Mediterranean Nights (21 page)

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That afternoon Venice was going for a picnic to Mount Lycabettus, which overlooks the town. I saw nothing more of her until the evening, but her adorable face was never out of my mind, and I was gloating over her suggestion that we should go on our treasure hunt together after dinner. It was tantamount to an admission, too, that she had noticed me the night before, and knew that I was staying in the same hotel.

When dinner was over, I sought her out at once; the band had already started, and I asked her to dance. Mama proved quite affable on closer acquaintance, and her father seemed a fine old sportsman. I had followed up the introduction of the morning by standing him a drink before dinner.

‘Have you told them anything?' I asked at once, directly we were on the floor.

‘Not a thing,' she said; ‘it would spoil half the fun.'

I grinned; she looked quite fascinating in her flimsy evening dress—even more adorable than in the morning, if that were possible.

‘There won't be trouble if you slip away?' I inquired.

She shook her dark head. ‘We'll sit with them for a bit,' she suggested, ‘then dance again; then I'll slip upstairs and get a coat while you find a car. I'll meet you in front of the hotel.'

We followed her plan, and half an hour later we were bumping along the uneven streets towards the Tower of the Winds.

When we got there we told the taxi-man to wait about a hundred yards down the road, then tried the garden gate; of course the wretched thing was locked, but we weren't going to let that stop us. The road is higher than the garden, and has a criss-cross iron railing with a drop of about six feet on the other side.

‘Go on,' said Venice, ‘what are you waiting for?'

‘Do you think you can manage it?' I said doubtfully.

‘Of course I can,' she answered.

I helped her over the fence, and dropped down into the garden on the other side; then I stood ready to catch her as she landed, and catch her I did, a delicious bundle of perfumed loveliness.

I held her in my arms for a good bit longer than was strictly necessary, then she wriggled away with a little laugh.

‘This is a treasure hunt.' she said demurely.

‘I know,' I said, a little breathlessly, ‘but you're the treasure.'

‘On the contrary, I'm a gold digger!' she laughed. ‘Come on.'

We almost ran across the garden to the trench, holding hands like two kids, and there was the hole just as we'd left it. I plunged in my hand. ‘We've got it,' I said, as my fingers closed over some coins. I drew them out—they were gold. I gave them to Venice, and thrust in my hand again—out came some more—I fumbled round and got a third lot. The hole wasn't very deep. It seemed we had got them all. After raking it most carefully I only got a couple more.

Venice sat down on a fluted pillar that was half buried in the grass; the coins were in her lap—she counted them.

‘Twenty-four,' she said, with a little note of disappointment in her voice.

‘Never mind, they're gold, and if they're old ones they're worth more than the value of the metal,' I consoled her.

She laughed. ‘Well, it's quite a find, anyway. Let's go back to the hotel and clean them up—then we'll divide the spoils.'

‘Why hurry?' I said. ‘It's lovely here,' and it was quite glorious in that garden. A real hot Southern night; the stars were shining in myriads overhead. I wanted to hear lots of things about Venice, and I thought it was just the place to tell her earnestly how lovely I thought she was.

She shook her head. ‘No, we'll go back now; if you're very, very nice to me perhaps I'll let you walk round the hotel garden with me afterwards.'

‘I'm always nice,' I said.

‘Then help me up this rotten wall,' she laughed.

It wasn't easy getting out of that garden, but we managed it, and praised be the Lord without tearing Venice's frock. I got my clothes covered with dust, though. We found our taxi, and soon were back in the hotel. I got the porter to brush me down, then I joined Venice in the reading-room; it was quiet there.

She had spread out the coins on a table; they were different sizes, and most of them incrusted with dirt, but they were an interesting little lot.

‘We had better toss for first choice,' she said, ‘then we'll choose alternately—this is fun!' She smiled right into my eyes.

I produced a coin from my pocket, but just at that moment a waiter came in. He walked straight over to our table and was followed by another man. Venice tried to cover the gold with her hands and arms.

‘Dis man, sir, 'e insist to see you,' said the waiter. ‘ 'E not know your name, but 'e make description of you and de ladi.'

With a little shock I recognised the bronzed face of the man we had seen working in the trench; I felt sure we were in for trouble. ‘All right,' I told the waiter, ‘you can go.'

The workman stood there grinning—he had a marvellous mouthful of white teeth, but it was not a friendly grin.

‘What do you want?' I asked curtly.

He sat down unasked, with his greasy hat in his hands—he breathed heavily as though he had been running. I caught a whiff of his breath and had to turn away my head; he simply reeked of garlic.

‘You finda da antique?' he said, nodding at the coins.

‘Well,' I said, ‘what about it?'

‘ 'Gainst da law,' he nodded, ‘alla antique belonga Government—big fine for tourist taka antique.'

Well, of course I knew the brute had got me; nobody's allowed to take anything from anywhere these days. I suppose it's quite right, really, otherwise people would be pillaging all sorts of things; but I think it's a bit unfair if you find something actually buried in the earth as we had done.

‘Biga fine for tourist,' the Greek went on. ‘Five hundred pound you pay, yes? when I speaka police.'

‘Five hundred pounds!' I gasped. I'd only got a credit of
fifty with Cooks, and I'd stung my own bank for as much as they'd stand before I'd left England. Venice came nobly to the rescue.

‘I'd better tell Daddy,' she said; ‘it's as much my fault as yours.'

‘Just one minute.' I put my hand on her arm, and looked at our friend in the striped shirt. ‘How much do you get out of this?'

‘Nozing,' he answered me, ‘nozing, but I am good fella—my brother, he Americano—I giv da antique to da police, and I say nozings—you maka me present, eh?'

So that was the game. I should just love to have hit him in the middle of his oily face, but I knew he'd got me. He had lied about the size of the fine, perhaps, but it would be a pretty stiff one, anyway, and there'd be a whole packet of trouble into which Venice would be lugged as well as myself. Better to compromise with the brute, and have done.

‘How much?' I asked angrily.

‘Fifty pound,' he grinned. ‘Me good fella; I giva da antique to da police, you giva me fifty pound.'

‘Five,' I said firmly.

He just laughed in my face, and lurched to his feet. ‘I go speaka da police—five 'undred pound fine you pay, five 'undred pound, too, da ladi, eh?'

‘I'll give you ten,' I offered. ‘If you won't take that you can go to the devil.'

He thrust my offer aside with a wave of his dirty yellow hand. ‘Don't you think I ought to fetch Daddy?' asked Venice; ‘he's an awful dear, I'm sure he'll understand.'

Perhaps he might, I thought, but I'd got myself into this rotten mess, and I felt it was up to me to get myself out of it if I could. I was thinking hard.

‘ 'Scuse, sir,' the waiter had appeared again, ‘a Mr. ‘Arris—'e call and want speak with you.'

Harris! The very man. I suddenly remembered what our little Cockney friend had said. ‘Bring him in,' I cried.

In he came, as fat and smiling as ever. ‘ 'Evening', Guv'nor,' he grinned at me. ‘ 'Evenin', Miss.' Scowling, he turned to the Greek. ‘It's a fair cop this time, Morpho—'ow much you 'ad off this gent?'

‘No understanda.' Our first visitor shook his head uneasily.

Mr. Harris stuck out his stubby chin. ‘Don't understand, dontcher? I bin watchin' your little gime, an' tonight I caught yer art good and proper—you'll understand orlright when I gets a policeman. You bin saltin' that 'ole wiv the dibbs fer weeks past, an' gettin' money art o' people what picks 'em up—yer a rotten, swindlin' blackmailer, that's what you are, an' I'm goin' ter ‘and y' over to the police.

In one quick movement the Greek grabbed his greasy hat, pushed Harris out of his way, and dashed through the glass doors out of the hotel.

We didn't give chase—we called for a long cool drink with gin in it for Mr. ‘Tubby' Harris instead.

When that genuine bit of London town had left us I looked at Venice. ‘What do we do now?' I said, as I gathered up the coins. ‘These really belong to that rotten Greek, I suppose. Shall we let him have them if he comes back or sends for them?'

Venice gave me a bewitching smile. ‘Let's go into the garden and talk it over,' she said, ‘but I think I remember someone telling me that there
are
cases in which appropriating other people's money is justified!'

STORY XV

I
N THIS
adventure ‘The Man with the Girlish Face' is temporarily transferred to the Army and goes out to do a job of work on the Western Front. It was written before the war had really got going—and Dunkirk, and before I became a member of the Joint Planning Staff. I have, however, allowed the following paragraphs of this note, as it appeared in the original edition, to stand; because they indicate the conditions under which I wrote my first four Gregory Sallust secret service stories. My assumption that each Service had its own highly efficient Security Officers was, of course, correct. But I must still disappoint many of my readers by stating that, although I later had many dealings with such officers, I am not a member of the Secret Service.

Personally I greatly doubt if such a temporary transfer into one of the Services is ever carried out in practice. The officers of MI.6 or 16 or 26 or 64, or whichever it is that deals with such matters, must be perfectly capable of running their own show without calling in outside help. Therefore, should one of them chance to read this yarn I apologise here and now for inferring that his department ever had to confess defeat on such a comparatively simple issue.

The fact is that, quite contrary to the flattering belief of many of my friends, I have nothing to do with any type of Secret Service. Just as in the case of the long dissertations on Strategy which have sometimes appeared in my war novels, I have no special sources of information. I read the newspapers, put two and two together and do a little quiet thinking with the aid of a very fine collection of maps; then I take a gamble on what is likely to happen next. The fact that I have quite frequently proved right is rather fun, but the sand I play with is there for anyone to build a castle if they care to take the trouble.

But I digress. The present item on the menu is, I think, a good little story.

NIGHT PATROL

S
IR
C
HARLES
F
ORSYTH
addressed the tall, stooping figure in front of him. ‘As you've been making a nuisance of yourself about joining up I've decided to let you go into the Army.'

‘Really, sir—d'you mean that?' The absurdly long, curling lashes that normally veiled Vivien Pawlett-Browne's glance suddenly lifted, revealing his eyes quick and eager but with just a shade of suspicion in their brown depths.

‘Of course not.' A pale smile like wintry sunshine lit Sir Charles's rugged face. ‘You know quite well that your war lies in London. I haven't trained you for half a dozen years to have you shot in some damn-fool battle. I'm only lending you to the military.'

Vivien sighed. ‘I felt sure there was a snag in it. Subversive activities in one of the camps, I suppose?'

‘No. Take this chit over to the War-House, A.G.-42.n. They'll fix you up, and—er—it means a trip to France.'

‘Thanks most awfully, sir.' Beaming now, Vivien departed.

‘There's a serious leakage direct from our front line,' a grey-moustached G.S.O.I at the War Office told him. ‘The enemy are getting everything that happens in the 12th Division almost before we know it ourselves. It's entirely local and the area has been evacuated of civilians. That makes it pretty certain that the spy is in one of our own units. Sir Charles suggested that an outside man might stand more chance of spotting the trouble than our own fellows—fresh mind, you know.' He grinned. ‘So for a bit you're to become one of us “brutal and licentious” soldiery.'

That night Vivien became No. 426.071 Private V. Brown, of the Rutland Light Infantry, and the following day he left with a reinforcement draft for France.

Forty-eight hours later he was walking through a deserted village, which housed some of the British advance positions, when he heard the crack of rifles. Stopping abruptly, he was about to take cover when he saw that his fears had been groundless; a few yards away on the other side of a low wall a shooting match was going on between a Garde Champêtre and a Tommy.

The Frenchman won and remarked with a laugh: ‘I could
'af beat you any'ow. We village policemens are also forest guard in peace-time.
Voilà!
I show you. See zat white zing in ze distance?' He pointed to an object about six hundred yards away. ‘It ess a ole bath-tub. Listen an' you 'ear 'im ping.' Raising his rifle he fired and a second later they heard the faint ring of the bullet in answer to his boast.

Vivien looked out across no-man's land. It seemed so quiet and peaceful in the afternoon sunshine with its gentle bush-covered hills and wooded slopes. He could not help thinking what an excellent place it would have made in which to play Red Indians, but he smiled grimly to himself as he reflected on how deceptive appearance could be; an enemy who would shoot to kill might be lurking behind any of the more distant trees, although the Boche front line was over five miles away.