Mediterranean Nights (45 page)

That got my goat pretty badly—I wanted to set off there and then to give Caperno a dose of his own medicine. He was no old crock, but a burly brute of a man, and a damn good hiding was just what he wanted, but Rankin wouldn't hear of it, and neither would the landlord.

They pointed out that Machio would probably pot me in the dark from behind a hedge—it would be much wiser to wait until morning.

I had to admit that there was something in what they said, so I stayed in and got blind tight on cheap brandy—I wish to God I hadn't, though—if I had taken a chance that night I might have saved the poor kid's life.

Directly I came downstairs next morning the landlord told me about it—Machio had gone to see her the previous evening, and to escape him she had rushed out of the
house; he chased her with a stock-whip—as though the gruelling from her father hadn't been enough. He caught her by the Castle and started to lam into her—and she, poor kid, had tripped or thrown herself, nobody knew which, over that ghastly precipice into the gorge below.

For the moment I just couldn't realise it—that lovely girl, so full of life and laughter—whom I'd held in my arms only the previous afternoon—dead… smashed to atoms at the bottom of the gorge.

Then I saw red.

The landlord was a decent fellow, half French, and terribly anxious to do his best for me according to his lights. He wanted to fetch a police guard and get me out of Corte on the midday train before Machio had a chance to do me in. Rankin agreed—but I wasn't having any.

You know what it was in those days—we were so used to killing that we never thought about it twice, and since I had just spent nearly four years killing poor harmless Jerries, I had no scruples about starting a private war on my own.

I said so to Rankin, but he thought I was mad, and pointed out that I hadn't even got a gun. I suppose I could have borrowed one, but I didn't want to. I had my own method for dealing with the brute Machio.

I sat in the hotel all the morning, pouring that rotten brandy down my neck and getting a nice steady tight, just as we used to when we knew there was going to be a spot of trouble with the Hun. By lunch time I was nicely soaked—beautifully ginned up for murder, but my head was clear and my hand as steady as a rock.

After lunch I went out and walked up and down the main street twice. I knew he wouldn't kill me in the town but I wanted him to see me—I felt certain he'd follow if he did—then I went off into the
maquis
.

I walked quickly because that is tricky country for fighting in; he would have crawled round if he was given the chance and shot me in the back—I was making for the woods.

I can tell you I was thundering glad when I got to the end of that scrub—you could hide a battalion in an acre of it and not see them at a hundred yards. In the woods it was a different story—miles and miles of tree trunks, but no
cover in between. I walked for about half a mile—then I sat down and took out a book.

I didn't read it, of course; I was listening with all my ears, just waiting for Machio to turn up. He didn't waste much time, either; in less than ten minutes I heard the twigs snapping, and knew he must be in my neighbourhood—then I stood up.

Deer-stalking has been one of my favourite sports ever since I was old enough to hold a rifle, and stalking Jerries on night patrol in France had kept my hand in. I felt I could make rings round Machio—and I did.

We had a lovely game of hide and seek in those cool chestnut woods, but I was too mad against the man to keep it up for long. After a bit I stood behind a tree trunk and waited for him to come out into the open. When he did I showed myself for a moment, and then dodged back. I wanted him to see that I hadn't got a gun.

Of course, he fell for it and left his cover, thinking to get a nice easy shot—when he was about thirty yards away I pulled the pin out of a Mills bomb.

You remember how we always used to carry a few in our pockets? When I was hit I still had a couple on me, and I refused to allow the hospital orderly to take them away, so I had them in my kit when we came to Corsica, although of course it was against the regulations.

I lobbed it over gently to the Corsican, and it fell just at his feet. The poor boob had never seen a Mills, I suppose, and he hadn't the sense to kick it out of the way—he just stood staring at it. Two seconds later it went off.

Well, that was the end of Machio. I wasn't sorry for him—not a bit. In my eyes he was a filthy murderer; the law might say it was an accident, but he drove that poor child to her death—I just felt that I had settled her account with him—and that was all.

When I got back to the hotel the landlord thought I was a ghost, but he was thundering glad to see me. Unfortunately, however, that wasn't the end of the story. In the evening he told me that Machio's brother—a chap called Credo—was on the warpath, and had sworn to get me, and he positively implored me to leave Corte by the next morning's train.

Well, I had no quarrel with Credo, and in my more sober
moments I was a bit scared that the police might start making trouble about Machio's death. They turn a blind eye to these things as a rule, if there are no witnesses to the actual killing, because they're used to the native's way of settling things—but with a foreigner mixed up in it you never know—so I agreed to quit.

There was a spot of bother at the station next morning—I suppose Credo had found out from the hotel servants that we were leaving; anyhow he turned up and made a scene. Fortunately the landlord had had the forethought to bring a couple of gendarmes to see us off—they tackled Credo and took away his gun; I wish I'd understood his language—he had a marvellous flow; I would like to have put him up against Sergeant Brodie—d'you remember?—of ‘B' Company; I believe the Corsican would have won! He was a villainous-looking brute, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for the poor devil—anyhow the train chugged off to Ajaccio, and we sailed for France next day.

It wasn't till '29 that I married Lilseth—but you know all about that. Of course I was mad to do it, but she was devilishly attractive in her way, and I often think she was more sinned against than sinning. Had she been born in a different generation she would never have gone the way she did. As it was she had the rotten luck that's been our portion—she was just old enough to hit the war.

Well, she's another soul the politicians will have to answer for through their folly and conceit. When she ought to have been a pretty innocent going to dances under mother's wing, she was drinking like a fish. With her looks and money she was bound to get into trouble in that topsy-turvy world, and before she was twenty she had racketed round with every rotten bounder she could find.

Of course, I knew all about that, but she'd quietened down a bit by the time I met her, though she used to give some pretty hectic parties in that flat she had in Paris. We went quite mad about each other, and she let me clean out her Augean Stable without a murmur. Then we decided to get married. She'd never been married before, as I think you know, although she must have had thousands of chances. I took that as a sign that she meant to start afresh and play the game. I think she did at the time, too. Of course, any
number of my friends told me pretty clearly that I was stark crazy to get tied up with a girl like that—but like a fool I wouldn't listen to them then.

We came up here to Scotland, and we had a glorious summer; I always try to remember that when I feel hard about her—and the people round about were jolly decent. After all she was one of us, although she'd cut herself adrift for years, and when she returned to the fold as my wife, they rallied round splendidly, and took her to their hearts.

Mind you—no one could be more charming than Lilseth when she wanted to be, and she knew the drill. In the first two years the gossips hadn't got a word to say against her, but we couldn't live in Scotland all the time, and when we went to Deauville the trouble began.

Some of her old friends from the Paris days turned up—one couldn't blame her for being pleased to see them, or refuse their invitations. I knew that it was playing with fire, and I ought to have put my foot down at the beginning, but I didn't like to behave like a bear.

Nothing really went wrong while we were at Deauville, but it unsettled her again. When we got back, she started to talk about taking a house in London for the winter—I saw no harm in that, and like a mug I let her have her way. We hadn't been in that house a week before the place was like a hotel. A cocktail bar going night and day, and odd times when I came in I found a crowd of strangers just helping themselves to the drinks, even when Lilseth wasn't there.

I came to hate that house before we'd done with it, and she began to blow up if I said the slightest thing. I told her once that her friends were nothing but a crowd of spongers, and we had our first real row. She told me to my face that chaps like you, and Archie, and all our crowd, were just a lot of stiffs. That was because we happen to keep our hair cut and have decent manners, I suppose!

The thing that put the lid on it was when I came home one night and found a nigger in the place—some bird that played the drum. A girl friend of Lilseth's had brought him and they were dancing to the gramophone when I came in.

Well, you've got to draw a line somewhere, and I drew it damn quick. I shut the house down and took Lilseth back to Scotland the very next night—but it wasn't any good.
Those months in London had made a different woman of her—she deliberately started in to make fools of all the people who'd been so decent to her up here—and before I knew where I was I had to take her South again to save her from being ostracised by every soul we knew.

After that life became a perpetual wrangle—how I stuck it all that time I don't know. The only bright spot that I can remember was a six months' trip we did to South America, but even then we had a blinding row in Buenos Aires, and were home in four.

It was about then I discovered that she had begun to dope again. Poor kid, she was lead into that by some rotter she was mixed up with in those after-the-war days—but she had cut it out completely before I met her. I did everything I knew to stop it; in fact, I should never have stayed with her that last year if it hadn't been for the hope of breaking her of that. I did keep it under for a time, but she had lashin's of money of her own to play with so I couldn't cut off her supplies.

In November we went to Juan. There weren't many people there and I hoped to keep her straight for a bit. It was there that I met Bill Rankin again. I'd only seen him twice since the war; he had some job out in Tanganyika and only came home once in four years.

He was an amusing devil and Lilseth took to him at once. We were staying at the same hotel, so of course we all went about together, and after the first day he moved over to our table.

It was Rankin who suggested another trip to Corsica. Naturally, I wasn't keen. Credo might be dead and buried for all I knew, and after a dozen years it was a hundred to one against my being recognised, but the Corsicans are said to have long memories, and I didn't see the sense of running into danger just for fun.

Lilseth had heard the story long ago. She just laughed and said she'd always known I was a puritan, but hadn't thought I was a funk—well, one can't have that sort of thing, although I suppose she was only pulling my leg. Incidentally, if I'm a puritan I'd like to meet a real bad hat—but then of course I don't like people who never have a bath, and I don't dope. However, that's beside the point. She'd never been to Corsica
and was awfully keen to see it. I agreed to make the trip with two provisos, which were only sensible precautions. No visits to Corte—and that we travelled under another name.

Three days later Mr. and Mrs. Dundrinan and Mr. Rowlands stepped off the boat at Ajaccio.

There were one or two bars and dance places that weren't there when I was there before; they've been trying to boost the place into a fashionable resort—but they haven't had much luck—and otherwise it had hardly changed at all. The same crowd of stiff-necked-looking peasants lounging in the square—the same dirty, poverty-stricken, blackbeetle priests hurrying to and fro—I felt we should be fed up with it in a week.

After a couple of days Lilseth insisted on going up to Corte as the scenery in the interior was the only thing to see—so I let her go off with Rankin, though I didn't like the idea much. You see, we'd been three weeks together at Juan le Pins, and it struck me that they were getting a bit too thick.

Mind you, in the last two years Lilseth had had a lot of chaps hanging round, but I don't think she'd ever let me down—if she had I didn't know anything about it, but then I'd always been on hand. Still, Rankin wasn't the type who's any too scrupulous where women are concerned, and I did feel there was just the possibility that if Lilseth had one over the odds, she might let herself go.

Anyway—I put the best face I could on it, and off they went; they were supposed to be away for two nights, but they stayed for four—of course they sent me a telegram on the second day about some jaunt they proposed to go on—but that didn't make me any easier in my mind—and when they did come back—I knew!

Rankin gave the show away—he was just a bit too hearty—he overdid the business of being so jolly glad to see me once again.

I turned things over in my mind, and I knew the time had come to make a break; the rot had set in with Lilseth, and in another year she'd be as bad as she was in those post-war days, when free love was the fashion. I'd done my damnedest for her, but it was up to me to keep my name from being
dragged in the mud. I decided there and then that when we got back to England I'd let her go her own rotten way.

It was the following afternoon that I caught out Master Rankin—not with Lilseth, but talking to a fellow in the hotel garden.