The Black Mountain

by Rex Stout

but in a second there it was at my elbow, a level slab a foot above 113 the gunwale. Flattening my palm on its surface, I held us in and eased us along until Guido could reach it too. Following the briefing I had been given, I climbed out, stretched out on the rock on my belly, extended a hand for Guido to moor to, and learned that he had a healthy grip. As we kept the dinghy snug to the rock, Wolfe engineered himself up and over and was towering above me. Guido released his grip and shoved off, and the dinghy disappeared into the night. I scrambled to my feet. I had been told not to talk, so I whispered, "I'm turning on my flashlight." "No." "We'll tumble in sure as hell." "Keep close behind me. I know every inch of this. Here, tie this to my sack." I took his sweater, passed a sleeve under the straps, and knotted it with the other sleeve. He moved across the slab of rock, taking it easy, and I followed. Since I was three inches taller I could keep straight behind and still have a view ahead, though it wasn't much of a view, with the only light from some scattered stars. We stepped off the level slab onto another that sloped up, and then onto one that sloped down. Then we started up again, with loose coarse gravel underfoot instead of solid rock. WTien it got 114 steeper Wolfe slowed up, and stopped now and then to get his breath. I wanted to warn him that he could be heard breathing for half a mile and therefore we might as well avoid a lot of stumbles by using a light, but decided it would be bad timing. The idea was to get as far inland as possible before daylight, because we were supposed to have come north through the mountains from Galichnik, and then west toward Cetinje, and therefore it was undesirable to be seen near the coast. Also there was a particular spot about ten miles in, southeast of Cetinje, where we wanted to get something done before dawn. Ten miles in four hours was only a lazy stroll, but not in the dark across mountains, with Wolfe for a pacemaker. He developed several annoying habits. Realizing that we were at the crest of a climb before I did, he would stop so abruptly that I had to brake fast not to bump into him. He would stumble going uphill but not down, which was unconventional, and I decided he did it just to be eccentric. He would stand still, with his head tilted back and swiveling from side to side, for minutes at a time, and when we were well away from the coast and undertones were permitted and I asked him what for, he muttered, 115 "Stars. My memory has withered." The implication was that he was steering by them, and I didn't believe it. However, there were signs that he knew where he was, for instance, once at the bottom of a slope, after we had traveled at least eight miles, he turned sharply right, passed between two huge boulders where there was barely room for him, picked a way among a jungle of jagged rocks, stopped against a wall of rock that went straight up, extended his hands to it, and bent his head. Sound more than sight told me what he was doing, he had his hands cupped under a trickle of water coming down, and was drinking. I took a turn at it too and found it a lot better than what came from the faucet in Bari. After that I quit wondering if we were lost and just roaming around for the exercise. No hint of dawn had shown when, on a fairly level stretch, he decelerated until he was barely moving, finally stopped, and turned and asked what time it was. I looked at my wrist and said a quarter past four. "Your flashlight," he said. I drew it from a loop on my belt and switched it on, and he did the same with his. "You may have to find this spot without me," he said, "so you'd better take it in." He aimed his light to the left down a slope. "That one stone 116 should do it -- curled like the tail of a rooster. Put your light on it. There's no other like it between Budva and Podgorica. Get it indelibly." It was thirty yards away, and I approached over rough ground for a better look. Jutting up to three times my height, one corner swept up in an arc, and it did resemble a rooster's tail if you wanted to use your fancy. I moved my light up and down and across, and, using the light to return to Wolfe, saw that we were on a winding trail. "Okay." I told him. "Where?" "This way." He left the trail in the other direction and soon was scrambling up a steep slope. Fifty yards from the trail he stopped and aimed his light up at a sharp angle. "Can you make it up to that ledge?" It looked nearly perpendicular, twenty feet above our heads. "I can try," I said rashly, "if you stand where you'll cushion me when I fall." "Start at the right." He pointed. "There. Kneeling on the ledge, the crevice will be about at your eye level, running horizontally. As a boy I used to crawl inside it, but you can't. It slopes down a little from twelve inches in. Put it in as far as you can reach, and poke it farther back with your flashlight. When you come to retrieve it you'll have to 117 have a stick to fork it out with. You must bring the stick along because you won't find one anywhere near here." As he talked I was opening my pants and pulling up my sweater and shirt to get at the money belt. Preparations for this performance had been made at Bari, wrapping the bills, eight thousand dollars of them, in five tight little packages of oilskin, and putting rubber bands around them. I stuffed them into my jacket pockets and took off my knapsack. "Call me Tensing," I said, and went to the point indicated and started up. Wolfe changed positions to get a better angle for me with his light. I hooked my fingertips onto an inchwide rim as high as I could reach, got the edge of my sole on another rim two feet up, and pulled, and there was ten per cent of it already done. The next place for a foot was a projecting knob, which I made with no trouble, but then my foot slipped off and I was back at the bottom. Wolfe spoke. "Take off your shoes." "I am," I said coldly. "And socks." It wasn't too bad that way, just plenty bad enough. The ledge, when I finally made it, was at least ten inches wide. I called down to him, "You said to kneel. You come up and kneel. I'd like to see you." 118 "Not so loud," he said. By clinging to a crack with one hand I managed to get the packages from my pockets with the other and push them into the crevice as far as my arm would go, and to slip the flashlight from its loop and shove them back. Getting the flashlight back into the loop with one hand was impossible, and I put it in a jacket pocket. I twisted my head to look at the way back and spoke again. "I'll never make it down. Go get a ladder."

  "Hug it," he said, "and use your toes." Of course it was worse than going up -- it always is -- but I made it. When I was on his level again he growled, "Satisfactory." Not bothering to reply, I sat down on a rock and played the flashlight over my feet. They weren't cut to the bone anywhere, just some bruises and scratches, and no real flow of blood. There was still some skin left on most of the toes. Putting my socks and shoes on, I became aware that my face was covered with sweat and reached for my handkerchief.

  "Come on," Wolfe said. "Listen," I told him. "You wanted to get that lettuce cached before dawn, and it's there. But if there's any chance that I'll be sent to get it alone, we'd better not go on 119 until daylight. I'll recognize the rooster's tail, that's all right, but how will I find it if I've traveled both approaches in the dark?" "You'll find it," he declared. "It's only two miles to Rijeka, and a trail all the way. I should have said very satisfactory. Come on." He moved. I got up and followed. It was still pitch dark. In half a mile I realized that we were hitting no more upgrades, it was all down. In another half a mile it was practically level. A dog barked, not far off. There was space around us -- my eyes had accommodated to the limit, but I felt it rather than saw it -- and underfoot wasn't rock or gravel, more like packed earth. A little farther on Wolfe stopped, turned, and spoke. "We've entered the valley of the Moracha." He turned on his flashlight and aimed it ahead. "See that fork in the trail? Left joins the road to Rijeka. We'll take it later, now we'll find a place to rest." He turned the light off and moved. At the fork he went right. This was according to plan as disclosed to me. There was no inn at Rijeka, which was only a village, and we were looking for a haystack. Ten minutes earlier we would have had to use the flashlights to find one, but now, as the trail became a road, there 120 was suddenly light enough to see cart ruts, and in another hundred paces Wolfe turned left into a field, and I followed. The dim outline of the haystack was the wrong shape, but it was no time to be fussy, and I circled to the side away from the road, knelt, and started pulling out handfuls. Soon I had a niche deep enough for Wolfe. I asked him,
"Do you wish to eat before going to your room?" "No." He was grim. "I'm too far gone." "A bite of chocolate would make a new man of you." "No. I need help." I got erect and helped him off with his knapsack. He removed his jacket, got into his sweater, put the jacket back on, and down he went � first to one knee, then both, then out flat. Getting into the niche was more than a simple rolling operation, since its mattress of hay was a good eight inches above ground level, but he made it. "I'll take your shoes off," I offered. "Confound it, no! I'd never get them on again!" "Okay. If you get hungry ask for room service." I knelt to go to work on another niche, and made it long enough to stow the knapsacks at my head. When I was in and had myself arranged, facing outward, I 121 called to Wolfe, "There's a faint pink glow in the east across the valley, ten miles away, above the Albanian Alps. Swell scenery." No reply. I shut my eyes. Birds were singing.

  122 FR1;Chapter 7 My first daylight view of Montenegro, some eight hours later, when I rolled out of the niche and stepped to the corner of the haystack, had various points of interest. Some ten miles off my port bow as I stood, a sharp peak rose high above the others. It had to be Mount Lovchen, the Black Mountain, so that was northwest, and the sun agreed. To the east was the wide green valley, and beyond it more mountains, in Albania. To the south, some two hundred yards off, was a clump of trees with a house partly showing. To the southwest was Nero Wolfe. He was in his niche, motionless, his eyes wide open, glaring at me. "Good morning," I told him. "What time is it?" he demanded. He sounded hoarse. I looked at my wrist. "I should have said afternoon. Twenty to two. I'm hungry and thirsty." 123 "No doubt." He closed his eyes and in a moment opened them again. "Archie." "Yes, sir." "It is not a question of muscles. My legs ache, of course, and my back, indeed, I ache all over, but that was to be expected and can be borne. What concerns me is my feet. They carry nearly a hundredweight more than yours, they have been pampered for years, and I may have abused them beyond tolerance. They must be rubbed, but I dare not take off my shoes. They are dead. My legs end at my knees. I doubt if I can stand, and I couldn't possibly walk. Do you know anything about gangrene?" "No, sir." "It occurs in the extremities when there is interference with both arterial and venous circulation, but I suppose the interference must be prolonged." "Sure. Eight hours wouldn't do it. I'm hungry." He shut his eyes. "I awoke to a dull misery, but it is no longer dull. It is overwhelming. I have been trying to move my toes, but I can't get the slightest sensation of having toes. The idea of squirming out of here and trying to stand up is wholly unacceptable. In fact, no idea whatever is acceptable other than asking you to pull my 124 feet out and take off my shoes and socks, and that would be disastrous because I would never get them back on." "Yeah. You said that before." I moved nearer. "Look, you might as well face it. This time stalling won't help. For years you've been talking yourself out of pinches, but it won't work on sore feet. If you can't walk there's no use trying. Tomorrow or next maybe, to prevent gangrene. Meanwhile there's a house in sight and I'll go make a call. How do you say in SerboCroat, 'Will you kindly sell me twenty pork chops, a peck of potatoes, four loaves of bread, a gallon of milk, a dozen oranges, five pounds --' " Unquestionably it was hearing words like pork and bread that made him desperate enough to move. He did it with care. First he eased his head and shoulders out until he had his elbows on the ground, and then worked on back until his feet slid out. Stretched out on his back, he bent his right knee and then his left, slowly and cautiously. Nothing snapped, and he started to pump, at first about ten strokes a minute, then gradually faster. I had moved only enough to give him room, thinking it advisable to be at hand when he tried standing up, but I never had to touch him because he rolled 125 over to the haystack and used it for a prop on his way up. Upright, he leaned against it and growled, "Heaven help me." "It's you, 0 Lord. Amen. Is that the Black Mountain?" He turned his head. "Yes. I never thought to see it again." He turned his back on it and was facing in the direction of the house in the clump of trees. "Why the devil weren't we disturbed long ago? I suppose old Vidin is no longer alive, but someone owns this haystack. We'll go and see. The knapsacks?" I got them from my niche, and we started for the road, which was only a cart track. Wolfe's gait could not have been called a stride, but he didn't actually totter. The track took us to the edge of the clump of trees, and there was the house, of gray rock, low and long, with a thatched roof and only two small windows and a door in the stretch of stone. Off to the right was a smaller stone building with no windows at all. It looked a little grim, but not grimy. There was no sign of life, human or otherwise. A path of flat stones led to the door, and Wolfe took it. His first knock got no response, but after the second one the door opened about two inches and a female voice came through. After Wolfe exchanged a few noises with the 126 voice the door closed. "She says her husband is in the barn," he told me. "This is preposterous. I heard a rooster and goats." He started across the yard toward the door of the other building, and when we were halfway there it opened and a man appeared. He shut the door, stood with his back against it, and asked what we wanted. Wolfe told him we wanted food and drink and would pay for it. He said he had no food and only water to drink. Wolfe said all right, we would start with water, told me to come, and led the way over to a well near a corner of the house. It bad a rope on a pulley, with a bucket at each end of the rope. One bucket, half full, was on the curb. I poured it into the trough, hauled up a fresh bucket, filled a cup that was there on a flat stone, and handed it to Wolfe. We each drank three cupfuls, and he reported on his talk with our host. "It's worse than preposterous," he declared, "it's grotesque. Look at him. He resembles old Vidin some and may be a relative. In any case, he is certainly Montenegrin. Look at him. Six feet tall, a jaw like a rock, an eagle's beak for a nose, a brow to take any storm. In ten centuries the Turks could never make him whine. Even under the despotism of Black George he kept his 127 head up as a man. But Communist despotism has done for him. Twenty years ago two strangers who had damaged his haystack would have been called to account, today, having espied us in trespass on his property, he tells his wife to stay indoors and shuts himself in the barn with his goats and chickens. Do you know how Tennyson addressed Tsemagora -- the Black Mountain?"

  "No." "The last three lines of a sonnet: "Great TseryiagorOy never since thine own Black ridges drew the cloud and broke the storm Has breathed a race of mightier mountaineers." He scowled in the direction of the mighty mountaineer standing at the barn door. "Pfui! Give me a thousand dinars." While I was getting the roll from my pocket -- procured for us by Telesio in Bari -- I didn't need to figure how much I was shelling out because I already had it filed that a thousand dinars was $3.33. Wolfe took it and approached our host. His line as later reported: "We pay you for the damage to your hay128 stack, which you can repair in five minutes. We also pay you for food. Have you any oranges?" He looked startled, suspicious, wary, and sullen, all at once. He shook his head. "No." "Any coffee?" "No." "Bacon or ham?" "No. I have nothing at all." "Bosh. If you think we are spies from Podgorica, or even Belgrade, you are wrong. We are �" The man cut in. "You must not say Podgorica. You must say Titograd." Wolfe nodded. "I am aware that the change has been made, but I haven't made up my mind whether to accept it. We have returned recently from the world outside, we are politically unattached, and we are starving. If necessary, my son, who is armed, can engage you while I enter the barn and get chickens � we would need two. It would be simpler and more agreeable for you to take this money and have your wife feed us. Have you any bacon or ham?" "No." "Something left of a kid?" "No." Wolfe roared, "Then what the devil have you?" 129 "Some sausage, of a sort." He hated to admit it. "A few eggs perhaps. Bread, and possibly a little lard." Wolfe turned to me. "Another thousand dinars." I produced it, and he proffered it, with its twin, to our host. "Here, take it. We're at your mercy -- but no lard. I overate of lard in my youth, and the smell sickens me. Your wife might conceivably find a little butter somewhere." "No." He had the dough. "Butter is out of the question." "V
ery well. That would pay for two good meals in the best hotel in Belgrade. Please bring us a pan, a piece of soap, and a towel." He moved, in no hurry, to the house door and inside. When he came out again he had the articles requested. Wolfe put the metal pan, which was old and dented but clean, on the stone curb of the well, poured it half full of water, took off his jacket and sweater, rolled up his sleeves, and washed. I followed suit. The water was so cold it numbed my fingers, but I was getting used to extreme hardship. The gray linen towel, brought ironed and folded, was two feet wide and four feet long when opened up. After I had got our combs and brushes from the knapsacks, and they had been used and repacked, I poured fresh water in the pan, placed it 130 on the ground, sat on the edge of the well curb, took off my shoes and socks, and put a foot in the water. Stings and tingles shot through every nerve I had. Wolfe stood gazing down at the pan. "Are you going to use soap?" he asked wistfully. "I don't know. I haven't decided." "You should have rubbed them first." "No." I was emphatic. "My problem is different from yours. I lost hide." He sat on the curb beside me and watched while I paddled in the pan, one foot and then the other, dried them with gentle pats of the towel, put on clean socks and my shoes, washed the dirty socks, and stretched them on a bush in the sun. When I started to wash the pan out he suddenly blurted, "Wait a minute. I think I'll risk it." "Okay. I guess you could probably make it to Rijeka barefooted." The test was never made because our host appeared and spoke, and Wolfe got up and headed for the door of the house, and I followed. The ceiling of the room we entered wasn't as low as I had expected. The wallpaper was patterned in green and yellow, but you couldn't see much of it on account of the dozens of pictures, all about the same size. There were rugs on the floor, 131 carved chests and chairs with painted decorations, a big iron stove, and one small window. By the window was a table with a red cloth, with two places set -- knives and forks and spoons and napkins. Wolfe and I went and sat, and two women came through an arched doorway. One of them, middleaged, in a garment apparently made of old gray canvas, aimed sharp black eyes straight at us as she approached, bearing a loaded tray. The other one, following, made me forget how hungry I was for a full ten seconds. I didn't get a good view of her eyes because she kept them lowered, but the rest of her boosted my rating of the scenery of Montenegro more than the Black Mountain had. When they had delivered the food and left I asked Wolfe, "Do you suppose the daughter wears that white blouse and embroidered green vest all the time?" He snorted. "Certainly not. She heard us speaking a foreign tongue, and we paid extravagantly for food. Would a Montenegrin girl miss such a chance?" He snorted again. "Would any girl? So she changed her clothes." "That's a hell of an attitude," I protested. "We should appreciate her taking the trouble. If you want to take off your 132 shoes, go ahead, and we can rent the haystack by the week until the swelling goes down." He didn't bother to reply. Ten minutes later I asked him, "Why do they put gasoline in the sausage?" At that, it wasn't a bad meal, and it certainly was needed. The eggs were okay, the dark bread was a little sour but edible, and the cherry jam, out of a half-gallon crock, would have been good anywhere. Someone told Wolfe later that in Belgrade fresh eggs were forty dinars apiece, and we each ate five, so we weren't such suckers. After one sip I gave the tea a miss, but there was nothing wrong with the water. As I was spreading jam on another slice of bread our host entered and said something and departed. I asked Wolfe what. He said the cart was ready. I asked, what cart? He said to take us to Rijeka. I complained. "This is the first I've heard about a cart. The understanding was that you report all conversations in full. You have always maintained that if I left out anything at all you would never know whether you had the kernel or not. Now that the shoe's on the other foot, if you'll excuse my choice of metaphor, I feel the same way." I don't think he heard me. His belly was 133 full, but he was going to have to stand up again and walk, and he was too busy dreading it to debate with me. As we pushed back our chairs and got up, the daughter appeared in the arch and spoke, and I asked Wolfe, "What did she say?" "Sretan put." "Please spell it." He did so. "What does it mean?" "Happy going." "How do I say, 'The going will be happier if you come along5?" "You don't." He was on his way to the door. Not wanting to be rude, I crossed to the daughter and offered a hand, and she took it. Hers was nice and firm. For one little flash she raised her eyes to mine and then dropped them again. "Roses are red," I said distinctly, "violets are blue, sugar is sweet, and so are you." I gave her hand a gentle squeeze and tore myself away. Out in the yard I found Wolfe standing with his arms folded and his lips compressed, glaring at a vehicle that deserved it. The horse wasn't so bad -- undersized, nearer a pony than a horse, but in good shape -- but the cart it was hitched to was nothing but a big wooden box on two ironrimmed wheels. Wolfe turned to me. 134 T "He says," he said bitterly, "that he put hay in it to sit on." I nodded. "You'd never reach Rijeka alive." I went and got the knapsacks and our sweaters and jackets, and my socks from the bush. "It's only a little over a mile, isn't it? Let's go." 135 FR1;Chapter 8 To build Rijeka all they had to do was knock off chunks of rock, roll them down to the edge of the valley, stack them in rectangles, and top the rectangles with thatched roofs; and that was all they had done, about the time Columbus started across the Atlantic to find India. Mud from the April rains was a foot deep in the one street, but there was a raised sidewalk of flat stones on either side. As we proceeded along it, single file, Wolfe in the lead, I got an impression that we were not welcome. I caught glimpses of human forms ahead, one or two on the sidewalk, a couple of children running along the top of a low stone wall, a woman in a yard with a broom, but they all disappeared before we reached them. There weren't even any faces at windows as we went by. I asked Wolfe's back, "What have we got, fleas?" He stopped and turned. "No. They have. 136 The sap has been sucked out of their spines. Pfui." He went on. A little beyond the center of the village he left the walk to turn right through a gap in a stone wall into a yard. The house was set back a little farther than most of them? and was a little wider and higher. The door was arched at the top, with fancy carvings up the sides. Wolfe raised a fist to knock, but before his knuckles touched, the door swung open and a man confronted us. Wolfe asked him, "Are you George Bilic?" "I am." He was a low bass. "And you?" "My name is unimportant, but you may have it. I am Tone Stara, and this is my son Alex. You own an automobile, and we wish to be driven to Podgorica. We will pay a proper amount." Bilic's eyes narrowed. "I know of no place called Podgorica." "You call it Titograd. I am not yet satisfied with the change, though I may be. My son and I are preparing to commit our sympathy and our resources. Of you we require merely a service for pay. I am willing to call it Titograd as a special favor to you." "Where are you from and how did you get here?" "That's our affair. You need merely to 137 know that we will pay two thousand dinars to be driven twenty-three kilometers -- or six American dollars, if you prefer them." Bilic's narrow eyes in his round puffy face got narrower. "I do not prefer American dollars and I don't like such an ugly suggestion. How do you know I own an automobile?"