his return to Police Headquarters in Pau that Madame had been taken to a clinique d’accouchement by Bonnecourt himself; the well-informed Gendarmerie forthwith sent a car with three officers to Martin’s establishment. (It is in fact the practice of the Sureté to send rather dumb men in uniform to conduct their preliminary enquiries; they prefer to keep themselves in the background.) The police car missed Colin and Bonnecourt at the clinic by a matter of minutes; but an excited nurse, who had overheard Colin talking to Bonnecourt, said that the Monsieur Anglais and his friend had driven off to the house of le Lord Heriot—and thither the police followed them.
In fact after his wife had told him of the visit of the Sureté to his house, Bonnecourt realised perfectly well that to go down to Pau was to put his head into the lion’s mouth; but when he found Julia so ill, and heard Fourget’s report on her state, he never hesitated—he was not a person who did hesitate. He took the precaution of making old Pierre, the chauffeur, lock up his car, but after that he trusted to luck. However, it looked as though his luck was not going to hold; when Colin came out of Lady Heriot’s bedroom the three policemen were saying firmly that they wished to take ce Monsieur to the Commissariat for interrogation; at once.
Before Colin could think of any useful intervention Luzia, glittering in her white dress and pearls, with diamond stars in her dark hair, stepped forward and put in her oar. Why had ces Messieurs of the Sureté called on her friend three days before at Larége, and troubled her? Doubtless this was why Madame had now suffered a fausse couche, and was even at this moment undergoing an operation. Old Lord Heriot, emerging from his dressing-room, where he had been restoring himself with a furtive whisky, overheard this, and first questioned Luzia, in English; the girl gave him angry details of the police visit and Julia’s distress—‘and now Colin—Monsieur Monnro—tells me that she is being operated on to deliver the child.’
The old peer, whose family had lived in Pau for three generations, and done much to build up the little town’s prosperity as an English tourist resort, knew exactly where he stood with the local authorities; moreover he had liked Julia when she stayed with them, and was shocked by what had occurred. He spoke sharply to the agents. What was all this? It seemed that innocent British citizens had been frightened, worried, made ill—and now they, the police, come to his own house, and disturb his party. ‘C’est peu agréable!’ the old man said. ‘Surely Méssieurs know who I am?’ He suggested, brusquely, that the police should come into his study and explain this extraordinary intrusion; sheepishly, the police agreed, distinctly embarrassed. They were even more embarrassed on entering Lord Heriot’s study, which was full of rather loverly couples sitting-out; Lord Heriot coolly told the young men and women to clear off—‘I’m busy. Carry on on the stairs, if you must.’ Startled by the sight of the police the young people went, eager to find out what was going on.
The music had begun again, but not everyone went into the big drawing-room to dance; many stayed in the hall, discussing these exciting goings-on in lowered voices, and looking curiously at Colin and Bonnecourt. Dick didn’t like any of this—he took the hunter by the arm, down in the lift, and out by the back door; thence he led him across the garden into the darkness of the trees, beyond the blaze from the lighted windows.
‘Where do we go?’ Bonnecourt asked.
‘Well somewhere out of reach of the bloody agents, for the moment!’ Dick replied. Luzia had already told him about the Sureté’s men calling on Julia, and their enquiries about de Lassalle; he fully realised in what danger Bonnecourt stood—he had had a very fair idea, for a long time, of his friend’s activities, besides smuggling and hunting isard. ‘We’ve got a very very old, stupid gardener, who’s been no use for years; tonight he may be!—I’m going to park you in his cottage while we think about the next move. I don’t think you’d better go back to Larége just now—do you?’
‘Definitely not. Thank you, Dick.’
Dick Heriot had some trouble in arousing the ancient gardener, who was rather deaf as well as stupid—but at last he opened the door of his cottage, and blinked sleepily at them. ‘Ah, Monsieur—comment ça va?’
‘This gentleman stays here tonight’ Dick said. ‘I know you have a second bed, where your daughter slept till she married—how is she, by the way?’
‘A third child, Monsieur, last week—a boy!’
‘Oh, marvellous! Well now, Lucien, bring the matelas off the other bed in here, and put it on the floor by the fire, so that Monsieur can sleep in the warmth.’ He turned to Bonnecourt, while the old man shuffled off—‘Sorry you never had any supper, but I thought I’d better get you out of the way while His Lordship was keeping the police occupied. Smart, isn’t he?’
‘You are all “smart”—and kind also’ Bonnecourt said. When the old man returned, dragging a mattress and some blankets, Dick shook him by the shoulder and addressed him sternly. ‘You say nothing to anyone that this gentleman is with you—this is understood?’
‘It is understood, Monsieur.’
‘You stay put till I come’ Dick said to Bonnecourt, and returned to the house. This was counter-espionage and no mistake, he thought gleefully, as he left the darkling trees and came into the lighted space below the windows; the police-sergeant was still standing near the front door. Just as well he’d taken Bonnecourt out the other way. He went up in the lift, found Nick, and told him what he had done.
‘Good enough’ Nick said. ‘His Lordship must soon have finished with those types. Clever old thing, isn’t he?’
At that moment the door of the study opened, and Lord Heriot and the three policemen came out into the hall. After listening to their excuses, and their reasons for regarding Bonnecourt as involved in the escape of an O.A.S. saboteur, the old gentleman had given them a long lecture on the wonderful work that M. Bonnecourt had done in helping members of the ‘Royal Air Force’ to escape into Spain during the last war—‘After all, we and the English are allies, n’est-ce pas?’ The agents agreed politely, but remained firm: their orders were to take ce Monsieur back to the Commissariat for interrogation.
‘Oh very well—though I dislike this behaviour in my house extremely’ Lord Heriot said.
But where was Bonnecourt? No sign of him in the hall, or the room where the dancing was going on, or at the buffet in the dining-room. Rather apologetically, the police asked Lord Heriot’s permission to question the servants—the butler-for-the-night, pointing to Nick, said that he thought he had seen ce jeune Milord go out with the other gentleman ‘not dressed for a ball’—glowering at Colin as he spoke. Nick protested that he had never left Luzia’s side—which he had not; and as the twins were indistinguishable, and Luzia supported Nick’s statement, the wretched agents were flummoxed. They said, uncomfortably, that they ought to search the flat—led, stiffly, by Lord Heriot they walked through the various bedrooms, but there was no opening of cupboard doors; and in the servants’ quarters the regular staff, headed by old Jeanne, all averred that they had seen nothing, and muttered ‘Mais par example!’—looking with detestation at the intruders.
While this performance was going on Luzia murmured to Dick that she wanted to go to the clinic, and hear how Julia was; Colin said he would go too—he had snatched a hasty supper at the buffet while Lord Heriot was interviewing the police in his study, and Dick was hiding Bonnecourt in old Lucien’s cottage. ‘But I’d better wait to see these infernal police’ he said, ‘and tell them where I am.’ At that moment Lord Heriot and the three agents re-appeared, and he told his host where he was going.
‘Yes, of course. I do hope everything will be all right’ Lord Heriot said. ‘Oh, by the way, you had a call to London, didn’t you? The inter called up to say that it cost eleven new francs.’
‘Oh yes—sorry, I didn’t hear the ring. I told them to report the call’ Colin said. As he handed over the money Nick uttered a dismal protest—‘Really, your Lordship!’ Colin, amused, thought how Scotch Lord Heriot still was; but then the French were just the same about money; he wouldn’t have lost the habit out here.
‘Oh well, debts are debts’ Lord Heriot said, pocketing Colin’s notes. ‘Thanks, Monro.’
Luzia appeared, a white scarf thrown over her shoulders above her white dress.
‘Dear Lord Heriot, will you make my excuses to Lady Heriot? I leave your lovely party for a very short time—I do want to go to the clinic and hear how Julia is.’
‘Oh yes. Is Monro taking you? If not I’d better telephone to the garage for Pierre.’
‘I’m taking her’ Dick said. ‘We shan’t be long. Come on, Luzia.’
Colin need not have worried about seeing the police. The three agents, who had gone down in the lift after their fruitless search of the flat for Bonnecourt, were outside the front door questioning the waiting chauffeurs—thanks to Dick’s prudence in using the servants’ entrance on his way to the cottage, all were able to vow that they had seen no one except le jeune Milord, strolling in the garden and returning to the house. Thwarted again, the most senior policeman installed a subordinate in Colin’s car before driving back to the Commissariat; Dick and Luzia were allowed to go alone, and Colin, still unsure of these suburban byways of Pau, followed them.
It was well after 2.30 a.m. when they arrived at the clinic, where Luzia in her glittering dress, her head starry with diamonds, created a fresh sensation among the nurses on this night of sensations—the emergency operation on the beautiful English lady, the visit of the police! The Professor had finished operating, and was on his way to bed, but courteously came down to report. Madame was still under the anaesthetic, but perfectly well; so was the baby—a boy, very small, only two-and-a-half kilograms—but ‘perfect’, and quite healthy. Luzia cajoled Martin—who like the nurses was struck by such a dazzling apparition—into letting her take a peep at Julia’s baby; the minute creature was swathed all over in cotton-wool, with hot-water bottles round it; its head, the only part visible, was bright red. ‘Why is it red?’ the girl asked. ‘Will it remain so? It is very ugly!’ The specialist laughed.
‘New-born infants are often red—it will not last. But it is a mercy that ce Monsieur brought Madame to me when he did; she was in an exceedingly grave condition. Another two hours—and the good God alone knows what might have happened!’
Colin, standing with Dick Heriot in the doorway of the babies’ crêche, overhead this, and was smitten with compunction. He had promised both Julia and Luzia to be back at Larége on a given day; but he wasn’t back, and hadn’t even telegraphed—without Bonnecourt’s blessed intervention by now Julia, and her child, might both be dead. When Luzia turned and looked at him with an accusing stare he went out of the room.
Dick followed him.
‘Where is Bonnecourt?’ Colin asked in the passage, in a low voice. ‘We must get him away—he’s saved Julia’s life, besides everything else.’
‘I stowed him in a place in the garden till we could fix something.’
‘Well get him away at once—out of this country. I can’t help—I’ve got this bloody agent tied to me, like a tin can to a dog’s tail! But I expect B. knows where to contact our people in Pamplona.’
‘Why should he know that?’ Dick asked.
‘Oh, he was on our pay-roll during the last War,’ Colin said, recklessly.
‘No! Goodness, that’s funny!’ Dick exclaimed, laughing. ‘All right—we’ll see to him. You’d better get to bed, Monro; sleep well with your police chum!’ He turned as Luzia came out. ‘Come on, Mademoiselle la Comtesse—“On with the dance”.’
‘You are rather silly, Dick,’ Luzia pronounced, as on the drive she crammed her flowing skirts into the car. ‘I am sorry to have left your Mother’s ball, but do hurry. I think something should be done immediately about M. Bonnecourt’ she added as they drove off. ‘Where is he, actually? I saw you take him away.’
‘I’ve hidden him.’
‘Well, he should be got across the frontier at once. If the Sureté are anything like our Special Police, they will not rest until they find him, now that they have seen him. And they only saw him because he brought Julia down. Will you act, Dick?’
‘Yes, I’ll act’ Dick promised. ‘It’s all poor Monro’s fault, letting everyone down by failing to turn up on time. But don’t be sour with me, sweet.’ He put a hand on hers.
‘Drive! Fast!’ Luzia said, removing her hand. ‘At this moment only one thing is important.’
* * *
In fact Dick had no need to act—Nick had already done so. His Father had described him to Julia as a pessimist—and one thing pessimists do is to foresee difficulties, and also, in some cases, arrange to avoid them. After his twin had driven Luzia off to the clinic Nick reflected on all he had just heard. If the Sureté had been up at Larége harrying Mrs. Jamieson things must be pretty serious; they certainly wouldn’t be satisfied with the rather perfunctory search of the flat carried out under his Father’s eye—they would come back and go over the whole place with a small-tooth comb. He must get Bonnecourt away immediately. Money—B. might need that. He himself had almost none; he went to his Mother’s room and raided her familiar, idiotic hiding-place, under the handkerchiefs in her dressing-table drawer—yes, nearly 5000 francs! Nick pocketed this, and went out, also by the back door, to the garage, where he told the chauffeur to put on his uniform and get out the family Humber, familiar to the police for miles around. ‘Take it out by the garage entrance, and wait outside in the road.’
‘At this hour of the morning, Monsieur?’ Pierre protested—he was enjoying his role of host to the local chauffeurs.
‘Yes. Ne discute pas, Pierre! Was-y-de-suite!’
While the old man, grumbling, went off to change Nick took a roundabout route through the gardens to Lucien’s cottage; on his way he looked through the trees towards the front of the house. Yes; sure enough there was a policeman at the door. He had less difficulty than his twin over getting in—at his first knock a voice, Bonnecourt’s, said ‘Qui est là?’
‘Moi—Nick. Open quickly.’
The hunter had been sleeping on the mattress in front of the fire; he let Nick in immediately. ‘What happens?’ he asked.
‘I’ll tell you outside—come along. Don’t wake the old boy.’
Softly they went out, and closed the door—a mercy Lucien was so deaf, Nick thought. As they walked through the shrubberies—‘I think you’d better clear off now, before they start setting up road-blocks and all that’ Nick said. ‘Get into Spain, I should.’
‘I agree—“like Hell” as I think you say. But—perdition!—I have practically no money with me; I came here unexpectedly. I’ve brought over 4000 francs—will that do you for the moment?’
‘Oh, amply. Merci, mon cher Nick.’
‘Have you contacts in Spain?’
‘Indeed yes.’ But as he stowed away Lady Heriot’s notes in an inner pocket he stood still and said—‘There is my wife.’
‘We’ll see about her. Send us an address in Spain where we can contact you.’
‘Monnro will know this.’
‘Oh will he? How odd! Well never mind,’ Nick said, walking on—then he stopped again, among the dark laurels. ‘Tell me where you want to cross from. I’m coming with you to wherever you want to be dropped.’
‘You drive?’
‘No—I’m taking you in my Mother’s car, with the chauffeur. Better security, I thought—all the police know old Pierre by sight.’
‘Quelle astuce! Merci, mon cher.’
‘Well where do we go?’ Nick asked, walking on.
‘Tardets’ Bonnecourt replied instantly. ‘I was born there.’
‘Good enough. I suppose you’ll cross by that path where you met the old Smiths, and retrieved their Thermos?’
‘By that—or by no path! I shall get some more sleep in the house of friends, and learn how the situation is before I cross; the frontier patrols may not have been alerted so far to the west. This is very good of you, Nick.’
They went out through the big garage gate; no police there yet, Nick noted thankfully—in fact with so many cars and chauffeurs about it could not have been a better night for evading the police unnoticed. The Humber was waiting in the small road outside, far away from the main entrance—‘Tardets’ Nick said to Pierre as they got in.
‘Tardets? At such an hour?’ the old man grumbled, nevertheless starting his engine.
‘Yes, Tardets!’ Nick said.
While they were still in the small quiet roads of the suburbs Nick suggested in English to Bonnecourt that he should lie on the floor of the car, ‘just in case’—Lady Heriot’s tartan rug was as usual folded up on the back seat, and the young man spread it over his passenger. This also proved to have been a wise precaution; as they drove through the main streets of Pau, twice police, waving torches, held them up—but recognising the venerable car, Pierre’s familiar face, and Nick’s grinning countenance, the gendarmes waved them on.
‘I don’t much care about this’ Nick said, still in English, to Bonnecourt when they were clear of the town. ‘I think we’d do better not to go through Ste. Marie de Pélérins—we aren’t so well known there. Can’t we by-pass it?’
Yes, one could take a bi-furcation towards Orthez, northwards, and after Ste. Marie bend south again, and rejoin the main road to St. Jean-Pied-de-Port, Bonnecourt replied from the floor. ‘But I must sit up to see the turning.’
‘All right, do.’ Quietly the hunter rose from the floor and sat on Nick’s right.
‘Quite soon, now’ he said after some time, also speaking in English. ‘But could we go more slowly?’ Pierre, still vexed, was pushing the Humber along at a considerable speed.
‘Ralentissez, Pierre’ Nick said.
‘Pourquoi? Moi, je voudrais me coucher!’ the old man replied.
‘Unless you wish Milord to congédier you first thing tomorrow, you obey orders!’ Nick said firmly. ‘Drive more slowly.’
‘If Monsieur Nick intends to be prompt, he means today! In two hours we shall have the dawn’ the irrepressible Pierre replied—both the men in the back laughed.
‘There is the turning—to the right’ Bonnecourt said after a moment.
‘Ici à droite, Pierre,’ Nick transmitted the direction in French.
‘This is not the direct route to Tardets, Monsieur’ the old man protested. ‘After all, I know these roads, moi!’ Nick leaned forward and took him by the shoulder.
‘Pierre, either you do what you are told, or I drive’ he said, very slowly and quietly. Reluctantly, the chauffeur turned to the right, still grumbling—‘Moi, I do not understand what goes on.’
‘This is not necessary. To obey orders suffices’ Nick Heriot told him.
After a considerable détour, still following Bonnecourt’s directions the car turned left—that is to say south—again, and well beyond Ste. Marie regained the main road, which here swings up in a big loop towards the Pyrenees; Tardets lies almost at the apex of this loop. But some distance short of the little grey mountain town, and well before the dawn, Bonnecourt, constantly staring out of the window, touched Nick on the shoulder. ‘Let him stop here.’
Nick told Pierre to stop. They were on a quiet stretch of road between beechwoods—quite out in the country.
‘Monsieur Nick said he wished to go to Tardets; this is not Tardets’ the chauffeur replied. He was one of the few people who knew the twins apart.
‘Pierre, one other word, and I will give you the beating of your life, and throw you out on the road’ Nick said, still slowly—now it was Pierre who laughed. ‘Monsieur Nick est impayable’ he said, pulling up.
Bonnecourt got out, and wrung Nick by the hand. ‘I cannot thank you enough; I hardly thought we should manage it.’
‘Send us an address’ Nick said—he hadn’t much faith in Colin. ‘Address it to my Father; his mail won’t be tampered with! ‘We’ll keep an eye on Madame, and let you know how she is.’
‘Thank you—and please also let me know how all goes with Mme. Jimmison and her child. Such a courageous, such a courteous woman—truly noble!’
The big car had to drive on some distance before reaching a place where it could be turned, in the mouth of a small lane leading up to the left; Pierre manoeuvred it round, and started back towards Pau. As he did so, they saw in the headlights Bonnecourt standing at the roadside—he was too prudent to enter the lane while the car was there, but Pierre was not deceived.
‘Ah!—this is the place. Not in Tardets at all! And now will Monsieur Nick tell me why the police pursue his friend, who must be driven all over the region in the middle of the night to evade them, and hides his car in our garage?’
Nick spoke rather carefully. ‘Pierre, you know M. Bonnecourt perfectly well; he is our friend. But do you ignore the fact that he saved the lives of countless members of the Royal Air Force’—Nick rolled all those Rs in the true French fashion—‘during the last war, taking them across the frontier at the risk of his life? Tonight he has again risked his life to bring a friend of ours down to a clinique here, because she was having a fausse couche.’
‘Then why do the police seek him?’ Pierre pursued obstinately.
‘I do not know—and if I did I should not tell you! For you there is only one essential: to keep that garage door locked, and your mouth shut. Is that understood? We owe M. Bonnecourt much.’
‘C’est entendu’ Pierre said. ‘Now, without ce Monsieur, can we return by the direct route, through Ste. Marie?’
‘Yes.’
But the return journey showed how wise Nick’s pessimistic precaution in making the détour had been. There were roadblocks on both sides of Ste. Marie des Pélérins, and the police were much more pertinacious than those in Pau. Nick’s evening clothes lent colour to his story that he had been at a party with friends near St. Jean Pied-de-Port, and the Humber’s papers confirmed his statement that he was a son of le Lord Heriot; but it was all rather disturbing, and took a long time—day was breaking as they approached Pau.
‘Let Monsieur Nick continue to tell his own lies’ old Pierre growled, seeing another road-block ahead. And this time even the Pau police were more difficult; there had been time for them to be more fully briefed, and they wished to know why the young Milord had left the grand ball at his home?—they knew positively that the man they sought, Bonnecourt, had been seen in Milord’s house. Nick managed to bluff it out. For him, he had not seen M. Bonnecourt, he had occupied himself with the guests of his parents; but he had slipped away to visit friends who were also having a party that night, as he had long since promised to do—the party of Miladi Heriot had been given à l’improviste for a Portuguese young lady, the daughter of the Duc de Ericeira. Doubtless the police would have a record of her entry, some weeks ago. Her prénom? Luzia.
He just got by with it, with this flourish of details, but he was devoutly thankful when Pierre had swung the Humber in through the garage gate; the young man got out and closed and bolted it—he thanked Pierre, and once more enjoining him to keep his mouth shut, he walked across to the house.
The party was over. No cars encumbered the drive any more, but a small, rather sleepy agent still stood by the front door—Nick saw him from a distance, and went round to the back; here the door was locked. But when people have been brought up in a house as children they know it as rabbits know their secret runs and burrows; Nick Heriot bethought him of two other places, the laundry and the old bakery. Both the doors were locked, but there was a window in the laundry which could be eased up with a coin and climbed through, because it had a defective catch—he and Dick had used it dozens of times for surreptitious entries. He used it again now, and made his way through a maze of passages to the front hall, where he went up in the lift. The temporary butler, like the cars, had gone, and the lights had been turned off; early daylight was beginning to filter in through the Venetian-shuttered windows—but in the dining-room light, Nick saw, still shone. He went in, and found his twin and Luzia, tucking into the last of the lobster patties, and sipping champagne.
‘What have you done with Bonnecourt?’ Dick asked at once. ‘He’s gone—I went to Lucien’s, and he isn’t there.’
‘No. I thought he’d better clear out, so I took him off.’
‘Where to?’
‘Tardets—that was where he wanted to go.’
‘Ah, this is good!’ Luzia interjected. ‘You remove him! Excellent, Nick—always you do the right thing.’
‘Have any trouble?’ Dick asked—as he spoke he found a clean tumbler, and poured some wine into it for his brother.
‘Not too bad on the way out. I decided to by-pass Ste. Marie, going, and that was just as well—there were road-blocks all the way as we came back, and they’re pretty tough here in the town now,’ Nick said, drinking champagne from his tumbler, and taking a lobster patty himself. He yawned. ‘Goodness, I am sleepy! What a night! Where’s Colin?’
‘Gone to that little pub just beyond the clinic—the Victoire.’
‘Julia has a baby boy’ Luzia pronounced, triumphantly. ‘Very small, and very red—but perfect. And the Professor says that it will not remain red; it will become normal.’
‘Jolly good’ Nick said, yawning again—he emptied his tumbler. ‘Well I’m going to get some sleep; I’m no good at these late hours. It’s broad daylight!’
‘I too would sleep’ Luzia said. ‘But it was a lovely party. How kind your Mother is! And I am so happy that Julia has her baby.’