We lunched together and after, in a hired car, drove through the pine forests to Ste. Maxime. The Concours d’Elégance had attracted quite a crowd. Some fifty cars, beribboned—polished—with their drivers clad in their smartest beach creations, drove slowly up and down.
The obvious winner was a great silver sporting Rolls, driven by a small, fair woman.
‘Look—look—she has won, that one,’ cried my companion, as the judges hung a placard on the bonnet of the silver car. ‘I knew she would—it is always so.’
‘You know her then?’ I murmured, my thoughts on other things.
‘Of course,’ a rather bitter little smile parted the lips of the loveliness at my side, ‘she is my sister-in-law—the notorious Madame Ribereau; you must have heard of her; but to see her again has spoilt it here for me—let us go back to the Surmer: I wish only to be alone with you…. Oh! please—what is it?—you are hurting!’
Well, I’m afraid I was—for my grip on that golden arm must have been a hard one as I hurried her away.
STORY VII
THIS story of the Korean War dates the period in which it was written. I was greatly tempted to write a full-length novel about that war, because it offered a promising background for my character Julian Day. He first appeared in The Quest of Julian Day, which enabled me to give my readers an account of many of the marvels of the ancient Egyptian civilisation, as I had recently returned from a long and fascinating trip up the Valley of the Nile. Julian’s second appearance was in The Sword of Fate which described General Wavell’s magnificent campaign in which, against great odds, he drove the Italians out of Libya, and our disastrous campaign in Greece.
But I have never visited the Far East; so I feared that I might not be able to give a novel the authentic background touches that have proved such an asset to most of my other books.
THE LAST CARD
WU-CHIN sat cross-legged on the stone floor of the cellar. Had a light pierced the pitch darkness, his young, flattish face and velvety brown eyes would have betrayed no sign of emotion, but he thought his chances of living through the night very slender.
The occasional boom of long-range guns had suddenly been submerged in a thunderous drum fire; the Americans had opened their barrage so he knew that the attack that was to take place would not now be long delayed. He regarded their penetration to the North Korean Divisional Headquarters at which he was held prisoner as a foregone conclusion, but had little hope that he would still be there to be rescued by them on their arrival. There would be ample time for his captors first to remove or shoot any prisoners they had in the locality, and as he was not in uniform he expected to be shot.
He was not afraid to die. The Confucian philosophy which he had imbibed with his mother’s milk armoured him against the fear of death and made him regard it as imperative that he should conduct himself with irreproachable behaviour when taken to execution; but all the same, he was far from accepting his situation with the resigned fatalism habitual among Orientals of the lower castes. As a student at Seoul University he had assimilated many Western ideas, and among them the belief that it was wrong to meet death half-way unless by surrendering life one could render some worth-while service to those one loved, or to one’s country.
It was of the awful fate which had overtaken his country that he was thinking now. Its people, although far from rich, were normally happy, contented and well-behaved. The past quarter of a century had seen considerable progress both in their industries and social well-being. With the ending of the Great War there had seemed good hopes of Southern Korea taking an honourable place among the free nations of the East. Then, almost without warning, she had found herself the focal point of an issue utterly beyond her control. She had become the first testing place in which the two great ideologies of democracy and Communism had clashed. Now she was rent from end to end, her cities devastated, her farmsteads burning, her people homeless and stampeding, first one way then another, as the contending armies surged to and fro in terrible tidal waves of hurtling aircraft, whistling bullets, crashing shells, and bursting bombs.
To a young man of Wu-Chin’s cultured upbringing, Communism meant the reduction of the individual to a machine and the death of all spiritual values; so immediately the war started he had volunteered and he had been enormously heartened by the United Nations’ decision to maintain South Korea’s freedom by force of arms. He still felt confident that they would emerge victorious and afterwards rehabilitate his shattered country. His main regret now was that he would not live to see that glorious day.
As he spoke English he had soon been attached as an interpreter to an American battalion and had fought his way up the peninsula with it. Then, while they were preparing for the great offensive against Seoul, he had volunteered to cross no-man’s-land at night and locate the enemy batteries on his sector.
By exchanging his uniform for a peasant dress, it was easy for him to mingle with the civilian population, but he had naturally taken such precautions as he could against the possibility of capture. As an excuse, should he be challenged while wandering about the battle area, he had brought with him a pedlar’s pack containing bootlaces, buttons, pencils, paints, cigarettes, dice and various other items. The ruse had served him well during his first day behind the enemy lines, but that evening he had been overtaken by the sort of unpredictable piece of ill-fortune which is inseparable from civil war.
The village in which the Headquarters were situated had not so far sustained much damage and he had gone with his wares to the inn as the most likely place to pick up useful information. While haggling with some soldiers there, he had come face to face with an old acquaintance of his University days, named Mok-yang.
Recognition had been mutual, instantaneous, and disastrous for Wu-Chin, as Mok-yang was not only a lieutenant in the Communist army but had good excuse to hate him. Their quarrel went far deeper than their political differences. Mok-yang was of good birth but a most dubious character and by a skilful intrigue had nearly succeeded in annexing Wu-Chin’s sister with her considerable dowry. Wu-Chin had returned from a stay in Japan only just in time to unmask the fortune-hunter and stop the marriage.
Within two minutes of this fatal encounter, Wu-Chin had found himself under arrest and being hauled off to a well-built house which had once been the country residence of a Japanese official, but was now occupied by the General.
Mok-yang’s identification of him had been unchallengeable, and the plausible story he had made up about himself against such an eventuality had not been believed; but as searching, grilling, and beating him had produced no evidence contrary to it, they had locked him in the cellar to await further questioning.
As soon as he had recovered a little from his beating he had spent an hour groping about his prison, only to find that there was no way out of it other than by the stout, locked door, and that it contained no furniture of any kind. In it there was not even a loose brick or billet of wood that he could have used as a weapon.
That had been two nights ago. Since, he had seen only the guards who had twice brought him a pitcher of water and a bowl of rice. The only sounds that reached him had been the muffled crash of an occasional explosion and the scampering of a family of rats. But now the ground shook with the thunder of battle and he knew that any moment the guards would come to fetch him. The Headquarters was a good five miles behind the line and it was too much to hope that he would be forgotten in a panic evacuation.
Sitting cross-legged with his back against the wall, he shifted his position from time to time to ease the ache in his buttocks. An angry sore under his left armpit ached too, and he felt both hungry and far from well, but he waited patiently for the sound of footsteps which would herald the ending of his life.
At last they came. The darkness opposite him was streaked with a few pale lines of light. The door swung open. A torch flashed in his direction, made him blink, then a figure dimly seen behind it gruffly called to him to get up. Scrambling to his feet,
he crossed the cellar, passed the soldier who held the torch and followed a second man who was waiting just outside up the stone stairs.
They took him to the room in which he had been questioned two nights before. Behind a table sat the General, a small, narrow-eyed, plump-faced man. With him were three other officers. The guards remained at the door while Wu-Chin shambled towards the table, then halted limp and sick-looking in front of it.
‘Well!’ snapped the General in a querulous voice. ‘As you can hear, your friends the Americans have launched their offensive. We now have no time to waste. This is your last chance. Are you prepared to tell us what you know?’
‘There is nothing of value I can tell you, General,’ Wu-Chin replied in a weak voice. ‘As I said before, it is true that I used to be an anti-Communist and joined the southern army in the early days of the war. But the ruin which the Americans have brought to our country and their barbarous treatment of our people utterly disgusted me; so I deserted. That was over two months ago. Since then, I have been scraping a living as best I could by peddling odds and ends among your troops.’
‘You lie! You are a spy and were behind our lines endeavouring to obtain information for the capitalist-imperialist oppressors. We have a short way with such scum. Either you talk or I will have you taken outside and shot.’
Wu-Chin gave a feeble shrug. ‘I can say no more, sir. And I am not afraid to die. In…’ his voice faltered slightly, ‘… in any case I have only a few hours to live.’
The General’s beady eyes narrowed. ‘What the devil do you mean by that?’
A pale smile flickered over Wu-Chin’s lips. ‘I mean, sir, that you and your staff are fortunate to be leaving this place. There are rats in the cellar and two nights ago one of them bit me.’
‘So it’s blood poisoning from the bite that make you look so ill, eh?’ The General gave a high-pitched cackle of laughter. ‘But men do not necessarily die from that. Tell me all you know of the forces opposite us and I’ll have the wound treated. Then you’ll recover.’
Wu-Chin shook his head. ‘This is no ordinary blood poisoning, General. Look!’
As he spoke, he ripped open his ragged shirt, exposing his left breast and armpit. Where his arm joined his chest, the skin was discoloured by a great purple blotch. It was puffy, broken and seeping blood a little; from it radiated hideous streaks of greenish yellow.
With a gasp, the General thrust back his chair. The faces of his officers showed their consternation. One of them hissed out the words:
‘The plague! He has the plague!’
Wu-Chin nodded. ‘You see; it would be an act of mercy to have me shot.’
‘Take him out!’ snarled the General to the guards. ‘Take him out and shoot him!’
Neither of them moved. They stared at the prisoner, their faces grey with terror. Wu-Chin gave a weak laugh and said: ‘You can hardly wonder, sir, that they fear to risk contagion by laying hands upon me.’
Suddenly a flicker of cunning showed in the General’s dark eyes. He was already on his feet and giving Wu-Chin a wide berth making for the door, followed by his officers.
‘You are right,’ he said sharply, ‘and why should we waste a bullet? We’ll leave you locked in here. When the Americans find you, it is certain they will be fools enough either to rush you to a hospital or, if you are dead, bury you. With luck, you’ll spread the plague among them.’
Five minutes later, Wu-Chin was still a prisoner, but he was seated at the General’s desk and helping himself to a cigarette. His shoulders were square again and as he began to go through the papers that had been left behind as a result of the General’s panic exit, his face wore a seraphic smile, for he had played his last card with complete success.
It had been simple after capture to lacerate his armpit with his fingernails and one of the precautions he had taken against capture before crossing no-man’s-land had been to make use of some of the items in his pedlar’s pack. The hideous discolouration on his chest was only paint.
STORY VIII
NOW for a freak. This story is a product of my childhood and, as far as I can recall, the first I ever wrote. It had passed entirely from my memory until a kind aunt, who spoiled me delightfully when I was young, on learning of my success as an author, sent me a copy of it as a curiosity, and a charming message that she had always treasured my first manuscript in the belief that I would write real stories one day.
On re-reading it I am utterly appalled at what was evidently my attitude to the coloured citizens of the Empire at that time. ‘Black fools’ hardly seems a polite, or even diplomatic, way in which to address a crowd of high-caste Indian priests whom you have angered by breaking into the sacred precincts of their temple. However, I have changed not a word or a comma, and you may consider me a thoroughly nasty little boy, as I probably was, on this evidence.
In spite of all its absurdities, clichés, and shortcomings I believe that this early effort does in some respects show the embryo of the mind that has since had the great fortune to tell tales that have intrigued readers in every land. The genuine gusto for story-telling is obviously there; the prolongation of the fight for life foreshadows the many pages which I have since covered with such scenes; and the tradition of loyalty to a friend, however desperate one’s situation, is already well established.
A word now to that carping reader who is never content. Don’t write to me and say: ‘I paid so-and-so for this book. How dare you cheat me of a portion of the price I paid by padding it out with such balderdash?’
This story is put in free, gratis, and for fun. Without it the book is still longer than the average volume you would get for the same money, as is always the case with my books.
I would also like to give away a little secret to aspiring authors who are still in their ’teens. I was not an infant prodigy of four when I wrote this boyish yarn of derring-do, but a comparatively sophisticated cadet in H.M.S. Worcester, aged fourteen. Therefore, however much your less sympathetic relatives may look down their noses at your first attempts screwed out with such pain and grief, take heart. If your stories are no worse than this there is hope for you yet.
THE SNAKE WITH THE DIAMOND EYES
ADVENTURE OF TWO BOYS IN CENTRAL INDIA
CHAPTER I
THE TEMPLE
‘HI FRED, stop a minute, look here, here is an old temple, looks a bit ancient, I guess its one of those that the old Buddhists or Mohameddans used to worship their wretched old idols in, still you can see no one has been near the place for years, let us have a look round, I want a rest for its still a good ten mile ride back through the jungle.’
So spoke Harry Ronalds the son of Colonel Ronalds of the 4th Bombay Lancers, who had just come out from England, after having been educated at Eton with his chum Fred Manners to stay for a couple of years in India with his father, before entering the army. The Colonel, not wishing him to come alone, had invited his friend Fred to come and stay with him.
The two friends after a hard day’s shooting in the jungle, had sent their native servant home with the game they had shot and were cantering away down a side track through the jungle which they thought would save them a couple of miles in the homeward journey, although the Colonel had often warned them against straying from the main track, but the two boys, beeing so certain that it would be alright, had disregarded the advice given them by the Colonel, and also Harry’s faithful native servant Julawar, whom they had sent back with the hardearned game.
So the two boys dismounted and tying their horses by the bridles to the nearest bamboo, Harry led the way through decaying pillars and ruined walls. After having wandered about for a quarter of an hour among the roofless halls and long passages covered in strange hieroglyphical characters, they came to a little opening in the floor and a flight of stone steps leading down into the earth. ‘Come here Harry’ cried Fred ‘Look what I’ve discovered let us go down and see where it leads us to, probably to the grave of some of these people, come on, do.’
‘Alright’ called Harry ‘here goes’, so saying he leapt down the crumbling steps, Fred following at his heels, they went on until, after what seem to be an interminable time they reached the bottom. ‘Here! Fred I say it’s awfully dark, where are you? ‘Here I am Harry, we had better not separate, catch hold of my arm, that’s right, forge ahead old man’.
The two friends grouped along through the darkness, when suddenly at their side there came a hissing sound. Instinctively the two boys turned towards it. Then out of the darkness there came a piercing pair of yellow eyes swaying from side to side.
‘Good God!’ what is it cried Fred gripping his companion by the arm. ‘By George’ replied Harry ‘It’s a snake, Fred, and its coming for us too, look out! As he said the words he sprang back, for at that minute the snake darted forward and seemed to fling itself straight at Harry, only missing him by a fraction, as he sprang out of the way. He seized Fred by the arm ‘Quick’ he cried ‘bolt for it’ and made towards the stairs as fast as their legs would carry them. All of a sudden there was a terrific crash as though the floor was giving way the whole place seemed to tremble there was a rending crash. Fred shot forward flung his arms above his head and disappeared. Harry felt his legs give way under him and a stunning blow on his head deprived him of his senses.
CHAPTER II
THE SNAKE WORSHIPPERS
COMING to his senses Harry found himself in a stone chamber surrounded by a number of dark villainous looking natives some of which carried torches and at his side lay Fred groaning with two swathy turbaned natives stooping over him. Feeling very dazed he could not understand how he came to be in this strange underground place, but his senses returning he immediately attempted to get up. Immediately the crowd of figures surrounded him and one who appeared to be a leader cried in Hindustanne.
‘How is it that the white dogs dare to enter the sacred temple of the great God Kharzee, be it known that any white man who dares to enter the temple of Kharzee are offered up in sacrifice to apease his wrath.’
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