Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) (21 page)

He paused, refilling his glass. “She listened, her blue eyes very wide and wondering. She was a dear girl, no question of it. The black bag was at my feet. ‘Look!’ I took from my pocket a packet of bills and stripped off several of the thousand-dollar denomination. ‘Take this! I shall meet you in Paris! Go to this place—’ I wrote out the name of a small, discreet hotel—‘and wait for me. I shall not be long.’

“Then I picked up the black bag and walked out. Once beyond the door with the bag I did not wait for the lift, but ran down the stairs. I had it, did I not? I had the black bag with the quarter of a million, and more to come from my own sale of the munitions! Ah, it was exciting, my friend, most exciting! It is always exciting when one is making money! And such delightful sums! Into my car then and away to the field where Milligan awaited me.

“Racing out on the field, I leaped from the car. Milligan was there, beside his plane, but he was not alone.

“Three men were with him, and one of them was the old marshal. He was the last person I expected in Shanghai, where he had many enemies, but here he was. One of the men stood guard over Milligan, and the other had a pistol directed at me.

“My eyes caught those of Milligan. He was a man I knew—a tough man, a ready man. Did I tell you that he was from Texas? Anyway, a lift of the brows, a small hand gesture—he knew what was coming. There was no doubting that he wished to be away as much as I.

“ ‘Ah, marshal Chang! How delightful to see you! And what a surprise to find you in Shanghai of all places! Once I knew what happened I flew here at once! At once, marshal, It was my duty as your aide, your confidant, and your friend to rectify this error!’

“You see, one does what one can, and I had already given up on this money. True, what I was about to do would
hurt!
Hurt, lieutenant! But it was my only way out. The old marshal, would be in no mood for games, and every second here was filled with danger for him, so he was desperate. As for me, it is a wise soldier who knows when to retire from the field.

“Anyway, did I not have money awaiting me at the other end? From my sale of the arms?

“ ‘When I realized what had happened, marshal, I flew to recover your money! It was the least I could do for one who has been my friend, my adviser, almost a second father!’

“ ‘Recover?’ he asked, puzzled.

“ ‘Of course! It is here! In this bag! Now if you would like to fly back with me?’

“ ‘Let me see the money,’ he demanded.

“ ‘Of course,’ I said, and yielded the bag to his grasp. Yielded it reluctantly, you understand, for I had hoped to have that money somehow, someway. If I could just get the marshal into the plane—

“He gestured to one of his men, he who had been covering me, to open the bag. He did so. The marshal leaned over and peered inside; then he looked up at me, and his face was dark with anger.

“Looking into the bag, I knew why, knew that we had been cheated, that—

“The bag was filled with old newspapers, and there was a novel there to give it weight. And
that
novel? How could it have had weight enough? It was by a writer I have never liked—never!

“The old marshal was trembling with anger. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You—!’

“It was a time, lieutenant, a time for decision! Never have I been more pleased with myself than what I did then! In an instant I should have been killed! And Milligan, also! It was a time for
action
, and like the old soldier I was, I
acted!

“He who guarded me had lowered his pistol while he opened the bag, and for that reason he was holding the pistol but loosely. I struck down at the base of his thumb with the edge of my hand, and as the pistol fell from his hand, I seized it and fired!

“Not at the man I had disarmed but at the man guarding Milligan.

“Turning swiftly, I shoved the old marshal. He was a heavy man, and he tottered back off balance and fell. Milligan had leaped into the plane, and the man I had disarmed leaped at me. My pistol exploded, and he fell; then I leaped into the plane, and we were off—gone!

“Once again, lieutenant, I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. I do not wish to appear smug, but it is only the truth.

“In Kansu I received payment for the guns and told them where the junk would be. Then once more we took off. In the air I changed clothing, changed to such a costume as an English scientist might wear in the field. I had it always with me, for you know how the English are—one is apt to find them anywhere, in any out of the way, godforsaken place, doing God knows what.

“I was to be a hunter of butterflies and a bit vague about all else. You see? It was an excellent cover.

“We landed—I shall not say where, for it is a field I have often used and may well use again. I have such places here and there. One never knows, does one?

“There I paid Milligan. Ten thousand dollars, more than he had ever seen before at one time, and there I left him, but with regret. He was a man, that one!

“I bought horses, and in a small town I found some equipment abandoned at some time by a scientific scholar before he attempted the Karakoram Pass. Have you tried it? If not, do not. It is—anyway, there is another older pass not far from there that is useful if one does not mind swinging bridges over gorges with roaring water beneath.

“It is a very remote country, yet it seemed by far the best and far from troublesome officials. Who would expect to find anyone in such a place. Yet when we reached Chabrang—”

“Yes?”

“We went to a place where we might find food, and I heard a merchant, a Kirghiz, complaining in a loud voice against the government! He had been stopped, searched, questioned. It seemed there were soldiers there looking for someone with a great deal of money. As if any merchant dared carry any money at all in such a place!

“You can see my problem. But again I refused to be defeated! It is my decision that counts! I decided, and I acted! Promptly!

“I inquired, and in a voice just loud enough that all might hear, as to the ruins of Tsaparang and which road must I take?

“I knew the road, and I had seen the ruins. Who could forget them, high in that yellow cliff? Built into the very face of it like some of your cliff dwellings.

“Of course I knew where the ruins lay, and we went to them. The men I had hired to travel with me and who owned the horses were only too glad to lie in the shade and rest. I took a pack from a horse, some scientific instruments, and of course the money. Then I made my way up the steep slope. One too curious fellow chose to follow me, but I found heavy stones that must be moved from my path, so he soon lost interest.

“I hid the money, hid it securely, in a place only I shall find, and in its place I packed some broken bits of pottery, a few blue beads, bits of carnelian and such. I took measurements, and took pictures with an old camera I had wheedled from Milligan, and then returned to my horses.

“We were stopped, of course, and questioned. We were searched, and they found the shards of pottery, some butterflies collected long ago by that traveler, whoever he was, and some very smelly bottles.

“I had donned thick-lensed glasses with which I peered at them—I had to peer to see anything at all—and there, where they think much of the evil eye, they were pleased to be rid of me.”

“And now you have been back? Did you pick up the money?”

He smiled. “One does what one must, lieutenant. Now I live here in Paris, and, I might say, I live well.” He patted his stomach affectionately. “Even very well.”

He sipped his wine. “Of course one must be careful when one has enemies. The old marshal—yes, he is alive and well—too well, altogether. He dislikes me for some reason. He would have me shot if he could. And regrettably there are others.”

“What of the blonde? Milton’s girl friend? Did you ever see her again?”

“See her?” He smiled complacently. “In fact, I shall see her tonight. I see her quite often, in fact.”

“And the money? Milton’s money?”

“She had taken it out of the black bag and hidden it. But she was a fool! Did she spend it on beautiful clothes? Did she buy jewels and wine? She did not. She invested it, every centime! Invested it, can you imagine?”

He emptied his glass. “She invested in the black market. Somewhere she found truckloads of American cigarettes and tanks of petrol.”

“So the quarter of a million is forever beyond your reach?”

“Did you say a quarter of a million? It is more than a million now, and only the good Lord knows where it will end! Given time, that stupid girl will own half of Paris.”

I stood up. After all, I had things to do even if he did not, and as I turned to pick up my cap from an adjoining chair, there was a spiteful little snapping sound from beside me and a loud report from the door. Turning quickly, I saw the student, he who had been drinking coffee and working his sums at the outside table. The student had a Luger pistol that was slipping from his fingers, and as if by magic, the gendarmes were running into the court.

“Sit down, lieutenant.” The general caught my arm, and holding it out from my body a little, guided me to a chair. “You cannot leave now. There will be questions.”

Glancing out the door, I saw the student, or whatever he was, lying as he had fallen. Evidently he had spun when hit, for he lay face down almost in the doorway but headed the other way.

“Relax, lieutenant. It is nothing. The poor man! It is terrible, the kind of help one gets today! So inefficient!”

The police were there, questioning everybody, but of course nobody knew anything. We were the last.

The general spoke excellent French. “I am general—”

“We know,
mon général
, we know. Did you, by any chance, see what took place?”

“I did not, but you know how it is. The Free French are still finding pockets of resistance, and of course they are hunting collaborators. When they find them—” He held up his forefinger and thumb like a pistol. “When they find them—
ping!
And they deserve no better.”

He stood up. “If you would like to search—?”

“Oh, no!” The gendarme was appalled. “Of course not,
mon général!
Of course not!”

When I reached my quarters that night, it was with some relief that I pulled off my tie and then started to shed my trench coat. Something bumped my side, and I slid my hand into the pocket—an automatic, small, neat, and very deadly.

It was not easy to be a friend of the general.

A
UTHOR’S
T
EA

Each of us has a perception of the world and of man that is uniquely his own, yet some few have the gift of imparting that perception, of sharing with others their experience, their learning, and their understanding of the world in which we live. It is those few whom we read and read again, forever finding something new. None of us write as well as we should, and I the least of all
.

Fiction enables a man to understand his world because it does not take a detached view. The author does not stand aloof and look upon people or conditions as does the philosopher, scientist, or historian. He gets inside the man, sees with his eyes, feels with his emotions
.

Artists who work with the pen, brush, or chisel flatter themselves too much when they speak of creation, for his materials are here, all about him. What he does have is a gift of perception beyond the ordinary, for he must select from all this great mass that is life what is most useful for his purpose
.

The rays of the world sun are diffused, the writer must bring all this into focus; he must see the whole, yet must recognize what is most useful for his purpose
.

The art of creation is actually the art of skillful selection
.

The process of creation is one that is little understood, although much studied. Even as the body’s muscles can be trained to ultimate efficiency in the accomplishment of any athletic feat, just so can the mind be conditioned for creation. Each of us has stored within his subconscious countless impressions, tastes, shadings, experiences, and memories. It is probable that nothing is ever completely lost, and the writer can tap this inexhaustible storehouse of recollection
.

Yet to write well one must never cease from learning, absorbing, observing, and sensing. One can learn to organize the mind’s filing system for instant recall of whatever is essential to the story
.

As to writing, there are techniques to be learned, skills to be acquired, as there is in any profession or trade. From the beginning of time, stories have been told and over the millennia we have learned how best to tell a story. Also, we have found that stories fall into certain patterns of behavior, which we call plots
.

Many of those who comment on writing done by others sometimes know surprisingly little about writing itself and how it is done, and often they speak of “plot” as something artificial. Nothing could be further from the truth. Plots are nothing but constantly recurring human situations or patterns of behavior, and of the twelve to eighteen plots on which 90 percent of all fiction is based, they can be found in any metropolitan newspaper in the course of any given week
.