Mediterranean Nights (27 page)

The Spaniard did not attempt to conceal his pleasure at Budd's suggestion. ‘Señor,' he cried, ‘to know that these wines will be drunk by one who will appreciate them—that would console me greatly for their loss.'

‘Let's try this feller here.' P. Rockingham tapped a cask near which he was standing.

Don Louis gripped the bung, but it was wedged fast—he could not get it out, ‘No matter.' he cried, moving down the line to another, ‘try this, these eight are all the same.'

We tasted it and approved; Budd pointed to another. ‘I guess we'll sample that one there.'

‘That,' said Don Louis, ‘is the same as the second wine which you tried just now.'

‘O.K., Don.' P. Rockingham's round face was wreathed in smiles. ‘Let's have a crack at the end one there.'

Again the bung proved to be immovable. Don Louis shrugged. ‘All, Señor, are wines of pedigree, none are of a lesser quality than the second one you saw.'

Budd nodded. ‘All right, don't worry, I'll bid you—no, wait! I guess I don't know much about the price of wines, I reackon it 'ud be best to con-fab-u-late with an independent judge before I make an offer.'

Don Louis drew himself up. ‘Señor,' he said haughtily.

‘No offence, Don,' cut in the American, ‘I'm just a plain business man.' His bovine face was wreathed in smiles.

After all, it was a reasonable suggestion, and it was impossible for the Spaniard to take umbrage. He nodded.

‘I do not understand business, Señor, but I would prefer that you should have my wines rather than the Jew—what do you propose?'

‘See here,' P. Rockingham suggested, ‘we'll get old Lyckidopolous from the hotel to come around and taste 'em; he'll sure be a judge, all right—maybe he'll buy some himself.'

A troubled look came into Don Louis's dark eyes. ‘I regret, Señor, but to that I cannot agree,' he said slowly. ‘It is my misfortune that I owe money to Lyckidopolous; my
name must not be mentioned to him. If he learns that I am disposing of the wines he will press for the repayment of his debt.'

For a moment Budd was lost in thought; then he said: ‘I'll tell you how we'll fix it; let's cart those three barrels that we've tasted round to the hotel. I'll spill the yarn that I've bought 'em in a rash moment, and I'm up against the trouble of shipping 'em away—then he'll give us a line as to what he thinks they're worth.'

Don Louis smiled. ‘That is a different matter, Señor, and while Lyckidopolous is not rich enough to buy the whole, he might relieve you of some part, since they have few wines of quality in the hotel.'

We went out into the street and secured an ox-wagon—also some casual labour. The three heavy casks were loaded on to the cart with some difficulty, Don Louis re-padlocked the door of the bodega, and we followed the wagon through the narrow streets.

To the hook-nosed Greek hotel proprietor, P. Rockingham explained his purchases. The casks were unloaded and samples drawn. The wines had muddied slightly in transit, but Lyckidopolous knew enough to judge their value.

His small eyes gleamed as he smelled the wine of the finest quality, but the price he suggested to begin with was ridiculous. Budd laughed at him. ‘Say, Licky,' he grinned, ‘don't try any of the funny stuff—I only cashed out for 'em yesterday. Sooner than take your bid I'll cart 'em round the world and drink 'em as I go.'

The Greek saw a bargain slipping, and became more reasonable. After much haggling we got him up to three hundred dollars for the best, two hundred and ten for the second, and one hundred and fifty for the third.

‘Six-sixty for the lot—O.K.,' said P. Rockingham; ‘they're yours, Licky, but this is a spot cash deal—I want the dough.'

The Greek agreed to send to the bank for the money, and we left him. I was a little worried about the affair. Why should our noble Spaniard let his wine go at an average of 170 dollars the butt when a swindling Greek was willing to pay 220? There must be something fishy somewhere. I said as much to P. Rockingham Budd when he returned from a visit to his room.

‘Don't worry, friend,' he grinned. ‘Don Ulloa's in trouble in this town, he's owing money all round—I guess we're his only stone-safe market.'

We rejoined Don Louis—he had not wished to accompany us to the hotel. ‘Well, Senor?' he asked. ‘Have you decided?'

‘Yep, and I'm no mean skate—I'll go two grand over that Jew. Ten thousand dollars for the lot, and I reackon it's cheap at the price.' Budd produced a bulging notecase from his pocket and began to count out the cash. It must have been that for which he had been up to his room. I was amazed that he should be fool enough to travel with such a large sum in his luggage, and said so. He laughed. ‘Guess you never know when it'll come in handy to have a wad of greenbacks lying around,' and he continued to count out the crisp new notes into the Spaniard's hand.

Don Louis took them eagerly. ‘I am your debtor, Señor,' he smiled with a flash of his white teeth. ‘Here are the keys of my wine lodge—the contents are now your property. I am more than grateful.'

‘Thanks, Don.' P. Rockingham passed over the keys to me. ‘Say, you might look after these, friend. I'm a perfect rube on keys, I'd sure lose 'em.'

‘And now,' Don Louis gave his graceful bow, ‘you must permit me to offer you a little lunch; my house, as you know, is not prepared, but if you would allow me to be your host at the hotel?'

Our luncheon proved lengthy, and afterwards my large friend would not let the Spaniard go. He insisted that we should drive out together to a café on the headland of the bay.

Don Louis wished to bank his money, but P. Rockingham waved the suggestion aside. ‘I've carried that ten thousand around these three months,' he laughed. ‘Nothing's goin' to happen to it in just one day—'sides, if you pay it in you'll only have to draw it out tomorrow to square the Jew.'

In the end Don Louis remained with us till well after midnight, and the last we saw of him was as he drove off, making the night hideous with the noise of his rackety car.

Our boat sailed at ten o'clock next morning. I was downstairs
early, and having packed my things went to the office to settle my bill.

Lyckidopolous presented it with an oily smile; it was extortionate for such a place, and I paid it grudgingly, after having rectified a mistake in the addition. The Greek became voluble in his apologies as he rubbed his yellow hands.

I was walking away when he suddenly called after me. ‘Pardon, sir, I had forgotten—the lunch of yesterday—is it you who will pay for that or Mr. Budd?'

‘Why—no,' I said. ‘We were both the guests of Don Louis d'Ulloa.'

He gave me a queer look. ‘Don Louis d'Ulloa?' he repeated. ‘You mistake, sir, he is abroad.'

‘Abroad?' I exclaimed. ‘But it was he who lunched with us yesterday!'

‘No, no,' he assured me volubly. ‘Don Louis is a fat man with a heavy beard, I know him well. He owns the big villa on the hillside across the bay which is shut up; he is a wealthy man, and rarely comes to Cyprus.'

My brows contracted. Then our friend of yesterday was a fraud—he had taken advantage of Don Louis's absence to show us over the villa. The caretaker must have been in his pay. My thoughts flew to the wine. I asked if the real Don Louis had a cellar in the town, and described the whereabouts of the one to which we had been taken.

The Greek shook his head. ‘Don Louis has no such bodega—the one you speak of has been empty for some years.'

I left Lyckidopolous gaping and hurried out—the keys were in my pocket. I reached the lodge and let myself in. Seizing a heavy piece of wood from the cooper's shed I attacked the bung of the first cask I came to—I hammered it until it loosened and got it out. Quickly I inserted the rubber tubing just as I had seen the fake Don Louis do. I sucked hard for a second—a jet of liquid struck the roof of my mouth. I spat it out, it was cold water.

I tried some of the other casks; each one was the same—full to the bung with nothing more precious than water. I ran all the way back to the hotel. If anything was to be done it must be done quickly. The yarn about the Jew was obviously untrue. If we hurried we might catch our swindler at the bank.

P. Rockingham Budd was in his room packing when I burst in on him.

‘I say,' I cried, ‘I've got bad news for you.'

Thet so? Cough it up, son,' he drawled. ‘Don't tell me the boat's delayed?'

‘No, no, but that chap yesterday—he wasn't Don Louis d'Ulloa at all!'

‘Say, now,' he grinned, ‘have you only just tumbled to it?'

‘Do you mean to say you knew?' I spluttered.

‘Sure,' he said quietly. ‘When a guy points out a picture of Charles V as his ancestor who fought under Alva, it soon puts me wise.'

‘But the wine,' I exclaimed impatiently. ‘There isn't any, it's water.'

‘You don't say—I was wondering what was in them casks.'

I grew desperate. ‘But damn it, man,' I cried, ‘you've paid for it—ten thousand dollars cash.'

Budd's wide smile spread over his broad mottled face. ‘You didn't happen to see that bird hunting around for any watermarks on them greenbacks?' he asked.

‘What?' I gasped. ‘They were—?'

‘That's so,' he nodded. ‘Guy I know turns 'em out by the hundred in a little joint way back of Satan's Alley in Noo York, makes 'em special for innercent travellers to hand out to birds like Don Louis. I guess he'll throw a fit when he does get to that bank!'

I sat down, breathless.

P. Rockingham Budd closed one eye in a solemn wink. ‘Great day we had yesterday,' he grinned, ‘six-sixty bucks and a heap of fun. Say, friend, we'd better hurry or we'll miss our boat.'

STORY XX

M
OST
of us make our best friends when we are quite young; particularly if we go to a boarding school. This is easily accounted for by the long periods of daily intimacy which circumstances rarely enable us to enjoy with people sympathetic to us that we meet later in life.

I, however, was particularly blessed in that for me very similar circumstances arose when I was in my middle forties. For three years I was cooped up in the famous fortress basement under Sir Winston Churchill's wartime headquarters, and for long periods of that time the officers with whom I worked remained the same. This resulted in my making an entirely new set of intimate friends and I am happy to say that many of them remain treasured friends today.

As the officers of the Joint Planning Staff were specially selected for their abilities, it was the natural springboard to High Command; so, in due course, a considerable number of them became Admirals, Generals, and Air Marshals; an outstanding example being Sir William Dickson. It was he who secured me my wartime appointment and I rejoiced to see him rise from a Group Captain to Marshal of the Royal Air Force and—pinnacle of a Service career—Chairman of the Chiefs of Staff Committee and Chief of Defence.

During the years after the war, several of these good friends kindly invited me to stay at their Headquarters. Among them Air Chief Marshal Sir Wilfred Dawson, when he was at N.A.T.O.; General Sir Richard Gale, when he was G.O.C. Army of the Rhine; Air Marshal Sir Laurence Darvall, when he was Commandant of the N.A.T.O. Staff College for senior officers in Paris; and Air Chief Marshal Sir William Elliott, when he was head of the British Military Mission in Washington.

The British Mission had its officers in the Pentagon and one day during my visit Sir William took me there with him.
He then told his A.D.C., Captain the Honourable Guy Wyndham, to show me round that vast and fascinating building. With delight and admiration I saw that Wyndham was not wearing dreary battle-dress, but Bedford cord breeches, riding-boots polished to mirror brightness, the chainmail epaulets of a famous Cavalry regiment and, on his chest, decorations for gallantry won in the Korean War. It can be imagined how, during our long tour, scores of American officers cast at him looks of envy and how I rejoiced at this ‘Showing of the Flag'. It would have warmed any British heart to be seen in such company.

Anyhow, you may take it that the description given of the Pentagon in this story is accurate.

MURDER IN THE PENTAGON

T
HEY
say there has never been a murder in the Pentagon. As I stared down the muzzle of Colonel Somolo's automatic I knew that there was going to be one now. The weapon looked like a toy, and was almost hidden in his big, knobbly hand. Its report would not be heard through the nearly soundproof walls, but its bullet would kill me as certainly as one from a 4.5.

His widely spaced blue eyes were watery and looked as if he was about to cry. But that did not mean a thing. They were always like that and there was no hint of mercy in them. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead and, just as a drowning man is said to recall the high-spots of his life, there flashed through my mind the stages in the silent, secret battle we had fought.

Our country, Montebania, is small and poor; so when it joined N.A.TO. it was decided that only the Colonel and myself should be sent to Washington. Like the military missions of other nations, we were given offices in the foreign section of the Pentagon.

The vastness of the American war-house staggered us. It must be seen to be believed. In its bowels there are bus garages, taxi-ranks and an enormous hall round which are
ranged as many shops, clinics and cafeterias as one would find in a small town. Seventeen thousand men and women go to work there every day.

One can buy anything from nylons to travel; get teeth filled, have clothes pressed or go to church. A number of people have died there and several been born. No doubt the reason why there has never been a killing is the almost insoluble problem of disposing of a body. But Somolo had solved it and told me how he meant to get rid of mine.