GET A LOAD OF THIS

It sometimes happens that you meet a dame who’s such a hot number that you want a second look. Maybe you’re driving a car at the time of seeing her. Most likely you’ll run up on the kerb or have a collision. Then, again, you may be walking along the street, and, turning your head as she passes, you bang into someone who starts bawling you out. Well, Fanquist was one of those take-a-second-look-dames. You know what I mean, don’t you? An all-metal blonde with a build-up that does things to you, and a figure that weakens your resistance.

I saw her for the first time when she was working for a guy called Rabener. This guy ran a smart restaurant-floor show on Broadway. I’d known Rabener off and on for several months. He was smart; maybe he was too smart. Anyway, I didn’t like him. He was a cold, hard-faced guy, and I guess he had a mean streak somewhere. It always knocked me how the hell he ever made a success of his restaurant; but he did.

Fanquist acted as his secretary. Odd name that, but it came out after that it was just a glamour build-up. I’ve forgotten her real name, but it was something pretty terrible. Anyway, we don’t have to bother with that.

As I was saying, I used to see quite a lot of her when I went to the restaurant. My work as a society columnist took me there most nights. It was as good a joint as any for meeting the sophisticated mob I wrote about. She didn’t mix with the customers. I’d see her pass through from time to time on her way up to Rabener’s office. Her appearance generally made the men splash soup on their shirt-fronts. She was that kind of a dame.

I played around with the idea of getting to know her, and I guess I wasn’t the only one. Rabener wasn’t having any. When I suggested that I’d like to meet her, he just looked at me as if I were something that’d crawled out of an exhaust pipe. So I actually never spoke to the broad. And what’s more, after what happened, I don’t suppose I ever shall.

You see, one evening she killed Rabener. It was quite a spectacular killing. It happened when Rabener was in the restaurant—slam bang in front of everyone.

Rabener had been hunting around for a publicity stunt for some time. He wasn’t satisfied with the entertainment he was giving. He thought all the other night-spots were doing the same sort of thing, and of course he was right. He even asked me for a suggestion, but I didn’t see why I should help to fill his pockets, so I played dumb. Well, he did hit on an idea. He staged one of those crazy thriller nights on us unexpectedly. You know the kind of thing. We were given a horrific ballet—a faked gun-fight, a guy pretending to be stabbed, someone punching his pal in the eye and other such harmless stuff which went down big with the moronic mob. The evening was nearly over when it happened, and the crowd was well oiled. There had been a great deal of shooting, and believe me it sold a lot of liquor.

Rabener came in and walked around the tables, having a word here and there with the customers. He could never unbend, but we were used to him by now, and we gave him a big hand for the fun and games he’d arranged for us.

I was sitting with a party near the stairs leading to the office. As Rabener was going round, Fanquist suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. I forgot about Rabener and concentrated on her. Believe me, she certainly was the tops. There was just one little thing that had kept me from insisting on an introduction. She looked tough. When I say tough I mean she didn’t look the type who’d give in without a fight. My time’s so tied up that unless they give in quick I have to pass them up. It’s too bad, but that’s the way I live. Anyway, I should worry. There are still a lot of broads even today who do it for the joy of it.

Fanquist came slowly down the stairs. Her large eyes were like ice-blue chunks of sky. She passed close to me. I saw she had a small automatic in her hand, which she held by her side. For a moment I thought she had joined in the fun and games, but something about her made me think otherwise. I suppose I ought to have grabbed the gun, but I didn’t. I was curious; I wondered what the hell she was going to do. I thought I was going to get a front-row seat at a first-rate news scoop. I was so sure that I grabbed the telephone that was plugged in at the table. I rang the night editor.

Rabener became aware of her when she was about twenty paces from him. He looked up and met her eye. He reacted like he had trodden on a rattlesnake. I guess that guy saw death staring him right in the face and did he sweat! His face went loose and yellow. His eyes stood out like toadstools.

Everyone sat watching. I don’t suppose anyone in the room realized that this wasn’t play-acting—but me!

She didn’t take her eyes off Rabener. The gun came up slowly, and the little black muzzle stared Rabener right in the face. Just before she shot him, the night editor came through. I gave him a running commentary on the whole set-up. Boy! Was that guy shaken!

The gun made a vicious little crack. It startled us into a half-foot leap. A spot of blood appeared in the middle of Rabener’s forehead. He swayed over with his hands pushed out, as if imploring her not to do it. Then he went down on his face.

She turned and walked back to the office without haste and without looking at anyone. It was the coolest killing of the century.

The uproar didn’t start until she had disappeared. Then holy hell started popping.

I just sat there, feeding the night editor with the stuff while he slammed it down on paper. It was on the streets within half an hour.

Handling a murder like that gave me a reputation that I’ve been trying to live down ever since.

There was no bother about arresting the broad. She just sat in the office until the cops came. They didn’t like to bust in on her at first. They were scared she’d start some more shooting. One of the braver ones went in at last. He found her smoking a cigarette as calm as a chink in a hop-dream.

When I got home I was as jumpy as a flea; even a couple of double ryes didn’t do me any good. I just could not imagine what had made her do it. It wasn’t as if it was in a jealous rage. It was all so utterly cold-blooded.

The stink the newspapers raised in the morning would have suffocated a skunk. They played it all over the front page. There were photos of Rabener; there were photos of Fanquist behind the bars. She looked as calm in jail as she did when she shot him. I guess nothing this side of hell would rattle that baby. But she wouldn’t talk; she wouldn’t say why she had shot Rabener. They worried her for hours in a nice way. That’s one thing she had in her favour. She was such a dizzy-looking number that there was no cop strong enough to get tough. A week or so before the trial came on I ran into the local police captain. He was having a snack at Sammy’s Bar. I spotted him through the window. I walked right in and parked on the next stool.

He looked at me with a cold eye that the cops reserve for newspaper guys and started bolting his food like he was in a hurry.

“Don’t strangle yourself, Cap,” I said, “I’ve got plenty of time and I won’t run away.”

“I know,” he said, sticking a sandwich way down his throat. “But I ain’t got nothing for you.”

“Tell me one thing,” I returned, “has she talked?”

“Not a word; not one goddam word.”

“O.K., Cap. I won’t worry you again.” I slid off the stool. “That was a nice little red-head you were leading into temptation last night; I admire your taste. Well, Cap, I’ll beat it.”

The Captain looked like he was going to have a stroke. His neck expanded and his eyes looked like poached eggs. “Hey!” he said in a strangled voice. “Where do you get that stuff?”

I paused. “I didn’t get any stuff, Cap,” I said, “it was you who were doing the trafficking.”

“Now, listen,” he said feverishly, “you’ve got to keep your trap shut about that. It was business—you understand?”

“You’re of interest to the public,” I pointed out; “it’s got to go in the column. If your wife gets mad, what the hell do I care?”

He sat like an exploded balloon. “O.K.,” he said bitterly. “What do you want to know?”

I resumed my stool and ordered a club sandwich. “Give me the dope, Cap. You’re not telling me that you haven’t unearthed a lot of stuff what would interest me. I won’t print it until you say so. I’ve been in on this from the start, and I may as well finish it.”

It took me a little time to handle him, but the red-head threat worked like a charm.

Rabener, he told me, was the brain behind one of the biggest dope-rings in the country. He used the night-club as a front. He had to have some place where pedlars could come with safety each month to collect the dope. What better place than a well-established, busy night-club? Rabener was a killer too. Years ago he’d been a small-time heist man. His ruthlessness as a killer took him slowly to the top of the ladder of gangdom. He was smart. He always kept in the background. Whereas other big-shots were rounded up by the F.B.I., Rabener managed to keep clear. When repeal came in, he decided to go in for dope. So thorough were his preparations that no one had ever suspected the night-club to be the distributing centre of the dope-ring.

Somehow or other Fanquist fitted into this picture. The Captain wasn’t quite sure where she did fit in. But they couldn’t tie her up with the dope traffic. They could get nothing out of her. The smaller members of the ring had vanished. Fanquist was the only one who could enlighten the police, and she wouldn’t talk.

“Maybe she thinks someone will knock her off if she squeals,” I suggested.

“Yeah, it might be that; but why did she kill Rabener?”

“I’d like to know too,” I returned. “Think she’ll get off?”

The Captain shrugged. “I don’t mind if she does,” he said. “Nice-lookin’ dish, ain’t she?”

I agreed very heartily.

The trial was fixed at last, and the court-room was packed to the ceiling. Strong men trampled on weak women to get in; strong women gave up in despair. It was a real picnic for the men all right. They’d come to see Fanquist, and nothing on two legs would stop them.

The Judge was a dopey-looking old hound. The D.A. seemed nervous, but the defending counsel was as cocky as hell. There was not one woman on the jury. I thought that it was almost inevitable the Fanquist woman was going to get acquitted.

I had a front seat, a packet of sandwiches, and a flask of rye. No one was going to stampede me. Jackson, the night editor, was with me. We both felt that we had an interest in the case.

Fanquist looked good. She sat by her counsel, quiet, still and restful. Boy; how she could dress! Any young dope wanting to know what the female form looked like had only to step up and get an eyeful of Fanquist. He’d learn more in that glance than all the text-books on anatomy could teach him in a year.

“If I have to watch that dame all day,” the night editor grumbled, “I shall go nuts.”

I understood how he felt even though he was a coarse-minded slob. I knew the court-room was steamed up to hell.

The D.A. got to his feet for his opening speech. It lacked the ginger and hate he usually worked into his openers.

“That guy,” the night editor grumbled, “ain’t got his mind on his job. If you ask me, he’s worried by his lower nature.”

It didn’t matter how much the D.A. played the killing down, the facts were undeniable. Fanquist had shot Rabener in front of a hundred witnesses. Even if the D.A. didn’t want to be responsible for burning her nice little tail, he couldn’t very well help himself.

The counsel for the defence rose to his feet. “Your honour,” he said with a bland look on his face, “before going further with this trial, I would like to ask the District Attorney a question.”

The Judge told him to go ahead.

The defence turned to where the D.A. was sitting. “Can you assure me,” he asked, “that the bullet found in Rabener’s skull could have been fired from my client’s automatic?”

You could have hung your hat on the silence that followed.

The D.A. went all colours of the rainbow. He got to his feet with a feeble, “Your honour—I object!”

The Judge, who had been giving himself an eyeful of Fanquist, looked at him coldly. “I think that is perfectly in order. In fact, I will go further and say it is a very proper question.”

The defence smiled. “I take it that you are unable to do so,” he said blandly. “In which case, I must ask for an adjournment while this point is verified.”

The Judge looked at him intently. “Why have you raised this point?” he asked.

“Your honour,” the defence returned, “my client did not kill Rabener. It will be found that the bullet in Rabener’s skull could not possibly have been fired from a small automatic. The bullet, I should imagine, came from a Smith-Wesson revolver. Perhaps at this point I should wait until the bullet has been checked.”

So the Judge adjourned the Court for two hours.

It caused a sensation. There wasn’t one person who left the building during those two hours’ wait; the atmosphere was electric.

When the Court sat again, I think the only person in the room who wasn’t worked up was Fanquist.

The Judge looked at the D.A. “Well,” he said, “what are your findings?”

The D.A. looked a sick man. “Your honour,” he returned, “the defence is right. The bullet that killed Rabener was fired from an Army service revolver.”

When the uproar died down, the Judge scowled at the defence. “Why was this case ever brought to trial?” he demanded.

The defence rose to his feet. “I can explain, your honour, and will do so immediately. You will recall that on the night of the killing, Rabener had put on a special form of entertainment. The idea being that his usual floor-show was continually interrupted by faked shootings, thrills and so on. Rabener had arranged with Fanquist that she should participate in this publicity stunt. He thought it would be amusing if she pretended to murder him. She was given a gun loaded with blanks, and she carried out her instructions. She had no more idea that Rabener was killed when she fired than she had that someone, using a gun fitted with a silencer, had fired at the same time as she had at Rabener. She returned to the office. And when she was arrested she instantly thought that by some accident the gun had been loaded with live ammunition instead of blanks. The realization that she had killed a man was such a shock to her that her reactions were slightly abnormal, which was only to be expected. Rabener was killed by a person unknown who used a silencer and an Army service revolver. This is pure supposition on my part, but I did take the trouble to examine the wound, and thought it very unlikely that so small a bullet could have made such a big hole in Rabener’s head. The prosecution, having so many witnesses who actually saw my client apparently kill Rabener, did not think of checking the matter, or even of checking Fanquist’s gun, which was only loaded with one blank round.”

There was a great deal of talk, but of course she got off. Who killed Rabener was never discovered. After all, he was an enemy of society, and the State didn’t want to spend too much money tracking his killer down.

I’ve thought a lot about this since. It did strike me that if Fanquist had a lover who wanted, for some reason or other, to kill Rabener, this method was an exceedingly good one. Suppose this lover had suggested to Rabener to stage the crazy thriller night? Rabener never had those kind of ideas himself. Suppose this lover and Fanquist arranged that she should pretend to kill Rabener, whilst the lover, hidden somewhere, actually did the shooting, using a much heavier type of gun. While she was waiting the two months for her trial, the lover could have plenty of time to leave the country and set up somewhere, so that when it was over she could join him. It was obvious to me from the expression on Rabener’s face that he certainly had not arranged for Fanquist to join in the fun. He knew all right when she shot him that he was going to die.

Of course, this is just my theory. I’m probably wrong; but you know how newspaper guys get when there’s a story around. But I did hear that she had sailed for South America, and that spot is as good as the next if you’re hiding from the cops. What do you think?

(The story of the London Hippodrome Musical, presented by George Black and produced by Robert Nesbitt.)

TWO THUMB A RIDE

Denny Merlin hit the north end of Daytona Beach in the late afternoon. He drove the Lincoln Zephyr V-12 slowly past the stadium and the ornamental coquina-rock bandstand. He looked enviously at the crowded beach and wondered if he had time for a swim, but decided that he had better get on and kept the car rolling. At the farther corner of Ocean Avenue he spotted the red triangular sign of a Conoco Service Station. He pulled over and ran up the half circular drive.

Three attendants in smart white uniforms, with red triangular badges on their breast-pockets, came out of the office and began servicing the car. Denny pushed open the door and climbed out stiffly.

“Fill her up,” he said, “and look her over. I’m going over to get somethin’ to eat.”

A short thick-set guy, wearing a foreman’s armlet, came out of the office and said “Good evening.” He looked at the Lincoln with approval and then ran his eye thoughtfully over Denny. This guy was trained to recognize a good client from a bad one. He considered that Denny had a lot of money, was going on vacation, and didn’t care a great deal how much he spent. He was right on every point.

Denny took a cigarette from a heavy gold case and lit it. “Where can I get a decent meal?” he asked.

The foreman pointed across the road. “There you are, sir,” he said. “Chesney’s will give you good food and quick service; you don’t have to look further than that.”

Denny said: “O.K., that’ll do. Have the bus ready for me in half an hour. I’ve still got some way to go.”

“Yes, sir, it’ll be ready. Goin’ to Miami, sir?”

Denny nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. How did you know?”

The foreman grinned. “Oh, I guess they all go to Miami on vacation,” he said. “The traffic’s mighty heavy this time of year. You’ll have to keep going. There’s a hurricane blowing up, and it wouldn’t do to run into that.”

Denny shrugged. “No hurricane’s goin’ to stop me,” he said. “What do I care about a hurricane?”

The foreman grinned again. “Thought I’d tell you, sir,” he said. And thought to himself: “O.K., sucker, if that’s the way you feel. Maybe you’ll change the record when it starts to blow.”

Denny said: “Well, I guess I’ll go on over and have somethin’ to eat. I’ll be right back.”

The foreman watched him cross the road and disappear behind the discreetly curtained doors of Chesney’s, then he wandered over to the Lincoln and glanced inside. “Nice wagon,” he said to one of the attendants who was cleaning the windscreen. “I guess that guy’s got a heap of jack.”

The attendant spat on the sidewalk. “I bet he tips in dimes,” he said bitterly. “The bigger the car the smaller the tip. I know these guys.”

The foreman agreed. He was watching two girls who had been standing under a shop canopy for some time, just opposite the station. They had stood in the shade for over half an hour watching the cars come in and pull out. He had noticed that they had been intently interested in Denny Merlin when he went into Chesney’s and now they were talking to each other very seriously. They were an odd couple. The little one was a honey, the foreman thought. She was beautifully curved and blonde. She wore a thin red sweater which revealed her figure, and a short, pleated yellow skirt. Her well-shaped legs were bare and her feet were shod in yellow sandals. She was bare-headed and her face was tanned by the sun and wind. Her companion was a good six inches taller. She also was fair, but she had no feminine charms. In fact, she was almost mannish in her dress and appearance. She wore a pair of shabby yellow-white trousers and a black polo sweater. Her hair was cut short, like a man’s, and her complexion was almost mahogany.

As he watched them, they suddenly made up their minds and crossed the road, coming towards him. He moved away from the Lincoln, looking at the smaller of the two with an appreciative eye.

The tall girl walked right up to him and said, “Like to do something for two deserving girls?”

The foreman eyed her thoughtfully. She puzzled him. He couldn’t place her at all. She had very hard green eyes, and her mouth was thin and cruel. Now that she was close to him, he was a little startled to see how broad and muscular she was. It irritated him that he had to look up at her. So, he said rather abruptly, “What do you want?”

She smiled. Her teeth were big, white and beautiful. He noticed that her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “The Lincoln over there,” she said, “where’s it goin’?”

The foreman looked at the smaller of the two and gave her a wink. She flushed and looked away quickly.

The tall girl said: “Never mind that stuff for the moment. Where’s the guy goin’?”

“Miami—lookin’ for a lift?” The foreman continued to ogle the small girl.

“Yeah. Can you fix it for us?”

The foreman shook his head. “Why should I?” he asked, shifting his feet a little. “We don’t do that sort of thing on a station like this.”

The tall girl turned to her companion. “Let me talk to him, Stella,” she said. “Move out of the way.”

The girl called Stella hesitated, then walked away a few paces and stood watching the other two with fixed intentness.

The tall girl moved a little closer to the foreman. “Nice, isn’t she?” she said. “She’s shy, but she could go for a guy like you in a big way.”

The foreman took a step back. “Yeah?” he said. “What of it?”

“We want that ride, playboy. I guess Stella would do her stuff if you fixed it for us.” The tall girl smiled with her mouth again. “How about it?”

The foreman shook his head. “Once you’re in the car, I’m left holding the can—nothin’ doin’.”

The tall girl shifted a little impatiently. “Got anywhere where you can take her?” she said softly. “You can’t give her the works, there ain’t time for that. But you can play around. Will that satisfy you?”

The foreman began to sweat. “Nice sortta bitch, ain’t you?” he said, looking over at Stella and licking his dry lips. “She wouldn’t stand for it.”

“Of course, she would,” the other said sharply. “Come on, for God’s sake. Haven’t you anywhere where you can take her?”

He looked uneasily over his shoulder. “Why, yes, I guess so. She could come into the office.”

“Well, go on then. I’ll send her to you. Work fast, and fix that ride, playboy, or I’ll start somethin’ for you.”

The foreman hesitated, then turned on his heel and walked over to the office. He glanced back at the two girls. The tall one was talking very fast. Every now and then she would emphasize a point with her hand, cleaving the air. Stella suddenly left her and walked rapidly towards the office, and the foreman stepped inside and waited for her.

The tall girl sat down on the low wall that surrounded the station and lit a cigarette. She smoked slowly, her eyes intent on the restaurant across the road. She didn’t once look towards the station office.

About ten minutes later she saw Denny signal the waiter for his bill and she got to her feet. She walked over to the office and pushed open the door. The attendants were watching this little scene with puzzled grins, but she took no notice of them. She stepped into the office, but couldn’t see anyone there. She called, “Come on, you two, he’s on his way.”

She waited a minute, her eyes searching the room impatiently, then called again. The foreman came through a door at the rear of the office. He was breathing heavily, and she could see the blood-congested veins on his neck. She smiled at him very contemptuously. “Go out an’ fix that ride, Mr. Sheik,” she said. “An’ fix it good.”

He went past her without a word, and she went to look into the room beyond. “Never mind about those,” she said impatiently. “Take them off and leave them here. We’re about to pull out. For God’s sake, don’t cry or you’ll spoil everything.” She turned back to the office again, her face angry and her eyes viciously cold.

Denny Merlin walked over to his car and nodded his satisfaction. The boys had certainly made a good job of it. He felt satisfied and good after his meal. He tossed a big leather and silver flask full of Scotch on to the front seat. He looked at the foreman and winked. “Got to have a little help on the way,” he said. “What do I owe you?”

The foreman told him and Denny paid, giving him a five-dollar bill. “Split the change amongst the boys. I guess they’ve done a nice job.”

The foreman licked his lips and said awkwardly: “There are a couple of dames in my office looking for a lift as far as Miami. Nice kids. Do you feel like giving them a hand?”

Denny looked at him, startled. “I guess not,” he said abruptly; “no riders in this car. I don’t want a couple of dames hanging around. What should I do with two of them?”

“Sure, I just asked, sir,” the foreman said. “If they hadn’t been something special I wouldn’t have mentioned it. Maybe you’d like to see ’em first?”

Denny got into the car. He thought the foreman had got a hell of a crust. “No, I’m sorry, but I don’t take riders,” he said firmly.

Stella came out of the office as he slammed the car door shut. She came down the concrete path into the sunshine.

The foreman said very quickly: “That’s one of them. Nice little thing, ain’t she?”

Denny looked over casually and then leant forward. He wasn’t expecting anything as good as Stella. He hesitated, and the foreman, seeing him wavering, said: “Tough on those girls. They seem pretty anxious to get to Miami. It’d be a long walk for them.”

Stella came timidly towards the Lincoln. Her eyes looked appealingly into Denny’s. He put his hand to his tie and then opened the door. “You the little girl who’s looking for a ride?” he asked, sliding out of the car again.

Stella looked up at him. “We want to get to Miami,” she said. “We won’t be a nuisance, honest.”

The foreman noticed that the tall girl had kept out of sight. He grinned evilly. She was fly, that one, he thought.

Denny nodded. “Sure, I shall be glad to give you a lift.” He looked round. “Where’s the other one?” he asked the foreman.

The tall girl had been waiting her cue. She came out of the office and walked with long strides to the car.

Denny stared at her, his face falling a trifle. He didn’t quite like the look of her. “You the other one?” he asked, raising his hat awkwardly.

The tall girl smiled with her mouth. “Thank you,” she said. “May I introduce my friend here and myself. This is Stella Fabian and I’m Gerda Tamavich.”

Denny would have preferred to have left her behind, but he had committed himself, so he just smiled and said: “Well, that’s fine. I’m Denny Merlin from New York. If you’re all set, let’s go.”

Gerda glanced at Stella and opened the front door of the car. “You sit with Mr. Merlin. I’ll sit at the back.” She revealed her teeth as she turned to Denny. “I like plenty of room. My legs are a little long.”

This arrangement suited Denny all right. He helped Stella into the car and climbed in beside her. Gerda got in the back.

The foreman touched his peaked cap, but none of them looked at him. Denny felt that he had been impertinent, and the other two hated him. Denny rolled the Lincoln slowly out of the station drive into Ocean Avenue and headed down Broadwalk.

At the cross-roads a traffic cop signalled him to stop. “What the hell does he want?” Denny asked, as the cop moved over to him.

The two girls sat very stiffly in the car, watching the cop. Gerda took out a handkerchief and held it near her face.

The cop saluted Denny with a friendly smirk. “Goin’ to Miami, sir?” he asked, putting a large foot on the running-board.

Denny nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Can’t I?”

“At your risk,” the cop returned. “Sorry to stop you, but we’re warning all traffic. Hurricane’s on the way an’ it’s likely to catch you up around Fort Pierce.”

Denny nodded. “I know,” he said, “the Conoco people told me. I’m going to get as far as I can. I’ll stop at Fort Pierce if it looks tough.”

The cop saluted. “O.K., sir, just as long as you know.” He took his foot off the running-board and waved them on.

Denny scowled into the small driving mirror. “They’re making a hell of a fuss about a storm,” he said. “It’s got to be mighty bad to stop me.”

Gerda leant forward. “You’re a stranger to Florida, ain’t you?” she asked.

“Yeah, what makes you ask?”

“It sticks out a yard. Folks who live around this district take these hurricanes seriously.”

Denny was bored with this talk about hurricanes. The sun was still very hot and strong and there was only a mild breeze coming from the coast. There was not a sign of a rain cloud anywhere. He glanced down at Stella, who sat away from him in the corner of the seat. From that angle he could see her firm beautiful curves and he wished that Gerda wasn’t with them. He said, “You don’t worry about hurricanes, do you?”

Stella glanced at him and shook her head. “I guess not,” she said. “I’ve seen a good few, and they don’t really amount to anything.”

Denny liked her voice. “What are you two girls, anyway?” he asked. “What’s the idea of hitch-hiking?”

Gerda took charge of the conversation. “We’re looking for a job,” she said, almost in his ear. Her voice was low and flat. “Daytona Beach bored us, so we thought we’d go on to Miami. I guess we’ll find something there.”

Denny turned into the old Dixey Highway that led to Port Orange. He trod on the gas, sending the Lincoln forward with a sudden push. “Well, what do you do?” he wanted to know, looking with interest at Stella’s nicely rounded knees.

“Who we can,” Gerda said, with a harsh little laugh. “Don’t we, Stella?”

Stella didn’t say anything.

“I see. That sounds sort of bad,” Denny said, wondering what she meant. “I’m in real estate myself. I was wondering if either of you could shorthand or something. I might be able to get you fixed up.”

Gerda laughed again. Denny frowned. He didn’t like her hissing little laugh so close to his ear. “Don’t do that,” he said sharply. “What’s funny about it?”

“Nothin’,” she said quickly, “we think you’re swell to offer, don’t we, Stella?”

Stella said after a pause: “You see, we do a song an’ dance act. I guess office routine is way up the wrong street.”

Denny grunted. “Sure,” he said, “I understand that. If you’re an act, you don’t want any sort of job. What makes you think Miami’ll take to you?”

“Oh, we don’t know,” Gerda said, “we just hopin’. When you’ve pushed around as we have, hope is about the one thing that gets you anywhere, and nice-looking Stella.” She laughed again.

Denny watched her in the driving mirror. “So Stella helps too, does she?” he said for something to say.

“Sure, it’s her capital to look nice,” Gerda said with a tiny sneer in her voice.

“And what do you do?” Denny said curiously.

“Me? I guess I run the outfit. We’ve got along all right so far, haven’t we, Stella?”

Stella didn’t say anything. She shifted uncomfortably and her short skirt rode up a few inches. Denny could see a long expanse of bare thigh and he pursed his lips. If it wasn’t for Gerda in the back, he could go for this honey in a big way he told himself.

They swept through Port Orange and on to the U.S. Highway 1. They were now in the heart of the East Coast citrus country and the road curved across lowland meadows, pink with rose mallow. The mandarin trees were heavy with fruit. Denny thought it was all very beautiful.

“This part of the country does things to me,” he said. “Don’t you think it’s swell?”

Stella said: “You don’t think of the ugly things in life after this, do you?” She spoke very tensely, as if she meant every word.

Denny glanced at her curiously. He wondered what sort of a life she had been leading. She didn’t look like a little tramp. He shook his head, giving up.

They stopped at New Smyrna for petrol. Evening was drawing on rapidly and the sun, wrapped in a yellowish haze, was sinking behind the skyline. Denny got out of the car to stretch his legs and the two girls followed his example. Up the road they could see a long line of trucks moving slowly towards them, crowded with farm hands and bedding.

Denny asked the mechanic who was operating the gasoline pump what it was all about.

The man shrugged. “Oh, I guess they’re coming in because of the hurricane,” he said indifferently. “The radio says it’ll hit us before long.”

Denny felt a sudden wave of apprehension. “Listen, I’m goin’ through to Miami tonight. This hurricane won’t stop me, will it?”

The man screwed the cap on the gas tank and hung up his pump hose. “That depends on you, mister,” he said. “Two bucks, please.”

Denny paid him and walked over to the edge of the road, where the two girls were watching the trucks pass. “Think we ought to go on?” he asked. “These people are coming in from outlying farms because of the hurricane.”

Gerda said very decisively: “A little rain and wind wouldn’t stop me. It’s your car, you can please yourself what you do.”

“Well, let’s get on then,” Denny said, turning to the car.

“You wouldn’t like to stake us to a meal, would you, Mr. Merlin?” Gerda asked, smiling with her mouth.

Denny looked at her. “Say, what is this?” he asked. “Are you two flat broke, or something?”

Gerda moved over to the car. “Think no more about it, Mr. Merlin. Forget I ever spoke.”

Denny turned to Stella. “You tell me. I can talk to you.”

Stella hesitated and then nodded. “I guess we’re tight for money just now,” she said awkwardly. “But we ain’t really hungry. Please don’t—”

Denny said, “Wait for me,” and walked over to a coffee-shop. He came back with two paper bags and dumped them down on the seat. “There you are,” he said, “that ought to hold you until we get to Fort Pierce. We’ll have a decent meal then. Let’s get on before we waste any more time.”

He drove out of New Smyrna in silence. The two girls ate the chicken sandwiches silently and ferociously. Gerda said, “Is that Scotch you’ve got there?”

Denny handed the flask over his shoulder without a word. He was beginning to understand why Gerda looked after the outfit, as she called it. She wasn’t slow in getting what she wanted.

They drove along the Indian River. It was just dusk enough to see the luminous water, ruffled by an increasing wind. Every now and then faint flames seemed to be flickering along the top of the water. The scene so enchanted Denny that he forgot to be annoyed any more, and slowed down so that he could concentrate. Overhead a flight of herons passed, looking dark against the evening sky. Woodpeckers still continued to plunge from the telephone wires like rockets after minnows.

“This is a grand country,” Denny said to Stella. “I’m mighty glad I decided to come here for my vacation.”

“Why are you alone?” she asked. “Haven’t you got a wife or a girl friend?”

Denny shook his head. “I guess not,” he said. “I’ve been too busy making money. Believe it or not, this is the first real holiday I’ve had in ten years.”

Gerda said softly in his ear, “Have you made a lot of money?”

Denny grinned. “Oh, I guess so. Enough to get by.”

“What do you call big money?” she persisted. “Ten grand, twenty grand, fifty grand—how much?”

“Five hundred thousand,” Denny said, half to himself. “Believe me, it’s nice to feel you’ve made that little lot just by yourself.”

Gerda drew a deep breath. The amount left her speechless. They drove in silence for some minutes, then she said: “I guess you can do what you like with all that money.”

Denny nodded. “It certainly helps,” he said lightly.

They were running through a road bordered by Australian pine windbreaks which swayed in the increasing wind.

Stella said suddenly: “Look, the wind is rising. Do you see the trees? It is getting rough.”

“Well, we’ll be all right in this bus,” Denny said confidently. “This old hearse doesn’t leak; it can blow and rain as much as it likes.”

The sun had given place to a big moon. It was almost dark now and Denny switched on his head-lamps. “I like driving in the dark,” he said, “especially in this country. Look at the river now. It looks as if it were on fire.”

The wind had whipped the water into large waves which flickered like tongues of flame. Overhead small clouds began to race across the moonlit sky, joining up with each other rapidly. They were dark clouds that fled before the wind, gradually building up a barrier between the earth and the moon.

“This looks like it,” Denny said as the landscape began to fade into darkness. “I guess if it gets too bad we’ll have to put up at Fort Pierce.” A thought suddenly struck him. “Haven’t you girls got any luggage?”

Gerda said, “No.”

There was a long silence and then Denny said, “You two seem to be having a bad time.” He felt uncomfortable, as most very wealthy people do when they run into real poverty. He began to wish he hadn’t given them a ride. He supposed that they were going to be a damn nuisance before he had seen the last of them.

Gerda said, casually: “Oh, we’ve been in the same sort of spot before. We’ll get by.”

Fine rain appeared on the windscreen and the darkness came down like a shutter. The two brilliant pools of light from the head-lamps lit the road, making the grapefruit trees and the lemon trees look grotesque as they flashed by them.

Above the soft note of the Lincoln engine they could hear the moan of the wind, and out to sea came the thundery roar of the rollers smashing themselves to foam on the beach.

A vivid and jagged flash of lightning lit the sky and the first clap of thunder startled them. The rain began to fall in earnest and Denny switched on the rain-wipers. He drove slowly, as he found it difficult to see through the windscreen.

“I hope it’s not going to get worse than this,” he said suddenly.

“Oh, it will,” Stella told him. “This is just the beginning. The wind hasn’t reached its height yet.”

As she spoke the wind suddenly increased, making a shrill, whistling noise. Denny felt the car shudder against it, nearly coming to a halt. He fed the engine more gas and the speedometer needle crawled up to twenty miles an hour.

“I guess we’d better get under cover,” he said. “I wish now that we had stayed at New Smyrna for the night. Keep a look-out for a house, will you? I don’t care to drive much further in this.”

“Oh, let’s go on,” Gerda said quickly. “Fort Pierce is only about twenty miles from here.”

Denny grunted. The lightning was beginning to worry him. It leapt about the dark sky, lighting the trees which swayed almost to the ground from the blast of the wind. The Lincoln was crawling now, although he kept his foot hard on the accelerator. He reckoned the wind must be blowing at well over a hundred miles an hour.

The rain drummed on the top of the car, blotting out the noise of the thunder, and the wind had risen to a shrieking howl.

Over to the left he thought he saw a building in the flash of brilliant lightning and his head-lights picked out a narrow road that turned off abruptly from the highway. He didn’t hesitate, but swung the car into it. The wind caught them broadside and he felt the off wheels lift a little.

“There’s a house here,” he said. “We’ll take shelter. This is beyond a joke.”

He drove as close to the building as possible, and then stopped the car.

“Be careful how you get out,” Stella said anxiously, “or you’ll get blown away.”

Denny thought that was most likely, and opened the car door gingerly. He slid out, keeping his body hunched. The wind and rain struck him solidly, and if he hadn’t been holding on to the car door he would have gone over. He steadied himself, feeling the rain driving through his clothes as if they were paper, then, keeping low, he began a desperate struggle to the house. He had only to walk a few yards, but by the time he had reached the shelter of the house he was nearly exhausted.

He could see that all the windows were boarded up, and he hammered on the front door. Fortunately, he was on the lee side and he could remain there without being battered. No one answered his knocking. Finally he lost patience and, taking a step back, aimed a violent kick at the lock. The door creaked, and a second kick sent it flying open. He stepped inside, peering into the darkness. He called loudly once or twice, but his voice hardly sounded in his own ears above the roar of the rain and wind.

Taking his cigarette-lighter from his pocket, he made a tiny flame and finding an electric-light switch near his hand, he turned on the light. He found himself in a well-furnished lounge with three rooms leading off. A quick examination of the house proved that it was empty. The owners had most likely, he thought, gone to Fort Pierce, away from the hurricane. Anyway, the place was well furnished and comfortable. The next step was to get the two girls inside.

He again stepped into the hurricane and fought his way back to the car. He tried to shout to them that it was all right, but the wind blew his words down his throat, leaving him gasping. He pointed to the house and took hold of Stella’s arm. She hesitated for a moment, then slid out of the car. It took quite a time to get her into the shelter of the lounge. Twice they lost their balance and sprawled into a big pool of rain water, and by the time they got inside both of them were soaked and plastered with mud.

Even at that moment Denny felt his blood quicken a trifle when he saw Stella in the light. Her jersey and skirt clung to her figure, revealing every line. The superb sweep of her hips down to her feet and the curve of her firm full breasts enchanted him. He said, “You look cute like that.”

She turned her head. “Oh, don’t look at me,” she said. “Please go and help Gerda.”

He laughed a little nervously and turned away from her. Gerda stood in the doorway watching them. The wet jersey on her big figure made her look even more mannish than she actually was.

She said: “I’ve locked up the car. The rain isn’t getting in. I think it will be all right to leave.”

Denny shrugged. “It’ll have to be,” he said. “I’ve had enough of that wind for tonight. My God! I’m wet through. Maybe I’d better get a suitcase in.”

Gerda went to the door. “You’ll need some help,” she said, and together they battled their way once more to the car. Denny was a little piqued to see that Gerda managed the wind much better than he did. In fact, once she came to his aid and shoved him forward. He was equally astonished at her strength. Together they brought the suit-case back and closed the door on the storm.

“You’re hellish strong,” Denny gasped, wrenching off his sodden collar. “Quite a Samson.”

Gerda didn’t say anything. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Denny wandered into the lounge, where Stella was standing shivering before an empty grate. She held her wet skirt away from her body as he came in.

“Have a nip of this,” Denny said, producing his flask, “otherwise you’ll catch a cold.” He was feeling shivery himself.

They both had a long pull from the flask and immediately felt better for it.

“You ought to get out of those things,” Denny then said with a grin, “although they suit you like that.”

Stella flushed hotly. “You’re making me feel awfully uncomfortable, Mr. Merlin,” she said. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

Denny took another pull from his flask. “Well, I guess I don’t want to do that,” he said. “But you shouldn’t have such a nice little figure.”

Gerda came in with some paper and wood. “Get those things off, Stella,” she said, “the bathroom’s down the passage. There’s an electric geyser and I’ve turned it on. I’ve found a wrap for you. Hurry up.”

Stella went away and Gerda knelt down before the fire. In a few minutes she had a roaring fire going.

Denny looked at her admiringly. “I can see why you’re the boss of the outfit now,” he said. “Are you always as efficient as this?”

Gerda looked over her shoulder at him with her hard green eyes. “I have to be,” she said. “You aren’t a great help, are you?”

Denny scowled. “You didn’t give me much time,” he retorted.

She got to her feet. “Don’t let’s fight,” she said. “Suppose you change too. I’ve had a look in the pantry. There’s some food there. I guess we can make ourselves quite at home.”

Denny scratched his head. “Bit rough on the owners,” he observed.

“I see you haven’t my philosophy,” Gerda returned, moving across the room to the door. “Still, you have plenty of money, haven’t you? Leave them something. That’s what money is for, isn’t it?”

Denny undressed quickly after she had gone, and gave himself a brisk rub down with a towel. He couldn’t help thinking how much more pleasant it would have been to be in this house with Stella alone. He dressed in a pair of flannel trousers and heavy sweater over a white silk shirt and took his wet clothes into the kitchen.

Gerda, dressed in a dark red dressing-gown, her long slender feet in a pair of Turkish slippers, was preparing a meal. On the table close at hand stood a large cocktail-shaker and three glasses.

Denny picked the shaker up and sniffed at it. “Gin and du Bonnet,” he said. “Hell! This is going to be quite a party.”

Gerda said, “You like Stella, don’t you?” She said it very casually, without looking at him.

Denny paused, his hand hovering over one of the glasses he was about to pick up. “What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

“What I say,” Gerda went on, turning a thick slice of ham on the grille. “I know what you’ve been thinking. You’d like to sleep with her, wouldn’t you?”

Denny controlled himself with an effort. He poured out the cocktails and then came over and put one of them close beside her. “I’m not used to that sort of talk,” he said quietly. “I suppose it is pretty general where you come from?”

Gerda sipped her drink. “That still doesn’t answer my question,” she said, suddenly looking at him. “You would like her in bed, wouldn’t you, Mr. Merlin?”

Denny finished his drink and poured out another one. “I’m certainly not going to discuss a subject like that with you,” he said abruptly. “After all, you’re the third party, and as such you have no business at all to suggest such a thing.”

Gerda put her drink down and went to fetch eggs from the pantry. When she came back she said: “In a way, I suppose I’m unfortunate. I think along the same lines as a man. I noticed your eyes when Stella was showing off her body. It rather gave you away. Not that I blame you in the slightest. I’m sure I’d feel exactly the same in your place.”

Denny said acidly, “Don’t you?”

“You mean am I one of those?” She shook her head. “Oh no. I might have been if I let myself go, of course, but I saw what an awful mess it would get me in. Stella is very much in love with me, but I don’t do anything about it.”

Denny lit a cigarette. “You know, you’re rather an unpleasant person,” he said. “I’m damn sorry I ever had anything to do with you.”

Gerda smiled. “Suppose we stop fooling around like this. You want Stella. I know you do. You are wishing I wasn’t here so that you could be alone with her. You have a lot of money. I haven’t any. I want money. I don’t make any bones about it. I must have it. Tell me, Mr. Merlin, how much would you pay to have Stella alone for tonight?”

Denny took a step towards her. His face had gone suddenly white. “Shut your beastly mouth, you bitch!” he said, “I’ve taken all I’m going to from you. So shut up, do you understand?”

She stood very still, looking at him, then her mouth smiled. “Does that mean you’ll think it over?” she asked, putting two eggs and the ham on a plate and putting it into his hand. “But eat this. I’ll go and hurry Stella. I should like a bath too.”

She left him standing staring after her with an angry, puzzled expression on his face.

Stella was still in the bath when Gerda came in. She looked up and smiled. “Am I keeping you waiting, darling?” she asked, cupping her breasts in her hands and lying back on her elbows.

Gerda looked at her beautiful white figure and sat on the edge of the bath. “No,” she said, “take your time. I want to talk to you.”

Stella’s face clouded. “What do you want now?” She laid stress on the word now.

“What do you think I want?” Gerda said, her hard eyes suddenly brightening. “There’s five hundred thousand dollars outside wolfing ham and eggs. I want a little of him.”

Stella swirled the water with her legs. She didn’t say anything.

“Go out and start on him. He’s really soft on you so he’ll treat you right. Leave it to me to get the dough out of him.”

Stella shook her head. “No,” she said, biting her lip. “No—no—no!”

“You can do it. It would be easy. I’ll go to bed and then you go to him. Tell him you’re frightened by the wind. Play up to him. Give him the works. He’s only waiting for you to start. Then I’ll come in and you can go to bed. You don’t have to go far with him—just enough to get him going”.”

Stella said “No” again.

“Think what it will mean. I could knock him down for a grand. Think what that would mean. You and I could go to the best hotel in Miami. We could buy clothes and we could eat what we wanted.”

Stella put her hands to her face. “And when the money was finished you would find someone else to sell me to. Like you did in Daytona Beach, like you did in Brooklyn, in New Jersey. No—no—no!”

Gerda got slowly to her feet. “You are the only capital we have,” she said. “You wanted to come with me, didn’t you? I didn’t ask you to, did I? Do you think I should have any difficulty in getting along by myself? How do you think I’ve managed before? I’m not afraid of work. I’m strong, not like you. You wanted to be with me—how do you think we can live unless you help? Do you think I’d mind what I did to make you happy? If men wanted me and would pay for me, do you think I should care? Can’t you get outside your body and forget that it is you? Use it to get us somewhere, use it as a singer uses his voice.”

Stella climbed out of the bath and wrapped a towel round her. She shivered a little. “How long have I got to do this?” she asked. “Don’t you love me any more? Doesn’t it mean anything to you that I’m used like this?”

Gerda went to her, her eyes half closed, knowing that she had got her way, and therefore willing to be kind.

Denny had finished his meal when Stella came out in a light-blue wrap, which suited her. He was mixing some more cocktails, having drunk six in a row, and he felt a lot better tempered. In fact, he greeted Stella with a grin as she came in.

“How are you feeling now?” he asked. “You’re looking grand. Have a gin and du Bonnet. Can you cook yourself a meal? I wish I could, but I’ve never learnt how.”

Stella took a cocktail and began preparing supper. “Don’t you want a bath, Mr. Merlin?” she asked.

Denny shook his head. “No, I’m fine. I guess I’ve been having a few drinks instead.”

She turned on the grill and stood waiting for it to heat up. With her back turned to him, she loosened her wrap, then pulled it closely round her as if to avoid spotting the material from the hissing fat.

Denny could see the slim outline of her figure, the soft curve of her buttocks, and he suddenly wanted her very badly. He turned away and took another drink. “Where’s your unpleasant friend?” he asked abruptly.

Stella stiffened. “Gerda?” she said, looking over her shoulder at him. “What do you mean—unpleasant?”

Denny shrugged. “Forget it,” he said; “I was forgetting she was a friend of yours.”

“Gerda’s in the bath. She won’t be out for ages. She loves to soak. She told me that she’d get her own supper. Odd way we’re eating. We ought to have all sat down together.”

“How old are you?” Denny asked, leaning against the stove, so that he could watch her face. “Right now, you look like a lovely little girl.”

Stella blushed. “Oh, I’m nineteen,” she said. “I’ll be twenty at the end of the month.”

“Isn’t it a pity that you’re living this sort of life? I mean, haven’t you any parents to look after you?”

Stella broke an egg into the pan. “No,” she said, “I guess not. I get along, really, Mr. Merlin, only just now we’re in a jam. We had some bad luck and the landlady took our bags in payment—you know.” She broke off and gave a little sniff.

Denny came a little closer. “This girl, Gerda. I don’t think she’s a suitable companion for you. Tell me, don’t you get into trouble sometimes because of her?”

Stella looked at him, trying hard to force anger out of her eyes. “Gerda has been very wonderful to me,” she said.

Denny shrugged and turned away. He couldn’t make this business out. Stella didn’t look like a tramp, he kept telling himself. She wasn’t that type at all, he could swear to it, yet why did Gerda make that suggestion? Why was she so sure that Stella would agree? Could it be that Stella liked him? By now the cocktails had made him a little drunk and he was very sure of himself. It would be rather a joke if Stella went for him in a big way and Gerda was left holding the can.

He followed Stella into the dining-room and sat opposite her while she ate her supper. Outside, the wind and rain lashed the walls of the house, making it shudder and forcing them to shout a little when they talked. He insisted on taking her plate away when she had finished, and came back with the cocktail-shaker full again. Stella was sitting on a big settee near the fire. Her wrap had fallen open, showing her neat bare legs. As soon as he came in, she hastily adjusted the wrap, but he had seen all right.

He felt the blood mounting to his head and he came over and sat beside her.

She said, “Do you like being rich?”

He was a little startled. “Why, sure,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You know, money means so much to some people. To me, it doesn’t mean anything at all. Once I saw a man with a hundred-dollar bill. I had never seen a bill like that before. He was awfully pleased with himself.”

Denny laughed. He put his hand behind him and pulled out a big wallet from his hip pocket. “Ever seen a thousand-dollar bill?” he asked, opening his case. “And I don’t look so pleased with myself, do I?”

He opened the wallet and took out a fat packet of currency. He had eight one thousand-dollar bills and a number of hundred-dollar bills. Stella went very white. “Oh,” she said, “put it away. Don’t let—”

Gerda said softly from behind them: “It’s there. Enough money to live on for months. To go down Lincoln Road and buy what you want. To go to Dache’s or Miller’s. To eat at Allen’s. Miami would kneel to us.”

Denny spun round, snapping the wallet shut. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked.

Gerda stood looking at him, her green eyes like bits of glass, without expression, shiny and hard. “You are a very fortunate man, Mr. Merlin,” she said. “I am going to bed now. Perhaps by tomorrow the storm will be over. We shall go our different ways soon afterwards. I don’t think I shall ever forget you.” She went to the door and then turned. “I should come too, Stella,” she said. “Mr. Merlin will want to sleep. Good night,” and she went out, shutting the door behind her.

Denny looked at Stella. “What did she mean—never forget me?”

Stella was still looking very pale. “I don’t know,” she said: “I wish I did.”

There was silence but for the howl of the wind, then Denny forced a laugh. “She’s gone to bed, anyway. Will you have another drink?”

Stella shook her head, and made as if to rise to her feet, but Denny stopped her. “Don’t go,” he said. “You know, I was hoping that we should be left alone. I want to talk to you. I want to hear your voice. Look, let’s be comfortable.” He got up and switched out the light. The room was lit only by the fire. He came and sat down close to her. “Isn’t that rather nice?” he asked, putting a glass into her hand. “Come on, drink up. After all, the evening is still very young and we might be here for days. We ought to get to know each other.”

Stella put the glass down on the table beside her. “I must go,” she said. “Really, Mr. Merlin, I can’t stay with you. It’s—it’s not right.”

“Can’t you call me Denny? Isn’t this rather thrilling to meet as we have and to be sheltering from a hurricane in someone else’s house, before a fire, like this? Listen, Stella, it is like a fairy tale. It can’t be treated like any other day.”

“Oh, I know, Denny, but I shouldn’t really be here. Gerda will be wondering—”

He slid his arm along the back of the settee behind her head and leant over her. “Do you mind what Gerda’s thinking?” he asked. “Can’t you let time stand still for an hour? Let me tell you that I love you. That you are the most lovely thing in this ugly world. You make this hurricane seem thin and pale beside your beauty. Look at me, Stella, can’t we go into fairyland together just for an hour? Can’t we forget that you are you and I am I? Won’t you leave this world and come with me?” He drew her towards him, and pale, almost fainting with fear, Stella relaxed against him.

Denny touched her lips with his and then, as he felt them yield to him, he caught her to him urgently. He was deaf to the storm raging outside and blind to reason. Stella affected him like no other woman had ever affected him. He slid his hand into her open wrap and eased it off her shoulders.

In the firelight he could see her whiteness and he drew her down on the settee, pushing her back so that he was leaning right over her. He lowered his face against the coolness of her breasts and he groaned softly with the ecstasy of the moment.

Gerda, coming into the room like a dark shadow, stole up behind them. The firelight reflected in her fixed staring eyes, and Stella, looking over Denny’s shoulder, bit back a scream of fear as she saw Gerda’s hand suddenly sweep up, holding something that glittered.

Stella tried to push Denny away, but already the glittering thing was coming down swiftly and Denny relaxed limply on her with a choking cough. With a wild scream, Stella pushed him on to the floor and scrambled up.

“What have you done?” she screamed at Gerda. “What have you done?” She stumbled over to the lamp and turned it on.

Gerda was standing over Denny, her face white and hard. She said, without looking at Stella, “Shut up! Don’t make a sound.”

Denny rolled over on his side and struggled up on his elbow. A long, thin-bladed table-knife was driven deeply into his neck. Stella could see the silver handle protruding, and she pressed her hands against her mouth in horror.

Blood began to flow over Denny’s white shirt and run on to the carpet. He touched the handle with his hand as if he couldn’t believe that this had happened to him. He said in a very low, choked voice, “Did you do it?” to Gerda.

Gerda didn’t say anything. She was watching the red ribbon running on to the cream carpet.

“Couldn’t you have left me alone?” Denny said. “My God, I was a fool to have had anything to do with you two. It was the money, I suppose. I didn’t think you were as bad as that. Do you think it will do you any good? Don’t stand there looking at me. Get me a doctor. Do you want me to bleed to death?”

“Yes,” Stella said wildly, “get him a doctor, for God’s sake!”

Gerda just said, “Shut up!” and drew away from Denny with a little grimace of disgust.

“Do you want me to die?” Denny said, panic coming into his eyes. “Help me! Don’t stand staring. Help me, you bitch! Can’t you see I’m bleeding to death?”

Stella threw herself on the settee and began to scream wildly. Outside, the wind continued to roar and the rain drummed on the roof.

Gerda took a quick step forward and struck Stella across her face. Stella fell back, her mouth open, but silent. “I said shut up,” Gerda said harshly. “Do you understand?”

Making a terrific effort, Denny crawled on to his knees and then levered himself upright. He stood holding on to the back of a chair, making a sobbing noise in his throat. “Help me, Stella,” he gasped. “Don’t let me die, Stella—help me.”

He put his hand on the knife and tried to pull it out, but the sudden wave of pain was too much, and he fell on to his knees.

Stella scrambled off the settee and ran out of the room. She came back a moment later with a towel. “Here,” she said frantically to Gerda, “stop him bleeding.”

Gerda snatched the towel from her savagely and went over to Denny. She took hold of the hilt of the knife and jerked it out of the wound. Denny gave a high-pitched cry like the whinnying of a horse. Blood welled out of him in a scarlet stream. He fell forward on his face and clawed at the stained carpet. He writhed for a moment, then relaxed limply. Blood continued to gush from the wound until eventually it ceased.

The two girls stood watching him. Stella, in horror, unable to move or to take her eyes from him, and Gerda hard, inscrutable and cold.

She said: “He’s dead now. You’d better go into the kitchen.”

Stella ran to her. “You mustn’t. I know what you’re going to do. You’re going to take that money. You killed him for it, didn’t you?”

“It’s no use to him now,” Gerda said. “Go into the other room, or I shall be angry with you.”

Stella hid her face in her hands and stumbled out of the room. The noise of the hurricane rose to a terrific crescendo as she slammed the door behind her.

Gerda didn’t hesitate. She stepped round Denny very carefully, avoiding the blood on the carpet, and pulled the wallet from his hip pocket. She took the eight-thousand bills and the rest of the small notes and put the wallet back in his pocket. She stood for a moment looking at the notes, then she closed her fingers over them tightly and heaved a great sigh. At last, she thought, I am free. Nothing matters now. I can live as I want to live. She didn’t think of the dead man for one moment.

She found Stella in the kitchen, sobbing quietly and shivering with shock. She took no notice of her but began to dress in her half-dried clothes. She put the roll of notes in her trouser pocket, pulled on her damp black sweater with a little grimace and then turned her attention to Stella.

“Get dressed at once,” she said. “Stop that snivelling; it won’t get you anywhere.”

Stella took no notice of her, and Gerda, losing patience, jerked her out of her chair and shook her.

“Get dressed, you fool!” she shouted. “Do you hear?”

Stella looked at her blankly and began to wring her hands.

Gerda pulled off her wrap and began pushing her into her clothes. Stella stood quite still, sobbing the whole time like an hysterical child, and let Gerda dress her. When at last she was ready, Gerda shook her again, but she could see that Stella was going to be utterly useless to help her in the work she had to do.

She pushed Stella into the chair again. “Stay here,” she said. “And don’t move until I come for you.”

She went out and opened the front door. The rain still came down heavily, but the wind had dropped somewhat. She ventured out and found that she could walk without much difficulty.

She went back to the house and collected Denny’s clothes. She took them and the suit-case to the car. Then, picking up a large rug from the back seat, she went back to the lounge. She dropped the rug over Denny, rolled him into it and then dragged him out of the house into the pouring rain. She opened the back door of the Lincoln and dragged him into the car. It took her a long time, but eventually she did it.

She was wet through and her clothes stuck to her body, as if they were painted on her. She was feeling completely exhausted after the struggle to get Denny into the car, and she poured herself out a stiff shot of whisky. She felt better for that.

So far so good, she told herself, looking round the disordered room. She dare not leave it like that. There was only one quick way to destroy that sort of evidence. She remembered seeing a spare can of gasoline on the running-board of the Lincoln and she went out and got it. She left the can in the lounge and walked into the kitchen.

Stella was still sitting where she had left her. She had stopped crying, but her limbs continued to shiver and tremble.

“We’re getting out of here,” Gerda said. “Come on, pull yourself together for God’s sake.”

Stella gave a little shudder at the sound of her voice. “Go away,” she said, “I don’t ever want to see you again. Oh, God, whatever shall I do? Look what you’ve got me into.”

Gerda stood very still. “What do you mean?” she said softly. “You’re to blame as much as I.”

Stella sprang to her feet. She looked a little insane. “I knew you’d say that,” she screamed. “But I didn’t kill him. I never wanted to kill him. I didn’t want him to make love to me—you made me! Do you hear? You made me!”

Gerda said: “Pull yourself together. If you want to get away with this you’ve got to use your head and help me.”

“Leave me—go away! He said you were bad, and I didn’t believe him. He warned me against you. Oh, how could you do such a thing?” She buried her head in her arms and began sobbing again wildly.

A sudden expression crossed Gerda’s face, making her look old and ugly. She said: “Don’t you see it was as much for you as for me? We can be rich now, Stella. We won’t have to pinch and scrape any more. You won’t have to lie with any more men. We’ve got all that behind us. Isn’t that worth something?”

“How can you talk like that?” Stella demanded, confronting her. “Does his death mean nothing to you? Are you so hard and callous that you’re not frightened by the awful thing you’ve done?”

Gerda shrugged. “Oh, very well,” she said. “What shall we do? Call the cops?”

Stella beat on the table with her fists. “There’s nothing we can do,” she cried. “We can’t bring him back. You’ve finished us both!”

“I’ve got him in the car,” Gerda said. “We can dump him and the car in the river. It is very deep. He may never be found. Then we can get another ride into Miami. With the money, we’ll be safe and we’ll be happy.”

Stella stopped crying and stared at her. “Is that what you’re going to do?” she said. “What about the house and the bloodstains? Do you think we can get rid of them?”

“I’m going to set fire to the house. They’ll think it’s the lightning.”

Stella went very white. “Then he was right. You are utterly bad. You have no feelings for anything but yourself. Go on, do what you’ve planned. I can’t stop you. But I’m not going with you. I’d rather go on the streets than go with you. I don’t ever want to see you again.”

Gerda looked at her thoughtfully. “But I couldn’t let you do that,” she said reasonably, “you might talk. I’m very fond of you, Stella, but you mustn’t try my patience too much.” Her voice was toneless and her eyes shone strangely.

Stella shook her head. “I shan’t talk,” she said; “you needn’t be afraid of that. I’m going right out of this house and I hope I shall never see you again.”

She had recovered from her hysteria now that she had a fixed purpose, and her one thought was to get as far away from Gerda as possible.

Gerda held out her hand. “Because we have been happy, won’t you shake hands? I know I’ve done wrong, but …” She shook her head. “Oh, what’s the good? Come, Stella, say good-bye and I wish you good luck.”

Stella hesitated and then came back to her. “God help you, Gerda,” she said. “There is no one else who can.”

Two hands reached out and fastened themselves like steel hooks on her throat. “You stupid mouthing little fool,” Gerda said, forcing Stella’s head back. “Do you think I’d trust you? Do you think I’d have a moment’s rest knowing that you were at large to tell the first man who made love to you? What do I care if you aren’t with me any more? There are a hundred girls like you to share my eight thousand dollars. You can go with Denny. Do you hear? You can go with him.”

She had forced Stella on the floor and was kneeling over her. Stella struggled wildly, but she had no strength to get free. Gerda held her vice-like grip, one of her knees pressing against Stella’s chest, holding her flat.

Because she hadn’t got a proper hold, it took her a long time to kill Stella, but at last Gerda got to her feet, flexing her aching fingers. She felt a little wave of pity surge up in her when she looked down at Stella, but only for a moment. The wind had ceased to howl and every moment was precious.

She picked the dead girl up in her arms and almost ran out to the car. She dumped her in on top of Denny and slammed the door shut, then she ran back to the house. A few minutes were enough to splash the rooms with the gasoline, and when she came out smoke began drifting through the window-shutters. She drove the car to the end of the road and then looked back. The house was burning fiercely. Long flames were licking through the roof and a column of black smoke drifted in the wind towards her. She was satisfied that the place would be completely gutted in a very short time, and she drove on to the highway.

The rain still fell, but the wind had died down. Far away she could see the lights of Fort Pierce. She thought even if the worst came to the worst, she could walk there.

The Indian River glowed in the darkness as she drove the car, and finally selecting the most favourable spot she turned the car so that it faced the river. She got out and looked up and down the long straight highway, but she could see no signs of an approaching car. She didn’t once look in the back of the Lincoln and, as she adjusted the hand throttle, she felt herself shivering. She stood on the running-board and adjusted the gear, then, as the car began to bump forward, she dropped off and stood watching.

The car seemed to hesitate just as it reached the steep bank, then went crashing over into the leaping, flaming river. She ran forward and could see it plunging down, leaving behind it a great sheet of flame. It looked to her that it had gone into a furious furnace rather than the river, and she took two steps back with a feeling that it had gone for ever.

It was almost an hour later when she heard a truck coming along the road. She had been walking steadily for that time and she was feeling cold and nervy. The rain had stopped, but her clothes were still wet, clinging to her as she moved. She stood in the middle of the road and waved as the truck rattled towards her. It pulled up with a squeal of brakes and she ran up to it.

A dim outline of a man leant down from the cab and peered at her.

“Fort Pierce?” she asked, trying to see what he looked like. “Can you give me a lift?”

He pushed open the off door of the cab. “Sure,” he said, “come on up.”

She climbed in beside him and he started the cab rolling. He was very big and the shadowy outline of his face gave him the appearance of an ape. He, too, was regarding her under the broken peak of his cap.

“Where you come from, baby?” he asked in a hoarse, snuffling voice.

“Daytona Beach,” Gerda returned, rubbing her arms and shivering. “Got caught in the hurricane, sheltered for some time and then decided to walk on.”

“Huh,” the man said, spitting out of the cab. “Saw a house on fire way back. I guess it must have been the lightning.”

Gerda didn’t say anything. She was feeling tired and would have liked to have gone to sleep.

“Ain’t you scared being around in a spot like this on your own?” he asked her.

Gerda stiffened. “I don’t scare easily,” she said coldly. “The last guy who tried to get fresh with me is still wondering what hit him.”

“Sorta tough, huh?” the driver said with a hoarse laugh. “Well, I like a dame to be tough.”

“That’s nice for me, isn’t it?” Gerda rejoined sarcastically.

The driver laughed again. “I guess before we go any further I’ll collect your fare,” he said, stopping the truck with a jerk. “Let’s get in the back for a while.”

Gerda shook her head. “Get goin’,” she said sharply. “I don’t wear that sort of thing. I’ll give you a fin when we reach Fort Pierce. That’s all you’ll get.”

The driver screwed round in his seat. “Yeah?” he said, his voice suddenly menacing. “I ain’t used to that sort of yappin’ from a dame. Get into the back of the truck quick, before I get rough. You’re taking what I’m goin’ to give you, an’ you goin’ to like it.”

Gerda opened the door. “If that’s the way you feel about it,” she said, her eyes hard and calculating. She slid into the road. The moment her feet touched the wet tarmac she made a dart towards the thick citrus groves. Before she reached them a terrific jar struck her just above her knees and she went down in a heap. Her breath was knocked out of her body, and for several she minutes was powerless to move. She felt herself being picked up, carried a few steps and then banged down again.

“How do you like that?” the driver asked, kneeling over her.

She realized that she was in the back of the truck and she lay very still, waiting to recover her breath.

“Now, baby, do you play or must I rough you around until you do?” the driver asked.

Gerda said breathlessly: “O.K., you big caveman, let me get up an’ fix myself.”

The driver moved away from her with his back to the entrance of the truck, so that she couldn’t pass him. “Not so tough, huh?” he said. “I tell you, baby, I’ve gotta way with dames.”

Gerda got slowly to her feet. Her body ached from her fall. She poised herself, and then with all her strength she swung over a punch aimed at the driver’s jaw.

The driver had been expecting it and shifted his head a trifle. Gerda’s fist scraped his ear and he countered with a heavy slap across her face with his open hand. The blow stunned her and she fell on her knees, suddenly frightened. She knew that this guy was too strong and smart for her.

The driver knelt down beside her and smacked her face several times. The pain made tears run down her face and she tried to protect herself with upraised arms. All he did was to poke her with his forefinger very hard in her belly which brought her hands down quickly, and then he went on slapping her.

“Had enough?” he asked after a while.

Gerda was too dazed to speak. She lay limply waiting, shudderingly, for him to take her. She felt his hands on her clothes, but she hadn’t the strength to resist him. A red haze hung before her eyes and her face and head seemed to be on fire.

She was suddenly conscious that something awful for her had happened. She heard the driver suck in his breath sharply and she heard him mutter, “For Pete’s sake,” and she realized with a dreadful sinking feeling that he had found the roll of money.

She struggled up and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too quick for her. He shoved her away roughly and stood up.

“Where did you get this?” he shouted, holding the roll in a trembling hand.

“Give it to me—it’s mine.”

“Yeah? Well, prove it’s yours.”

“I tell you it’s mine,” Gerda said, nearly sobbing with fury. “Give it to me!”

The roll disappeared into the driver’s pocket. “You pinched it,” he said. “Maybe you got it from the house that was on fire way back. A tramp like you wouldn’t have so much dough.”

Gerda threw herself on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He hit her between her eyes as she came in, sending her in a heap on the floor-boards, then he stepped over her and booted her out of the truck. She landed in the wet mud of the road with a thud that shook the breath out of her.

He said, as he dropped to the road beside her: “If you want the dough, come along to Fort Pierce an’ ask the cops for it. Maybe they’ll have it for you.” He gave a little snigger. “Somehow I don’t think they’ll know much about it,” and he ran back to the truck and drove away.

MORNING VISIT

The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms.

The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.

Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the A.B.C. terrorists.

Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. “This is the place,” he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. “Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting—use your bayonets if there’s trouble.”

He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.

The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.

The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on egg-shells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.

The four soldiers had already reached the farm, and they stood in an uneven circle, waiting for the Lieutenant to come up. They were more animated now. They knew that very soon they would be back in the barracks out of the heat of the afternoon sun.

The farm was a squat dwelling, with a palm-thatched roof and whitewashed walls. As the Lieutenant approached cautiously, the door of the place opened and a tall, poorly dressed Cuban stepped into the sunshine.

The soldiers jerked up their rifles, threatening him with the glittering bayonets. The Cuban stood very still, his hands folded under his armpits, and his face wooden.

The Lieutenant said, “Lopez?”

The Cuban’s eyes flickered round at the soldiers, seeing only the ring of steel before him. He looked at the Lieutenant. “Yes,” he said, a dry rustle in his voice.

The Lieutenant swung his sword. “You may have heard of me,” he said, a wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. “Ricardo de Crespedes.”

Lopez shuffled his feet in the sand. His eyes flinched, but his face remained wooden. “You do me much honour, senor,” he said.

The Lieutenant said, “We’ll go inside,” and he stepped past Lopez, holding his sword at the alert. He walked into the dwelling.

Lopez followed him with two of the soldiers. The other two stood just outside the door.

The room was very poor, shabby, and dirty. De Crespedes moved to the rough table standing in the middle of the room and rested his haunches on it. He unbuttoned the flap on his revolver-holster and eased the revolver so that he could draw it easily. He said to one of the soldiers, “Search the place.”

Lopez moved uneasily. “Excellency, there is no one here—only my wife.”

The negro went into the other room. De Crespedes said, “See if he’s armed.”

The other soldier ran his big hands over Lopez, shook his head, and stepped back. De Crespedes hesitated, then reluctantly put up his sword. There was a long, uneasy pause.

The negro came back from the other room pushing a Cuban woman before him.

De Crespedes looked at her and his small eyes gleamed. The woman ran to Lopez and clung to him, her face blank with fear. She wore a white blouse and skirt; her feet were bare. De Crespedes thought she was extraordinarily nice. He touched his waxed moustache and smiled. The movement was not lost on Lopez, who tightened his hold on his wife.

De Crespedes said: “You’re hiding guns here. Where are they?”

Lopez shook his head. “I have no guns, Excellency. I am a poor farmer—I do not trade in guns.”

De Crespedes looked at the woman. He thought her breasts were superb. The sight of her drew his mind away from his duty and this faintly irritated him, because he was quite a good soldier. He said a little impatiently: “It will be better for you to say so now than later.”

The woman began to weep. Lopez touched her shoulder gently. “Quiet,” he said, “it’s Richardo de Crespedes.”

The Lieutenant drew himself to his full height and bowed. “He is right,” he said, rolling his bloodshot eyes a little. The woman could feel his rising lust for her.

Lopez said desperately: “Excellency, there has been some mistake—”

De Crespedes lost patience. He told the soldiers to search the place for guns. As the negroes began hunting, he pulled the woman away from Lopez. “Come here,” he said, “I want to look at you.”

Lopez opened his mouth, but no sound came from him, his eyes half closed and his hands clenched. He knew he could do nothing.

The woman stood close to de Crespedes, her hands clasped over her breasts. Her fear stirred his blood.

“Do you understand why I’m here?” he said, putting his hand on her bare arm. “Traitors are arming the people against the President. Guns have been hidden here. We know that. Where are they?”

She stood quivering like a nervous horse, not daring to draw away from him. She said: “Excellency, my man is a good man. He knows nothing about guns.”

“No?” De Crespedes pulled her closer to him. “You know nothing about these terrorists? Nothing about plots to overthrow Machado?”

Lopez stepped forward, pushing his wife roughly away, so that de Crespedes’ hold was broken. “We know nothing, Excellency.”

De Crespedes shoved himself away from the table. His face hardened. “Seize this man,” he barked.

One of the soldiers twisted Lopez’s arms behind him and held him.

The woman ran her fingers through her thick hair. Her eyes grew very wide. “Oh no… no…” she said.

De Crespedes himself supervised the search, but they found nothing. He went out into the sunlight again and shouted to the remaining soldiers to look round the outside of the farm. Then he came back. He stood in the doorway, looking at Lopez. “Where are the guns?” he said. “Quick—where are they?”

Lopez shook his head. “We know nothing about guns, Excellency.”

De Crespedes turned to the soldier. “Hold him very tightly.” Then he began to walk towards the woman. She turned to run into the other room, but the other soldier was standing against the door. He was smiling, and his teeth looked like piano keys. As she hesitated, de Crespedes caught up with her and his hand fell on the back of her blouse. He ripped it from her. She crouched against the wall, hiding her breasts with her hands, weeping softly.

De Crespedes looked over his shoulder at Lopez. “When you are dead,” he said, “I will have your woman—she is good.”

Lopez controlled himself with a great effort. He was completely powerless in the grip of the soldier.

De Crespedes said to the soldiers who came in at this moment, “Cut off his fingers until he’s ready to talk.”

The woman screamed. She fell on her knees in front of de Crespedes, wringing her hands. “We know nothing, Excellency,” she said wildly. “Don’t touch my man.”

De Crespedes looked down at her with a smile. Then he put his dusty boot on her bare breasts and shoved her away. She fell on her side and lay there, her head hidden under her arms.

The soldiers forced Lopez to sit at the table, and they spread his hands flat on the rough wood. Then, using his bayonet like a hatchet, one of the negroes lopped off a finger.

De Crespedes sat looking at the blood that ran across the table and dripped on to the floor. He stood up with a little grimace of disgust.

A thin wailing sound came from Lopez, although he didn’t open his lips. The two soldiers who held him shifted as they strained to keep his hands in position.

“Until he talks,” de Crespedes said, unhooking his jacket and removing his sword-belt.

The negro raised his bayonet and brought it down with a swish. There was a little clicking sound as it went through bone, and he had difficulty in getting the blade out of the hard wood.

De Crespedes threw his jacket and sword-belt on the bench and walked over to the woman. With a grunt, he bent over her. Taking her under her arms, he dragged her into the other room. He threw her on the bed. Then he went back and kicked the door shut. He noticed that it was very hot in the room, although the shutters kept out the sun.

The woman lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chin. She kept her eyes shut, and her lips moved as she prayed. De Crespedes lowered his bulk on to the bed. He took her knees in his hands and turned her on her back. Then he forced her knees down and ripped the rest of her clothes from her. He did not hurry, and once, when she resisted, pushing at him with her small hands, he thumped her on her chest with his fist, like he was driving in a nail with a hammer.

Then, because he knew this rigid body could give him no pleasure, and because he had much experience, he set about breaking her down. His two hands settled on her arms and his fingers dug into her soft muscles. Her eyes opened and she screamed. He leant on her, crushing her with his bulk, and dug further with his fat, thick fingers. It was not long before the violence of the pain turned the woman into a weeping, gibbering thing of clay on the bed. And when he took her, she lay placid, her tears falling on his shoulder.

Later on, one of the soldiers had to go out and get a bucket of water to throw over Lopez, and although they did many things to him, they could not get him to speak, so they lost patience with him and they killed him.

When de Crespedes came out of the room he found his soldiers standing uneasily waiting for him. He looked down at Lopez and stirred him with his boot. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and yawned. “Did he talk?” he asked indifferently. He was thinking of the long tramp back to the barracks. When they shook their heads, he shrugged and put on his jacket. He was feeling devilishly tired. Listlessly he tightened the sword-belt round his thick middle and put on his cap. Then he went back and looked at Lopez again. “It is possible he knew nothing about guns,” he said half aloud, “they’ve made a lot of mistakes before.” He shrugged and turned to the door.

The soldiers picked up their rifles and moved after him. Outside, he paused. “The woman,” he said irritably, “I was forgetting the woman.” He looked at one of the soldiers. “Attend to her. Use your bayonet.”

While they waited in the blinding heat, he thought regretfully how much better it would have been if she had loved him. There was little satisfaction to be had from a weeping woman. Still, he felt better for it. Women were necessary to him.

When the soldier came out, they gave him time to clean his bayonet and then they all tramped across the uneven ground towards the barracks.

TWIST IN THE TALE

The first time I met George Hemingway was when I was after marlin off Key West. I ran into him in a casual sort of way in the Plaza Hotel. He was with a large crowd and I was on my own. It was my first experience of deep-sea fishing, and I rather wanted to experiment by myself. I had had a year of worry and hard work steering my firm through the depression, and now that things were looking pretty good again, I considered that I had earned a few weeks off. So down I went to Key West. I had heard a lot about the fishing there, and I thought it sounded just the right sport for my frame of mind.

I put myself in the hands of Joppy, one of the finest fishermen on the coast. He and I went out in a fast motor-boat nearly every day. He was a soft-spoken, patient sort of a guy, and I guess he wanted all his patience by the time I got through. We fished those waters for over a week without seeing anything remotely resembling marlin. I guess they thought I was too mean a guy to bother about, and even Joppy began looking at me thoughtfully towards the end of the week.

I remember sitting in the lounge bar of the ‘Plaza’ after a completely uneventful day, wondering what the hell deep-sea fishermen could see in such a slow sport, when about a dozen people drifted in, making enough row to scare all the marlin right out of the Mexican Bay. They crowded up to the bar, and because I was at a complete loose end I watched them with, what must have amounted to, almost rude curiosity.

The girls were the usual type of brittle beauty that infest the luxury hotels during the season. There were five of them, and they all were wearing beach trousers, sandals, and gay-coloured handkerchiefs that hid their firm, curved breasts. They were chattering and laughing as they always do, and as soon as they had settled their neat little bottoms on stools they began drinking pink gins at an astonishing rate.

With the exception of George Hemingway, the men were also true to type. They wore white trousers, a handkerchief of various hues round their necks and, of course, the inevitable doe-skin shoes.

My eyes swept over the group and came to rest on George. He immediately attracted my attention, and I wondered who he was. His personality was so strong that he made the others seem mere paintings on the wall. He was tall, with big powerful shoulders, tapering away to a small waist and very long legs. You could see at a glance how much he enjoyed the good things in life, and his enormous vitality for absorbing them.

I noticed that he paid for all the drinks out of a well-worn wallet. It amused me to watch these people and to see the clever way the women out-manoeuvred one another to be the centre of attraction.

After a while they all got through with their drinks and decided to go out for a bathe. George told them to go on as he’d left his costume in his room. He stood with a big, humorous grin on his bronzed face watching them troop out, and then turned to the elevator. As he turned he caught my eye, and realizing that I had been watching him for sometime he came over.

“I’m Hemingway,” he said. “Are you all by yourself?”

I explained that it was of my own choosing, and went on to tell him about the deep-sea fishing. His eyes lit up at the mention of marlin. “What sort of sport have you had?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I find it mighty slow,” I said ruefully. “I haven’t seen anything that looks like a big fish since I’ve been here.”

Hemingway looked rather guiltily out of the big window at the group running down to the bathing-pool. “Listen, buddy,” he said, “how about you and me having a go tomorrow morning early? Believe it or not, there’s no one interested in fishing in my party, and I’ve been itching to get my hands on a rod. What do you say?”

I readily agreed. By now I had seen the error in not having a companion on this trip. I had imagined that I should have been so busy fishing that another person would have only been in the way.

Well, to cut a long story short, we had a day’s fishing which will remain long in my memory. George seemed to know where to find the fish, and Joppy, who came with us, was almost as excited as I.

During that day, cruising in the dark blue waters of the Mexican Bay, we formed a friendship which was altogether remarkable, because neither of us had anything in common. My real interest was in my work. I was unmarried, and had little or no use for a gay life. I was fortunate in having a number of good friends, most of them connected with my business, and as a hobby I wrote light novels which had a moderate success.

On the other hand, George lived recklessly, drank heavily, and, in his own words, ‘chased dames’. His absorbing passion was speed. He owned a number of cars, but his favourite was a big racing Bugatti, which he would drive, whenever he could, at an almost fantastic speed.

I often wondered why it was that he so obviously liked me and sought my company. During the three weeks I remained at Key West he was my constant companion. The little regiment of lovelies who followed him around regarded me with suspicion. I could quite understand my unpopularity. In my company, George seemed to find them boring, and that meant they had to look elsewhere for someone to buy them their drinks and the hundreds of other little luxuries they could not afford for themselves.

On the last night of my stay at the ‘Plaza’ I remember George coming into my room and sitting on my bed. I was just putting a finishing touch to my toilet, and I recollect having difficulty in fixing my tie to my satisfaction.

George sat there watching me. Then he said: “I’m going to miss you a hell of a lot. I wish you were staying.”

“Yes, I’m sorry to go. I’ve had a grand time. Maybe we’ll see something of each other later on.”

George said seriously: “When I come to New York I’d like to see a lot more of you.”

I was pleased that he felt that way, and we exchanged cards. I hoped I would see him soon, as I found his company very exhilarating.

Well, you know how it is. I got back to New York and was immediately caught up in arrears of business. For several weeks I forgot all about him. Then one morning I saw his photograph in the Times and an account of a motor-race he had taken part in. The racing correspondent considered that he was going to be a leading star in the racing world. I was surprised that he had entered this field, but I sent him a note of congratulation, as I thought it would please him. Whether he received the note or not I don’t know, but I didn’t have any reply. I had to go to Washington for a couple of months as we were operating a new branch there, so any hope of meeting George in New York had to be postponed.

His rise to fame in the speed world was remarkable. Soon no motor-race was considered anything at all unless he was a competitor. In fact, he began to win so consistently that his name rapidly became a household word. He apparently had no nerves. It was not that he was more skilful than the other drivers, but that he attained a maximum speed and kept to it. Cornering rough roads and dangerous hills meant nothing to him. He sent the machine he was driving forward like a bullet, and by some miracle finished in one piece. So great was the enthusiasm and talk about his daring that one Saturday afternoon I made an effort and attended one of the races in which he was competing.

I shall never forget that afternoon. And when his car hurtled past the flag a good quarter of a mile ahead of the next man, I found that my legs were almost too weak to support me to the Club bar, and that my shirt was sticking to my back in a most unpleasant manner as I sweated with fear for him and morbid excitement.

I knew it was quite hopeless to get near George until the admiring crowd had moved away, so I fortified myself in the meantime with some very excellent bourbon.

About half an hour after the race George came into the bar, followed by a large crowd of people. One glance was sufficient to tell me that his company was the usual hard-drinking, empty-headed lot. As I hadn’t seen him for over six months, I regarded him with interest. I thought he looked a lot thinner and a lot older. I was rather astonished to see that he was drinking ginger ale, whilst the crowd was belting neat Scotch.

I hesitated to approach him, surrounded by so many obviously ardent admirers; and while I was making up my mind what to do, he happened to glance up and see me. For a moment he looked puzzled, then his face lit up, and with an abrupt excuse he left his party and hurried over to me.

He shook my hand almost feverishly. “This is marvellous,” he said; “for God’s sake where have you been all this time?”

I told him about my business engagements, but I could see he was only giving me half his attention. In fact, he broke in to say: “I must talk to you. I’ve got to get rid of this crowd first. Will you meet me outside and have dinner with me?”

I readily agreed, and he returned to his party, who had been watching us with curious attention, no doubt wondering who I was.

He didn’t keep me waiting long. It was really quite astonishing how quickly he got rid of so many people, but in less than fifteen minutes he joined me outside the Club. Grabbing my arm, he hurried me across the road to where his Bugatti was standing.

“Still got the old bus, I see,” I said, climbing in rather gingerly.

“Yes, she’s been overhauled from time to time, but I wouldn’t part with her.” He settled himself in the driving-seat. “It’s grand to see you again. Where shall we go? How about Max’s? They give you a good dinner there.”

“Sure, any place. Only take it easy,” I pleaded. “I’m not used to high speeds.”

George laughed and engaged the gears. He drove at quite a reasonable speed. He wanted to know the fullest details about my trip to Washington, and so insistent was he that I suspected he was anxious not to talk about himself until we had settled down from our sudden meeting.

We got a quiet table at Max’s, which was not overcrowded, and ordered a light meal. I asked him what he would drink, but he shook his head. “I’ve given it up,” he said. “It wanted a lot of doing, but in my game it just doesn’t pay.”

I ordered a bottle of light wine for myself. “You certainly have jumped into fame, George,” I said. “What on earth made you take up racing so seriously?”

He looked at me in an odd way. “Why shouldn’t I? You know how keen I am on speed.”

“I know, but I didn’t think you were as keen as all that. After all, if you do want a burst of speed now and then you have the Bugatti. Frankly, I think you are taking the most damnable risks. You scared the life out of me this afternoon.”

George nodded. “You’re a wise old guy. There is a reason, and a very good reason too.”

“It must be,” I said. “I’ve never seen, nor do I hope ever to see again, such mad driving in all my life. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you have been doing this for the last six months?”

“It is very difficult for me. I’ve got nothing on these professionals in the way of tricks—and, believe me, there are plenty of tricks in this game. In order to win I just keep going as fast as I can and that’s my one ace.”

I couldn’t understand this at all. “Surely it isn’t so important to win as all that,” I said, frowning. “I mean, you don’t strike me as a person who must win at everything, and it is not as if you can’t afford to lose sometimes.”

The waiter interrupted us just then with our first course, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then George said, “You see, Myra expects me to win.”

I said, “Oh,” rather blankly, and then: “I’m sorry, George, but I’m rather out of touch. Who is Myra?”

George said with an effort: “Myra is the girl I’m going to marry.”

Automatically I murmured my congratulations, but I was extremely puzzled, as he didn’t seem at all happy. In fact, my congratulations fell rather flat.

There was rather a long, strained silence after that, then I said, “Well, tell me all about it.”

George sat back with a little shrug. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “I don’t want to bother you with details. You see, Myra likes celebrities. At first she wouldn’t look at me. Then some of the crowd began to talk about my driving and she took a little interest. I sort of took up the racing to please her, and now we are going to get married.”

All the time he was talking he avoided looking at me, and I thought it was a most extraordinary story. “But surely, George, she must realize what risks you are taking. I mean, she wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”

I found that I was floundering, and stopped talking, annoyed at myself. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage should be founded on a quarter of love and three-quarters companionship. It seemed too much like a Hollywood wedding to please me.

George shook his head. “Why, I guess she’s got a lot of confidence in my driving.”

I said, rather dryly, “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” George said miserably. “You think it is most odd, and so it is. What is more, this racket is getting too much for me. I can’t keep it up much longer.”

As he spoke his face relaxed, and I saw a horror in his eyes that startled me. It is not often that one sees naked fear in a man’s face, but I saw it that night and it wasn’t a pleasant experience.

“I don’t think there is a man alive who could,” I said. “Why don’t you drop it right away? After all, you have enough fame now. You’ve done quite enough.”

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t expect you to understand. I’ve got to go until I’m married—then perhaps—”

I said: “Let’s go to the bar and have a brandy. It’ll do you good.”

“I daren’t touch it,” George said. “If I once start again, I’m sunk.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “My God! I had a close shave once. It was when Myra came to see me race for the first time. I wanted to put on a good show, but I felt edgy and nervous. So I hit the bottle. That cured me. I took a bend at over a hundred miles an hour. Everyone thought it was marvellous driving, and Myra got a tremendous kick out of it, but I knew how close I had been to a smash-up. I found I was losing my sense of judgment, so I gave up the booze. I tell you, sometimes I get pretty scared.”

I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.

I asked him when he was getting married.

“Early next month. I have two more races, and then I’m going to Key West for my honeymoon. That’s really what I want to speak to you about. I want you to come along for some fishing.”

I stared at him. “My dear fellow. Not on your honeymoon. Why, damn it—”

He laughed. “For God’s sake don’t be so old-fashioned. Of course you can. Myra likes plenty of company. Quite a lot of the crowd will be there.”

I shook my head. “No, I’m sorry, George, it’s quite impossible. I’ve got my work to think about, and I’m just finishing a novel. No, I’m sorry.”

When I said that, I realized that there was a lot more behind this peculiar wedding than George had told me. He suddenly seemed to lose control of himself, and I thought he was going to break down. He seized my arm in a grip that made me wince. “Don’t let me down,” he said, “I’ve been relying on you. I don’t think I could stand it if you weren’t there.”

I said, rather sharply, “What the devil is this business?”

He shook his head. “Don’t ask me. You’ll know in time. Don’t say you won’t come. You must come.”

I finally gave him my promise. Almost immediately he braced up and seemed anxious to get away. “I’m sorry about all this,” he said, signalling to the waiter, “but I am frightfully nervy after a race. A good night’s sleep will put me right, I expect. I can’t say how glad I am that you’re coming. It’ll be like old times, won’t it?”

He drove me back to my apartment, but refused to come in. “I’ll write and give you the details as soon as I get everything fixed up. Myra will be tickled when she hears you are an author. She gets a big kick out of that sort of thing.”

I looked at him sharply because I was almost certain that there had been a sneer in his voice, but I could detect nothing from his expression. We shook hands and parted. I went up to my apartment in a very thoughtful mood. It had been an evening full of strange and uncomfortable incidents.

The following day I obtained a clue to the whole thing. It came about in the course of a casual conversation with Drayton, my senior director. He and I had just finished an excellent lunch, and I was on the point of leaving to buy a harness for the fishing trip with George.

Drayton asked me where I was going to fish. I told him how I had met George, and I could see an immediate interest at the mention of his name.

“Hemingway? He’s the fellow in oil, isn’t he?”

“I really don’t know. I have never asked. This Hemingway is the motor-racing fellow.”

“Yes. I didn’t know you knew him. Between you and me, I’m afraid he’s going to run into a packet of trouble before long.”

Sensing that I was on the very clue that might explain all this business I sat down again. “What sort of trouble?”

Drayton lowered his voice. “I understand that the particular oil-fields he’s invested in have dried up without warning. His firm are facing one of the biggest crashes in the history of Wall Street. No one knows about it yet. Engineers are out there making a report. It has never happened before. Everyone thought oil had been struck in a big way. It lasted until all the necessary machinery was set up and then—finish. It is incredible.”

I stared at him. “He’s getting married next month,” I said. “Poor devil. I suppose he’s aware what has happened?”

Drayton coughed. “His future wife is Myra Luckton. She is an heiress in her own right to over six million dollars. I should imagine the marriage comes at a very opportune moment.”

Well, there it was. The cat was out of the bag, and I didn’t have to wonder any more. I knew. It was now perfectly obvious that George was marrying this girl in order to save his financial position, and he fell very considerably in my estimation. I didn’t say anything to Drayton, but went out to make my purchases. Now that I had seen the beginning of this thing I was determined to see the finish.

Time passed fairly quickly, as I was working hard to finish the book before going to Key West. I noticed that George had been in another race. This time the newspapers carried two-inch type about his sensational escape from death. It appears that he rounded a corner with the utmost recklessness, and got into a skid while travelling well over a hundred miles an hour. The car overturned several times, throwing him clear. He escaped unhurt, but the car was utterly destroyed by fire.

Reading the description made me think of the day I saw him race, and I tossed the paper away with a grimace of disgust. I could see the look of terror in his face and wondered doubtfully how his nerves were reacting to this last escape.

A week after this I received a note from George asking me down to Key West on the following Saturday. He said in his letter that he would not ask me to the wedding as he knew I should be bored with the hundreds of people who were turning up.

They are not your fun[he wrote], nor are they mine, but Myra wants them to come. It will be better at Key West. I received a bad shaking the other day when my bus overturned. I feel now that that was my last race. Myra doesn’t know yet.

His handwriting revealed that he was in a very bad state of nerves, and the allusion to his last race struck me as significant. I hoped the change by the Mexican Bay would do him good, but I must confess the trip had lost a lot of its savour for me now that I knew why he was marrying the girl.

However, Saturday came round after a busy week clearing up and, to save time, I did the journey by air.

I went immediately to the very beautiful house near the beach that George had rented. As my car swung into the short circular drive I was conscious of a considerable amount of noise and laughter drifting through the large open windows. It seemed that George and noise were inevitably linked together.

George came running out. He was wearing white trousers, a dark red shirt and sandals. I had to admit that he looked extraordinarily handsome as he stood on the steps with a smile on his face. “What a grand sight,” he said, shaking my hand. “How are you? They are all longing to meet a real live author. Come on in.”

He had been drinking heavily and was slightly unsteady on his feet. The reek of whisky on his breath was so strong that I turned my head with a slight grimace of disgust. He said with a grin: “Sorry, ol’ man, but we’ve been cel-cel—you know. Come on in, an’ get tight. I warn you, you’ve got to get tight an’ stay tight if you’re staying in this dump.”

He took me into a large lounge. At the far end, through open double doors, I could see a number of people sitting or standing with glasses in their hands. They all looked in our direction. One of the girls came to the door, then moved towards us.

George said, “This is Myra,” and introduced me.

Myra Luckton’s name was familiar to me as frequent references to her parties appeared in the Press, but I don’t remember ever seeing a photograph of her, and, consequently, it came as a considerable shock meeting her for the first time. It was entirely due to a habit of wearing a poker face that I did not openly reveal my dismay.

It is exceedingly difficult to describe Myra. She was above the average height, small-featured, silky platinum hair, and, of course, she was perfectly groomed. So much for what God and money had given her, but her expression took away everything that could have counted in her favour. To be brutally frank, she looked like a very expensive street-walker. Her eyes were cold, calculating and vicious, and her mouth was hard. She gave me the impression that she was utterly brazen, and there was nothing she would hesitate to do to satisfy a lust for sensation.

I’m afraid I must have betrayed a little of my dismay, or else she was very shrewd, because, as she took my hand, she gave me a little jeering laugh and said: “What a lovely man. I do believe I’ve shocked him already.”

George was watching me too. “Take no notice of her,” he said, “she’s as tight as a tick.”

She laughed as he said that and put one slim white arm round his neck. “Do come in and meet the others,” she said. “They’ve all read your books and they think they’re too marvellous.”

Later, when I escaped to my room, I was very thankful to sit by the window and look across at the beautiful bay. I had quite made up my mind that I could not stay in this house long.

I proceeded to change for dinner. As I wandered around the large airy room, shedding my clothes about the floor, I turned over in my mind the tragedy of George’s wedding.

It was quite obvious to me that he detested Myra. She was obviously thrilled to have married someone so famous, but there was no question of her having any true affection for him. It was a thoroughly unpleasant marriage.

A tap sounded on the door, and George came in. He sat on the bed. I saw that he was still rather high, but his face was very serious and lined as he stared at me. “What do you think of her?” he asked abruptly.

That was the one question I never thought he would ask me. It annoyed me to think that he was forcing me into a lie, as I could not tell him the truth.

He saw my hesitation. “Say it. Speak your mind. You’re the one guy I’ve met who has been on the level with me. So tell me.”

“I’m afraid you are not very happy,” I said. “I’m sorry, George.”

“My God! You don’t want to be sorry for me. I’ve brought it on myself, haven’t I? I knew what I was doing. No, I’m a heel. I’ve sold myself to that woman for the stacks of dollars she’s got. You know that, don’t you?”

I lit a cigarette and wandered over to the window. “I must tell you that there is a rumour that your firm, Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis, are in a bad way.”

George stared at me. “You know that?” he asked, his face going very white. “Who else knows?”

“It’s not common talk yet, but I’m afraid it will be very soon.”

“You think I’m a heel, don’t you?” he said. “You think I’m marrying this girl to save my own skin. Well, you’re wrong. I’m trying to save all those little guys who put their money into the oil-fields because I told them they couldn’t go wrong. I thought it was a good thing. We all did. We let the little man in and kept the big speculator out. It was to be the small man’s dream. It was my idea; it is my responsibility. I was the fool who thought the idea up. My partners didn’t care a damn so long as they got the backing. I said: ‘We’ll give the little guy a chance,’ and then the wells went dry—”

I went over and sat by his side. “What’s Myra going to do about this?”

“She wants her pound of flesh. She’ll give me enough capital to pay out the shareholders if—” He got up and began to wander round the room.

“Well, go on. If—what?”

“There’s a big race at Miami next week. The trophy is for the fastest speed on land. You don’t just have to beat the other guy, you’ve got to beat your own previous best record. She says if I get that, I can have the dough.”

“Why are you drinking again?” I asked.

“Because I’m so scared that I’ve got to drink. I hate this house and everyone in it; I hate the sound of her voice and her laugh. If I don’t drink I shall crack up.”

“I’m sorry about this, George,” I said. “Is there anything I can do?”

He made a little grimace. “Yes, you can. I’m afraid it isn’t a pleasant job. You see, I don’t trust Myra. I want to get it down on paper. I want you to witness it and see that, in the event of an accident, she carries out her bargain.”

“Don’t talk like that. There mustn’t be an accident. Besides, the whole thing falls down if you don’t win the race.”

He shook his head. “No, as a matter of fact she would be more thrilled if I was killed. You see, it would give her a lot more fun being a widow of a racing-ace, and she is quite prepared to pay for that.”

What could I say? The whole business was, from the very start, fantastic, but now it was rapidly developing into a nightmare.

He was quite right about the week being grim. Myra seemed to find me amusing, and took special pains in keeping me away from George. We did not get one day’s fishing during the whole week. In fact, I took refuge in my room as much as possible with the excuse that I was polishing the last chapter of my book.

The topic of conversation was entirely about the coming race. George was seldom sober, and joined in with the crowd as if he had nothing on his mind. Myra and he were never alone together, and the rest of the party seemed to find nothing odd in this. Myra came in for an enormous amount of admiration as George’s wife, and I could see how she revelled in being the centre of attraction.

During the week I had the opportunity of studying her, and I came to the conclusion that she was an exceedingly dangerous woman. Sometimes, I would catch her watching George, and I could see a smouldering suppressed hatred in her eyes which made me extremely uneasy.

On the Sunday before the race, George asked me to come into the library. “I’ve got a draft drawn up. I want you to look it over, and then witness her signature.”

We went into the library. Myra was sitting in an easy chair. She smiled at me as I came in. “So George has let you into our little secret,” she said. There was a tigerish look in her eyes as she spoke. “What do you think of him? Do you think it is awfully nice to marry a girl for her money?”

“Surely, Mrs. Hemingway,” I said quietly, “it is not so one-sided as that. I believe you have struck a bargain as well.”

She laughed. “Why, of course, and I always get the best of a bargain. I’m not so stupid as you think.”

George said abruptly: “Shall we get this over, and join the others?”

She shrugged. “Poor little George. He is so anxious to save his silly investors.”

George gave me a sheet of paper. It contained very few words:

I promise to pay the sum of one million dollars to my husband if he wins the Morgan Golden Road Trophy. In the event of an accident resulting in his death during the race, I will pay that sum to Hemingway, Sawyer & Curtis. My cheque to be given immediately the race has been won.

I looked at her. “Have you seen this?” I asked her.

She laughed. “My dear man,” she said, “I drew it up myself. Are you satisfied? Here, give it to me. I will sign it.”

I re-read it and, finding no fault with it, I passed it over to her and she signed it. I witnessed her signature and handed the paper to George.

He shook his head. “You keep it,” he said, “it will be safer with you.”

She looked at him with her jeering smile. “Run away, George. I want to talk to Mr. Arden for a few minutes.”

When he had left us she lit a cigarette and stood up. There was no doubt she was very beautiful. “You must think my behaviour is very odd,” she said.

“The whole thing is so utterly preposterous that I would rather not discuss it,” I said tartly.

“George is afraid, isn’t he?” she said. “No one but you and I know that. He’s horribly scared. I’ve been watching him for several weeks now. The last time he raced he was nearly killed because he lost his nerve. I don’t think he’ll win this race, do you?”

I faced her. “Are you telling me that you think he will be killed.”

She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t think he would win.”

“Does he mean anything to you?”

Her eyes flashed. “Why do you ask that? Has he been talking?”

“If he does mean anything to you, why don’t you let him have the money and tell him you don’t want him to race?”

“Are you mad?” She burst out laughing. “Think of the thrill I’m going to have. I’m gambling with a million dollars. I shall watch every yard of the race. Think of George, scared stiff, knowing that if he doesn’t win, hundreds of his little suckers will be ruined. Suppose others get ahead of him. Think how he will feel then. Suppose he finds he just can’t win, then his only chance is to kill himself. By God! What a sensation! Will he value his little suckers more than his life?” Her eyes looked a little mad. “I don’t care what it costs me, I wouldn’t miss this race for anything in the world.”

I went to the door. “Your attitude is incredible,” I said. “I don’t think we have anything further to say to each other. Good night.”

She ran over to me. “Wait,” she said. “You write novels, don’t you? What a wonderful story this will make for you. It only wants that little twist that all good stories have. Just wait for that.” She laughed in my face. “Oh, it’s such a lovely little twist. You’ll be so very thrilled when you know about it.”

I went out of the room and left her there. I was sure that she was a little insane, and the thought of George getting himself involved with such a woman made me sick at heart.

The race was due to start at eleven o’clock. George and I went off early together. We left the house quietly without saying good-bye to Myra.

George said that he didn’t want to see her until the race was over. He looked very ill as he sat at the wheel of the Bugatti, and he drove at a steady twenty-five miles an hour the whole way to the aerodrome. It took us a very short while to reach the Florida course, where the race was being held. He asked me to come to the pits just before the race was to start. “I’d like to have your good wishes,” he said.

I hung about watching the bustle and activity that inevitably precedes a big race. I watched the vast crowd slowly arriving. I thought I saw Myra and her party arrive and take seats in the grandstand, but I wasn’t sure. I had made up my mind to watch the race from the pits.

Finally, a mechanic came running towards me and I went to meet him. “Mr. Hemingway is about ready now, sir,” he said.

I saw he was looking worried. And as we walked towards the pits, where I could see about two dozen cars lining up, I asked him what he thought of George’s chances.

“He’s got a load on, sir,” the mechanic said, shaking his head. “No guy can drive if he’s plastered.”

I quickened my pace. George was already sitting in his car. His reputation had brought him a stiff handicap, and he was going to be the last off the starting post.

I ran up to him. “All right, George?” I asked.

He nodded. “Sure, I’m all right. There’s nothing on four wheels that’s going to catch me today.”

His face was very white and his eyes were glassy. He had certainly been drinking, and he looked completely reckless.

“Don’t take chances,” I said, shaking his hand, “I’ll look after things for you. Good luck, old man.”

The noise of the engine made it difficult for us to hear each other. “Good-bye,” George shouted, “look after my little investors, won’t you?” and at that moment the flag fell and he roared away.

I hurried to the pits and stood near a group of mechanics. They were talking in low voices, but I overheard what they were saying. They all seemed worried about George. “Nearly a whole bottle of Scotch went down his throat,” one of them said; “he must be crazy.”

“Yeah, well, look at him now. Look at the speed he’s going.”

All eyes were on the small red car as it flashed round the course. George had already overtaken three of his competitors, and as he came into the straight he opened up and with a snarling roar the car shot forward. All the other cars had opened up, but the leading cars were slowing down for the bend. George came on, took the bend at full speed, tore up the bank, and for a moment we thought his wheels had left the track, but with a few feet to spare he was down into the straight again.

There was a terrific burst of cheering as he nosed his way into the first three.

“What do you call that?” a mechanic demanded. “Do you call that driving?”

“Do you think he’ll last?” Myra asked.

I turned abruptly and found her at my elbow. Her eyes were fixed on the red car, and I could see she was quivering with excitement.

I said rather bitterly: “Don’t you think you’ll see better if you go to the stand?”

“I want to be with you. I want to see his face if he wins,” she said. “Look, he’s coming round again. He’s getting in front. Really, isn’t he marvellous? Oh, God! Look, they’re trying to squeeze him. They’ve cornered him! Look, look, if he loses his head… he’s finished.”

The three cars flashed past us. George was in the middle. The other two were trying to crowd him, but as he didn’t fall back they were beginning to lose their nerve. There couldn’t have been more than a foot between each car.

I shouted suddenly: “He’ll beat them on the bend. You see, they’ll slow down for the bend. Come on, George, come on, for the love of Mike!”

I was right. Suddenly the red car shot clear and whizzed round the bend at a sickening speed. The others fell back and George was in the lead.

I heard Myra scream suddenly: “Blast him! He’s going to win after all.”

George was coming up for the last lap. The noise of the cars and the shouting was deafening. Round he came into the straight. It was like watching a red smudge. I don’t know how it happened; no one knew. It was not as if he were taking a corner. It looked as if he knew he had won and then suddenly thrown in his hand. The car swerved right across the track, turned over, bounced in the air like a huge ball and then burst into flames.

Myra screamed and I ran forward. It was no use. Other cars were still thundering past and no one could get across the track. When at last we did get there, it was too late. George had been strapped in, and one look at the blackened, twisted car told me it was useless to stay.

I walked away, feeling sick and too stunned to really realize what had happened.

As I climbed into my car, Myra came up to me. Her eyes were very dark, and her mouth worked rather horribly.

“Give me that paper,” she said.

Because I wanted to get away I took the paper from my wallet and looked at her. “This isn’t the time now to talk about this. I’ll come and see you later.”

“Oh no, you won’t,” she said. She seemed to be speaking through locked teeth. “I fooled George and I fooled you. Read what it says. Didn’t I promise to pay my husband one million dollars? Well, he wasn’t my husband, I can contest that. By the time the court has made a ruling, it will be too late. George’s little suckers will be down the drain.”

I said: “What do you mean? George married you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he married me, but that was all. He didn’t lie with me. Oh no! My money was good enough for him, but I wasn’t. He thought it was sufficient just to marry me—the fool.”

I stared at her. “You can’t prove that,” I said slowly. “Surely you are keeping to your agreement?”

“Prove it? It will take years not to prove it. By that time the money will not be needed. Tear up the paper, Mr. Arden. You know as well as I do that it’s useless now. The poor fool killed himself, although he won the race…. Do you know why? Because he despised himself for marrying me. No man can treat me like that. I warned you, didn’t I, about the twist in the tale.” She laughed hysterically. “Don’t you think it’s lovely?”

I engaged the gears and drove away, leaving her still laughing.

CONVERSATION PIECE

He was very tall, thin and distinguished-looking. He had a close-clipped moustache, a square jaw and the hair on each side of his head was white.

He sat on a high stool at the ‘Roney Plaza’ bar, a cigarette between his thin lips and a glass of Scotch-and-soda at his elbow. Every now and then he would glance up and catch his reflection in the bright mirror behind the bar. He would look at himself and adjust the wings of his evening dress-tie with his well-shaped fingers, and once he adjusted the set of his coat.

People kept coming up to the bar, but he ignored them. Sometimes they glanced at him curiously, especially the women, but no one spoke to him. He had been in the bar several times during the week, and the habitues began to wonder who he was.

Manuel, the barman, had tried to discover who he was without success. Not that he wasn’t talkative, but that he steered the conversation away from any personal topic.

During a lull, Manuel came down the long bar towards him. He began polishing glasses. “Not much about tonight,” he said casually.

The tall, thin man agreed. “Why do you think that is?” he asked.

Manuel shrugged. “You can’t tell these days,” he said; “there is too much entertainment going on. People get too much amusement. They don’t know where to go next.”

“Personally, I find things very dull.”

Manuel looked at him sharply. “It depends,” he said. “It depends on what you want. Now, there’s a fine show at the ‘Hot-Spot’. You ought to see that. I went last night. Mind you, I’ve seen a lot of that kind of stuff, but this is the tops. You can have my word for it, you didn’t ought to miss it.”

The tall, thin man tapped the ash of his cigarette. “I’ve seen it,” he said briefly. “It’s not bad. No, I’d say it’s not bad at all.”

Manuel selected another glass. “That dame with the chest,” he said, rolling his eyes a little. “You know the one I mean.”

“Did you find her amusing?”

“Amusing?” Manuel paused. “That ain’t quite the word, is it? Amusing? No, I wouldn’t call it that. That’s the kind of a dame that spoils married life. Comes a trifle flat to get home after seeing a dame like that.”

The tall, thin man winced. He finished up his whisky and ordered another.

Manuel went on: “When you see a hot number like her, it makes you wonder what sort of a life she leads off the stage. Maybe she’s married. She might have a flock of kids. She might sleep with anyone. You don’t know, do you?”

“It’s a great mistake to enquire into that kind of a person’s life. They’re making money because the people who pay to see them regard them as something totally unlike themselves. They are the escape valve of the public.”

Manuel nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, but I don’t kid myself.” He had to go away to serve two elderly women, and when he got back again he said: “There’s a good fight on tonight. I can let you have a ticket if you fancied it.”

The tall, thin man shook his head. “Not tonight. I’m waiting for someone. Maybe some other night. I like a good fight.”

“Yeah?” Manuel’s face brightened. “So do I. I like a good fight too. There has been some pretty bum shows recently. Did you see McCoy give up in the sixth?”

“Yes.”

“Why did he do that, do you think?”

“They say he was scared, but it wasn’t that. He had something on his mind. It must be tough going into the ring with something bad on your mind. The public don’t care. All they want to see is a fight. It doesn’t matter how much trouble you’ve got, you’ve got to leave it outside. Well, I guess McCoy took it in with him.”

Manuel regarded the tall, thin man thoughtfully. “You reckon that’s what the trouble was, do you?” he said.

“Of course. It couldn’t have been anything else. McCoy isn’t yellow. He wasn’t getting the breaks.”

Manuel, who didn’t miss anything, said: “You’ll pardon me, but are you waiting for a lady?”

The tall, thin man played with his glass, his eyes went frosty. “Curiosity?” he said.

Manuel put down the glass he was polishing. He jerked his head. “Some lady’s lookin’ for someone,” he said. “I thought maybe it was you.”

The tall, thin man looked over his shoulder. “You’re quite remarkable,” he said, and beckoned to the girl who stood just inside the doorway.

She came across slowly. Manuel watched her, without appearing to. During his stay at the ‘Roney Plaza’ he had seen so many women that his standard of what was good had become exceedingly high. This girl was interesting. She was interesting in a ripe sort of a way. She had a lazy, sensuous walk, and her big blue eyes looked sleepy. Her mouth was wide and very red. She wore a black dress that emphasized her breasts and hips without being tight on her body. Manuel thought she looked like a very beautiful genteel whore.

She said to the tall, thin man, “Hello, Harry.”

He got off the stool and touched her fingers. There was a tense eager tightening of his face muscles.

“Come and have a drink,” he said. “Do you like these stools, or would you rather sit at a table?”

She gave her answer by climbing up and perching herself on the stool.

He said, “You’re looking very, very beautiful.”

“Every time we meet you tell me that. Is it for something to say, or do you feel so strongly about it?”

He climbed up on the stool beside her. “I want to talk to you.”

“Can’t I have something to drink? Is it so urgent that I can’t be asked what I should like?”

He looked at her, his eyes angry. “I’m sorry.” He nodded to Manuel, who came down to them, then he said, “What are you drinking?”

She turned her attention to Manuel. First, she gave him a very bright smile. It was a smile that unsettled Manuel’s calm. He felt an urge to reach forward and pull her across the bar towards him. This urge so startled him that he became very confused. He stood looking at her uneasily.

“What shall I drink?” she asked him. “Something that will set fire to my blood. Suggest something.”

Manuel turned to his bottles. “I have something for you,” he said. “You will not be disappointed.”

The tall, thin man she had called Harry said, “I wish you wouldn’t, it doesn’t suit you.”

“That’s only your opinion,” the girl said. She had very fine hands, slim and white and very beautiful. “We are starting well tonight. Soon we shall be quarrelling, and then we shall go away from each other. I think I shall like that.”

Harry offered her a cigarette. “You mustn’t talk like that. I don’t know what’s come over you lately. Have a cigarette. Look, Manuel is bringing you your drink.”

She took the cigarette and smiled very brightly again at Manuel as he put the glass down.

Manuel said, “You will like it. I have every confidence.”

She said: “I am sure I will. Look, I’ll taste it before I smoke.” She raised her hand to stop Harry from striking a match. When she had tasted the drink, she put it down with a little shudder. “God!” she said.

Manuel looked at her closely and then looked at Harry. “You like it?” he asked anxiously.

She said: “It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. I wouldn’t say I liked it, but it’s what I want.”

Manuel went away, his face a little sullen. He wasn’t sure what she meant.

Harry said softly, “You’ve hurt him.”

“Why not? Why shouldn’t I hurt someone for a change? You don’t mind when I am hurt, why should you bother about a barman?”

He moved uneasily. “I wish you wouldn’t go on like this,” he said. “Really, it doesn’t do any good.”

“Very well, I won’t. Let us change the subject. Let us talk about something else. I’ll be very good. I promise I won’t be difficult any more. There, now I’ve promised.”

There was a pause, then she went on: “This morning I was very extravagant. I went out and bought a hat. It cost a lot of money, but I felt that I had to have something new. It made me feel very happy for a few minutes.”

“I’m glad. I wish you’d buy yourself what you want. You know you can have what you want.”

She shook her head. “No, no, I can’t. You think that your money will give me everything I want, but it can’t.”

He bit his lips, annoyed at giving her the obvious opening. She went on before he could say anything. “Your money can’t make me Mrs. Harry Garner, can it? By the way, how is Mrs. Harry Garner, and how is your daughter?”

Harry finished up his whisky. “Didn’t we agree not to talk about that side of my life?” he said, trying to speak gently.

“Oh yes, I know. We agreed not to talk about them, but sometimes I get very curious. You can’t blame me, can you? I mean they are so important in your life, aren’t they? They are much more important to you than I am, aren’t they?”

“You know they’re not. Look, we’re getting on the wrong topics tonight. Let’s go somewhere and have dinner. Perhaps you’d like to see the show at the ‘Hot-Spot’.”

She laughed. “I’ll tell you something. I saw you take the Mrs. Harry Garner there the night before last. I couldn’t go after that. It wouldn’t be right.”

He clenched his fist. “You can be very hateful sometimes,” he said, and she could see that for the first time he was really angry.

“No, not hateful. I wouldn’t like you to call me that. Not after the nights I’ve given up to you. You can’t say that. It’s because it’s the truth and it annoys you. Be honest, isn’t that right?”

He drew a deep breath. “All right, it does more than annoy me, it hurts. For God’s sake, can’t we stop this awful bickering?”

“I’m sorry.” She finished the drink Manuel had given her. “Tell him to give me another. It’s terribly, terribly dangerous stuff, but I don’t care.”

Harry signed to Manuel, who smiled. If she wanted another, it must be all right.

They didn’t say anything to each other until Manuel had brought the drinks, and then, when he had gone away, Harry said: “He’s a genius for finding new drinks. Will you thank him very nicely when we go?”

She sipped the drink, pulling a little face. “Yes, I will thank him. I’ll be very, very nice to everyone you like, including your wife and your daughter. There, I can’t do more than that, can I?”

He felt the evening couldn’t go on any longer like this. It was absurd that she should dominate him. He was determined to get things back to normal.

“Listen,” he said, “are you going to say bitchy things all the evening?”

Her eyes opened a trifle. “Am I?”

“It’s no use going on like this. Tell me. Get it off your mind, then perhaps we can forget about it.”

“Forget about what? Mrs. Harry Garner and Miss Garner? They’d be very difficult to forget.”

“Four months ago you said they didn’t matter,” Harry said, determined to keep his temper. “You said you understood my position and you didn’t mind. You didn’t mind; I know you didn’t. Why this sudden change?”

She didn’t like this direct approach. “Harry, do you think if I fell in love with a woman I should be any happier?”

“No, you can’t side-track like that. You don’t mean anything by that. You’re just gaining time.”

“No, honestly. I’ve wondered. Women can be so much more understanding.”

Three people came up to the bar and ordered drinks. They stood close to Harry and the girl. One of them was a tall, flat-chested girl with a serious expression on her face. She wore heavy, horn-rim glasses. The other two were middle-aged men.

One of the men said, “Manuel, you’re looking pretty good tonight.”

Manuel pushed a bottle of Canadian Rye across the polished wood. He said: “Yes, sir, I’m feeling pretty good. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

The man turned to the serious-looking girl. “I like this place. They give you the bottle and let you get tight, fast or slow, just as you feel. There’s no waiting to be served.”

The serious-looking girl said: “That’s fine, because I want to get tight very fast tonight.”

Harry said: “Let’s go. I can’t talk to you here. Let’s go back to the apartment.”

She shook her head. “No, not tonight. I’m feeling nervy. We should only quarrel. Not tonight.”

He hid his disappointment. “Well, let’s go, anyway. I’ll see you home.”

He gave Manuel some money and she smiled at him. “Your drink’s been a big success. Mr. Garner says you’re a genius.”

Manuel showed his surprise. He said good night rather stiffly. He felt somehow that she had insulted him.

The two of them walked out into the bustle of the street. He noticed that she was just a little drunk; it gave him hope.

“Let me come back with you,” he said, “I have a lot to say to you.”

She shook her head. “Not tonight.” She sounded very final.

He raised his hand to signal a cab.

“No,” she said, “I’m much too tired. We’ll walk.”

THE GENERAL DIES IN BED

It all happened so quickly he hadn’t any chance of making plans. They had come to him and offered him three hundred dollars to give Pedro de Babar the heat. Three hundred dollars! They were crazy! Well, he’d got them up to five hundred and there they stuck. When he found they wouldn’t give any more, he agreed. He knew once he had given it to de Babar he’d have to get out of Cuba. That didn’t worry him. He was sick of Cuba, anyway.

In the afternoon he went up to de Babar’s bungalow with the intention of having a look round. It was a nice place, fitting for a General of the Cuban War Department to live in.

The big garden that surrounded the one-storied building flamed with colours. Palm trees bent graceful heads against the blue of the sky. The place was so nice that the boy was violently envious. He would have liked to have been a devastating god with powers to destroy by a wave of his hand.

The heat of the afternoon sun had driven the guards to shelter. The boy could see no one as he made his way cautiously towards the bungalow. So he went on, until he came to a little path leading to the back of the building.

He moved soundlessly, beads of sweat running down his yellow-white skin. He was not frightened for himself, only that he might make some mistake that would prevent him from killing the General. He reached the bungalow and began walking slowly along the wall, glancing into the windows.

That was how it happened. He looked through the window and saw the woman and de Babar on the bed. He couldn’t see very much of the woman. She stared up at the dirty white ceiling, her eyes very wide. He could see she was chewing her bottom lip, and every now and then she would toss her head from side to side on the pillow. As he stood watching, she suddenly shut her eyes and began to drum on the bed with her heels.

He could only see the back of the General’s head and his bull neck, creasing into three great rolls of fat. He could see the sweat running down behind the big fleshy ears, and the slow movement of the gross body.

Without thinking, the boy pulled the blunt-nosed automatic from inside his coat. He did not hesitate. Perhaps such an opportunity would never come his way again. The General was helpless. There was no one to protect him, and he would have to take his chance of getting away.

He hooked his fingers under the window and pushed it up. As it went up, it made a little grating noise. The General heard it. He moved his head languidly and looked over his shoulder.

The boy smiled at him. He thought it was very, very funny to kill the General like this. He wondered if any other man had ever been killed doing what the General was doing. He leant a little way into the room and brought the automatic up.

The General looked at the automatic. He remained very still. The blood congestion of his face gradually faded, leaving the pock-marked flesh a greenish white.

The woman said urgently, “Go on—go on—why do you stop?”

The General didn’t say anything. He couldn’t do anything. He just stared with hot intent eyes at the gun. He was in a hell of a jam.

The woman opened her eyes. “What is it?” she said. Her voice was unsteady, as if she were out of breath. “What is it?” She looked across at the window.

The boy smiled at her too. The shock of seeing him there with the gun was so great that the blood even went away from her lips. She looked as if she were going to die.

The boy squeezed the trigger gently. He would have liked to delay the shooting longer, because these two did really look very ridiculous, but any moment the guards might come. The gun went off with a sharp crack just as the General began to move away from the woman. The heavy bullet smashed the side of his skull. He flopped on the woman, pinning her flat.

The boy leant further into the room. She had seen him. It wouldn’t be safe to leave her. She made no attempt to move. She lay still, the blood from the General’s wound running on to her cheek and neck. It was all so horrible for her that she wanted to die. There wasn’t much to aim at, but the boy didn’t have to fire a third time.

It was a great pity that he had to wait to kill the woman, because the guard, turning out on the first shot, saw him; and although the boy managed to get away, they knew who to look for and it made it very difficult for the boy to get down to the harbour where a boat waited to take him across the Straits.

By nightfall the search had intensified. They had no intentions of letting him get away. He had spent the evening hidden in a back room of an outlying farmhouse. The farmer asked no questions because revolution was constantly rearing its head, and General de Babar had deserved to die.

Under cover of darkness, the boy made his way down to the waterfront. He had still three hours before the boat that was coming for him would get in. The journey was very trying because of the heat and the soldiers who were looking for him. He was fortunate to see the soldiers first, but it meant crouching in dark shadows for a long time, and then running very hard when they went away.

So he was glad to sit down in a little cafe overlooking the waterfront, near the harbour. He sat at the table, very tense, and tried to control his laboured breathing. Such was his outward calmness, that no one, looking at him now, would believe that not five hours ago he had killed one of Cuba’s most important generals and politicians. He looked tired, certainly, and he looked hot and untidy, but he managed to control the shivering fear that possessed him, and the furtive feeling that at any moment the soldiers would burst in and shoot him.

A waiter came over to him and asked him what he wanted. The boy, fearing that the waiter might read the hunted look in his eyes, did not look up. He ordered beer.

While he waited for the waiter to bring it, he looked round the dim room. There were only two other people, besides the waiter and the barman, in the room—a sailor and his woman companion.

The sailor was terribly drunk. He was so drunk that he had to hold on to the table very firmly to prevent himself falling to the floor. The woman was talking to him softly and rapidly with a fixed smile on her face. Her big black eyes were hard and suspicious. It was obvious that she was trying to persuade the sailor to spend the night with her.

Watching these two, the boy forgot for a moment that he was a fugitive. He felt a sudden nausea as he watched the woman’s desperate attempts to arouse the sailor’s interest.

About a year or so ago the boy had gone with a woman. It was curiosity that made him go with her. It was not that he wanted her, but because he wanted to know. He went with her because he was tired of the sniggers and the whispers of the other boys. He was tired of listening and not knowing what it all meant.

The house was dirty, and the room seemed soiled, as if the things that had happened there had seeped into the walls, leaving dark stains. Even the woman wasn’t very clean, but he learnt the reason for the sniggers and the whispers, and when it was over and he had got outside, he had been very sick in the street.

The boy was, and would be, fanatically virginal. He loathed the stirring of lust, which he couldn’t understand, and over which he had no power of control. He hated any contact with anyone. He wanted to live entirely on his own, his pure, horrible little life. Nothing else mattered to him but money. It was for money that he had killed de Babar. It was for money that he had done so many mean things in his young life. And yet, he never had money. It slid through his fingers like grains of sand, urging him again and again to make more by further mean little deeds.

The waiter brought the beer and put it in front of him. He stood waiting until the boy paid him, then he went back to the bar. The boy drank the beer; he didn’t stop drinking until the glass was empty. Then he set the glass down with a little shudder. His face twisted and he hurriedly wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

A telephone rang sharply, startling the boy, so that he nearly jerked the glass to the floor. The barman reached under the counter and lifted the instrument. He listened for a few seconds, then grunted and hung up.

He leant over the bar and said to the sailor: “You’d better get outta here. The soldiers are coming this way; they’re searching all the bars.”

The boy heard him. He put his hands on the table so that they should not tremble.

The sailor sneered. “What the hell do I care?” he said. “I ain’t movin’.”

The woman said quickly: “Come on, honey. Come home with me where the soldiers won’t worry you.”

The boy looked at the woman. “Where the soldiers wouldn’t worry him,” he thought. If he went with her, he’d be safe. He shuddered at the thought of being alone with her, but he was more frightened of the soldiers.

The sailor put his head on his arms. “You go to hell,” he said, and began to snore drunkenly.

The boy pushed back his chair hurriedly and went across to the woman. “Take me to your place,” he whispered urgently. “Now—at once.”

The woman stared at him. What she saw didn’t give her any confidence. This was just a down-at-heel bum. A kid without any dough. “Go climb an alp,” she said, “I’m busy.” And she shook the sailor roughly.

Shivering, the boy pulled out some money. He opened his fist under her eyes and showed her several crumpled bills. “Don’t wait for him—take me.”

The woman looked down at the notes. She forgot the sailor. A fixed smile came to her lips and she got up. “Sure,” she said, “you come along with me. For that amount of dough I’ll give you a good time. I’m Therese. It’s a nice name, ain’t it?”

The boy was so anxious to get out of the bar that he didn’t hear what she said. He said, urgently: “Is it far? Come on, let’s get outta here.”

She went with him into the dark, hot night. “It’s behind the Custom shed,” she said. “Hey, not so fast! Where’s the fire?”

The boy went on, moving through the narrow back streets fast. He didn’t look back, although he wanted to, because he was scared that Therese would suspect something was wrong and would not give him shelter.

She almost had to run to keep up with him. “You’re a hot one,” she panted, with a giggle. “I ain’t goin’ to run away—we’ll get there soon enough.”

The boy shuddered, but kept on.

“Look, over there,” Therese said, as they stepped into a dark square, “that’s my joint—where the stairs go up the side of the house.”

The boy said, “Lead the way.” His whole body was tense with listening, but he could hear nothing that alarmed him.

They went up the stairs, and Therese groped her way into her room and fumbled for some matches. “Just wait a second, honey,” she said, “I’ll get the lamp goin’. You’ll be fallin’ over somethin’ an’ hurtin’ yourself.”

The boy felt the bile in his stomach rise. He stood in the darkness with his back to the room, looking down on to the dark square.

The lamp flamed up suddenly and Therese adjusted the wick. She walked over to the window and pulled the faded cotton curtain. “Come on in, handsome,” she said, “an’ shut the door.”

With the light behind him, the boy no longer felt safe. He moved further into the room, and shut the door. He stood looking round uneasily. The unfinished wooden walls were decorated with cheap lithographs, and immediately over the bed was a photogravure sheet of a nude, taken from some magazine. A faded, rather ghastly Chinese screen partially concealed the small bed, and the inevitable Singer sewing-machine stood against the wall.

The boy said, “Put the lamp out.”

Therese threw back her head and laughed at him. “Don’t you wantta see what you’re buyin’,” she said, “or are you coy?”

The boy hated her with all his vicious little soul. He said, “Put out that lamp.”

Therese took the hem of her skirt and raised it over her hips. She was naked under the dress. The boy felt the blood surge into his face. He shifted his eyes, feeling revolted and frightened. Therese had quite a nice little body, but the proximity of any woman nauseated him.

Therese stared at him. “What’s the matter with you,” she said sharply, letting her skirt fall, “don’t you like me anymore?”

The boy wanted to scream that she was the filthiest thing he’d ever seen, but he stopped himself in time. Outside, the soldiers were looking for him. With Therese he was safe for a little while. He must not risk anything.

He said: “I’m all right. The lamp worries me—that’s all.”

Therese held out her hand. “It’s cash, honey. That’s the way I run my business.”

The boy hated parting with the money. He hated parting with his money almost as much as he hated being shut in with this whore. The money was buying him safety and he pushed the crumpled bills across the table. Therese scooped them up and shoved them down the top of her stocking.

“There,” she said, “now you can have the lamp out.” She leant forward and blew sharply down the glass funnel. As she leant forward, her breasts swung against the thin cotton of her dress. The boy stepped back. He thought, “In another minute she will be coming to me.” He blundered across the room to the window and drew the curtain aside.

Therese said: “What’s up with you, honey? Don’t you feel well?”

The boy didn’t hear her. He was looking on to the dark square. Three soldiers were standing in the shadows. Now and then one of them moved, and the moonlight glinted on a naked bayonet. He hastily dropped the curtain and stepped back. His hot hands touched Therese’s bare arm, and he jerked away.

“Come on, honey,” Therese said, “let’s get it over. I got to get out again tonight.”

The boy stepped away from her voice, collided with the screen and abruptly sat on the bed. Before he could rise, Therese put her arms round him and drew him down. His hand touched the soft inner part of her thigh, and he stiffened with the horror of it.

She said, “I bet you ain’t had a woman before.” She said it quite kindly.

“Don’t touch me,” the boy almost whimpered; “getaway from me.”

Therese put her hand down on him. “Don’t be screwy. You got nothin’ to be scared of.”

Under her touch, a long-forgotten lust stirred in him. The quickening of his blood terrified him, and he threw her away from him so violently that she rolled on to the floor. He sat up in the dark. His shirt was plastered against his thin chest, and his eyes glared into the suffocating darkness.

For a moment there was a thick silence in the room, then she said, “All right, John, if that’s the way you want it.”

He swung his legs to the floor. “That’s not my name,” he said unevenly.

He heard her get to her feet and grope over to the table. “I don’t care a——what your name is, John. You’re gettin’ out of here quick.”

She struck a match and relit the lamp. She was quite naked, except for her shoes and stockings. The crumpled bills he had given her made a disfiguring lump in her leg. She adjusted the wick carefully and then turned. The boy saw she was furiously angry and he suddenly felt frightened of her. She mustn’t turn him out now. He would run into those soldiers, waiting outside for him.

He said hurriedly: “Don’t get mad. I don’t want it that way, see?”

She came and put her arms on the top of the bed rail. Her heavy breasts swung away from her olive-skinned body. “What way do you want it, John?” she said. She looked like the great grandmother of all the whores in Cuba.

“Can’t a guy feel lonely and talk to a dame?” he said, not looking at her. If she knew he was scared she would play hell with him.

Therese said, “You came here to talk?”

“Sure, can’t a guy pay you to talk to him?”

This got Therese. She ran her fingers through her thick, black hair. “I guess you’re screwy,” she said at last. “We ain’t got anythin’ to talk to each other about. You better get outta here.”

The boy slid off the bed and wandered to the window again. Maybe the soldiers had gone. He lifted the curtain a trifle and peered into the street. The shadowy silhouettes were still there. He straightened and backed away from the window. Therese watched him curiously. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Why do you keep lookin’ out of the window?”

The boy stood by the table. The ray of the lamp lit his white, pinched face. Therese could see a faint tick in his cheek.

She suddenly felt compassion for him. He looked so lonely and frigid.

“Aw, come on,” she said, “you’re just a kid. I’ll show you a good time.”

The boy shook his head.

Her patience snapped. “Listen, John,” she said, “if you don’t want it—get out. I’ve got a livin’ to make. You can’t come in here usin’ up my time like this.”

“My dough’s all right, ain’t it?” the boy said, squeezing up a little spark of vicious anger. “It pays for me to stay here, don’t it?”

Therese pulled on her dress and smoothed it over her big soft hips. “That dough’s about used up. What do you expect—an’ all night run?”

Someone rapped on the door. The boy slid across to Therese. He put one slender hand on her arm and his grip nearly made her cry out. His dead black eyes frightened her. “I’m not to be found here,” he said in her ear. “Look, I’ve got a gun.” He showed her the heavy Luger. “You’ll go with me.”

Therese was scared. She knew she had got herself mixed up in politics, and her mouth went suddenly dry. She said, “Get under the bed.”

The boy dropped on his hands and knees. He slid out of her sight. The knock sounded again on the door. She walked over and jerked it open.

The soldier looked at her with interest.

She flashed him a smile. “Why, honey, you just caught me. I was on my way.”

The soldier shifted uneasily. He was a family man and whores scared him. “You got a man in here?”

Therese shook her head. “Come on in. You got a little present for me?”

The soldier spat on the floor. “I ain’t wastin’ dough on a whore like you,” he snarled. “What were you doin’ foolin’ with the curtain?”

She laughed. “Don’t get sore, honey. I saw you boys out there an’ I thought you wanted some fun. Come on in.”

The soldier pushed past her and walked into the room. Therese felt her heart fluttering against her ribs. She knew that if the boy was found she’d have a bad time. She closed the door and went over to the soldier, who was looking round suspiciously. She put her arms round him. “Put your big gun down,” she said; “gimme a little somethin’. I’ll give you a good time.”

The soldier shoved her away angrily. “You better stay in tonight,” he said gruffly. “We’re lookin’ for the guy who killed General de Babar. The streets ain’t goin’ to be too healthy.”

The boy, lying flat under the bed, could see the soldier’s thick boots as he stepped to the door. He saw them hesitate, turn and come back. He saw them stand before Therese’s shoddy mules. Then he heard Therese catch her breath. She said: “No, you don’t. You gotta give me somethin’ first. Stop it, damn you! No, you can’t get away with this. You gotta give me somethin’.”

The thick boots pushed the shoddy mules across the room until they stopped against the wall. “You lousy, rotten bastard!” he heard her say.

The boy didn’t watch any more. He wanted to be sick.

Later, the soldier said: “If I catch anything after this, I’ll come back with a bullet for you.”

The boy heard him go out and slam the door. He crawled out from under the bed. Therese had gone into the little bathroom and had shut the door. He heard her running water.

When she came back, her face was wooden, but her eyes smouldered. The boy stood silently watching her. She was suddenly conscious of the heavy gun in his hand. She took one look at his set face, and she knew he was trying to make up his mind if he should kill her.

She said sharply: “Don’t look like that. It won’t get you anywhere.”

The boy had decided she was right, and he put the Luger in his hip pocket. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his eyes. Terror had exhausted him.

Therese sat down beside him. “De Babar killed my husband,” she said. “I hate the whole goddam bunch of them. I’m glad you killed him. That lousy sonofabitch wanted killing.”

“I didn’t kill him,” the boy said tonelessly.

Therese went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “If they get you, it’s goin’ to be tough. What are you goin’ to do?”

“I didn’t kill him, I tell you,” the boy said savagely.

“You don’t have to be scared of me,” Therese said, patiently. “I’m glad you killed him. I’ll get you out of here.”

The boy looked at her suspiciously. Her big eyes were quite tender. He wanted very much to smash his fist in her face. He got to his feet and walked away from her. His fury at being trapped like this made him physically sick. Her sudden sentiment sickened him.

She saw his uncertain look, and she misread it. “Aw, hell, you’re only a kid,” she said. “Don’t you worry. I’ll fix it for you.”

It took a great effort to control his voice. He said, “How?”

She got off the bed. “I’ll show you. Stand in front of the lamp; I want to look into the street.”

Unwillingly, because she had told him to do something, and he felt that no woman should tell him to do anything, he moved so that his back completely shadowed the lamp.

He watched her cautiously pull aside the curtain and glance into the dark square. Then she turned her head and nodded. “They’ve gone,” she said; “now I’ll show you.”

She went over to a battered chest of drawers and pulled out a black, cotton dress. She threw it on the bed. A brassiere and a pair of knickers followed. She went on her hands and knees and hunted the chest of drawers. The boy, standing watching, could only see her broad hips as her head disappeared out of sight. He shifted his eyes uneasily.

At last she found what she was looking for and she climbed to her feet, in her hand she held a pair of shoes.

She nodded at the clothes. “Get into them,” she said, “you’re about my size. Then we’ll go out together. It’ll be easy.”

The boy couldn’t believe his ears. He stood glaring at her. The rage boiled up in his guts.

“Do hurry,” she urged. “Can’t you see it’s the only way out for you?”

“You asking me to put those things on?”

Therese could hear the cold hate in his voice. For a moment he scared her, then she forced a little laugh. “Now don’t get mad,” she said, “these soldiers ain’t looking for a girl. You’ll be able to get away easily. Can’t you see that?”

The boy knew she was right. But the thought of putting those things on struck at his little manhood. He told himself that he’d rather be found and killed than put them on. But when Therese started pulling off his coat, he just stood frozen and let her.

“Come on,” she said impatiently, “don’t stand there like a dummy. Help yourself. Get your pants off, don’t mind me. I’ve seen all you’ve got, an’ it don’t worry me any.”

As if in some repulsive nightmare, the boy stripped. He stood on the coconut matting, thin, a little dirty, and shuddering.

Therese looked him over with a kindly, mocking smile. “You ain’t much of a picture, are you?” she said, lightly. “I guess you want buildin’ up.”

The boy told himself that when all this was over he’d come back and kill her. Right now he couldn’t do anything. He had just to suffer his humiliation.

Therese pushed him on to the bed and tossed the knickers in his lap. “Get ’em on,” she said, “then I’ll fix your front up.”

The feel of the silk against his bony thighs broke the last shred of his self-control. He sat there, his fists on his knees, and his eyes wild, swearing softly through his full lips. Even Therese was shocked at the things he said.

“If you don’t shut that foul little trap of yours,” she snapped at last, “I’ll toss you out of here as you are.”

The boy stopped swearing and looked at her. She felt a little shiver run through her as she met his vicious hating look. She knew then that he was bad—that he would always be bad. But he had shot de Babar, and that was enough for her to help him.

She put the brassiere on him and padded it out with two small towels. He stood there, looking horrible. Therese felt an insane urge to laugh at him, but she knew he would do something to her if she did. Her hands snatched the dress from the bed and pulled it roughly over his head; then she stepped back to see the effect. She thought he looked like a lost soul out of hell.

“Try those shoes on,” she said.

He stooped awkwardly and fitted his feet into the high-heel shoes. Although they fitted him, he couldn’t walk in them. She had to hunt again under the chest of drawers and find him a pair of sandals. A big, wide brim hat completed the picture. In the dark he’d pass anywhere. She nodded her approval. “You’ll do,” she said. “You don’t have to worry your head no more.”

She wrapped his suit in a gaily coloured shawl and made a bundle of it. “Now,” she said, “we’ll get goin’. Where are you headin’ for?”

All the time she had been putting his things together the boy had just stood and watched her. All the time she had been supervising his dressing, he had said nothing. When at last he did speak, his voice was so harsh and brittle that it quite startled her. “You ain’t coming with me,” he said. “I’m goin’ alone.”

She shrugged, suddenly feeling tired of him. She had risked a lot, and she knew every second he stayed with her the risk increased.

“Then go,” she said. “I guess you’re big enough to take care of yourself.”

He shuffled to the door, hating her for putting him in this position. He no longer had any confidence in himself. To be dressed like this took from him his sense of manhood. Somehow the clothes made him feel helpless, and the thought of the darkness outside terrified him.

Therese watched him go. He had no word of thanks for her. He didn’t even look at her again. With his hand on the rail to guide him he edged carefully down the wooden stairs, his knees shaking as the sandals threatened to pitch him forward.

The moon hid behind cloud and he could see nothing. When he reached the bottom of the stairs he had to wait until his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. Then, when he could just make out the roof-tops against the sky, he moved slowly away from the house.

He had not gone far before he ran into a group of soldiers who had been watching him approach. They had been out in the darkness a long time and they could see, whereas he was still nearly blind.

It was only when they crowded round him that he realized that he was trapped. He stood very still, terror completely paralysing him.

In the darkness, the soldiers took him for some unprotected girl, and, anxious to relieve their boredom, began to quarrel amongst themselves. He had to stand helpless, while they drew lots for him.

It would have been unfortunate if he had been a girl. But when they discovered his identity there was a long pause of terror while they persuaded the soldier who had dragged him away from the rest of them not to kill him immediately with his bayonet. They pointed out, reasonably enough, that there was at least one subtle thing to do to him before they finally finished with him.

THE MAGNIFICENT OPPORTUNITY

The Mexican General, Cortez, and two officers of his staff sat at a big table covered with maps and papers. The two officers sat very still and upright, their eyes fixed in a blank stare at the map which the General was examining. They had already reached a decision, and the tight tenseness of their muscles indicated their impatience for the General to speak.

The sentry, posted at the open door, watched the little group at the table with bored eyes. Those three had been sitting round the table for four hours whispering together, and now for the past half-hour they hadn’t even spoken. A fine way to win a revolution, the sentry thought, and spat contemptuously into the courtyard.

Holtz, the younger of the staff officers, shifted suddenly in his chair. His companion, Mendetta, looked at him with a scowl, moving his head warningly, but Holtz’s movement had already distracted the General, who pushed back his chair and stood up.

The sentry pulled his long, slack body away from the doorway, and his eyes looked a little less bored. Perhaps something was going to happen at last, he thought hopefully.

Cortez walked away from the table and paced the length of the room. His big fleshy face was heavy with thought. He said abruptly, “The situation is bad.”

The two officers relaxed a trifle. They had arrived at that decision more than a half an hour ago.

Holtz said: “Your Excellency is right. It is very bad.”

The General looked at him sourly. “How bad?” he demanded, coming back to the table. “Show me here.” He put a thick finger on the map. “How bad?”

Holtz leant forward. “This is how I see it,” he said. “The enemy are in considerable strength. They are well mounted and they have artillery. If we attempted to make a stand here we could be surrounded. We are outnumbered by four to one and our men are tired. They are even disheartened. We have been retreating for the last two weeks.” He tapped the map. “Against artillery we could not hold this position long, then it would be too late to fall back. I think we should withdraw immediately.”

The General ran his fingers through his close-cropped iron-grey hair. “And you?” he said, looking at Mendetta.

“We would have to leave the gun,” Mendetta said slowly, knowing that he had touched the point on which the whole situation hinged. “We should not have time to get the gun up the mountain-path to the hills. The enemy are hardly three hours’ ride from here. If we retreated now, the gun would have to be abandoned.”

Cortez smiled. “The gun goes with us. Make no mistake about that. We have taken that gun from the enemy and we have dragged it for three hundred miles. We will not abandon it now.”

The two officers glanced at each other and shrugged. It was to be expected. They had anticipated that, sooner or later, the accursed gun would endanger the safety of the tattered, retreating army. It was not as if they had any shells. The gun was useless. It was, however, a symbol of the only victory General Cortez had scored against the enemy in a lightning raid, and under no circumstances was he parting with such a symbol. If he was driven back over the mountains, he was determined that the gun should go with him.

Holtz said, “Your Excellency has no doubt made his plans?”

There was no longer a bond of sympathy between the two officers and the General. Let the old fool get out of this if he could. They had no wish to endanger their lives for the sake of a captured, useless gun. They were young enough to accept defeat, knowing that they could win perhaps fresh glory another day, but Cortez was getting old. His time was nearly past.

The General felt their antagonism. He knew they would willingly leave the gun to save their skins, but as long as he was in command they would do as he said. He knew them well enough for that. They might think he was a crazy old fool, they might even grumble, but if he told them the gun was to go, they would obey.

He sat down at the table again. “One of you will take four men and hold up the enemy’s advance. You can have the Lewis gun and four rifles. With the Lewis gun you should be able to hold them back long enough to let the remaining troops get clear. Do you understand?”

The two officers sat there stupefied. He was asking one of them to sacrifice himself for the gun. Not only that, but he was throwing away the only Lewis gun they had ever possessed. A gun of the utmost value because they had a large quantity of ammunition to go with it. All for a stupid, rusty, useless field-gun, the symbol of his only victory.

Mendetta said: “The enemy can certainly be delayed, Your Excellency, but eventually they must break through. It will then be too late to retreat. The loss of the Lewis gun will be serious.”

Cortez shook his head. “Once we are across the mountains, Pablo will not follow us. The fighting will be over. We shall no longer require the Lewis gun. It will have served its purpose. We shall have to re-equip the whole of the army before launching a new offensive.”

There was a long silence. Neither of the two officers wanted to speak. They waited for Cortez to tell them who was to go. Cortez waved his hand. “Time presses. The officer who undertakes this operation may not be able to retreat. It is a dangerous, but, at the same time, a glorious opportunity. It would not do for me to choose which of you shall do this. I have great faith in you both. Will you gentlemen kindly withdraw and decide between yourselves who is to go? I shall expect your decision in ten minutes.”

Mendetta got to his feet, saluted and walked out of the room, followed by Holtz. The bright hot sunlight nearly blinded them as they stepped into the courtyard, and without a word they walked stiffly to the small out-house that served as their quarters.

“He is crazy, the mad senile fool,” Mendetta burst out, as he shut the door behind them. “He is throwing away the lives of four men and an officer, as well as the Lewis, to save his unprintable vanity.”

Holtz lit a cigarette with a hand that shook a little. He was tall, very dark and handsome. Although he was only twenty-six, he looked a lot older. In spite of the heavy going of the past two weeks, he was smart and his white uniform very neat and clean. A heavy gold chain encircled his brown wrist, and on the second finger of his right hand he wore a curiously fashioned green jade ring. He looked at Mendetta, who was six years his senior. “We haven’t long,” he said. “I suppose you will take on this operation?” There was a little mocking smile on his lips that infuriated Mendetta.

“I am married and I have two children,” Mendetta said. Sweat came out in little glistening beads on his forehead. “I thought that you—” He paused and looked away.

“I see,” Holtz said slowly. “Will your wife miss you so much?”

“It would kill her if anything happened to me,” Mendetta said. He had not seen his wife for three years, but he was very fond of life, and he felt this was the only card that he could play honourably. “If it were not for my family,” he went on, drawing himself up, “I would seize this chance. It is a magnificent stroke for the revolution.”

Holtz said, “I am married too.” This was not strictly accurate, but he couldn’t let Mendetta off so easily.

Mendetta went very pale. “I didn’t know that,” he said. “You never said.”

Holtz got to his feet. “We have two minutes,” he said. “Shall we cut cards?”

Mendetta became very agitated, and although he opened and shut his mouth several times he could not speak.

Holtz took a soiled pack of cards from a drawer and tossed them on the table. “Lowest card has the magnificent opportunity,” he said, and flipped a card from the pack. It fell face upwards. It was the four of spades.

“Not very difficult to beat,” he said, shrugging. “Come, Mendetta, the General is waiting.” He went to the door and stood with his back to the table.

Mendetta pulled a card from the pack. His hand shook so that the pack became scattered. He looked with horror at the two of diamonds he had drawn. Snatching up another card, he found the six of spades and ran with trembling legs over to Holtz. “The six of spades,” he managed to gasp.

Holtz looked at him, the mocking smile again on his lips. “How fortunate you are. To be lucky with cards and to be lucky in love.”

Mendetta saw that Holtz knew he had cheated, and he went white with shame.

Holtz said: “The General may wish to see you as well. Let us see him together.”

Cortez was waiting for them impatiently. “Well?” he snapped.

Holtz saluted stiffly. “I am ready to take your orders, Your Excellency,” he said.

Cortez nodded. He was pleased. Holtz was young. He had a stronger nerve than Mendetta, and, what was more important, he was proud. He would not fall back.

Cortez looked across at Mendetta. “Make immediate preparations for the withdrawal. Do not forget, the gun goes first. Have everything ready to leave within the hour. You have no time to lose.”

Mendetta saluted and stepped to the door. He looked back at Holtz, then said, “My best wishes, Lieutenant. May we meet again.”

Holtz bowed. “Remember me to your wife, Mendetta, remember me to your children,” he said. “You fortunate man.”

Mendetta went out of the room and shut the door behind him.

The General looked at Holtz searchingly. “I did not know he had any children,” he said, pulling a map towards him.

Holtz came close to the table. “They are always convenient,” with a little grimace. “What are my orders, Your Excellency?”

The General looked at him sharply. He didn’t like bitterness and he could not understand sarcasm. With an effort of will, he drew his attention to the matter in hand. “This place can be held with courage,” he said. “You will have four men. I cannot spare more. Choose whom you like. I take it you will handle the Lewis gun yourself? The enemy are unlikely to use their artillery, once they have ascertained that this place is held only by a few. Shells are costly. You are to delay them as long as possible. As long as you are alive, they cannot pass. You are not to expose yourself, and you are to be very careful not to waste ammunition. I will leave the details to you. Is there anything you do not understand?”

Holtz shook his head. “You have made it very simple, Your Excellency. How long am I to keep up the resistance?”

“I want at least twelve hours to get to the mountain road. Once I have got beyond the pass I do not think Pablo will follow any further; it would be too dangerous. We leave immediately. Pablo may not attack. In which case you will withdraw after twelve hours have elapsed from the time we leave. If he should attack, then you must hold him off until…” he glanced at the small clock on his desk, “four o’clock tomorrow.”

Holtz nodded. “I understand perfectly. If you will excuse me, I will make my preparations and choose my men.”

The General waved his hand. “I shall see you before I go,” he said. “Make your preparations with all speed.”

Outside in the courtyard there was tremendous activity. Horses were being saddled. Packs slung. Men, running to and fro, shouted orders excitedly. In the centre of the commotion stood the big, rusty field-gun. Men were already fastening thick ropes to it, and even as Holtz approached, the gun began to move slowly down the uneven road towards the distant hills.

He stood for a moment watching it go. Then he turned with a shrug of his shoulders. Time was pressing. He knew the four men he was going to choose. He knew they were reliable, although, of course, they had no wish to throw their lives away. Still, as long as he was with them, they would see it through. He was sure of that.

He caught sight of Sergeant Castra, who was walking towards him. “Sergeant,” he called. “Here, I want you.”

Castra increased his pace. He was a tall, thick-set man, with hard eyes and a firm determined jaw. He had been in the service for a long time, and Holtz knew him to be a soldier in every sense of the word.

“I want Golz, Dedos, Fernando and you to remain behind. We are to hold this position until the army has had time to withdraw. Will you get the other men?”

Castra saluted. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, “at once.”

Holtz watched him hurry away and nodded, satisfied. Castra had shown no surprise, no disappointment. He had accepted the order without question. It was a good beginning.

A few minutes later the four men came hurrying up. They stood before Holtz, their eyes apprehensive. Castra was the only one who looked unmoved.

Without wasting time, Holtz told them what was expected of them. “The enemy may not attack,” he concluded. “If they don’t, then we shall have won distinction easily; if they do, we shall hold this position to the last man. There can be no retreat, do you understand that? I have chosen you four because of your records, but if there is any man among you who wishes to step down, he can do so. I do not want halfhearted support. There is a small chance of withdrawing as we shall have the Lewis gun, but if you feel about the revolution as I think, then you will not hesitate to do your duty.”

He felt suddenly ashamed when he had spoken, because he knew it was only his pride that made him stay. It was no blow struck for the revolution. Rather it was for the pride of the General. The whole situation really turned on pride, and he felt a hypocrite talking such drivel to these men.

It had the required effect, however. The four men stiffened and did not move.

“Very well,” Holtz said, “let us prepare. Take your men and get the Lewis gun. Get all the ammunition and report back to me here.”

When they had gone away, he stood watching the army move off. It was quite remarkable, he thought, how quickly they had prepared for the withdrawal. He felt them looking at him as they marched off in ragged lines. He felt their looks of sympathy mixed with derision, and he drew himself to his full height, feeling just for the moment a surge of emotion that comes to a man at this time.

The General came out and Holtz walked over to him. Cortez returned his salute and then abruptly held out his hand. “I’m sorry, Holtz,” he said in a heavy voice; “you will be decorated for this. I am certain that you will not fail me, so certain, that I will not add to what I have already said. Should anything happen to you, can I write to anyone for you?”

Holtz thanked him. The lines round his mouth hardened and he took from his breast pocket an envelope. “Your Excellency is very considerate,” he said. “If I should be killed, and not before, it would be a great kindness if you would have this letter delivered.”

The General took the letter. “I will take it myself,” he said; “that is the least I can do.” He glanced at the address. “Senorita Nina Howard. She is Ingles? Your friend?” He looked hard at the Lieutenant.

Holtz nodded. “Yes, Your Excellency, my very dear friend.” He spoke very slowly, and the General was startled at the emotion that shook his voice. “If you should see her—perhaps you could say that… that I was doing my duty…. I think it would please her.”

The General put the letter in his pocket. “Of course, of course,” he said, suddenly impatient to be off. “You can rely on it. I will tell her you died a brave man. You did your duty and you saved the gun. There, that should please her.”

Holtz took a step forward and put his hand on the General’s arm. “Not the gun,” he said earnestly, “don’t tell her about the gun. You see, she would not understand. She values me more than a gun. Just tell her I was doing my duty. That will be enough.”

The General suddenly flushed. He nodded abruptly and rode away. He did not look back.

The courtyard was nearly empty now. Holtz felt lonely. He walked slowly across to where Mendetta was waiting for the last of the men to march out. Mendetta saw him coming and scowled. He did not relish any further sarcasm from Holtz.

Holtz, however, came up to him and held out his hand. “Good-bye,” he said quietly, “I’m afraid you’re going to have a very hard time getting the gun over the hills. I would rather be here than work so hard.” He gave a little laugh. “It would be a fine thing if you let the goddamned thing fall over the pass, wouldn’t it? I mean after all the fuss that has been made about it.”

Mendetta looked at him suspiciously. “That won’t happen, you can rely on me not to do that. It would be a bad thing after sacrificing so much.”

Holtz kicked a stone. “I’m afraid I hurt his Excellency’s feelings just now,” he said. “Never mind, he is not likely to worry me much longer, is he?”

Mendetta saw the last man walk through the gate and he gathered up his reins with relief. “Good-bye,” he said, “you will come through all right. I am sure of it.”

“Good-bye,” Holtz said; “you must hurry.”

Mendetta rode after the army and Holtz turned to look for his men. They were waiting for him in the shade of the farmhouse. The Lewis gun and a large wooden box stood near by.

Holtz went over to them. “We will fortify the house,” he said. “No one can pass so long as the Lewis gun can fire. Have it taken to the top room, and board up the windows. I will leave it to you. It is where we will make our stand. Take water and food there. You know what to do. Leave Dedos with me, and take the others.” He turned to Dedos, who was very young, but his thin cruel mouth, and hard flat eyes, flat like those of a snake, made him look a lot older than he was. “You understand dynamite?”

Dedos nodded. “Yes, Lieutenant,” he said, “I understand it very well.”

“Over there is dynamite; fetch it. You will find also an exploder and some caps. Bring a spade too.”

Dedos went over to the farmhouse and came back soon with a big sack on his back and a spade in his hand. Holtz took the spade from him. “Come with me,” he said.

They walked a short distance down the rough road, away from the farm and in the opposite direction to the way the army had gone. At two hundred paces, Holtz stopped. “Here, you will prepare a mine,” he said. “You must be very careful that it is not seen easily. Use all the dynamite. When you have done this, lay a cable back to the farm. I don’t know how much wire you have there, but I think it will reach the farm all right. This you must do very quickly. There is no time to waste. Do you understand?”

Dedos smiled. The idea pleased him. “Immediately, Lieutenant,” he said.

Holtz hurried back to the farmhouse. Rather to his surprise, he found that he was enjoying this. He felt that, after so many dreary days of retreat, this new activity acted as a tonic to his depression.

Upstairs, in the farmhouse, Castra had set up the gun. Fernando was boarding up the remaining window, and Golz was staggering to and fro with buckets of water.

The walls of the farmhouse were thick, and unless Pablo brought his artillery into action they had a very fair chance of holding the place for some hours.

Holtz checked over the stores that the General had left for them. There were sufficient rations for four meals. It was enough. Holtz had no intention of holding the place longer than necessary. Not that he was going to surrender; he made a little face at the thought. Pablo was noted for his cruelty. He would have no mercy on prisoners.

There was a story told about this Pablo. Holtz had heard it several times. He remembered quite well the first time he heard it. It was while he was spending a few days away from the actual front line preparing for an offensive which proved later to be unsuccessful. He had spent the day inspecting horses, guns and men, and in the evening he was glad to sit by the fire, relaxing his aching limbs. It was Santez, his brother officer, who began talking about Pablo.

“I have studied this man,” Santez said, holding two bony hands towards the fire. “He interested me. I wanted to know why he is so successful in the field. Why it is that Cortez has tried so often to trap him and has failed each time. So, for some time I made it my business to find out things about him, and although I never succeeded in finding out why he is a better general than Cortez, I heard a little story about him which supports my theory that a General who is feared is more successful than a General who is merely admired.”

Holtz had said, rather impatiently: “But no one admires Cortez. Are you comparing these two men?”

“No. Cortez is a fool. Comparison is out of the question between them.”

“I have heard it said that Pablo is very cruel,” Holtz said. “He has done many barbarous things in his time.”

Santez nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I will tell you. I have heard it from a good source. It was told me by one of Pablo’s men who fell into our hands a few weeks ago. It happened like this. There was an engagement; Pablo’s advance was checked by a small band of our troops who had become separated from the main body. Pablo was very annoyed that such a small band could hold up an army as large as his. At the same time, he was determined that he would not lose any more men attacking this band who were on the top of a rocky hill which afforded excellent cover.

“Not very far away there was a colony, and Pablo sent some of his soldiers and brought from this colony a large number of old men, women and children. These he forced to approach the hill with his own men sheltering behind them. Our men, of course, were very unwilling to fire on these innocent people, but as they kept coming closer they had no alternative. It is a bad thing to see women and children fall before a volley of rifle-fire. After the first volley the remaining soldiers refused to fire any more and they stood up and surrendered. The officer in charge begged them to continue the fighting, but the soldiers would not do so. They were not to know that some of these people were their own relations. It was a very difficult situation. So they surrendered, and they were brought before Pablo. There were sixteen of them. They were brave men and they had done their duty. Pablo decided that they should all die. They stood before him, in two rows, waiting for him to decide how they were going to die.

“The officer was a very brave man and he stood stiffly to attention, looking at Pablo with scorn in his eyes. Pablo ordered sixteen horses to be brought and each man was tied by the feet to the horse’s saddle. Then, at Pablo’s command, the horses were ridden across the rough country at a furious pace, dragging these men behind them. It is not a nice death, and it is only one example of Pablo’s cruelty. Perhaps the wickedest thing he ever did was when he took a small village and slaughtered everyone. The women had a very bad time. When his men had finished with them, he made them parade naked in the village street, and he flogged them with barbed wire until they died. The children were all thrown into a large fire, where they perished, screaming for their mothers; and the men were buried in the sand, alive, and left to suffocate. That indeed was a black day in Pablo’s life.”

Those and other stories Holtz had heard about Pablo. It would not do to surrender, rather, to keep a bullet for himself, if the worst came. He wondered if he would have the courage to kill himself if the time came for him to do so; he didn’t know. He thought that he would; but until he had to press the cold barrel against his temple he really didn’t know. He hoped that he would find the courage, anyway.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sergeant Castra, who came in at that moment. “The gun is set up, Lieutenant,” he said. “Shall I post one of the men as sentry?”

Holtz nodded. “Yes,” he said; “send Golz. Send him down the road where he can observe for some distance. If he sees the enemy advancing, he is to come back here immediately. See how Dedos is getting on. I left him with the dynamite.”

Castra went away. Holtz felt satisfied with him. He could be relied on to take the responsibilities of preparing for the attack.

Holtz checked over the Lewis gun and then went to the window and peered through the small opening that commanded an uninterrupted view of the road. He could see Dedos kneeling in the dust, his hands busy. Further on, Golz was moving towards the slight crest to take up his position as sentry.

The sun was very hot and threw sharp black shadows. Overhead there were no clouds. It was an unwarlike day, and looking across the courtyard Holtz felt a sudden pang of nostalgia. How absurd all this was. What a farce. At that moment his white-and-gold uniform meant nothing to him. He wanted, very badly, to see Nina again. He could see her very clearly. Tall, dark and vivacious. Yes, you would say she was vivacious. She had a tremendous spirit of gaiety. He had only seen her sad once, and that was just before he said good-bye to her. Neither of them knew when they would meet again. It was the knowledge of not knowing that is the canker of war. Holtz knew that it was she who must suffer in his absence. The privation of her company and of her love were as nothing to the long days of suspended waiting that she must endure. Long before the news could reach her, he would have passed through his pain, and would have been beyond the reach of anything that could harm him more.

He wondered how long she would remain faithful to his memory. It was absurd to expect her to give up her life in mourning for him. He would not like that, or would he? He didn’t know. If he had been like Mendetta, he would not be thinking of her at all. Mendetta had never really loved anyone. He had not a lover’s vulnerability. He could go into action caring only for himself. He had no haunting thought that with his death someone else would die a little too. It was an added responsibility, this being in love. Yet he had no regrets. He would not have had it otherwise. When one loved as he loved, the pattern of life was sharp-etched. The lines ran sharply and life for him had intensified. Within him dwelt a rock-like feeling of security. He was sure of something. Yes, that was it. In this world of uncertainty, of revolution, of distrust and violent death, he was sure of one thing. He knew that Nina loved him and that he loved her. It wasn’t a passing moment of heady, ecstatic love, but a genuine feeling between them that made them as one. That established an affinity between them, binding them close and giving to their love an understanding that is very rare.

Why had he bothered about this stupid revolution? Why had he taken sides in such a hopeless, unequal struggle? Perhaps it was that he wanted to justify himself by taking the hardest road. Nina had listened to him talk, night after night. They sat in the cafes or in their big bedroom, talking and discussing the revolution. She could see him gradually moving in his mind towards the moment when he had to rejoin his regiment. They could have slipped away easily enough over the border into America and have left this all behind. But she knew he wouldn’t do that. She knew he would be unhappy unless he stood with his General. Not that he thought a great deal of Cortez—he didn’t; but he felt that, as an officer, he had no right to shirk his responsibilities, and, finally, he went.

They parted at night. She joined some friends not far from Cortez’ headquarters, and he reported to Cortez with the knowledge that no matter how well they fought, Pablo was certain to prove too much for them. It was an uneasy beginning, but that did not matter. He knew that he was doing right by himself.