Mr. Standfast - John Buchan (autobiographies to read TXT) 📗

far side, I stepped back towards the stove, and fingered the pistol in my pocket.

A man entered, a man with a scholar’s stoop, an unkempt beard, and large sleepy dark eyes. At the sight of me he pulled up and his whole body grew taut. It was the Portuguese Jew, whose back I had last seen at the smithy door in Skye, and who by the mercy of God had never seen my face.

I stopped fingering my pistol, for I had an inspiration. Before he could utter a word I got in first.

“Die vögelein schweigen im Walde,” I said.

His face broke into a pleasant smile, and he replied:

“Warte nur, balde ruhest du auch.”

“Ach,” he said in German, holding out his hand, “you have come this way, when we thought you would go by Modane. I welcome you, for I know your exploits. You are Conradi, who did so nobly in Italy?”

I bowed. “Yes, I am Conradi,” I said.

XVII The Col of the Swallows

He pointed to the slip on the table.

“You have seen the orders?”

I nodded.

“The long day’s work is over. You must rejoice, for your part has been the hardest, I think. Some day you will tell me about it?”

The man’s face was honest and kindly, rather like that of the engineer Gaudian, whom two years before I had met in Germany. But his eyes fascinated me, for they were the eyes of the dreamer and fanatic, who would not desist from his quest while life lasted. I thought that Ivery had chosen well in his colleague.

“My task is not done yet,” I said. “I came here to see Chelius.”

“He will be back tomorrow evening.”

“Too late. I must see him at once. He has gone to Italy, and I must overtake him.”

“You know your duty best,” he said gravely.

“But you must help me. I must catch him at Santa Chiara, for it is a business of life and death. Is there a car to be had?”

“There is mine. But there is no chauffeur. Chelius took him.”

“I can drive myself and I know the road. But I have no pass to cross the frontier.”

“That is easily supplied,” he said, smiling.

In one bookcase there was a shelf of dummy books. He unlocked this and revealed a small cupboard, whence he took a tin dispatch-box. From some papers he selected one, which seemed to be already signed.

“Name?” he asked.

“Call me Hans Gruber of Brieg,” I said. “I travel to pick up my master, who is in the timber trade.”

“And your return?”

“I will come back by my old road,” I said mysteriously; and if he knew what I meant it was more than I did myself.

He completed the paper and handed it to me. “This will take you through the frontier posts. And now for the car. The servants will be in bed, for they have been preparing for a long journey, but I will myself show it you. There is enough petrol on board to take you to Rome.”

He led me through the hall, unlocked the front door, and we crossed the snowy lawn to the garage. The place was empty but for a great car, which bore the marks of having come from the muddy lowlands. To my joy I saw that it was a Daimler, a type with which I was familiar. I lit the lamps, started the engine, and ran it out on to the road.

“You will want an overcoat,” he said.

“I never wear them.”

“Food?”

“I have some chocolate. I will breakfast at Santa Chiara.”

“Well, God go with you!”

A minute later I was tearing along the lakeside towards St. Anton village.

I stopped at the cottage on the hill. Peter was not yet in bed. I found him sitting by the fire, trying to read, but I saw by his face that he had been waiting anxiously on my coming.

“We’re in the soup, old man,” I said as I shut the door. In a dozen sentences I told him of the night’s doings, of Ivery’s plan and my desperate errand.

“You wanted a share,” I cried. “Well, everything depends on you now. I’m off after Ivery, and God knows what will happen. Meantime, you have got to get on to Blenkiron, and tell him what I’ve told you. He must get the news through to G.H.Q. somehow. He must trap the Wild Birds before they go. I don’t know how, but he must. Tell him it’s all up to him and you, for I’m out of it. I must save Mary, and if God’s willing I’ll settle with Ivery. But the big job is for Blenkiron⁠—and you. Somehow he has made a bad break, and the enemy has got ahead of him. He must sweat blood to make up. My God, Peter, it’s the solemnest moment of our lives. I don’t see any light, but we mustn’t miss any chances. I’m leaving it all to you.”

I spoke like a man in a fever, for after what I had been through I wasn’t quite sane. My coolness in the Pink Chalet had given place to a crazy restlessness. I can see Peter yet, standing in the ring of lamplight, supporting himself by a chair back, wrinkling his brows and, as he always did in moments of excitement, scratching gently the tip of his left ear. His face was happy.

“Never fear, Dick,” he said. “It will all come right. Ons sal ’n plan maak.”

And then, still possessed with a demon of disquiet, I was on the road again, heading for the pass that led to Italy.

The mist had gone from the sky, and the stars were shining brightly. The moon, now at the end of its first quarter, was setting in a gap of the mountains, as I climbed the low col from the St. Anton valley to the greater Staubthal. There was frost and the hard snow crackled under my wheels, but there was also that feel in the air which preludes storm.