Complete Fictional Works of John Buchan (Illustrated)

by John Buchan

  The Gobernador appeared to be satisfied, and, after compliments, Colonel Lindburg withdrew. But when the policeman had gone the great man opened a dispatch-box and took from it a small memoranda book. He reread it a message which he had received from Paris a month earlier, warning him that there was reason to believe the one X — (the name was obviously in code) had left Europe and was probably in Olifa. At the same time he turned up certain reports handed to him by the most trusted member of the Administration’s special police. These recorded various odd actions on the part of several members of the Mines engineering staff, on whom the Administration had chosen to keep a special eye. There seemed, said one report, to be a good deal of private meeting and talking among them, as if some agent had arrived to stir them up. A mysterious visitor had been seen, but the trail of him had been lost before he could be identified; the physical appearance had suggested Senor de Marzaniga, with whom, as a member of an ancient and intransigent Olifa family, the secret service was well acquainted. The Gobernador brooded over these notes. There was nothing special importance in them; weekly, daily, he was in the habit of receiving similar communications; but some instinct in led him to single these out, and he had diverted the Olifa police to what had proved to be a wild-goose chase...He was not satisfied, but he dismissed the thing from his mind. He had too many hard certainties before him to waste time on speculations.

  It was surprising during these days how much time the great man gave to the study of the press. Not the Olifa press, but that of every other South American country, and the United States. His sitting-room was often like the reading-room in a public library, for he seemed to have an insatiable appetite for the journalism of the New World. Often he studied it in conjunction with the Olifa Ministers, and the study appeared to give them pleasure. There was the moment an awkward situation in Mexico, and a more awkward one in connection with the little republic, of Costemala, where Washington was upholding with several warships and a considerable force of marines an administration which apparently was not desired by the Costemalans.

  There was also trouble in the Canal Zone, where a certain state, hitherto most amenable to America’s persuasion, had played a sudden recalcitrancy. The American people seemed to be in a bad temper over these pinpricks, an influential Senator had made a truculent speech, various patriotic societies had held monster demonstrations, and the press was inclined to be flamboyant. There was a great deal talk about America’s manifest destiny; responsible newspapers discoursed upon the difficulty of a high civilisation existing side by side with a lower, and of the duty of imperfect democracies of the South to accept the guidance the mature democracy of the North. The popular press waved the flag vigorously, published half-tone pictures of stalwart American marines among the debased citizens of Costemala, and graphs showing how trivial was the wealth and how trumpery the armed forces of Latin America as compared with their own. The rest of the New World, it said, had got to learn to be democratic or take its medicine.

  These heroics did not go unchallenged, for on the Gobernador’s table were clippings from high-toned American weeklies, and addresses by University professors, and speeches of cross-bench public men, who, also in the name of democracy, denounced what they called a policy of imperial brigandage. The Gobernador read both sides with an approving eye. “This thing has been well managed,” he told Senor Sanfuentes. “Holloway has not disappointed me.”

  The press of the Latin South had a quieter tone, but was notable for its curious unanimity, which extended even to the phrasing. The United States, it announced, was forsaking democracy for imperialism, the white robes of liberty for the purple of the tyrant. Very carefully and learnedly and urbanely, with many references to past history, it stated the case for the sacrosanctity of nationalities. It did not refer to the League of Nations, but professed to base its arguments on America’s past professions, and the great republican cause to which the continent was dedicate There was an admirable good temper in its tone, and a modest but complete defiance. It could not believe that the great hearts and the wise heads of Washington would the betrayed into this dictatorial folly. The sounder elements in the United States would prevent it. It appealed from Philip drunk to Philip sober.

  The Gobernador studied the journalism of the Latin republics with special attention, and his visitors shared his satisfaction. “There is not a word wrong or a word too much,” observed Senor Aribia, who was himself a newspaper-owner. “This will make havoc among the mugwumps.”

  “What a fortunate chance,” exclaimed the Minister of External Affairs, “that the trouble with Costemala and Panama has arisen just at this moment!” His prominent eyes twinkled.

  “It is indeed a fortunate chance,” said the Gobernador gravely.

  XI

  On the third day of the Gobernador’s stay visitors of a different type came to the building in the Avenida. Archie, in a new suit of flannels, limped up the steps, and had his card sent up to the great man. While he waited, Janet appeared, in a summer costume of pale blue linen, with a cornflower-blue hat which brought out delightfully the colour of her eyes and hair. They were admitted at once, for they had evidently come by appointment. The tall porter who conducted them to the lift looked approvingly at the lady, and the three men who were lounging in the corridor outside the Gobernador’s private room made audible and appreciative comments. The three were dressed like the ordinary Olifero clerk, but they bulged a little at the hips; their names were Carreras, a Spaniard, Biretti, an Italian, and Daniel Judson, who passed as an Australian.

  The Gobernador seemed to welcome the Roylances’ intrusion. He had many questions to ask — about their impressions of the Gran Seco, about Veiro and Don Mario, what class of polo Olifa afforded in Archie’s view, the date of their return home. His manner towards them was paternal, as to two attractive children who had strayed into a dusty office.

  “The heats are beginning,” he said, “and Olifa loses its pleasant visitors. The Americans have fled, I understand — the noisy young people, I mean, who were in the an Seco when you were there.”

  “All but one,” said Janet. “Barbara Dasent, whom you met at Veiro, is still here. The Corinna is back in the old Harbour, and she will give us a lift to Panama...Excellency, I am going to be very bold. We want you to come and dine with us one night before we go.”

  The Gobernador looked at the girl, flushed, laughing, like child who is in doubt as to how its audacity will be taken; he looked at Archie, very cool and sunburnt; and then he looked at Janet again. He was a student of human nature, but he had never in his varied experience met such a type before. Here was beauty without egotism, one who seemed to him to look out upon life in a mood of mingled innocence, mirth, and adventure, a woman without the feminine arts which had always wearied him, but with a charm the stronger for its unconsciousness. The Gobernador did not allow himself holidays, but, like all mortals, needed change, and Janet seemed to offer a new atmosphere.

  “I thank you, but, alas! I do not go into society,” he said. “There are difficulties, you see. You are at Hotel de la Constitucion? Well, if I dined with you the hotel, there would be something of a scene. That is vanity on my part, Lady Roylance, but there are so many people who wish me to do things for them or to ask questions that I cannot safely go into public places.”

  His face showed that he wished to accept, and Janet emboldened.

  “We quite see that. Besides, the hotel is a noisy place. What we propose is that you come and dine with us on the Corinna. It will be deliciously cool on the water, only Barbara Dasent will be there. Then we can have a proper talk, and Archie and I will sit at your feet.”

  The Gobernador smiled. “Your invitation is seductive. I think I can arrange to-morrow night. I will be on the quay at the Old Harbour at half past seven — the Corinna, I think, lies in the outer basin...By the way, I have to take certain precautions — the Government insists on it. There are three men who are always with me...”

  “That’s all righ
t,” said Archie. “We’ll send the launch. I say, this is topping. I only wish you were coming on with us to Panama!”

  The three men, Carreras, Biretti, and Judson, took their duties seriously. As soon as they heard that the Gobernador was to dine on board the American yacht, they set preparing for emergencies. They were supreme ruffians, each with a string of murders to his credit, but they were loyal to their immediate paymaster. They arranged with the Port authorities — for the Gobernador’s bodyguard had considerable purchase in Olifa and often acted without consulting their master — that a harbour patrol boat should be lying adjacent to the Corinna between the hours of seven and eleven on the following night. In response to an agreed signal it should close the yacht. They also took counsel with one of the Corinna’s engineers, for in their profession they left nothing to chance. This was a rough, sulky-looking fellow who spoke with a strong Glasgow accent. He must have had a past uncommon among the hands of in well-appointed yacht, for on his arrival in Olifa he had been welcomed into a life of which the authorities of that respectable capital knew little. He seemed to have ample leisure, and spent it for the most part in shadowy back greets. In small wine-shops, in rooms remote from the public eye, he drank and gambled and talked with queer customers. They were not the ordinary riff-raff of the port, but some of them men of good presence and manners, with pale faces and absorbed eyes and a great gift of silence. It was a furtive company, which dispersed always one by one, and did not talk till it was certain of secrecy.

  Carreras, Biretti, and Judson had joined this group on their arrival, and the Scotsman had become their special intimate. To the others he was Senor Jorge, but Judson, who seemed to have known him before, called him Red Geordie. The massive set of his jaw and his sullen blue eyes seemed to have earned him respect, for, when he spoke, he was always listened to. There was some bond between him and the Gobernador’s three, for they told him of the approaching visit to the Corinna and the precautions they had taken. The consequence was that on the following morning he, too, became active. He put on his engineer’s uniform and visited the Port authorities, where he interviewed a variety of polite officials. After that he descended into the harbourside quarters, and had speech with others who were not polite. It is probable that he returned from his round of interviews a little poorer than when he started.

  The early tropic dusk had fallen when the Gobernador’s car deposited him at the quay of the Old Harbour, and from a taxi in his wake descended his three attendants. Archie Roylance was waiting on the steps, and conducted his guest to the trim launch, manned by two of the yacht hands and the sulky Scottish engineer. The three trusties bestowed themselves forward, and a look of intelligence passed between them and the engineer. Archie fussed about to make the Gobernador comfortable in the stern, and wrapped a rug round his knees to avert the evening chill from the water.

  The launch threaded its way through the shipping of the Old Harbour and came into the outer basin where the Corinna lay alone, except for a patrol boat a quarter of mile off. In the dusk the water-front was a half-mile of twinkling lights, while beyond them the Avenida de Paz ran in a great double belt of radiance to the starry cone of the Ciudad Nueva. Against the mulberry sky a puff of smoke stood out from the Corinna’s funnel.

  “Getting up steam, sir,” Archie observed. “We’ve said good-bye to Olifa and we start in the small hours. A place always looks its jolliest when you are leaving it.”

  The dining-room of the yacht was already cool with land breeze drifting through its open port-holes. The table, bright with linen and glass and silver, was only big enough for the party of four. The Gobernador, sitting between Janet and Barbara Dasent, was in good spirits and looked appreciatively at the soft harmony of colours. Some sunset gleam had caught the water and the reflection of it brought a delicate glow into the room. Even Barbara’s paleness was rosy.

  They talked of many things — of Europe, of politics, of books, of the future of mankind (these were some chaotic speculations of Archie, who seemed to be nervous and had the air of a lower boy breakfasting with the headmaster), of England a little, and much of America. The Gobernador was the soul of courtesy, and was accustomed to respect the prejudices of others. But Barbara was in a mood of candour about her countrymen and she occasionally forced him into a polite agreement. Something had happened to Barbara, for she talked fast and brilliantly, and her eye had an unaccustomed vivacity.

  “We are overrun with silly women,” she said. “The United States is a woman’s country, Excellency, and we let them paint the picture which we show to the world. I do not think it is an attractive picture — a mixture of shallow-schwarmerei and comfortless luxury — a life of plumbing, and dentistry, and bi-focal glasses, and facial and mental uplift, and snobbery about mushroom families, and a hard, brittle sweetness stuck on with pins. No wonder you do not like us!”

  “I did not say that, Miss Dasent. I am not sure that assent to any of your complaints, except the schwarmerei; and that I think is not confined to your ladies.”

  “I was making a catalogue of the details of the picture we present to the world. It is an ugly picture, and I know you hate it. So do I...All the same it is a false picture, for we are the worst publicity agents on earth. The trouble is that we have had no second Columbus. Nobody from outside has ever discovered the true America.”

  The Gobernador dissented.

  “You are hard on yourselves. If I want acrid criticism of the United States, I pick up an American novel. Or I take the saying of one of your own Presidents that the modern American millionaire has usually a daughter who is a foreign princess and a son who is in a lunatic asylum. I do not take that sort of thing at its face value. You are a great people which has not yet found itself.”

  “You do not like us.”

  “As a student of humanity I am deeply interested in you.”

  “You are tolerant, because you do not like America. I an intolerant because I love it.”

  The Gobernador raised his glass and bowed. “A very honourable confession of faith. If all her daughters were you, Miss Dasent, it would be right that America should remain a woman’s country.”

  The talk drifted to lighter matters — to music, which Barbara and the Gobernador discussed with a technical profundity appalling to Archie; to a German novel which had set the world talking; to European personalities in art and politics. Presently they left the dining-room, and ascended to a shelter on the upper deck from which the harbour was seen like a gulf of blackness rimmed by fiery particles. The Gobernador, who noticed everything, observed that the patrol boat was no longer there and that the Corinna swam alone in an inky solitude. He saw no signs of his bodyguard; no doubt, he decided, they were ensconced in the shadows beyond, where the lifeboats swung from their davits.

  But the three trusties were not there. They had spent a turbulent evening, and were now in a less comfortable state than their master. They had insisted on having their meal in close proximity to the dining-room, and the surly Scotch engineer had shared it with them. Between them these convivial souls had consumed a good deal of liquor, which appeared to go rapidly to the heads of the visitors, The engineer had then proposed an adjournment to his own quarters for further refreshment, and had shepherded them down a narrow alley-way, he himself going last. There was a heavy iron door, and as each of the three passed through it, on the other side he was caught round the middle by powerful arms which prevented him getting at his hip-pocket. Other hands swiftly gagged him, and still others removed his gun. The thing was done in almost complete silence. Only one of the three managed to put up a fight, and he was promptly laid low by a terrific upper-cut from a seaman who had once been known as Battling Hubby, the pride of Jersey City. In something under three minutes the three heroes were gagged and trussed, and reposing, in a somewhat unreposeful state of mind, on a pile of awnings.

  “That’s a tidy bit of work, Geordie,” the pugilistic sea-man observed to the morose engineer, and the answer was, “I’ve
seen waur.”

  Then the engineer did a curious thing. He went aft, and with a lantern signalled to the patrol boat which lay a quarter of a mile off. The signal was observed, and presently the boat moved quietly away, leaving the Corinna solitary in the outer basin.

  Coffee was served to the party on the upper deck, and the guest filled his ancient briar. The steward, as he left, gave a message to Archie: “Hamilton’s compliments, sir, and the men has finished the job forward “ — at which Archie nodded. He was sitting in an alcove, with a small electric bell behind his arm. The Gobernador sat in a wicker chair, with a lamp on his left side, so that, by the configuration of the deck, his splendid head was silhouetted against the opaque velvet of the harbour waters. Janet and Barbara on lower chairs were sitting literally at his feet. The guest seemed to have fallen under the spell of the light which was drawing round them as close as a mantle.

  The shore lights did not speak of human habitation; rather they seemed as remote as a star, an extension of the infinite stellar system which faintly patterned the darkness. The stillness, the brooding canopy of the night, silenced the others, but with the Gobernador it acted as a stimulus to talk. He seemed to sit above them like an impersonal mind, his profile growing clearer as the light went out of the background of the sea.

  “You are a soldier?” he asked Archie.

  “I was. Keen, but undistinguished. The Air Force isn’t a place for high strategy. But I’ve always lived among soldiers and heard their chat.”

  “It has been a great profession, but it is closed now, Sir Archibald. Science has reduced war to an everlasting stalemate. It was always on the edge of stalemate. Consider the few moves any general had to his hand. He could break a line or he could outflank it, and he could do either only by superior force or by surprise. But science has now created a norm of weapon and munitionment, which is substantially the same for all armies. It has eliminated the human factor of superiority both in general and troops. It established, too, a norm of intelligence which makes surprise impossible. Therefore there is no room to-day for military Napoleon. The Napoleon of the future must win by other methods than war. Do you agree?”