The Car of Destiny
rolling along the wide horizon, glimmered blue, rose, ochre, and white,
like coloured marble or a Moorish mosaic. Again we flashed past a
troglodyte village in a hillside; crossed a magnificent bridge, which even
Dick approved; wound through a labyrinth of strange streets like the
streets in a nightmare, and roads to match; smelt mingled perfumes of
incense, burning braziers, cigarettes, and garlic (the true and intimate
smell of country Spain); saw Dueñas, where fair Isabel la Católica met
Ferdinand in the making of the most romantic of royal courtships; spun
through Cabezon: and then, as we entered Valladolid, began bumping and
buckjumping over such chasms and ruts as had not yet insulted our wheels
in Spain.
“Heavens! What can the City Fathers be thinking about?” gasped Dick,
between the jolts which even the best springs could not disguise. On we
went, through that famous old town which Philip the Second chose for the
capital of Spain; and each street was a more awful revelation than the
last. The car pitched and rolled like a vessel in a choppy sea, shuddering
to right herself between breakers, though Ropes drove at walking pace.
“Who ever heard of roads being all right outside a town, and going to bits
in it?” Dick went on. “Why, in America—”
“But this is Spain,” the Cherub reminded him.
We had left Burgos at half-past ten, and it was two when we plunged into
the town which Dick shortened to “Val.” There I took advantage of the part
I played, and sought the hotel at which Carmona must lunch or perhaps put
up for the night; but to my astonishment he was not to be found at either
of the two possible _fondas_. I was hungry, for I had had no breakfast
except a cup of coffee at the Sign of the Cid; but I would not eat until
the mystery was solved.
The grey car had been seen coming into town, and none had seen it go out;
nevertheless it, with all its passengers, had vanished. While the others
went through a high-sounding French menu at the hotel first on the
guide-book list, Ropes and I did detective work. It was he, really, who
picked up the trail of the Lecomte, when we had walked back to the street
it must have entered first; and even for Ropes this would have proved an
impossible feat if our automobiles had not been the only two which had
passed since the heavy rains. “I’ve got the pattern of those non-skids
printed on my brain, sir, since yesterday,” said he. “What I don’t know
about ’em, isn’t worth knowing.”
So he pounced upon the thick, straight, dotted line in the mud, and,
losing it often, but always picking it out again, we turned and wound till
the trail stopped in front of a private house. Later, it went on; but it
was evident that the car had paused. The mud was much trampled, and
probably luggage had been taken down.
We presumed, therefore, that those we sought were within; but the next
thing was to find the resting-place of the Lecomte, lest it should
disappear and leave us in the lurch, ignorant of its destination. Luckily
for us, the worst was over. The trail led to a stable not far away, and as
the doors stood wide open we had the joyous relief of seeing the car being
cleansed of its rich coat of mud. The chauffeur was superintending, his
back turned to the doors, and we walked quickly on lest he should spy a
leather coat and guess that his own game was being played upon him.
“Now you can rest easy, sir,” said Ropes. “That car won’t leave this town
without my knowing; and it’ll go hard if I aren’t able to tell you in the
course of the next hour whether it’s due to start to-day or to-morrow.”
I laughed gratefully. “Thank you, Ropes,” said I. “I shan’t ask how you
mean to get your information. When you say you can do a thing, I know it’s
as good as done.”
“It’s for me to thank you, sir—for everything,” he replied, flushing with
pleasure.
Then we went back to the hotel. And whether Ropes lunched or not I cannot
say; but I did, with a good appetite, Dick and my adopted family lingering
at the table to hear my news.
In three-quarters of an hour Sherlock Holmes kept his word by sending in a
short note, addressed (as I had suggested) to Waring. “Honoured Sir,” it
ran, “Lecomte remains night. Master and friends stopping with his
relatives. Will let you know time of start in morning, and have our car
ready—Respectfully, P. Ropes.”
Some servant of the house or stable-boy had doubtless earned a few
pesetas. Just how the trick had been done, was of little importance, for
it was done. With a light heart in my breast, and Cristóbal O’Donnel y
Alvarez’ uniform still unsuitably adorning my back, I went with the others
to do some sightseeing, and look for Monica.
We wandered rather aimlessly through the streets, stopping before any
building which caught our interest; staring up at the windows behind which
Cervantes wrote part of “Don Quixote” when he had come back from slavery;
admiring the graceful mirador of that corner house where Philip the Second
was born; (“Much too good for him, since the world would have been better
if he hadn’t been born at all,” said Dick, who has Dutch ancestors and a
long memory;) trying to identify the place where Gil Blas studied medicine
with Doctor Sangrado; wandering into two or three churches, but wasting no
time on the cathedral spoilt by Churriguera.
“As a Spaniard, what’s your opinion of the Inquisition?” Dick suddenly
asked the Cherub, as if he were inquiring the time of day. We had stopped
for a moment in the Plaza Mayor where Philip had watched the heretics
burning in their yellow, flame-painted shirts, in the first great
_auto-da-fé_ which he organized.
As another Spaniard, I know that this is the one question of all others,
perhaps, which it is not wise to put to a Spaniard, even in this
comfortable twentieth century. But Dick either did not know, or wished it
to appear that he did not know; and I watched the effect of the words. But
the Cherub was equal to the occasion—and his cherubicness.
He glanced round instinctively, as a man might a few centuries ago, to
make sure that nobody overheard; then smiling slowly, he replied, “I am no
judge, señor; I am half-Irishman.”
Pilar had looked disturbed, but she gave a little sigh at this, saying,
“Come on, and see the museum.”
Nowhere in Spain can there be a more beautiful thing than that façade,
well named Plateresque because of its resemblance to the workmanship of
silversmiths; and inside the museum we found a collection of carved wooden
figures marvellous enough, as Dick said, to “beat the world.” There were
crucifixions, painted saints, and weeping virgins by Hernandez and
Berruguete, faultlessly modelled, so vivid and beautiful as to be
well-nigh startling; and I hoped that Monica might come while we lingered.
But she did not, nor did we see her in the Colegio de San Gregorio. There,
in the lovely inner court, however, I found a little grey glove on the
marble pavement, and so like a certain other glove did it look that I
annexed it, to compare with that other which lived in my breast-pocket
with its friend the rose.
The pair matched in size, colour, and dainty shape. Even the fragrance of
orris hung about it, and I knew this second glove had not been dropped by
accident. Monica had been here, and she had left a message for me to read
if I followed.
XV
HOW THE DUKE CHANGED
“Lecomte getting ready, sir,” were Ropes’ first words to me next morning;
“and I’ve brought our car to the door.”
He had other news, too. An automobile had come in last night from Madrid,
a sixty horse-power Merlin, and the chauffeur had reported snow half a
metre deep on the mountains. The Merlin had stuck, he said, and had to be
pulled out with oxen. Supposing the Duke intended going to Madrid instead
of turning off by way of Salamanca, he—and incidentally we—seemed likely
to come in for an adventure.
We had all taken coffee and rolls in our rooms, as nobody dreams of going
downstairs for breakfast in a Spanish hotel; and soon after eight we were
jolting out of “Val” through streets as execrably paved as those by which
we entered. We had kept Ropes waiting after his announcement only long
enough to strap our luggage on the roof; and as the other car had luggage
and passengers also to pick up, we were just in time to see it leaving the
house of the Duke’s relations with everyone on board.
As the Lecomte took the road to the south on leaving town, it gave us an
assurance that it would not make for Salamanca; but there was still doubt
as to its movements. It could go to Madrid direct over the snow heights of
the Sierra Guadarrama, or it could pay a visit to the Escurial. It might
even halt there for the night; and as there were so many alternatives, we
were anxious to keep our leader continually in view.
The wind was bitter cold, and Pilar shivered in her cloak, which was not
made for motoring. When Dick saw this, before I could speak he had his own
fur-lined coat off, insisting that she should put it on. “I can take Casa
Triana’s,” said he, “since he’s still posing as a soldier of Spain.” And a
glance warned me not to blunder by asking why, in the name of common
sense, she shouldn’t have mine which I wasn’t using, instead of his, which
was on his back. He _wanted_ her to wear his coat, and hang common sense!
After an instant’s stupid bewilderment I saw this, and could hardly help
chuckling. How many days had he known her? Two and a bit. At Biarritz he
had given me sound advice on my affairs; couldn’t understand this
fall-in-love-at-sight business; thought a girl wasn’t worth a red cent
till she was twenty-two couldn’t see himself being sentimental in any
circumstances; was going to wait to make his choice till he went back to
America; believed a man owed it to his own country to put his
country-women first; and anyhow couldn’t stand a girl who wasn’t able to
converse rationally. Yet Pilar, if she were to talk with him in his own
tongue, must perforce limit her scintillations to “Varry nice, lo-vely,
all raight”; while, if he wrestled with hers, he could scarcely go beyond
phrase-book limits.
The language of the eyes remained; but that has no place in the realm of
common sense. My overcoat was singularly unbecoming to Dick; but he beamed
with happiness in it, as he regarded Pilar cosily folded in his; and
looking on the picture, certain things occurred to me which I might say to
Dick when I got him alone. But after all, I thought I would keep them to
laugh over myself.
On this morning of biting wind and brilliant sun, there was still more
dazzle of snow to illumine the mountain tops; and though the road was
dull, the beauty of the atmospheric effects was worth coming to Spain to
see. The road we travelled and the near meadows seemed, as we went
speeding on, the only solid ground in sight; as if we had landed on an
island floating at the rate of thirty miles an hour, through a vast sea of
translucent tints that changed with the light, as an opal changes.
Forests of strangely bunchy “umbrella” pines were blots of dark green ink
splashed against the sky; and scarcely five minutes passed but we saw the
finger of an old watch-tower pointing cloudward from a hill. Sometimes our
road, dividing endless cornfields, stretched before us long and straight
for miles ahead, over switchback after switchback, as if the hills chased
each other but never succeeded in catching up. Then, when we had grown
used to such an outlook, the road would twist so suddenly that it seemed
to spring up in our faces. It would turn upon itself and writhe like a
wounded cobra, before it was able to crawl on again.
Ours was a silent, uninhabited world, without a house visible anywhere,
save here and there some stony ruin—a landmark of the Peninsular War. One