WALLACE HAS A LITTLE LUCK
Wallace turned his head as he swam, and saw the yacht slipping away.
He had no doubt that his escape was completely unobserved by any of
the crew, and now success rested upon his swimming powers. He soon
realised that he had been correct about the tide, but there was a
strong easterly set in the current, which threatened to hold him up.
He was a powerful swimmer, and he put every ounce of energy into his
strokes, for he calculated that, once free of the easterly flow,
progress would be easy.
For half an hour he battled with it, and then was greatly relieved to
find himself drifting in on a good tide. The blaze of lights grew
appreciably nearer every few minutes, and his heart began to beat a
new note.… In less than an hour his feet touched bottom and he waded
through the surf on to the beach.
It was Dieppe--he knew it quite well; and the town was yet noisy with
traffic, for the season had commenced, and Dieppe kept late hours. His
first thought was for dry clothing, but how to procure such at that
late hour was a problem. His last resource was a gendarme who was
stationed outside the Casino.
“Pardon, m’sieur,” he said. “I have had an accident--in a boat. Can
you help me obtain some clothes?”
He had to repeat this twice before the gendarme understood. Then the
latter stroked his enormous moustache, and debated the matter
mentally. The subtle display of a hundred-franc note was instrumental
in assisting him towards a quick decision.
“If m’sieur will come with me, perhaps the matter may be arranged,” he
said.
Wallace went with him up several side-streets, and ultimately stood
outside a small shop, over which the owners lived. The gendarme
knocked, and after a few minutes’ wait the door was opened by
“Madame.” A little rapid conversation mingled with much handwork did
the trick, and the gendarme pocketed the note and went back to his
post. Madame let him in, and switched on the light in the shop. It was
packed with clothing of every conceivable kind, from women’s “undies”
to men’s blue jumpers. He selected the best outfit he could find, and
changed into it behind a screen, while madame yawned and made mental
calculations as to how much the job was worth. He was appallingly
overcharged, but it was a relief to discard his late saturated
apparel. Wrapping the drenched garments in a sheet of brown paper, he
bade her “_Bon-soir_” and departed.
A clock in the main street informed him that the hour was one A.M.,
and he took it for granted there would be no train to either Arveyes
or Rheims that night. The only alternative was a car. He started on
the garages, but not one of them had a driver who could undertake a
long night journey at a moment’s notice, and none of them would
consider lending him a car.
Bitterly disappointed, he wandered in the direction of the Casino. The
urge was strong upon him. To sleep while Yolande was in danger was
impossible. It occurred to him that he might telephone to her, but on
making enquiries he was told there would be a delay of three
hours--perhaps more. Cursing all the French systems of communication,
he stared through the portico at the queue of cars waiting for the
baccarat fiends. There were Hispanos, Rolls-Royces, long, gleaming
Renaults with their typically Continental bodies, a hotted-up Bugatti,
Fiats, Lancias, and a magnificent American Packard.
Some had chauffeurs waiting, with sphinx-like patience, for their
lords and masters, others were in charge of no one. The Packard
attracted him, but he was afraid it would have some kind of
thief-proof gadget. The French were more careless. He decided upon the
biggest Renault--for several reasons. It lay away from the bright
lights, and was at the end of the queue, with its bonnet turned the
other way. Moreover, it possessed a fine spot-light which would aid
him in finding his way.
Contemplated larceny was a new sensation, and he didn’t like it much.
But there was Yolande to consider!… He walked down the steps and went
straight to the car. The door was unlocked and the gear-lever free.
Gulping, he switched on the ignition and put his hand on the
self-starter button. Immediately the engine started, and he moved
forward. Then he gasped as a hand was held up and his late friend--the
gendarme--stopped him. But it was only a traffic signal, to permit an
approaching car to turn the corner. Fortunately the gendarme did not
recognise the tense face behind the windscreen.
On the outskirts of the town he found a signpost marked “Rheims,” and
he recalled it was the Rheims road which Niels had joined coming from
the château. He depressed the pedal, and away slid the great car. It
was a “bus” compared with, the lively Bentley, but it had unlimited
power and was the acme of comfort. The great blazing lights rendered
driving remarkably easy, and soon he was out in the country. The
straight road lured him to speed--Yolande seemed to be at the other
end of it, calling for him.
He bumped over the interminable cassis and level crossings, took bends
so fast that the long chassis objected and slewed her tail round
alarmingly at times. But the miles were flying! Once or twice he
slowed down to concentrate the spot-light on a signpost.… For two
hours he maintained an exceedingly high speed--too high for the type
of car--and then he became aware that things were not going well with
the engine. He heard a knock which slowly developed into a bad noise.
“Big end!” he muttered.
His diagnosis was soon beyond doubting. A horrid thud-thud offended
his ears. He tried giving it more oil, but to little effect. Soon it
became apparent that to drive the car much farther would end in
smashing up the whole engine. At fifteen miles an hour he ambled
noisily towards the next village. But on the outskirts he stopped, for
he had no doubt the village boasted a gendarmerie. To sleep in the car
did not appeal to him in the least, for he had little doubt that
telephone bells would soon be ringing all over the country anent a
stolen Renault.
The long main street was illuminated with light from a big building on
the left, and to his surprise and joy he discovered a remarkably
inviting hotel, called the Hôtel de la Poste. He entered the place
and rang the bell. An exhausted waiter appeared.
“Have you got a room? My car has broken down along the road.”
The waiter mumbled something and went away. A few seconds later the
landlord turned up.
“Sorry to be so late,” said Wallace, “but I have had a breakdown. Have
you a room for the night?”
“Yes, m’sieur. You are fortunate in finding us open. But we had
another party of late arrivals. Would m’sieur care for anything to
eat?”
“I won’t bother you----”
“But it is no trouble. Some soup, a little fish, an omelette, or----”
“I’ll have an omelette and half a bottle of _vin ordinaire_.”
“Certainly, m’sieur. _Tout de suite!_ The dining-room is to the
right.”
Wallace nodded and hung up his hat on the hall-stand. Then he became
alert, for the garment next his hat was a brown overcoat that seemed
strangely familiar, and another hat that he could have sworn-- He
recalled what the landlord had said about “another party.” Diving his
hand into the pocket of the brown coat, he found an automatic pistol.
He was about to replace it when he changed his mind and retained it.
His meal was brought in quick time, and he ate it very reflectively.
If Niels and his friends had taken that road, it was not at all
unlikely that they would rest for the night after the exertion of
driving which they had already undergone. The waiter brought cheese
and biscuits.
“Have you got a garage here?” asked Wallace.
“_Oui, m’sieur._”
“My car is stranded along the road--quite near. If I could get a
little petrol I think I could drive it into the garage. Is it too much
trouble?”
The plea, accompanied by a twenty-franc note, lifted the tired waiter
from depression to elation.
“It is no trouble. I will get the key.”
Wallace saw him take the key from a hook inside the office. He
followed him to the garage. On the door being opened, the first thing
Wallace saw was Niels’s mud-bespattered speedster! He received a
_bidon_ of petrol from the waiter, and pretended to go to his car.
After loitering for ten minutes, he came back and reported dismally
that the car would not start.
“Shall I help m’sieur push it in?”
“It is too big. Never mind; it will not hurt until the morning. Sorry
to trouble you.”
The door was locked again and the key hung upon its nail. A few
minutes later Wallace went to his room. The next move was obvious, and
it removed from him the fear of being hauled up for car-theft. That,
he thought, would not apply to Niels’s case, for Niels would not dare
to approach the police.
For an hour he waited, killing some of the time by looking up the
route to the château from a book of maps which he had picked up in
the hall. Then he decided to make the attempt. Creeping downstairs, he
found the office and removed the key. The front door of the hotel had
double bolts, and a lock of the Yale type which could be opened from
within without a key.
In a few minutes he was in the garage. He examined the car by means of
the “dash” light, and got the hang of the controls. The tank was
nearly empty, but there were scores of _bidons_ of spirit to hand. He
took a dozen of these and dumped them inside the car. Reckoning his
bill roughly, he left enough money to pay it under a spanner on a
bench. There was a slope to the main road, and it enabled him to run
down without using the engine. Once there, he started up, and,
switching on his headlights, went streaking up the road.
Here was something live--something to please the heart of an engineer.
The supercharger was operated from the accelerator pedal, and came
into action at about half-throttle. Its whirring--almost
shrieking--note heralded astounding acceleration. He realised now why
he had never succeeded in overhauling it. It was a track-car, and one
capable of over a hundred miles an hour.
Through the soft night he sped, alternately worrying about Yolande and
grinning to think how circumstances had conspired to turn the tables
on Niels. A hundred miles was knocked off before he stopped dead, and
realised that he had come to the end of his petrol. He got out, and
refilled the tank from the _bidons_. Incidentally he made another
small discovery. In the pockets of the car were two more pistols, and
a batch of papers which proved to be his passport and _triptiques_,
also Conrad’s.
A beautiful dawn broke across the fields, and some of the mental
shadows fled. It surprised him to find himself feeling fresh and
unfatigued, but he ascribed it to the joy of the road in the early
morn, and the feel of a willing car beneath him. On the straightest
stretch of road he could not let the thing out, and hills did not seem
to exist.
Half an hour later he got a shock. Early as it was, he saw a gendarme
on the fringe of the village, with his hand up. His heart quaked, and
he pulled up the car. The gendarme looked at a piece of paper which he
held in his hand, and scrutinised the number-plates and other points.
“What’s wrong?” asked Wallace innocently.
“_Ca va!_ I am looking for a Renault, m’sieur, that was stolen in
Dieppe last night.”
“A Renault? That is curious. I saw a Renault--blue--parked on the side
of the road just outside Vesaires.”
“A closed car?”
“Yes.”
“_Voilà!_ I will telephone Vesaires. _Merci, m’sieur!_”
“Don’t mention it! Cheerio!”
He was now but some fifty miles from Grammont, and the thought was
pleasing. Possibly all was well there, for at least Niels and his
friends were counted out for the time being. He wished there were some
means of getting into touch with Conrad, but it looked as if no news
could possibly reach him for days yet.
Already the sun was drying up the mud, and the rain-washed fields and
trees were gay with colour. He played with the car like a child with a
new and wondrous toy, and before he had exhausted its tricks he saw in
the distance the white turrets of the Château Grammont, towering
above the trees in the forest that surrounded it.
A run of twenty minutes through a leafy vista brought him to the main
gate. It was locked, but old Pierre came out and opened it. On second
thoughts Wallace left the car outside and walked up the drive. The
first person he saw was Fouchard, pacing to and fro among the roses,
hands behind his back and head forward.
“Hullo, Fouchard!”
Fouchard swung round and gazed at him in amazement.