The Best of (16 page)

She's—well, I hardly know how to put it—but she's not herself. I don't mean that in the usual sense of the phrase. It's something much more literal than that. Heaven knows what's happened to her, poor darling, but it frightens me. And I'm cut off from her, too. I can't even talk to her properly and try to understand what the trouble is, nor she to me beyond a few essentials. She can grasp only the simplest sentences, spoken slowly and carefully, and she herself replies only with afew words in broken English.

Leslie, it doesn't seem possible. I have heard of rare cases of loss of memory making one forget his own language. But this is worse than that—it's taught her another! Honestly, there have been times in the last few days when I have wondered whether she was not all right and I was going mad. I'd better tell you the whole thing and see what you make of it.

It was last Tuesday that it happened. We'd come from Venice via Trieste and Fiume right down the Dalmatian coast to Dubrovnik. Instead of continuing along the coast into Greece, we decided to go up through the mountains to Sarajevo, on to Belgrade and on along the Danube towards Bucharest, giving Greece a miss altogether.

The journey wasn't too bad, except for the roads, and we got along finely until just when we were some ten miles short of a place called Valejo, about sixty miles from Belgrade itself.

We came round a blind corner. We weren't going fast, but the road was loosesurfaced and steep, and to make it worse there had been a light shower just before. Just round that corner was a man crawling on all fours almost in the middle of the road. I braked and pulled across.

I think I'd have cleared him on a decent road, but as it was the back of the car swung round and hit him.

Why we didn't turn over on a slope like that I don't know, but we didn't, and I was just pulling out of the skid when the front offside wheel fetched up smack on a mighty boulder.

We got out and ran back to the man. He was lying sprawled out now, on his face. Between us we turned him over and found he was in a nasty mess, poor chap.

His clothes were rough and covered with mud, but he was clearly a cut above the usual peasant, and his face, what we could see of it for his beard, was intelligent, but those were things we only noticed afterwards. What we saw first was a gash on his forehead from which the blood had run down into his eyes, and another patch of blood which had spread about the front of his shirt and coat.

None of that was our fault. The blood from his head had already dried and caked, and that on his clothing had soaked in for some time.

Elaine ran to the car and came back with a flask and a bottle of water. While she bathed his head with a wet handkerchief I started loosening his clothes. Suddenly she gave an exclamation which made me look up. She was staring down at his forehead.

The wiping away of the blood had revealed no ragged gash, but a shallow cut which had now ceased to bleed. The thing was neat and clean. It reminded me of a Greek lambda more than anything. No one could have had a moment's doubt that it had been done deliberately.

"That's queer," Elaine said uncertainly.

It was. I guessed what was in her mind. The vendetta still exists in those parts. Almost instinctively I raised my head to see if there were anyone around watching us. I hadn't any wish to get involved in a business of that sort, but at the same time we weren't going to let a man die before our eyes if I could help it. I ripped open the man's shirt.

We wiped off the mess, and found the blood still welling slowly from a bullet wound in the chest, one which had missed the heart by a narrow margin, I'd say.

Elaine fetched a shirt of mine out of the car and we tore it up to make a bandage. When we'd got it fixed we gave the man a shot of brandy.

It was a minute or more before anything happened, then his eyes opened slowly. At first they seemed blank and almost unconscious, but after a second or two they met mine and came suddenly alive.

That was a most extraordinary sensation. I felt somehow as if they had fastened on mine. Almost as though our mutual gazes formed physical rods linking us together. More than that, it seemed that the rods were being tugged, pulling me down to him.

That sounds fanciful, but it was really a most uncanny sensation though it lasted only a few moments. It snapped abruptly, as his face contorted with a twist of agony and his eyes closed again.

Between us we got him to the side of the road and laid him on a rug. Then there was the problem of what to do next. The car was out of commission with the steering rod gone and the front axle badly bent. Either we had to wait until someone should come along, or one of us would have to go for help.

The last hamlet was miles away behind us, and hopeless at that. The obvious course was for me to start walking on in the direction of Valejo. I didn't relish the idea of leaving Elaine in a lonely spot like that, but we could scarcely leave the man unattended in the state he was, and that settled it.

I had to walk all the ten miles into Valejo before I could find a car. I managed to hire a machine and, with the help of my bad German and the equally bad German of a native, make the driver understand what was wanted. By a series of miracles we got to the place where I had left Elaine.

I could see her as we came up the road. The man still lay where we had put him. She was kneeling beside him, looking down. It was odd that she didn't look up as we rattled into view. As soon as we stopped I got out and hurried across to her. She might have been a statue.

"Elaine!" I said.

The man on the rug turned his head. For a moment his eyes met mine. This time there was something desperate and pathetic in them. Then they closed, his head rolled and his mouth fell open.

Unmistakably that was the end.

"Elaine!" I repeated.

She did not move until I touched her shoulder. Then it was to look up at me with a bewildered, uncomprehending expression. I took hold of her arm and helped her to her feet.

"He's dead," I said.

She nodded, but said nothing. I led her to the hired car and then set about fetching our cases from our own. Finally when they were all aboard, I explained to the driver by signs that we must take the dead man as well. He wasn't pleased. I could understand that, but one couldn't leave the poor chap's body out on the road like that, and he reluctantly agreed.

We went over together to carry him, but a couple of yards short of the corpse the driver stopped dead.

I walked on, got ready to take the man under the armpits and looked to him to take the feet. He was standing frozen, with an expression of veritable terror on his face. As I bent down he called suddenly.

"Ne," and again. "Ne,ne ."

Rapidly, he crossed himself in the manner of the Greek church. Then he stepped forward, caught my arm and dragged me back. He was jabbering excitedly. Of course I couldn't understand a word of it.

But he was pointing vehemently at the mark on the dead man's forehead and he was as genuinely scared stiff as a man could be.

Nothing I could do would bring him to touch that corpse, and I believe he would have fought me rather than let me handle it. There was no budging him. In the end I gave in, and we set off in his car back to Valejo. It was my determination that our first call there would be on the police to clear things up. I had no wish to find myself accused of the murder of an unknown Yugoslavian.

All the way Elaine said nothing. Mostly she sat staring ahead, though once I caught her glancing sidelong at me in an odd manner, and twice I saw her look down at her hand, flexing the fingers and examining it as if it somehow surprised her. I asked her what was the matter for she was somehow unlike herself and made me feel uneasy, but she shook her head without replying.

At the police station my driver held forth to the man in charge with what appeared to be a wealth of passionate detail while I stood by unable to understand a word. There were successions of concern, incredulity and alarm on the policeman's face.

Eventually he went to fetch another man in uniform to whom I was able to give my version in stumbling German. Not until the man was asking me the name of the dead man did Elaine take any part of the conversation.

"Kristor Vlanec," she said suddenly.

The man turned and asked in German how she knew. Then the thing happened which took my breath away. She answered him fluently in SerboCroat.

My astonishment must have been ludicrous to anyone who saw it. I stared at her, openmouthed and speechless.

Leslie, I swear by anything you like that that very morning Elaine had not known three words of SerboCroat, and now she was talking it like a native.

That must have puzzled the police as well. They asked for our passports. While they looked at them I demanded of Elaine what it meant—why she hadn't told me she knew the language.

She looked at me as if trying hard to follow my words and when she answered it was with such a thick foreign accent that I could scarcely understand what she said.

What it amounted to was for me not to make a fuss in front of the police, and that she would explain later.

Of course, she hasn't explained. She hasn't even attempted to. Anyway, how can you explain a thing like that?

When we'd finished with the police, I gave instructions for the car to be towed in and repaired, and we came on here by tram. That was two days ago, and I'm more bewildered now than I was then.

I can scarcely talk to her. She deliberately restricts all our conversation to necessities. But she talks to other people, jabbering away to them in this SerboCroat as if she had known it all her life.

Another thing, Leslie, Elaine's changed in herself. Little characteristic habits she had are gone. And the way she dresses and holds herself is different. I can't describe just how, but it is. She's not Elaine any longer in the things that matter. It's like being with a stranger.

I can understand the shock of seeing that man die, but this language business gets me. I just don't know what to make of it. Of course, I wanted to bring her back to London at once, but she refused to move.

There was no argument, just a flat refusal.

By the time you get this I shall have had your answer to my telegram, and I shall, I hope have got some medical opinion—if she will consent to visit the doctor.

As it is, I'm halfcrazy with worry over her, but, worse than that, Leslie, I'm scared. This is queer.

Nothing out of the text books. It's uncanny. I'll let you know any developments as soon as I can.

Yours ever,

Walter.

Memo from Captain of Police, Valejo to Chief of Police, Beograd. (Translation).

English tourists, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Fisson, today reported finding man, Kristor Vlanec, shot ten miles out on Sarajevo road. Inquiries and circumstances confirm their statements as made to us.

Nevertheless there is something unusual about the woman, who speaks SerboCroat fluently. They left here for Hotel Princip, Beograd. Suggest inquiries at the British Consulate.

Memo from Chief of Police, Beograd, to Captain of Police, Valejo. (Translation).

Consulate vouches for Mr. and Mrs. Fisson. All in order. We have no information regarding Kristor Vlanec.

Letter from Dr. Leslie Linton, London, to Dr. Frederick Wilcox, Paste Restante, Budapest, Hungary.

Dear Fred:

Sorry to butt in on your holiday like this, but look upon the enclosed copy of a letter from Walter Fisson.

Is he cracked, or is Elaine? How could a sane person make that mistake about languages? What can it be but a mistake?

I wondered if you, being fairly handy to the place, could drop in and see them. You meant to go on towards Belgrade anyway, didn't you? And if either of them has been to see Dr. Bljedolje there, can you get a word with Mm? I expect Walter used my name as an introduction.

I hope you won't curse too steadily at having this wished upon you, but you must admit that it looks as if one of them needed a bit of investigation. One doesn't like to see friends of one's youth headed straight for the nuthouse.

Yours fraternally,

Leslie.

Memo from Captain of Police, Valejo to Chief of Police, Beograd.

Understand that there was a feud between deceased Kristor Vlanec and Beograd man called Petro Zanja.

Memo from Chief of Police, Beograd, to Captain of Police, Valejo.

Petro Zanja and brother, Mikla Zanja,found shot here. Investigation proceeding.

Letter from Dr. Frederic Wilcox, Hotel Princip, Beograd, to Dr. Leslie Linton, London.

Dear Leslie:

Lord knows what you've let me in for, blast you. Everybody in this business seems to be pretty rocky except me —and I'm beginning to wonder if I've been hearing right.

To begin with, you didn't put us out. Mary wanted to come here anyway.

It was quite clear from the start that the hotel people think there's something odd about the Fissons from the look which the man at the desk gave us when I asked about them. And right away I want you to know that all that Walter said in his letter is, as far as I can tell, absolutely true.

Elaine is as fluent as a native in this local lingo; and to all appearances she knows only a few words of English, of which her pronunciation is execrable. Walter is worried to death. He looks as if he'd put on years in a few days. He's scared, too. I may be wrong, Leslie, but I distinctly got the impression that whatever may have been his state when he wrote that letter, he is now not so much scared for her as scared of her.

Elaine did not recognize me or Mary, but Mary did her best to have a kind of 'all girls together' with her in spite of that and the language difficulty. She thought that out of one of those showingoneanotherclothes affairs it might be possible to get something.

Walter was about as much help as an oyster. He seemed annoyed that I'd read your copy of his letter, and he just wouldn't talk much about it. I did discover, however, that he'd been to see that doctor about it, but he hadn't been able to get Elaine to go. However, I thought it worth while to go around to see what the doctor had made of him. What an interview!