A NARROW MARGIN
The Bucklands spent very little time over their supper at the Hotel
Europa. Not knowing how far behind the pursuers were, Maurice hid under
his imperturbable mien a very real anxiety. George, for his part, was
much concerned about the gyro-car. After so long a journey as he had
just made, a railway engine would have a thorough overhauling; but
there was no time for more than a rapid examination of his mechanism.
He required petrol and oil; the hour was late, and no doubt all the
establishments where these essentials could be procured had been closed
long ago. It was just possible that they might be obtained in the
garage of the hotel; so, after satisfying his hunger, he left Maurice
to attend to the wants of his inanimate steed.
Maurice, as he sipped his coffee, found himself wishing that someone
had invented a means of seeing in the dark, or of hearing at immense
distances. If he had possessed either of those as yet hitherto
unattained powers, he might have indulged in the sleep he needed, with
a mind at ease.
A quarter of an hour after the gyro-car ran the plank at Melun, Count
Slavianski (whose name in private life was Max Mumm) arrived on the
scene with his so-called secretary, who was neither a major nor a
Rostopchin, but a German ex-sergeant of cavalry, by name Ernst Böhmer.
The Count--let him enjoy his brief ennoblement--was furious at the
failure of his trap. As Maurice Buckland surmised, he had telephoned
from Calais to his agents in Paris instructing them to watch the
southern road, and to devise any plan that seemed good to them for
stopping the gyro-car. The unusual shape of that unique vehicle made
its identification easy, and the Paris agents laid their trap at the
spot where the chance breaking of the road seemed to promise certain
success. Perhaps the Count’s anger was the more intense because he had
no reasonable ground for complaint. His instructions had been carried
out, and if he had not wasted time by waiting for information from his
emissaries at the bridges, he would almost certainly have reached Melun
before the men he was pursuing.
His stratagem having failed, there was nothing to do but to continue
the pursuit. Without doubt the gyro-car would keep to the main road,
and in fact the Count had tidings of it at every place where his
racing-car had to slow down in obedience to local regulations. When he
caught sight of it for the first time a mile or two beyond Romenay he
exulted. If he could only catch it before it reached Turin, he felt
very pretty sure that at some lonely spot on the mountain road he and
his three companions in the car would have the diplomat at his mercy.
But at the level-crossing near Le Viviers he suffered an exasperating
check. The gates were closed. Insistent appeals failing to bring the
gate-keeper from his cabin, one of the men got out of the car to open
the gates himself. But a prudential management had ordained that the
apparatus should not be easily manipulated by the first-comer, and the
man was still fumbling with it when the keeper appeared from behind a
hedge, and with great indignation demanded what he meant by interfering
with the property of the railway.
Then ensued a brisk and heated altercation, in which the honours lay
with authority. It is wonderful what assurance even the meanest office
gives. The Count demanded that the gates should be opened instantly.
The gate-keeper replied that not for the President of the Republic
himself would he open them until the train had passed. The Count
produced his card.
“Germans!” muttered the official, sniffing.
“But no; we are Russians!” cried the exasperated Count.
“I know those Russians!” replied the man grimly.
The Count produced a five-franc piece.
“_Hé quoi!_ you think to bribe me!” said the scandalised official.
“Really, my good man,” said the Count, struggling to command his
temper, “you exceed your duty.”
“Ah! Monsieur perhaps knows his duty well. Where is Monsieur’s
_certificat de capacité_?”
“What right have you to ask that?”
“Never mind,” said the Frenchman.
With an oath the Count drew from his pocket-book the licence headed
“République Francaise.” The man took it and scrutinised it carefully,
comparing the little photograph pasted on its left-hand side with the
original before him, wrinkling his brow as he read the name, Alexis
Slavianski, the birthplace, Borisoglebsk, and the other details
required by the authorities. This wasted another five minutes. Then
the Count lost his temper utterly, and exchanged a wordy war with the
gate-keeper, which had no other result than to waste more time. It was
twenty minutes before the train ran by, and not till then did the man
open the gates for the passage of the motor-car.
“We have forgotten 1870, have we?” he said with a chuckle, as the car
disappeared in a cloud of dust.
At every crossing the Count had the same experience, with slight
variations, chiefly against him, in the period of waiting. His
eagerness, impatience, and finally abuse convinced the gate-keepers
that they were serving their country in delaying him, and the absence
of other traffic on the road enabled them to give free play to
their patriotism without inconveniencing their fellow-countrymen.
Consequently the green motor reached Modane nearly two hours after the
gyro-car had left it.
At Modane occurred the worst check of all. The Customs officer
took a long time in weighing the car, and then, by an unfortunate
miscalculation, asked for a hundred francs more than was due. He
demanded to see the Count’s _certificat de capacité_, and made out
with great deliberation a similar licence for Italy. He was equally
deliberate in preparing the certificate for _importation temporaire_,
and the Count, fume as he might, had to wait for that document. Every
impatient word he spoke lengthened the delay; the officer broke a pen,
made a blot which he erased until not a vestige of it was visible, all
with the most charming courtesy and frank apologies. He entertained
the Count with a full description of an extraordinary car which had
passed through on the way to Venice a little earlier, noting with keen
enjoyment the exasperation which the traveller, weary after his long
journey, vainly tried to conceal. By the time the motor-car once more
took up the pursuit, the Bucklands had finished their supper, filled
their tanks, and run forty miles beyond Turin in the direction of
Venice.
This was, however, only a blind. If the Count could be deluded into
rushing on to Venice, so much the better. About forty miles from Turin
George turned into the road leading southward through Alessandria to
Genoa. It was a beautiful night, the air crisp and clear, the sky a
dark blue vault spangled with stars, and a rising moon shedding a
white radiance over everything. The road was good and fairly level.
The brothers took turns at driving and napping, and kept up an even
pace of about thirty miles an hour. It was five o’clock in the morning
when they reached Genoa. Putting up at a quiet hotel where Maurice had
formerly stayed, they got a bath, breakfasted, and spent some time in
studying the map. In Italy the Guide Taride no longer served them, and
they had to choose their own route. They decided to run to Rome by way
of Pisa and Leghorn, then to Naples, and thence across the Peninsula to
Brindisi. By six o’clock they were again on the road.
“This is the Grand Tour with a vengeance,” said George as they sped
along, with the blue Mediterranean on their right, and on their left
the olive-clad slopes of the Apennines. “I should like to do it at a
more leisurely pace.”
“I don’t know. I find the speed exhilarating.”
“That’s a confession for a cautious old diplomat! Well, if you like it
you shall have it. There’s no one about.”
He opened the throttle, and soon had the car spinning along at nearly
seventy miles an hour.
“Look out for the turn ahead,” said Maurice anxiously, after a minute
or two.
“All right.”
He threw off the power, but there was scarcely any slackening of speed.
He clapped on the brakes gently; the bend in the road was very near.
It happened to occur at a little hollow, partly overshadowed by trees,
and a few yards of the roadway were covered with a film of greasy
mud. The brakes, now fast set, were unequal to the demand upon them.
Experienced motorist as he was, George had the sickening feeling to
which the most hardened never becomes accustomed; the car was skidding.
It swung round; he managed to steer it past a stone post at the
roadside, shaving the obstacle by an inch; and then it seemed to vault
the shallow ditch, and was finally brought up in the middle of a hedge
of brambles. But it maintained its balance.
“This is more excoriating than exhilarating,” said Maurice coolly, as
he passed his handkerchief over his scratched cheeks. “You steered
wonderfully, but I think for the rest of our journey we had better be
respectable, even if we are dull; we can’t afford time for repairs.”
“You’re right, as usual, old man. By Jove! that was a squeak. I had the
most ghastly feeling. I hope there’s no buckling.”
They got out and examined the car. There was no apparent injury.
Dragging it back to the road they resumed their journey, content to jog
along, as George described it, at thirty miles an hour.
It was a pleasant ride along that coast road, through fishing villages,
with the sea, sparkling in the early sunbeams, on one side, and
groves of oranges, lemons, and olives on the other. Here was a row of
date-palms, there an avenue of plane trees, and at intervals brightly
decorated villas gleaming amid abundant greenery. The road began to
be populous with fishers, donkey-drivers, girls going to the lace
factories, barefooted young labourers on their way to the vineyards and
olive-yards. They stopped to gaze at the gyro-car; a youth would raise
a “Viva!” a girl wave a coloured kerchief--smiling, happy people in a
smiling country.
Presently Pisa hove in sight, with her marble cathedral and leaning
tower gleaming white in the sunlight. But the travellers could not
wait for sightseeing; they ran across the Arno and along the pine-clad
road to Leghorn, passed through this grimy seaport, on and on until,
as they topped a rise, the battlements of the fortress at Volaterra
struck upon their view. Through the narrow, steep street of Colle,
crowded with children, who shrieked as they tumbled out of the way;
along the cypress-shaded road, winding over and around the hills; and
they see the towers of Siena. Still they do not halt, until one of the
front tyres burst with a loud report, and they had to stay at a little
village while it was replaced. They profited by the enforced stop to
take their luncheon. The village inn had little to provide them except
hard brown bread and eggs fried in butter, with a sourish wine for
beverage. But they were hungry enough not to be fastidious. After a
halt of half-an-hour they set off again, and ran along steadily through
the hot afternoon until, about four o’clock, they came to Rome.
Here they stayed an hour for an early dinner. The next important stage
would be Naples, and as they could not hope to reach that city until
past midnight, they thought it best to have a full meal before going
on. They bought petrol and two new tyres at the British Stores, and
left at 5 o’clock. Six hours later they came to Naples, having again
slept and driven in turn. There they took a light meal. The mail train,
as Maurice knew, arrived at Brindisi at 11:30 a.m. It was possible
that the Count himself, or if not he, some of his men, had boarded the
train, and since it was all-important that it should not reach the
port before them, they refused to yield to the solicitation of fatigue,
and started at 2 o’clock in the morning for the ride across from sea to
sea.
They had an easy run to Eboli, but after crossing the Sele river, when
dawn was breaking, they found the road difficult. The soil was loose;
there was scarcely half a mile level; the ascents and descents were
steep and dangerous. George was in a constant state of anxiety lest a
tyre should be punctured, and drove more slowly than at any previous
part of the journey. They had almost forgotten the pursuers. What was
their amazement and consternation, as they began the ascent of a steep
acclivity, when, hearing the sound of a motor behind them, they turned
their heads and beheld the green motor flashing at headlong pace down
the incline they had just descended.
George instantly threw open the throttle, and the gyro-car raced up the
hill at a speed of forty miles. The motor was little more than fifty
yards in the rear when it reached the foot of the hill. Then it lost
ground, but as soon as it arrived at the crest it picked up its speed
again. It was a tremendous race. For many miles the road switchbacked
among the hills. Now the motor would gain, now the gyro-car. Wherever
he could, George ran along the fairly level foot-track by the
roadside, thus escaping the loose shingles of the ill-kept highway.
Here the motor-car could not follow it. Fortunately there was little
traffic. At one point he swerved suddenly to avoid a man driving a
diminutive donkey. Warned by the hooter, the man snatched up the
donkey, and carried it to the side out of harm’s way. Dense volumes
of dust rose behind the gyro-car, flying full in the faces of the
pursuers; but ever and anon the hum of their car could be heard, and
the Bucklands could not but admire the reckless courage of the Count
and his party in maintaining so high a speed on so rough a road.
Through Potenza both vehicles rushed like whirlwinds, separated
by only a few hundred yards. The speed-limit was set utterly at
defiance. Then the switchbacking began again, the dips occurring at
even shorter intervals. The road would drop several hundred feet
within half-a-mile; in ten miles there were as many as sixteen steep
ups and downs. Sometimes the green motor was left out of both sight
and hearing, and then George would hope that it had broken down. But
it always reappeared whenever an abrupt curve forced him to slacken
speed for fear of skidding, even though in his excitement he took the
corners at a pace that he would not have dreamed of risking a few hours
earlier. The gyro-car had always this advantage in the race: that it
was capable of higher speed than the motor when pressed. It was only a
question of taking risks, and neither Maurice nor George was unready to
do this.
The sun was now beating down fiercely on the travellers, and gilding
the dust-cloud that almost continuously hid the pursuers from view. But
the heat was tempered by the rush of air as they whirled through it,
and at these altitudes the air itself was cool. As the gyro-car spun
along, the few pedestrians whom it met or overtook turned to gaze at
it in amazement. Mile after mile was covered, until at Ginosa nearly
three-quarters of the distance between Naples and Brindisi had been
completed.
“We shall do it!” cried George jubilantly, as they ran down the hill a
few miles farther on.
Hardly had he spoken when he was suddenly conscious that the power
had given out. The car ran on for some distance by its own momentum,
but it was only too clear that the engine had ceased to work. With a
smothered exclamation George brought the car to a standstill, let down
the supports, and sprang out. Maurice listened anxiously; there was no
sound from behind. Had the green car broken down too?