Mediterranean Nights

by Dennis Wheatley

  Cyprus is a delightful spot with its wooded hills, vine-covered slopes, and fertile plain, but we were a little disappointed, all the same. The island has been civilised ever since the arrival of its first masters, the Egyptians, nearly four thousand years ago. Phoenicians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Persians, Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Turks, have all held it since, and we had hoped to see many more of the lovely ancient things than have actually survived.

  There are a few Greek temples, ruined and overgrown, but those vandals the Turks destroyed nearly everything that wasn’t too great and solid for them during their long mastery of the place. After four days we had seen everything of interest in the island.

  There were few people staying in the hotel, and none who looked as if he would prove amusing on acquaintance. It was the sixth day of our stay, and we had another twenty-four hours to go before the boat left for Beirut, in the Lebanon, which was to be our next place of call.

  I was perfectly content to sit watching the white-sailed boats come and go in the little harbour, and the picturesque Greek labourers as they strolled by in the sunshine, but P. Rockingham Budd was bored.

  A shadow suddenly fell across our table, and, glancing up, I saw that a most striking-looking man had halted beside us.

  He was broad of shoulder and slim of hip, his suit of cream-coloured gaberdine fitted his tall figure most neatly. He had handsome features of the Spanish type, an olive complexion, a small dark moustache, and a little tuft of an imperial on his chin.

  He took off his broad-brimmed soft hat with a tremendous flourish, and addressed himself to Budd.

  ‘Your pardon, Señor, but I am told you make a short stay in our beautiful island,’ he said in excellent English. ‘Allow me to introduce myself—I am Don Louis Xermes D’Ulloa.’

  ‘Pleased to be acquainted, Don,’ replied my large friend. ‘Sit right down—you’re welcome.’

  The fellow bowed again and took a chair. ‘It is a pleasure always,’ he smiled, ‘to meet your countrymen—and yours, Señor,’ he added, bowing in my direction. ‘Social life, as you have no doubt discovered, is almost non-existent here, and a man such as myself, who comes from one of the best families in Spain, cannot, of course, mix with a riff-raff of Greek traders.’

  ‘Dear me,’ I thought, ‘what does this bird want to borrow?’ But to P. Rockingham Budd it was an excellent excuse for another round of drinks. He beckoned the waiter with one fat hand and smiled genially. ‘It certainly must be lonesome if you live in this place all the time,’ he agreed.

  ‘That is my fate,’ acknowledged the swarthy stranger. ‘All my interests are in the island, and I am compelled to reside here for the greater part of the year. I suppose you have seen most of the usual sights already?’

  ‘Sure,’ nodded Budd, ‘but if you could put us on to anything noo we’d be real grateful.’

  Don Louis lit a long, thin cigar, and waved it thoughtfully under his nose as he inhaled the aroma. ‘Perhaps, Señor,’ he suggested, ‘you might care to drive up to my Quinta in the hills—that is it over there.’

  He pointed with his cigar to a long white villa far away on the other side of the blue bay. It looked a beautiful place, isolated among its green woods and vineyards, high up above the town.

  P. Rockingham nodded. ‘Vury good of you, Don—I reackon that’s a nice place you’ve got there.’

  ‘It has a pleasant situation,’ agreed the other gracefully. ‘I shall be honoured if you care to go so far—the view from the terrace is not to be surpassed in Cyprus, and I have some pictures which it might interest you to see.’

  I did not know what to make of the man. I thought it queer that he should seek us out, for all his glib excuse. In any case, there was no point in sitting in that dull hotel all day, and Budd accepted with alacrity.

  We finished our drinks and the Spaniard led us to an ancient Ford. It seemed a strange conveyance for the owner of the lovely villa on the hill, but for all its clank and rattle the engine did its work. Soon we were climbing the rough, uneven road outside the town. Higher and higher we went, now through little woods of cork-trees, then out again on to the bare mountain-side with its occasional cactus and scrub. Each time we came into the open the prospect below us became more and more beautiful. The road wound and twisted up a succession of gradients, each ending in a hairpin bend. Sometimes we passed places where the cement wall had crumbled—a fall over the edge meant a sheer drop to a hundred feet below. Don Louis drove more rapidly than I cared for; I think I gasped once as he swung the car round a more than usually dangerous turning. Budd grinned.

  ‘ ’Tain’t nothin’ to motorin’ in the Yosemite Valley, back home,’ he laughed. ‘That’s the place that hands out the real flicker thrills.’

  My fears proved groundless, and we pulled up safely in front of the lovely villa. It was even larger than it had appeared from the other side of the bay.

  As we got out I noticed that all the windows were shuttered, there were no signs of life, and the place seemed quite untenanted. Don Louis apologised with an airy wave of his hand.

  ‘I have been in Nicosia for some days, and am but just returned this morning—my servants did not expect me back so soon.’ As he spoke he pulled the bell, which jangled with a plaintive sound somewhere in the servants’ quarters.

  Eventually the door was opened by a decrepit old man. Our host spoke quickly to him in Greek and bowed us in.

  It was a magnificent place, that villa of Don Louis D’Ulloa’s. The entrance hall was of cool, clean marble with a great staircase of beaten brass and ironwork, covered with coroneted coats-of-arms which led up to the rooms above. There were several fine pieces of statuary, and on the walls were pictures shrouded in sheets which the old servant drew aside as we wandered round under Don Louis’s guidance.

  ‘That,’ he said, pointing to a fine painting of a man in black armour with a pointed beard, ‘is my ancestor who fought under the famous Duke of Alva in the Low Countries, and this,’ he indicated a Cavalier in silks and ribbons, ‘is the one who was so unfortunate as to incur the displeasure of King Carlos—it was for that reason that my family settled in Cyprus.’

  P. Rockingham was most interested. He strolled about with his hands in his trouser pockets and an unlit cigar protruding at a rakish angle from the corner of his mouth, while the Spaniard led us through a succession of beautiful rooms.

  I was puzzled. The place had not the air of being lived in, and I was more than ever convinced that Don Louis had some ulterior motive in bringing us there.

  After a while he led us out on to the terrace; he had not exaggerated—the view was superb. The little lemon buildings of the town lay far below us, encircled by the verdure of the hills; the blue Mediterranean sparkled in the sunlight beneath a cloudless sky.

  We sat down in the shade of some vines that had been trained over a trellis. The bright sunshine piercing the vine-leaves threw little patches of golden light on the warm stones at our feet. An emerald-coloured lizard sat on a neighbouring rock and flickered his golden tongue as he watched us out of his expressionless, sparkling eyes. I wish he could have answered all the questions I was dying to ask!

  The old servant came out to us carrying glasses and a dirt-encrusted bottle. ‘Permit me to offer you a glass of Cyprus wine,’ said Don Louis. ‘It is little known in Europe these days, but it was famous with the Romans and Phoenicians before there were vineyards in Bordeaux.’

  As he spoke he poured the golden liquid into the long-stemmed glasses, and proffered them with a charming gesture.

  P. Rockingham accepted one and held it up. ‘Waal, here’s to you, Don—it’s real kind of you to have taken pity on us strangers.’ He put the glass to his lips and sipped—his round eyes opened wide and his thick eyebrows went up as he exclaimed: ‘By Golly! this is some wine; I’ll say those Romans knew a thing or two.’

  It was not the drink I should have chosen on so warm a day. Rhineboler or iced Pilsner would have been more to my liking, but it w
as certainly wonderful stuff; as heavy as port and with a magnificent bouquet. It had the rich, luscious flavour of the muscat grape.

  Don Louis smiled and bowed. ‘Señor,’ he said, ‘I am happy that you should appreciate this wine—it is fifty years old and not to be replaced.’

  ‘Yepp,’ nodded Budd, ‘it’s great stuff. I just had no sort of notion that the people hereabouts prodooced this sort of goods—I’d sooner drink the stuff the bootleggers hand out to a mutt than touch the dishwash at our hotel.’

  The Spaniard smiled. ‘That does not surprise me; the Cypriots are lazy and they do not understand the treatment of fine wine. They drink of the last year’s vintage instead of fortifying it and leaving it to mature undisturbed. If such things interest you I will take you to taste those which are in my big cellar in the town.’

  ‘That’s real nice of you,’ declared Budd promptly.

  We finished the bottle between us, and having once more admired the view, strolled back to Don Louis’s car.

  The descent into Famagusta seemed almost more dangerous than the journey up, but we arrived in safety and were driven to some outbuildings at the back of the town.

  Don Louis unlocked a rusty padlock that secured a pair of heavy doors, and we entered an open courtyard. On one side were some empty stables, on the other some sheds that had at one time been a cooperage. Our guide led us to the wine lodge, which occupied the far end of the yard, and unlocked another door.

  It was pleasant there in the cool semi-darkness after the glare of the hot sun on the white buildings outside, and I looked round with interest. In pyramids and rows on the scantlings were ranged a number of large casks.

  The Spaniard walked over to one and knocked out the bung at the top of the cask. ‘Come, Señor, taste this,’ he said, taking glasses and a long rubber tube from a cupboard. ‘My grandfather put this down in 1860—it is very fine.’

  He inserted one end of the tube in the hole, and placing the other end to his mouth, drew a sharp breath. The wine syphoned out into the glass he held ready.

  P. Rockingham took it and sniffed, then he sipped a little. ‘Say, Don,’ he exclaimed, ‘there’s some kick in that.’ He passed the glass to me. In colour it was golden brown, and I could taste a flavour like nuts—as in a fine sherry.

  Don Louis led us to the other end of the cellar. ‘And this, Señor,’ he smiled, ‘there are six butts of it—it is the least good, yet it is a palatable wine.’

  I tasted it, and though it had not the body of the other I thought it was in some ways a pleasanter drink on a sultry day.

  He stood by us, tall and dark and smiling as we praised his cellar, then suddenly he seemed to become a little sad.

  ‘I am most happy,” Señors, that I should have met you today; had it been tomorrow, it would no longer have been in my power to show you these beautiful wines.’

  ‘Why,’ I asked, ‘Have you sold them all?’

  ‘Alas, yes,’ he sighed. ‘I do not come of a race of business men, and my affairs—they have not prospered—I owe much money, so my wines must go.’

  ‘Say, now, if that isn’t a real shame,’ exclaimed Budd sympathetically.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘after they have been in your family all these years!’ and wondered what was coming next.

  Don Louis scowled. Suddenly he broke out: ‘Behold, Señor, what can I do? I am no longer wealthy and I must have money. There is a debt that I cannot pay. These marvellous wines pass to a miserable Jew for a mean eight thousand dollars.’

  ‘Eight thousand dollars?’ repeated P. Rockingham quickly; ‘that seems a poor sort of price, Don—I’ll say there are all of fifty barrels here; it’s no more than a hundred and sixty dollars apiece all round.’

  The Spaniard waved his hand. ‘It is true,’ he cried vehemently, ‘forty-seven butts and I am being robbed—I know it. The wine which you have first tasted, Señor, is worth five hundred dollars the butt—but what will you?’ he shrugged. ‘To ship them to France or England, it is useless—who is there that knows anything of Cyprus wine today? They must go, therefore, to that infernal Jew—ah, Dios! I hate the thought.’

  I calculated rapidly. ‘There are about fifty-four dozen to the butt, aren’t there?’ I said. ‘That’s about three dollars, say fifteen shillings the dozen—it seems incredibly cheap.’

  Budd nodded and turned to the Spaniard. ‘I’ve a hunch I’m going to make you an offer, Don; I could ship ’em out to the Bahamas. I’m acquainted with a rum-runner who’d land ’em on the Florida Keys. I could do with a butt or two at my place in Missouri, and I guess I could split the rest among my friends.’

  When Don Louis had first mentioned his troubles it had occurred to me that he meant to try and sell us some dozens of his wine, but it seemed a gigantic quantity for any private man to take. Still, I had gathered that P. Rockingham was by no means short of money, and if he could turn most of it over to his friends it was dirt cheap at the price—anyhow, it was not my affair.

  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 d
rawn. 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.’