Chapter One



I

Ivan Gorchev, sailor on the freight ship 'Rangoon', was not yet twenty-one when he won the Nobel Prize in physics. To win a scientific award at such a romantically young age is unprecedented, though some people might consider the means by which it was achieved a flaw. For Ivan Gorchev won the Nobel Prize in physics in a card game, called macao, from a Professor Bertinus, on whom the honour had been bestowed in Stockholm by the King of Sweden a few days earlier. But those who are always finding fault don't like to face facts, and the fact of the matter is that Ivan Gorchev did win the Nobel Prize at the age of twenty-one.

Professor Bertinus, with the Nobel Prize in his briefcase, had boarded ship in Göteborg, and before the ship sailed, the Swedish Franklin Society assembled on deck to present him with the big gold medal for his successful experiments in the splitting of the atom. The ship then departed, and the worthy professor was all impatience to arrive in Bordeaux, where he owned a few acres of vintage, as elderly French civil servants generally did, from the executioner's assistant, to the director of the museum.

Ivan Gorchev, on the other hand, boarded ship in Southampton, to cross the Channel for reasons unknown even to himself. It's true that he had been fired from a freight ship (the Rangoon) because he had used a four-pointed boat hook to beat up the navigator. But as to why anyone who had beaten up a navigator and been fired from a freight ship would want to cross the Channel, we do not understand any more than so many of our hero's actions.

Another perplexing fact is how this frivolous young man was able to become acquainted with the world-famous scientist; what is particularly obscure is how he was able to convince the aged and reticent professor to play, even for very small stakes, macao, a game of chance prohibited in many countries. We must resign ourselves to ignorance of these details. Allegedly the whole thing began when the professor became seasick on deck. Gorchev offered him a pleasant-tasting lemon-cognac-sodium bicarbonate drink of his own concoction. The professor recovered, and asked the young man who he was, and from where he had come.

"My name is Ivan Gorchev, twenty-one-year-old by profession, and son of the brother of Baron Gorchev of the Tsar's Chamber, from the family of Nasya Goryodin. My father was a captain in the guard and my uncle, as the military commander of the Yustvesti Verstkov, defended Odessa against the rebellious naval forces."

Naturally, not one word of all this was true. But the gullibility of very young girls and aged scientists is apparently boundless. The professor put on his pince-nez. "So, you are an emigrant."

"Definitely Professorovitch Uncleushka," Gorchev answered, with a sigh. "Once in high spirits, my father gave ten thousand roubles to the Tsar's ballet... And he was flown to Tsarskoe Selo in a troika with a gold escutcheon on it... Oh, kontusovka! Oh, Volga, if only I could be there once again..."

"But listen, you can't remember Russia if you are only twenty-one!"

"That makes it all the more difficult, Uncleushka Professorovska! Just imagine! I have never once seen that magnificent snowy land which so unforgettably lives in my memory..."

"And where are you en route to now, Mr. Gorchev?"

"I'm travelling for political purposes, disguised as a sailor."

If we have observed our hero scrupulously, then we will have noted something peculiar about him: he never told the truth, but then he never lied either. It was just that he said, without hesitation, anything and everything that came into his mind - a habit that plunged him into many astounding situations. His words rarely followed a logical line; nor, for that matter, did his actions.

"Unfortunately I'm travelling with very little money," he went on. "A scoundrel cheated me of everything."

"How on earth did it happen?"

"I was unsuspecting and stupid. One becomes acquainted with all sorts of shifty characters, without ever thinking of the consequences. It just happened that in London a crook taught me to play macao, and won all my money."

"Forgive me for saying so, but that really wasn't very clever of you. What sort of game is this macao?"

Gorchev sighed again, and pulled out a pack of cards from his pocket.

"Well, you see... we deduct the tens column from the total value of the cards, whereby in all cases, nine is the highest possible count..."

The professor tried his luck, on a five-centime basis, and won ten francs. Later, after he had lost two thousand, they raised the stakes. Then they raised them a number of times, and by the time they reached Bordeaux, Ivan Gorchev had won the entire Nobel Prize to the last centime, from the professor. And had the professor been going as far as Nice the ambitious young man would probably have won the large gold medal of the Swedish Franklin Society itself. (This precious medal was awarded to an elite for successful experiments in the field of atom splitting.)

At the age of twenty-one this, too, would have been an unprecedented achievement on the part of our hero. Unfortunately, the professor departed at Bordeaux with the large gold medal of the Swedish Franklin Society and with some sad ponderings on the wastefulness of French colleges, whose syllabuses did not include the teaching of the game of chance called macao. Gorchev stood by the rail of the ship, deeply moved, and waved after the professor for a long time, with a handkerchief.



II

What does a man do at twenty-one, without a trace of seriousness in him, when he unexpectedly comes into unbelievable wealth? This question Gorchev asked himself, and immediately answered himself.

Get off in Nice! Wander around the harbour. And look for some companion. This stuff isn't worth a damn if one can't squander it in company.

Who'd be the lucky one? He looked around the harbour.

His attention was attracted by an individual on the shore who had the appearance of a delivery-man; he stood at the place where the dock workers gathered; he wore a brown jacket, and a black bathing suit. All the others had taken themselves off to some work, and only he stayed. What made him peculiar was his pince-nez, and the yellow towel on his shoulders he had substituted for a shirt, sticking the fringed ends into his bathing suit. The slightly negligent appearance of these trunks was balanced by a straw hat in fairly good condition, though perhaps a half size smaller than might have made it perfect, but its rim was in almost perfect state. The individual's thick black clipped moustache was the centrepiece of a scournful and sorrowful grimace of wrinkles. The man looked tearfully choleric. Meantime, he picked his teeth, perhaps because that was to have at least a realistic substitute for the illusion of eating. It began to look as if he wouldn't find work for that day, when a foreman called to him.

"Hullo there! Come to the fifth basin, crates have to be loaded."

"Are they heavy?"

The foreman's eyes bulged stonily. No dock worker had ever asked such a question!

"Forgive me," explained the gentleman in the brown jacket with a tinge of nervousness in his voice, "but I have to know, because I had a hernia a few years ago."

"Idiot," said the foreman and continued on his way.

"A fine man, is all I can say," mumbled our man scournfully.

Gorchev, who had overheard the conversation, immediately felt that this was his man and stepped up to him.

"Tell me something. Do you want to work?!"

"I am not an idler!"

"That's too bad, but never mind. If you must, then work. What's your favourite occupation?"

The man questioned looked at himself, at his skinny legs, his comical trunks, at the round-edged brown jacket, and then shrugged:

"How can you ask a thing like that? I would like to be a secretary."

"Well, then you're lucky I came this way. From now on, you're my secretary. Your salary will be two thousand francs a month. What's your name?"

"Vanek."

"Good name, that. Here is one month's salary, three thousand francs."

"You said two."

"I gave you a rise because you have shown amazing progress in a very short time. Here..."

"Of course," said Mr. Vanek, as he crumpled the money into his breast pocket a little nervously, as one who doesn't like to be troubled with such trifles, "I shall have to know what my duties are."

"You will have many. What they are, I don't know yet. But that's unimportant, anyway. Don't worry, your luck's in, old boy..."

"As I have said, my name is Vanek," the favoured replied with cool stress, refusing all familiarity.

"Excuse me, Mr. Vanek," said Gorchev. "You are a remarkable find," he added with satisfaction.

He liked people with self-respect, who not even when the going is good, will forget what they owe to themselves.

"If you are interested, I can tell you from what heights I've dropped, and so low..."

"I'm not interested, but you can tell me. However, if you'd refrain I would be much obliged."

"As you wish... I don't force myself on anyone. What shall I do for the present?"

"I don't know yet, but we'll think of something. Now I'm off to look around Nice, and if I am in need of you, I will inform you, my dear friend..."

"My name is Vanek."

"Mr. Vanek... Excuse me. I'm pleased that you are so sensitive. I don't like normal people anyway. Well, let's meet here shortly."

"Shall I stay here?"

"Leave if you want."

"But then you won't find me."

"It doesn't matter. Good day." And Gorchev hurried away joyfully.

He was very happy that he could give Mr. Vanek money. Although surely Mr. Vanek will vanish with the three thousand francs, since he will fear that Gorchev's attendants will appear and insist that he return the insane man's thoughtless gift.

Gorchev went straight in the direction of Nice's marvellous marine promenade, which is called 'Plage' and where the most illustrious hotels of the Cote d'Azur line up on the seaside, among the palm trees. Here he sat down in the restaurant of the unmistakably aristocratic 'Hotel Méditerranée'. The guests who had been nonchalantly basking in the sun looked with horror at this young man with a child's face, wearing off-white canvas pants, a blue sailor blouse, and curiously enough the white round cap of the British navy.

A girl in a red dress at a table nearly laughed out loud. The young man lifted his round sailor's cap with a friendly smile, then he struck the table a few times with his fist.

"Garçon! Bring me a beer!"

A waiter rushed over, anxiously.

"Listen, this is not a sailor's bar."

"How interesting... And I would have sworn that this was the 'Ye Merry Murderers' restaurant, where the gentlemen meet for five o'clock knifing... but I don't suppose it matters now. This will be good enough. Bring me a mug of beer."

"We do not serve tapped beer."

"Well then bring me a pound of caviar, a bottle of French champagne and one hundred stems of La France roses!"

At this point the waiter made the mistake of attempting to assist Ivan Gorchev's departure, and by doing so, naturally touched his arm.

And this he should not have done...

In the next second, everything went black before the waiter, and it was a while before he regained consciousness and found he was being supported by a number of people, and that someone was washing his face with a damp cloth. And all he had received was one slap! The stranger finally felt insulted, raised the cap that had been designed for the British navy, took out, the devil only knows from where, a black-rimmed monocle, pinched it in his eye in a stately manner, which made him look like a complete idiot, and while everyone hunted for the waiter who had rolled under a distant table, he departed. The girl in the red dress laughed again, and Gorchev, astonished for once, turned for a minute. 'Hmmm! Pretty!'

Straight back he rushed to Mr. Vanek at the dock, not at all sure that he would find him there. But to his great surprise, his secretary was standing in the same place, in the same pose, and, as a matter of fact, in the same bathing suit. Only the toothpick in his mouth had changed. He was now five toothpicks further on.

"Mr. Vanek. I'm glad you're here. Your hour has come."

"You wish to hear from what heights I've dropped, and so low?" returned Vanek eagerly.

"The hour for that has not yet come. At any rate, your predicament seems interesting, and at the proper time you will tell me of it."

"My dear sir, I was a correspondent at one of the foremost..."

"I was certain of that when I first saw you. You will now go into action. You will have to go somewhere, and bring a package..."

"That is not quite the work of a secretary."

"Napoleon started from the bottom also..."

"But not as your employee. Well, never mind. But I must know how heavy the package is. I think I have already mentioned that I had a hernia..."

"I know, I know. The package is not heavy."

"Besides, I am not allowed to walk in the sun. I have high blood pressure."

"There is no need for you to walk in the sun. You will buy an umbrella somewhere and use it."

"My dear sir, one can't afford to buy umbrellas out of three thousand francs!"

"I'll pay for the umbrella. Furthermore, you will buy a pair of pants; that's on me, too, of course. This bathing suit, even with the bath towel, and the straw hat, does not become a self-respecting, serious secretary. So, forward, old boy."

"The name is Vanek, if you don't mind..."

"All right then, forward, Mr. Vanek!"



III

The guests at the 'Méditerranée' restaurant had long since forgotten the episode with the mad sailor, when an individual resembling a delivery-man appeared, wearing a brand-new, shaggy pair of pants of the dazzling green of a detergent; these ended in the knee, with gaiters. The designer of the gaiters must have been entranced by an incomprehensible idea, nevertheless it is doubtful that he had Mr. Vanek in mind as the ideal masculine type to wear it. Mr. Vanek immediately rushed to the head waiter, and with a stern and portentous expression he said:

"I was sent by His Excellency Prince Chervonets..."

"At your service, sir."

"I am to place an order in connection with some items of food, which I shall take with me immediately."

"And what does His Excellency desire?"

"A cold lunch, shelled lobster, trout, pineapple, two bottles of champagne, as well as truffle pate and roast chicken."

"Yes, sir."

"Hurry!"

Out of the hotel came Mr. Vanek with the package and stopped by a bench near the terrace. Suddenly Gorchev stepped up to him from nowhere.

"Thank you, old boy."

"My name is Vanek."

"Thank you, Mr. Vanek."

He took a miraculous bundle of thousand-franc banknotes from his pocket and handed two to Mr. Vanek, the man who resembled a delivery-boy; then he gave him a few assignments and sat down on the bench exactly opposite the 'Hotel Méditerranée'.

The man who looked like a delivery-boy left, and the sailor spread the caviar, roast chicken, champagne, and the different kinds of jellied fish all out before him, and began to demolish them cheerfully. The champagne bottles he simply banged against the edge of the bench, whereupon long creamy white spray shot forth from them.

The contents of a bottle went down in one gulp. He then turned towards the onlookers on the terrace, and smiled.

"To your health!"

The girl in the red dress laughed aloud. Gorchev gratefully noted this expression of approval, and for a second, his eyes rested on the girl.

"Hmmm! Pretty!..."

Later Mr. Vanek reappeared and brought with him seventy stems of La France roses, from who knows where. By this time several hundred spectators had gathered around to stare at the youthful Nobel Prize winner.

"There were no more," said Mr. Vanek panting. Then, accepting a further thousand francs, he added, "You do pay well, but one has to work for it."

He rushed away once more.

The manager of the hotel, shaking with excitement, reproached the ailing waiter whose left eye seemed to have disappeared entirely in a violet-coloured swelling.

"Wretched idiot! Can't you recognize a tourist travelling incognito? A waiter should have eyes!"

"To have them knocked out?" the waiter moaned.

"How could I know the customer was off his head?"

"When will you understand that world-famous bathing resorts cannot be founded on guests who are sound in mind!"

The policeman, it seemed, knew this, because he stopped politely before Ivan Gorchev. He even raised his hand to his cap.

"Good day, sir."

"Good day. Would you like some chicken?"

"No, thank you."

"Fruit, cognac?"

"No, no..."

"Well, then, do accept at least a few roses!..."

"Oh, you are very kind, sir, but it's forbidden to walk around with roses instead of a baton on duty."

"Come now! Nor is it permitted to drink red wine, and yet you came out of the bar on the other side of the street..."

"Excuse my asking but why is it that you are consuming your tasty lunch in a kind of open-air performance?"

Gorchev looked up. He seemed for a moment to be uncertain of something.

"Will you be so kind as to inform me whether this city is in the Republic of France?"

"It certainly is."

"Well, then everything's all right," Gorchev said, and took a bite of the chicken. "Because I once heard somewhere that certain human rights were proclaimed here at the time of a revolution."

With this he swallowed half a chicken leg.

The policeman scratched his head. He remembered that two years earlier a Swedish cork manufacturer had dressed as a cowboy and sold candy on the Promenade des Anglaises. The policeman, who at the police station had indulged in rather violent expressions to reprove the industrialist, had been subsequently transferred to the lighthouse at the fishermen's wharf. Since then he had not served within the city.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable inside?"

"They threw me out."

Cars honked from all sides, since in the meantime the crowd of observers had increased to almost a thousand. But our delivery-man fought his way through them. He returned with a mushroom-shaped, yellow garden umbrella, which he very cleverly fastened next to the bench.

"This was a most difficult errand," he said panting.

"Thank you, Mr. Vanek," answered Gorchev uneasily, and with a hasty movement, handed over another thousand-franc note.

"Believe me, I deserve this. To carry packages in this heat," whined the porter-like individual, and since the sun shone fiercely, he opened his own umbrella, which made the scene change from the comic to the frightening.

"I am Marvieux... secretary of the hotel manager..." whispered a humble voice next to them.

"You haven't been announced to me," answered Gorchev carelessly, and put on his monocle, which in reality was only a rim without a glass. "And I'm in the midst of lunch anyway..."

Marvieux turned to Mr. Vanek, who had just spat out a tooth-pick.

"Will you please announce me."

"What is your name, and why do you wish to enter the premises of the bench?" asked Mr. Vanek in the curt manner of an overworked secretary.

Gorchev meanwhile went on eating, and looked in the other direction.

"Tell him that I am Marvieux, the secretary."

"You are mistaken. I am the secretary. But I suppose it doesn't matter. You aren't properly dressed for admission. But I shall try my best, though my lord the director lays a great stress on etiquette."

He went over to Gorchev, and touched his shoulder.

"Listen, there is someone here named Marvieux to see you."

"Let him in."

By then the number of onlookers had increased to over a thousand. The policeman lined them all up, so that the cars could continue on their way.

"What is it you wish, my dear Marvieux?"

"I would like to apologize in the name of the hotel, and may I suggest, with due respect, that you honour me by taking a place among our guests..."

"I don't mind if I do," said Gorchev and stood up. "Mr. Vanek, will you join us."

"All right," Mr. Vanek said, waving his hand as though he were making a serious sacrifice and off he set in his multicoloured clothing, with his umbrella held high, like an African queen in low spirits. The manager's secretary was slightly taken aback.

"Mr. Vanek is my private secretary, and my first cousin..." said Gorchev. "Perhaps you have some objection to him?"

"No, of course not, of course not..."

They marched onto the terrace. Gorchev smiled, and greeted the girl in the red dress, who turned away. They sat down at the largest table, and the waiter appeared.

"What happened to your eye," enquired Mr. Vanek, and Gorchev, too, turned with sympathy, but then ordered haughtily.

"You may bring me a beer! And what will you drink, Mr. Vanek?"

"I'd rather eat something this week, whilst I have five thousand francs."

Gorchev nodded in agreement, and Mr. Vanek ordered, carefully and thoroughly.

The porter was swiftly produced and gulped down. Then began the parade of the courses, an intimidating procession if there ever was one. Mr. Vanek, Improvised Secretary, Privy First Cousin to His Lordship, tied the napkin about his neck in the manner of real family men so that the long corners rose to stick out on the back of his head like pointed ears. In this posture he reviewed the food parade, like a general.

"What's your reason for being in Nice?" asked Gorchev.

"I don't know."

"Then it seems that we're in the same boat. May I tell you quite honestly, I like you because, despite your poverty, you preserve your self-respect."

"My dear sir," spoke up Mr. Vanek, and sadly looked around at the lordly guests on the hotel terrace. "I don't imagine that you understand from what heights I've dropped, and so low."

"Unfortunately I cannot take you to a more distinguished hotel than this..."

Mr. Vanek didn't continue his speech. He ate several roast ducks, one or two cakes, and then he lost consciousness.

"Waiter!" called Gorchev.

The waiters marched in, led by the manager's secretary.

"You called, sir?"

"Have you a royal suite in this hotel?"

"Yes, of course, sir. A twelve-room apartment."

"Then have Mr. Vanek placed immediately in those twelve rooms. When he recovers, tell him to come and see me."

"And where will he find you, sir"?

"I don't know."

With this, Gorchev left.

"You see," said the manager's secretary instructing the waiter with the injured eye," this is the type of guest on which a world-famous bathing resort can be founded, until an uncle comes along. Most of our guests are eventually put in asylums by their uncles."

Gorchev rushed straight to the Boulevard Victoire, in high spirits, whistling. On the corner he wrestled with a few taxi-drivers, then he went to the barber's, where he took a few winks while they combed his hair and shaved him; but first he sent over a few boxes of chocolate to the waitress in the cafe across the street.

This was a madman, mad as a hatter, even a blind man could see that.

Then he went to Lafayette's, a large department store, where he took care of his most pressing needs. He bought a number of Mickey mice, a few tennis balls, several dozen fountain pens and four bars of chocolate. Then he dressed from head to foot. Dinner jacket, starched shirt, a shining vest button, a silk handkerchief, and a white chrysanthemum for his lapel in the way elderly journalists and the occupants of the boxes at the opera-house favour them. Afterwards he bought a bottle of perfume, and whilst a straw hat glided onto his head, he pulled on a pair of gloves the colour of which evoked a Chinese coolie perished of yellow fever. Now all he needed was a bamboo cane, and that awe-inspiring monocle. The black object in his eye, the saucy straw hat clapped at an angle on his head, he looked into the mirror complacently.

The entire staff of the shop as well as numerous shoppers stood about admiring him, and when the young man caught with his mouth a cigarette that he had flipped up in the air, they clapped delightedly. After this, Gorchev dispersed the fountain pens and tennis balls to his most appreciative audience and departed.

Five minutes later he returned. He addressed one of the shop assistants most politely:

"All my money is in my other suit, which I took off a few minutes ago."

"Yes, sir. Just a second, sir."

The shop assistant looked white as a sheet as he returned with the tremendous bundle of thousand-franc notes.

"I knew that it would turn up. Good money is never lost!" Gorchev exclaimed, and gave the shop assistant a thousand-franc note. He crumpled the others into his various pockets. The last roll of notes, held together by a rubber band, didn't fit anywhere else, so he popped it under his hat, and this time departed for good. In front of the department store, he jumped up onto the runningboard of a taxi that was passing.

"No need to put on the brakes. Let's go to some bank!"

He opened the door, and sat down next to the driver. The car continued on its way. Gorchev pulled out a few rumpled thousand-franc notes and gave them to the driver.

"Would you change these for me, old boy? I want hundred-franc notes. There's about eight thousand francs here, maybe a bit more, maybe a bit less..."

The chauffeur was sufficiently perturbed to drive a little awry; finally he stopped in front of a bank with his peculiar passenger.

If it had not occurred to Gorchev to change money, or if he had been taken to a different place, everything might have turned out entirely different. But Gorchev had come here with the taxi, to this particular bank and with that action of his he had boarded the special express train of fate, to start with lightning speed on his peculiar, terrifying, and altogether improbable adventure.

"I'll wait for you in the car. Hurry," he said to the driver.

The driver went into the bank, leaving the stranger in the front seat. At the cashier's desk he counted the money.

"Twenty-eight thousand francs!"

Was his passenger drunk or mad? One could never tell. Possibly both. Presently he returned, and once again found himself in front of the bank. With surprise he deducted that the stranger and his car had disappeared.

He stood there, perplexed, with the vast sum on his hand.

All that had happened was that Gorchev had spotted, behind the wheel of a sports car, the girl in the red dress who had smiled at him from the terrace of the hotel.

She smiled now too, as she whizzed by him, in the direction of the dock, and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

Halloo!

With this wild cry, Gorchev trod hard on the accelerator, and raced after the sports car with the speed of a lunatic...





Chapter Two



I

On that day, only fate's special mercy protected, from a taxi turned insane, the cars on the highway leading to Monte Carlo. Ivan Gorchev drove that taxi, at a deathspeed of about fifty thousand miles.

But some people are born with a destiny that enables them to survive all danger intact. And such a thoughtless, happy-go-lucky one is the hero of our book.

Meanwhile, the girl turned round and noticed the taxi running amok, which wobbling, veering madly in all directions, skidding violently, pursued her at a fantastic speed. She immediately changed into top gear, and the black sports car took off along the road with a leap. The engine whined and roared like an elephant, the car took the corners at an angle that made one's hair stand on end, and like a giant ostrich-plume, a tremendous cloud of gas fumes rose tauntingly in the direction of the taxi, where, a moment before, the car of the girl in the red dress had been...

And this is how they arrived in Monaco. The cabman in the dinner jacket, with his black-rimmed monocle and snappy straw hat, created quite a disturbance on the streets of the city. But the traffic police of Monaco knew that the traffic of world-famous bathing resorts is very rarely founded on the visits of completely sane tourists, so on the taxi crashed.

Very few people in this world have ever driven a car with more audacity and with less aptitude than Ivan Gorchev. But he was still able to escape catastrophe. Please don't misunderstand, he didn't avoid catastrophe. No, indeed, he drove into it at all costs! Catastrophe avoided him - that was the situation. Now, for example, he raced right through a red light.

Brakes screeched on all sides.

Drivers cursed.

A maid, by the window, screamed and covered her eyes with the dust-cloth... And the taxi raced on! Halloo!

This man had all the luck in the world... Now they were driving along the serpentine road which led to the Casino of Monte Carlo, and the young man waved his straw hat and laughed.

The car of the girl in the red dress came to a stop in front of the 'Hotel de Paris'. The taxi made a smart turn through the beautiful English garden that decorated the square, and with a slight miscalculation, but comparatively accurate braking, it stopped.

Only a small section of the bonnet rushed in through the hotel door, but this sort of thing could really happen to anyone.

The madman calmly got out of the car, handed the terrified desk-clerk a thousand francs. It would seem that he wouldn't use a smaller denomination. The desk-clerk bowed and arranged at once that the taxi be towed down next to the pavement.

Gorchev immediately rushed to the alarmed girl with a triumphant smile. But this time he didn't escape an accident.

A broad-shouldered, hard-faced, immaculately dressed blond giant appeared from somewhere. He saw Gorchev and measured him up with a freezing glance.

"Are you acquainted with this gentleman, Annette?" he asked the girl.

"No! And it's exactly this intolerable situation that I wish to change," the Nobel Prize winning sailor said gleefully.

"This is how I define intrusion."

"My dear sir, it would seem that you have no idea about the style of a gentleman. Nowadays no one who wears a beautiful double-breasted jacket like this matches it with bad manners."

"Are you willing to give me satisfaction for that insult?"

"Of course," answered Gorchev with a reassuring smile. "However, I haven't the time to go through a long drawn-out process. If you seriously wish to stick to your aggressive ideas, we can fight, but right now, special delivery."

"All right, I am Baron Lingeström."

The other hesitated for an instant.

"And I am Prince Chervonets," he said finally,"...first lieutenant of the guard, the Tsar's obedient servant to the bitter end, and so on, and so forth... Where shall the clashing point be, uncleushka?"

The girl stood, frozen.

"In the Officers' Casino of Monaco. I think that the gentlemen will be at our service, even though they are not acquainted with us. I shall await you there," said Lingeström, and sprang into a waiting taxi.

To his great astonishment Prince Chervonets sat in the driver's seat, and connected the meter.

"The taxi is my own, my dear Duelovitch Baronotchka," he said, and started the motor. And the taxi rattled away with its mad driver, and the astounded Lingeström.



II.

Annette Laboux stood sadly in front of the hotel. The young man with the laughing face was undeniably impudent, but he had such a pleasant face, and was so merry and gay. Lingeström was a giant, who lived for sport only, and was no doubt a fencing champion, too; he would slice that light-headed, scatter-brained, but delightful fool to pieces. Come to think of it, by what right was this Lingeström fighting for her, she asked herself with waking fury. After all, he was not her fiancé!

She didn't like the baron, after all. Just who did that baron think he was?! It was six months ago that he had unexpectedly appeared at their house, and had discussed long with her father, but strictly between the two of them. Since that time he had been trying to appeal to the girl. Up till now his attempts had been unsuccessful.

She sat down at one of the coffee tables before the hotel. Here she sipped, with a heavy heart, a raspberry juice...

A good hour and a half later a clattering car arrived. The vehicle was a taxi and at the steering wheel sat the mad stranger in his straw hat. And wearing a monocle, too.

This time the car stopped quite neatly beside the pavement. It was with the merest crunch that it touched the bumper of a nearby car.

But the stranger didn't bother with such trivialities as a bent bumper. All in all, his stopping manoeuvre had been quite successful. He rushed straight to the girl, and sat down.

"I hope you weren't bored?"

"You..." stuttered Annette,"...left here with Baron Lingeström. What happened to the baron?"

The young man lowered his eyes, and awkwardly twisted his straw hat.

"Answer me!"

"I sliced off one of his ears," he answered shyly. "Anything wrong with that?"



III.

"Lingeström was wounded??!"

"Well... he has something to remember, but after all, what's an ear... especially if they sew it on again..."

"So... his ear was injured?"

"And... his head..."

"His head too...?"

Gorchev nodded apologetically.

"It isn't a big cut, five inches, to say the most, the only thing is that it's a little deep. I couldn't help it. When I cut his arm and chest the doctor suggested that we stop the duel. But that Lingeström is a diligent sort of person and he continued fencing at all costs, even though he was covered with bandages from head to foot, and looked like an angry advertising board."

"You should be locked up in an asylum! As a prince, aren't you ashamed of what you've done?"

"Who said I was a prince?"

"You."

"Well, I'm not. My name is Gorchev, and I'm no prince."

"Then why did you say you were? Do you generally lie?"

"Very rarely, and even then only on questions of life and death..."

"Why did you say you were a prince?"

"Because I'm ashamed that I'm not. A Russian emigrant who isn't a prince should disappear from the surface of the earth these days."

"You are saying ridiculous things again."

"This is something you can't understand... a terrible tragedy: I am Gorchev, Russian, and neither a prince nor even an officer of the guard." He sighed. "My parents moved to Paris before the war. I was born there. My father was irresponsible, and didn't try to establish contact with the guard in his youth. He was simply poverty-stricken, and he emigrated."

He delivered the whole with such pitiable face that Annette could not but laugh again.

"You're amused at this? Do you know what a bitter fate it is to be neither a prince nor have any contact with the guard?" This he burst out as if he were on the verge of tears. "A Russian houseowner, with neither title nor rank, is less in Paris than a fishmonger, because in the market they know a Count Nazostin, who plays the balalaika. Now what can I hope for, whose father was just a houseowner, but had no connection to the bodyguards, and didn't even kill Rasputin? I must ask you not to spread the story, because I'm terribly ashamed of it..."

"You are a profane man. You make a joke of everything," answered Annette, but smiling.

"Really? Well, then get this, I can't even speak Russian! Don't you understand what a tragedy this is? My parents always spoke French, to practise the language. My first love left me for good when, at a theatre, she asked me to translate the Cossack folk singer's song about the Volga, and after I had translated it, it turned out that the singer in question was a Greek actor, who had been singing selections from the Merry Widow... Don't laugh at this tragedy! It cries out for revenge against the corruption of American films and French film criticism. The only things I know in Russian are popushka, uncleushka, and brotherushka. Possibly sisterushka. That's all."

In a little while the girl, although she herself didn't know how it happened, strolled off with the young man, along the narrow, sloping trail, which led from the Casino to the railway-station, and where a sweet little pavilion was hidden among the trees. Into this pavilion they went.

"My dear fellow," said Annette, "if my father scents a breath of scandal around my person, you will have to face the consequences."

"In which case I will immediately ask for your hand in marriage... Which is not such a bad idea. Would you like to be my wife?!"

Annette looked at the boy, frightened. Unfortunately she liked Gorchev very much. But it was useless, he was insane!

"Now you're thinking that I am crazy. Well, you're wrong! Maybe, when it comes to serious matters I leave a tiny bit to be desired, but I am not crazy. So you can say 'yes' quite calmly."

"But I don't even know you."

"That's what makes it such a good idea!"

"Tell me something... Don't think that I am being nosy, if I ask a question. What have you been doing up till now?"

"Lots of things. I was born in Paris, where my irresponsible father, whom I have already mentioned, neglected to establish connection with the guard, or at least kill Rasputin, and because of this negligence, he was forced into business in Paris."

"What sort of business?"

"Such small-scale business that he could carry the whole thing in his neck. He sold sweets in the street, I too became a bread-winner precociously. At the age of twelve I was employed as assistant instructor at a sports school."

"Is that where your proficiency in fencing comes from?"

"Yes. But I am a master of everything. I was a pianist, have been a sailor, a tennis trainer, I am an excellent driver, and most skilful on the stock exchange..."

He felt that he could give a more realistic picture of himself, if in the meantime, he put on his monocle. The girl laughed at him for this. He prickled.

Evening fell. They discussed many things, and went walking on the big terrace behind the Casino. They may have even kissed each other, but this is not established. One thing is incontestable, which is that a great love began that evening.

This behaviour is natural between two young creatures. Even beside the sea.



IV

After Gorchev had said good-bye to the girl, he rushed straight to the Casino. He decided that he would finish off the enterprise, that he would explode the bank. For some incomprehensible reason, he did not choose the methods of explosion that had proved successful many times, like a picric acid or dynamite bomb; instead he picked roulette, that game of chance, a figurative method of exploding the bank.

Within an hour he had won two hundred thousand francs.

Within another hour he stood there in the Casino, exactly as he had left his position on the freight ship 'Rangoon' - without a penny to his name. He whistled softly.

What now? Unfortunately, he did love Annette. How could he marry the girl without a penny? Instead of furniture and a proper standard of living, he could not offer her romanticism as a substitute.

He walked out on to the terrace, where, who knows why, busts of famous composers and authors were dotted around, as if they had some connection with games of chance.

Suddenly he noticed a strangely familiar figure. The ghostly individual moved about in an old-fashioned loose tail-coat, wore a white bow-tie, and his pants flapped over his shoes in humble folds, as pants generally do when they are too long.

The tail-coat was quite loose, and the two flaps beat themselves against the ghost's heels from behind. Diplomats on the screen wore this type of clothing in the earliest days of the cinema.

Good Lord! That's Mr. Vanek!

"Hello, what's the matter with you!"

"Good evening," said the secretary resentfully. "Nice situation. I was trying my luck."

"And?"

"I lost everything. Would you mind giving me a thousand francs."

"I haven't a penny, old boy."

"The name is Vanek."

"All right then, we're finished, Mr. Vanek."

"But you are a millionaire."

"Nonsense. And you expect a millionaire to guarantee your well-being? I hereby relieve you of your duties."

"What do you mean? I've received my wages."

"But a beggar cannot keep a secretary."

"Even if he has already paid for it?"

They moved off to the square in front of the Casino, Mr. Vanek scolding Gorchev violently.

"You are a frivolous man!"

"But Mr. Vanek!"

"Quiet! You had no right to squander my next month's salary. You can be irresponsible in so far as your own future is concerned, sir, but not with that of another person!"

"You are right. Now, tell me where you got those tails."

"If you really wish to know, I rented them from a boatmaker. He was married in them eighteen years ago, and has taken excellent care of them ever since..."

"I wouldn't think so to look at them..."

They arrived at the 'Hotel de Paris' where Gorchev had left the taxi. To his great surprise, sitting in the driver's seat was the chauffeur, who had gone into the bank for a moment to get the change. Now peacefully and sweetly he snoozed by the steering wheel of his newly recovered vehicle.

The result of some miraculous telepathy, he awakened when Gorchev neared him, and called loudly:

"Sir!"

"What are you yelling for?"

"You owe me an entire day's salary! And what's more, you are in debt to me for one bumper."

"What did you need a bumper for?" interposed Mr. Vanek reproachfully.

"I didn't remove your bumper," said Gorchev to the chauffeur. "It just got all dented."

"That is a total of four hundred francs," the driver went on. "Here is twenty-seven thousand six hundred, and in the future I refuse you use of my taxi without my permission."

With that he indignantly handed over a stack of thousand- and hundred-franc banknotes to Gorchev. Which was the amount which he had changed in the bank that morning.

Whoever heard anything like this? They stood there as people who had been hit over the head. Mr. Vanek began to hiccup. Meanwhile, the grumpy driver had already started the motor.

"Here is a thousand francs," said Gorchev finally. "Your reward."

"Thank you," answered the chauffeur and drove off.

Mr. Vanek turned to the young man in fury:

"You're still throwing away thousands? Aren't you ashamed?! You should learn from past history!"

And he castigated Gorchev terribly...

"But Mr. Vanek, an honest finder certainly deserves that much reward?"

"In future, please refrain from this type of donation, even in situations where it is justified, until you have proper reserve funds."

"All right. Although I wished that you'd allow me to advance you two months' salary, since I would like to make certain of having your valuable service. But if you feel that I shouldn't throw my money about..."

"What?..." Mr. Vanek nervously twisted his head, then he nodded permissively. "Well, all right, I won't mind one exception to the rule."

"Thank you," answered Gorchev gratefully, and handed him eight thousand francs.

"It's all right," Mr. Vanek said sullenly, and pocketed the money. "I hope that from now on, you will not have occasion to regret having hired me. Now I suggest we dine..."

"You've recovered from lunch?"

"Oh, there was nothing whatsoever the matter with me," he said haughtily, and pulled his white vest down from the region of his throat. The dicky of his dress, it would seem, was waiting for this moment, because it immediately shot upwards and flapped in his face, as though Mr. Vanek's head were a box which had been awaiting a lid.

The tail-coat Mr. Vanek was wearing behaved like an unmanageable beast, when it attacks its tamer. However, after a short but exciting battle at close quarters, Mr. Vanek put his rebellious pieces of apparel in order, with the exception of one malicious, blood-thirsty vest button, which clawed him resolutely as if it had vowed that by midnight it would wriggle from his vest to his shoulder-blade, where it would neatly pop off the secretary's back.

Gorchev was increasingly pleased that he had recruited Mr. Vanek. With a great deal of enjoyment he watched him stand there in his unhappy tails, like the owner of a summer garden restaurant in a picturesque part of pre-war Budapest, where the Prince of Wales and his escorts had reserved a table for the evening. His cuff-links were larger than was necessary, and for this reason they fastened his sleeves in the rounded position of a stove-pipe, and his rosette necktie had started out on a journey and had got to the stage of his earlobes, where it rested at present. The nose of his dried-out patent leather shoes curled up in a semi-circle, and his thin, long, grizzled hair was disorderly from the great excitement. His rounded, wide nose, peculiar moustache, pince-nez and tormented face blended themselves with his clothes in complete harmony. But it would seem that he was pleased with this Sunday best, because he glanced at himself from head to foot, with satisfaction:

"Would anyone notice that this morning I was nothing but a docker?"

"Anyone who saw you now would swear that you were a philandering watchman in a wax museum, whiling away the evening in the tails of Bismarck's wax model."

"The tails are quite all right," motioned the secretary curtly and decisively. "You are no expert in a gentleman's fashions. Let's go to dinner."

"Reserve a table, and I'll come at once."

The wax museum tails got particular attention in the dining room as well, especially when Mr. Vanek pulled his pince-nez out of his pocket, so that he would be able to study the menu with the appropriate profundity. He discussed everything from hors d'œvres to dessert, from wine to mineral water.

"And please bring me immediately a glass of water in which two entire lemons have been squeezed; I suffer from a lack of acid."

"All right, sir."

"It's not all right, as I haven't been able to receive proper treatment for some time."

Before the dinner was served, Gorchev returned.

"I feel completely different if I have a hundred thousand francs," he said. "This sort of thing puts me into a much better state of mind."

"From where did you get so much money?"

"I thought that while you were ordering, I would go into the roulette game, and play my fortune on the rouge. I won by accident. I consider this a good omen, so I left the whole thing to play on."

"You irresponsible man! Have I advised you for nothing?"

"I admit that I acted improperly, and I won't do it again. But at the same time I am happy about the money, because I can now assure myself of your services until almost October."

"Not even that excuses your irresponsibility."

Meanwhile, they began to serve the food, and Mr. Vanek became silent for a longer period of time.

Gorchev drank a few bottles of beer. His usual high spirits, despite his luck at the roulette table, had escaped him.

He liked Annette Laboux's sweet childlike face very much, with its long, beautifully arched eyebrows.

He was in love. And very much so at that.

On the other hand, Mr. Vanek ate. That is if one can call it eating, if a man, showing complete disregard for his teeth, swallows food whole. He proceeded to work on a whole turkey, with a determined sigh, as David must have done so long ago, when he threw himself into battle against the remaining Philistines, with but one ass jaw. Of course, the secretary was dependent upon his own jaw in this combat, but he stood his ground as firmly as David.

"What should be done, Mr. Vanek, if you were to faint here on the spot?" asked Gorchev prudently.

Before answering, the secretary swallowed the half turkey that was in his mouth, and then briefly informed him of the immediate precautions to take.

"Shirt and collar to be unbuttoned, left to lie in open air for a few minutes, perhaps artificial respiration, and sixteen drops of camphor spirits."

Gorchev made note of these instructions, and continued drinking. When Mr. Vanek finally fell under the table, he handed the paper to the waiter.

"Proceed with the instructions, and then to Nice with him, to the 'Hotel Méditerranée'."

He settled up the bill and left.





Chapter Three



I

Where?... he would find Annette! He rented a car, and started off in the direction of Nice. He himself didn't know what he wanted or why he was running around so much.

It was a good deal after midnight, when he saw her... from a distance.

A tall, grey, thin man with a sun-tanned face came out from the restaurant of one of the hotels with Annette beside him. The third party was a general. They stepped into a tremendous blue Alfa Romeo. The car was chauffeured by a Negro.

He had never seen a touring car as beautiful as that Alfa Romeo. It was not mass-produced. It must have been the special model of the factory, for wealthy and distinguished people. The tremendous touring car, despite its great size, was dainty and graceful. Its strange sheen, dignity of line, streamlined bonnet, tremendous engine, suggested the haughtiness of a queen.

Its masterful springs and the harmony of the engine made the proud machine move off soundlessly, gracefully. It reminded one of the decisive, yet soft step, which noble, aged and retired owners of ancient castles print on thick rugs on quiet nights.

Did Gorchev feel instinctively that this automobile was to play a decisive role in the lives of so many people, in the life of an entire, though small country, and in his own future as well, frighteningly, and inevitably as if cruelty himself sat at the steering wheel?

It's possible. Because he stared at the departing Alfa Romeo in amazement.

"Who were the two gentlemen with the lady?" he asked the doorman, having drawn up in front of the hotel dazed by the Alfa Romeo, and had pushed a stack of money into the hand of the Cerberus with the beard of a Father Christmas.

"The grey, thin man is Gustave Laboux, the minister, the lady is his daughter, and the name of the general is Auguste de Bertin."

Gorchev began hunting for another banknote.

"72, Boulevard Victor Hugo," said Father Christmas, and accepted the money. The young man stared at him in amazement.

"You know, you are not so stupid after all."

"The three most important factors in my profession are brains, psychology, and a carefully groomed beard. In addition one needs..."

...But what was needed in addition, Gorchev never found out. (Although it's possible that it would have interested him.) He was more interested in Annette. For this reason he simply rolled away, so that, in the manner of a dangerous dilettante, he could rush to the Boulevard Victor Hugo.

Perhaps it would have been much wiser to continue his discussion with the grey-bearded doorman and it isn't impossible that in that case he had been able to see into the future, and especially the happenings of that night.

But has there ever lived a twenty-one-year-old young man, and in love, to boot, who could foresee his own future? If young people could foresee things, what would happen to society? The number of broken engagements and divorce cases would torrent into a horrible ocean.

Luckily, nature gives man limited powers, and Gorchev in his car cruised along the road of destiny, convinced that it would be better to rush after the young and pretty girl than to listen to the views of the elderly doorman.

How wrong he was!



II

A young man stood in the shadow of the trees, and watched the summer house. Why was he spying? What reason could he have for standing there? Not even he himself knew...

He had stood there for perhaps half an hour, nervously, with very dejected spirits, when two men neared. He could see them for an instant by the light of the corner streetlamp, as they crossed the path of the light. One had the appearance of a tramp, and was surly in expression, the other a dumpy man, slightly better dressed.

They stopped by Gorchev, never thinking that someone stood behind the tree.

"I will simply go in and speak with Laboux."

"Out of the question. That would completely ruin the business."

"The devil. Either he recognizes me, or gets a knife in his ribs. Nom du nom!"

"Psst!"

The garden gate swung open. Perhaps the general had only accompanied Annette and her father, and was now leaving for home.

The lamplight didn't penetrate the dense trees along the road. The man with the appearance of a tramp suddenly stepped out in front of the general.

"Don't rush, de Bertin! Do you recognize me? I am Portenif!"

"What do you want?"

"General," spoke up a rough voice, obviously the dumpy man's. "Do indicate a place where you would be willing to meet us."

"I have no reason to meet you, and..."

Portenif struck with something. The general jumped back, jerked his sword up. But the dumpy one grabbed his wrist and Portenif's second blow struck home.

At this point Gorchev threw himself into the game. The two attackers had not dreamt that a soul was near. The counter-attack was unexpected.

A fist from somewhere caught Portenif on the mouth and drenched it with blood; he dropped to the road, while the dumpy one flew into the fence from a sly kick...

"Help!" called a woman's voice from the villa; it was probably Annette.

"Police!" called the general, staggering to the fence of the villa...

"Blackguard..." growled the dumpy one, and struck at the attacker with something again, but was beaten to it by such a smack that everything darkened before him.

The steps of a running policeman were heard along the asphalt. The dumpy one and Portenif slipped away. They hadn't seen Gorchev in the dark even for a second.

"Are you all right?" a pleasant masculine voice asked the general.

"Yes... but my eye is covered with blood..."

A long shadow appeared at the gate of the villa, with a pistol in his hand. It was Laboux.

"What happened?"

"The general was attacked at the same moment as I arrived here."

"I am de Bertin. Thank you for your successful interference," said the general to Gorchev. Then he took charge of the policeman, who had arrived in the meantime.

"At any rate, I will accompany the general home..."

After de Bertin had departed, Laboux turned to Gorchev.

"You are an exceptionally brave man. You rushed to help the general against two opponents..."

"Two men? Those aren't odds. On the Vi-Shung Square in Shanghai I once insulted twelve chauffeurs."

"And you left on your own two feet?"

"I was forced to, because there wasn't a driver left in the vicinity who was in condition to handle a car."

Laboux laughed uproariously.

"You are really a first-class chap! I'd invite you into my house if it weren't so late... I hope that I'll have the pleasure some day..."

"Most likely tomorrow. You see, it is my plan to ask your daughter in marriage."

Laboux stared at Gorchev.

"What?... What did you say?..."

"We went for a walk this afternoon..."

"Oh, so you are the one who sliced up Lingeström?" cried the father. "Look, young man, a few moments ago you behaved in such a way that I cannot do more than ask you to leave."

"But..."

"You should be taught a serious lesson for having compromised my daughter. Unfortunately, however, I cannot do anything to you, since you protected my guest, and therefore I am obliged to you."

After a few moments of thought, Gorchev said:

"Tell me, sir... I have a question to ask you: if, say, someone loved your daughter, and that individual would make a good husband, would you deny your fatherly blessing, just because the young man had beaten you up once? Of course, I am thinking of a real beating."

Laboux stood out in front of him, and laughed uproariously.

"Do you mean to say that you would like to beat me up, but won't do it for that reason?... Well, listen to me! You will never be my son-in-law because you are a frivolous, untrustworthy character."

"We'll return to that later..."

"Of course," Laboux let it go, with sparkling eyes, and a delightful expression on his face. "But as a matter of fact, I hereby announce that, if by some chance, I were to accept you as my son-in law, the afore-mentioned affair would only count in your favour!"

"In that case, let's fight. All right?" suggested the young man, and his eyes sparkled too.

"I warn you," said Laboux, and licked his lips, as if he had found a delicacy that he had been denied for a long time. "It would be best if you cleared out of here!"

"Do you want to have a conversation or fight?"

"Fight!" said the sun-tanned grey-haired man with enthusiasm.

"Right. Should I start?"

"Wait, not here... would you honour me, in my villa. Please enter."

The two men were all smiles and politeness. After they had entered the garden, something occurred to Laboux.

"I'm going into the house for a moment, to reassure my daughter. In the meantime, please take a seat here in the garden."

It was indeed a breath-taking and sweet-smelling Riviera night. Gorchev sat down among the bright flowers, on a stone bench. While he smoked a cigarette, he dreamt, partly of Annette, with whom he was in love, and partly of Laboux, whom he would beat to a pulp on his return.

He didn't have to wait long. The owner of the house came shortly. He brought a bottle of brandy with two glasses, and poured.

"To your health!"

They emptied the glasses, and smiled at each other, like good friends.

"Can we start?"

"Wait," said Gorchev. He took off his coat, hung it on a tree, then undid his tie and opened his collar.

"What are you doing?!" asked Laboux impatiently. "Did you come here to fight, or to have a swim?"

"It's hard to replace torn pieces of clothing at dawn," he answered, and Laboux was forced to accept the argument.

"Don't be surprised at my impatience," he apologized. "But I haven't fought in fifteen years," he said with nostalgia, like an elderly lady remembering her unforgettable honeymoon in Venice.

"Wouldn't it be better if you practised a bit? Fifteen years is a long time, you know."

"If you do not wish to remove your shoes, let's begin," was the father's war-cry.

"All right, and..."

Gorchev couldn't continue, because Laboux cut into his words. Literally so, and with such force that the young man flew gracefully into the pool of the fountain. He came up dumbfounded and staggering like the enraged Neptune of classic painting.

That slap, too, was a classic. His brain buzzed, and he shook his head several times.

"Well?!" shouted Laboux impatiently. "Do you want to swim all the time?"

Gorchev climbed out of the water. He received a second slap, dropped back and went under water for a while like a diver who fills his lungs and lets himself down to the bottom of the ocean.

Before the third smack could reach him, he had jumped out of the pool. The moon shone out, and lit the two men. Gorchev was grinning.

"Congratulations. You hit very well. But it isn't the real thing yet."

"And what do you say to this, for example?"

...One of Laboux's amazingly fast smacks started out, but didn't arrive at its destination. Gorchev caught his wrist, twisted it easily, so that his charming host waltzed over Gorchev's shoulder, and, as the result of a successful straight left, dived into the fountain. Gorchev retrieved him, but only to slap him twice, and having done this, pushed the gentleman back. This he repeated a number of times, as village women slap and rinse their washing. Finally instead of a defeated Laboux, by some strange means, a long foot appeared from the pool, sole first, and with a precise kick toppled the surprised Gorchev into a set of woven garden furniture. After a short battle of fists, they rolled along the ground, wrestling through the ruins of the garden furniture.

André, the butler, with side-whiskers and manners of a famous actor in a grand performance, awakened at the noise and thought it his duty to rush down to the garden. He dressed quickly, since nothing on earth would have forced him to appear improperly dressed outside his room.

Downstairs, in the darkness of the garden at night, the battle raged. Meanwhile the moon had hidden behind a cloud. Both parties had decided that he had met his match in the other. They rolled along the ground, clutching each other's throats, and the nearby La France roses, as though sensing their doom, fluttered petals on them.

With one hand Gorchev held Laboux's throat, with the other he directed a punch partly between the nose and mouth, in the direction of the jaw, and partly towards the left eye. The third punch would have landed at the base of the ear, but now Laboux jerked his knee upwards, and Gorchev flew among the dense lotus blossoms in a tiny artificial lake, and found himself up to his neck in the reeds...

But he sprung from the pool, kicked the shadow running along the lawn in the stomach, and when the shadow shouted, and doubled over, he cut upwards with his fist so that his opponent dropped silently among the group of speechless Harlem tulips...

"That wasn't the right thing to do," said Laboux, while standing next to him. "To have flattened out my butler."

"The devil take it!"

André, who had arrived at the scene of the fight at an un-favourable moment, now lay unconscious among the Harlem tulips. He moved slightly, all his limbs heavy.

"I think that it's been enough," said Gorchev.

They looked at one another, panting. Dawn was breaking. Water dripped down them in slow, pudgy drops.

Gorchev put on his coat, his straw hat, and put the framed monocle in place. He looked as though he were wearing a pince-nez, since his other eye also had a wide black ring on it from Laboux's fist.

"It's really been a pleasure to fight with you."

"If I were your son-in-law, we could fight as much as you liked," he pleaded with the gentleman, whom he had beaten ragged.

"I have no intention of giving up my daughter to a stripling brat of a go-getter."

"But when you were my age, you couldn't have been older than me."

"But I had completed life's academy... I was a hero in the Legion, not on the Riviera."

"Is that such a big thing?"

"I'll tell you what," said Laboux sarcastically. "Join the French Foreign Legion, and when you have been discharged, there won't be anything to prevent you from marrying my daughter."

Gorchev stood silently for a second.

"What did I tell you," said Laboux bitingly. "That was a bit too much for you."

"I was surprised," said Gorchev, "that you don't want anything more of me. It's really nothing. I'll join today."

"Just try it. You boaster!"

"You're a conceited fraud," said Gorchev, and headed furiously toward the gate.

At the turn, in the inky darkness, he stumbled into a bucket of whitewash which quite infuriated him.

"Boastful poseur!" called Laboux after him angrily.

"What did you say?"

"Boastful, stupid, idiot!"

Gorchev grabbed a brush from the bucket, ran back along the winding road at the greatest speed the darkness allowed, and without a second's hesitation shoved the tremendous brush into the face of his enemy so that the entire head disappeared in whitewash. Then he struck with the wooden handle of the brush.

"So I'm a nut?... Huh?..."

The brush swung from left to right, then, with a final tremendous sweep, it knocked its opponent into the fountain and hit him a few more times, until finally he surfaced croaking.

"A dolt?... Answer me!... What am I... What?"

"Don't question him further," said Laboux, standing next to him. "The butler doesn't know who or what you are."

Poor André spread out on the ground, bent over the edge of the fountain, resembled a puppet theatre's wax player during an interval in performances.

"He always shows up at the wrong moment," grumbled Gorchev.

"Now, go home, my friend, because in a short time the people of the house will be waking up."

"I'm not going home! I'm going to the Legion."

"Why do you insist on this bluff? Do you think that will have any effect on me? You can even go to the Legion if you like!"

And tossing André over his shoulder, he left the young man where he stood.

Gorchev rushed away with the speed and fury of a cyclone. He would go and join the Legion! But immediately.



III

He got into his car and rushed like a madman towards the nearest barracks. He stopped before the gate, knocked over a sentry-box, and then, while backing, caught one of the guardposts with his back bumper. They made ready to sound the alarm, thinking that a motorized civilian was attacking the barracks. But the car finally, and with great difficulty, came to a stop.

Gorchev soaking wet, and in a dinner jacket, immediately presented himself to the recruiting officer, a very sleepy man.

"Your name?" asked the drowsy officer.

"Ivan Gorchev."

"You want to join the Legion?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any money?"

"I must have about a hundred thousand francs in my pocket. They got a bit wet in some gymnastics I did last night."

The lieutenant carefully examined the beaten up, somewhat worn, but still good-looking young man.

"What in the world is forcing you to join the Legion with a hundred thousand francs in your pocket?"

"Love."

The officer nodded, knowingly. France's traditions protect the honour and emotion of that word from the sarcasm which it is subjected to in other countries.

When he had signed the contract, they took away all his papers.

"This is your railway ticket," said the officer handing it to him, "and at the same time, your identity card, with which you have to report in Marseilles. You are now a soldier, and your orders are to take the first train to Marseilles, where you will report at Fort St. Jean. They'll have a warrant made out for your arrest, and you will be seriously punished when you are caught, if you don't arrive in Marseilles on the afternoon train. Your departure will be checked up on, and you must report with this ticket at the railway station before you leave. Got it?"

"I understand, Lieutenant."

"With the signing of this contract, you have become a private in the French colonial army. You are under the jurisdiction of military court, which has the right to inflict a death penalty. You will be serving the proud and world-famous flag of the Legion. Do that as becomes a man. I wish you the best of luck, my friend."

The officer extended his hand, and two minutes later, Gorchev was at the gate again, turning the car. He twisted the steering wheel to one side, and started the motor, but forgot to take the car out of reverse; so he flattened an advertising poster. Having got the car out of reverse, he made a quick turn onto the opposite sidewalk, and raced towards the seashore...





Chapter Four



I

My dear Sir,

Judging from your left hooks, you are a gentleman, though I didn't doubt it from the start. At the end of our heated argument last night, you promised that if I join the Legion and come back, after my discharge, you will not refuse me your daughter.

Therefore, I have the great honour to report that as of today I am a member of the Legion, which can be proven by the ticket containing the number 1172/27/36, which is in my possession. Moreover, by the time you receive this letter, I'll have already reported for my military assignment at Fort St. Jean.

Since not only your left hooks, but your right uppercuts have reinforced my impression that you are a gentleman, I feel that you will not let yourself into a position in which you should find it necessary to give your daughter's hand to anyone else in the meantime. Unless, in the event of my death (of which, I assure you, there is but slight possibility) you are freed from your promise.

I request that you report our agreement to your daughter Annette, and I close my letter in hopes that your butler André will soon be well.


Your true admirer, Ivan Gorchev


The black bandage was still on the general's forehead. He listened to Laboux very thoughtfully as the latter read the letter aloud. This took place in Laboux's summer cottage, on the morning after the eventful night.

Silence prevailed for several seconds.

"Did you really tell him that you would let him marry Annette if he joined the Legion?" asked the general.

"What if I did? You don't imagine that I consider Annette to be the fiancée of some easy-come-easy-go, lightheaded nitwit, just because he misunderstood a joke?!"

"What's your most serious objection to the boy? What you've mentioned up till now isn't a bit serious."

"Are you defending him...?"

"Until now the only defence was his of me. Against two tramps."

The general paced the floor undecidedly. This silence made Laboux nervous.

"Tell me, honestly, please, what is your opinion of the whole thing?"

"Gustave! We have been good friends for twenty years... I would really prefer it if you didn't ask for my opinion..."

"I insist that you speak frankly."

"That's different. So there. A young man, who enjoys living, is healthy, and isn't even poor, joined the Foreign Legion last night. Because of you."

"How could I know he was insane!"

"You could know what the Legion is!"

"Ah," said Laboux, with feigned indifference, his face pale, "you're taking the whole thing very emotionally."

He rang a bell, and spoke nervously to the butler who stepped into the room.

"André! Cognac!"

A violet colour was washed across the butler's eye; his mouth was swollen. All in all, he looked like an actor interpreting, with success, the Hunchback of Notre Dame.

He filled the glasses, then departed with a true butler expression on his face, which contains a bit of reproach, a degree of insulted self-respect, and also a touch of dramatic haughtiness toward his employer.

"Cheers!" said Laboux, but the general didn't return the toast.

"I must know your standpoint, Gustave. I'm afraid that in this situation our opinions are very distant from each other."

Laboux jumped to his feet.

"Hey, André! Tell Parker to bring the car immediately."

"What do you want?"

"We must find that man. You come with me. Maybe it isn't too late!"

"A gentleman is waiting in the hall," announced André.

"I cannot see anyone... I'm not at home... Come on! We'll go down the back stairs."

And he dashed off with the general to find Gorchev at all costs. Even if they had to go to hell and back to do it!

André returned to the hall where the guest waited.

"Monsieur Laboux is not available for the time being," he reported to the guest. "What may I tell him upon his return? Who wished to see him?"

"My name is Ivan Gorchev."



II

"I am certain that Monsieur Laboux will regret that he was not available."

"My dear Uncleushka André," answered Gorchev, "a man is not available in his own house, but at home in it."

"Monsieur Laboux has no objections to my speech."

"Yes, he has. He just never told you. Now, will you announce me to Mademoiselle Laboux," he said easily, biting off the end of a cigar and spitting it past André's head with such force that the butler shuddered.

"Mademoiselle does not receive guests at this time," he answered indignantly.

"Now you listen to me, André! I don't like waiting, and I don't like arguing, so go on, Popushka, and do what I say, because if I get mad at you I might just knock you out."

"I'm sorry, sir, you can't force me to disobey my orders."

Gorchev simply pushed the butler aside, and walked up the stairs.

When he reached the landing, he opened one door after the other. He was surprised on several occasions. For example, in the bathroom, where the piano teacher just happened to be in the tub. Later, in a tiny closet, when a dog who was suffering from an inoculation came racing out, howling. (The dog bit the scurrying, hysterical piano teacher, and she too had to be inoculated against hydrophobia.)

But finally, in one of the rooms - it must have been the twentieth or so - he heard Annette's voice.

"You may tell the gentleman that he should rest assured I'll be there."

The girl was conversing with someone.

"It is in your own interests, Mademoiselle, that you come," answered a croaking, well-wined voice. "I can assure you that no one wishes to harm you."

Gorchev peeped in the keyhole with little regard for convention. He almost fell flat at what he saw.

Standing in the room, facing Annette, stood the tramp who had attacked the general. The one called Portenif.

"So, you won't forget, Mademoiselle. Toulon, Texas Restaurant. But I will wait for you at the first filling station within the limits of the city, so you won't need to inquire about the route." The owner of that husky voice now went to the window and, as though this were the most natural way of departure, stepped out on the sill, and disappeared.

Definitely Annette's visitor was the same man who had attacked the general. The fight had taken place in complete darkness, but Gorchev had seen the two men from behind the tree, as they passed under the lamp. This was undoubtedly an advantage insofar as the two brigands would not be able to recognize him if they met again, but he had taken careful note of their features. He decided that he would not be an uninvited intruder in the girl's affairs, and that he would not mention the eavesdropping, unless Annette told him of it, by herself.

Someone touched his shoulder. André stood behind him, his eyes blazing.

"My dear sir, this method..."

The butler was quickly knocked down and shoved under the couch. Then Gorchev knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

"Ivan Gorchev."

The girl opened the door in amazement.

"How did you get in here?"

"On the stairs... Darling."

"Where is André?"

"Your dear old butler had an unexpected visitor, a relative from the provinces, and he is now showing him round in the city..."

"What do you want?"

"I asked for your hand in marriage last night."

"You're joking..."

"This is the one question about which I would never joke. I asked for your hand, and your father agreed to our marriage."

"Is this... true?" asked Annette, her eyes shining.

"So true that I shall kiss you."

He hugged the girl, and kissed her a number of times. Annette protested.

"I also came to say good-bye to you, because your father only consented on condition that I join the Legion."

"What?... That's out of the question!"

"Why! I can't be stopped by such a triviality! Of course, I immediately reported to the barracks."

"You're insane! You aren't going to join the Legion..." she cried, frightened.

"I already have..."

"I'll take you over to Ventimiglia, over the border in my car!"

"Don't bother, Annette," he stroked the girl's face, laughing. "I am the most obstinate person in the world. I think your father was right. It won't hurt if I become a bit more serious. This whole history is so insane, and so beautiful that we mustn't spoil it. I will serve for you, Annette."

"But, please... think it over... It's sheer madness!"

"Life is only worthwhile if it is a bit mad..."

"If something happens to you, Ivan... I want you to understand that I won't marry anyone else."

"Please, I don't even want you to say such a thing. Only very stupid men like it if women sour themselves in sadness. If, through death, I shouldn't come back, then I really wish that you find someone else with whom you can laugh, and have a wonderful married life... Bless you, Annette..."

One last kiss, and he hurried off. He had to be on the afternoon train to Marseilles.

In the hall André stepped before him, with a haughty, stern, and slightly swollen face.

"Not one step! I have sent for a policeman and..."

Regretfully Gorchev knocked him down again and shoved him this time under the piano. He departed.



III

All this time Laboux and the general searched for Gorchev. First they enquired at the 'Hotel Méditerranée'. Gorchev was not known at the desk, but they seemed to have heard of a mad Russian somewhere. He had last been heard of in the royal suite, in the form of pistol shots, when he had turned off the lights by shooting out the bulbs on the chandelier. Following this information, they spoke to Mr. Vanek, in the closet of the royal suite. The secretary had a neurotic fear of spaces, and couldn't stand the many large and lavishly furnished rooms. The tremendous wardrobe, in which the belongings of the good man, a bowler hat, swimming trunks and an umbrella, were placed, was still twice as big as his last abode, from which he had departed several months previously.

The secretary had been awakened, and was consequently a bit brusque with the enquirers.

"We are looking for a gentleman!" said Laboux.

"So? Just look for him. Or am I disturbing you?"

"Don't you know where he might be?"

"Who?"

"Ivan Gorchev."

"Oh, that half-wit Russian? I really couldn't tell you," he said, helplessly.

Laboux sighed, and turned to the general.

"Monte Carlo perhaps?"

"I was there yesterday," said Mr. Vanek.

"I'm asking about Gorchev, my dear sir!"

"Oh, surely he goes out to the Casino?" de Bertin urged.

"My dear sirs," answered Mr. Vanek, ponderingly. "Now that you have honoured me with your visit, won't you tell me just who this Gorchev is."

"But, you are his secretary!"

"That doesn't mean that I haven't the right to know anything about him. To be quite honest, he seems a suspicious character to me. I like him, but he is an unknown quantity. You'll see, something will turn up at some unexpected check-up somewhere abroad.

Laboux tapped his forehead, indicating an unfortunate psychiatric diagnosis, and then said to the general:

"Come, Auguste."

Laboux began to admit that he had been a fool. They ransacked all Nice and its neighbourhood in vain: Gorchev could be found nowhere. At nine in the evening, they returned home exhausted and were greeted by André in the hall. The poor man looked quite worn. One of his lips, for example, had been chaffed by something in their absence.

"André, I'm looking for a man called Ivan Gorchev. Go to the police station..."

"I have already contacted the police about Mr. Gorchev, but he, unfortunately, has already departed."

"What?!... When did he leave?"

"I didn't see him."

"Where were you in the meantime?"

"Under the piano."

"And before that?"

"Under the couch... You see, Mr. Gorchev forcibly occupied the apartment during the morning hours, broke into Mademoiselle's room, and prevented me from action on several occasions. At these times he buried me under various pieces of furniture."

They dashed up with the general, four steps at a time. Annette was in her room, sobbing bitterly.

"I hear, Annette," began her father, in a diffident tone, "that Gorchev was here..."

"...He's gone... an hour ago... on your orders..." sobbed the girl. "You sent him to the desert! And you might as well know that I am his fiancée, and if he dies, I'll die too."

"Annette, ...don't speak like that ...I'm sorry already... But what can I do... Maybe he has some sense, and he'll escape after all..."

"He has no sense, and he won't escape!" sniffed Annette.

The two men stood silently. The girl's tears fell in large drops... they fell and fell... She seemed irredeemably embittered by the young man's choice of occupation.

André entered the room, and announced:

"I think there is someone here with news of Mr. Gorchev."

Lingeström entered the room with a bandaged arm, head, and a face that was also swathed in bandages...





Chapter Five



I

After a short, weighty silence, Laboux spoke up again, in a diffident tone.

"I was quite sad when Annette told me that that mad young man..."

"Don't anyone dare to say that!" shouted the girl, her eyes flaming. "Ivan Gorchev answered a challenge in a manner befitting a gentleman!"

"The conflict did occur in defence of Mademoiselle Annette," consented the baron.

"I didn't ask for your defence! And as far as I know, our relations are not such as to entitle you to defend me."

"That is why I came here, Annette. You see... But... why are you laughing?!"

"Excuse me... oh! oh! oh!..."

And she ran out. The general and Laboux looked at each another. The girl was mad. If only they could have seen her sitting down on the carpet in the other room and rocking with laughter - for she had suddenly pictured Gorchev as he held his hat shyly, and said, looking at his shoes, "I sliced off one of his ears... anything wrong with that?..." She pealed away to herself.

Then, without any warning, she began to cry. He was in the Legion now... That sweet... sweet madman. He had already arrived. It was six o'clock...

My God! Six o'clock... She had to be in Toulon... They were waiting for her at the filling station.

She grabbed her cape and hat hurriedly and dashed out.

She left the gentlemen in a somewhat icy mood, in the salon. Baron Lingeström was the first to speak.

"I observed from Annette's conduct that I have little reason to hope."

"I think you are quite right..." answered Laboux honestly. "What can we do? That insane young man completely fouled up our plans."

"Do you know," Lingeström asked de Bertin, "that Portenif is in Nice?"

"I've already met him," answered the general, straightening the black bandage on his forehead as if substantiating his statement.

"So you've contacted that character?" asked the host.

The baron hesitated.

"Since I conclude that my feelings toward Annette are unrequited, there is only one attitude left for me, which is that I choose the solution which can benefit me the most."

"I understand. Annette's hand would have been the reason for your being with us without hesitation."

"What of it?"

Laboux poured a water tumbler full of cognac, drank it, then turned to Baron Lingeström, laughing.

"May I be quite honest?"

"As you wish..."

"I am really delighted that my daughter did not choose you as her husband, my dear Baron."

"What am I to understand by that?"

"I was always a gentleman, but before I became a millionaire I did duty in the hells of the Sahara for several years... since then, nom du nom, in the serious moments of life, instead of the twisted salon language, I like the simplicity of the legionary..."

"I knew that you were in the Legion. And I have also been told that you are a great believer in simplified methods of action..."

"Confound it!... Is this meant to be some sort of literary spitefulness?! Look, don't try to ride the high horse, because I have learned more in my lifetime than you. For instance, besides Shelley's poems I also learned the classic left hook..."

"Gustave," interrupted the general.

"Please, general, I am truly interested in the provincial exhibition of our host..."

"You have been wounded and my guest at the same time. If I apologize that is the only reason for it," said Laboux, and he drank another glass of the strong cognac as though it were water. "Admit that it was most peculiar to refer to your defeat as a lover in connection with another affair with which Annette is not in the least connected."

"Mr. Gorchev's appearance shook my confidence in the stability of our ties..."

"Now, you listen to me!" Laboux growled at the baron. "There is no need for any more solid basis than my word! Take note of that... And as far as Mr. Gorchev goes, the man is completely crazy and should be shot instantly, because otherwise only God knows what he will do next. But he is a real man, and his punches are the kind I take my hat off to. Otherwise he'd knock it off. And... hmm... as I can see, he also knows how to fence," he added.

The bandaged baron became red as a beet.

"I found out in the meantime that Gorchev is an agent provocateur!" he yelled in retaliation.

"Can you prove it?"

"At the age of sixteen he was a sports trainer, and therefore a professional fencer."

"I was a boxing trainer in the army," interrupted Laboux, "and I got extra pay for teaching. But I hope that that doesn't stop you from considering me a gentleman."

"At the age of seventeen, he became a sailor," Lingeström continued with the facts. "He spent a month in jail in Tokyo for illegal fishing. He was prohibited from entering Greek ports for a knifing, and later played the accordion at the infamous 'Sailboat Bob' in Port Suez..."

"But this is all wonderful," cried Laboux excitedly. "And I was beginning to feel ashamed that he knocked out one of my teeth!"

"I am no longer surprised that you don't consider me a suitable member of the family," answered Lingeström, his face burning. Then he rose.

The gentlemen took leave of one another with rigid bows.

"Do you think that Lingeström will turn against us?" asked Laboux, when only the two of them remained.

"What makes you think that he was with us until now?' answered de Bertin nervously. "Did you tell him the secret of the automobile?"

Laboux blinked as if in embarrassment.

"Answer me! Did you tell him anything about the gold?!'

"Well... specifically, no, but... I did mention as a joke that the Alfa Romeo was now worth at least ten million pounds."

"You madman!"

"Why are you so frightened? The car is standing here, it front of the house, and at night that Negro Parker guards it in the garage... I admit that I was a bit rash to trust that Lingeström, but his father was such a decent man..."

"Your father was a decent man, too," groaned de Bertin

"That's true," answered Laboux, and he rang the bell

André answered. One of his eyes was no larger than an acorn

"Send in the driver."

"I'm afraid that Parker is not in condition to appear."

"Where is he?"

"He is sitting on the staircase crying, because someone stole Monsieur's automobile."



II

When Annette left the carved-up Lingeström, and her father the car still stood before the gate. The girl looked for Parker in vain. What should she do? She got into the car and started the motor knowing full well that she should first ask her father's permission. Laboux considered such rules very important.

The old man was very sensitive about his car, but eventually he would be certain to allow her to take the beautiful Alfa Romeo on a short tour...

The car slipped noiselessly along the snow-white smooth highway between the dreamy palms and flower beds of the Riviera. Dazed by the fumes of the lush vegetation of the Cote d'Azur, warm and slightly smelling of fish, she sat behind the steering wheel filled with love, and sadness, and with the indestructible faith of youth. Gorchev was sure to return!

On the surface of the miraculously smooth sea, the lights of two reflectors streaked along, from the tops of the lighthouses. The white and red stripes interchangeably cut the dark back of the water with their thin whip of light.

Gorchev...

Her eyes filled with tears, the houses, palms, the highway changed into blurred things, forcing her to slow down.

What was this? The girl's motorist instinct told her that the usually faultless oil brake was not holding... But never mind... Let's go! She had to clear up a situation which involved her father... That ragamuffin had shown her some kind of letter, in which Laboux was slandered...

Sixty miles... Seventy... The speedometer soared its way up the scale... On that wide highway even a greenhorn could run at racing speed...

But what was this? She was unable to push the car up beyond eighty! What in the world was the matter with this car? Then a few more shocks. The oil and the petrol were burning up at a much greater speed than was warranted by the car, and the distance covered.

But she hadn't the time to think about this peculiarity of the automobile. Toulon was on the horizon, and she had to hurry, for fear of being late. She put her entire weight into the accelerator, gave it more gas, but was unable to get the car going faster than eighty... It was the standard bad dream: a person tries to escape, and his feet, instead of running as directed, just take large steps. She felt this as she gave more gas, but no matter what she did, the car would go no faster than eighty. Any kind of tiny Fiat or other midget car could have easily passed by, and taken the crown from the big touring car.

Toulon!... There was the filling station. Stop!

Despite the command of the fine oil brakes, the car skidded some twenty metres, screeching like some ancient T-Ford in which the brake had been completely worn down... Incomprehensible!

The ragamuffin shot open the door, jumped in beside her, and spoke quietly.

"Get going, quickly! Right at the second crossing!"

The girl instinctively obeyed, started, and raced on.

"Are we going far?"

"One minute. There, turn right at the square. Does anyone know that you came?"

"I promised, so of course no one knows it. To whom does that letter that you showed me belong?"

"You'll find out. Stop before those red and blue lights on the corner."

The sound of the zither and accordion could be heard. A woman sang in an alto voice, blurred with drink. Above the entrance a sign read:

TEXAS RESTAURANT

"We'll go in from the courtyard," said Portenif.

Annette followed him silently. They passed through a dark unplanted plot. On the other side of the house, he opened a door to somewhere. He let Annette ahead, but did not follow her in. Instead, he closed the door behind her.

The girl stood in a tiny room, facing two men. One was the little dumpy one, the other a broad-shouldered tall, grey man.

"Please come in," said the broad-shouldered one. He had an intelligent face, a high forehead, but was possessed with such a frightening calm and resolution that Annette shuddered.

"I came here because I was shown a letter, which is either a mistake, or a deliberate lie. I do not believe anything bad of my father."

"If that is so, why come here?" asked the dumpy one, in a croaking voice, whose cheap elegance was made complete by a loud necktie, and a glass tie pin.

"I came because I want to quash even the shadow of a doubt."

She heard a noise. As if someone were trying to start a car somewhere!

"I left my car unguarded."

Before she could step to the door, the grey man stood before her.

"You are staying here!"

She didn't notice the dumpy one darting behind her. Suddenly he twisted a drugstore smelling rag around her head, which her scream was lost in... She felt them holding her down, and then she lost her senses.

She came to herself in a police station. It was evening. The commander, a big moustached sergeant, stood before a table, drinking tea. When Annette sat up, he turned.

"Are you feeling better?"

"Yes... only my head aches, and I feel dizzy. Phone to Nice, please."

The sergeant looked at her.

"But you are in Nice!"

A thousand bells rang in the girl's brain. Now she felt the effects of the dope.

"Please... I should like to go home," she said dizzily. "Call me a taxi..."

"I'm sorry, but all motorized traffic has been forbidden in Nice," answered the policeman, and when he saw that the girl was looking at him dumbfounded, he added, "A fantastically important, blue, tremendous Romeo car, alias Alfa, has disappeared. Its licence number is 126-513 DK. Hey! What's the matter! Mademoiselle!... Water!..."

Annette had fallen to the floor in a faint.



III

At approximately the same time as Annette, Gorchev began his trip to Toulon. The mysterious automobile had begun to involve its unsuspecting victims. After he had placed André under the piano, Gorchev hurriedly climbed into his borrowed car, in front of Laboux's villa, to rush to reach the five o'clock train to Marseilles, because an order is an order.

And, a warrant is a warrant.

The car was in a rather battered condition. The lack of one door was particularly noticeable. This had probably been ripped off in Monaco, when he ran through the herd of oxen waiting before the abattoir. The running board had been dragged off by a tram car while going around a bend, that was all right, he remembered that. But where had the hood become dented like that, and where had he left his headlights? Oh well, there was nothing he could do about it now.

The first thing to do was to have an aperitif!

He carefully and nimbly stopped in front of a cafe. Finally he did that perfectly: he was braking beautifully, and didn't run into any parking vehicles.

This was partly because Gorchev was beginning to get used to driving, and partly because in front of the cafe there was no vehicle. It so happened that all parking there was prohibited, with the exception of buses. The customary sign stood there: No parking!

However, Gorchev had never paid attention to signs, and he stopped smartly, if not exactly in front of the cafe, a little further up, by a cinema...

"A Pernod, my dear director Uncleushka," ordered Gorchev hastily, throwing a coin on the table.

But the drink almost got stuck in his throat.

In a hidden booth, at the very back of the cafe, he saw one of the attackers of the general, in the company of the thoroughly bandaged Lingeström.

The two men were deeply engrossed in a discussion. Gorchev backed up against a wall in order to be in line with the curtain of the booth. In that way Lingeström couldn't see him. He had nothing to fear from the one called Portenif, for he didn't know him.

"Be good to the girl, Portenif. The important thing is the automobile. When will you speak to the Chief?"

"It will take a good hour and a half for me to reach Toulon. I'll be meeting them at the 'Texas Restaurant'."

"Look, there is no need to frighten the girl. The important thing is to steal the car. Outside Cannes, on the road leading to the park, I'll be waiting for you... Waiter!"

Oho!... So this is what he is up to! Two long steps and Gorchev was outside the cafe.

He was greeted by tremendous confusion. Traffic on the street had closed down, because the only way in which the buses could get by Gorchev's car was to go onto the opposite side of the street.

A number of policemen went into the cinema, to find the owner of the car, and the showing of the film had to be interrupted. The traffic, diverted into a back street, became blocked beyond hope. At least a hundred cars stood bumper to bumper, blowing their horns, and an alarm had brought out the police to keep order.

Gorchev had no idea what had happened, but he was in a hurry, and not the least interested. So he climbed into his car.

He was immediately stopped by at least twenty policemen.

"Is that your car?"

"Can't you see the sign?"

"How dare you stop here?"

Gorchev picked at the starter, and stepped on the accelerator.

"Will only two police squadrons speak at once," he said, not even looking up. "What happened?"

"You didn't park correctly."

"Now? What would you have said if you had seen me this morning, in front of the pastry shop?"

"That crossed out letter 'P' means that there is no parking here!"

"My dear gentlemen, I can drive a car, but I don't understand hieroglyphs. Express your wish in an intelligible way."

A policeman informed him that the game would cost him two hundred francs, if he didn't want them to bring it before the magistrate. Since Gorchev didn't want this, he handed over the desired amount, and departed. The only further mishap was that he knocked the cinema's coming attractions sign down in front of the baker shop, which cost but eighty francs in all.

A real bargain!

He moved beautifully to the hotel entrance, and finally braked at the cost of a seventy-franc tricycle. His car was immediately surrounded by curious onlookers, because everyone thought that the Greek entrant for the Monte Carlo Rally who was en route from Athens over mountain, valley, in snow, mud, over roads, and cross country, without stopping, had arrived.

For his car certainly seemed to have endured all that too.

Gorchev immediately went to the royal suite, and rushed straight to the wardrobe. Mr. Vanek was just completing his toilet.

"Good day," he greeted his employer. "Two gentlemen were looking for you."

"Who were they?"

"I don't know."

"What did they want?"

"I don't know."

"Did you tell them who I am?"

"Do I know that?"

"Well, describe them, at least."

"One of them must have been a high-ranking military official, the other a skinny, greying, tanned man in mufti, with blue eyes."

"Laboux?"

"It's possible, but it didn't show on him."

"What bad luck... Well, never mind." Gorchev sat down in an armchair. "Listen to me, old man..."

"The name is Vanek."

"Mr. Vanek, you will finally have the opportunity to prove your worth. I have such confidence in you that I shall let you replace me personally for the near future!"

"You may rest assured, sir..."

"If you accept this replacement for one day, you'll receive a special award of a thousand francs!"

"I am at your orders, sir."

"I have joined the Legion."

"I understand. You may rest assured that while you are away, I will do your work without error."

"Just the opposite. You will have to report tonight at Fort St. Jean, to replace me in the army!"

Mr. Vanek jumped up, and with a dazed grin, he replied:

"My dear sir, then they will have to dissolve the Legion."

"I don't want you to be a soldier. But I have something very important to attend to tonight. This I didn't know, however, when I joined the Legion. But, if I don't report, there will be a warrant out for my arrest in twenty-four hours, throughout the country."

"Then what would my duty be?" asked Mr. Vanek, and he pulled open the necktie rack and then the shoe box built into the side of the closet.

"What are you looking for?"

"I left my lunch here somewhere... Aha!"

He pushed a button, and out of a sunken dressing table appeared a comb, clothes brush, shaving mirror, and a cup of tea, accompanied by a few slices of toast, a half pound of salami, and two shoe-trees. "Go on, please."

"So, tonight, you will take the ticket that is in my name, go to Marseilles, and report at the fort. You will replace me until tomorrow, so that I shan't be missed and hunted, and I will relieve you tomorrow afternoon."

"And what happens, if due to circumstances beyond your control, you are unable to appear?"

"Since you are not under contract to the army, you cannot be kept there."

"But they will refuse to be silent about the fact that I tricked them!"

"You are a civilian, and cannot be hurt by the military authorities, since you are responsible only to civil courts."

"All right, I accept the assignment."

"Here is the ticket in my name, and two thousand francs advance, since I know you to be a gentleman."

"I do not know you at all, but despite this I shall accept the money, since I feel that I shall not suffer disappointment."

"Thank you for your confidence. You needn't be afraid that I shall be absent-minded, and forget you."

"I myself deplore absent-mindedness, since among all human weaknesses it is the most ugly and the most worthy of contempt," said Mr. Vanek, and fastidiously stirred his tea, it so happened, with a button-hook. If he had an idea at all of what was about to crash down on him with this assignment, he would have run away hysterically... But he didn't have an inkling...



IV

If we wish to fully understand the states of mind of de Bertin and Laboux as they paced the floor after the disappearance of the automobile, we must first be let in on a secret.

Two thirds of M. Laboux's Alfa Romeo was of fourteen-carat gold. The nickel plated headlamps, the clutch, the bumper, the chassis, the ashtrays and the door handles were all of solid gold. The finest motor available had been built into it to carry the tremendous weight, but even then the brake proved weak, and the car was unable to attain great speed.

And this fantastic treasure had now been stolen.

When André reported the disappearance of the car, the general, as though the news served as a tranquillizer, immediately became calm.

"When did you last see the car?"

"It can't even be a half hour, sir."

de Bertin reached for the telephone.

"Please connect me with the police department... My name is de Bertin. Gustave Laboux's Alfa Romeo touring car, licence number 126-513 DK, blue coloured, has been stolen by persons unknown. Anyone discovering the car, or giving some clue to its whereabouts will receive a 50,000 francs reward. I ask that the search begin, and that all police stations be immediately notified by radio. There are invaluable military papers in the automobile."

Within a half hour, car, motorcycle and a pedestrian search had begun, all roads in the South of France were being scoured for the automobile licenced 126-513 DK, and a constant stream of police reports poured into Laboux's summer cottage.

7 p.m. A blue Alfa Romeo, licence number unknown, had been seen on the highway, going in the direction of Cannes.

8 p.m. It was confirmed that a car licenced 126-513 DK had been filled at a petrol station at seven o'clock sharp, on the outskirts of Toulon.

The roads leading out of Toulon were immediately closed off, while hundreds of policemen searched the streets and garages.

Laboux and the general barely spoke. Avoiding each other, they paced the floor endlessly, length and breadth.

9 p.m. The blue Alfa Romeo, with the licence number listed, had left Toulon at eight in the evening. It had filled up at Cannes.

All roads leading out of Cannes were closed.

Sensational news came at 9.30!

A guard reported that he had heard the news of the search late, because at the time of the radio message he had been in a restaurant watching a suspicious individual, while standing at the counter. He had pretended to be drinking wine, but in reality he was keeping a sharp eye on the suspicious person. Later he concluded that the individual was not the one suspected of the robbery, so stepped out into the street, spotted the searched for Alfa Romeo, on the Boulevard Victoire, going at about sixty miles an hour - on the pavement. Further on, on Avenue Magenta, it had knocked over a vendor of fried potatoes, but continued without stopping, and finally, cutting through the flower garden of the Promenade des Anglaises, it turned onto the Plage. Particular characteristics: on the bonnet of the car a deck-chair could be seen, on which hung a silk lady's kimono (black background and golden oriental pattern).

De Bertin glanced out toward the garden, in the direction of the gate. And then for an instant he felt as though he had lost his mind:

An Alfa Romeo, licence number 126-513 DK, was standing at the gate! On its bonnet were a deck-chair, and a silk kimono (black background and golden oriental pattern).





Chapter Six



I

Gorchev took off for Toulon at top speed at exactly 4.45 p.m. At 4.46, due to a collision, he was forced to halt. By then he had completed exactly twenty yards of the distance from Nice to Toulon. He came to an agreement of forty francs with the driver of the steam laundry's van and raced on with the speed of the wind. At 4.49 he noticed that he was out of petrol. He turned in at a filling station, but in doing so he moved it some eight yards away from its place, so there could be no question of filling. He paid three hundred and sixty francs, instead of four hundred, because he subtracted forty for one of his headlamps and his horn.

He had finally managed to get petrol, departed, and this time successfully reached the highway. Here Gorchev became wild. He sped at a hundred, despite the fact that the stormy weather made steering more difficult, with the wind clinging to the front wheels, letting them go, just to push them in the opposite direction. The car swayed from one side of the road to the other.

A street-sweeper made the sign of the cross at the sight of the swerving car. There'd have been no trouble if his right front tire hadn't had a blow-out. A crack like a rifle shot... the brakes screeched, Gorchev twisted the steering wheel wildly, but all in vain. The car, pressing on the rim of the wheel, crashed into a tree, turned over, rolled twice onto its side, a terrifying crash, roar, and crunch, and finally the car and driver fell into a ditch. Finish! Neither would ever move again. Shouting men rushed forward to the scene!

"Phone for an ambulance!" ordered a wealthy holiday-maker.

"Be careful! Lift him slowly," commanded Margot, the directress.

"This life-saving has to be planned," said a man with whiskers, who was a teacher of embroidery in a girls' school, while beside him a world-famous author gave orders in pyjamas.

A foot appeared from behind the steering wheel of the car, followed by another. Finally, head downwards, the unfortunate driver gradually appeared to the waist, and in that condition, signalled with his feet, probably that they should pull him out.

"In my opinion, we shouldn't touch him before the doctor arrives," said the embroidery teacher. The foot kicked in anger. Still, they didn't dare touch the driver, who was only visible to the waist, while his upper body hung in the window, on the inside of the wreck.

When he kicked again, his trousers began to fray, and one had to fear that any further tension on the material would lead to serious complications. A sailor and the world-famous author climbed down into the ditch, to prevent the impending catastrophe.

The wealthy holiday-maker suggested that it would be wise to cover the individual with an overcoat until the ambulance arrived, but he didn't offer his own, so the sailor and the world-famous author lifted the driver out of his tricky position.

Torn, bloody, oily and dirty, he staggered out of the ditch. A doctor examined him, and poked at him.

"My dear sir, this is a miracle!"

"Every-day practice with me," answered the ragged driver. "Now where can I hire a car?"

"You don't mean to say that you wish to continue your journey?! The ambulance will be here in an instant. It's possible that you suffered internal injuries."

"If that's the only thing, then I don't mind it at all. Is there an empty car in the garage?" he called over to a nearby filling station attendant.

"You can't hire a car in this condition! You look like a corpse."

"Watch your mouth, Popushka!" growled the Russian at him.

The elderly attendant approached him.

"Like hell I will. Think you can scare me?"

And he took hold of Gorchev's arm. At this the victim of the catastrophe immediately hit him on the mouth, so that he flew into the ditch, among the ruins of the car.

"I guess he doesn't have internal injuries after all," said the doctor to a property-owner.

When the ambulance arrived, they dashed down into the ditch and, naturally, began to nurse the unconscious filling station attendant. The crowd divulged nothing, because the condition of the man justified immediate medical attention.

Meanwhile, Gorchev got into a car that had been left alone by the side of the road, and took off as fast as he could along the highway.

The ambulance attendants bandaged their charge, and were in the process of placing him on a stretcher, when a terrified woman, the wife of that very filling station attendant, appeared on the scene.

"My husband!" she screamed in fright. "What has happened to my husband?!"

"You must be strong, madame," answered the ambulance attendant with dramatic simplicity. "He is in no danger of dying."

Then they pushed the stretcher with the filling station attendant into the ambulance, and raced off amidst a scream of sirens...



II

In Cannes, Gorchev got out of the car, and purchased a sailor suit. Somehow he felt better wearing it. Then, because he preferred the honest way, he rented a dilapidated Chrysler, and raced off toward Toulon. Within ten minutes his clutch burned out. Of all things! At 5.55 he was racing along in a beautiful Mercedes, and at exactly six o'clock he dashed through the vegetable garden of the boys' orphanage in the street cleansing department's T. 106/91 watering car.

Within a short time he arrived at the dock; it wasn't too difficult since he went on foot. In order to project his gentlemanly image affectively, he put on his black-rimmed monocle, noticing with sorrow that a section of the celluloid had cracked off, leaving the naked wire frame showing.

He reached an outer warehouse by the dockside, where shifty looking individuals could be readily seen. In the depths of an arcade, he noticed a moving shadow. He stepped over it.

"How do you do, old man! Won't you please tell me where I can find the 'Texas Restaurant'?"

"No."

"What?"

"Listen to me, and go to the 'Plum Blue Paradise'. That's a dive too..."

"But..."

"My dear sir, listen to me, and don't say anything."

"But I have to go to the 'Texas Restaurant'!"

"Don't talk so much, the 'Plum Blue Paradise' is right here, to the right of the coal wharf, you go there, and not another word!"

And with that he left him.

"Idiot," called Gorchev after him. The individual turned round. It was getting dark. In the dark harbour two figures stood facing each other, one tall, the other short.

"Did you say anything?" asked the tall one.

"I only mentioned the fact that you are an idiot."

"Take it back."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," answered the shorter shadow. "After our short conversation, this impression has become fixed within me." And in an almost apologetic way he added, "You're an idiot, Uncleushka, and what can I do about it? It isn't my fault..."

"Now I will have to beat you to a pulp."

"You don't say! Are you that angry?"

"Yes... take that... ouch!"

The monocled young man caught the arm that was working into a swing, twisted it, and vivaciously kicked into the suspicious passer-by. He fell head first into a small pool of oil paint with which on that very day they had painted the 'Local Blue Ribbon.' on the chimney of the fastest motor boat in Toulon.

Gorchev rushed onward, and further still, at the customs office, he called to a tiny British sailor.

"Hello, boy!"

"What can I do for you?!" the freckled youngster asked brightly.

"Can you tell me, old man, how to find the 'Texas Restaurant'?"

"Go to hell!" answered the boy, furiously, and left him on the spot.

Goodness! It would seem that the 'Texas Restaurant' must be notorious around here. But he still had to get there, and quickly!

He stopped a peculiar individual, who was eating sunflower seeds from his cap, wore a sleeveless striped suit, and was leaning against a streetlamp. His wide, large bones spoke of a muscular man. His enormous beaky duck's nose moved peculiarly, as he chewed on the sunflower seeds, and he spit out the shells with such a nice routine that he was occasionally even able to hit distant passers-by.

"How do you do," Gorchev greeted him, and ducked his head against a barrage of sunflower seeds.

The man in the vest didn't answer his greeting, instead he spoke in a scraping baritone voice.

"What do you want, silly? Out with it, or scram."

"Look, my little pigeon... Upsa!" and he avoided another blast of sunflower seeds. "I just arrived by ship from Iceland, and I can't find my way around very well. I wouldn't like to go into the 'Texas Restaurant', because someone warned me against it..."

"A little scrag like you had better not even go to the Texas."

"Upsa! That was a bull's-eye... What I would like..." he wiped his eyes. "My friends suggested the 'Plum Blue Paradise'. And what I would like to know is where the 'Texas Restaurant' is, so that I don't find myself there by accident. Upsa!"

"You're in luck. You can't even get over there by accident, because I happen to be on my way to the 'Plum Blue Paradise', and I'll take you with me, since you're so helpless."

The devil take it! And here he was already being led along. Whoever heard anything like it!

"But where is the 'Texas Restaurant' so that I should be able to avoid it?" grunted Gorchev again.

"Just don't be afraid of anything, and come on. There is the 'Plum Blue Paradise' on the corner. It's a quiet respectable place."

When they arrived at the pub in question, Gorchev felt feeling of respect mounting up within him for the 'Texas Restaurant', to which by comparison, this was a quiet and what's more, a 'respectable' place. Because a police car stood out in front of the 'Plum Blue Paradise' awaiting the alarm, while from the inside came the sound of breaking glass, and a general din, a number of shots; then a waiter half beaten to death running out, and shouting on the street:

"Ambulance! Bigeur is dead, and the other two..."

What happened to the other two never turned out, because a bench hurled through the door after the waiter bounced off his head and knocked him unconscious. In the meantime the police dragged off a handcuffed something, closely resembling a man.

"Do you like boiled mutton with onions?" asked the duck-bill-nosed, "because they make that good here."

"It's all the same to me what I eat."

"Noze, not to me. I like meat with onions."

It was entirely unnecessary to admit this, because, from the outset of their conversation, Gorchev was fully aware of the loving ties between the stranger and onions. Meanwhile the waiter regained consciousness, picked up the bench and returned to the place, where, in his opinion, Bigeur had died and something had befallen the other two.

"Well, come on, at this time dinner is usually ready. And because you're such a greenhorn, I'll pay for you. If you want, you can sleep in my place too."

"Where do you live?"

"Oh, nowhere."

"Well then, why don't you spend the night with me? I don't have a place either."

"You idiot," shouted the duckbill-nosed at him. "I am Alec Lonesome. I know the most comfortable cattle-trucks in the dock, and I know some first-class secret crates too."

Alec Lonesome, expert of cattle-trucks and secret crates, went ahead, with Gorchev behind.

A thin man wearing eyeglasses came over to them. He held a wet, blood-soaked kerchief to his head, and greeted his guests with measured enthusiasm.

"Sit down," he growled. And he pointed toward Gorchev with hatred. "Who's that character?"

"My name is Chervonets."

"You don't say!... I'm Bigeur. Did anything happen?"

"Are you the man who died?"

"Idiot!" he growled at the young man. "My tapster is neurotic, and every time they break my head in, he runs out onto the street screaming for an ambulance! He does it every single day."

"Bring us mutton with onions," spoke up Alec Lonesome, expert of cattle-trucks and secret crates. "Boiled beans in oil, vinegar, and a bottle of red wine."

Bigeur took the order.

"Why do you have to repeat that stuff every day? We already know the kind of meat that you characters eat," answered Bigeur, and he yelled into the kitchen, "Two orders of the Alec Lonesome mutton."

"Tell me something, have you ever been in the 'Texas Restaurant'?" Gorchev asked his benefactor when they were left alone again.

"How could I not have been? I have work to do there pretty often. But that's different! It's the name, you know! I can go anywhere, in peace."

Meanwhile they were served, and Gorchev, despite his impatience, finally was able to enjoy eating bean salad à la quay, with loads of pepper and onion rings, and mutton, with red wine.

"What is your name?" Gorchev asked his neighbour, the expert of cattle-trucks and secret crates, during dinner. "I can't believe that it is Alec Lonesome. I'm sure that you have another, human name too."

"What business is it of yours? Did you come here for an introduction or for dinner?!"

"I only thought.. if we became friends..."

"Become friends with the likes of you!"

Gorchev began to like this man more and more. Though he burned with impatience because of Annette, he would have liked to learn more from this expert of cattle-trucks and secret crates.

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a bandit," answered Alec Lonesome. "Why aren't you drinking any wine?"

"What?"

"What's the matter, are you deaf? Along with a few friends, I practise commissioned banditry. It's really quite an occupation."

Alec Lonesome, commissioned bandit (and on the side, expert of cattle-trucks and secret crates), smacked his lips, took out his pocket-knife, then resting his elbow on the table, began to pick his teeth after the dinner, with the blade of his knife.

"Commissioned banditry as an occupation isn't dangerous, but it doesn't pay that well either. There are real bandits, who give out smaller work on commission. Say, if they robbed a warehouse, then we'd get the stuff away in lorries, I'll knock out anyone, ship him to wherever ordered, then I wash my hands of the whole thing."

"Hmmm... It must have been a long time since you got an assignment," said Ivan Gorchev looking at Alec's hands.

"Just today! We are to catch a swine, and blow out his candle for him."

"Some rich man with an inheritance?" asked Gorchev pouring himself some wine.

"Like hell! The man's a scoundrel, and his name is Ivan Gorchev... Hey you! What's up? To choke on one swallow of wine?! Cough it up!"



III

"Who is this, this... Gorchev, if I understood you correctly?" Gorchev asked Alec, when he had regained his power of speech.

"A swine! He's spying for some African king, here on the Riviera."

"Really?" This did surprise him. "The African kings are planning an invasion of Monte Carlo?"

"There's something completely different in the background. But that isn't important. He has joined forces with a few fanatical characters; he's clever, and daring."

"What does he look like?"

"Not like you!"

"That's for sure."

"But enough of that. Why don't you tell me what you are doing around here?"

"I'm an apprentice on a ship."

"How did you become that?"

"I was studying to become a ladies' dressmaker, but I ruined a lovely spring costume, and they threw me out," he said, his face serious. As I mentioned before, Gorchev had a very trying habit of saying all sorts of ridiculous things immediately, without hesitation, if anyone asked him a question. "First I wanted to be a waiter," he explained airily, "but I'm a coward, and have a hard time learning things, so I figured that it would be better for me to live in the docks."

"Idiot!" yelled the duckbill-nosed, and hit the table so hard that a piece of meat that had been quartered, fell into his lap. "Do you think that the harbour is for cowardly idiots?"

"Well, at any rate, it's different from the restaurant, where it can happen that some drunkard beats up the waiter."

"And are there no drunkards at the docks?"

"Are there?" he asked in fright. "Then I really am in a fix! I never thought of that."

"You're mad! You're a lost man here, with that girlish face of yours, innocent as you are! What would you do if someone hit you?"

"Don't worry, I could protect myself."

"How?! What?"

"I would immediately report the individual in question!"

"Get the hell out of here immediately!" But when Gorchev jumped up, he shouted after him, "Wait, you lunatic..."

But the Russian ran as fast as he could, happy and anxious at the same time because he was pleased with his opportunity to escape, and he was afraid that Annette would be in trouble!

Alec was very sorry he had frightened the cowardly, helpless young fellow. He was a very pleasant, frank kid, and there was no one to protect him. He went after him, but the Russian ran like a madman.

"Stop, you idiot! I won't hurt you! Stop or I'll break every bone in your body..."

But his enticements were all in vain; Gorchev ran as fast as his legs could carry him.



IV

Now what should he do?... It was already evening. Where could the 'Texas Restaurant' be? Aha!

A first-class idea!

He quickly dashed into a telephone booth, and called the fire department. The sound of the siren would lead him there, because the restaurant was somewhere nearby, that much was certain.

"Fire department," a voice answered.

"Come at once! The 'Texas Restaurant' is on fire!"

"Thank God."

"What?! Are you mad? This is the owner speaking!"

"Is that you, Raoul? Why did you set the place on fire again. They won't believe that the corpse was a victim of fire anyway."

"This time it's true. The gas stove exploded next to him."

"But your stove is ceramic."

"Yes... but we brought in gas too... are you coming?"

"All right, we're on our way. How is Emanuel?"

"Uh... he's well now..."

"Was he sick?!"

"No... not really... too much smoking, you know," stammered Gorchev.

"What? Emanuel smokes?"

"Well... of course not... He only lit a Turkish pipe as a joke..."

"The mule?!"

Gorchev became furious.

"Yes! The mule! He smokes a pipe, reads novels, and even talks!"

"Hello! What did you say?!"

"That you should go and hang yourself!"

He slammed down the receiver. Whew, how unpleasant.

"There you are, you scoundrel!" A policeman was holding him by the throat. "So it's you who call the fire department from this place!"

"But..."

"Quiet! I've had every telephone booth checked for over a week. You called out the midwife to Councillor Lusson's engagement party, saying it was an emergency!"

"Please, I admit the fire department, but the midwife isn't true, and..."

"Come on, now we've got a proof at last!"

"But the 'Texas Restaurant' is on fire!"

"I'll fix you!" shouted the policeman. "Where is that restaurant burning, huh?!"

And he pointed to the neighbouring house.

There, above the door was a large electric sign:

Rude guests pay an exit charge
TEXAS RESTAURANT

And in front of the restaurant an Alfa Romeo drew up. Out stepped Annette and Portenif, and immediately disappeared through the gate by the courtyard, which opened onto the empty plot of land.





Chapter Seven



I

"Come on," said the policeman, grabbing Gorchev's arm, and starting out.

"I swear that I am innocent of the midwife story. I admit the fire department and..."

He heard the sound of a motor... and turned around quickly. The Alfa Romeo was coming in his direction!

The next day when the policeman reported the incident, he said he had slipped in a puddle when the prisoner escaped. The truth was that Gorchev cleverly tripped him, then jumped up on the trunk of the Alfa Romeo as it ran past him.

They left Toulon behind them. Portenif drove quite well... They arrived in Cannes. 'That park will be somewhere nearby,' thought Gorchev. The car braked near a thin group of trees... then it stopped. This was the park all right, but Baron Lingeström was not there. Portenif, in a driver's uniform, got out, slammed the door and looked around. Then, in the dark, someone slugged him on the mouth, and he fainted...

Gorchev, of course.

He immediately sat down by the steering wheel and started up the Alfa Romeo. With absolutely no idea that the entire country had been chasing him for over half an hour, he started in the direction of Nice at his usual pace. Such childish things as warning shots, hand waving, and so on, didn't disturb him very much, and when a policeman jumped in front of him, his arms open, he grumbled, sarcastically, "Well, old pal, if I could brake from this distance, then I'd win the world championship."

On the strength of the principle 'a smart man admits defeat' the policeman jumped out of the path of the car, just barely saving his life. He was surprised to see that the thief, subject of a country-wide manhunt, leaned out of the window and shook his finger at him, threateningly, shouting out words of rebuke...

Could this be true? The hunted, threatening the police?

Just before Nice, while going around one of the bends, he very skilfully cut through the ladies' sunbathing area by the beach of the 'Hotel Europe', crashing through a fence, and among the panicking lady guests, taking one of the deck-chairs with him, to which he later added a black silk kimono, with a golden oriental pattern on it, from the Perriere laundry. And on he raced, since that afternoon his secretary had joined the Legion in his place, just as a certain obliging gentleman in one of Schiller's dramatic poems replaced his friend for several days in the condemned cell, while the sentenced man attended his sister's wedding feast.

Ivan Gorchev rushed towards Nice. He wanted to be in Marseilles at dawn, which wasn't a long journey on foot, but unfortunately Gorchev was fond of travelling by car.

It's amazing, but this is the way it happened: The car, which was searched for high and low, arrived at its destination. While they searched for it in Toulon it was on the highway. In Nice they received news of it only after it had arrived at Laboux's villa. After that no one looked for it. And this was understandable. Who would imagine that the thief of a car would park it in front of the victim's villa?

Gorchev immediately rushed to the Lafayette Department Store to do some shopping.

"Send a few things to the royal suite of the 'Hotel Méditerranée' for me, "he said to the shop assistant. "First, two or three thin, sleeveless undershirts, all kinds, that a colonial soldier would need, and then the kind of sailor suit that this was, only when new."

"Excuse me," the shop assistant interrupted him, "but I don't know what this suit was like when it was new. A few years is a long time."

"I bought it new, yesterday! And besides, the colour is white."

"Hm... Maybe that's the part about it that's most difficult to determine."

"Attention please!" a loudspeaker squeaked.

"What's that?" asked Gorchev, and the speaker began an announcement, to which every customer listened excitedly.

"The blue Alfa Romeo, licence number 126-513 DK, with its driver hunted all over the country, is making an unsuccessful attempt to escape through the centre of Nice. His capture is inevitable! The finder, or anyone giving useful accurate information to the whereabouts of the car, will still receive a reward of 50,000 francs..."



II

"What was that?" Gorchev asked the shop assistant. "I was asleep all afternoon, and I don't know anything."

"A car containing important military documents disappeared. The whole country's in a fever, and the police are searching for the thief, who is supposedly the family murderer from Lyon, and a professional robber, too."

"You don't say!"

"One of our customers saw him, as he turned onto the Plage. He has big red whiskers, and is a giant."

"This is really what he saw?" murmured Gorchev.

"That's right. Most criminals can thank their captivators for this kind of observation."

"They certainly can thank that kind!"

He paid his bill, and left. How deserted the street was. Traffic had been stopped. But were these people mad? The car had been taken back to its owner. But maybe the only place they weren't looking for it was where he had left it.

He noticed tremendous confusion at one street-corner.

"What's happening there?" he asked someone in the crowd.

"They've caught the criminal and are about to lynch him! He kidnapped the Lindbergh baby too. He's a cowboy in disguise, who was a partner of Al Capone."

Gorchev slowly discovered an axiom of general validity: most of humanity are born to be script writers!

The confusion centred on a Bugatti, licence number 709-846 ChU, in which a veterinary surgeon from Beromunster had arrived with his wife and little son.

"That's the one!"

"He painted the car! The paint is still wet!"

"Where did you steal the child?"

His own child! The woman screamed, the child howled, and the veterinary croaked, and someone knocked his hat off. A company of policemen quietened down the threatening atmosphere, by shoving back the crowd, while informing the people that the car had been found. Meanwhile they hit the crowd with truncheons.

As a result of the excitement the veterinary from Beromunster had another attack of facial neuralgia, and because he had already been allowed home from Lourdes certified as completely cured, instead of continuing on to Monte Carlo, he headed for the town of miracles to ask his money back by law!

Gorchev went to the 'Hotel Méditerranée' on foot. He walked whistling through the shining hall in his dusty, crumpled clothes.

The hotel desk-clerk called after him:

"Where are you going, please?"

"To the first floor. When did Mr. Vanek leave?"

The desk-clerk shrugged.

"I didn't even know he had arrived."

"He was renting the royal suite."

He looked it up in the book, and shrugged again.

"There is absolutely no Mr. Vanek there. Some insane Portuguese called Gorchev is renting it."

"Please," said Gorchev, "I was sent here by that Portuguese gentleman in order to pay his bill, and he gave me permission to change my clothes in his suite."

"Tell me, young man," asked the desk-clerk confidentially, "is that Gorchev some sort of industrialist?"

"Of course. He has a patent on mud-coloured ladies' face cream, but his major field is in argentine knick-knacks. He's going to Villa D'Aragon from here."

"Are you the scuttle-man there?"

"No, I work in the vegetable garden. The building belongs to Gorchev's wife, from whom he is separated. The industrialist made it up with his wife today, and they are returning to Portugal together, where they will devote the rest of their lives to argentine manufacturing..."

He rushed up to the suite where he quickly changed into the clean sailor suit which had been sent from the department store with his other belongings, in a yellow suitcase. He liked the clean sailor suit together with the round cap. It suited him very well, and indeed he made a pleasant picture, with his rhythmic gait.

He also wanted to shave. A man shouldn't join the Legion in just any old way. He tied a towel in his neck, and opened the tremendous built-in closet in which there was everything.

And then, to his great surprise, Mr. Vanek fell out from the lower shelf onto the floor.





Chapter Eight



I

"My dear sir, why don't you knock on the door, when you enter!"

"I rent this suite!"

"But the closet is my private residence. My home is my castle!"

"Mr. Vanek, I fell down from the heavens."

"But still it was I who hurt myself in the fall."

"You were supposed to report at the Legion in Marseilles. You accepted a thousand francs, and despite this you are still here. You've cheated me."

"That's a lie!"

Mr. Vanek was possessed by the haughtiness of the utterly self-righteous.

Gorchev, on the other hand, couldn't look at Mr. Vanek's face with the pince-nez, and his thick black moustache without wanting to laugh.

But the situation was bad, and Gorchev concentrated all his attention on remaining serious and even a bit threatening.

"You," he said in answer to Mr. Vanek's outburst, "are aware of the fact that I shall now hit you."

"I didn't doubt that for an instant. But here I stand, like Galileo. Hit me! Break me to bits! Completely to bits! And still it moves."

"You do not have the right to compare yourself to a respectable astronomer, after you have cheated me."

"That is a whopping lie!"

"If you don't explain the situation immediately, then I will squash you in among the shoe-trees, and will push that big oak table in front of the door, and you'll be stuck in there!"

"Galileo would have borne it with his head held high!"

"I demand an explanation!"

"You asked me to replace you in the Legion for one day, and you gave me a thousand francs for this. Is that correct?"

"Correct."

"I arranged to have you replaced in a different way, to see that you did not remain without a secretary." Here he beat himself on the chest. "Because I feel that I may say, without being boastful, that I have, if I may use the word, made myself indispensable to you. So I stood before the barracks, and spoke up to the first unhappy looking gentleman that I saw, who was obviously to enlist. I was easily able to convince him to take your place, and I gave him five hundred francs, to look around, in no danger at all, in the Legion, and he can think it over, and step out tomorrow, when you replace him, Mr. Golitser."

Gorchev did not correct him.

"And so, what is the situation now, Mr. Vanek?"

"That you have a replacement in the Legion, but you have not lost your secretary, and I have five hundred francs to my credit. Or rather, you have lost your secretary, because you insulted me, and I am leaving instantly, but," he ended, his head raised in pride, "the earth still moves! Make special note of that, sir!"

And he opened the drawer, to take his old coat, bathing suit, umbrella, and a slice of lamb with a small amount of cucumber salad along with him.

"I would like to make up for it, if I hurt you," said Gorchev, apologetically.

"Perhaps it isn't too late," opined Mr. Vanek, and he quickly replaced the cucumber salad, not without spilling it on his shoes.

"I shall make amends!"

"Well, all right. This time I'll stay. But take note of this: I have never lied."

"And the earth isn't moving at all," said Gorchev sadly, "because if it did, it would open up and swallow you!"

The following morning.

"Mr. Petrovich!"

Gorchev woke up. His secretary stood before his bed, wrapped in a sheet.

He wore this instead of pyjamas at night in the closet, and in such a way that it ran from his right waist to his left shoulder, making him look like Julius Caesar in an American burlesque.

"Get up," he said patiently. "You have to report at the Legion today to replace a certain Mr. Cortot! Get up!"

"Tell me something, you leech..."

"My name is Vanek..."

"Tell me something, Mr. Vanek, you Mr. Leech, why are you so worried about me?!"

"I certainly wouldn't like it if our old and sincere friendship were to end in my being disappointed in you, Mr. Zwillinger!"

Gorchev jumped out of bed as though it had caught fire under him.

"Man! I understand everything, but will you immediately explain where you got that Zwillinger from, before I have a fit."

"That's beside the point! I myself made a guarantee in your name to Mr. Cortot, who is replacing you."

"That's all right. But where did Zwillinger come from?"

"It was a joke, I am well aware of the fact that you are basically Petrovich."

"And who is this Mr. Cortot? Why did he join the Legion?"

"Patriotism. He was exiled from France because of criminal activities. Now he's returned in secret and joined the Legion."

"Impressive."

Gorchev dressed quickly. They succeeded in catching the train, and by the time the noonday bells rang, they were in Marseilles.

On the road leading to Fort St. Jean, Gorchev stretched his hand out to Mr. Vanek.

"Thank you for everything you've done for me."

"Don't mention it. I was only doing my duty, Mr. Petrovich. But regardless of this fact, you may give me my assignments."

"I don't believe that the rules of the Legion would permit even one secretary for a private."

"But I am a civilian, and am exempt from military rules and regulations."

"I am truly touched by your devotion. It just occurred to me that I would like to ask you for something, Mr. Vanek!"

"Yes, sir."

"Will you please call Nice?"

"I can do that," he answered, and started out.

"Mr. Vanek! Stop! I haven't yet told you what to do."

"I am to call Nice, long distance. Isn't that what you asked me to do?"

"But why are you going to call Nice?"

"A good secretary never inquires about the private affairs of his employer."

"You will call the Laboux house in Nice... Please, don't start out yet... You will ask if Mademoiselle Annette is at home, and if so, you will report this to me somehow. Annette Laboux."

"What is your connection with the young lady?"

"That is a private affair, Mr. Vanek."

"Aha!" and he winked. "Most likely an actress! You must be careful with artists, because love..."

"Good-bye!"

Gorchev went straight to the fort. The guard let him in without a word. From now on getting out will be the only difficulty. He crossed the courtyard, in the direction of the company office. The place was swarming with soldiers. Where was his replacement, Cortot, who couldn't live without France? After searching for an hour, he found him. He was an individual with a low forehead, and an ugly face, who looked rather tainted. He was already in uniform.

"Are you that character, that Gorchev?" he asked in the exaggerated drawl of stupid people.

"That's me, Popushka. Thank you very much for the favour, and now let's change back!"

"We're not changing. I leave for Africa this afternoon."

"What the...? I am Ivan Gorchev and give me back my identity!"

"Keep cool! I found a sergeant here, with whom, in better days, I worked in Paris at the Peugeot Works. His name is Hector Potiou. I got to him by accident. If now I were to give you back your place, and join again, there's no telling what kind of sergeant I would get... This way the sergeant is my pal. It means a lot. Look!"

"But I want to serve."

"Then you join again. Do you think they care how many Gorchevs serve at the same time?" said Cortot the white-slave-dealer, who could hardly stand, he was so drunk.

"Hm... And you are going to use the name of Gorchev?"

"Don't worry, I won't wear it out."

"Well, all right, old man... Then I'll join again, and you just go on off with your sergeant."

Another hour passed and Gorchev quietly sat down on a bench, and turned his face to the sky. He was doing some impromptu sunbathing, at least as much as was possible in a place such as the fort. But events were not going to give him much time for such quiet activity.

Later he saw Cortot again. He was staggering in the company of a sergeant, totally drunk, and the sergeant had a red moustache. That would be Hector Potiou. Then, at the roll call, all new recruits in Hector Potiou's company lined up with their bag and baggage. Cortot kept his belongings in a cigar box, of medium size, tied together with a string. On the box, in large childish letters, he wrote the name Ivan Gorchev. It never does any harm, he thought, if a person writes down his name, because he might forget it.

He put the box down in front of himself.

Then came the sound of the bugle, and the little group started out, through the gate of the fort, to board ship in the harbour. In place of them another NCO appeared in the midst of the courtyard, a certain Sergeant Verdier, who shouted at the top of his voice:

"Everyone who reported for duty this morning, line up by the right-hand gate of the building."

This referred to Gorchev as well. Sergeant Verdier was called The Lion among the privates, because the peculiar wrinkles around his mouth and nose, and the strange blinking of his eyes reminded them of that particular beast. But at roaring he was far superior to that wild animal. His right eye was constantly half-closed, in an expression of everlasting suspicion. It was claimed that his teeth were an inch long. This might be an exaggeration, but it is certain that square teeth of that size have never before or since been seen in a human jaw.

At this particular moment he was trying to make the impression of a good-hearted and pleasant NCO. However, the understanding and good-natured expression combined the lines of an executioner comforting his victim, and a psychotic meditating over blissful vision, with diabolic glee.

"You have joined the Legion," he said to the new recruits, - "this is a great fortune and an honour which you must constantly be aware of. I beg you to understand this. If you do, you will ensure yourselves the lives of gentlemen. You have come to a comfortable place, free from worry. You see, I am the most benevolent person in the world. At one time the men under me called me father. The only thing I dislike is being trifled with. Anyone who tries it will be sorry for it later. I'm sorry that I cannot prove my statement with witnesses, because none are alive today. You just make note of that, and the rest is my job. You won't forget it. Anyone who doesn't trifle with me will be able to live in the company like Alice in Wonderland, because I am the most benevolent person in the world. Get going, you swine, I don't even want to see you. Thieves! Crooks!"

He said this completely without expression, and at a quick pace, like a professional best man rattling off the set toast at a wedding feast; then he dashed away, complete with the threatening musical undertones of his sword, medals and heel-plates. A sleepy-voiced, disdainful-looking corporal stepped into his place. He was called Gent, and suffered from civilophobia. The name of this sickness had been coined by a bohemian company doctor there in the Fort St. Jean. The symptoms of this incurable disease: extreme nausea, followed by torturing attacks of rage induced by the nearness of civilians.

His face showed moody disgust, and slight sleepiness, as he stepped before them, hooked his thumbs into his belt, spread his legs apart, and spat.

My God! How many civilians! How many shaking chests, and wavering heads! They're chewing their nails, staring at their boots, standing around bored stiff, and the rows are as crooked as a bent string.

And these would have to stand at an everyday early morning roll-call in the Sahara as though they were at a dress parade! "I am Corporal Gent," he began in a melodious voice, almost softly. "You are the dirty 'bleus'." This came from the days when, in Napoleon's time, the collar sewn on the new recruits was tight around the neck, which made their tongues hang out, and their faces turn blue. Since that time they've called every stupid horde 'les bleus'. "Follow me, but stand in some sort of rows, I don't care what kind, because I'll start crying in a minute, if I have to keep looking at you." The sheep followed the corporal.

"Little sister, this is a place of a sort of informal style," said Gorchev to a frightened faced, huge butcher, with eyes that popped, as though he had a goiter, and who was the victim of a poor memory. He had wanted to cheat the insurance company, and for this purpose, he set fire to his house, after he had carefully locked all doors. It was only after the fire was over that it occurred to him that he had forgotten about his wife, who had been sleeping inside, in the bedroom, and that he had neglected to warn her of his plan. For this reason he had escaped to the Legion. Forgetfulness can be a curse.

"My name is Boisson," the butcher answered Gorchev. "What's yours?"

Gorchev didn't like questions of this kind. "My name is Tintoretto," he answered, according to habit, immediately and foolishly.

"Hm... I seem to have heard that name somewhere before."

"I'm a painter."

"Yes, I remember. Where are you from?"

"From Cinquecento."

"Is that somewhere in Savoy?"

"It's a little village. Between Avignon and Toulon."

"I know, I know. I had a relative living there once. Or rather nearby. There is a similar place around there, isn't there?"

"Well, yes. Quattrocento."

"Yes, something like that. It had a shunting yard. I had a relative living there, he was a skinny person, a writer."

"Aha! I know him! Petrarch is the name."

"His name begins with a B."

"Botticelli."

"I think so..."

"Of course! Sandro Botticelli! What's the old boy doing now?"

"Meerschaum pipes..."

"He's the one! A good friend of mine!"

This was interjected by the corporal, who went by, dizzy from his civilophobia. Meantime they had reached the troop hall. In the dimness of the place, a tremendous pushing, shouting and shoving began, for shelves, for beds... Corporal Gent picked up a cigar box from the table which had been found in the courtyard by a new recruit. It had been forgotten there by the drunken Cortot.

"Ivan Gorchev," shouted Corporal Gent, amidst the din of the shouting, pushing group, reading out the name on the box.

Gorchev shouted from somewhere in the back:

"Here I am, little sister!"

"Little sister, your godmother," answered the corporal, who would have liked to get a glimpse of the impudent one among the distant dark shadows in the corner. But all he heard was:

"You're mistaken, Corporal Gent! According to religious rules, my little sister cannot be my godmother. But it's physically improbable also, since in decent families a little sister is born later than her big brother."

"We'll discuss that on the proper occasion, my dear Gorchev!" shouted the corporal in disastrous encouragement. He would have very much liked to see the individual, but this rabble was showing about so much that he felt himself about to faint. "Once you've finished this beastly hubbub, go to the main gate of the headquarters building, to station number two. That's where you get your uniforms. Change clothes."

With this he departed.

Gorchev went over to the table and looked at the wooden box, tied together with a string. This belonged to Cortot, of course. He would have to find out the criminal patriot's destination. He'd send it after him. He placed his second-self's belongings on the shelf. His own well stocked yellow suitcase was already there. The butcher had picked the bed exactly next to his.

"This will be a good place, my dear Mr. Tintoretto... We are near to the window. And what is your honourable first name?"

"Casimir."

"That's a fine name, Casimir Tintoretto. And what is your profession again?"

"I'm a symbolist."

"Really? You are a musician then. I, unfortunately, don't play any musical instrument."

"You can be sorry. Symbolism is really a lovely music."

"Did you bring your thing... your symbol with you?"

"Here it is in that little box... It's a long instrument. I put it together from three parts."

"And why does it say Gorchev on the box?"

"That's my alias... Your cousin wasn't a born Botticelli either."

"No, that's true. I think his name was Brazhik. They were Alsatians, you know."

"I know. He talked a lot about that. And he also mentioned that at one time you were both children."

"Really? How interesting. It's really true."

A red moustached lance-sergeant pulled out his bayonet and stepped over.

"If you don't stop that conversation at once, I'll slice one of you to bits."

"Gorchev!" they shouted from the door, while fresh men poured into the tremendous hall.

The young man rushed out.

Finally Wurfli could stand up from the other bed. He was a dancing and etiquette teacher who with many others had been ruined by the custom of five o'clock teas, and had taken to drinking in his despair. The last straw came when his wife, who was short, dumpy, cross-eyed and ugly, left him because of their poverty. This was a disgrace which the vanity of a dancing and etiquette teacher couldn't bear, and that was how he had reached the bottom of the ladder, the Legion. Now he turned to the butcher.

"Tell me, my dear sir, I couldn't take part in the previous conversation, because more than one person was sitting on me... Who was that... Tintoretto with whom you were speaking?"

"His alias is Gorchev, he's a private, musician, and wall-painter. Some relative of mine, whom I don't know, is a good friend of his... What are you taking notes on?"

"I'm writing a diary about the Legion. I want to get rich from it. What kind of instrument does he have hidden in that wooden box?"

"A symbol. It's the same kind of instrument as the bombardon, only long and narrow. What's your name?"

"Egon Wurfli. Owner of the one-time famous Wurfli Ballhaus, in Zurich."

Mr. Wurfli took notes on everything, as is proper for a studious diary writer. The butcher was more interested in Gorchev's suitcase... That too had a note on it - Gorchev. How good life was to that one. He hadn't joined the Legion like him, with one shirt, a bar of soap and without a comb...

Sighing, he went out into the courtyard. But he stopped in his tracks in amazement.

What the hell! Tintoretto was talking to a general.



II

It was General de Bertin waiting for Gorchev when he was called forth. With Laboux next to him. They had come by car, and had had a violent argument on the way.

"Gorchev reported at the fort, you can bet your life on that. I inquired by telephone," said de Bertin.

"And I say that he manipulated the car. No one else has such an ugly black-rimmed monocle..."

"He reported in Marseilles last night, so he couldn't possibly have been in Toulon at the same time."

The black-rimmed monocle was there in Laboux's hand. On one side there was a small crack, where the celluloid had chipped off.

The general stopped the blare of trumpets that heralded his arrival with one movement of his arm, and immediately called for Gorchev, who appeared at once.

"You're mad!" shouted Laboux immediately. "You're insane!"

"That's quite right," answered Gorchev, and he unbuttoned his jacket. "There is a little empty cellar next to the storehouse, we fight there."

Laboux's eyes glistened and he began unbuttoning his coat, but the general pulled him back.

"First of all, young man, my reason for looking you up was to thank you for your brave, manly interference the other day."

"You don't really have to thank me. I like to fight."

"Then why don't you learn how?" interrupted Laboux sarcastically.

"Gustave!" said the general.

"You're right. We'll leave the fighting for later. Let's talk first."

"Wouldn't it be better the other way? Why can't we fight first?"

De Bertin impatiently spoke to the one-time minister pleni-potentiary:

"Quiet, please... Listen, Gorchev: Were you out of the fort last night?"

"Me?... I didn't even know it was allowed. I'll go out tonight."

"Wait," interrupted Laboux. "Where did you lose this monocle?"

"This? A certain individual who resembled a car thief asked me to let him have it." And with this he took it back. "But I won't give it to you."

De Bertin shook hands with Gorchev.

"I'd like to thank you again, my friend, and now I command you, as a general a private, not to get mixed up in any affair with Monsieur Laboux."

De Bertin rushed off.

Gorchev winked at Laboux with joyful enthusiasm, when they remained alone.

"Thank God I haven't taken the oath yet. I don't have to obey the order. Come on to the storehouse!"

"Wait, Gorchev. I want to speak to you... Tonight, at exactly nine o'clock, by the Old Port, at the Cannabiere corner, a car will be waiting for you."

"I can't leave here."

"An NCO will take you to the town with him, under orders. The car will be in Genoa by morning."

"And will Annette drive that car, with parental consent in her pocket?"

"You're mad!"

"I'll only answer that in the storehouse."

"Please understand..."

A cry starting as a scream, and ending in a roar, pierced the air.

"Excuse me, but the sergeant just whispered the assembly call," said Gorchev and rushed off.

The new recruits rushed from everywhere. The Lion stopped before the line.

"Men! Anyone who now feels that he isn't serving willingly, has one more opportunity to think things over. Those who feel this way, step out."

About ten stepped out. Among them was the butcher, the victim of a poor memory.

"So, you would willingly go home? Step out, you fat one, and answer. Within twenty-four hours everyone in the Legion can think things over."

"Yes, sir, I would willingly forget about the whole thing," answered the butcher innocently.

The Lion turned to the lance-sergeant.

"Well... Mark all of them with a star on the list of names. These are the untrustworthy ones. They go to Agadir with tomorrow's transport... The others leave tonight for Oran!"

The butcher gasped.

"What's the matter, fatty?! What are you croaking about? Is something wrong?!"

"But, you said... that within twenty-four hours... everyone could think things over..."

"So what? Maybe they can't? You know something, everyone can even think things over tomorrow. Only you can't leave. That's for sure! Rompez! Dismiss, miserable, worthless scoundrels."

Gorchev immediately began to write something on a piece of paper, handed it to one of the soldiers, and returned to Laboux, who waited for him patiently.

"I was only joking when I promised you my daughter," insisted the father.

"If you dare to say that to me when I come back after a few years of duty, I'll shoot you down like a dog, and the court won't punish me severely when I tell them the circumstances. An honourable gentlemanly society will acquit me, but you won't be able to join any Casino in the other world!"

"You silly brat!"

"Quite correct! Let's go to the storehouse! You won't get anywhere with me anyway."

"Let's go."

There were many civilians in the storehouse, so no one noticed when they dashed into one of the neighbouring empty rooms.

...Ten minutes later Gorchev appeared again, with the unconscious Laboux under his arm. Half of Laboux's jacket seemed to have been lost somewhere.

"What happened?" asked the lance-sergeant.

"This individual fell on his head, suddenly."

"Where did he hit you?"

"Behind my ear. But I got him square in the jaw."

The general, it seemed, knew Laboux, for he didn't say anything when the ex-minister appeared with a black eye and half a jacket, and sat down next to him in the car.

"I couldn't make him change his mind," said Laboux while on the road to Nice.

"Look here... This was thrown over the fence with a stone wrapped in it a few minutes ago," said de Bertin, handing over a letter.

My dear General,

I should like to report that a dangerous individual called Laboux who among other things is my future father-in-law, attempted to entice me into absconding from the Legion. An NCO is also included in his plans, who is to come for me in the evening with an order. The conclusion to be drawn from this is that a high-ranking military official is also taking part in this conspiracy. I ask that you examine my report immediately, so that the guilty be meted out just punishment.

Yours very truly,

Pte Ivan Gorchev

"Unprecedented impudence!" raged the general. Laboux smiled with a swollen half mouth. "You know... if I had met him earlier... the devil only knows..."

"You'd consider him a better son-in-law than before?"

"Certainly, most certainly. We could fight all the time!"





Chapter Nine



I

Gorchev had just decided to go to the canteen to drink some beer, when someone called him by name.

A sergeant with a moustache like a catfish stood in the middle of the courtyard. The young man rushed over.

"Yes, sir!"

"A young man with the same name as yours serves in my company, and sailed with his company today, drunk."

'Could only be Cortot,' thought Gorchev.

"Are you Sergeant Hector Potiou?"

"What?... hm... Yes. Maybe that guy spoke to you?! He must have been lying."

"It's quite possible."

"What did he say?"

"That the Sergeant is a very clever man with a strong character."

"No... at times like that he doesn't talk through his hat... As far as I know, by mistake they gave you his baggage, which he dropped here."

"Yes, sir. It's above my bed. A little wooden box, tied up. Where should I send it to?"

"Nowhere. I only leave tomorrow morning, because I'm not the accompanying NCO. And I'll take it with me... Just leave it above your bed."

Hector Potiou departed. And Gorchev rushed to the canteen, which was reached by going through the dark arched corridors of a side building. In the dust the legionaries pushed and shoved at each other both coming and going.

"Get out of my way," said someone to Gorchev, and pushed him a little.

"Hey, don't shove!" he knocked the person in question in the side, and wanted to rush on, but the other grabbed him, growling.

"You insolent..."

He couldn't say anything else, because Gorchev grabbed him by the neck.

"Now I'll strangle you, you crackercrumbler!" Why should he have said crackercrumbler? This was one of the quirks of human instinct which unexpectedly come to the surface. The soldiers passing by laughed loudly, because they liked the word, and the crackercrumbler wasn't able to answer, because one needs a certain amount of air in one's windpipe to do this, and this had been temporarily squeezed out by Gorchev's hard hand. Just before choking to death, the new recruit let him go. The dying man suddenly showed signs of life.

"Who are you?"

"I'm a new recruit, you crackercrumbler!"

"Private, give me your name!" thundered the one nicknamed crackercrumbler, and the echoes of his voice shook the arches, as though Samson were shaking one of the columns in the darkness. Everyone's blood went cold!

It was Sergeant Verdier, the Lion whom the young man had insulted! He was crackercrumbler to the unfortunate young man. But it was pitch dark. How could he have known?

"Ivan Gorchev! At your service!"

"You'll be taken to account for this!"

"Until I've taken the oath of duty I can't commit a military crime. Besides, how could I know that I was going to meet with you in the dark, sergeant..."

"Nom du nom... So you are an expert in military law... All right!... You'll soon learn the difference between the Lion and a crackercrumbler... once you've taken the oath." And he rushed off.

'Hm. This is getting off to a good start...' thought Gorchev. Corporal Gent was sure to find out who had explained the 'little sister' and 'godmother' business, while the sergeant was certain to call his attention to the difference between a Lion and a crackercrumbler...

But it was all the same... what would be would be. Suddenly he was surprised by the sight of Mr. Vanek in the courtyard who, in the shadow of his umbrella, pondered deeply over an open newspaper, sound asleep.

Gorchev shook him.

"Hello, Mr. Vanek!"

"Where were you? I've been looking for you these ten minutes. I was able to arrange a visit, because unfortunately they refused to let me in on the basis that I am your secretary. On the contrary."

"Tell me about the results of the telephone call."

"Satisfactory."

"In what sense?"

"I have come to the conclusion with full confidence that you do not know the name of the actress in question. In the entire list of the Nice telephone directory there is not a single Lolette Anjou!"

"What???"

"I found one Pauline Aragones who is a lay canoness, but she doesn't know you, besides being seventy years old, and not a film star. Then I called a Mimi Albouxrier, who doesn't know you either, but she said that she would be willing to meet you, and will be at Clichy in the evening. After that there was only one name which seemed likely: I called Lola Zwillinger, because I felt that the name Anjou was only a slip of the tongue. But this lady doesn't know you either, or at least today she no longer admits to knowing you, and unfortunately she only worked in the circus, on the trapeze, but that was eight years ago. I think I did very thorough work."

"Yes," answered Gorchev, and he was very sad.

"The trouble is," continued Mr. Vanek, "that your memory isn't very good."

"Are you certain that you didn't forget what I told you?"

"My dear sir," Vanek answered, motioning with his hand, "if I take note of something, then you can be dead certain of it. The name hovers before me as if imprinted on my brain, the way you see this name on the front page of the newspaper here: Annette Laboux."

Gorchev grabbed the newspaper out of Mr. Vanek's hand and his blood chilled as he read the front page:

AT NOON TODAY ANNETTE LABOUX WAS
KIDNAPPED FROM A VILLA IN NICE




II

When the general and Laboux arrived home from Marseilles, the house was the same as usual to all outward appearances. Parker, the Negro chauffeur, opened the garden gate, and Annette's dog, a large white greyhound, jumped on the two men.

But he whined.

However, they didn't notice this. They arrived in the salon, and were just beginning to speak, when they heard a soft moaning from the direction of the cupboard. Laboux wasn't even surprised when he glanced into one of the wide drawers and saw André there, tied up.

"I have never been placed here before," said the butler, groaning, when he had been freed.

"What's this all about? What happened?"

"I was knocked unconscious," he said, panting.

"Are you feeling ill?"

"Hardly. A person gets used to it..."

A few minutes later they knew everything. There was a letter in Annette's room.

We have kidnapped your daughter. If tonight at eleven o'clock your car does not appear, in unchanged condition, on the Nice-Cannes highway, where the road branches off to the north next to the park, your daughter will be killed. In the name of all of those from whom you have stolen, I owe you this revenge. Whether or not you believe me is incidental.

B. L.

Laboux stared gravely at his own feet.

"What should we do now?..."

"We must inform the police."

"Do you think that people like Portenif and his associates will not carry out their threat if we report them?"

"But... what do you think?..."

"The gold... we'll give it to them..."

"Now they only think that we have stolen, but if you give them the gold the charge will be supported."

"But, Annette," whispered the calm, hard-as-flint man, for once his mouth trembling. "We must give them the gold, Auguste."

"It isn't ours."

"Even so. I will give whatever fortune I have to repay the King of Ifiris, and I will repay the rest by instalments... If need be, I shall pay for the rest of my life."

When they reached the garden a group of policemen jumped out of a police van.

"Who called you?"

"Someone telephoned that the Mademoiselle had been kidnapped."

"It isn't necessary to take note of it. Please," said the general, "call your men off immediately..."

Laboux rushed back to the house.

"André! Who called from here?"

"I did. I heard that Mademoiselle..."

"I'll knock you flat!"

"That's perfectly all right. But if I may ask you, sir, don't place me in or under any piece of furniture. It is an inexcusable method in my opinion."

"Blockhead."

Laboux dashed off with the general. They sat in the blue Alfa Romeo, but this time it was not Parker who drove.

At nine in the evening Annette was home, and the automobile, almost all pure gold, had gone into the possession of Lingeström and his associates.



III

The girl had spent but a few hours as a prisoner of the brigands. She didn't complain about her treatment. They had dragged her to a villa in the neighbourhood of Cannes. There Lingeström and a few other men awaited her. The baron was cold, but polite.

"My dear Annette," he said, in his usual diplomatic manner. "If you had returned my affections, then it would not have been necessary for me to use this method to force my rightful inheritance."

"Oh, do shut up," answered Annette, infuriated. "You are a blackmailer! A criminal!"

"I demand my rightful possessions from your father!"

"My father never was unjust to anyone!"

"Just as you wish," said Lingeström, and placed a letter before her:

We the undersigned are taking ten million pounds worth of gold with us from Ifiris. We have agreed that in the event of the death of any of us, his portion will be inherited by the others. Aboudir oasis, Ifiris, June 26, 19... (signed) Baron Lingeström, Portenif, Laboux, Latourette, Van Diren, Hurine, Legionaries.

She recognized her father's signature. Its authenticity was beyond a doubt!

"This doesn't prove anything."

"Here."

He held a ragged, foxed letter before the girl. It was the primitive writing of a shaky hand:

My Son,

I shall die shortly... They treat prisoners dreadfully here, and I am withering away. I am sending you this paper. I fought together with Gustave Laboux as a legionary in Ifiris. The king was killed, and the legionaries escaped together with the child heir, and several native leaders. We took the royal fortune, the state treasury with us. Laboux was wounded. We carried him on a stretcher. Life down there is merciless and wild. Why should I try to mince matters? We decided to kill the native leaders, and steal the money - we were in the jungle, after all. Everything went according to plan. We snatched the gold. We took the wounded Laboux along with us, and our escape was successful. This Laboux, after we had hidden the gold and arrived at the oasis of Kufra, entered into collusion with a captain called de Bertin. de Bertin's soldiers caught us, and in front of our very eyes de Bertin and Laboux dug up the king's fortune... Laboux knew only too well what he was doing. If we were to tell anyone of the gold they would hang us because of the murdered natives. He got away that day. We were caught and sentenced as deserters... Since then Laboux and de Bertin made careers for themselves, while I'm here in Columb-Bechar, dying and I think Portenif is still alive somewhere. Revenge me, my son, and try to get back what you are entitled to.

(signed) Baron Kurt Lingeström

Columb-Bechar, Penal Ballalion

Annette stared at the letter, paralysed.

"And in your opinion, where is the money?" she asked the baron.

"The Alfa Romeo car is practically built of fourteen-carat gold..."

Now she understood why the brake didn't hold well enough, why it couldn't get up speed, why it needed more petrol; the car was heavy - heavy under the weight of the gold.

But as I have said, by evening Annette Laboux was home. And the fourteen-carat roadster was in the possession of Lingeström and his associates.



IV

Finally Annette's father spoke.

"I think, old man, that even your military honour demands we tell Annette everything."

"Yes," nodded de Bertin. "Annette will know that she must keep silent."

"Look, these are the documents, my daughter..."

He went to the safe, and pulled out an old leather wallet. He took a few papers out of it, and handed them to Annette.

Gustave Laboux is under orders to proceed to Oran today, where he is to report to Section D, General Staff.

Another order.

Gustave Laboux is sent to Oran today under orders. He is to appear as a military deserter before Ifiris' ruler, Mala Padan, and he will offer his services against the rebels. He will maintain secret contact with the company command at Aboudir, with Captain de Bertin, who will send him his further instructions. Dated...

Annette began to cry with joy. Then she kissed her father.

"How happy I am! And I... I was already inclined to believe that you... had done something after all..."

"It was for that 'theft' that I was awarded my ministerial rank," said Laboux. "And I had to endure the shameful appearance of being a thief too, because France, as such, couldn't get involved in the situation."

"What situation?"

"Mala Padan, ruler of Ifiris, was a friend of France. A rebellion against him was instigated by a Portuguese, called Dizard. It would have been against the colonial status-quo for any of the great powers to interfere into it openly. But Mala Padan, African king, was a friend to France. This is the key to the mysterious in the situation."

"Now you should tell Annette the rest too," interrupted de Bertin.

Laboux, who was a little worn by the events, gulped down a glass of cognac.

"Well, listen very attentively, Annette. While an official in the foreign ministry, I was appointed a diplomatic adviser to Mala Padan. When the problems in Ifiris arose, I received the confidential instruction to organize an army of volunteers for Ifiris, without the knowledge of French official circles. Then I joined the Legion, and served as a private." His eyes began to shine. "They were hard months, but I'll never forget them!..."

Annette's face clouded. For one second they were all weighed down by the same thought.

Gorchev was on the open seas heading for Africa!

"For a long time," continued Laboux, sighing, "I went from one garrison to the other, and with money and all sorts of stories I tried to induce the deserters to the Aboudir oasis. Aboudir is on the border, and the soldiers could easily sneak over, past the not over-alert French border guards. I myself went over with the last group. Among them was the corrupt Baron Lingeström too, the father of this character. Dizard's revolution won because of a traitor. Mala Padan was killed, but Abe Padan, the fifteen-year-old heir to the throne, and a few loyal tribal chiefs escaped together with a small company of legionaries. They took the gold stocks of the country along with them, and I was there too, seriously wounded. You know the rest. Lingeström and his associates, among them this Portenif, killed the tribal chiefs. One of them, however, escaped with Abe Padan. I was wounded and helpless, what could I do? To all appearances I was one of the gang. In Aboudir, where de Bertin had been working together with me in secret, all of them were captured. Then we pretended that the two of us, de Bertin and I, stole the gold together. Because otherwise the Republic of France would have had to hand it over to the new ruler, Dizard. I was returned to diplomatic service, and that's how the affair finally fizzled out. The gold and the heir apparently disappeared. In the meantime Abe Padan became twenty years old. He had been living in secret in Morocco, where he received a very good education. The time for the settling out of accounts with Dizard, the usurper, had arrived. For this the gold the two of us had been guarding would have been most necessary."

"And how did the gold... get into the car?" asked Annette.

"It is a very complicated problem to ship this quantity of gold. To take it from here to Africa, past the border guards to Ifiris, is a difficult task. And then the idea occurred to us: the treasures should be worked into the parts of a car. An engineer on military technology, Captain Goulain, did the work personally, with two of his officers."

"All would have gone without a hitch," said de Bertin, "had that Lingeström not turned up."

"The devil sent him," nodded Laboux in fury, gulping down a glass of cognac. "His father wrote that damned letter. And one fine day that character came walking in here. He looked like a decent man. I couldn't tell him the truth, since a scandal, particularly now, would have been disastrous. So I promised him that I would give him his share of the 'stolen' gold. I gave him some of mine and..."

"And you blabbed to him!" shouted de Bertin.

Laboux reddened to the ears.

"Well, it's so difficult for a gentleman to accept appearing to be a thief!"

"And," said Annette, "the car... you gave it to him... for me..."

They kept silent.

"Well," spoke up Laboux finally. "There will be one less African country friendly to French colonialism. The fourteen-carat roadster would have been needed for Abe Padan to supply arms to those tribes loyal to the king..."

"And... what's happening to Gorchev?"

First de Bertin looked at Laboux.

"I spoke with a captain," he said finally. "He is Pierre Boussier, an official in the ministry of war. He checked his papers for me. Gorchev reported in Marseilles last night, and was already en route to Oran."

Laboux didn't say a word in reply. He just continued to stare at the carpet. He had no reason to object to de Bertin's steps. He himself had given two thousand francs to an NCO of Captain Dauville, who was travelling to Oran with Hector Potiou as a drill-sergeant, to report to him occasionally on Gorchev.

"My God," said Annette, "and now it is on my conscience that the automobile is gone..."

de Bertin answered with feigned gaiety.

"Eh! Those very able diplomats of ours will just have to find another method of doing away with Dizard! Come! Let's get out of here, because my nerves can't stand it!"

"I'm not going anywhere... where Gorchev can't go either," Annette said obstinately.

"Quiet! While I'm here you can be at rest. Pierre Boussier promised that he would take care of Gorchev during his African trip. Captain Boussier is touring Africa as a representative of the war ministry, and he will be in Oran in two weeks' time. I told him that Gorchev is someone very close to me. If you come with us to the Cafe Negresco immediately, then I'll even write him a post-card."

"I'm coming, I'm coming."

Laboux still didn't speak. Gorchev' s tragic stupidity rested on his conscience comparatively heavily.

"Hey, André!" called the general, clapping. "We've had enough of this gloom, children!"

André stepped in. The swelling on his eye had become richer with a few shades of opal and lapis lazuli, while the opening of the eye itself was as narrow as a line drawn by pencil. Laboux gave orders as was his habit.

"Have the car prepared..." He bit off the rest. The car! Where was that now? He sighed.

"Telephone," said the general, "for a taxi."

"Yes, sir." He turned back at the door. "Should Parker take the car into the garage?"

"Oh, try to understand," spoke Laboux to him, "I sold the Alfa Romeo. It has a new owner."

"My dear sir! Mr. Gorchev was either most merciful, or absent-minded when he hit me, because he didn't blind me completely, and therefore I can confidentially say that the car is standing outside at the gate. I saw it with my one eye..."

They all went flying outside.

The general dashed out of the gate first, and jerked back. Annette screamed. Laboux's eyes popped out. "What???"

The car stood by the pavement in good shape, only its bonnet slightly dented, and the blood-stained feathers of a duck that had been hit, stuck to the hood.

...Somewhere on the automobile's rubber floor a black monocle lay. The celluloid had cracked off slightly in one place.




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