THE DEADLY FOEHN
Next day, while old Humphreys remained in his invalid chair to write
some business letters to his agents in the Near East, and Doctor
Feng had a match at curling, I took “The Little Lady” out upon the
other side of the deep valley to the popular winter sports resort at
Wengen, which lies up the mountain on the opposite side of the valley.
We lunched at the splendid Regina Hotel, where every one goes, and
afterwards took some snap-shots. Later we took the train up to the
Schiedegg and came down on our skis, a glorious run back to Wengen,
the snow conditions being perfect. In everything she was interested,
admiring the scenery and thoroughly enjoying the run, until we returned
in the darkness up the mountain side again to Mürren.
I had come to the conclusion that Mrs. Audley had been a London
business girl, for she told me she knew shorthand and typewriting,
and she was evidently familiar with business affairs. The old invalid
had become even more interested in her. He studied her as the type of
the modern girl and she certainly was always bright and vivacious
when with us. Dr. Feng, however, though he was invariably polite to
her, seemed to have become, for some reason, decidedly antagonistic.
It is true the position was decidedly unconventional and irregular,
but I could not reconcile his present attitude with his earlier and
very obvious liking for Mrs. Audley. He now disagreed utterly with my
quixotic offer to look after her and did not hesitate to say so.
“You are playing with fire,” he declared. “You are both young and she
is a very pretty girl. The best thing you can do will be to clear out.”
I laughed, of course, and told him I had only accepted this
responsibility in order to help a man out of a difficulty.
He shook his head. “You don’t know either of them, and you don’t know
what you may have let yourself in for.”
I wondered, naturally, whether he had been influenced by the arrival of
the crystal claw, and asked him bluntly if this were the case.
“Not at all,” he assured me. “The crystal claw has nothing whatever to
do with it.”
In spite of all he said I would not take his advice. In the headstrong
way of youth I put him down as a thoroughly conventional old fogey, a
survival of the Victorian era when girls were compelled to go about
with chaperons and the smoking of a cigarette was a vice to be
indulged only in the strictest privacy. So Mrs. Audley and I continued
to enjoy ourselves, skating each morning on the rink and skiing
together in the afternoon over the freshly fallen snow.
With a view to throwing additional light on the mystery of the crystal
claw I tried as delicately as I could to “pump” her about her father.
But it was evident she knew little or nothing beyond what she had told
me. “He was a naval officer on the China Station for many years,”
seemed to sum it all up and I wondered whether, for some reason I could
not divine, further knowledge had been deliberately withheld from her.
Of Eastern political affairs she obviously knew nothing.
Of her husband she said little, though I saw she was devoted to him.
“When we get back, Stanley and I hope to get a flat at Hampstead,” she
said one day when we were resting after a swift run on skis close to
the Half-way House--which is on the electric railway line which runs
from Mürren along the edge of the precipice, before one changes into
the rack-railway to descend to the valley.
That night at dinner there was a strange incident. Mrs. Audley came
down in a gown which was the envy of many girls in the hotel. It was
made of ciré tissue, and the yoke and hem were of silver lace. The
front panel was ornamented with pin tucks and finished with a chou of
flowers. It was a charming frock. On her breast the crystal claw winked
and blazed in the light of the lamps.
Old Humphreys, contrary to his usual custom, had come into the dining
room for dinner and was seated in his wheeled chair at the same table
as Mrs. Audley, Dr. Feng and myself.
I shall never forget the look that came over his face when he caught
sight of the crystal claw! Rage, fear and amazement mingled together
until the old man looked positively demoniacal. Luckily, Mrs. Audley
was talking to Dr. Feng and neither of them noticed him.
It was a moment or two before the old invalid could control himself.
Then his face resumed its usual expression. But I had caught a glimpse
of the hell that, for a brief moment, must have raged in the old man’s
mind and once again the crystal claw seemed to be associated with
something sinister and dangerous.
“That’s a pretty new brooch you have, Mrs. Audley,” said the old fellow
in a grating voice which showed that even now he had hardly recovered
himself.
“Yes,” she laughed merrily, “isn’t it sweet? It came by post, sent to
me from Pekin. I haven’t any idea who sent it for there was no name. It
has been forwarded from London, and is no doubt a wedding present from
somebody who has forgotten to enclose a card.” And she turned over the
crystal claw so that he could admire it.
Afterwards we crossed the snowy road to the Kürhaus, where in the
spacious ball-room we danced together. She also danced with two or
three other admiring partners. Old Mr. Humphreys wheeled his chair into
the dancing room as was his habit each evening. It was pathetic to see
the grey-haired thin-faced man who seemed so active in every other
sense, deprived of the power of locomotion. When he left his chair he
managed to hobble along and with great difficulty up the stairs with
the aid of rubber-capped sticks. Mostly, however, the porters carried
his chair upstairs to the first floor and he wheeled himself along the
corridor to his room.
On the following morning, according to arrangements made over-night,
we started at nine o’clock and taking with us John, the smart,
ever-smiling guide, we started out on our skis to ascend the
Schwarzbirg, nine thousand feet high, by way of the Bielen-Lücke. The
ascent we found extremely interesting, but the weather, even when we
started, was grey and threatening. Now and then snow clouds drifted
quickly across, and that dangerous and mysterious Alpine wind, the
Foehn, ever and anon grew gusty. It was clear a storm was threatening.
“A little blizzard, perhaps,” remarked the slim, agile John, in his
soft English, as he slid along over the snow.
Weather conditions in the Alps change with every moment. A blizzard may
succeed brilliant sunshine within five minutes--a blizzard that whips
the face with its icy blast, piles snow deep, and freezes one to the
marrow. In the glacier regions of the higher Alps, the weather cannot
be depended upon for a few minutes together.
Thelma, that day, wore the ski kit in which I had first seen her--the
Fair Isle jazzy patterned jersey, and over it the short little
wind-proof jacket trimmed with fur, and her corduroy breeches and
stockings. It was in every way serviceable.
Presently when she had, to my surprise, executed what is known as an
“open Christiania,” and we were skiing together across a great plateau
of snow far above the tree-line, with John fifty yards ahead of us, she
suddenly exclaimed--
“Do you know, Mr. Yelverton, I’ve heard nothing from Stanley except a
telegram sent from Victoria at six o’clock on Sunday night, announcing
his arrival. I’ve wired, but I’ve got no reply. I’m worried about him,
but I don’t want to bother you.”
“That’s curious,” I remarked. “To where have you sent your wire?”
“To his office in Westminster.”
“Well, you ought to have had a reply. But never mind,” I said. “He’s
due back tomorrow night. We’ll go down to Lauterbrunnen and meet
him--eh?”
The sky had suddenly become darkened and a strong tearing wind had
sprung up. We had left the plateau and upon our skis were following
John “herring-boning” up the side of the mountain. When one starts
“herring-boning” one faces the incline and points the skis outwards at
a considerable angle to each other--then the slope can be mounted by
lifting the skis forward alternately and placing them in the snow on
the inner edges, the angle between them remaining the same.
It was a steep slope, so we made wider angles between our skis to
prevent them slipping backwards.
We were lurching heavily from side to side in order to throw the weight
of one ski while lifting the other, when John suddenly shrieked the
warning, “_Achtung!_”
Next second I heard a soft hissing sound overhead, then a loud rumbling
which increased to thunder. I instinctively seized Mrs. Audley. The
next moment we were struck violently in the back, covered by a blanket
of snow, and hurled down the mountain side amid an avalanche of snow,
stones and rocks.
When, very slowly, I awakened to a sense of things about me, I found
I had bitten my tongue badly and felt a severe pain at the back of
my skull where, I suppose, I must have struck a rock. Mrs. Audley was
still in my arms and unconscious, her bleeding face white as marble.
Both of us were deeply imbedded in the snow, but our heads fortunately
lay clear, otherwise we must certainly have been suffocated. The
avalanche had swept us down, but as I had instinctively grasped my
dainty companion, we had been held together.
Blood was flowing freely from the wound in my head, and Mrs. Audley’s
face was cut and bleeding. As quickly as possible I disengaged myself
from the heavy weight of snow upon me, and strove to rouse her from her
swoon. The thought that she might be dead drove me well-nigh frantic.
I seized her by the shoulders and shook her violently. Then with
trembling fingers I tore open her jacket, jersey and silk blouse, and
bent my head to listen. Her heart was beating faintly.
My vacuum flask of hot tea was battered and broken but in an inside
pocket I had, providentially, a small flask of brandy which was
undamaged. I forced a few drops of the spirit between her pallid lips.
Her lips moved. A moment later she opened her big grey eyes and asked
me in a whisper:
“Where am I?”
“You are safe,” I assured her, holding her in my arms. “Don’t worry.
We’ll be out of this very soon.”
“But where are we?” she asked gazing around upon the snowy
surroundings. “Where is John? Tell me!”
I told her briefly what had happened.
“But where is John?” she queried. “I hope he is all right. It was
very foolish for us to venture up here after the warm Foehn of
yesterday,--wasn’t it?”
“I expect John is all right,” I said. “He warned us, and no doubt took
precautions.” Guides in the Alps seldom fail.
With difficulty we wriggled out of the snow and stood up. Even in our
shaken condition we could not but admire the panorama of the Eiger, the
Jungfrau and the Wetterhorn, across the darkening valley before us. But
haste was imperative: the light was fading quickly and we were a long
way from Mürren.
I had lost one of my skis, which had been torn from its strong
Huitfeldt binding in our fall. Mrs. Audley’s, however, were intact, and
we started to descend. She soon recovered in the keen Alpine air, and
was able to help me, lame dog that I was. Repeatedly we gave the six
shouts recognized as the regular Alpine distress call, but there was no
reply.
It was quite dark when we struggled back, to find that our guide,
having happily escaped, had arrived before us and sent out a
search-party. By shouts and flashing signals, this was soon recalled.
At the hotel they put Thelma to bed at once, while after the Swiss
doctor had seen to my head, I sat in the bar recounting my experience
and drinking a strong whiskey and soda.
Dr. Feng and Humphreys were both most eager to know the details of our
adventure. But later the doctor said--
“I think you are very foolish, Yelverton! You ought never to have had
anything to do with the bride, she will only bring trouble upon you.
Humphreys agrees with me. You’re a young fool!”
“Probably I am,” I replied laughing! “I very nearly lost my life over
it today.”
“You are a regular Don Quixote,” he said. “Well, I admire you after
all. You would be a fine young fellow, if you were just a little more
cautious.”
“Cautious!” I laughed, facing the old doctor, “I’m young. You are old.
You weren’t cautious when you were my age, were you?”
“No,” he answered. “I suppose not--I suppose not.”
The night-mail train from Boulogne arrives at the little station at
Lauterbrunnen each evening about five o’clock. The next afternoon
therefore Mrs. Audley, who had quite recovered from her accident on
the previous day, accompanied me down into the valley by the cable
railway. She was all excitement, for her husband, before his departure,
had promised to return by that train, and had, indeed, booked his
sleeping-berth by it.
At last the train came slowly in from Interlaken, where the change
is made from the _wagon-lit_. A number of hurrying English visitors
descended but Stanley Audley was not among them.
Bitter disappointment was written upon the girl’s face.
“He must have missed the train at Victoria,” she declared.
“Well,” I said, “There is not another through train until
tomorrow--unless he travels by Paris and Bâle.”
The station master, however, informed us that the service from Paris
would not arrive till early next morning, so that we were compelled to
reascend to Mürren.
Audley’s failure to telegraph or write to his wife, struck me as
uncommonly strange.
While we were in the narrow little compartment of the cable railway, I
ventured to put several questions to her concerning him. But she would
give only evasive replies.
Next day she went to the little wood-built post office alone and
despatched several telegrams to various addresses, but the replies she
received gave no news of her husband. Evening came again, but Stanley
Audley was not among the arrivals from London, though I was with Thelma
on the arrival of the mountain train at Mürren station.
“I cannot make it out,” she said as we sped back to the hotel on our
skis. “Surely he must be delayed. Perhaps he has telegraphed to me and
the message has gone astray!”
“That may be,” I agreed in order to reassure her, but personally I felt
much mystified.
Next day I telegraphed to the managing director of Gordon & Austin, the
electrical engineers in George Street, Westminster, asking for news
of Stanley Audley, and in response about five o’clock in the evening
came a reply which read: “Stanley Audley is not employed by us and is
unknown to us.”
I said nothing to Thelma, but finding Dr. Feng alone, showed him the
telegram.
The old doctor grunted with dissatisfaction.
“Something wrong somewhere,” he remarked. “One should always be very
careful of hotel acquaintances. I warned you at the time that you were
indiscreet to offer to look after the bride of a man you don’t know.”
“I admit that! But the whole affair is very mysterious. He told me a
deliberate lie when he said he was employed by Gordon & Austin.”
“Yes. He’s a mystery, and evidently not what he pretended to be. What
does his wife think?”
“I haven’t shown her the telegram.”
“Don’t. Try and discover what you can from her.”
“You don’t seem to like her, Doctor,” I said bluntly.
“No. I don’t like either of them,” the old man admitted. “There’s too
much mystery about the pair. I was discussing them with Humphreys this
morning, and he agrees.”
“It is not Thelma’s fault,” I said.
“It may be. She evidently knows more about her husband than what she
has told you.”
“Well, she’s told me nothing,” I replied.
“There you are! She is concealing the truth. Go and find out all you
can. And don’t be indiscreet. Your present position is dangerous.
Perhaps he’s left her deliberately and palmed her off upon you, hoping
that you will both fall in love, and he can free himself of her at your
expense. Such things are not unknown, remember!”
“I don’t believe it,” I declared. “I undertook a trust--foolishly if
you like--and it is up to me to carry it out to the best of my ability.”
“Ah! my dear boy, your eyes are closed very often,” the old doctor
said. “The lookers-on see most of the game, and I’ve seen one or two
little things which show that your temporary bride is not adverse to a
little secret flirtation.”
“How?” I asked quickly.
“Well, she’s on quite friendly terms with that young fellow, Harold
Ruthen.”
“Ruthen!” I echoed. “I didn’t know they were acquainted. I’ve never
seen them speak.”
“No, not when you are about,” replied the old man laughing. “But I’ve
often seen them chatting together.”
This surprised me. Harold Ruthen was a rather foppish, fair-haired man
about my own age, whose airs were of the superior type. His interest in
Thelma had not escaped me, but I had never seen them speaking together.
He was, I understood, an ex-officer, and he was a very good skater. But
at first sight I had taken an instinctive dislike to him and, that he
should have made Thelma’s acquaintance in secret, greatly annoyed me.
I felt myself responsible to Stanley Audley, even if he had deceived me.
Now I found myself in a difficulty. Only at that moment I recollected
how, on the morning before Thelma’s husband had announced his forced
return to London, I had seen Ruthen walking with the doctor up a
narrow path with high snow-banks close to the hotel. They were deep
in conversation, and old Feng seemed to be impressing some point upon
Ruthen while he listened very attentively.
Did Dr. Feng know more than he admitted?
I must say that I did not like his hostile attitude towards the newly
wedded pair, an attitude which now seemed to be shared by old Mr.
Humphreys.
That night, when Thelma came to table, she was wearing a charming
gown of almond green, that we had not seen before. Though she looked
beautiful, her face was more serious than usual, and I suspected that I
saw traces of tears.
As we sat together I fell to wondering who was Stanley Audley? Why had
he deceived his young wife, and then deserted her, leaving her in my
charge?
Had I fallen into a clever trap?