CHAPTER EIGHT

I

COFFEE was brought to them, at the more comfortable padded bench by the wall, and while they drank it and enjoyed cigarettes, the subject of their intended excursion was not mentioned. Presently, however, Pagan said in a low voice without changing his position, “Don’t look round; but Kleber is going out. He put his head out of the kitchen door just now, and he had a hat and coat on. I saw him in that ghastly plush-framed mirror on the wall. We will give him ten minutes: then we’ll go.” He turned to Clare. “I hope you have some warm clothes and stout shoes. What you have on is simply ravishing, but it’s not the regulation kit for a battlefield at night, is it, Baron? So if you really are coming, you ought to change.”

Clare rose with a smile. “Captain’s orders,” she said.

“Now I think we are all ready,” said Pagan as she disappeared up the stairs. “The torch is in the pocket of your mack, and the candles are in mine. And the macks are on the pegs over there. All I need now is a pipe.” He unrolled his oilskin tobacco pouch and filled his pipe with deliberation. “You know, I’m immensely cheered up since comrade Kleber said his piece. I really believe we are on the track of something.”

Baron nodded thoughtfully. “Looks like it,” he admitted.

Pagan drew at his pipe and put the burnt match in the ashtray. “But I am not too happy about taking Clare with us,” he said doubtfully.

Baron shrugged his shoulders. “You can’t prevent it, Charles. She has made up her mind.”

Pagan nodded his head gloomily. “But I never can see,” he grumbled, “why just because a woman says she has made up her mind, that should be taken as ending the matter.”

“I suppose it is because it usually does,” suggested Baron sagely.

A few minutes later Clare came down the stairs. She was dressed in a close fitting tweed hat, a long mackintosh and brogue shoes, and she carried a walking-stick.

“We are going to have trouble with Bertha,” whispered Pagan as they met at the table. “I was watching her out of the corner of my eye, and she shied like a horse when she saw you coming downstairs all dressed for going out.”

He took his mackintosh from the peg and put one arm in the sleeve. Bertha came hesitatingly towards him. There was suppressed agitation in her broad placid face.

“M’sieu is going out?” she faltered.

Pagan turned to her as he struggled with the other arm in the sleeve. “Just a little walk before by-byes,” he answered cheerfully. “Pour encourager des bons rêves.”

She looked at him appealingly. “But you promised my father …” she began.

Pagan laughed. “Promised! Come, come, Bertha, that’s a grand mot! Cannot we poor men change our minds sometimes like les belles dames?”

She did not answer, and there was no answering smile on her stubborn face.

Pagan turned to Clare and Baron. “Well, are you ready?” he asked. He moved towards the door, but Bertha was there before him, her back to it, her face white, her bosom heaving.

“You may not pass,” she cried.

Pagan shot an eloquent glance at Clare and Baron, but there was only amusement in his face as he stood, hands on hips, surveying her. He shook a finger paternally. “Bertha, you’re a dark horse—un cheval noir,” he cried. “You have a lover outside that door, n’est ce pas. Cherchez l’homme, eh! Well, I suppose frauleins will be frauleins.” He took a pace forward. “But we are not spoil-sports are we, Baron? And we will not tell pa—honour bright.”

Bertha’s taut expression did not relax. She flung her arms wide as though she were crucified upon the door. “You shall not pass,” she repeated sullenly.

“Admirable, my dear Bertha,” said Pagan with the same air of amused tolerance, “But this is not Verdun. Really …”

“Let Clare have a go,” put in Baron. “She is the linguist.”

Pagan smiled at Clare. “Ask her, would you, why ‘we shall not pass’. ”

Clare spoke in her fluent idiomatic French, but Bertha only shook her head and repeated sullenly, “You may not pass.”

“But this is preposterous,” cried Baron. “Tell her, Clare, that we don’t want to have to remove her by force.”

Pagan shook his head. “You won’t frighten Bertha,” he declared.

“We will try, anyway. Tell her, Clare.”

Bertha’s reply was to call loudly, “Henri, Henri!”

Pagan grinned. “That will be our friend of the black fingernails,” he murmured. “And I would rather tackle him than Bertha if it comes to a rough house. But we can’t have that. All right, Bertha. Kamarad!” He held his hands high above his head. “You are quite safe. Baron is far too much the little gentleman to lay hands on a lady and I’m far too frightened.”

“But dash it all, Charles, she has either got to get out of the way or else tell us why we may not pass,” cried Baron angrily.

“I think that is only reasonable,” agreed Clare.

“Look here, Bertha, we are jolly well going through that door or else …” began Baron.

But Pagan turned on him and snapped, “Shut up.”

Baron subsided with bad grace and an eloquent shrug of his shoulders.

“But really, Mr. Pagan, I agree with Dicky that it is ridiculous that the girl should behave like this and give us no reason for it.”

Pagan turned to Bertha and his voice and face expressed the same amused tolerance. “You hear, Bertha? They think that you ought to give us some reason. Won’t you satisfy our curiosity? I am dying to know what is on the other side of that door.”

Bertha changed neither her position nor her expression. She only shook her head.

“If it’s a secret, tell me. I can keep it,” he said in tones of wheedling raillery. “You people stand further off—Baron. Miss Lindsey, please.” He waved his hand imperiously, and they went back in answer to his look. Then he stepped up to Bertha and put his ear close to her mouth. He was obviously playing the fool, but there was gratitude in her frightened eyes in spite of her agitated breathing. She seemed to have confidence in Pagan.

“Oh, please, please, M’sieu,” she said in an agonized whisper, “make them take off their coats.”

Pagan straightened himself and put a hand over his face in mock shame. “Bertha, Bertha!” he cried in shocked tones. “I would not have thought it of you. But your secret is safe with me.”

“What is it?” asked Baron.

“You’re too young,” retorted Pagan.

“Stop rotting, Charles. What are we going to do?”

Pagan peeled off his mackintosh. “We are going to have another coffee, and then we are going up to bed,” he answered as he brought his foot down gently on Baron’s toe.

Clare looked rebellious, but Pagan spoke first. “Miss Lindsey,” he said with a smile. “In King’s Regulations there is a crime called ‘dumb insolence’. If I were really your company commander you would be up at orderly room to-morrow charged with that crime.”

Clare regarded him for a moment or two in silence, but his eyes did not waver nor did the look of determination that lay behind the smile. Then she grimaced and laid her stick upon the table.

“To the death,” Pagan reminded her with a smile.

“At least tell us what that girl said,” she retorted.

Pagan shook his head. “Obedience absolute and unquestioned,” he reminded her.

Clare regarded him with rebellious eyes. “This very temporary authority seems to have gone to his head,” she said coldly.

Baron guffawed, but Pagan merely smiled and bowed. He sat down. “Coffee, Bertha, Coffee bitte,” he called.

Bertha, who had remained standing near the door, hesitated a moment, and then she withdrew the key from the lock and hurried to bring the coffee.

Baron grimaced. “Not taking any chances,” he said. “What are we going to do, Charles?”

“Drink our coffee …”

“Even if we have not ordered it and do not want it?” put in Clare truculently.

Pagan turned to her with a smile. “It is not compulsory,” he answered blandly, “but desirable.”

Baron grinned. “Well, Charles, we are going to!”

“Drink our coffee or not as the case may be,” repeated Pagan, “and then go upstairs.”

“And what then? Try to slip out when Bertha is not looking or has gone to bed?”

Pagan nodded. “If we can. Meanwhile we don’t talk about it, since she understands English far too well and it’s rude to whisper.”

They drank their coffee in silence, and then Pagan rose. “We go up now,” he said. “You go first, Baron. And take your coat and mine. I will say good night to Bertha.”

Baron went up the stairs. Pagan wandered down the room to where Bertha sat, her back towards them, sewing. “At huit heures to-morrow Bertha, s’il vous plait,” he said. “I’m sorry we gave you a fright. Good night and bon rêves.”

Bertha looked at him with gratitude in her eyes. “Bonne nuit, M’sieu—and thank you.”

Clare said Good night from the foot of the stairs, and Baron called, “Bon soir, Bertha,” from out of sight on the balcony.

Pagan hummed a little tune as he went up the stairs.

“Well?” asked Clare with raised eyebrows as they met outside Baron’s door.

“Don’t go to bed for half an hour,” he whispered, and then he added aloud, “Good night.”

“Good night, Clare,” said Baron.

“Good night, Dicky. Good night, Mr. Pagan.”

II

Baron came in to Pagan’s room through the connecting door. “Well, there is one thing I am certain of at any rate,” he remarked. “And that is that there is something behind all this. I very much had my doubts at first, but after Bertha’s exhibition to-night, I have none—unless she has fallen for you, Charles, and is terrified that you will break your neck in the dark.”

Pagan slowly unrolled his oilskin tobacco pouch and began to fill his pipe. “She has got the wind up all right,” he said. “But not on my account.”

Baron lit a cigarette. “What was it she whispered?” he asked casually.

“Them as ax no questions isn’t told a lie,” Pagan quoted with a grin.

“Anyway, Charles, I think you were a mug to give in so easily.”

Pagan shook his head. “A desperate woman doesn’t respond to argument—or force either for that matter. And she was desperate. I swear I have never seen a more perfect impersonation of an animal defending its young. Didn’t you see the look in her eyes? She was scared stiff; but not for herself.”

“For whom then?” asked Baron. “Kleber—her father?”

Pagan shrugged his shoulders. “That remains to be seen.”

“What did she whisper, Charles?” asked Baron again.

Pagan laughed. “Why nothing, you old lout. Except to ask me to make you take your coats off; which I did—because I knew that nothing short of brute force, and a good deal of that, would get us through that door.”

Baron sat down upon the bed. “There is always the window,” he remarked.

Pagan held a match to his pipe. “Yes. That’s why I made sure of having our coats up here.”

Baron hooked his arm round the huge bedpost. “Do you think there is any chance of her going to bed and giving us a chance to slip out?”

“I doubt it. You know what these peasants are. At the best of times they don’t go to bed till after midnight and are up again at four.”

Baron wandered restlessly about the room. “Shall I have a peep out and see what is happening?” he asked presently.

“No harm in that,” assented Pagan; and just before Baron reached the door, he added, “Bet you twenty francs it’s locked.”

Baron turned sharply and looked at Pagan, and then he moved quietly to the door and laid a hand upon the handle. “The young bitch!” he exclaimed. “You win, Charles.”

Pagan stood up and grinned. “Just what I expected,” he remarked. “And I’m rather glad in a way. It means the window now. All along I haven’t been too happy about taking Clare on a stunt like this. At least the window settles that question, and I’m glad. She can’t go down the rope.”

Baron smiled cryptically. “You think so? By the by, Charles, I was very much amused at you treating Clare rough, so to speak. She’s not used to that sort of thing.”

Pagan took his pipe from his mouth and regarded the glowing bowl thoughtfully. “Um! She took it rather well on the whole, I thought.”

“Very well indeed,” asserted Baron. “She was half-amused and half-indignant. But, by Jove, Charles, if she hadn’t liked you she would have let you have it.”

Pagan stood up. “Anyway we must let her know what we are going to do and tell her she need not stay up.”

Baron nodded agreement. “Yes, but how? Our bashful Bertha has probably locked my door too—and Clare’s.”

“That’s pretty certain,” agreed Pagan. “We shall have to move the press in your room, that’s all.”

“By Jove, yes, the door. I had forgotten. Well what about it?”

Pagan glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Yes, there’s no point in keeping her up. But we must be careful not to make a row.”

They went into Baron’s room, and inch by inch and without noise swung the heavy press round till it stood almost at right-angles to the wall. Baron rapped softly upon the door that was disclosed behind it. The sound of movement came from the next room, and then Baron put his head close to the jamb and called softly, “Clare, Clare! You can open the door now; we have moved the press. But don’t make a noise.”

A key grated in the lock and the door swung slowly open. Clare’s head came round the edge of the door.

“Come on,” grinned Baron. “There’s not much room, but you are not fat and forty yet.”

Clare squeezed round between the door and the press into the room. She still wore her hat and walking shoes, but had discarded her mackintosh. Pagan pulled up a chair. She sat down and looked from one to the other. “Well?”

“Bertha has locked us in again,” explained Baron. “At least she has locked Charles’s door and mine, and it’s a hundred to one that yours is locked as well.”

“I like that girl’s spirit,” said Clare decisively. “But she badly wants spanking.”

“Hear, hear!” agreed Baron. “Well the only way out now is by the window—the way Charles and I went last time. And so Charles has brought you in here to tell you that presently he and I are going down the rope and you …” he smiled knowingly at her, “you are to go to bed.”

She smiled back at him amusedly and glanced at Pagan.

Pagan said, “I’m sorry, Miss Lindsey, but you see there is no other way.”

“You are not sorry at all,” she retorted. “You are glad.”

Pagan grinned guiltily.

“You think I should be a terrible nuisance.”

Pagan shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’m not thinking about myself: I’m thinking about you.”

“Since you are smoking in your bedroom, Dicky, I suppose I may.”

“Sorry!” said Baron, and he offered her his cigarette case.

She took a cigarette and he held a match. She blew a little cloud of smoke upwards.

“Anyway, you are glad I cannot come with you,” she continued to Pagan.

Pagan smiled. “Yes, I’m afraid I am.”

She looked up at Baron. “He’s very callow, isn’t he?”

“Very,” agreed Baron with a grin.

“What makes him think that I cannot come just because the door is locked?” she asked innocently.

Baron lit a cigarette. “I expect it’s the rope, you know,” he said confidentially as though Pagan were not within hearing. “Old Charles has early Victorian ideas about women. And a female with vapours in a crinoline would be rather a distressing sight on a rope.”

“It would!” agreed Clare.

“But really,” protested Pagan, “it is out of the question. You know yourself, Baron, that we didn’t find it too easy getting back again and …”

“Don’t be an ass, Charles,” retorted Baron. “I have never seen Clare on a rope, but I’m willing to bet she can shin up one as fast as you or I. She has legs like us, hasn’t she?”

“Really, Dicky!” protested Clare.

Baron grinned. “When I say like ours, I mean more ornamental but just as useful.”

Pagan shrugged his shoulders with comic hopelessness. He looked at Clare. “You are determined to come?”

“Absolutely,” she answered.

“Very well then, put on your coat while Baron and I rig up the rope.”

“There is one thing about old Charles,” said Baron. “He’s not pig-headed: he does know when he’s beaten.”

“He is quite docile really,” said Clare smiling at him.

They took down the bell-pulls and the curtain loops and knotted them together. Baron stood upon a chair and fastened one end to the hook above the window. They put on their mackintoshes and hats. Pagan pulled the torch from his pocket and took a last look round. “Now we are ready,” he said. “Out with the light.”