Mediterranean Nights

by Dennis Wheatley

  The thing that affected me was that in those twenty-four hours the whole of our organisation behind the lines had gone up in smoke, so instead of being sent back to England I landed up at a French hospital in Nice.

  I was pretty sick about it at first, because only having a flesh wound in the thigh I should have been able to hobble about after a bit, and see a few people if I’d been at home—as it was I was marooned in the South of France.

  It can be glorious down there in April and early May, and I soon found that it had at least one advantage—the French treated their wounded like human beings. They were most awfully decent as long as your medical report was progressing all right, and let you do jolly nearly as you pleased, whereas you know what it was like at home. The old women and the Purity League who more or less ran the show treated convalescent officers as though they were convicts. Every kind of iniquitous restriction was enforced to keep the poor devils from having a decent time after the hell they’d been through.

  It was curious, the French didn’t talk a lot of gush about what heroes we were, but they showed a marvellous appreciation in a quiet, subdued sort of way; the war was a much more vital thing to them than to us. Anyhow, when I said that I’d like to run over to Corsica for a week or so, they made no sort of trouble at all.

  It was in that hospital that I first met Bill Rankin. He seemed a decent sort of bloke; I always thought he was inclined to be a bit hard and selfish—but he was devilish good company—and most of the other British in the place were a pretty dull crowd, so we applied to go on this Corsican jaunt together.

  There were hospitals in Bastia and Ajaccio, and we chose Ajaccio. Of course we stayed in a hotel, but we were attached to a hospital for treatment. The boats from Nice weren’t running, so we had to travel down the coast, and take the one from Marseilles.

  You’ve never been to Corsica, have you?—the island is a lovely sight when you come to it by sea, at dawn. The sun came up behind it when we were about fifteen miles away—all that we could see was a black mass rising out of the water with deep shadows in front and a dull glow behind, then gradually the mountains were tipped with gold, and as the sun burst over the top it became full day.

  I don’t know much about scenery, except the Scottish variety, but the bay of Ajaccio is marvellous, too. Clear blue water almost completely circled by the shore. White and lemon coloured houses, then a belt of bright green vegetation—above that the greys and browns of the scrub, white snow on the mountain peaks, and over all a clear blue sky—just like a picture postcard, only real!

  We didn’t think much of Ajaccio though, it’s a one-eyed little place. We saw the house that Napoleon was born in, but the Corsicans are queer about old Boney. You’d think they’d be as proud as peacocks to have a great man like that born in their rotten little island—but not a bit of it; when he was quite young they thought he was a promising lad because he took a minor part in one of their home-rule riots—but when he began to take an interest in France, they considered he had gone to the dogs.

  If you ask a Corsican his views on Napoleon, you’ll find he simply spits and says—‘Who was Bonaparte, after all?—what did he ever do for Corsica?’ Talk about the British being insular! the Corsicans have got us beat to a frazzle. They like us, though. We owned the place at one time for a few years, and that was the only time they had self-government—they remember it to this day—we helped their great patriot leader, Paoli, too—but of course you bet we did it with our tongue in our cheek, just to make trouble for the French!

  They’re a lazy lot, those Corsicans—the women do all the work. The men sit gossiping in the square, under the trees which are pleached to form a shady canopy. Rankin and I got completely fed up after we’d spent a few days wandering round the town, so we thought we’d take a trip up to Corte in the interior.

  It’s a day’s journey by train; not that the distance is anything remarkable, but you are going up—up—into the mountains all the time. That railway must have taken a bit of building—some of the viaducts across the gorges are a dizzy height, and the waterfalls look like the trickle in a rock-garden miles below. The woods are wonderful, thousands of acres, almost all chestnut—and they say it is hopeless for the police to attempt to capture a bandit if he once takes to the forest.

  Corte is an ugly little town. It seems absurd to find those tall Italian houses there, in which twenty families herd together, when there’s tons of room for everyone to have a garden—but that’s what it’s like—or rather the main street, which is pretty well all there is of it.

  The hotel was a ghastly place—most of the food had so much garlic in it that we couldn’t eat it, and the flies were a perfect plague, though you wouldn’t expect to find them at such an altitude.

  The trouble started when Rankin suggested that we should try to get a moufflon. In the old days, shooting moufflon in Corsica really was fun, but the fools never troubled to preserve their game, and so moufflon has been almost shot out of existence.

  Our landlord put us on to a chap called Caperno, said he might be able to arrange a shoot, so next morning we went to look him up.

  He was a bit doubtful about it though we offered to pay him handsomely. Money means nothing to a Corsican—if it’s going to give them any trouble to earn it they would rather go without. You can leave your cash lying about, too, nobody would dream of touching it—they’d murder you without a second thought, as I’m going to tell you—but they are as honest as the day is long, and wouldn’t pinch a cent.

  After Rankin had been trying to stir Caperno into activity for about ten minutes I was no longer interested in moufflon—I had seen the girl.

  She was a glorious child, Dick. Dark, of course, as dark as night—with the oval face and olive skin of an Italian. The Corsicans are as near Tuscans as anything, though they pride themselves on being a race apart.

  I just couldn’t take my eyes off that girl, and she knew it, too—her eyelashes were as long as my fingernail, and never in my life have I seen a finer pair of eyes. She had one of those moist red mouths, too—a natural red, no filthy lipstick business—she was heavenly.

  Rankin brought me back to earth by telling me that Caperno would try to arrange a shoot for us the following day, and we went off to look at the fort. It’s an amazing place, that, built by the Genoese, if I remember, when they owned the island hundreds of years ago. One great single tower with sheer rock on three sides of it—if you fell off the top you’d sail down three hundred clear feet before you crashed on the rocks in the gorge below. I don’t wonder they considered it impregnable—you can see across miles and miles of country, and on a clear day right over the Mediterranean to the shores of Tuscany on the Italian side.

  When we got down to the bottom again, there was the girl—sitting on a stone bench outside the Fort—of course I spoke to her—there was a war on, and in another month I might be back in the middle of it, hanging on the wire with my guts blown out—and I was sick of V.A.D.s.

  My French is pretty rotten, and hers wasn’t much better, but we managed to get along. It’s marvellous what you can do if the girl’s pretty enough to make it worth your while to try.

  I asked her to be a darling and show me the local scenery—pity the poor stranger—you know the usual sort of stuff—and she promised to meet me there again in the afternoon.

  I had boiled eggs for lunch, I remember—it was the only way I could think of to avoid the garlic, but even then some of it seemed to get through the shell. Rankin was a bit huffy because I left him—I think he was jealous of my luck, but I was far too keen on the girl to worry about him.

  She turned up all right, and took me for a walk in the maquis. The smell of the wild myrtle was glorious in that hot sun. There were dwarf pines and olive trees here and there, so that you couldn’t see a soul unless they were within twenty yards.

  After a bit we found a bank, and sat down in the sunshine. The whole place was drowsy with the heat, and not a sound anywhere except the droning of
the insects. It was heavenly there on that golden afternoon.

  We laughed and chatted together, although neither of us understood more than one word in ten of what the other said. I asked her to meet me again that evening, but she said that it would be impossible—she had only managed to slip out that afternoon because her father was away from home fixing up our shoot for the next day—in having met me at all she was running an awful risk.

  I had no idea that they were so strict about their women in Corsica, and we’re not used to that sort of thing, so it never entered my head till afterwards that I might land her in a mess; but in the meantime, well—I’m not much to look at, but I suppose my northern colouring had had the same devastating effect on her as her dark loveliness on me—what with her beauty going to my head like wine, and her willingness, and the sunshine, I had taken her—just as one takes a ripe peach off a sun-kissed wall.

  By the time we parted, I was head over ears in love with that girl—that’s how it was in those hectic war days—you made love first, and fell in love afterwards. As we walked back to the town I told her that I’d do a bit of lead-swinging—pretend I didn’t feel up to a long day’s tramp after moufflon, and let Rankin go off with her father alone next morning—then we could spend the day together.

  When we got to within half a mile of the town I left her to walk on alone, and gave her ten minutes’ start so that we shouldn’t be seen together, but when I came round the bend I ran right into her again.

  She was standing in the middle of the road having no end of a row with a tall, dark chap. He had a long droopy moustache, and wore a black slouch hat—a typical Corsican peasant. He was going for her like the very devil, and I could see that it was about me from the look he gave me as I passed. I’d half a mind to stop and interfere, but I caught her eyes and it was evident that she didn’t want me to butt in, so the only thing to do was to walk on and pretend I didn’t know her.

  After dinner that evening I was just leaving the hotel with Rankin for a stroll in the town, when the landlord stopped me. He was in a tremendous state of excitement. It seemed that the man I had seen talking to ‘the girl’ was one Machio, and she was promised to him in marriage. The Corsicans don’t give their young women the benefit of the doubt if they go walking in the woods with a chap—and Machio believed the worst. He had gone to her father and created hell; old Caperno had beaten her till she was half dead—and Machio was out looking for me with a gun.

  That got my goat pretty badly—I wanted to set off there and then to give Caperno a dose of his own medicine. He was no old crock, but a burly brute of a man, and a damn good hiding was just what he wanted, but Rankin wouldn’t hear of it, and neither would the landlord.

  They pointed out that Machio would probably pot me in the dark from behind a hedge—it would be much wiser to wait until morning.

  I had to admit that there was something in what they said, so I stayed in and got blind tight on cheap brandy—I wish to God I hadn’t, though—if I had taken a chance that night I might have saved the poor kid’s life.

  Directly I came downstairs next morning the landlord told me about it—Machio had gone to see her the previous evening, and to escape him she had rushed out of the house; he chased her with a stock-whip—as though the gruelling from her father hadn’t been enough. He caught her by the Castle and started to lam into her—and she, poor kid, had tripped or thrown herself, nobody knew which, over that ghastly precipice into the gorge below.

  For the moment I just couldn’t realise it—that lovely girl, so full of life and laughter—whom I’d held in my arms only the previous afternoon—dead… smashed to atoms at the bottom of the gorge.

  Then I saw red.

  The landlord was a decent fellow, half French, and terribly anxious to do his best for me according to his lights. He wanted to fetch a police guard and get me out of Corte on the midday train before Machio had a chance to do me in. Rankin agreed—but I wasn’t having any.

  You know what it was in those days—we were so used to killing that we never thought about it twice, and since I had just spent nearly four years killing poor harmless Jerries, I had no scruples about starting a private war on my own.

  I said so to Rankin, but he thought I was mad, and pointed out that I hadn’t even got a gun. I suppose I could have borrowed one, but I didn’t want to. I had my own method for dealing with the brute Machio.

  I sat in the hotel all the morning, pouring that rotten brandy down my neck and getting a nice steady tight, just as we used to when we knew there was going to be a spot of trouble with the Hun. By lunch time I was nicely soaked—beautifully ginned up for murder, but my head was clear and my hand as steady as a rock.

  After lunch I went out and walked up and down the main street twice. I knew he wouldn’t kill me in the town but I wanted him to see me—I felt certain he’d follow if he did—then I went off into the maquis.

  I walked quickly because that is tricky country for fighting in; he would have crawled round if he was given the chance and shot me in the back—I was making for the woods.

  I can tell you I was thundering glad when I got to the end of that scrub—you could hide a battalion in an acre of it and not see them at a hundred yards. In the woods it was a different story—miles and miles of tree trunks, but no cover in between. I walked for about half a mile—then I sat down and took out a book.

  I didn’t read it, of course; I was listening with all my ears, just waiting for Machio to turn up. He didn’t waste much time, either; in less than ten minutes I heard the twigs snapping, and knew he must be in my neighbourhood—then I stood up.

  Deer-stalking has been one of my favourite sports ever since I was old enough to hold a rifle, and stalking Jerries on night patrol in France had kept my hand in. I felt I could make rings round Machio—and I did.

  We had a lovely game of hide and seek in those cool chestnut woods, but I was too mad against the man to keep it up for long. After a bit I stood behind a tree trunk and waited for him to come out into the open. When he did I showed myself for a moment, and then dodged back. I wanted him to see that I hadn’t got a gun.

  Of course, he fell for it and left his cover, thinking to get a nice easy shot—when he was about thirty yards away I pulled the pin out of a Mills bomb.

  You remember how we always used to carry a few in our pockets? When I was hit I still had a couple on me, and I refused to allow the hospital orderly to take them away, so I had them in my kit when we came to Corsica, although of course it was against the regulations.

  I lobbed it over gently to the Corsican, and it fell just at his feet. The poor boob had never seen a Mills, I suppose, and he hadn’t the sense to kick it out of the way—he just stood staring at it. Two seconds later it went off.

  Well, that was the end of Machio. I wasn’t sorry for him—not a bit. In my eyes he was a filthy murderer; the law might say it was an accident, but he drove that poor child to her death—I just felt that I had settled her account with him—and that was all.

  When I got back to the hotel the landlord thought I was a ghost, but he was thundering glad to see me. Unfortunately, however, that wasn’t the end of the story. In the evening he told me that Machio’s brother—a chap called Credo—was on the warpath, and had sworn to get me, and he positively implored me to leave Corte by the next morning’s train.

  Well, I had no quarrel with Credo, and in my more sober moments I was a bit scared that the police might start making trouble about Machio’s death. They turn a blind eye to these things as a rule, if there are no witnesses to the actual killing, because they’re used to the native’s way of settling things—but with a foreigner mixed up in it you never know—so I agreed to quit.

  There was a spot of bother at the station next morning—I suppose Credo had found out from the hotel servants that we were leaving; anyhow he turned up and made a scene. Fortunately the landlord had had the forethought to bring a couple of gendarmes to see us off—they tackled Credo and took away his g
un; I wish I’d understood his language—he had a marvellous flow; I would like to have put him up against Sergeant Brodie—d’you remember?—of ‘B’ Company; I believe the Corsican would have won! He was a villainous-looking brute, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor devil—anyhow the train chugged off to Ajaccio, and we sailed for France next day.

  It wasn’t till ’29 that I married Lilseth—but you know all about that. Of course I was mad to do it, but she was devilishly attractive in her way, and I often think she was more sinned against than sinning. Had she been born in a different generation she would never have gone the way she did. As it was she had the rotten luck that’s been our portion—she was just old enough to hit the war.

  Well, she’s another soul the politicians will have to answer for through their folly and conceit. When she ought to have been a pretty innocent going to dances under mother’s wing, she was drinking like a fish. With her looks and money she was bound to get into trouble in that topsy-turvy world, and before she was twenty she had racketed round with every rotten bounder she could find.

  Of course, I knew all about that, but she’d quietened down a bit by the time I met her, though she used to give some pretty hectic parties in that flat she had in Paris. We went quite mad about each other, and she let me clean out her Augean Stable without a murmur. Then we decided to get married. She’d never been married before, as I think you know, although she must have had thousands of chances. I took that as a sign that she meant to start afresh and play the game. I think she did at the time, too. Of course, any number of my friends told me pretty clearly that I was stark crazy to get tied up with a girl like that—but like a fool I wouldn’t listen to them then.

  We came up here to Scotland, and we had a glorious summer; I always try to remember that when I feel hard about her—and the people round about were jolly decent. After all she was one of us, although she’d cut herself adrift for years, and when she returned to the fold as my wife, they rallied round splendidly, and took her to their hearts.