Mediterranean Nights (25 page)

‘So 'tis a coward ye are as well as a thief—ye lousy loon.' With a mighty shove O'Flaherty sent the fair man sprawling in the gutter. He dashed into the hotel and took the stairs three at a time. On the second floor black smoke was billowing from the far end of the passage. He choked and coughed as the acrid fumes caught him in the throat. The crackling of the flames could be heard distinctly from the landing. He rushed up the remaining flight.

He tried three rooms without success, and then he found her; she had slept peacefully through it all. He paused for a moment, looking down on her; she was looking very lovely with one arm thrown back in a graceful curve above her head, her fair curls framing her face, then he woke her.

She sat up with a start, and in a few words he told her of the danger and helped her to cram a few things into a bag. She pulled a cloak round her and went out with him into the passage.

The smoke was eddying up the staircase, but when they reached the second floor they found Macgregor. He had organised the servants into a living chain, passing water buckets from hand to hand. There was little real danger, and O'Flaherty got the girl into the street without difficulty.

As they stood together on the steps of the hotel she looked at him with troubled eyes and then quickly away. ‘I—I might have been trapped,' she said at last. ‘Fancy it being you who saved me.'

‘ 'Tis nothin',' he shrugged. ‘ 'Twas a human life, fer all ye're a crook.'

‘I am,' she admitted. ‘Last night wasn't the first time; I've been at it for months—I'm as bad as the rest.'

He gave her a hard stare. ‘Thin let this be a warnin' to ye. Be done with it now, and go straight for a change.'

‘I can't,' she said bitterly. ‘I've got no money; if I had I'd go home and try to get a job.'

‘No money, is it?' he laughed. ‘An' phwat av the two hundred and sixty good pounds ye took off the poor fool that's meself this night?'

She opened her bag and produced a roll of notes. ‘I can't keep that,' she said gently, ‘Not after what's happened. It's lucky they don't trust each other and make me keep the cash. I've another three hundred here—we don't share out till the end of the month.'

He took the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. ‘That's dacent av ye,' he grinned. ‘Sure, an' I niver thought to see that good money again; but let us be after hearin' now—what's to be preventing av ye sailing away to ould England at the ind av the month?'

She smiled ruefully at him. ‘They wouldn't let me; besides I don't get a share of the money—only decent clothes and my keep.' She sighed. ‘It's a rotten life, but it's better than Cairo—that was true, all that I told you about being on the stage.'

He nodded. ‘An' has it niver entered yere pretty head to shlip off one foine day with all that money av theirs?'

She looked at him wide-eyed for a moment. ‘But I couldn't—it isn't mine.'

Ruin O'Flaherty threw back his head and his laughter filled the little street. ‘Be jabbers,' he cried, when he had recovered, ‘ 'tis foolish ye are, but as honest as meself!'

The fire had been put out, people were filing back into the hotel. O'Flaherty looked into the girl's eyes long and seriously; then he said slowly: ‘ 'Tis sick at this roamin' life I am, an' 'tis the ould country I'd like to be seein' once more—have ye ever been in Dublin town?'

‘No'—she said, with a little choke in her voice. ‘No—you don't mean,' a sudden hope lit her pale face, ‘you'd take me with you?'

He picked up her bag and his own. ‘Come on, now,' he said, ‘we'll be movin' to a hotel down the street, or it's murtherin' that Wayland man I'll be—'twas yerself that was tellin' me what a foine husband I'd make.'

Half an hour later Wayland came down from his room to Macgregor's bar. Quite a number of people were still up
having drinks and discussing the fire. He had seen O'Flaherty go off with the girl, but he had not the courage to follow. He knew that their plunder had gone, too. Morosely he lounged up to the bar and ordered himself a drink. Macgregor set it before him. His angry blue eyes scowled into Macgregor's as he snarled: ‘That blasted girl of mine has gone off with your Irish friend, and taken most of my cash. I'll tell you something, Macgregor—never trust a woman—you'll rue it if you do.'

‘Ah nevair do,' said Mr. Macgregor.

STORY XVIII

T
HE
operative sentence of this story is ‘if you so much as lay a finger on him you'll find yourself in prison for assault'. What an encouraging remark with which to send out a subordinate if, as one of our Secret Service Chiefs, you were detailing him to bring in a foreign neutral whom you were convinced was in communication with the enemy! Yet there is very good reason to suppose that this was the attitude adopted by our Home Office in the early months of the war.

CHANNEL CROSSING

‘T
HAT
Belgian, De Casteraux, is crossing again tomorrow.' Sir Charles Forsyth's glance was bleak, and it was easy to see why the personnel of his highly secret department had nicknamed him ‘Old Frosty'; ‘this time we've got to get him with the goods—I'm giving the job to you.'

Vivien Pawlett-Browne—or plain V. Brown as he was on the register—looked distinctly uncomfortable, but his long, curling lashes hid his dismay as he said: ‘I suppose the law hasn't been altered overnight, sir—I mean, to permit my taking a piece of lead piping in my pocket?'

‘No such luck. De Casteraux's a neutral. We're so certain that he's in the pay of the enemy that in any other country he'd be put up against a brick wall and shot, but we've got no proof. His luggage has been searched several times, but without results. We can't issue a warrant, and you know that we're not allowed to strip a neutral without one.'

‘He might take his information over by word of mouth,' Vivien hazarded.

‘Nonsense! He's employed by Empire Aircraft Ltd., and
it's the intricate engine plans of our newest machines that he's getting. As he's not a designer it would be impossible for him to carry anything so complicated in his head. He must hide the papers somewhere about his person, but if you so much as lay a finger on him you'll find yourself in prison for assault. He is sailing from Dover on the mid-day boat.'

Vivien enlisted the co-operation of his colleagues ‘Big Beard' and ‘Little Whiskers'. Actually both of them were clean-shaven, but both were extremely secretive, which, together with the fact that one was very tall and the other very short, had resulted in their departmental nicknames.

Next day the rain beat in Vivien's eyes as he followed the
Maid of Orleans
' passengers out of the Customs shed; keeping a short, bowler-hatted figure in sight. As they neared the boat a porter with a barrow of luggage came running along the dock, yelling: ‘Mind your backs, please—mind your backs.'

The short man had his head buried in the collar of his overcoat. When the barrow hit him he staggered sideways and fell into the oily water with an angry, frightened shout.

Vivien grimaced. Big Beard had done his stuff, now it was up to him. With a slight shudder he dived off the quayside to the rescue.

De Casteraux came to the surface gasping for breath and clutching his hat to his head. Two minutes later, half supported by Vivien, willing hands helped him to safety. They were both taken aboard wet through and grey with cold. A sympathetic purser showed them into a cabin and after giving them two large towels went off to find dressing-gowns for them whilst their clothes were being dried.

The Belgian's gratitude was overwhelming. He kissed the embarrassed Vivien on both cheeks, introduced himself and declared dramatically that he was Vivien's friend for life.

Vivien grinned sheepishly and began to strip. De Casteraux followed suit, first carefully removing his bowler hat; then all their garments were carried off and, having dried themselves, they covered their nakedness with the dressing-gowns they had been lent.

Sitting on the bunk, Vivien listened to the chatter of his companion, who was praising England and the English in glowing terms; but he kept his eye on his watch, which was
of the type that does not suffer from being submerged in water.

After twenty minutes he suggested amiably that they should have a cognac, and closing the door carefully behind him went outside to give the order to the steward.

‘Well?' he asked, as in answer to his shout Little Whiskers appeared.

‘Search me,' his small colleague shrugged. ‘The mean punk hasn't as much as a meal ticket in his clothes.'

Vivien frowned. ‘But damn it; after he'd stripped he was as naked as a new-born babe.'

‘Might be somewhere on the prospective corpse,' Little Whiskers suggested.

‘But where? He couldn't possibly have crammed a blueprint into one of his ears or a hollow tooth.'

‘When Big Beard gave him the works he grabbed his hat, but there wasn't the smell of an oil-rag in it.'

Vivien suddenly snapped his fingers. ‘I've got it. He's wearing a wig. But it is a darn good one. I thought it a bit odd when he didn't dry his hair with the towel—although it was wringing wet. He just patted the waves into place—I put it down to vanity at the time.'

‘If that's so, sweetheart, you're in a jam,' was Little Whiskers' unhelpful contribution. ‘Consider the lilies and all that. If you touch one hair of his golden head you'll be for it; unless you get the goods. The beak will condole with the poor stranger who has made his home within our gates and you'll be sent to pick oakum with your teeth!'

‘Don't I know it,' Vivien growled. ‘Go and get me two double brandies. Maybe I'll have thought of something by the time you bring them down.'

Ten minutes later Little Whiskers knocked on the cabin door. As Vivien opened it to take in the drinks he was singing the refrain of the old song—‘We'll all cling together like the ivy on the old garden wall'—noticing which, Little Whiskers winked.

Their clothes were brought to them and, when they had dressed, their hats; the Belgian's was handed to him brim down. He put it on and remained with Vivien till the boat docked.

On deck Vivien and De Casteraux shook hands; the Belgian
lifted his hat with a flourish. As his wig came away with it Vivien's heart missed a beat. No papers fluttered down—his plan had failed.

Realising what had happened De Casteraux hastily crammed his wig back on his head, but in the intervening seconds Vivien had glimpsed a pattern of brown lines and circles on the Belgian's bald pate. The drawings of the engines had been photographed upon it.

As De Casteraux caught Vivien's eye he dived for the rail, but Vivien grabbed his shoulder. ‘You don't want a second ducking, do you,' his voice was mocking, ‘just because we put a little seccotine round the inner rim of your hat? We're going back to England, the Land of the Free, but I don't think you'll be granted the privileges of a neutral any more.'

STORY XIX

I
HAVE
drunk Cyprus wine somewhere about a hundred years of age; but that was retrieved from an old cellar, and I confess that I have never even tasted a modern vintage.

Therefore this is no doubt an ill-chosen place to dilate upon the subject of wine at all; yet I shall do so, none the less.

It is my good fortune to be descended from a family of wine merchants; so, even as good journalists boast that they were born with ‘ink in their veins', I might say that I have ‘wine in my blood'; and, seeing that I have never yet said no to my share of a good bottle, I have far better grounds than they have for any such assumption.

In view of my upbringing and personal predilections it is hardly surprising that most of the characters in my books should like good liquor in one form or another; and that the contents of the bottles which give them special joy should be described in some detail.

On the other hand, I have no special knowledge of law, medicine, architecture, church rituals, or a hundred other matters. Yet, when such subjects must be dealt with in my stories, I at least take the trouble to ring up someone or other who I think should know and thus, in most cases, get my data correct. Why in the world is it that so few of my fellow scribes take the same small pains to secure expert guidance when they have cause to refer to a bottle of wine?

I have known authors of the highest repute depict a scene in irreproachable English where a man takes a woman out to dinner and, after considerable palaver with the wine list, selects for her delight a bottle of Beaune 1922 or Liebfraumilch 1930, which are afterwards described as though they were the most succulent rarities; when in fact both vintages were so poor that they were never even shipped to this country, and the names convey nothing to a connoisseur
except the sort of stuff you could get in peace-time at five shillings a bottle from the little grocer round the corner.

If they wish to mellow their heroine to a sympathetic understanding, why not give the wench a bottle of Chambertin, Grande Eschavaux, or Château Ausone? Or, if she prefers white wine, gaze into her eyes as she sips the golden glory of a Schloss Johannisberg, Steinberg ‘Cabinet', or Château Yquem; and, for goodness' sake, let them get the vintage right.

The nearest wine-merchant will, I am sure, be only too delighted to set any author right, and will be thrilled into the bargain at the thought that he has supplied half a line which may appear one day in a novel. To authors, young or old, who are afraid of admitting their ignorance, I willingly offer my services, as a father-confessor. The seal of secrecy shall cover our correspondence, and I will provide them with full particulars of the requisite tipple to suit every occasion.

A DEAL IN CYPRUS WINE

P. R
OCKINGHAM
B
UDD
was bored. Every line of his opulent seventeen-stone figure and expensive mottled countenance proclaimed that fact aloud. He sat opposite me, gloomy and silent, on the verandah of the little hotel in Famagusta.