“Last on the boat, first off—am I right?” said Fairfax.
“You are, sir.”
“Then put me on last, please.”
“I will, sir.”
Punch handed over his papers and sought for a drink.
As he passed into the hotel, Beringhampton came out.
“Hullo,” said Fairfax cheerfully. “Come and have another.”
The other stared.
“Are you crossing?” he said.
“I am that,” said Fairfax, “complete with automobile. Destination,
B-B-B-Biarritz—where the rainbow ends.”
“What are you going there for?”
“Pleasure,” said Punch shortly. “And you?”
For a moment Beringhampton looked him in the face. Then the peer’s eyes
fell to the mat at his feet.
“I never talk,” he said. “I never talk.”
He spat the words rather than spoke them.
“All right,” said Fairfax, laughing. “But come to the harbour bar and
have a——”
“’S damned bad form to laugh,” flashed Beringhampton, and went his way.
Fairfax looked after him.
“The man’s mad,” he murmured. “Staring mad. Face like a Greek god, an’ a
kink in his brain. . . . And to think she thinks she loves him!” He
raised his eyes to heaven. “Oh, where’s the bar?”
That night in his cabin Fairfax remade his plans.
Between Dieppe and Biarritz lay five hundred and twenty miles. He had
intended to stay one night on the road and had chosen Tours as his
lodging. From Dieppe to Tours the distance was two hundred miles. Thus,
travelling at ease, he would have come to Biarritz on Tuesday afternoon.
His meeting with Beringhampton had altered everything.
Generally, it suggested that any avoidable delay should be avoided.
Specially, it emphasized the desirability of extreme haste, first,
because Beringhampton would naturally propose to reach Biarritz before
the grey two-seater, and, secondly, because the Hispano-Suiza was far
and away the faster car.
Punch knitted his brows.
The boat would reach Dieppe at 4 a.m.: with luck his car could have
passed the Customs and be actually on the road at five o’clock; and
then—five hundred and twenty miles. . . .
Rejecting travellers’ tales in favour of the report of personal
experience, Punch decided that if he could maintain an average of
thirty-five miles an hour he would do extremely well. If he allowed two
hours for meals and rest, that would bring him to Biarritz by ten
o’clock. To shave, bathe, change and locate Athalia would take the best
part of an hour. Eleven o’clock. Punch wrinkled his nose. Mercifully
Miss Choate kept late hours . . . mercifully. . . . And this was
assuming that he ran to time.
With a sigh, Fairfax took out tobacco and lighted a pipe.
By what hour the Hispano-Suiza could reach Biarritz he deliberately
declined to calculate. The answer could do no good and would be
discouraging. Given a car which can average fifty upon the open road,
and a chauffeur to take the wheel when you feel tired. . . . But then
who was to say that Beringhampton would go straight through? Besides
. . .
Fairfax folded his map and took off his collar and shoes. Then he lay
down on the seat and wished for the day.
This came in due season, fresh and cloudless: but other things
first—the port of Dieppe, for instance, and shouts and clangings of the
telegraph.
A press of miserable passengers, cold, heavy-laden, white-faced,
squeezed and fought its way towards the steep gangway, stumbled up the
rude slope, clattered over setts and metals and swarmed nervously into a
grisly Custom House, there to protest despairingly that it had ‘nothing
to declare.’ Blue-jerseyed porters, frantic with excitement, panted and
screamed and staggered under stupendous loads. A steam crane swung to
and fro about its business, responding with an uncanny intelligence to
the medley of confused directions constantly hurled at its cab. Trucks,
seemingly designed for uproar, bumped and rumbled and crashed from quay
to platform, their governors bawling for ‘_Attention_’ in a monotonous
drawl. A man in charge of a refreshment-waggon was crying his wares:
another shouted recurringly that the train would not depart for thirty
minutes and urged the prudence of a meal at the buffet: a boy was
dismally chanting the names of newspapers; a porter who had lost his
patrons was howling “_Soixante-dix_”: four Frenchmen were arguing
explosively about ‘summer time’: a terrier was barking like a fiend:
over all, the deafening roar of escaping steam strengthened the
resemblance of the scene to the evacuation of hell. As if to clinch its
identity, here and there stood the cloaked and hooded figures of
Authority, motionless, silent, indifferent to the bustle and hubbub,
smoking contemptuously, sinister, lynx-eyed. Their deliberate detachment
from struggling humanity, their sullen observance and studied disregard
of a thousand needs, were arguing a stony misanthropy, malicious,
Satanic.
Fairfax watched and waited with an eye on the clock. So did
Beringhampton. The latter’s chauffeur had a very bad time. It was not,
of course, his fault that the officials declared their intention of
disembarking the cars as they came. Neither, indeed, was it his fault
that, when the cars were ashore, a certain necessary officer was not
forthcoming. Yet he paid for this, as did the A.A. man—generously. The
idea of waiting till seven did not appeal to Beringhampton—nor, for the
matter of that, to Punch, either. Still, the latter kept his temper and
cursed with a smile on his lips. . . .
While Beringhampton stalked off the quay in search of a lodging, Fairfax
took off his coat and went over his car. Not so the Marquess’ chauffeur.
After asking Punch if he could be of any assistance, the latter climbed
into his charge and endeavoured to sleep. Injustice makes a bad servant.
It also may do a rival a very good turn. It did—that Monday morning. Of
the five cars to be cleared the grey two-seater was the first inspected
and the Hispano-Suiza the fifth. Beringhampton raged. Then a tire was
found flat, and the wheel had to be changed. . . .
While Punch was clear of Dieppe by seven-fifteen, it was half-past eight
ere the other took the road.
A start of fifty miles was not to be sneezed at, but the ghastly delay
of more than two hours had altered everything. Fairfax knew in his heart
that his chances of reaching Biarritz upon the right side of midnight
were very small. If he could average forty the whole of the way, well
and very good. Otherwise, any interview he might have with Athalia would
take place the following day. She kept late hours, certainly, but not so
late as all that. On the other hand, barring accidents, there was no
reason at all why a clear eye and a determined arm should not bring the
Hispano-Suiza to Biarritz by nine o’clock. The devil of it was that
Beringhampton must know that, if he but pleased to hurry, he could have
the field to himself. The three hours lost would have been of no use to
him. Had he arrived at six, by the time he had changed, Miss Choate
would have gone to dress, and thence to dinner. Not till, say, half-past
nine would he have had a look-in. And by then Fairfax might have come up
to cramp his style. But now, if he pleased, he could have the field to
himself. . . .
Punch swore beneath his breath and coaxed the grey two-seater to
sixty-two.
He ran into Rouen as clocks were striking eight, and, meeting the river,
followed it out of the town.
Past a quarry and up through the rising woods, over the glittering
Seine, through Pont-de-l’Arche, by Louviers’ precious church, into
mitred Evreux, where the broad road splits into a delta of aged streets,
up over the railway and on to the rolling plain the grey two-seater
flung like a thing possessed.
The first real check came at old Dreux, where it was market day. Horses
and cattle and carts lumbered and lurched and sprawled and backed over
the pavement, thrusting and being thrust: lorries panted and stormed,
insistently demanding passage and finding none: little groups of
peasants stood in the fairway, absorbed in discourse, shifting
mechanically as the raving traffic pushed its way by: gossiping eagerly,
old women plunged and bundled from side to side, apparently oblivious
alike of time and place until dragged from under cartwheels or
overthrown by collision: urchins were baiting dogs, set to guard
tail-boards: gentle-eyed calves stared over sides of gigs: chickens,
pinioned and thrown, eyed the welter with indignant surprise.
Ere he had time to withdraw, Punch was engulfed, and ten precious
minutes went by before he was out of the town.
Troubles are gregarious.
Ten miles from Chartres a tire burst.
Fairfax changed the wheel and then, looking over his engine, found that
his fan-strap had gone.
It was past ten now and becoming immensely hot. Not to repair the defect
there and then would be the act of a fool. Punch shook the sweat from
his eyes and sought for a spare. . . .
The sight of Chartres’ exquisite spires, rising like toy steeples out of
the hazy plain, was comforting, but his relentless wrist-watch and the
thought of a useless tire jabbed viciously at Fairfax’ nerves. He could
not make up his mind whether to stop at Chartres and fit a new tire or
to take what risk there was and go his way. As he swept up the
boulevards he decided to stop for water and nothing else.
He must pass the _Place des Epars_, and he knew a garage was
there. . . . The next moment he saw its pump. He drew up to the gap in
the kerb with a swift rush. . . .
While they were drawing water, he ran across the _Place_ and purchased a
pie. The _pâtés_ of Chartres are famous and a meal in themselves. Then
he bought two bottles of Evian and hurried back. He found the mechanic
regarding the near fore wheel. There was a gash in the cover through
which you could see the tube. . . .
It was a quarter to eleven by the time he was out of Chartres, and
Beringhampton passed him five miles beyond Vendôme.
Punch marked his passage mutely, with stony eyes. Then he slid under
some trees and took out the clutch. . . .
He broke his fast quickly and then lay down in the grass by the side of
the road. He knew what it meant to feel sleepy over the wheel. For
perhaps ten minutes he dozed. Then he rose, bathed his face and swung
himself into the car. . . .
The road was wicked now—broken to bits. The grey two-seater leaped like
a young ram. But Fairfax let her have it and went like the wind. He had
nothing to lose. . . .
The broken road took its toll, and when he slid into Tours, one of his
wings was flapping and his number-plate hanging by a thread.
He pushed up the _Rue Nationale_, to see Beringhampton’s colours
crawling ahead.
With a hammering heart, Fairfax drew very close. . . .
As he slipped by he glanced round.
The chauffeur saw him and smiled and touched his hat. Except for him at
the wheel, the car was empty.
Punch pulled into the side, and the other slowed up.
“Where’s his lordship?” said Fairfax.
The man’s lips tightened.
“He’s just taken the train, sir.”
“Why?”
“We ’ad a very near shave, sir, a mile or two back.” He passed his hand
over his eyes. “As near to death as ever I want to be.” He paused. Then
he burst out. “I’ve given ’im notice, sir. I’ve only got one life. If
they mark a bend over ’ere, you can bet it’s a turn and a ’alf. I
pointed ’im out the sign, but ’e didn’t care. . . . An’ a steam-roller
waitin’ the other side.” He wiped his face. “I thought we was done, I
did. . . . When we was through, I told ’im I’ld leave ’im at Tours. ’E
asked me if I was afraid, an’ I said, Yes, I was. ‘Then drive,’ says he.
‘An’ be cursed an’ ’ounded,’ says I, ‘till I can’t think straight? Not
much, my lord,’ I says. ‘I’ll leave at Tours.’ When we got ’ere ’e drove
to the station an’ asked if there was a train. . . . Some train was
there—movin’ . . . They ’auled ’im in and I pushed ’is dressing-case
up. ‘Deliver the car,’ he cries, an’ there you are.”
“What filthy luck!” cried Punch, half to himself. “What filthy luck!”
The man looked at him curiously. Then he glanced at the car.
“You’re coming to pieces, sir. Are you going far?”
“Biarritz,” said Punch.
The fellow glanced at his clock.
“I suppose you’ll be needin’ your car, sir, or I—I could give you a
lift.”
Fairfax’ heart leaped. Then he shook his head.
“I can’t use his car,” he said.
“It isn’t ’is car,” cried the man. “’E sold ’er a week ago—sold ’er to
Mr. Fairie. ’E’s at St. Johndylose. An’ as ’e was goin’ to Beeritz, ’is
lordship made the offer to bring ’er out.” He dived at a pocket. “Why,
’er papers an’ all’s in Mr. Fairie’s name.”
“Mr. Fairie of Castle Charing?”
“That’s right, sir. Is he a friend of yours?”
“I should think he was,” shouted Fairfax. “But I say—I want to move.”
The chauffeur smiled.
“She’ll move, sir. D’you know the way?”
“I do. D’you want any petrol?”
“I was just going to fill the tank, sir.”
“I know a garage here. You follow me.”
Ten minutes later the faithful grey two-seater had been worthily
bestowed, the Hispano-Suiza’s tank had been filled to the brim and
Fairfax had taken his seat beside her driver.