Collection 1980 - Yondering (v5.0) (20 page)

He had started to lift his glass, and he put it down immediately. His right hand slid to the edge of the table until only his fingertips rested there. His tone was distinctly unfriendly when he replied, “What do you mean?”

“When I asked the countess if you would be here, she said you were in Baghdad—on the way to Chabrang.”

“She said
that?
She mentioned Chabrang?”

“Yes, and I was surprised, It isn’t the sort of place people hear of, being in such an out-of-the-way place, and only a village—a sort of way station.”

His right hand dropped into his lap, and his fingers tugged at his trouser leg, which clung a bit too snugly to his heavy thigh. “You know Chabrang.”

It was not a question but a statement. His right hand hitched the pant leg again. Suddenly I realized what was on his mind, and I almost laughed, for I’d been away from that sort of thing too long and had become careless. The laugh was not for him but simply that it seemed like old times, and it was kind of good to be back.

“You won’t need the knife,” I told him. “I am no danger to you.”

“You know Chabrang, and there are not fifty men in Europe who know it. Am I to believe this is pure coincidence?”

He had a knife in his boot top, I was sure of that. He was a careful man and no doubt had reason to be, but why that was so I had no idea and told him as much.

“It was my only way out,” he said. “They found me, but they were looking for a man who was carrying a great lot of money, and I had nothing but food, weapons, and some butterflies. They let me go.”

“I believed it was a way out for me, too,” I said, “but I was not so lucky. I had to turn back.”

He turned to look at me. “When were you in China?”

“It was long ago.” I have never liked dates. Perhaps because I have a poor memory for dates in my own life. “It was in the time of the war lords,” I said.

He shrugged. “That’s indefinite enough.”

We talked of many things. He gestured widely. “This is what I wanted,” he said. “I wanted time—leisure. Time to read, to think, to see. Some people make it some ways, some another. Mine was through war.”

“It is no longer regarded with favor,” I suggested.

He shrugged again. “Who cares? For ten thousand years it was the acceptable way for a man to make his fortune. A young man with a strong arm and some luck could go off to the wars and become rich.

“All the old kingdoms were established so. All the original ‘great families’ were founded in just such a way. What else was William the Conqueror? Or Roger of Sicily? Or their Viking ancestors who first conquered and then settled in Normandy? What does Norman mean but Northmen? Who were Cortés and Pizarro? They were young men with swords.”

“Ours is a different world,” I suggested. “Our standards are not the same.”

“Bah!” He waved his fork. “The standards are the same, only now the fighting is done by lawyers. There is more cunning and less courage. They will sell you the arms—”

“Like Milton,” I said.

He stopped with his fork in the air and his mouth open. “You know about Milton,” he said. “I am beginning to wonder about you, lieutenant.”

“Everybody in China knew that story. Perhaps I should say everybody in our line of business or around the Astor Bar. It was no secret.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps not.”

Such stories are repeated in bars and tearooms, over bridge tables as well as in the waterfront dives. Milton had been a well set up man in his early forties, as I recall him. A smooth, easy-talking man, somewhat florid of face, who played a good game of golf, haunted the Jockey Club, and owned a few good racehorses, Mongolian ponies brought down for that purpose. He had been a dealer in guns, supplying the various war lords with rifles, machine guns, mortars, and ammunition. As a machine gun was worth its weight in gold and as some European nation was always liquidating its stores to replace them with more modern weapons, Milton did well.

He reminded me of a first-class insurance salesman, and in a sense that was what he was. The weapons he sold were the kind of insurance they needed.

He might have become enormously wealthy, but he had an urge to gamble, and he had a blonde. The blonde, some said, was none too bright, but she had other assets that were uniquely visible, and nobody really inquired as to her intelligence, least of all Milton.

A day came when too much blonde and too much gambling left him nearly broke, and she chose that moment to say she wanted to go to Paris. She pleaded, she argued, and he listened. He was willing enough, but the problem was money.

At that moment an order came for six thousand rifles, some machine guns and mortars, with ammunition for all. Milton had only six hundred rifles on hand and insufficient cash. Such deals were always cash on the barrel head. He agreed to supply what was needed.

Long ago he had arranged a little deal with the customs officials to pass anything he shipped in a piano box, and as a piano salesman he seemed to be doing very well indeed.

Knowing the kind of people with whom he dealt, he also knew the necessity for absolute secrecy in what he was about to do, so with one German whom he knew from long experience would not talk, he went to his warehouse, and locking the doors very carefully, he proceeded to pack the cases with old, rusted pipe and straw. Atop each case, before closing it, he put a few rifles to satisfy any quick inspection. Yet the greatest thing he had going for him was his reputation for integrity. He supervised the loading of the piano boxes on a Chinese junk and collected his down payment of three hundred thousand dollars.

He had taken every precaution. Through a close-mouthed acquaintance he had bought two tickets on a vessel that was sailing that very night.

“Pack an overnight bag for each of us,” he said. “Nothing more. And be ready. Say nothing to anyone and I’ll buy you a completely new wardrobe in Paris.”

Now, his rifles loaded on the junk, he drove at once to his apartment on Bubbling Well Road. He ran lightly up the steps carrying the small black bag. “Come! We’ve got to move fast! There’s not much time to catch the boat!”

This, you must remember, was before World War II, and there were no airlines as such.

“Where are the tickets?” he asked.

She came to him, her blue eyes wide and wonderful. “Oh, Milt! I hope you’re not going to be angry, but the Funstons are having a party tonight, and they are always such
fun!
Well, I turned in our tickets and got tickets on another boat, a much faster one, that leaves tomorrow!”

No doubt there was a moment of sheer panic; then what he hoped was common sense prevailed. It would take that junk a week to get to its destination. Well—four days at least. There was nothing to be done, and why not one more night?

The next morning was one I would never forget. I’d known Milton only to speak to, although we did have a drink together once. When a friend banged on my door at daybreak and told me he had something to show me, I went along.

What he showed me was what Milton might have expected, for the men with whom he did business did not play games.

There, standing upright in the parking lot outside his place on Bubbling Well Road, was a piece of the rusty pipe he had so carefully packed. On top of it was Milton’s head. His complexion was no longer florid.

“Everybody knew that story,” I repeated. “At least everybody of our sort. I heard it again a few days ago in the Casual Officers’ Mess on Place St. Augustine.”

“But you know about Chabrang,” the general said.

The wine was excellent. “I see no connection,” I said.

He gave me a sidelong glance, filled with suspicion. Why the mention of Chabrang disturbed him, I could not guess, as it was but an unimportant village on one of the routes out of Sinkiang to Ladakh. It was in no way noteworthy except that it was near the ruins of Tsaparang. The ruins represented about all that remained of a long-ago kingdom.

“Did you know Milton?” I asked.

“I knew him. If the Chinese had not killed him, I would have. Those munitions were consigned to me.”

“To
you?
”

“They were consigned to me for the war lord, and the fraud put my head on the block. I was suspected of complicity.”

“What happened?”

“I acted. Perceiving that I was suspected, and knowing the gentleman concerned was not one to dilly-dally, I made my move. You see, he already owed me money, a considerable sum. By disposing of me, he could make somebody atone for the fraud and liquidate his debt at the same time.”

He fell silent while the waiter brought a steaming platter of seafood. When he had gone, the general resumed. “It was the time to move, so I acted. Remember that this is the first principle—
act!
Remember that, my young friend! Do not deliberate! Do not hesitate! Do not wait upon eventuality!
Act!
It is always better to do something, even if not quite the right thing, than to do nothing.
Action! Decision!
Only these are important!”

He toyed with an oyster, glancing from under his brows. “My mind, at such times, works quickly. He needed a scapegoat to save face. Not in Shanghai but there, before his men! At once! Instantly I perceived it was I who must pay.”

He ate the oyster, and taking a bit of bread, buttered it lavishly. Many of the good people of France had not seen so much butter in months.

“You see, the commander himself did not yet know of the fraud, but immediately the discovery was made, an officer had left to report to him. He could reach him in not less than an hour, then an hour to return.

“The captain of the junk had seen none of what went on, so I went to him immediately, put money in his hand, and told him to sail to such and such a point up river. The cargo would be received there.

“Then I went to the telegraph station, which was closed. I broke into it and sent a message to another, rival war lord up the river, offering the guns to him for a fancy price. He was desperately in need of them, and I told him I could promise delivery if the money was paid to me in gold. A place of payment was mentioned.

“There was a charter plane at the field. You knew him, I think? Milligan? He would fly you anywhere for a price and land his plane on a pocket handkerchief if need be. Moreover, he could be trusted, and there were some, in those days, who could not. I placed five hundred dollars in his hand and said I wished to leave for Shanghai at once.

“ ‘After I gas up,’ he said.

“ ‘Now,’ I told him. ‘Right now. There is petrol at—’ I took his map and put my finger on the place. ‘And you can land there.’

“ ‘If you say,’ he replied doubtfully. ‘I never heard of—’

“ ‘The petrol is there,’ I promised him. ‘I had it placed there for just such an emergency.’ ”

The general looked around at me. “You are young, lieutenant, and wise as you may be, you are still learning, so remember to trust no one! Prepare for every eventuality no matter how remote! Not even a mouse trusts himself to one hole only. That is an old saying, but it has remained in my mind, and can I be less wise than a mouse?

“We took off at once. Within twenty minutes of my realization I
acted!
And that night I was in Shanghai with her!”

“Her?” He had lost me.

“Of course! With Milton’s blonde. What was her name? I’ve forgotten. No matter. I was there, consoling her.

“Of course”—he glanced at me—“I was younger then and not so—so—well, I am a little overweight now. But then, ah, I was handsome then, lieutenant! I was handsome, and I was, of course, younger.

“I found her in tears. She was weeping for him. For Milton. Or perhaps she was weeping for that lost trip to Paris. About women, lieutenant, one never knows. No matter.

“There on the floor was the black bag. It was out of the way, back against the sofa’s end, but I recognized it at once. True, I’d never seen it before, but I’d seen others of the kind. In it would be the money! All that delightful, beautiful money! And she was crying? Well, as I have said, she was a woman, and about women one never knows.

“I consoled her. What else could I do? What does one do with a pretty woman who is sad and has a quarter of a million dollars, give or take a few? I told her she must not worry, that I—
I
would take her to Paris! And who knew Paris better? Who knew the night spots, the cafes, the bordel—Well, who knew the town better than I? Even its history!

“Oh, I was marvelous that day! I told her exciting and glamorous tales of what the city was like, of living there, and I dropped names, names of all the famous and infamous. As a matter of fact, I actually did know some of them.

“She was consoled! She rested her head on my shoulder. As you have seen, they are very broad. She dried her tears; then she smoothed her dress, she touched up her makeup, and she said, ‘I still have the tickets. We could go at once. I—there is nothing more for me here! Nothing!’

“ ‘I know.’ I took her two hands. ‘It is tragic. But in Paris, my dear, you can forget. In Paris there is music, there is dancing, there is love, and there is beauty! And we shall be there—together!’ ”