Perishable Goods

To
Harrow School,
as I remember it, when I had the
honour to wear “The Harrow Hat.”

I

First Blood

It was in October, 1926, that George Hanbury and I first set up house in Wiltshire; and, since for the next six months we hunted four days a week, yet would commit to no one the pleasant task of setting our home in order, I do not think we slept out of Maintenance—for from time immemorial that has been the name of the place—more than seven times. But two of the visits I paid stand out of my memory, and, as they bear upon the matters which I am to tell, I will set them down.

In the first week of December the wedding of one of my cousins took me to town.

Now neither Hanbury nor I would have dreamed of visiting London without calling on Jonathan Mansel, whose flat was in Cleveland Row; for we three had made our fortune together and together had proved the stuff of which friendship is made. That apart, Mansel was the very finest gentleman that ever I knew: his ways were quiet, and his address was simple; but there was a natural royalty about him such as, I think, few monarchs have been able to boast.

I started betimes and travelled to London by road, and the clock of St. James’s Palace was striking nine as I turned out of Marlborough Gate into Cleveland Row. Except for my servant, Bell, I was alone.

Here let me say that it was Mansel who had taught me the virtue of being early abroad and, particularly, of taking a journey before the world was awake; “for,” said he, “the dawn you may nearly always have to yourself, and, since it is the fairest of the hours, that a free man should lose it is more than lamentable.”

I had no need to ring, for, when I had mounted the stairs, I found Mansel’s hall-door open and his body-servant, Carson, watching two workmen who were busy about its lock. He took me directly to the study, where Mansel was standing before a cheerful fire.

“Ah, William,” says he, “I’m glad to see you. How was it you didn’t ring?”

I told him.

“That’s right,” said he. “Those fellows are changing the lock. Yesterday this flat was entered—by some person or persons unknown.”

“Thieves?” said I.

“Thieves,” said Mansel.

At once I looked at the wall, where I knew there had hung a monstrance. This was golden and jewelled, and, though there was plate-glass about it, I could have forced the case in two minutes of time. But the monstrance was there.

“And they missed that?” said I, pointing.

“They didn’t come for that,” said Mansel.

For a moment we looked at each other: then I sat down in a chair and took out a cigarette.

“They came for my papers,” said Mansel. “And got them.” He pointed to his writing-table. “In the right-hand pedestal of that is a little safe. They cut it open and took my papers away. There were fifty sovereigns there and five hundred pounds in notes: but they didn’t take them: so it looks as though they meant me to understand that they came for my papers alone.”

“Were there papers of value?” said I.

Mansel frowned. Then he moved swiftly to a window and stood, looking down upon the street. So he stayed for some moments, because, I am sure, he would not trust his voice.

Presently—

“They were of interest,” he said, “to no one but me.”

I was concerned, for Mansel was plainly moved, and, though I knew no more than the man in the moon the nature of the stolen papers, I had never before seen him betray himself.

At length—

“What’s to be done?” said I.

“Nothing,” said Mansel, turning. “But, as you know, Chandos, I have a dangerous enemy, and, if he should study those papers, he might see a line of attack which would hit me hard.”

“Us,” I said quickly.

“Us,” said Mansel, and smiled.

And there we left the business, for that was clearly his will: but, though we spoke of it no more, I could not get it out of my mind, for I knew as well as did Mansel that the theft was the work of Rose Noble and that it was not to be thought of that he would fail to perceive the significance of his spoil.

Rose Noble was a sinister man, and, though he came but seldom into the light, was undoubtedly concerned in some of the greatest robberies of his time. He was never taken, and the police of more than one country feared his name, for he had a reputation so evil as to be almost fabulous and was commonly believed by those who knew him to be gifted with second sight. That he deserved this fame I can testify, for Mansel, Hanbury and I had made our fortune in his teeth: we had more than one brush with him and found him a monster of iniquity, bold, swift and strong, in whom there was no pity at all. I do not say that he had second sight; but his instinct was supernatural, and I do not think that any living being could deceive this terrible man.

Now, had we not made our fortune, Rose Noble would have made his; and, since nine hundred thousand pounds is a huge sum of money to forego, I was not greatly surprised that he was, so to speak, returning to the charge: and, as it was Mansel that had captained our enterprise, it was, I suppose, natural that Rose Noble should pitch upon him. How he would use the papers which he had stolen I could not think, but Mansel had said plainly that they could be turned to his hurt, and his demeanour had shown me that this hurt might be very sore.

On my return to Maintenance I told George Hanbury my news, to find that he shared my concern: but, since Mansel had promised to apprise us if trouble came, yet week after week went by and brought no message, we began to believe our apprehension baseless and the robbery nothing more signal than a flash in the pan.

It was early in the following April that Hanbury and I spent three fine days at White Ladies in the New Forest, that is to say, at Mansel’s country home. This he shared with his cousins, whose name was Pleydell. It was not our first visit, but the Pleydells were absent when we had been there before, and, though the four Sargents in the gallery had told us what to expect, I do not think that either of us believed that all five members of one family could prove so charming.

Adèle Pleydell was the youngest and had married Captain Pleydell five years before: I learned later that she was American by birth. She and her husband seemed very young for their age. Major and Daphne Pleydell were clearly older and were by one consent treated as the heads of the house. Yet all were equal; and, when once Adèle Pleydell affirmed that she was an interloper and the only one of them whose ancestors had not known White Ladies, there was an amicable uproar, and Major Pleydell said gravely, “That I regard as one of the misfortunes of our House.”

She was a tall, slim girl, very graceful and wonderfully and beautifully made. Her face was lovely; her thick, dark hair, lustrous; the light in her fine, brown eyes, a glorious thing. She was quiet, yet tireless and seemed to do all things well: she could drive a car and could ride with any man: yet she was always maidenly and looked as delicate a-cock-horse as when, in silk and satin, she sat to a piano and lifted her exquisite voice. She was naturally eager and responsive, and I shall always see her, as did Sargent—with her beautiful lips parted and her soft, brown eyes alight.

If the others were less attractive, that was no fault of theirs, for I think Adèle Pleydell would have diminished anyone. She was plainly their darling, yet did not seem to know this; and, since she was very quick-witted, this one simplicity made her the more worshipful.

Hanbury and I, as was natural, fell down at her feet, and I am proud to remember that she made us free of her friendship, before we had known her an hour.

So, indeed, did they all: and I do not think I ever paid a visit one half so agreeable.

Much was made of the adventure to which I have already referred, and, when Major Pleydell proposed that they should go fishing in Carinthia later that year and then explore the very scenes of our endeavour, the idea was heartily received.

“And you’ll come and stay with us,” said Daphne Pleydell, addressing Hanbury and me. “If they will let us the farm we rented before, we shall have plenty of room, and Jonah’s a poor showman when it comes to talking of himself.”

That this was so I proved the very next day, for I rode with Adèle in the morning at six o’clock and found she knew next to nothing of what Mansel had done. Be sure I enlightened her, if only for Justice’ sake.

When I had finished, she set her chin in the air.

“Tell me,” she said. “Is Rose Noble the man to take this lying down? I mean, nine hundred thousand is a bag of money to lose.”

I suppose I hesitated, for her head was round in an instant, and her steady, brown eyes were on mine.

“Didn’t you know,” I said, “that Mansel was lately robbed?”

She let out a cry of excitement and checked her horse.

“I never knew,” she said. And presently, “Go on.”

I shook my head.

“It’s not my secret,” I said. “As it is, I’ve said too much.”

With that, I would have gone forward, but she leaned down and caught my rein.

“Tell me,” she pleaded, “tell me. I swear I’ll not breathe a word.”

In the end I yielded, and, before we were back at White Ladies, she knew as much as I.

When I said I was concerned, she laughed.

“I snuff a romance,” she cried. “Jonah, the celibate, has had some passionate affair, and he’s frightened to death that Rose Noble will bring it out. But he never will. You can’t blackmail a man for playing the game: and Jonathan Mansel’s never done anything else.”

“That I believe,” said I. “But why was he troubled?”

The lady shrugged her shoulders.

“A celibate sees a scandal in every bow. The memory of the most harmless flirtation is a millstone round Jonah’s neck.”

Her interpretation relieved me, for I was sure she was wise; but, though I was greatly tempted to share it with George, I did not care to admit that I, and not Mansel, had told Adèle of the theft. So I held my peace.

The next day we left for Wiltshire promising soon to return. Yet we did not, though our homes were but fifty miles apart; for with the coming of summer there was much to be done at Maintenance, and, though the hunting was over, we had our hands full.

The Pleydells and Jonathan Mansel left for Carinthia in July.

Mansel was soon to come back, for he had business at home; and then, on the first of September, he and George Hanbury and I were to go out together by road.

And so it fell out—though not as we had expected: for, though Mansel came leisurely to England, he took the road back to Carinthia, like a man possessed. And Hanbury and I with him.

On the thirtieth day of August we dined in Cleveland Row, to settle the hour of departure and other things.

Our plans were simple and soon laid.

We were to meet at Folkestone and cross by the morning boat; and, since it seemed idle to take two cars, yet send three servants by train, we arranged to keep two with us and to send the third to Salzburg in charge of our heavier stuff. As luck would have it, all three had done this journey before—for Rowley, Hanbury’s old servant, had lately reentered his service—and, since they were all efficient, any one of the three could be trusted to shift for himself: but, as Carson and Bell were accustomed to handling a car, but Rowley was not, the latter was chosen to take our baggage by train.

Not until the cloth had been drawn did Mansel tell us that he had some unfortunate news.

“Boy Pleydell,” he said, “Adèle’s husband, has broken his leg. I heard this morning. Years ago, not twenty-five miles from the scene of his accident, he broke a couple of ribs; so it looks as though Carinthia was bad for his health. However, there’s nothing to be done. He’s under a Salzburg surgeon, and I’m taking out thirty novels to help him to pass the time.”

Here the door was opened, and Carson came in with a note. This was addressed to Mansel and marked “Immediate.”

“Who brought this?” said Mansel, taking it up.

“The porter found it on the steps, sir, one minute ago.”

Mansel asked us to excuse him and broke the seal.

After a little he gave me the letter to read.

The stolen goods will be returned on the receipt by the Manager of the ——— Bank, Zurich, of your cheque for five hundred thousand pounds. This sum you can raise, if you please. No time should be wasted for the goods are perishable.

The body of the letter was written in a clerkly hand, but the date had been rudely added, I suppose, that day.

I passed the letter to George and turned to Mansel.

“ ‘Perishable’?” said I. “ ‘Perishable?’ What does he mean?”

“I can’t think,” said Mansel slowly, knitting his brows. “And why has he waited nine months?”

“It must be Rose Noble,” said Hanbury, looking up from the sheet: “for nobody else would know you could raise such a sum. Otherwise, I should say that the writer was out of his mind. I mean, half a million for some papers. …”

“I agree,” said Mansel. “It’s fantastic. I value them certainly: but I wouldn’t give more than a hundred to get them back. If as much. I can’t understand it,” he continued, taking the letter again; “for Rose Noble must know what they’re worth rather better than I.”

For a while we sat silent, for there was nothing to say: but I could not help wondering what was the nature of the papers which Rose Noble held and reflecting that, until we knew that, neither George nor I could make any useful remark.

Mansel was speaking in a quiet, even tone.

“The papers are the letters of a girl—occasional letters and notes—in all, I suppose ten or twelve. Their matter is so casual and ordinary that I feared that Rose Noble would wonder why I had kept them safe. They were in order of date, with her photograph. I feared he would think that she meant something to me. I mean, that was the only explanation of my keeping so carefully such artless documents.”

There was a long silence, and all that Adèle had said came to my mind with a rush. And I could have laughed for relief, but that I knew that Rose Noble was no fool.

At length—

“I still see no daylight,” said Hanbury. “He offers you those letters back. When you ignore his offer, what will he do?”

Mansel shrugged his shoulders.

“He may send them to her husband,” he said. “I would very much rather he didn’t, but that’s as far as I go.”

Again I took the letter and read it through.

“ ‘The goods are perishable,’ ” I said. “That’s a curious way of saying ‘I’m going to send them to him.’ ”

“I agree,” said Hanbury. “And it’s not at all like Rose Noble. He always made himself clear.”

“Painfully clear,” said I, and could have bitten out my tongue.

But Mansel gave no sign of having heard what I said.

Then a bell was rung, and, sitting in breathless silence, we heard a servant pass to the flat’s front door.

The next moment Carson entered, bearing a telegram.

Mansel ripped open the envelope, glanced at the sheet and clapped his hands to his face.

The three of us stared at him.

Presently—

“Tell the man to wait,” he said quietly. “He shall have an answer in five minutes’ time.”

Carson withdrew.

Mansel rose to his feet and handed the telegram to me:

Return Adèle disappeared shall I call in police Pleydell.

“Good God,” I cried, rising.

Hanbury snatched the form from my hand.

“You were quite right, Chandos,” said Mansel. “Rose Noble has a way of making himself painfully clear.”

I could only stare, and Mansel gave a short laugh.

“Let me do the same,” he said. “The letters he took had been written to me by Adèle.”

“Oh, my God,” said Hanbury.

“And, when he says ‘stolen goods,’ he’s not referring to the letters, but to something more—more valuable, something which ‘disappeared’ a few hours ago.”

Not until then did the scales fall from my eyes: but though I would have spoken, I could not utter a word.

I watched Mansel pick up the letter and read it through.

“ ‘Perishable goods,’ ” he said quietly, speaking as though he were alone. “Yes. I suppose you might call Adèle in Rose Noble’s hands—‘perishable goods.’ ”

There was champagne on ice on a sideboard, and Mansel opened a bottle and poured the wine.

When we had drunk, he sat down and wrote his reply:

Pleydell Poganec St. Martin Carinthia

On no account Mansel.

And when this had been dispatched, he picked up Rose Noble’s letter and lighted a cigarette.

His agitation cannot have been over, but all sign of it was gone; and from this time on until the end, he was, as always, the coolest and most patient of us all. Few men, I think could have maintained such mastery of themselves; but Mansel’s self-control was absolute, and, though it was now to be proved as surely no man’s has ever been proved before, it never failed and seldom enough gave any sign of strain. Indeed, I often think that the flash of feeling he showed, when the telegram was brought in, was because when he read it, he knew that his secret was ours. Had Rose Noble’s letter followed instead of preceding the telegram, he never would have told us the nature of the papers which had lain in his safe, and I am sure that neither George Hanbury nor I would ever have suspected the truth. Yet I am glad we knew it and I think that, now it was done, Mansel was glad also; for, be a man never so reserved, there is a pitch of trouble which he is thankful to share.

After a little, Mansel folded the letter and held it up.

“I am not going to act,” said he, “upon the suggestion here made, because, for one thing, such a sum is ruinous, and, for another, I do not trust Rose Noble.”

I got to my feet.

“We’re all three in this,” I said. “That’s abundantly clear. If he’d drawn blank in this flat he’d have started on George or on me. But, whichever of us he’d attacked, his price would have been the same.”

“That’s beyond doubt,” said Hanbury. “He’s out to recover the fortune: and, not knowing how much it came to, he’s put it as high as he dares.”

“Exactly,” said I. “Very well. My share was two hundred thousand: in two days’ time you shall have three fourths of that back.”

“Same here,” said Hanbury.

“I know that,” said Mansel. “Thank you. But it would break her heart. Sooner or later she would most surely find out, and then—well, you can’t lay anyone under a debt like that. It’s not to be thought of. And, since, as I say, I do not trust Rose Noble, I think it will be convenient to count this document out.”

With that, he put the letter towards a candle’s flame, but after a moment, withdrew it and put it away in his case.

“So all that we know,” he continued, “is that Adèle has disappeared: and, since my cousin, her husband, is out of action and we three know Carinthia as the palm of our hand, we are naturally going to seek her with all our might. Of course we suspect abduction: I think anyone would. But that is all. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes,” said I.

“Good,” said Mansel. “And now please don’t talk for a minute. I want to think.”

I was glad to sit still, with my head in my hands, for the turn of events had shocked me, and I felt as though I were dreaming some disagreeable dream.

The disclosure of Mansel’s secret, the unconscionable daring of Rose Noble, the horror of the plight of Adèle had dealt me three swingeing blows; but what had hit me still harder was the sudden appreciation that, thanks to our talk in the forest, Adèle herself must now know that she was the very lady that Mansel loved.

What Mansel would have said, had he known this, I dared not think: but I was quite certain that, when he found it out, as he most surely would, he would be most particular never to see her again.

This was no conjecture, for I knew the man.

Full measure he gave in all things, though it were to his own beggary; and that he would palter where a girl’s heart was concerned was unimaginable.

Adèle was his cousin’s wife, at once his liege lady and his familiar friend: that much I had seen with my eyes: there never was, I believe, so gentle a relation. That the one valued this was patent: it was, I suppose, the light of the other’s life. And now it was soon to founder, sunk by Mansel’s own hand, rather than let come into the shallows of embarrassment.

The thought that my tongue would be to blame for this most bitter upshot haunted me for days, although, as I shall show, I need have had no concern. Indeed, throughout our venture Mansel bore himself with such exalted gallantry that I have often thought since that, though he could not have known of the speech I had had with Adèle, yet he knew in his heart that she would know why she had been taken and that he was carrying her colours for the first and last time.

My mind being so exercised, I do not find it surprising that I cannot clearly remember all that was said that evening, but I know that Mansel determined to sail the next night, but not before then, because he must have a day in which to prepare for the battle to which we were now to go.

Rowley was to leave with our baggage by an earlier train and Hanbury was to change the arrangements for shipping the cars.

Mansel’s Rolls-Royce was furnished with secret lockers and trays, but ours had no such fittings, and, since we must now carry arms, he gave me a note to his coachbuilder and bade me seek him the next morning at eight o’clock. While he and his men were at work, fitting a hidden coffer, Carson and I together were to test and prepare the two cars, so that, with luck, if need be, they could run for a month on end without attention.

Bell was to cross to France by a morning boat, there to buy food and petrol against our coming and to promise ten thousand francs to the officials concerned if we were clear of the Customs in half an hour.

From the port we should drive to Salzburg as hard and as straight as we could and thence direct to St. Martin, for that was the name of the village which served the Pleydells’ farm.

That Adèle was in Austria seemed certain, for without her passport and against her will she could hardly be taken out: moreover the countryside lent itself to violence, for much of it was most solitary, and the lives of its inhabitants were too strait for them to intrude upon matters with which they had no concern. I suppose there were constables of sorts, though I never saw one, except, of course, in the towns: and they would have shrugged their shoulders upon any business less homely than a breach of the local peace. For this, indeed, we were thankful, for official notice of the matter was the last thing we desired: this for more than one reason, but most of all because, so far from aiding, it would have put our enterprise in deadly peril.

I have no doubt at all that, had the police been called in, Adèle would have paid with her life for their assistance. The fight was between us and Rose Noble, and the bare threat of an ally to whom, if he lost, Rose Noble would have to answer, would have been instantly silenced in the most dreadful and effective of ways. Another man might have balked at so detestable a crime, but Rose Noble was ruthless and would, I think, have slain ten pawns, had they stood in the way of his safety or revenge. I verily believe it was this terrible quality, if, indeed it can be so called, to which he owed his immunity, for, while “dead men tell no tales,” it has but to be known that a man keeps that for his motto and those who have to do with him will tell none either.

It was midnight before we parted, and three o’clock of the morning before I fell asleep: but six hours later the coachbuilder was urging his men, and Carson and I were at work. Except that we drove to St. James’s and back again, we laboured incessantly till four, but, when I reported to Mansel at five o’clock, the cars were as ready for the road as the wit of man could make them and both were at hand in his garage by Stable Yard. There they were packed and loaded by Carson alone, and at half past six they were standing in Cleveland Row.

Rowley and Bell were gone, so we were but four to travel as far as Dieppe: yet in a way we were five, for Tester, Mansel’s Sealyham, went with us, and, if he was but a dog, he was ever better company than many a man.

He was fine to look at, very strong and healthy, intelligent beyond belief. Given an order that he could appreciate, he would obey it to the death. He knew no fear, was very quick and cheerful, would countenance no one but those his master had commended and worshipped Mansel himself with the most lively devotion that I have ever seen.

At a quarter to seven we passed out of Cleveland Row.

We made no secret of our going, simply because it was a movement we could not hide: “all the same,” said Mansel, “it doesn’t very much matter if they do send Rose Noble a wire. He never expected that I should pay out of hand: but he means me to find it hopeless and then to put on the screw.”

We dined at Newhaven and saw the cars taken on board: then we turned into our cabins to take what rest we could, for, though Mansel had not said so, we all four knew very well that, until we were come to Carinthia, we should none of us sleep again.

The steward roused me by order half an hour before we were due, and I came on deck to find a clean morning and two or three lights marking the coast of France.

Mansel had told me to breakfast before I left the boat, so after a turn or two, I went below, there to find him and Hanbury making a wretched meal.

Whilst I was waiting to join them, he gave me a map.

“We must keep together,” he said: “but, as we can’t see ahead, this is in case we part. Don’t use it at all until then. I’ve marked the route in blue pencil, so that you can’t go wrong. I’d better take the lead. I shall go pretty fast, but please try to keep me in sight. If I lose you, I shall slow up, but I don’t want to have to do that. If you want to attract my attention, use your horn. I’ll take Carson to start with; but later we might make a change, and you or Hanbury drive for a while with me.”

“First stop, Carinthia,” said George.

“If you please,” said Mansel. “I hope we shall be at St. Martin in twenty-four hours. We must water and feed, of course, and fill up the cars: but I wired to my cousin that we should be there by dawn, and I rather fancy, poor fellow, he’ll watch the clock.”

We had already decided that, though we might rest at Poganec after our run, we should leave our baggage at Villach, at an inn which we knew; for not only was this town more central, but to have to “report progress,” as we should if we stayed with the Pleydells, whenever we came or went would be intolerable. This may seem a harsh decision, as they were so deeply concerned, but we should be dealing, we knew, with life and death, and that we should be hampered by any sort of obligation was not to be thought of. We did not expect, however, to have much use for a base, but to be constantly moving in search or pursuit of Adèle: and this was why Mansel had been insistent that the cars should demand no attention, yet withstand incessant use.

As the boat entered the harbour, we came on deck and presently made out Bell, who was standing with three officials on the edge of the quay. So soon as he saw us, he pointed us out to his companions, one of whom boarded the steamer before she was fairly at rest. I met him with our papers, and, since they were what he had come for, he took them without a word.

This was well enough, but the cars had to be unshipped, and, since the boat-train was waiting, the ordinary registered baggage must, as always, be taken off first. That this would be a long business seemed very probable, for there was but one crane manned, and, as luck would have it, there were many passengers.

As the man who had taken our papers regained the quay, the main gangways were run inboard, and I saw for the first time that Bell had a watch in his hand. A little way off was a lad in charge of a basket and a small stack of petrol cans.

“Full marks to Bell,” said Mansel. “They’re going to take the cars first.”

And so indeed they did—such is the power of money.

Mansel’s Rolls was ashore before any of us, and, at a sign from Bell, the lad with the basket began to fill her tank. As the second car was landed, the man who had taken our papers came running out of some office with the documents stamped and signed, and, after a glance at our number-plates, handed me back the wallet and raised his hat. Then our baggage was hastily chalked, and, as Mansel started his engine, Bell put away his watch.

“We’re free to proceed, sir,” he said, touching his hat. “By your leave I’ll pay them the money and find you outside.”

“Well done indeed,” said Mansel. “How long have we been?”

“Just under a quarter of an hour, sir. I promised them five thousand if they did it in half an hour, and I said I’d double the money if they did it in half the time.”

With that, he disappeared, and Hanbury started our engine, as Mansel, with Carson and Tester, drove off the quay.

The lad charged to fill our tank was a clumsy workman, so I told him to stand aside and did it myself: and George descended and helped me by taking the caps from the cans.

“You drive first,” he said. “It won’t be light for some time, and your eyes are keener than mine.”

“Very well,” said I.

The landing of the registered baggage was now in full swing, and the quay was alive with porters, bustling to and fro in the lamplight and making less progress than noise: and, since the baggage itself was being swung over our heads, I was glad to screw its cap to the tank and to take my seat in the car.

Hanbury picked up the basket and followed me in.

The eastern sky was pale, but it was yet very dark.

Now as we were moving slowly towards the street, I became aware of some paper upon which I seemed to have sat down. So soon as I had a hand free, I plucked this from under my legs, to find it a dirty envelope, bearing no superscription, but sealed.

“What’s that?” said George, peering.

“It must have fallen from the baggage,” I said. “The nets passed over the car. See what it is. If it’s a bill of lading, we’d better give it back.”

As Hanbury ripped open the envelope, Bell stepped out of the shadows on to the running board.

“Captain Mansel’s fifty yards on, sir; on the right of the street.”

“Very good,” said I, turning across the lines.

“It’s not a bill of lading,” said George sharply.

“What then?” said I, setting a foot on the brake.

By way of answer, he held it to the light of the lamp which illumined the instrument board.

It was a half-sheet of notepaper on which were printed four words:

The goods are perishable.