Graham Greene (19 page)

“Indeed I expected to be sent for, Sir Arthur, but appreciate your thoughtfulness nevertheless. Sh-h-h, my little niece is coming round. See—her eyes are open.”

The doctor returned to the bedside where the nurse was ministering to the girl, now momentarily recovering from the effects of the accident. He held a spoonful of weak spirit to her lips, and as she swallowed it a happy smile spread over her wan features.

Then she espied the King and made an obvious effort to speak to him.

“Not yet, dearie, not yet,” said her mother soothingly. “Wait until tomorrow and you shall tell us everything.”

But the Princess essayed to speak.

“The Germans,” she began weakly, half rising in spite of all remonstrances. “Oh, uncle,—the—the—Germans—sending—torpedo boats—to—to” here her strength failed her and she fell back with a heavy sigh and lapsed into unconsciousness.

But it was not to Princess Oscar that the other occupants of the room turned—it was to King Edward.

Her whispered words, enigmatical to the rest, burned deep into his very soul. He clutched Sir Arthur by the shoulder and repeating what the Princess had said enquired hoarsely:

“Did she say that? Did she say that?”

A sudden fear had gripped him, and his heart became heavy as stone. He guessed intuitively what his niece had wished to convey and grew cold with horror as he thought of nearly his entire navy strung out at Spithead, an easy prey to a determined and vengeful foe.

ALAN H. BURGOYNE

y going to Valencia was entirely an accident. But the more often I stated that fact, the more satisfied was everyone at the capital that I had come on some secret mission. Even the venerable politician who acted as our minister, the night of my arrival, after dinner, said confidentially, “Now, Mr Crosby, between ourselves, what's the game?”

“What's the game?” I asked.

“You know what I mean,” he returned. “What are you here for?”

But when, for the tenth time, I repeated how I came to be marooned in Valencia he showed that his feelings were hurt, and said stiffly: “As you please. Suppose we join the ladies.”

And the next day his wife reproached me with: “I should think you could trust your own minister. My husband
never
talks—not even to me.”

“So I see,” I said.

And then her feelings were hurt also, and she went about telling people I was an agent of the Walker-Keefe crowd.

My only reason for repeating here that my going to Valencia was an accident is that it was because Schnitzel disbelieved that fact, and to drag the hideous facts from me followed me back to New York. Through that circumstance I came to know him, and am able to tell his story.

The simple truth was that I had been sent by the State Department to Panama to “go, look, see,” and straighten out a certain conflict of authority among the officials of the canal zone. While I was there the yellow-fever broke out, and every self-respecting power clapped a quarantine on the Isthmus, with the result that when I tried to return to New York no steamer would take me to any place to which any white man would care to go. But I knew that at Valencia there was a direct line to New York, so I took a tramp steamer down the coast to Valencia. I went to Valencia only because to me every other port in the world was closed. My position was that of the man who explained to his wife that he came home because the other places were shut.

But, because formerly in Valencia I had held a minor post in our legation, and because the State Department so constantly consults our firm on questions of international law, it was believed I revisited Valencia on some mysterious and secret mission.

As a matter of fact, had I gone there to sell phonographs or to start a steam laundry, I should have been as greatly suspected. For in Valencia even every commercial salesman, from the moment he gives up his passport on the steamer until the police permit him to depart, is suspected, shadowed, and begirt with spies.

I believe that during my brief visit I enjoyed the distinction of occupying the undivided attention of three; a common or garden Government spy, from whom no guilty man escapes, a Walker-Keefe spy, and the spy of the Nitrate Company. The spy of the Nitrate Company is generally a man you meet at the legations and clubs. He plays bridge and is dignified with the title of “agent.” The Walker-Keefe spy is ostensibly a travelling salesman or hotel runner. The Government spy is just a spy—a scowling, important little beast in a white duck suit and a diamond ring. The limit of his intelligence is to follow you into a cigar store and note what cigar you buy, and in what kind of money you pay for it.

The reason for it all was the three-cornered fight which then was being waged by the Government, the Nitrate Trust, and the Walker-Keefe crowd for the possession of the nitrate beds. Valencia is so near to the equator, and so far from New York, that there are few who studied the intricate story of that disgraceful struggle, which, I hasten to add, with the fear of libel before my eyes, I do not intend to tell now.

Briefly, it was a triangular fight between opponents each of whom was in the wrong, and each of whom, to gain his end, bribed, blackmailed, and robbed, not only his adversaries, but those of his own side, the end in view being the possession of those great deposits that lie in the rocks of Valencia, baked from above by the tropic sun and from below by volcanic fires. As one of their engineers, one night in the Plaza, said to me: “Those
mines were conceived in hell, and stink to heaven, and the reputation of every man of us that has touched them smells like the mines.”

At the time I was there the situation was “acute.” In Valencia the situation always is acute, but this time it looked as though something might happen. On the day before I departed the Nitrate Trust had cabled vehemently for warships, the Minister of Foreign Affairs had refused to receive our minister, and at Porto Banos a mob had made the tin sign of the United States Consulate look like a sieve. Our minister urged me to remain. To be bombarded by one's own warships, he assured me, would be a thrilling experience.

But I repeated that my business was with Panama, not Valencia, and that if in this matter of his row I had any weight at Washington, as between preserving the nitrate beds for the trust, and preserving for his country and various sweethearts one brown-throated, clean-limbed bluejacket, I was for the bluejacket.

Accordingly, when I sailed from Valencia the aged diplomat would have described our relations as strained.

Our ship was a slow ship, listed to touch at many ports, and as early as noon on the following day we stopped for cargo at Trujillo. It was there I met Schnitzel.

In Panama I had bought a macaw for a little niece of mine, and while we were taking on cargo I went ashore to get a tin cage in which to put it, and, for direction, called upon our Consul. From an inner room he entered excitedly, smiling at my card, and asked how he might serve me. I told him I had a parrot below decks, and wanted to buy a tin cage.

“Exactly. You want a tin cage,” the Consul repeated soothingly. “The State Department doesn't keep me awake nights cabling me what it's going to do,” he said, “but at least I know it doesn't send a thousand-dollar-a-minute, four-cylinder lawyer
all the way to this fever swamp to buy a tin cage. Now, honest, how can I serve you?” I saw it was hopeless. No one would believe the truth. To offer it to this friendly soul would merely offend his feelings and his intelligence.

So, with much mystery, I asked him to describe the “situation,” and he did so with the exactness of one who believes that within an hour every word he speaks will be cabled to the White House.

When I was leaving he said: “Oh, there's a newspaper correspondent after you. He wants an interview, I guess. He followed you last night from the capital by train. You want to watch out he don't catch you. His name is Jones.” I promised to be on my guard against a man named Jones, and the Consul escorted me to the ship. As he went down the accommodation ladder, I called over the rail: “In case they
should
declare war, cable to Curaçao, and I'll come back. And don't cable anything indefinite, like ‘Situation critical' or ‘War imminent'. Understand? Cable me, ‘Come back' or ‘Go ahead'. But whatever you cable, make it
clear.”

He shook his head violently and with his green-lined umbrella pointed at my elbow. I turned and found a young man hungrily listening to my words. He was leaning on the rail with his chin on his arms and the brim of his Panama hat drawn down to conceal his eyes.

On the pier-head, from which we now were drawing rapidly away, the Consul made a megaphone of his hands.

“That's
him,”
he called. “That's Jones.”

Jones raised his head, and I saw that the tropical heat had made Jones thirsty, or that with friends he had been celebrating his departure. He winked at me, and, apparently with pleasure at his own discernment and with pity for me, smiled.

“Oh, of course!” he murmured. His tone was one of heavy irony. “Make it ‘clear'. Make it clear to the whole wharf. Shout
it out so's everybody can hear you. You're ‘clear' enough.” His disgust was too keen for ordinary words. “My uncle!” he exclaimed.

By this I gathered that he was expressing his contempt.

“I beg your pardon?” I said.

We had the deck to ourselves. Its emptiness suddenly reminded me that we had the ship, also, to ourselves. I remembered the purser had told me that, except for those who travelled overnight from port to port, I was his only passenger.

With dismay I pictured myself for ten days adrift on the high seas—alone with Jones.

With a dramatic gesture, as one would say, “I am here!” he pushed back his Panama hat. With an unsteady finger he pointed, as it was drawn dripping across the deck, at the stern hawser.

“You see that rope?” he demanded. “Soon as that rope hit the water I knocked off work. S'long as you was in Valencia—me, on the job. Now,
you
can't go back,
I
can't go back. Why further dissim'lation?
Who am I
?”

His condition seemed to preclude the possibility of his knowing who he was, so I told him.

He sneered as I have seen men sneer only in melodrama.

“Oh, of course,” he muttered. “Oh, of course.”

He lurched towards me indignantly.

“You know perfec'ly well Jones is not my name. You know perfec'ly well who I am.”

“My dear sir,” I said, “I don't know anything about you, except that you're a damned nuisance.”

He swayed from me, pained and surprised. Apparently he was upon an outbreak of tears.

“Proud,” he murmured, “and haughty. Proud and haughty to the last.”

I never have understood why an intoxicated man feels the climax of insult is to hurl at you your name. Perhaps because he
knows it is the one charge you cannot deny. But invariably before you escape, as though assured the words will cover your retreat with shame, he throws at you your full title. Jones did this.

Slowly and mercilessly he repeated, “Mr—George—Morgan—Crosby. Of Harvard,” he added. “Proud and haughty to the last.”

He then embraced a passing steward, and demanded to be informed why the ship rolled. He never knew a ship to roll as our ship rolled.

“Perfec'ly satisfact'ry ocean, but ship—rolling like a stone-breaker. Take me some place in the ship where this ship don't roll.”

The steward led him away.

When he had dropped the local pilot the captain beckoned me to the bridge.

“I saw you talking to Mr Schnitzel,” he said. “He's a little under the weather. He has too light a head for liquors.”

I agreed that he had a light head, and said I understood his name was Jones.

“That's what I wanted to tell you,” said the captain. “His name is Schnitzel. He used to work for the Nitrate Trust in New York. Then he came down here as an agent. He's a good boy not to tell things to. Understand? Sometimes I carry him under one name, and the next voyage under another. The purser and he fix it up between ‘em. It pleases him, and it don't hurt anybody else, so long as I tell them about it. I don't know who he's working for now,” he went on, “but I know he's not with the Nitrate Company any more. He sold them out.”

“How could he?” I asked. “He's only a boy.”

“He had a berth as typewriter to Senator Burnsides, President of the Nitrate Trust, sort of confidential stenographer,” said the captain. “Whenever the Senator dictated an important letter, they say, Schnitzel used to make a carbon copy, and when he had enough of them he sold them to the Walker-Keefe crowd. Then,
when Walker-Keefe lost their suit in the Valencia Supreme Court I guess Schnitzel went over to President Alvarez. And again, some folks say he's back with the Nitrate Company.”