The hour selected for the rendezvous was four, and as Methuen watched the hands of his watch creep to quarter past the hour he was once more seized with anxiety lest the contact should not be made. Perhaps Porson had had an accident; the simplest mishap could have delayed him by as much as an hour. Perhaps … but his speculations were cut short by the whirr of a car engine coming up fast from the south. In the pale lavender dawn light the headlights looked wan and pale, and he could see the faint plume of dust rising behind them. He gritted his teeth now in an agony of apprehension, preparing himself for disappointment, repeating to himself over and over again: “I bet it isn’t Porson. It can’t be Porson.”
But his heart gave a great leap when he saw a second spurt of dust come round the furthest bend in the gorge, some quarter of a mile behind the first. The seconds ticked away and the headlights played their fantastic game of hide and seek along the dark road. Then, with a roar, the old Mercedes blundered out of the final rock-cutting and advanced towards the spring. The hood was down, and both Porson and Blair were wrapped up against the dawn-chill in weird Balaclava helmets which gave them the appearance of demented airmen trying to get airborne. Porson was grinning elatedly up at the tree, though it was clear that he could not see Methuen among the leaves; Blair looked pale and excited. Methuen conquered a desire to shout aloud to them and as the car slid under him he dropped his parcel with a thud squarely into the back. Dust rose up into the leaves around him. The klaxon hooted twice, and he was just able to see a packet tossed out into the long grass by the white milestone when the second car burst into view. It was crowded with sleepy detectives in trilbies, lying dozing in different attitudes, like a litter of cats, while the radio scratched away with some Hungarian gipsy music relayed from Belgrade.
Methuen lay in the choking dust cloud for a clear minute and a half, listening to the drone of the engines diminishing, and gathered himself together for the next move. He was rather alarmed at the painful cramp which had beset him — for he was a practised shikari and had spent many a night perched soundlessly in a mechaan, waiting for tiger, without suffering unduly from fatigue. “Must be old age,” he said grimly, and looking about him carefully, began to edge his way out of his hiding-place.
Dawn was coming up fast now, and it was with relief that he retrieved the bundle left by the car and took to the deeper woods once more, climbing with steady tireless pace on the moss carpets beside the cataracts and pools of the Studenitsa, refreshed by the spray which blew into his face at every step.
He found a small fern-encircled nook at the top and took a short rest, which gave him an opportunity to examine the contents of the parcel which Porson had dropped him. He saw with delight that some of the items on his own shopping list had already been anticipated. There was a bundle of freshly-baked bread and some olives; two or three tins of meat; and — but this was divination — some soap which he had forgotten to bring with him. There was also a woollen helmet and a further supply of solid fuel. At first there was no sign of a written message but after an anxious hunt he found a thin sheet of paper covered with numerals and recognized with a thrill of pleasure the prearranged code from Walden. It would take him a little time to work out, and he addressed himself to the last slope after eating some of the bread and olives from the brown-paper parcel.
All was silent as he crept up the river bank, skilfully fording the stream at the familiar point and sneaking up to the cave-mouth under cover. He had set some twigs over the entrance in a special way so that any chance visitor to the cave must disarrange them, and he saw now with relief that nobody had visited his hideout in his absence. The snake had not appeared as yet, and he lit the fire in the early chill of dawn to make something hot to drink. Then he sat himself down with pencil and notebook and his copy of Walden to decipher the message Porson had left him. It took him some time to establish the text clearly, and as it grew under his hand he could not resist an occasional whistle of surprise. There were some new develepments of startling interest.
“Spoke to Don in Belgrade by phone code” it began (Don was Carter) “and have the following for you from the Shop. Submarine has left dockyards and reported in Adriatic. Actress Sophia Marie’s suicide announced over radio the morning we left for Skoplje, due to ‘overwork’. No news of Vida. Military report sinister activity your area. Three regiments of troops and some police converging on you from Sarajevo, Uzice, and Rashka respectively, obviously surrounding mountain-range. Ambassador anxious your return and suggests you hop Wednesday car down to Skoplje rather than wait. Don points out that what up to now has been police activity is becoming military operation including one unit of mortars and six machine-gun sections. Hopes you are not responsible for increased activity. Don cables that no advance made on radio messages except that Professor asks you to bear in mind that in original saga king’s birthright was hoard of precious stones.”
Precious stones! Machine-guns! Sophia Marie! For a while Methuen’s brain was in a whirl. What was to be made of all this reported activity in a landscape which offered not a living soul to the view? The larks were rising from the dewy meadows as he walked outside to think the whole thing over. The landscape slept as if it had been freshly painted by the hand of a master. He yawned as he drank some hot cocoa and read the transcript through slowly. He had still two days before the next rendezvous. How should he spend them? “It is really incredible that I haven’t put up anything at all,” he told himself despondently. “There must be something to show for all this activity somewhere.” But where?
He retired to the cave and slept for a while. At midday, after some food, he set off and walked due west along the range until dusk without result. The quietness of the landscape was no illusion for the wild life of the place told him the same tale. It was completely undisturbed by man. In his despondency he even shot a hare with his pistol, regretting as he did so that he had no receptacle suitable for jugging a creature which has such comparatively large bones. Nevertheless he slung it round his waist in a pocket and carried it home with him to the cave.
That night he slept free from alarms and woke to find that a storm had settled over the valley. The dark sky was suffused with clouds, and lightning played among the pines; the river too had turned white as a scar and was full of drifting logs being whirled down by the current. He spent a joyous hour fishing in the rain before returning soaked to his cave, which was by now as warm and dry as an airing cupboard. Here he disposed his catch, the rosy silvered trout, on moss and counting them decided that he had enough for the day if he was to be penned up by bad weather. “I’m really in danger of overeating,” he thought, thinking of the hare which he had hung for the night over his chimney.
The rain slashed and the thunder boomed the whole morning long and he was glad for an excuse to lie up and think of his plans. Despondency gave place now to resignation. After all, he had done his best. If there was nothing to report it was not his fault. He could not be expected to go out of his way to search for trouble. Dombey would have to be content.… But, and here he swore under his breath, what were the soldiers doing, converging upon this area from so many directions? Damn it, he could not believe that they were out to hunt for him. How would Dombey ever equate his report with that of the military movements?