"Mr. Vanek," said Gorchev, putting down the newspaper, which gave the news of Annette Laboux's kidnapping. "You will now rise to the height of your career as a private secretary."

"Am I not there already?" asked he in cold surprise.

"I expressed myself incorrectly. Until this moment you have been working in the height of the clouds. But now you must go to the stratosphere!"

"I would willingly go, but I must know the more detailed address, because I'm not that familiar with Marseilles. I think that that department store is there, in the neighbourhood of the railway station, no?"

"That's it!"

"What should I bring?"

"Nothing. I'll take care of all that...You see, I know the solution to the crime that the newspapers reported. I know where Annette Laboux is!"

"She isn't in the telephone directory. The only actress is that Zwillinger girl. Isn't it possible that you had an affair with her after all, and now the lady doesn't want to know about you?"

"It's possible," Gorchev agreed enthusiastically, because he had decided that he would never again argue with his secretary. "I therefore will now depart with your exit permit, and you will wait for me here. There's no one here who knows me, with the exception of a butcher..."

"A butcher?! I know him! Isn't his name Krompach?"

"His name is Zagarosky."

Finally everything was running smoothly! Gorchev knew what to do if he wanted to end this conversation with Mr. Vanek quickly.

"You will receive four hundred francs, Mr. Vanek, if you replace me here till one o'clock in the morning. The important thing is that you appear at roll-call. I will return before we depart, to take over my duty."

"I'll do it most willingly for you, because these people can't punish civilians. But I have none of my belongings with me."

"Everything you might need in the Legion is on the shelf above my bed."

"For this short period all I will need is patience."

If he could have seen into the future he would surely not have said this. But as I have already mentioned in another part of this novel, man was created, in his own interests, without the ability to see into the future.

Ten minutes later Gorchev departed from Fort St. Jean in civilian clothes that could have afforded a comfortable abode for more than one individual.

These clothes had been worn by his secretary but a short time before.

Mr. Vanek appeared in army trousers of schoolboyish length after the change in clothes, the cap balanced on the top of his head, and his coat reaching to his elbows. The buttons went flying off it. The first thing he did was to address a colonel who happened to be passing through the courtyard. He raised his cap politely.

"Good day. My name is Petrovich. Could you please tell me, Sergeant, where the sleeping quarters for the staff are?"

The colonel thought for an instant that the garrison had mutinied and would immediately butcher everyone.

"You see," continued Mr. Vanek gaily, while looking at one of the colonel's medals, holding it between his fingers, "I'm not familiar with the barracks. Excuse me..." He added that because he had accidentally ripped off the Order of Merit, First Class.

"Who are you?" asked the colonel, still in a state of shock.

"I'm a new employee of the defence forces. My name is Van... My name is Van Petrovich.

The colonel suddenly began to laugh so heartily that Mr. Vanek backed in fright.

"My dear son," said the grey soldier, with sincere sympathy. "Tell me, for the love of God, how could you have possibly joined the army?"

"But that's beside the point, please..."

"Pull all your will-power together, and quickly, or you will have a terrifying life. It's a big thing to speak to a superior officer here. Try and pull yourself together a bit like a soldier."

"I know all about it from the newsreels, but we aren't drilling now, are we? So what's the reason for being childish?... D'you have a match, Sergeant?"

The colonel began to laugh again. Then he shook his head sadly.

"My God!" said the colonel. "What makes your kind of person even dream about putting on a uniform... I feel sorry for you from the bottom of my heart! Do you know that after you have been a soldier for two days you'll be put in irons for that, and on a twenty-four-hour duty?"

Shaking his head sadly, he went on his way. Mr. Vanek looked after him furiously.

"How am I to guess from all that where the sleeping quarters are?... Oh well... Hello, Corporal!"

He called to the sergeant. To Verdier. The Lion turned like lightning.

"What's your name?"

"Petrovich."

"Insolent liar! The letter P's haven't been given their uniforms yet. But your number is enough, 27..."

"Please, that's beside the point," said Mr. Vanek impatiently. "Why do you have to keep ask questions like that?!"

The Lion found number 27 on his list, and let forth the greatest yell of his life.

"Help!" called Mr. Vanek in fright.

"Gorchev! You are Gorchev!!"

"So what? Didn't I say that?"

The Lion smiled.

"And I am the crackercrumbler," he said, stressing the word significantly.

"Pleased to meet you, I'm Mr. Vanek. Tell me something, Mr. Crackercrumbler, where is the bedroom in this place, and where can a man light a cigarette?"

The Lion didn't pounce. Quite on the contrary, with a smile of helpfulness he took out his lighter, held it out, then took Mr. Vanek by the arm.

"I'll take you to the sleeping quarters myself. One must deal with you politely! You haven't been sworn in yet, have you?"

"It can be done later, if you don't have time now. I really don't think it all that urgent."

"But I can hardly wait for it. This way, please!" he pointed to the door. "After you."

An old legionary who was standing nearby covered his face at the terrifying sight.

"You are a very pleasant NCO," said Mr. Vanek chattily. "You know novelists have said so many ridiculous things about the Legion that I can only think that I have been pleasantly deceived."

At the time the butcher was moving. The unreliables were being moved out. He carried a large yellow suitcase, and knocked into Mr. Vanek. The secretary never dreamed that the suitcase belonged to Gorchev. He spread himself out on a bed and slept. He became quite nervous when a pimply-faced Breton threw him down on the floor without a word. Dusk was falling. He would have been happy to see Gorchev sooner than arranged.

The bugle sounded.

Roll-call!

They all rushed out to the courtyard, Mr. Vanek among them. Roll-call...

Corporal Gent read the names from a list. Sergeant Verdier stepped up beside him. The names rang out through the silence, one after the other. And then Mr. Vanek stepped out, and took hold of the corporal's arm.

"Excuse me for interrupting you, but didn't anyone look for me?"

Deadly silence. But before Gent had the opportunity to kill him, the Lion turned toward the new recruit with a friendly smile.

"No, dear Gorchev, no one has looked for you. And what should we have done if they had looked for you?"

Gorchev! Corporal Gent had been tearing his hair trying to remember the name of the person who had given him the explanation about the relation of 'little sister' and 'godmother', but hadn't been able to remember. Gorchev - that was it!

"Yes. He's Gorchev," smiled the Lion. "Talk to him nicely, Gent, because he hasn't been sworn in yet, which means that according to military law, the rules do not apply to him."

The corporal nodded understandingly, and then continued reading the names. But Mr. Vanek took hold of his arm again.

"Excuse me, but if they should happen to look for me..."

"Quiet!"

This was spoken by a lieutenant who stepped over.

"Excuse me, sergeant..."

"Recruit! You are an imbecile! What kind of impudence is this? Even if you were never a soldier, you might have learned manners as a child!"

Vanek grumbled something, but otherwise remained silent. After the roll-call the sergeant said:

"Those listed as unreliable, go to Block Number Four. The others get ready, we leave at eleven o'clock. Dismissed!"

Mr. Vanek rushed to the gate, and stretched his neck to see between the slats.

"Get away from here," said the corporal on duty.

"All right, all right. I won't bite the gate. Everyone here is always nervous. Why, I really don't know!"

"Get lost!"

"I heard you! I'm not deaf. Are you the gate-keeper here?.. If anyone should be looking for me, my name is Petrovich..."

"Get the hell out of here, or I'll have you in irons!"

"You can iron soldiers?... Nice methods you have here, is all I can say."

With this Mr. Vanek went off to his sleeping quarters. The butcher had already dragged himself off with the unreliables, and that this qualification should be taken seriously was proved by the fact that he simply stole Gorchev's elegant and well furnished suitcase. But the wooden box, on which Cortot had written 'Ivan Gorchev' and had tied together with a string - he left behind.

However, Mr. Vanek, who only knew that the luggage with everything in it necessary for a legionary was on a shelf above the bed, was a little surprised to discover only a cigar box with a name written on it. Was it possible that everything that a legionary could need would be in it? Hadn't Petrovich been mistaken again?

Someone spoke up next to him.

"I have not had the opportunity to introduce myself so far. My name is Egon Wurfli, dancing and etiquette teacher."

"Pleased to meet you. Van... Vantage point is good here. There's someone else here called Egon. I'm Petrovich."

"Isn't Gorchev your alias?"

"No, Petrovich is my alias, Gorchev is the real one."

"And Tintoretto?"

"What did you say?"

"I said, Tintoretto."

Mr. Vanek blinked uncertainly for a moment.

"Are you Italian?"

"I'm Swiss."

"I'm sorry but I don't speak Swiss..." He took down the cigar box. "Interesting bit of luggage," he said.

Mr. Wurfli smiled understandingly.

"I don't want to pry..."

"There's no need to. All I have to do is cut the string, and that's enough, like this... Hm. Tell me something. Is this a complete legionary outfit?"

And he took out the contents of the box: two used foot-cloths, a piece of string, a few picklocks, as well as a corkscrew, and an impressive number of cigar butts.

"It's possible," said Wurfli. "I haven't been given the supplies yet."

"Why is a corkscrew necessary in the desert?" speculated Mr. Vanek. "And why do soldiers have to be supplied with picklocks and cigar butts?"

"Maybe they use the liquid in the tobacco as medicine. The soldiers in Africa all get scurvy."

Mr. Vanek shook the box nervously.

"I didn't get any. Or if I did, someone stole my scurvy out of the box."

Mr. Wurfli stretched his neck curiously.

"Is the symbol in it?"

"What should I do?" asked Mr. Vanek in surprise.

"Put the three parts together."

"What parts?"

"Those that you keep in the box."

"The cigar butts?"

"Please, don't joke with me. Put the three parts together and play something."

"All right," said Mr. Vanek with the reassuring smile of the benevolent psychiatrist, "I'll put the string onto the foot-cloth and play with that... Why isn't there an electric razor here? Hello! Officer!"

Corporal Gent had come in; he boiled with fury at being shouted at.

"Listen to me, you donkey... You're going to see a miracle tomorrow!"

"Why, what happens tomorrow?"

"You take the pledge tomorrow," shouted the corporal.

"But, I'm married already!"

Then the bugle sounded.

"Assembly," shouted Corporal Gent and made off to the courtyard hurriedly. Mr. Vanek followed, and so did the wooden box, He looked around nervously. Gorchev was nowhere to be seen

"How interesting," said Wurfli. "All artists are mad."

"Quite possible."

"Musicians, and painters as well."

"And ballet dancers, and stone carvers. Tell me, don't you have any other problems?"

He looked around in all directions... Not a sign. Another roll-call followed, then they were led on to the dock, to a boat. Gorchev still wasn't there. It was already late at night. The steamship whistled. The gangway was taken back on shore.

"We're leaving," said the lieutenant to Verdier.

"Can't we wait a few more minutes?" asked the secretary.

"Get going, or I'll have you locked in an asylum."

"Interesting," Vanek said nervously, when they had started. "They make such a big fuss over everything... as if the Sahara would run away if they didn't hurry..."

On board the ship he stood by the rail. And still hoped, even though dawn was approaching. He paced up and down nervously. What would come of this? Maybe Gorchev would still arrive. But Gorchev just didn't come. The ship sailed. Then a sailor stepped over to Mr. Vanek.

"Someone sent this a half hour ago. Told me to give it over to number 27."

Gorchev wrote to his replacement:

Honoured Mr. Vanek,

Due to circumstances beyond my control I am unfortunately unable to return. I shall replace you in Oran. Until then your pay is two hundred francs a day, which, beginning tomorrow, I shall place in a bank on your name, and the receipt will be transmitted to you. I ask you to have a little patience.

Your grateful employer,

Petrovich

So the steamship carried Mr. Vanek off to Africa.

Gorchev rushed out of the fort in Mr. Vanek's peculiar clothing, to the Old Port, sat down without hesitation in the first deserted car he came across and, according to his habit, began one of his wonderful expeditions which reminded of the invasion of the ancient Barbarians.

He had to rush to be able to keep his promise, and relieve Mr. Vanek, who stayed in his place, like a certain gentleman in a dramatic poem of Schiller, who replaced his friend in the condemned cell, while the sentenced man took part at his sister's wedding feast. He drove at full speed, and with relative good luck, because the little Citroen lasted almost till La Ciota, which is about twenty miles from Marseilles. However, at the fish wharfs there were no pleasant saloon cars, only lorries with the morning catch.

Within a short time Gorchev was on the road to Toulon with a shipment of fish. The strong lorry held out well, with only the bonnet dented by a lamppost, in the course of which incident the pupils of a girls' school had been sprinkled with dead fish. Otherwise the trip went without incident to Toulon, where Gorchev pulled on the handbrake, and well satisfied stepped out in a shop window on the poultry market.

But who can measure these things correctly to the last hairs-breadth? And besides, only cast the first stone at Gorchev, if you can catch him. Because he was off at once. After a half-hour race most of the crowd fell back, with only about eight or ten amateur long-distance runners holding out. These he waited for, beat them up, and then hurried off only to come across a policeman who was posted in a distant street.

"First, tell me where you got those clothes?"

Gorchev's clothes were conspicuous to others as well. These others stood around him, too.

"Just come along with me to the police station... A fine character!"

"I'm looking for the 'Texas Restaurant'..."

They almost lynched him for this line of defence. The policeman led him onwards. Meanwhile Gorchev anxiously thought of Annette, not to mention Mr. Vanek, who, like Schiller's highly improbable hero, awaited him as a hostage, and was probably up to all sorts of ridiculous antics.

Luckily they passed by way of a viaduct stairway, and here he could push the policeman down onto three workers cementing the road, so that he was incapable of going further. Gorchev's style of running, speedy and straight as an arrow, was arresting. His individual style gained many followers, but none could catch him up. Shortly he swung into the dockland, and all his pursuers fell back.

My God! Was he never going to find out where the 'Texas Restaurant' was?

Some six men were talking together in a group. Maybe if he were to kneel down before them or threaten with a gun, he would find out where the 'Texas Restaurant' was.

"Well, hello! It's my young sailor... What are you doing in those clothes?" It was Alec Lonesome!

"Good day, sir. I'm pleased to see you again," said Gorchev, abashed.

"Who is this brat?" asked an individual who looked definitely shifty.

"A greenhorn rushing to his doom. I took him under my wing, because it sometimes feels good to try to balance the scales. Where did you sneak off to last time, kid?"

"I was afraid of you, sir," answered Gorchev with childish naivety.

They laughed at this, they liked this sweet-faced, innocent boy. A taciturn highwayman named Drugich slapped him on the shoulder, in a friendly way, so that Gorchev's watch went flying out of his pocket.

The fact that they immediately found him to be to their liking was his undoing.

"Now stay with me and relax. I won't hurt you, you little runt," assured Alec. "It's only sensible to do something good to protect and put guts into a weakling. We could use it as an argument in our favour at the final reckoning in the next world."

"What would a kid like this do by himself in the docks," said a bicycle thief called Jasmin good-naturedly. Drugich, the taciturn one, again slapped the boy on the shoulder reassuringly, so that half a dozen fountain pens and a few car parts went flying out of his pocket.

"I joined the Legion," he said to get rid of them. "I have to report this evening."

Alec growled.

"What kind of stories are you telling? Have you gone mad?!"

"You only think you're going to report. Poor boy!"

"Completely mad! That's hell!" they all exclaimed.

"Please let me go, gentlemen!... I beseech you... I have to report."

He wanted to run, but they tripped him up, and Drugich, the taciturn highwayman, hit him over the head with a ladder, knocking him out.

When he regained consciousness, he was sitting in a chair, in a tiny musty place, with Alec, the taciturn Drugich, and Jasmin next to him. They were sipping wine.

My God, what time must it be?

"Well, brat, are you awake?" asked Jasmin, the bicycle thief, speaking with difficulty, and avoiding his R's like a lisping lord, but this was the result of a quarrel the year before when half of his jaw had been broken.

"This isn't what I would call a nice way of handling someone," complained Gorchev.

"We should learn our methods from you. Huh?! From now on you are in my care. Whether you like it or not, we'll protect you! What an idiot!"

"And how long do you want to keep me a prisoner?"

"Until you come to your senses!"

It was hot in that stuffy little room.

So much so that the silent Drugich swallowed a pint of wine.

"But I don't want to hide. Let me go."

"Do you know that if you talk too much we can lock you up in this room for a year?"

"Why? Is this a prison, where you lock up honest people?"

"No! But there is only one exit, and that is guarded."

"What sort of a place is this then?"

"The 'Texas Restaurant'!"

At long last! He still didn't know where he was, but it was abundantly clear that he had arrived.

"You're surprised, aren't you... This is where the Chief's gang stays, our cooperative. And this special room is his. Tonight forty thousand francs cross our palm, and of that you'll get two thousand."

"On condition," said Jasmin, "that we succeed in bringing that character into this room and all tied up."

"That's fixed. Fishy is never wrong," said Alec. "And when he's here, then we finish him off!" he finished the sentence with a vivid gesture of the hand.

"Who are you going to kill here?" asked the boy.

"Ivan Gorchev."

"Is he still alive?" asked the Russian in wonder.

"Yes, but it won't happen to him again! That's enough! Come on, boys."

"That's right. We have to get the car put on the 'Shifty Shark'!"

Drugich, who was silent by nature, pulled the rope that he used for a belt tighter, and they left. Alec called back:

"Don't try to escape, the guards don't let anyone past the end of the hall, if he isn't with someone known."

And Annette? What had happened to Annette? They had kidnapped her. But who? No one else than that dumpy one, the shaggy Portenif, and Lingeström, whom - by the way - he would knock silly the next time they met. My God! And Mr. Vanek?

As he reached that point in his thoughts the individual called Portenif, who was shabby (which is a description softened to go into print meant to convey the fact that the outlaw did not trouble himself about his appearance), entered. Apart from this he was also completely drunk.

He glanced at Gorchev without interest. He hadn't seen the Russian in the dark when they had attempted the attack on the general. He only knew what Alec Lonesome had told him in the moment they had met in the bar, viz. that the gang had undertaken the protection of a sweet greenhorn, simply because he had joined the Legion.

"The Chief will be furious when he finds out that you brought him to his hide-out," was Portenif's opinion, and refused to be convinced of the contrary, despite Alec Lonesome's confused theory about the balances in the other world and all that implied.

"Such reasoning is ridiculous," he answered, shrugging but he was so drunk that he didn't argue, but went into the hide-out instead.

"And, did they catch him?" asked Gorchev.

"Who?" he asked blankly.

"Gorchev."

"Yes, they're already bringing him..."

"What?! They caught him?..."

"The villain was drinking alone, thoughtlessly, and Fishy grabbed him with his men..."

The Russian hiccupped, flopped, and his eyelids pulled together tiredly. Could they have possibly caught him while drinking, in such a way that he didn't know about it?...

"What's Gorchev done?"

"He's an insolent crook. Probably the man of an enemy gang. But when he's sitting in here, like you are now, I'll take his eyes out one by one with my pocket knife."

"Why do you want to bother with every one of his eyes separately? Why not all of them at the same time!"

"Don't be impudent, brat," Portenif said, and sat down, too drunk to stand on his feet. He poured himself some wine and drank it. "If I ever..." he took hold of Gorchev's neck quite loosely, "get him between my two hands like this... well then... that will be the happiest day of my life!"

"It's a pity that the neck at hand is only mine."

"We're lucky that he wasn't able to ruin our plans. Because since we got the girl and traded her... with that rotten Laboux for the car, and... the car... is hidden..."

"Well, then... everything's all right..." answered Gorchev, feeling slightly better. The important thing was that Annette was free!

Portenif suddenly fell forward, knocked his head against the table, and fell asleep.

He dozed off deeper and deeper. Gorchev looked at the wall clock in despair. It would soon be evening! And poor Mr. Vanek would await him in vain... Portenif fell to the floor with a tremendous crash. The swine!... unfeeling murderer!...

One quarter hour went by after the other, and Portenif snored. It was impossible to go out because the end of the hall was more than likely guarded, and that was where the exit to the bar was. And Alec Lonesome and his friends would not take him out of there...

Finally a flat-faced hump-backed individual appeared.

"Bring him in... We've caught the miserable crook," and he turned to the boys gaily. Forty thousand francs hit our palms! We've caught Gorchev!"

In through the door, tied up, they dragged Cortot, the homesick criminal.

They threw the unconscious legionary into the corner; then tried to bring some life into Portenif, with little success.

"Hey, you old thief!"

Snores.

"Leave the drunken rat. The Chief comes, pays, and he can take his Gorchev."

Meanwhile the silent Drugich amused himself by occasionally ducking Portenif's head into a bucket of water. Finally Portenif got to his feet, unsteadily.

"What... what do you want?!" he stammered.

"We brought him, here he is!"

"Who?!"

"Gorchev! There's the crook!"

And they pointed to Cortot. Portenif took out his pocket knife. Probably in order to be true to his promise, to remove the prisoner's eyes one by one. But Alec shoved him back.

"Only after we've been paid. Until then don't damage the prisoner."

Portenif fell to the floor again. He either fell asleep, or fainted. Drugich took Gorchev's coat off the chair, and covered him with it.

Now the dumpy one stepped in who, though his taste wasn't the best, was fond of men.

"The Chief sent a message that the car be put on board the 'Shifty Shark'. At once!"

"Ho! But first the 'Shifty Shark' has to be taken from the Quai de Beiges to the 'Pharaoh', because we're not allowed to start the car."

"That takes too long! First give us the money, Aldous!"

The dumpy one who, it could now be seen, was half-caste, answered haughtily.

"The Chief will be coming here to pay you off, when he takes Gorchev. Even if you have someone assigned here!" He kicked Cortot.

"This creature's dead!"

"Like hell," answered Jasmin. "You don't think we're going to damage the goods, do you?"

"Jasmin, you stay here, and collect the money," directed Alec Lonesome. "Within an hour and a half we can embark the Alfa Romeo. We trust the honesty of the Chief. If we're disappointed, we still have the Alfa Romeo with us," was the wise counsel of Alec.

Meanwhile, the taciturn Drugich amused himself by trying to enliven Portenif with kicks, but the experiment turned out a failure. So he covered him up again with Gorchev's coat, took his cap, and left.

The others followed him. Only Jasmin, Aldous, the two Gorchevs, and the unconscious Portenif stayed behind.

"I'm going to the 'Black Star'," said Aldous. "The Chief will come after me anyway."

"I'll go too," said Jasmin. "Brat, you can't leave here anyway, past the guards, so take care of the prisoner. If they leave the money with you, don't accept anything less than forty thousand..."

Cortot was amazed when he came to himself. His head buzzed, and the real Gorchev was washing his face.

"What... what happened...? Where...?"

"Man! How did you get here?"

"I was drinking with Hector Potiou... enjoying myself.., and then.., alone..."

"But you boarded ship this afternoon in Marseilles!"

"No... um..." he stammered. "Potiou took me.... for his orderly, and... we would have travelled together... now... from here... from Toulon..."

Gorchev dimly remembered something of this private journey... Portenif's snores were a frightening accompaniment to this peculiar meeting.

"Answer me... can you stand?" When it was proved he could, Gorchev quickly wrote something, and handed it over to Cortot.

"They'll probably let you out of here, once it's proved that you aren't Gorchev... It's also possible that it will never come to that. The important thing is for you to keep quiet."

"And... this writing?"

"Once you're freed, get this to Marseilles, to the 'S.S. Constant'. You may still reach it, if the ship sails late. It's for Private Number 27."

Cortot pushed the paper into his pocket, numbly.

At that moment the door opened, and Baron Lingeström stepped in, with a pistol ready cocked.

Behind him was a broad-shouldered, grey-haired serious man.

The Chief!

The baron flipped a quick glance over Gorchev.

"That's him... everything's in order."

"And who is this?" asked the Chief, pointing to Cortot.

"Jasmin said that they're keeping some character, incapable of taking care of himself, locked up here, after he escaped from the Legion," said Lingeström impatiently.

"We'll take care of that!" shouted the Chief. "You'll get the army after us with stupid things like that. No prisoner can be brought here without my permission!"

"That isn't important now," shrugged Lingeström, and looked hard at Gorchev. "First let's finish with this, if he doesn't come to his senses. Bring the car over to the courtyard gate. Once I'm gone you can take Gorchev for a ride."

"Let me first get Aldous for that, I don't do things like that alone."

The Russian understood very well what was meant by taking someone for a ride. One bullet, and the lifeless traveller would go flying out of the moving car, into the sea... But what was the other possibility? There was one! They didn't know that the bandits thought Cortot to be Gorchev. How could they possibly think of that?

"And if you don't find Aldous?" Lingeström asked the Chief.

"Why shouldn't you find him," said Gorchev. "He went to the 'Black Star'."

The Chief looked him up and down squinting.

"I'm glad you're not nervous," he growled, and then turned to Cortot. "You louse! Now you're going to get thrown out! And if you ever come anywhere near me again, I'll knock you off like a dog! Get out!"

He grabbed Cortot's collar, and dragging him along, threw him out in the alley. Cortot ran to the nearest barracks, his heart in his mouth, but first he sent Mr. Vanek's letter on its way.

The two stood in the room together facing each other: Lingeström with a loaded revolver, and Gorchev grinning.

"Well, Mr. Gorchev?" said Lingeström sarcastically, after a short silence. "What do you think of this? What?... Oh, and you might as well take note of the fact that I'm not a thief."

"If you'll excuse me for saying so, how could I have suspected that?"

"Don't be insolent. You are a clever rascal. In the beginning even I was fooled into thinking that you were some young scatter-brained madman!"

"And now?"

"Now I know that you are Abe Padan's man."

"What did I do?" asked Gorchev in fright.

"Do you deny that you are Abe Padan's man?"

"That wouldn't be a smart thing to do," he answered after a short hesitation, "as long as you've got it figured out already..."

"And did you know Mala Padan too?"

"Hm... only in passing... I was well in with the whole Dalai family and..."

"Do you want to join the Portuguese?"

"Well," pondered Gorchev, "I wouldn't mind... but still, no. Anyone who is on speaking terms with you can't be decent. I'll stay by the old one."

"I must warn you that Dizard is a hard man, and Aboudir is a long way off."

"Really?... I hadn't thought of that. But I'll manage to get there somehow."

"And Ifiris? Serving Abe Padan's interests you won't even get as far as Aboudir, not to speak of Ifiris, that's certain now..."

Gorchev pondered silently. He seemed to be weighing the situation.

"Well," asked Lingeström, "what do you think?"

"I'll tell you quite honestly. You resemble a certain private secretary called Mr. Vanek in a terrifying way."

"All right! It's all right. If you think I care, you're wrong."

Portenif moved. And the Chief arrived at the same time.

"I paid Jasmin the money," he said. "Aldous is waiting outside".

"You did well. Take care of that man for me!"

"All right..." He stood in front of Gorchev. "If it hadn't been for you, we would have already received the money from the Portuguese."

"Don't be silly, he hasn't a penny to his name," motioned Gorchev. Heaven only knows why, but he couldn't make himself believe that he was about to die. He lit a cigarette.

"You can make jokes for a last time."

"So you're going to kill me?"

"I will be your death," said the Chief.

"I'm going to have an ugly death."

"Get going!"

"Wait! Lingeström... Give me five minutes to think it over! Maybe I'll join the Portuguese..."

"What's the guarantee?"

"I'll put myself completely into your hands, and you'll do what you want with me," said Gorchev sighing as he flopped into a chair. "Please... leave me... alone..."

The Chief looked at him in contempt. He had seen men like this break down many times before.

The Chief went out with Lingeström. At the end of the long corridor they turned to the right, towards the bar. There were two guards at every exit. The left-hand exit led to the courtyard.

"He's broken," said the Chief.

"Yes, it seems so."

They drank a few gulps... then they returned to the room. But only Portenif snored on the floor, Gorchev had disappeared.

...He had escaped, which was incredible!

The ensuing scene took place after the arrival of a company of new recruits in the courtyard of Fort St. Thérèse in Oran. Those who don't believe it can still find the notes according to which the arrival of a bespectacled, black moustached, new recruit called Gorchev, justifies the stomach trouble of Captain Furion, company commander. A year later it became so fierce that the captain was sent into retirement. However, supposedly it started on this day.

The day was a clear one, and it began without any incident. A group of new recruits arrived from Marseilles; they were sworn in, and then lined up in the courtyard of the fort. The sergeant licked his lips.

"What did that Gorchev say to you?" he asked the corporal.

"He called me 'little sister', and later explained that his godmother couldn't be his little sister."

"He called me crackercrumbler. "We'll have a chance to speak to him about that," nodded the Lion pleasantly, and he glanced at the soldier in question with relish. At the moment, before basic training, and in the midst of inspection, the two NCOs couldn't do anything. But they weren't in a hurry. Five years is a long time.

The sergeant smiled threateningly. Mr. Vanek smiled back shyly, and nodded his head in a friendly way. It was then that the company commander arrived, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the nodding new recruit.

"Private!"

"What's the matter?" asked the private, pleasantly, so they would find him likeable.

The company commander stepped back, his eyes popping out.

Gent, the corporal, began to whisper behind Mr. Vanek.

"Moron! You're standing before the commander! Salute!"

"Excuse me," said the new recruit, coming to his senses. "I don't understand the marks of rank yet," and he raised his cap. "I respectfully salute you... my name is Van... Van Petrovich but that's not important..."

The company commander looked at him, as though he had seen a ghost. Perhaps this was the only example in all history of a soldier raising his cap in way of greeting.

Behind the captain, Sergeant Verdier, pale as a corpse, showed Mr. Vanek how to salute. At that Mr. Vanek raised his cap at him too, and said in a surprised tone:

"We've already met! How are you?"

"Attention!" shouted the captain stupefied. "What is this?! A lunatic asylum?"

"I don't think so," answered Mr. Vanek uncertainly.

"Attention! What sort of attention is that?"

"Please, what's the sense of it all?"

"What's your name?!"

"Van... Van Petrovich."

"Dutch?"

"Me?"

"Don't ask questions!"

"All right, but you can't carry on a discussion like that!"

"Why did you say, Van Petrovich?"

Mr. Vanek stepped forward, and with the gesture of a conductor, he stopped the corporal, who was about to speak.

"Sorry. I'm Gorchev. I withdraw the rest."

The commander closed his eyes for a second, wearily, and took a deep breath.

"Sergeant! Take this man for interrogation! And propose ten days salle de police! That will end his lack of discipline!" He measured Mr. Vanek. "In the entire history of this fort, you are the first new recruit to be punished on the day of his arrival! You should be ashamed of yourself!" Then he turned to the NCOs. "You too! Dismiss! The NCOs will come with me to receive assignments!"

And he left. The NCOs followed. A young lieutenant, who had until then surveyed the proceedings in silence, now stepped over.

"Listen to me, my friend. You know that there are dogs especially bred for hunting, and special cows that have been brought about through careful examination and choosing of parents. Well, unfortunately, you are the result of complete petty bourgeois breeding!"

"Are you an animal breeder, sergeant?"

"No. I was once a psychologist. You, my friend, are of a very unfortunate mental disposition. Do you know what an anti-soldier is?"

"Of course. A Napoleon statue made of porcelain in antique style."

"You are a civilian to the last drop of your blood," continued the officer, with a sigh. "You are so thoroughly civilian that you can't possibly understand the army, any more than a deaf man can understand Mozart. I'm terribly sorry for you. Did you understand me?"

"For the most part," answered Mr. Vanek. "The only thing that's not clear is what connection it all has with specially bred cattle, and ancient porcelain cups?"

"You are an unhappy creature," the lieutenant said sadly and nodding his head, went on. Mr. Vanek rushed up the stairs and stepped to a door on which was written:

He opened the door, and lifted his cap to the major sitting there.

"Good day, Corporal. Did any mail come for Mr. Gorchev? New recruit... Second Company..."

The major stood up, and looked him up and down.

"Private! I'll have you in irons for this!"

"Why is everyone so nervous here!? I'm sure there's a letter waiting for me, just look round a bit. The name's Petrovich."

"Get out of here," said the major quietly. "I'll see that your NCO is punished for this too! Get going!"

'Everyone here is so nervous,' he thought, as he descended the stairs. When he reached the courtyard there was another assembly taking place. By the time he got down they were already standing. Mr. Vanek walked along in front of the line, like a general, and looked the rows up and down.

"Private! What are you doing?!" shouted the captain.

"I'm looking for my place... Between a lanky peasant and a man with a red moustache... Aha!... here it is... let me in!"

"You scoundrel!"

"All right, all right! I'm already in my place! What are you getting so nervous about?!"

"Tomorrow at eight you go for interrogation! Twenty-two days in the guardhouse, with double sentry! We'll teach you in a short time... don't worry..." the captain panted exhaustedly. "There's never been anything like that!"

The lieutenant he had spoken to before came towards them and Mr. Vanek, smiling, while in line, lifted his cap.

"Good day."

"What are you doing?"

"I was greeting the veterinary."

"Put him in irons!"

I don't want to go into more detail. On this day many NCOs and officers took to tranquillizer and other drugs as the result of Mr. Vanek's military conduct, while the guilty one sat on the floor of his cell, with his wrist chained to his left ankle. With bitter haughtiness the prisoner said to the departing corporal:

"Nice way of dealing with people, is all I can say."

When the company lined up on the drill-ground for the first time, Sergeant Verdier, with that delightful slow tempo in which a gourmet makes detailed preparations before eating a particularly delicious meal that has been placed before him, pulled his moustache twice, and then spoke:

"Now?.. step out, you, there..."

Mr. Vanek had been frightened by his surroundings, and he had quickly become conscious of the fact that there was trouble here.

So he stepped forward, modestly, with a friendly smile on his face.

"Tell me," asked the sergeant calmly, "who am I?"

Mr. Vanek racked his memory, and finally the sergeant's name tinkled in his ears. Therefore he shouted out delighted:

"You are the highly respected and much loved Sergeant Crackercrumbler!..."

And he looked around smiling, as though hoping for some slight recognition.

"You rat!" answered Verdier, his face pale. "For that you will now take the light machine gun, and run with it up the hill, where you will take up a position of observation!... En avant... marche! Pas de gymnastique!"

Now even Mr. Vanek admitted that this was no joke.

His tongue hung out, and in the hundred degree heat, he tumbled over four times, but he ran. Finally he took a position of agonized attention on top of the hill, panting bitterly, and feeling innocent in his humiliation, like a martyr.

The sun burned steadily on the observation post, and Mr. Vanek, only semi-conscious, decided to get an umbrella.

With this Mr. Vanek's drill training and calvary began.

Later, equipped with a good sized searchlight, Mr. Wurfli, one-time owner of the Ballhaus in Zurich, appeared, panting.

He, too, had sinned. And now they panted next to each other. It was hot: 40° C - or, if you prefer, hundred F - in the shade. Only there was no shade on the observation post. Only heat.

"Why is the sergeant angry with me?" asked Mr. Vanek later.

"Because of the crackercrumbler. In some parts of France, crickets are called crackercrumblers. And crickets are only insects, whereas the sergeant is the Lion."

"How should I have known that? All I can see is that he's some kind of big bug..."

"Artists have a hard time in military life."

"That's for sure," answered Mr. Vanek, and he shrugged his shoulders. What did this man constantly want with artists?

"Painters are like that, musicians too."

"And furthermore stone carvers, and ballet dancers..."

"Wouldn't you subscribe to what I say?"

"For a man to add his signature to something, the first thing he has to know is his name. And in this respect the situation is somewhat tangled..."

When they returned to the group and learned a few basic rules, the sergeant again pulled on his moustache with the same delightful movements as the gourmet we mentioned, who stretched the time, before beginning a particularly delicious meal.

"Private!" he spoke to the secretary again. "Now tell me who I am?"

"Uh... the Lion!"

"That's better than the crackercrumbler. How would you call me, using another name?"

"You are the king of the beasts!"

"Rat! You are the king of the beasts, get that?"

"Yessir. I am Petrovich, the lion."

"For that insolence, tomorrow you will report to the first lieutenant, and get ten days in the guardhouse!"

Mr. Vanek arrived back in the fort in a state of deathly exhaustion, and muddy to the neck. He could hardly wait to eat, and to lie down a little. When he entered the room, Corporal Gent faced him. The NCO immediately recognized that his man had arrived. That impudent one, who had called him 'little sister'! And who had given him the explanation about a godmother. He swallowed... and then spoke up in a dull studied monotone.

"Wait a minute, my friend... Tell me, what's the difference between an elderly godmother, and a younger little sister?"

"Exactly as many months as there are between the births of the two ladies," answered Mr. Vanek with great precision.

"Yes." nodded the corporal, and his eyes looked off somewhere in the distance, but he continued in a cold sing-song. "And what about your little sister?"

"She got married in Krems, Austria! I just received notice that she's expecting a baby."

"And what about the godmother? Huh?!"

Mr. Vanek didn't understand the whole thing, but he answered politely.

"They've decided on the wife of the captain of the Krems ferry. She is a gentlewoman held in high esteem there. My brother-in-law writes..."

"Attention! So that you won't forget the difference between a little sister and a godmother, you'll go down to the storehouse, and help bring up the furniture for Pavilion Number Two... and then we'll talk some more."

As Mr. Wurfli did not deny himself the pleasure of one of his incomprehensible statements about artists, Mr. Vanek grabbed his rifle, with the bayonet on it, from off the wall and begged that the men let him go, so that he could kill him.

"But Mr. Tintoretto," shouted Mr. Wurfli, "the musician is exactly like all other artists, for instance, painters..."

"And stone carvers, and ballet dancers, too, you nightmare!"

And fate gave an even harder blow to the secretary. A major came in the opposite direction, while he was en route to the storehouse. Mr. Vanek, by way of salute, raised his cap.

"At your service, lieutenant."

"Sergeant!" roared the major. "Have this idiot brought up for two days in irons!... Dismiss!"

Mr. Vanek rushed off. But first, with frightened respect, he raised his cap, and stammered,

"Good-bye..."

When Lingeström and the Chief left the room, Gorchev looked about, uncertainly.

'Now to escape! But how?'... Portenif, covered with the white sailor coat, snored rhythmically. He stepped out of the door. Dingy hallway... Guards stood at the end of the corridor who would only let him out in the company of one of the gang.

Then a door opened with a terrific bang, and Jasmin appeared. He was a little drunk...

"Who's that," he said, seeing the shadow.

"Psst..." said Gorchev. "I'm Chervonets, the kid..."

"What are you loitering about here for?"

"The Chief threw me up against the wall, and said that I should get the hell out of here, because when he gets back he'll kill me. And the guards won't let me out."

Jasmin cursed.

"The trouble we have with you... Come on!"

"And what happens when the Chief comes back?"

"Come on..."

He took Gorchev down the hallway, opened the door leading to the garden, and said to the guards in passing:

"The boy is with me."

One more minute and they were on the street.

Jasmin went along with the boy to the square at the end of the street where there was a traffic policeman, and a tramway route.

"Listen to me, Jasmin," said Gorchev, when they were surrounded by traffic. "Sit down next to me and I'll tell you a secret."

They sat down. Gorchev clipped his black monocle into his eye self-importantly...

"Understand this. Briefly, I tricked you. I am Gorchev. And the Chief wanted to kill me a moment before!"

"Ha, ha. That's good. They say that every slap delivered by Gorchev is so perfect that his art should be taught at the college of bullies. And you of all people..."

"Listen! The reason I told you the truth is because I don't want them to kill you. You freed me! You see, the Chief had already got out the car, to take me for a ride. And I'd probably be a dead man by now, if you hadn't taken me past the guards."

"What!" Jasmin jumped up. "The whole thing is a big lie, and you're coming back with me!"

Jasmin grabbed the boy's arm, but Gorchev quickly slapped him, in such a way that Jasmin hit the arm of a bench, and bounced off head first into a puddle. It took a long time for him to revive, with a slightly dazed smile.

"Now will you believe that I am Gorchev?" asked the Russian.

"Well," Jasmin answered hoarsely, "there must be some truth to the story after all."

Gorchev put the monocle even tighter into his socket, and left the bandit behind.

Jasmin accepted the good advice. On that day he disappeared without a trace, avoiding the revenge of the Chief, and never again returned to Toulon.

Gorchev, despite the fact that every bone in his body ached as he thought of the probable fate of Mr. Vanek, rushed to the docks first. The Alfa Romeo, for which the 'Shifty Shark' was coming, was at the Quay de Beiges. Maybe he wouldn't be too late. He dashed on.

He arrived in time. The 'Shifty Shark' hadn't arrived yet. But the car was there. As they had described - under the canvas. Beside it, the taciturn Drugich sat on the ground, and slept, leaning against the bumper.

Drugich banged his head terribly hard when the bumper moved out from under him at sixty miles an hour...

Gorchev was not even halfway to Nice, and had just driven onto the pavement to avoid a car coming in the opposite direction, when a feeling of terror knifed through him.

His wallet!

He had left his jacket in the room! He had removed it because of the heat. The last one to have it was the taciturn Drugich, who had covered Portenif with it!

There were practically a hundred thousand francs in it!

De Bertin, Laboux, and the girl stood around the recovered Alfa Romeo in amazement.

"How did the automobile get here?" Laboux asked the butler, who had withdrawn to the background.

"Perhaps the person to whom you sold it, is somewhere nearby."

"What? Oh... I don't think that its new owner came with it!"

"My cousin," was André's opinion, "had a St. Bernard dog, and after he had sold him to a butcher, he came back twice. Of course, that sort of sentimentalism in a car is more difficult to believe in."

"You're right," nodded Laboux. "Nowadays, miracles only occur in the minds of mentally unstable butlers."

"Excuse me, sir. But the other theories are just as improbable. If a car can travel without a driver, then it is capable of everything. It can be quite as faithful as a St. Bernard."

"Once you've finished with your inaugural address to the academy, you can go to the kitchen. André," answered Laboux.

They walked around the newly recovered vehicle in amazement.

"Look," gasped Annette suddenly, and pointed to the seat.

A monocle with a black rim lay on the seat. Laboux picked it up, looked at it and in a state of dizziness, noticed that the celluloid had chipped off in one place, where the naked wire could be seen.

They stared at it open-mouthed.

"Gorchev's monocle!" shouted Laboux.

"But you yourself saw that he was in uniform at Fort St. Jean. Wait!"

The general rushed into the house, and telephoned Marseilles. None of them quite knew why it was that this part of the mystery was more interesting to them than the amazing reappearance of the fourteen-carat roadster. The conversation was short, and succeeded in making the whole story as clear as mud.

"Captain Harriot, please... Hello! A legionary called Gorchev, who has been in the artillery barracks, and arrived on the 18th from Nice, was with a group ready to leave this morning. Get me some sort of information on whether this man left for Africa yesterday afternoon, or last night."

A pause.

"Yes... Yes... I understand... Thank you..."

"Well?" asked Laboux, his voice cracking, as the general put down the receiver.

"This was the answer: Ivan Gorchev, Private, Number 27, boarded ship, and has been en route to Oran more than half a day."

"And the monocle?" asked Annette excitedly.

"Inexplicable."

They remained silent for a long time. Some buried unease weighed them down.

In came André with his usual haughty reserve.

"Sir, there is a policeman here."

"What?!" asked de Bertin in alarm. "Another crime?"

"Today has been an exceptional day in that there has been no robbery, burglary, or any other event of the kind," reported André. "However, it's only three o'clock in the afternoon, so there's still time left."

"What does the policeman want?"

"He says that the car standing before the gate ran clean across the flower beds of the Place Magenta, as though there was no one at the wheel. I was called to order for a similar theory a short time ago, sir..."

"I believe it now," retorted Laboux furiously... "Even that the faithful car escaped home! What's more, I'm willing to believe that the unfortunate car was stricken with hydrophobia because it hit you!"

André stood with his head raised: his deeply wounded pride made him blush enough to look like a highly coloured whisky advertisement...

Gorchev returned to Toulon on the first train quite obsessed as to where his coat might be.

It would be dangerous to return to the scene again, but if he had to? Without the money in his coat he wouldn't be able to pay Mr. Vanek his overtime.

It was late afternoon when he arrived at the 'Texas Restaurant'. First he peeped in carefully. Well, just look at this. There the silent Drugich stood, his head bandaged, with the barman pouring something into his glass. Well! He'd take the chance! What could happen? He opened the door. The taciturn Drugich shouted.

"Hello. It's the Chervonets brat! I heard the Chief threw you out yesterday!"

"Are you the one that Alec Lonesome picked up?" asked the barman. "Then I advise you to disappear. If the Chief comes, he'll shoot you!"

"Why should he shoot me?" asked the Russian, in his whining way. "Isn't it enough that he threw me out?"

"He's pretty angry with you," explained the barman, "because Jasmin joined up with that Gorchev, who was caught yesterday, and led him out past the guards."

Hmm. So they had no idea that the person they thought to be Gorchev was the one thrown out by the Chief, and that he had escaped with Jasmin.

"Then, I'm leaving already," he stammered, frightened. "I'd just like my coat, which you covered Portenif with yesterday."

"I remember," answered Drugich, "but we shipped out Portenif on the 'Shifty Shark', because he was dead drunk this morning."

"How long has that man been drunk?"

"Oh, at least twenty years... Well, come along with me, I'm going to the 'Shark'. We're off to Africa because of a stolen car."

"You've been in trouble over that all along, haven't you?" asked Gorchev.

"Yes, but no more trouble from now on. The Chief has come up with a stroke of genius that hasn't ever been invented for the cinema..."

"But... they're certain to be watching the car..."

"Now you listen. The plan is a dead-certainty. Even if the whole British Navy were taking care of the Alfa Romeo, that old, reeking 'Shifty Shark' will take it to Oran!"

Gorchev hoped this was an exaggeration. But he was mistaken. Drugich told the truth word for word. An entire navy couldn't have figured out the Chief's brilliant plan. The Alfa Romeo, instrument of so much trouble, sailed away to its destiny in the bowels of the 'S.S. Republique'...

On the quiet Quai de Beiges, next to a stone pier that reached out deep into the water, that ancient and treacherous ship, the 'Shifty Shark', lay at anchor. Who would have believed that an old clipper like this would become the hero of a marine adventure to be talked of throughout the world for years to come?

The crew of the ship was no more than four men. But they were worth something. An experienced judge, only on first impressions, would have given each of them ten years. Alec Lonesome was the captain knowing his responsibilities and in order to get himself the proper respect, he put on shoes for the occasion.

The hunch-backed Fishy played the accordion by the main mast. The others listened.

It was six o'clock.

Now Drugich, the Taciturn, followed by the boy whom, as we have heard, the Chief had thrown out of the 'Texas Restaurant', walked up the narrow plank which led to the deck of the ship.

Drugich with the boy caused a great sensation. Alec Lonesome didn't conceal his joy.

"So you came back after all, you blockhead?!"

"I covered Portenif with his coat last night," said Drugich. "it's what he's after."

Excuse me," spoke up Gorchev, in fright. 'Couldn't you : me along with you?"

...Gorchev had to go to Oran anyway to replace the unfortunate Mr. Vanek, so why not on the 'Shifty Shark', where he could at least keep his eye on the Chief?

"Silly idea," said Fishy to Alec Lonesome. "The Chief will shoot the brat."

"It's all because you were fool enough to join the Legion," shouted the 'Captain'.

"Next to Alec Lonesome, I'm not afraid of anyone," said Gorchev toppling with enthusiasm.

"Logic in that," nodded the 'Captain'. "Wait a bit and we'll discuss it..."

What happened to Gorchev after that was like a bad dream. At seven o'clock Alec informed him that they would take him with them. But on one condition. He must accept a potato crate in the tool house of the ship as his quarters, and promise not to come out unless the Chief was asleep.

A few minutes before nine he was in the crate, and mischievous centipedes were chewing him unfortunately seeing him merely as a tremendous potato. At fifteen minutes past nine, arrived with a bottle of whisky, and a few smoked fish to make Gorchev's bare burrow a little more homelike.

The Chief arrived at about ten o'clock. With hawk nose, blue eyes, grey hair, and tanned face, even these days he looked like a polar explorer, returning to civilization after many years. A skinny big-eared, shy-looking young man accompanied him.

"This is Mr. Gafirone," said the Chief. "He is travelling with us too."

"This is only possible if you share the same cabin," said Alec. "The 'Shifty Shark' isn't set up for carrying passenger traffic."

"Only one cabin?... That's too bad."

"That wouldn't be so bad, but there isn't even one cabin, and there's only one closet for storing wood," answered Alec.

The Chief looked over the whole ship and finally returned to the toolhouse.

"This is where I'm going to live," he said. "Bring me my suitcase."

And he sat down on the potato crate.

No one dared speak.

"Well, what are you staring at?"

"Where are you going to sleep?"

"On this crate!"

He put down his wrinkled up travel blanket, and lay down immediately. What could be done here?...

Gafirone went to see the Chief. It was the following day. The Chief was stretched out on the crate half awake. Gorchev was in the crate half alive.

"Have a seat," said the Chief and sat up. "We've hardly had a chance for more than a few words."

"Thank you," said the skinny individual with the big ears. "Will we be together on the tour as well?"

"No. The owner of the car will accompany you, Mr. Gafirone."

'Where've I heard that name before?' wondered Gorchev, inside the crate.

"Why is it important for him that his car breaks a record?"

"The gentleman made a bet with a friend," explained the Chief, "that the car is able to make good time, even in the desert."

Now we have a surprise. Mr. Gafirone took out a small lacquered box in which all sorts of tiny scissors, tweezers and nail-files were kept. He laid these out in front of him.

"You don't mind if I manicure my nails while we talk? As many racing drivers, I began as a motor mechanic." He snipped with the small scissors. "My unexpected career has put me into the position where my nails, which suffered so dreadfully in the repair shop, can now get tender care, poor things."

He sighed. And filed.

'Beyond a doubt, this bloke is mad,' thought Gorchev, surrounded by the playful centipedes guessing that he must have heard of him or read of him as a racing driver.

"That's nice of you," answered the Chief.

"But even today my nails have not forgotten their mourning time. My care is in vain, the sad past shows on them! Oh, how often the poor things break, how short I have to cut them. If I didn't believe that some day they would be the pink nails of a gentleman, I'd be dead by now."

And he filed on. He even bit his cuticles with his sharp teeth.

An unhappy man, but he saw the future of his nails through rose-tinted glasses.

"If, through an error of mine, something wrong happens at the start," he said, picking at his cuticles with a tiny stick, "I shall repay fourteen thousand francs, because I consider honesty more important than anything else."

"So do I," answered the Chief. He was not struck by lightning.

"But I get the twenty thousand francs in any event."

"Don't consider this a race. Your job's to take a car somewhere at racing speed."

"What condition is the car in?"

"It's a first-class Alfa Romeo, with a special heavy frame, like that of a land-rover."

"Wonderful," answered the racing driver. He spread out his hand, like a duck's foot, and then touched each of his nails with a tiny brush, spreading a drop of polish over each of them. "It's good to have a heavy car on the desert."

"In Oran you will move into the 'Hotel Imperial'. You will most likely meet your employer the following day."

"And where will I meet him?"

"He will visit you in the hotel. His name is Baron Lingeström. He will also give you the money."

"One thing I must tell you in advance," said the ex-mechanic who was now a racing star, "I haven't been bought. If there is something I don't like, then he can keep his money."

"Baron Lingeström is a decent sort, a good chap. You'll be satisfied with him."

Now he sprinkled a buckskin cloth with powder, and used it to shine his once neglected nails.

"Here," said the Chief. "Here is the exact map."

Gafirone looked at the map studiously, but continued filing.

"So," continued the Chief, and his eyebrows twitched, because he couldn't stand the sound of filing, "you will follow this black line, to reach Ifiris, the free African country. You'll take Baron Lingeström here with the car."

"And what is the other line, the red one?"

"If you should accidentally cross over the red line, that's the end! It leads to the Prophet's Slipper!"

"And what danger are we in from a slipper?"

"The Prophet's Slipper is a peculiarly shaped dried up lake, where Baron Lingeström's greatest enemy, a tribal chief called Abe Padan, lives. That's where the other road, marked in red, leads to. Here is the map, sir, please take good care of it."

"Thank you. Will it disturb you if I do some repainting?"

"My dear sir! Why do you want to repaint the map?"

"I was speaking of my nails!"

He opened the bottle of polish, and placed his implements before him. In the meantime Gorchev was collecting centipedes, and all available insects into a matchbox, as though he were preparing to classify all the members of the biological world.

"You will receive forty thousand francs from me before going ashore. Baron Lingeström will meet you in the 'Hotel Imperial'; he'll take care of the rest."

"But I warn you, if this is a game that isn't clean, I shall get out."

"I told you that there is nothing to worry about. The work is clean. The important thing is that you are careful, particularly with an individual called Gorchev."

"Who's he?"

"A dangerous crook. But we're safe from him while aboard this ship."

"Interesting," mused Gafirone, "how many insects there are on you."

The Chief looked down, howled with terror, then began to dance and jump. He threw off his clothes, then his shirt, as though he had gone mad.

A legion of centipedes and other insects scurried with some sprightliness in all directions, in his hair, pants, on his body. They stung hellishly.

While they had been speaking, Gorchev had collected the bugs untiringly and when his box was filled, allowed the furious bugs to escape through the cracks in the crate exactly at the spot where the Chief's ankles and trouser legs could be seen.

They were nearing the African coast and all that which awaited them at the end of this peculiar voyage, another stretch to be filled with mad turns and impossible developments all because of a diabolical automobile. The crew of the 'Shifty Shark' was together that evening in the toolhouse. The Chief had moved his sleeping quarters to the other end of the ship, and had thoroughly rubbed himself with some insect repellant just to be sure. The attack of the centipedes he noted among the most horrible experiences of his life and his body was blistered for quite a week later. So - there was nothing to fear from him. But there was another problem which gave these commissioned rogues much thought. That lonely, helpless boy worried them. While they discussed matters, Drugich the Taciturn sold them cheap whisky from his constant supply.

"I think," said Alec to the taciturn Drugich, "that if I don't leave that helpless brat to his fate, in the other world they'll count it on my record, as a balance to that furnace stoker." And after thinking for a short time, inhaling his pipe deeply, he added, "Perhaps even the postman... Even if he delivered money..."

It was interesting to see how the sad-faced boy brought out memories long asleep, and stirred up the settled cup of conscience in them. They would most willingly have poured out every one of their unperformed good deeds on him, burning with passion, so that they could open a door to sympathy somewhere in the place where there is a list of all wicked things that a man has done, and where sooner or later a man has to appear for the final stock-taking.

Brassfoot, the knifer, moped about sadly for days wondering what could be done with the boy. The godforsaken, lonely 'Chervonets-kid' with his helplessness, and sad, frightened blue eyes had become their main concern.

"I say," suggested Fishy, "that we must teach him to become a dealer in stolen goods. You don't need strength for that. It's simple commerce and pays well."

"No good, because they'll cheat the nitwit," was Alec's opinion. "He should become a ship's cook. No one would dare to beat him up, because replacement is scarce and everyone'll be on good terms with him, to get at what's at the bottom of the pot."

"That's an idea," nodded the taciturn Drugich. Having decided, Fishy struck up a tune on his accordion.

During this time there was a constant guard over the Chief, because they were afraid that he would take out his anger at Gorchev on the boy. If the leader of the gang reappeared, Gorchev was to return to the crate, to his familiar centipedes. How unthinkable that the helpless boy was Gorchev himself?

But this unexpected twist was lurking for a later date.

Gorchev was useful in many ways. In the evenings, accompanied by Fishy and his accordion, he sang. Gorchev taught them a few pretty songs of the Volga. He would whistle the melody, while Alec Lonesome supplied the bass, Brassfoot the tenor, and the taciturn Drugich the whisky.

It was only years later that it came out that the beautiful Volga songs were selections from the Finnish people's historical Kalevala epos, translated into Esperanto.

By the time they reached Oran, Gorchev was able to prepare dinner by himself, and delight all with the taste of the bean stew into which four pounds of beef and one whole compass were cooked. But he wouldn't box with anyone for anything in the world.

...When the harbour of Oran came into sight, Gorchev was sitting by the cabin porthole, with Alec smoking his pipe next to him. He had managed to retrieve his coat from Portenif who was suffering from intoxication and had been moved to the ship's hold. Both looked towards the 'S.S. Republique', which docked next to the 'Shifty Shark'. The shore was far away, and only the large ocean liners stopped this far out.

"That's the ship carrying the car..." mumbled Alec, "and some general and his pal."

So de Bertin and Laboux had travelled on the 'Republique'. And more than likely Annette as well.

But why were these people hiring a racing driver if the Alfa Romeo was in Laboux's possession? And what was the 'brilliant' plan which Drugich mentioned? And, mainly what in heaven was this whole Alfa Romeo thing about, to cause such a furious battle? That's what Gorchev was wondering about.

Meanwhile, the unloading began on the 'Republique'. The staring dockers had no idea of the surprise that was in store for them, and what peculiar events the day had yet to yield. Now Laboux came on deck of the ship.

Aha! Laboux was watching the unloading. The tremendous crane lifted itself time after time, humming, out of the hold of the ship, then starting up, it would swing its way out to the side, as though taking its load over the open seas, and eventually it reached the pier which stuck out at a right angle, towards the dock.

Now a tremendous blue Alfa Romeo was hauled out of the hold of the ship!... The crane rattled to one side of its little control tower, and the wonderful car, swaying, travelled above the surface of the water...

"Boy..." whispered Alec, stiffly gazing at the swaying car, which had stopped for an instant in the air. "Boy... kid..." his voice was hot and raspy, his eyes shone. "Listen and... and then forget what I tell you, or I'll break your neck. That is the most valuable car in the world...! It's made of fourteen-carat gold!"

Gorchev gazed into the air, with open mouth... Then he cried out in fright!

"The chain's breaking!"

A second... and the fourteen-carat Alfa Romeo dropped into the open seas, a tremendous cone of water spurted up, splashing tremendously, and the car was swallowed into the depths of the ocean leaving not a trace...

This event with the demonic car was a remarkable one. Complete outsiders were also inflicted by it, and went through aimless suffering.

One of those afflicted in this way was the meek Mr. Vanek. In the barrack room his bed was used for ironing underwear, because he himself was never there, even by accident. You understand that all his time was spent in the guardhouse, being punished which was why they ironed on his bed. In the Legion, not even a bed could be wasted. In the mornings Mr. Vanek ran lap after lap in the sun, then marched out for training, in the day, his prisoner mate, Mehar, a one-eyed Turk, beat him regularly, after every meal, as though he needed it to keep his digestion. Mr. Vanek had had some sort of misunderstanding with the tremendous Turk, which could never be cleared up, because Mehar could only speak his native language. When Mr. Vanek was first taken to the cell, the one-eyed giant was already a prisoner. First he would fall on his face, then stand up, his arms spread wide. The secretary watched with interest, and later asked him how often he completed this exercise daily.

The Turk shouted several consonants at him.

"Please," said Mr. Vanek, "I understand something about these things, because my cousin had a physical training school, and the students there would perform so-called Dalcroze movements together in the open air, until a municipal health officer interfered, and thus put an end to the situation."

At this Mehar became a little more calm, and later he even smiled in a friendly way.

But now the trouble came! Mr. Vanek mentioned that the weather was nice.

This is what he should never have done!

What was it that the Turk misunderstood? It was never known. But the remark about the weather brought him into an indescribably nervous state. He beat his chest with both hands, screaming curses at something, and cried real tears.

"But," stammered Mr. Vanek, "if you wish, I'll withdraw it, and admit that the weather is generally dry, stormy. If you would like, even that we can expect ground frost..."

"You... dog... you unbeliever..." he roared, grabbing him by the throat. "It looks... you don't know, who I am?!"

"Please..." stammered Mr. Vanek. "Tell me what kind of animal you are, and I shall be pleased to address you as you wish..."

The guard, who happened to be bringing dinner, saved Mr. Vanek's life. There wasn't much left to be saved, because Mehar, the giant Turk, while crying real tears with his one eye, was beating his cellmate's head and back against the cell door, cursing him throughout.

In fact, Mehar beat up the secretary many times, because at the sight of him he became so depressed that he couldn't control himself.

But it never became clear what sort of misunderstanding there had been over the weather.

The secretary fully understood that if he did not find an interpreter in time, then sooner or later the Turk would finish him off.

Meantime Gorchev had sent a message that Mr. Vanek would need a certain patience, but that he, Gorchev, would arrive. And he enclosed the cheques. Mr. Wurfli, who had been driven to despair and then into the Legion, by the institution of five o'clock tea, felt, for some mysterious reason, that he must stick to Mr. Vanek. For this reason he frequently molested the already worn-out secretary.

"We are better men," he whispered in secret on the training field, in a puddle where they happened to be lying. Because if the sergeant gave the order to lie down, Mr. Vanek was generally on the edge of either a puddle or a ditch.

"Believe me, here in this puddle we are awful."

"Please, please, speak in the singular."

"Why? I don't look much better than you do. We are brothers under the skin, believe me!"

"Do you mean by this that you are my spiritual cousin, or grandmother? Just what is my connection to you?"

"Artists like dancing."

"Certainly," Vanek answered, shrugging his shoulders.

"Musicians and painters as well."

"Furthermore, stone carvers and ballet dancers." 'Why does he constantly say that?'

"Listen to me," whispered Wurfli, and slid closer to Mr. Vanek in the puddle, where they lay. "We could escape together."

"My dear sir! A correspondent may die, but he will never break a contract!"

"Were you a correspondent, Mr. Tintoretto?"

"Don't ever use that awful word again if you want ever to converse with me in a puddle."

"27, you are a louse!" roared Verdier as Mr. Vanek sadly whispered to the dancing master:

"That's me again. Why don't you leave me alone?"

"How dare you talk during training?!"

"I only whispered..."

"Attention! You will report! You will ask for ten days salle the police!"

"I still have two weeks of the old one."

"Quiet!"

"I'll have a backlog for years to come..."

"For that you'll do fifty knee bends, one, two..."

Life went like this. Mr. Vanek didn't have a minute for the canteen, barely spent time as a free man, and on his first leave he ran right into Marshal Marigon, who was always in low spirits because he had a bullet in his hip, which, in cases of nervousness or change in weather, would move about. The marshal was passing a printing shop, when he noticed the bespectacled private, as he returned the greeting of the owner. And lifted his cap! He couldn't let that pass without a word, because at that sight, the bullet in his hip moved.

"Private! You're mad! Put your cap on!"

"Thank you, but I don't feel cold. And anyway, a soldier should be able to stand all weather," Vanek answered with a friendly smile.

"Private! Who am I!?"

Mr. Vanek looked both to the left and right in fright.

"Tiger?... Wait, if not, I'll... figure it out..."

The bullet turned again in the marshal's hip. A soldier was standing before him, all his buttons dirty, as though he had sewn the remains of some ancient coin found in an archaeological discovery onto his coat. His arms hung either side of his stomach, parallel to his axis. His hat he held in the vicinity of his thigh, like a postman. Nom du nom!

"Private! Put your cap on immediately! You're mentally ill."

"As you wish, Regimental Doctor, Sir," Vanek stammered, and put on his cap. "I am a new employee here with the army..."

"In which fort do you serve? Give me your particulars!"

What happened next the marshal told us, even years later, in a veiled voice, while the bullet moved about stabbing in his hip...

The private simply reached into his pocket, and produced a visiting card, which he handed over. The grey-haired soldier was so shocked that forgetting all else, he put on his glasses. He didn't want to believe his eyes when he saw the following:

The marshal's eyes stiffened.

"Get going! I'll have to investigate! Go back to the barracks. Report at headquarters that we met."

"Who's interested there in my private affairs? There's so much to do always..."

"Get along with you! Idiot! Beat it!"

"Beat what?" he asked innocently, with which the dialogue ended. The marshal threatened him and left deathly pale. All he saw, when he turned back, was the legionary politely lifting his cap...

They sat on the terrace of the summer home in Oran in complete silence. De Bertin had gone to every authority to ensure that the automobile would be lifted immediately from the sea. Unfortunately things were slowed by the fact that at the spot where the automobile has sunk, the sea was more than a hundred yards deep. In order to lift out the Alfa Romeo a salvage ship was necessary; the nearest was anchoring in Brest harbour, and it took a full day before the admiralty directed the ship to Oran to retrieve the sunken car...

"Being late is dangerous now," said Laboux. "If Abe Padan's men don't receive arms in time, the entire revolt will be crushed."

"Where would the car have to be taken to?" asked Annette, who was rather quiet, and pale.

"To the Prophet's Slipper. This is a rocky place near Aboudir oasis, which is where Abe Padan's camp is."

"And why does the Portuguese leave them there?"

"That place is inaccessible from Ifiris. He would have to go through French territory, because a neutral zone cuts off Ifiris' northern boundary, and only unarmed civilians can travel through there."

"How will Abe Padan attack?"

"Hm. He would be able to cross the French zone at night... Dizard hasn't a chance, because the French border guards overlook only those people they don't want to see..."

Annette remained silent. André served tea, and though not obviously, but only by a certain tense expression, he showed as much as was proper that he had been sad to hear of the loss of the car.

"What are you thinking of?" Laboux asked his daughter.

"Nothing. Rather... of poor Gorchev..."

"He's all right. De Bertin inquired," he said gently.

"The company left Oran on the first day," interrupted the general. "They are a few miles from here stationed in the training camp at Bores-Bouledin. Sergeant Douville has again received two thousand francs to take care of him, but I'll admit to you, Annette, that Laboux gave it."

"I... I'm very sorry that... that this ridiculous..." he couldn't continue. Annette jumped up and kissed him. But a tear dripped from her eye.

Sergeant Douville did take care of Private Number 27, and Cortot was completely mystified by the goodness of this NCO, who was not an old friend, like Hector Potiou, but who even gave him twenty and thirty francs for whisky. If he had known that Douville was keeping him in alcohol with a minute part of the money sent to him, he would have thought differently of this goodheartedness.

"And... what will happen once he's trained?" asked Annette.

"De Bertin will do everything to see that he isn't sent to the desert... He is in constant contact with the company commander, too, who already knows that Gorchev is an important person for some peculiar reason."

"For some reason!" cried the girl plaintively. "For the reason that I love him, and that I'll never love anyone else!"

Laboux became pale, and remained silent. Gorchev's rash step had left a tremendous weight on his conscience.

"Fate," he said after a short while, "has punished me bitterly for being tough with him. But I was right! I can't give my daughter to the first young man who comes along!"

"He did not just come along!" shouted Annette. "And I love him! You might as well know that I'll marry him!"

"No! Gorchev is an adventurer! I maintain my stand!" he shouted, slapping the table. André placed the cups on to a tray with a haughty face, so that his employer's bad manners should not be advertised by the unpleasant sound of clinking porcelain.

"I love him!"

"I won't accept that! And I'll stick it out. No matter what the future brings!" shouted Laboux, turning red.

And the future, as though following a cue in a stage scene, brought something, least expected, and which increased their sadness over the unfortunate loss of the automobile tenfold. André brought in the mail, with his head raised stiffly, as though a long-time foe of all letters.

In one of them, the company commander in Bores-Bouledin informed them in a few sympathetic words that Private Ivan Gorchev, due to a sudden heart attack, had died...

The death of the alcoholic Cortot was partially brought on by the goodheartedness which Douville had shown with Laboux's money. Hector Potiou left him to come and go as he pleased, Douville gave him the money, and so it was no surprise that he was drunk day and night. And what the prison doctors had predicted years earlier, came to pass. During the double quick pace training, his heart gave out. This was something that Cortot had expected when he joined the Legion. He returned to France to die, and at least he was able to end his life in the arms of an old friend, Hector Potiou, on French territory, and drunk...

After some injections Annette regained consciousness, and opened her eyes-although she felt that it would be better to keep them closed forever.

Laboux sat in an armchair, his back bent. This event had broken him. The smell of ether spread through the room, like the smell of Mephistopheles' sulphur, after the departure of the doctor.

"You must be strong," said de Bertin. "We must be calm in our misfortune. This uncontrollable man was following his destiny, though he deserved a better one."

Laboux was tormented by his conscience. Such a pleasant, gay chap, and just because of a poor joke...

"When do they bury him?" asked de Bertin.

"This afternoon."

Now Annette stepped to them. Determinedly, simply, and calmly she said,

"You didn't want anything wrong... and..." but she couldn't continue. She wept.

Then they started out toward the training camp by car. It was a cloudy, sad day. The fog was seeping in from the open sea, mixed with the warm air. There must have been a tremendous storm somewhere, far beyond the bay, out on the open sea.

The cold north wind which had been blowing for days, sent drops of mist into their faces; everything was damp. In this state they arrived at Bores-Bouledin, to take part in the sad legionary funeral. The training camp consisted of barracks in no order whatsoever, puddles, and sodden palm trees.

The company commander showed them the barrack where Gorchev had lived, his bed, and his belongings. Next to the bed, on the floor, was a slab of tobacco. At this the general became a little suspicious. The poor boy hadn't looked the kind of person who chewed tobacco.

"Please show me his belongings," de Bertin asked the commander.

"The sergeant had them taken to the storehouse."

The company commander had things to do. He turned over the guests to Hector Potiou, who became terrified when the general asked to see Gorchev's belongings. Now there would be trouble. He well knew that Cortot was not Gorchev.

They went down to the storehouse, where Potiou placed a large yellow suitcase before them. The nameplate, Ivan Gorchev, hung from it. And among the few fine pieces of clothing were about a half dozen photographs.

It was certainly our hero!

The young man's pleasant, joyful face smiled at them from the picture, in his slightly improperly slanted straw hat.

It was beyond a doubt... Even a person who had only seen him once would recognize him. This was Gorchev.

Hector Potiou stood pale as a ghost. He could have told them that the person on the picture had never been on duty there and that the yellow suitcase had been sent to Cortot in the mail by a butcher. This was the character who had stolen the suitcase from the real Gorchev in Marseilles, and who had been reported in revenge, by another soldier. The military authorities had punished the butcher and then forwarded the suitcase to Cortot, since he was serving under the name of Gorchev. If Sergeant Potiou were to tell them, then they would begin to investigate the entire Gorchev history, which could lead to trouble. So he stood, terrified, pale, and silent. Laboux chewed his lip. Annette sobbed. Later they went out to the tiny legionary cemetery, where the sad ceremony took place. The coffin was ready to be lowered, and in nice white letters, written on it was,

Annette couldn't remove her eyes from the inscription, and large tear-drops flowed down her face. At least someone was mourning for that Cortot, who certainly himself didn't leave many people who would have done this. The only honourable thing which no man on earth is too low for, is to have someone mourn for him when he dies. Even if it wasn't for his person, and not for his body that the tears flowed, the old ruffian would have surely glowed, had he, through some metaphysical means, been present at his funeral on the right side of his coffin, with so many fine people mourning him. Had he been in this unlikely situation, he might have been sad that Colette, the waitress at the 'Gay Paris Pavilion', was not able to see this final tribute, the gentlemanly surroundings, dressed in sadness. That is if even after death people like to boast of their important friends, which isn't likely, but isn't impossible...

Laboux's heart was pressed with a heavy weight of self-accusal for Gorchev. He sat up in bed.

It was a stifling night. Damp, miserable.

A sharp stab began at the corner of his eye, and ran down to his heel, making a boundary over one third of his skull, as though he were wearing a cap of cramps, on the top of head, rakishly over to one side.

The bedclothes dampened in the steamy, putrid air and the walls of the room breathed a smell of rotting.

He went to the window.

Stifling...

Damp roofs, lamps bobbing in a sea of fog could be seen in the choking night. That peculiar southern air-current stroked his face with heat, although there was no wind. His heart struggled and beat twice as fast, losing its rhythm. His eardrums beat from within, for the throbbing of an artery in his neck, and a blanket of fog, smelling of basements, came in, thicker and thicker.

Stifling...

He drank some cognac... Facing the window, on the cinema screen created by the fog, he saw a shaking picture, as if an ancient lantern were projecting it:

Get up! Walk!... He couldn't stand his daughter's look, he couldn't stand his own thoughts. It looked like his malaria would break out anew. He must be feverish.

He dressed and left home fast.

The wind howled and thin veils of fog stretched out in the bad-smelling, warm night. The storm of the sea had broken here, on the African shore... From somewhere in the direction of the docks, he could hear the sound of an accordion. The screech of a few sirens mixed with the music. The damp treetops shone here and there, as the headlights of cars racing by, touched them.

He went into a bar. If ever in trouble, he tried to escape from his gentlemanly life. He mixed with the sailors, and with other simple people. At other times he had felt good here.

"A cognac!"

The bartender looked at the well-dressed guest suspiciously.

"What are you gaping at! Bring me that cognac, you idiot!"

"Yes, sir," he answered, his suspicion disappearing immediately.

The accordion was joined by a zither. The stink of Caporal mixed with that of the barrels of wine. After the eighth cognac he relaxed slightly. He enjoyed the smell of the jackets which smoked from the steam of the fog, and the damp rubber coats.

He stepped out into the airless, dim night, his head burning. Washed out faces appeared through the mist, a shiny police hat... a creeping, rattling lorry. The distant ship sirens fought with the whistling of the wind.

He was a bit dizzy. He must be drunk, he thought. At the traffic light on the corner he became certain that he was drunk... damp car bonnets shone, waiting for the light to turn green... long honking from a side-street. The grave inscription again appeared before Laboux's hot eyes... lived 22 years... He was dizzy.

And now, at the corner, the sunken automobile, the big blue Alfa Romeo turned in...

Its brake squealed... There, next to the handle, was the triangle mark, which he had scratched into the paint... and at the steering wheel, the dead legionary, Gorchev!

His cap, his cape, his uniform jacket could all be seen, and in the light of the neighbouring car, his face too!

The dead soldier driving the sunken automobile! Driving right past the red light. Why should a ghost worry about traffic lights? Laboux just stood there, stupidly, his head reeling!

'Hey! Gorchev! Forgive me! I didn't want this!'

This was a soundless cry, which he sent toward the vision swimming away into the fog. He knew well that he was drunk, and if he went over to the blurred outline of the car, it would disappear into nothing together with Gorchev.

Unclear human figures, shadows... through streaks of mist, he was still able to see it disappear, and see the familiar ember of the dimly lit rear lights shining back like opals. Then it turned the corner at a daring angle and disappeared.

But the sound of distant crashing could be heard coming back from the corner. Oh, God, had he killed that boy? Does the body really have some sort of impregnable basis, more than matter? Which is less than nothing?

Confused, he started off in pursuit of the vision that had swum past, along the steaming, flat, bustling street.

A dead man was driving the car at the bottom of the sea.

Laboux wiped his perspiring forehead. Had this affair sent him mad? He went, still a little drunk, staggering in the fog, straight home. This was more than drunkenness, more than fever. This was a hallucination. Complete deception of his senses.

He turned into the square, and was home.

He threw both his hands before himself as protection, and turned cold and shaky with fright.

Before the villa stood the big, blue Alfa Romeo, immaculate!...

He stood stiffening. And he wanted to shout but no sound came from his throat. 'God! Just keep me from going mad!'

He sat down on the wet steps, panting, and looked at the automobile, willing the phantom to vanish... but in vain. He held his bent head between his palms, then looked up again. In vain.

The automobile stood there, and thick raindrops pattered on the blue body.

Events had reached a speed where they refused to even allow a breath to that speck of dust in the whirling hurricane ring which was called Gorchev. He watched through the porthole of the toolhouse, while the Chief and Gafirone departed. When the two passengers had finally gone, the 'Captain' came for him.

"Now we are going ashore," said Alec. "I hope that you don't still want to join the Legion?"

"No, no," answered Gorchev quickly, because in this corner of the world, he feared only his good Samaritans, among whom the taciturn Drugich had gone so far in his sympathy to knock him out with a ladder. "I want to visit a relative, and then I'll be back."

"Come to the 'Three Headworms' restaurant this afternoon. We'll wait for you there."

"What are you still waiting for, if the sea has already swallowed the car?"

"Don't you worry about that! And we have to wait anyway, because Lingeström, Aldous and Portenif will be arriving on the 'S.S. Magdelena', and it will be tomorrow noon by the time it docks."

Gorchev liked his well-wisher's Bohemian releasedness, and the ease with which they all got over the loss of the Alfa Romeo. They were hard men.

They took leave of one another on the shore. The taciturn Drugich gave him a special slap on the shoulder, just to show his affection, and knocked his cap off. But never mind! The important thing was that he had got rid of them.

The first thing he did was go to the central post office, to see if any poste restante letters had arrived for him.

When he opened the one, he became momentarily dizzy. What was this?

Edouard B. Vanek	Dated July 22,19.
Private Secretary	Bank account number:
Foreign Legion (Africa)	BANQUE DE FRANCE 1701
Head office: Oran Fort St. Thérèse	Cables:
Branches: Algiers, Fez, Morocco, etc.	Vaneklegion
	To Mr. Leo Petrovich, director ORAN Poste restante

In reply to your letter of the 18th, inst. I have the pleasure of notifying you that on examining my accounts, the following unpaid amounts were discovered:

My raise in salary,
            from the 1st of the month                                     1,000 francs

My bonus for replacing you, from the 2^nd
            of the month                                                         8,000 francs
                                                                                                           
            total                                                                     9,000 francs

This unpaid amount has surely escaped your notice. I therefore request that it be forwarded to my company as soon as possible.

At the same time I should like to call your attention to the fact that my situation in the French defence forces is such that delay cannot be brooked. I am awaiting your immediate appearance at my unit, because in the event of this not happening I shall be forced to continue serving, to my great sorrow, not only because this would lead to extremely sad effects on the above army, but that I will be forced to take the necessary parade and running steps, in such an event. I am shaken by your delay, but I shall be pleased to carry out your assignments in future.

With enduring respect,

Edouard B. Vanek

Private and Private Secretary

The old fortress of Oran was built barely a few hundred years ago, on a strip of land which jutted out of the shore at an angle. In the opinion of the tourists, the view of the sea is arresting.

The Sultana Corridor is under the crumbled terraces of the fortress. The Moor leader Abu ben Masnir had his unfaithful favourite guarded here, in chains, so that this extremely radical measure would protect her from temptation. Was he successful in keeping her fidelity or not? Who could answer that today? The secrets of the dark ages and fickle women have never been fully discovered by anyone. One thing is certain, and that is that this ground-floor hall was not generally frequented by visitors, because there were too many bats, spiders, centipedes and harmless snakes likely to be around.

Gorchev viewed this place as suitable for the change of clothes with Mr. Vanek, with whom he had arranged a rendezvous in the fortress.

"Don't be angry with me, my dear sir, for my being late," Gorchev excused himself when they had shaken hands. "Circumstances beyond my control, you know, and I feel that I have paid you for it..."

"Did you think that this sort of thing can be repaid by money?"

"Well, to be honest," admitted Gorchev, "I did actually."

"You were quite correct," Mr. Vanek nodded dejectedly.

"Now I shall put on your clothes and join the company. You can't be prosecuted as a civilian, and I cannot be sent away. They can only hold me responsible for my absence."

"I must warn you that they know many interesting things there," said the other sadly, emptying his pockets. "There's a dancing teacher who constantly talks of artists, but he's useful occasionally because he knows the names of the more important animals. The corporal has something against the wife of the captain of the ferry-boat in Krems, Austria, and the sergeant will kill you if you don't call him the King of the Crackercrumblers. Generally speaking, these are the most important things for you to know. There will quite possibly be a Turk called Mehar there, who will occasionally beat you for meteorological reasons, but in time you will become used to that."

Meanwhile Mr. Vanek removed his clothes, and Gorchev dressed in the military uniform. He pulled the trousers up to his armpits, and the jacket hung and swayed on him like an overcoat. But this was unimportant. However, Mr. Vanek was in worse circumstances. As he wrestled with Gorchev's canvas pants, they split. But completely. Into two pieces.

"You wait for me here," Gorchev acted immediately, "until I bring you clothes from the first old-clothes-man I see." Mr. Vanek looked around anxiously.

"I shall spend several most unpleasant weeks here before you look me up again."

"Don't joke. You don't imagine that I would do a thing like that? I'll be here in a minute. Don't be nervous," said Gorchev and departed.

A minute later Mr. Vanek was not at all nervous, but when two and a half hours had gone by, he began to feel disturbed, and when it slowly became dark, he decided that he would attempt to step into contact with the outside world. He stepped out of the door to wave to someone. All the clothing Mr. Vanek had was a coat. He waved with that.

A Norwegian balneologist, in the prime of life, but with her face already showing signs of a nearing autumn, happened to be going in that direction with her camera; she immediately fainted. She was treated for sunstroke for two days because she was incapable of telling anyone what her trouble was. Later, the singing teacher of a girls' orphanage came along, and similarly accosted by the sight of Mr. Vanek, broke his umbrella on him.

Mr. Vanek, broken in spirit, and exhausted, sat down again on the stone bench, like a melancholy sultana, who gained weight in captivity, and lost her beauty, incidentally because the jealous sultan had her hair cut off.

...Mr. Vanek was convinced and endeavouring to accept the fact that he would remain there until Gorchev returned someday that he would use raw snakes for nutrition, that he... when a police detachment arrived, on the trail of the report made by the singing teacher.

As Mr. Vanek trotted along with the police guard, wrapped in a horse blanket, barefoot, but in chains, reminding one of a painting called 'Hermit, Caught in the Act' by a mad artist, he thought that there was no reason for an honest confession. If he were to betray Gorchev, he would not even receive money for his suffering, and who knows if they would believe what had happened?...

Ah! It was indifferent now...

When he arrived at the guardhouse, he noticed Mehar, who was doing an exercise involving frequent bending down. He quietly sat down in the corner, and when the Turk turned for a second, Mr. Vanek, with a modest smile on his face, said "The beating can wait until you've finished. I'm in no hurry Proceed, Mr. Lunatic."

What happened to Gorchev? Why had he forgotten about his secretary, whose life was falling into such ruins? Because of the view. For if there hadn't been such a wide panorama of the sights in the colourful harbour and the bay, from the terrace of the old Oran fortress, then the secretary would never have caused the balneologist lady's sudden nervous breakdown and the singing teacher's umbrella would still be in perfect condition. Above and beyond this, the efforts of a good many honest and dishonest men would have reached a different conclusion, the conflict between King Abe Padan and the Portuguese Dizard would have come to a different end. Furthermore, the history of the people of Ifiris would have been different.

But Gorchev stretched out for a minute on his elbow on the terrace, and came to the conclusion that the stone jetty besides which the 'Republique' and 'Shifty Shark' were docked, reached out from underneath the fortress.

And suddenly he noticed that on the jetty next to the 'Republique' was the Chief. He recognized him by his broad shoulders and grey hair. Then the hump-backed Fishy, and that knock-kneed... Drugich! And there was Alec! An official-looking individual wearing a flat cap was with them, and he was studying some sort of freight-bill, which the Chief had given him.

Gorchev watched excitedly. Shortly afterwards one of the cranes began to operate. It lowered its chain above the 'Republique'. After a slight pause it lifted something out of the hold of the ship, a car covered by canvas. Its four wheels could be seen! A wall of fog approached from the direction of the sea! The car swaying held fast to the chain.

Gorchev didn't know, he only felt what this was, and his heart beat wildly.

The fourteen-carat roadster! This was the fourteen carat roadster! The voice shouted inside of him, although it couldn't be, since it had plunged into the sea! No! Something else had happened here! He ran... Meanwhile the sun dimmed, and the invading fog poured in from the open seas, parading over the streets, houses, people... Poor Mr. Vanek, what would happen to him? Ah! He could help him later. The car had to be dealt with now, now, now...

Gorchev reached the dock. In the distance he could see that the bandits were approaching the shore, from out on the pier. He watched them from the door of a warehouse. The car was placed on the shore. Drugich removed the canvas, Gafirone sat in behind the steering wheel, and warmed up the motor. The rhythm of the motor pounded in Gorchev's throat.

Now the headlights of an approaching taxi became bigger through the fog. They lit up the car, and the Russian cried out against his will!

A tremendous blue Alfa Romeo emerged, causing the mud to spray up high.

It was the fourteen-carat roadster!

Gafirone, on the orders of the Chief, sat in the Alfa Romeo, in front of the 'Hotel Imperial', and filed his nails.

He had to sit there for half an hour. Then they would start on their way. He was rubbing his outspread fingers, and whistling softly. The racing driver worked on his nails with thought, and very precisely, while studying the effects of his art from different angles, between the strokes of the brush. After the final stroke he quickly shook his hands at each other, as though clapping, but thought better of it in the last second, before his hands could touch one another.

Someone opened the door of the car. A young soldier stood there, at attention, but in a baggy, wide uniform.

"You are Gafirone, the motoring champion?"

"Yes."

"Will you please follow me?"

"Where?"

"To headquarters."

"Why?"

"Is this blue Alfa Romeo your car?"

"No... um... but... the gentleman to whom it belongs..."

"Will you please follow me. It is probable that it is only a formality. We'll go on foot. The car stays here..."

The champion motorist followed Gorchev, as pale as a ghost. He should have known that this was not a clean business.

They reached the front of a formidable building... The soldier opened a tiny gate, and Gafirone stepped in. A curtain separated him from the rest of the corridor.

"Wait here, until I've spoken to the Major."

And he passed through the curtain. Gafirone waited... waited... Twenty minutes went by. Finally someone dressed as a nineteenth-century halberdier papal body-guard stepped out, and was startled at the sight of the champion.

"Who are you looking for?"

"The... the Major."

"What major? This is the stage entrance to the Oran Classical Theatre. Hey!"

Gafirone shot out like a madman, and dashed into people all along... but just continued running!

Too late!... The Chief fumed with rage before the hotel. There was the duckbill-nosed 'Captain', and the rest of the characters with their neglected appearances. Only the car was not there.

Gorchev had arrived ahead of the Chief, by returning to the hotel by taxi. He then simply climbed into the car... started the motor and the car began its phantom passage.

At the corner he knocked over a newspaper stand, and half an hour later he stopped in front of Laboux's villa.

"What happened?" asked Brassfoot, when Alec Lonesome came for them to the 'Three Headworms' restaurant, so that they could go to the main square to wait for the Chief, together.

"That Gorchev," he answered, gritting his teeth. "May he go lame. He stole the car. He made the champion look like a fool."

"He was a fool anyway," was the opinion of the taciturn Drugich, who only considered it worthwhile to speak in exceptional cases.

"Now at least you might tell us the story of the car, which sometimes 'falls' into the sea, and then gets stolen."

"The Chief had another car, exactly like the fourteen-carat one, loaded on the 'Republique' at Genova," explained Alec. "They said it was the car of Gafirone, the champion driver, and had it covered with canvas. In the hold it was placed right next to the car of that Laboux. The man in charge of the hold was in our pay. Before unloading, he cleverly put our canvas on Laboux's Alfa Romeo. And naturally, from among the two cars which were next to each other, they took the one without the canvas to be Laboux's car. And that was ours, with Laboux's fourteen-carat roadster standing next to it, covered by the canvas. And when the chain broke with the car, they were certain it was theirs.

"How could we know that the crane's chain would break?"

"The man in charge of the hold put a one thousand pound weight that was used as ballast under the seat of the exchanged car. That was exactly six hundred more than the chain could take, together with the weight of the car. So it had hardly lifted it when it broke."

"It was a marvellous plan! And then comes a scoundrel like that..."

"Is this Gorchev a giant?" shouted Brassfoot.

Meantime they had reached the main square, in front of the fortress. If a person goes according to instinct in Oran, then it is certain that his feet will bring him here. The fog had sifted away and the rain had stopped. Drugich, as is general with introverted people who do not make friends easily, was a gourmet because the solitude of eating was in accordance with his temperament.

"Where is that Chervonets brat?" asked Fishy.

"I hope he hasn't gone mad again and made for the Legion?"

In that instant a tremendous vehicle stopped beside them. It must have been a furniture van, or something like that.

"Listen! I have no time to explain. We're leaving in this vehicle in an hour, we have only to wait for Lingeström."

"We're going to earn money by shipping things?"

"Shut up! The fourteen-carat roadster is ours! This vehicle here is worth even more than our other plan! And Gorchev will be in it soon, I swear that!"

"But what is this vehicle?"

"You'll find out! Now we need another car, because Lingeström has arrived with the half-caste and Portenif. Wait here!"

And he immediately jumped off the tremendous van, boarded a cab that was passing by, and raced off.

"Do you understand that?" asked Brassfoot.

"We have to leave it to him," hummed Alec.

"He has brains, we have to admit that."

Drugich sniffed at a tremendous pineapple.

"What kind of vehicle can this be?" stared the hump-backed Fishy. But before they could consider that question, Brassfoot shouted aloud.

"Hey there! Look at that blockhead..."

Gorchev was rushing back to the fortress from Laboux's villa, because of the tremendous stress of circumstances on Mr. Vanek in that chamber of the fortress.

Suddenly there stood Alec, Brassfoot, the hump-backed Fishy, and the silent Drugich smelling a pineapple, next to him. They surrounded him.

"Hey! Chervonets! What sort of behaviour do you call this?"

Gorchev stepped back, in terror. My God I These people were going to hold him up, and there sat Mr. Vanek in a négligé, in the chamber of the sultana.

"Have you gone mad, you brat?"

"Leave me alone, I..."

Now he was prepared, in the interests of Mr. Vanek, to hit.

But the taciturn Drugich took the pineapple away from his nose, and, to forestall all further argument, hit Gorchev over the head with that noble fruit. The young man lost consciousness.

When he revived, he was lying on his back in a tremendous lorry which was racing along at full speed, and someone was sneezing in his face.

He turned in that direction dizzily, and was amazed to see a friendly lion, bending over him from quite close. This wouldn't have frightened Gorchev unduly, except that he noticed a sign waving on the lion's cage, like some sort of visiting-card. It read:

He closed his eyes, because he would have liked to wake up. However, the wild beast named Antonius Wendriner sneezed in his face again, and he was forced to sit up. But this lasted only a second, because at what he now saw, he fell, as though Drugich, according to his old habit, had quietly hit him over the head with something.

Mr. Vanek survived his short stay in the chamber of the sultana without court martial, but he was locked up quite a bit because of that event and other misunderstandings. His list of sentences became so long, that one day he spoke these words:

"If such a thing as inheriting sentences exists, then my great-grandchildren will also have to do time for my deeds."

Mr. Vanek, as generally happened with the very proper, formality-respecting petty bourgeois, having lost the flow of his old way of life because of the changed surroundings, became more neglectful, filthy and ragged than even the one-eyed Mehar, who since then had beaten him up frequently because of his pronouncing on the weather. Mr. Vanek had become used to this, as to the many other things he didn't understand why they belonged to the daily routine of a colonial army.

Aside from this, Mehar was also constantly receiving punishment, because he liked to drink, and only stopped when he dropped to the floor.

Even now they were imprisoned together, and Mr. Vanek was preparing to go to sleep on the dirty, insect-ridden stone floor. After dinner Mehar had beaten him up, and now they were retiring for the night.

But Mr. Wurfli appeared unexpectedly on a visit.

"You'll have a good night tonight..." he whispered from the door. "I spoke to the colonel's orderly. I think I've helped you."

"Look, Mr. Madman," answered Mr. Vanek bitterly. "I have enough trouble as it is without helping me."

But the secretive dancing teacher departed without a word, and Mr. Vanek closed his tired, hot eyelids with a long sigh.

My God! How much suffering!

But an hour later they dragged him from sleep. It was the commander of the guard.

"Get up! You've been called up before the colonel!"

"But..." he defended himself in fright. "What could I have done while sleeping? I tried to lie at attention, and I was sleeping quite modestly."

All in vain. He had to go. They took him to the colonel's private apartment, where there were guests that evening.

There he stood, facing the illustrious guests, a little frightened, and blinking from the glare of the lights.

"I am in need of a clever soldier this evening. Someone told my orderly that you are our man," said the colonel cheerfully, and the cold ran down Mr. Vanek's spine.

"Please..." he stammered. "I... I am really very pleased..."

"Well, my friend," said the colonel, "then everything's all right. You will be our musician."

Mr. Vanek staggered in fright, like someone who had been hit in the chest.

"I've heard that you are an artist. In case you don't know it, Private, I too am an artist. A poet."

"Congratulations..." stammered Mr. Vanek standing there uneasily.

"Well? Is there anything you want to say?"

"Well... I've been so badly worn by the prison and a Turk fond of Swedish gymnastics that I couldn't even lift a bow..."

"Oh, you play the violin too?"

Tears flowed down Mr. Vanek's face, big, bitter tears, and he said,

"Yes... I can do many things... Play the violin, paint, know the names of animals... I am really a very versatile soldier."

The guests were astounded at the sobbing man. A grey-haired officer wasn't ashamed to push over a chair towards the suffering, dismally neglected warrior.

"Sit down, my friend... Sit down calmly..."

The colonel motioned with his eyes, and his orderly served the stricken man with food. For a broken man, Mr. Vanek ate with a surprisingly good appetite. The guests, all old colonial people, eyewitnesses to many African tragedies, looked at the secretive legionary silently and gloomily. Laura de Pirelli, the Italian-born star of the Oran opera-house, gave Mr. Vanek a long, sad, but very warm glance.

The opera singer was a bit plump, and as is generally the case with ladies susceptible to putting on weight, she was a romantic.

"Tell me, my friend," she spoke to the dramatically interesting soldier, who, with an expression of pain on his face, was eating roast beef. "What is it you miss the most?"

"A little mustard... or a pickle," he sighed unhappily, and his whole face smiled when he received it.

"What is your name?" asked the colonel.

"Van... I have a real name and an alias. And I can't think of either one."

A major slapped a book on the table, and on the basis of the number sewn to his coat, he established his name.

"You are Ivan Gorchev."

A tall, blond captain now stood up from somewhere in the background.

"Ivan Gorchev! My God! You, you... in Nice, you were in contact with..."

Mr. Vanek nodded bitterly.

"That's right. In Nice I was in contact with! Even in intercourse! The company doctor was quite correct!"

Pierre Boussier, because he was the captain, stepped to the front, took a close look at Mr. Vanek and again said,

"My God! Gorchev!"

Mr. Vanek sighed. It was clear to him that his neglected appearance had caused this emotional cry from the captain.

"Will you go out into the entrance hall for a moment."

Mr. Vanek went out into the hall, and leaning on an officer's coat, he fell deeply asleep on a chair.

The following day the owner of the coat disinfected his apartment, his entire family, and himself in terror, but it still took months before he had completely eliminated the prolific consequences of Mr. Vanek's short but sound sleep.

Meanwhile the captain said the following in a soft voice, within the room.

"Gentlemen! This man is the Ivan Gorchev whom General de Bertin called to our attention with such warm words. We all know who Gustave Laboux is. And this Gorchev is Laboux's daughter's fiancé... The girl wrote me in secret. It is completely mystifying that despite the respect due to the general, this poor unfortunate, careless gentleman should be found in a situation like this."

"It's about time," said the captain finally, "that that Sergeant Verdier stopped endangering the good name of the colonial army with his low brutality."

At about midnight, a guard woke Mr. Vanek.

"Will you please return to the guardhouse."

Mr. Vanek, far from all that he had known in life before the army, and near to lunacy, didn't notice the peculiar change in the guard's tone, and he merely followed him through the dark courtyard in silence.

"There was a big investigation while you slept. The officers, the sergeant and the corporal were all questioned. They were soundly reprimanded because of you."

"Maybe because they forgot to have me executed?"

"On the contrary... but you'll see for yourself," assured the guard opening the door of the cell. "Unfortunately, we didn't know who you were beforehand."

"And now do you know who I am?"

"I certainly do."

"Well, then, may I ask you to tell me, too. I don't think it will hurt if you put me in the picture, too."

"All right, all right," said the guard secretively. "One day the truth will be out. The general will come, and you will again be whom you were."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Mr. Vanek in despair, stepping into the cell.

... In his dreams, he was conducting an opera performance with two paint brushes in his hands. On the stage Laura de Pirelli sang, and a one-eyed Turk tamed all sorts of scoundrels with a long pole. Then a general appeared in the dark theatre, and in a harsh voice announced that no one was to leave the premises until the police arrived, because during the intermission someone had lost a very valuable Gorchev. Mr. Vanek began to run, but Mehar was after him with a loaded crackercrumbler in each hand. The wife of the ferry-boat captain in Krems, Austria, ran like a fury in the front row, in fact she was the instigator of the whole thing. "Help!" cried Mr. Vanek, knowing well that if caught, he would have to play the violin, but then someone stuck a foot in front of him, and he fell hard. Mr. Wurfli had done it, and he excused himself, feeling very unhappy while they quickly tore Mr. Vanek to pieces. "Don't take it amiss, Mr. Tintoretto, but you did say that the stone carvers and ballet dancers"... Mr. Vanek screamed terribly and woke up, just before he was choked.

It was only after a long struggle that he was able to get air, because, as it was later established, Mehar, the one-eyed giant, slept quite deeply, and had spent a part of the night on Mr. Vanek's face.

When the fourteen-carat roadster again took to the road, with Parker driving, two other cars accompanied them. In each one there were eight Arabs, armed with hand grenades and machine guns apiece.

They were spahis "on leave". That morning a sergeant had announced in the barracks to sixteen old recruits that if any of them were in the mood to go on an excursion with him, that person would get two weeks leave, and anyone who didn't want to go would receive the same amount of detention, with twenty-four hour duty every other day.

This sweet invitation had the effect that all sixteen men discovered in themselves a tremendous desire for this excursion and for the company of the measuredly sweet sergeant; so in the afternoon, dressed in burnouses, they escorted the valuable car.

De Bertin and Laboux had not solved the secret of the car that had emerged from the sea. It was impossible to begin an investigation into the delicate question, and there was no time to be lost. They too were certain that the car had been exchanged in the ship's hold, for an outwardly identifical Alfa Romeo. But how had it returned? All they had to satisfy themselves with was the fact that the car was simply standing in front of the villa, as the pale and slightly drunk Laboux had announced, and whose condition made it imperative that they should not question him about it. His face was a little yellow, and he had had very much to drink. Moreover his malaria had attacked him again.

"I think that our trip will not be a smooth one," he said with some misgivings, when they had been on the road for two days.

Annette barely spoke. She sat in one place for days, and stared before her. Gorchev's spirit was with them, in Annette's sadness.

"They are going to do something," said de Bertin with feigned joviality.

And he was right. The participants to this safari which had started without much trouble could really not even imagine what kind of fantastic events were awaiting them.

Annette occasionally took over from Parker on the beautiful highway which led from the Atlas pass, through the desert. She was pale, and barely ate for twenty-four hours, but sat by the steering wheel, her hand sure.

De Bertin smoked a cigar, and occasionally gazed at Laboux, and then at Annette, through the rear-view mirror. He felt the silent, deep conflict between father and daughter. In one bitterness, in the other self-accusal. It was terrible!

"May I ask you," asked Laboux once. "Have you ever known personally one of those so-called... spiritualists?"

"What?... Once in Avignon I was quartered at the home of a neurasthenic carpenter, and he did some of that stuff."

Laboux looked ponderingly at the waves of yellow sand as they moved on.

"Have you ever thought..." he continued, each word dragging from him, "that after death there may be... something... after all?"

De Bertin looked at his friend in stupefaction.

"I think that you have been badly hit by that malaria," he answered, anxiously.

"Yes. It's possible. Yesterday I had a fever too."

He took out a cigarette paper from somewhere, wrapped a few quinine tablets in it, and swallowed it. This is the way legionaries take this medicine.

The season which Abe Padan had picked for his revolution was an unfavourable one for his European friends. The sandstorms caused by the trade winds and the mist that came down from the Atlas were things that not even the bedouins stood easily.

By the time they reached the nearest oasis, Laboux was shaking with fever, but he refused to rest for two days.

"Abe Padan must receive his arms in time."

All argument was in vain with that stubborn man. He gulped down a large dose of quinine, and sat into the Alfa Romeo.

"We can be on our way, Sergeant," he said to the commander of the spahis.

A slight air current moved through the stifling heat, but that was enough to fill the air with dancing grains of sand, which got into lungs and eyes irritatingly.

By afternoon the two deep shadows under Laboux's face bones had become red, and he was delirious.

"You will stay in Aboudir with two spahis, because your father won't be able to continue," said the general to Annette, who was washing her father's face with vinegar and water.

Annette agreed in the name of the sick man as well. She well knew that no slight trouble would have this effect on Laboux's iron constitution.

"The affair with that unfortunate young man has been very hard on him," said de Bertin.

"And I know very well that Father didn't want to do any harm," she answered sighing.

Two tear-drops suddenly fell from the girl's big clear eyes. The edge of her mouth jerked downwards a few times, and then she broke into sobs.

De Bertin nervously tapped a cigarette to the top of his cigarette case. A damned situation.

They travelled on with a tailwind, and the car was followed by the dust raised by its own wheels, like a canvas covering it.

They had long departed from the highway, and the Alfa Romeo ran along a winding caravan trail, with the soldiers' cars running fifty yards ahead of it. The road through the Sahara to Aboudir led through a rocky bowl of a valley. The relentless particles of sand, for who knows what ages, had been running themselves against the rocks with the stamina of hatred, and these, broken down, sunk their ruins like tiny reefs, into the sand.

This desolateness of the bare landscape was stressed by the ruins of an ancient city, clumps of stone, collapsed arcades, remains of walls, like half-buried torsos.

In the valley the dust funnel disappeared, and the blank reflection of the tremendous desert blinded them. The air seemed to sway, as though, far off in the distance, some fine, smoky something lay before them... Now the spahis' cars reached that spot and...

... Parker shouted loudly... The brake screeched, de Bertin grabbed at his pistol...

Too late!

The soldiers' cars, as though they had run into an invisible barrier, turned over suddenly. No one fell out, the people just remained a mass in the cars which lay on their side on a sand dune... This is all the passengers of the fourteen-carat roadster could see, but they also met their fate soon.

A peculiar click was heard. The slowed-down roadster turned over and slid to one side, rattling and crackling... The steel net, similar to the one with which Hagenbeck caught lions and tigers, would not allow them out...

These specially treated metal filaments were almost invisible against the desert sun and three vehicles had been caught in them.

Armed Arabs appeared from behind the dune. The Chief led them.

"Stay quiet," he shouted. "We can kill you all on the spot!!! Let them out of the net one by one, and tie them up!"

It would have been equivalent to suicide for anyone to try to defend himself. Within a few minutes they lay there next to each other in the sand, blinded by the sun shining vertically down on them.

The aggressors galloped away, and the prisoners could clearly hear that the car raced off with them.

The fourteen-carat roadster had been stolen after all!

The following is a transcription of a conversation that took place in the commissariat of the Fort St. Thérèse, Oran.

CHARACTERS:

(Sergeant Verdier and Private Balukhin, regimental scribe. Five o'clock in the afternoon, at this time the sergeant generally looks over the petitions.)

VERDIER:

(Comes. He looks worn out. He has lost some weight within the last few weeks.)

BALUKHIN:

(Jumps up.)

VERDIER:

(With dull good will.) Just sit down, you swine. (He opens his jacket and blows.)

BALUKHIN:

(Places papers before him.) Gorchev, Private, Number 27 asks for leave tonight.

VERDIER:

(With an ominous growl, which causes the edges of his moustache to quiver.) All right...

BALUKHIN:

The same Private, Number 27 asks for a special diet for his illness.

VERDIER:

(The edges of his moustache quiver, his eyes turn a dull red, and his nostrils widen rhythmically.) It's signed...

BALUKHIN:

Number 27 asks to be placed on sick leave for two days, because he is suffering from rheumatism.

VERDIER:

(His moustache quivers constantly.) Signed! And now (with suspicious fatherly voice) my dear, good Balukhin, you completely decrepit, shifty, impudent head-executioner... If you make one more statement about Private, Number 27's requests, I will take the largest sized horse-shoeing wrench in existence, and beat your head to a pulp. (A blood-curdling shout, similar to the mad grave-robber in a Grand Guignol, which is uttered at the end of the act, and around which the entire work is based.) You won't make a fool of me, you ambushing scribe! You can sign the petitions of Number 27 yourself! (Pause. The sergeant collapses into a chair.) What else is there?

BALUKHIN:

(Swallows. Takes out a slip of paper, his hand shaking.) ...Private... Number 27... asks for leave tomorrow...

VERDIER:

(Is broken. Motions with his hand. Collapses in the chair.)

BALUKHIN:

(Finishes.) Because he wants... to go... to... the baths...

VERDIER:

(With good-natured sadness.) Don't bark, because I'll stamp you out, you dishonest, double-dealing trainer of dog-catchers... (He muses, staring at the floor, worn out. Finally some decision ripens within him.) Well! (He stands up.) Now you listen to me. Should Number 27 ask next time that two Negro servants carry him during parade in a sedan-chair, I will sign this of course, and if in a few minutes he comes up with the request that his frolicking lady friends be allowed to accompany him on the autumn manoeuvre, at government expense, there must be nothing done to prevent this. As a matter of fact, we shall anticipate his petition. And today the trumpet-major will receive orders that the dawn reveille be played on a harp, because there is the possibility that Private Number 27 might accidentally wake up, and appear at the roll-call!... And when you are done with that, hang a notice on the gate of the fort saying the following:

Elderly, provincial postmen, grooms, and pensioners with rheumatism will find a comfortable home if they join the French Foreign Legion. Special favours granted to complete idiots, as well as special treatment from bustling dry-nurses with the rank of NCOs... That that thundering...

The rest of the conversation has only been documented for those interested in forceful expressions in the French language.

It's possible that the sergeant exaggerated a little, but it was undoubtedly certain that Mr. Vanek's situation, ever since Captain Pierre Boussier intervened, in the name of de Bertin and Laboux, had changed favourably. The officers had seen so many dramas of unsuitable individuals come to disastrous ends, through the merciless conditions of the Legion, that in this case they willingly made an exception. It was entirely unimportant if one weak character, who happened to be there by mistake, who knows how and why, wasn't smashed by the ruthless machinery of the African army.

For the sake of such an outstanding colonial officer as General de Bertin, one could really make an exception. What was needed for this? One dressing down to a sergeant, one tap on the shoulder of the private, and now the situation looked this way, for example, on the training field:

"'tion!" roared the NCO. "Right-turn!" Immediately afterward in a much tamer voice, "This, of course, refers to you, sir, Private Gorchev, as well, if you aren't tired."

"No, no..." answers the private with a modest smile. "Let's just continue. It's best if a man learns everything."

In the afternoon Mr. Vanek would go into the city. Upon meeting him at the gate, Corporal Gent would swallow painfully, and in a completely hoarse voice, would say,

"Will you please, sir, Private, Number 27, and... about turn... or something like that... and come with me, you blockhead... you block capitals, your name in block capitals!"

He would return with Mr. Vanek to the soldiers' hall. Then he would let his voice out, but so that every windowpane shuddered.

"Scoundrels! If something on this, this what-d'ye-call-him, his shoes, jacket, or anything else is out of order, then everyone can mourn for his leave for the next four weeks. The devil take this kind of blockheaded scoundrel... That doesn't refer to you, sir, Private Number 27, the devil take it!"

The entire population in the soldiers' hall was in charge of Mr. Vanek's person, and they treated him with solicitous care. Each day four men were selected, as the so-called 'Gorchev detachment'. One cleaned his shoes, another his clothes and weapons, the third kept his bed in order, but he was rarely satisfied with that latter.

"Look, Mr. Wurfli," he would explain with fatherly patience, but with that muffled irritation in his voice which characterizes a person who with difficulty can control himself, "these have to be stuffed into the end of the bed, so that there are no wrinkles in the blanket. I myself could do it that poorly."

After he had dressed spotlessly, and had even smoothed his moustache with a tiny brush, according to habit, he lifted his cap to his dormitory mates, and departed. Before that, he looked into the commissariat to see if any mail had come for him.

The officers came upon the unfortunate man's secret in a short time. He most likely used to belong to the better circles, but had become somewhat unbalanced here in Africa. The colonel was particularly convinced of this, when at a meeting with Mr. Vanek in the city, the latter raised his cap by the peak, and greeted him, smiling:

"Well, hello, Mr. Colonel! What lovely weather we're having today!"

For this was the remnant of his incurable civilianism - the forever beautiful ceremony of raising one's cap as the spontaneous expression of so very many relations, and opinions, with one gesture, which might be deep, might go in a wide sweeping arch, might be fleetingly graceful, but at any rate the relation and opinion of the cap tipper towards the person whom he greets with that reflex movement contained within it.

... One evening Mr. Vanek happened to be sitting in one of the restaurants with the expression of stern secretive men on his face. He gazed into the blue cigar smoke, looking as though the everlastingly buried memories of a peculiarly eventful life were haunting him within. In fact, this reminiscence was of Gorchev. This is the letter he had received from Gorchev:

Edouard B. Vanek

Substitute-Private

ORAN Poste restante

In answer to your letter dated this month, how-should-I-know-what-date, it is with pleasure that I report that meanwhile we have met at the Oran fortress. It is with great respect, but even greater dissatisfaction, that I must admit that I was unsuccessful in settling my dealings with you.

At our last meeting, you remained in the Oran fortress in a none too complete state of attire, as I had stated the probability of my immediate return.

I have the pleasure to inform you that in the meantime I had to depart from the city because of some weighty object with which I was hit, with some urgency, on the head.

Referring to the contents of your letter, I am pleased to report that not a penny of your salary can be denied you. As a matter of fact, I shall honour the injuries that you have received, grandly at the cost of my own bank account.

I am sorry that as you wrote, you were shaken by my delay, but please believe me when I say that I was unable to help myself.

In the hope that our relationship will in the end be only useful and pleasant, I close my letter of inst.

In the future too, I shall compensate the disturbance you suffered for which I am obliged to you.

Yours truly,

Ivan Petrovich

On this pleasant night, the Oran seaside shone in the moonlight in front of the terrace of the restaurant. Mr. Vanek was thinking how much he should charge up to Gorchev on account of the injuries he had received since joining the Legion. In his muse he heard a voice behind his back, a pleasant bell-like, fine woman's voice.

"Am I disturbing you?"

A strange lady stood beside him, in a pale, shining silk evening dress. She was elegant and undoubtedly a lady.

Mr. Vanek pushed his chair back and raised his cap with deep respect.

"How could you possibly disturb me... a beautiful lady? My name is..."

"Petromsky, if I know correctly... Don't you remember me? I'm Laura de Pirelli..."

The lady was outstandingly beautiful. And it did seem that he had seen her before. Mr. Vanek stood up immediately, and lifted his cap again.

"My name is..."

"Don't you remember me?... I'm Laura de Pirelli, the singer."

"I... I have... already met with you somewhere... Yes."

"We met at the Colonel's, on the night when you were called in to perform."

"Believe me, I would have willingly played, but the only instrument that I understand is blowing through a comb that has been covered with waxed paper, and there just wasn't any around."

From this they plunged into deep personal conversation.

"My dear sir," said Laura de Pirelli, among other things. "I have had an exquisitely sad feeling ever since I saw you there. There is a woman somewhere behind your tragedy! And only a woman can build again that which another woman has destroyed!"

"That was a beautiful sentence," nodded Mr. Vanek. "You must have been reading the works of celebrated writers, when offstage..."

"And what was your profession before?" asked the singer.

"Correspondent at a sanatorium near Nice. I had an outstanding position. The sanatorium was under the direction of Professor Louvier."

"And why did you join the Legion?"

"That... is something I cannot tell you."

The lady who was inclined to be romantic looked meditatively at Mr. Vanek.

"There is something peculiarly attractive in your gaze. Have you ever been told... that you are suggestive?"

"Here in the Legion I have been told many things. But I don't remember if anyone ever said that."

Later they drank champagne, and the secretary unbuttoned the neck of his jacket, because both of his eyeballs were pulsating painfully. After all Mr. Vanek was a man! Not exactly the epitome of masculinity, but then the singer, in neither age nor weight, could boast of being the ideal of feminity.

"You... should escape..." whispered Laura de Pirelli, with some heat, and the quantity of champagne consumed added its own caloric content.

"Madame, I must answer you with the same words I used for Mr. Wurfli, a slightly mad good Samaritan who is a dancing teacher and disseminator of etiquette: a correspondent will never break the contract he has signed!"

"We could go to Italy!..."

"It's impossible," he said sighing, "despite the fact that I truly like Italy..."

"You also adore the many, many flowers of Italy, and the parks of orange blossoms?"

"Those too. But particularly the macaroni, and the spaghetti with tomato sauce."

Mr. Vanek spent a very pleasant evening in the company of the singer, but he refused to hear of deserting.

"Think it over..." whispered the singer after several more glasses of calories. "If you were to escape, we could always be together, and I could sing to you."

"I could get used to the latter in time, but my financial reliability would be ruined by a break in contract. I will not desert."

However, life demanded that Mr. Vanek had his financial trustworthiness put to a real test.

The roads to misfortune are impossible to predict.

Mr. Vanek lived a truly pleasant and idyllic life in the Legion about which so many horrible legends were spread throughout the world. In the eighth week of training, he had still not become efficient enough to be ready within ten minutes of the call for marching in the courtyard. Often the company would wait a quarter of an hour before Mr. Vanek appeared.

"Hasn't anyone seen my belt?" he asked, having lifted his cap, at which Corporal Gent's teeth gnashed loudly.

"Will you please stand in the line?" said the Lion softly, who had been suffering from trouble with his gall-bladder, even though he had successfully completed three campaigns in the Sahara, and hadn't been on the sick-list for as much as a single day...

But the colonel and other officers clapped Mr. Vanek on the shoulder, and were ready to forgive him.

Mr. Vanek's form of parading was such that a spahi captain on holiday, and unfamiliar with the local customs, prepared a number of photographs of Mr. Vanek's parade steps, and these he sent to the ministry of war, with a memorandum which urged the immediate reorganization of the colonial army.

At target-practice when it was Mr. Vanek's turn to aim at the target, the company swiftly dispersed, the sergeant commanded 'down!' and everyone ran for cover.

It looked as though Mr. Vanek was quietly going to gain weight here, when fate stepped in.

Pierre Boussier was tool of fate, that same Boussier, the tall, blond captain who had launched the Gorchev legend about Mr. Vanek and had continued his tour of inspection the following day. Now he returned to Oran, and on the very first day when he appeared in the fort, he was informed about everything.

"Please," said the colonel, "when you have a chance, report to de Bertin that we took this meek little Gorchev into our care. He really needs it, because he's a helpless man, not made to be a soldier."

"My God!" shouted the captain, striking his forehead. "I forgot to let you know! I was in contact with de Bertin on a military matter, and the general wrote to me that Gorchev was dead, that he had attended his funeral, and that beyond a doubt the real one, whom he had visited in the artillery barracks in Nice! This is another Gorchev!"

Now the colonel was in a dilemma. For the sake of a military hero one could take care of a stupid person, but one couldn't take care of someone for the simple reason that he was stupid. Besides, the affair could become ridiculous if it leaked out. The officers held council. That unfortunate creature was not to blame... but still the affair must be ended. And so, one of the lieutenants was selected to do just that, carefully, but with military speed, to put an end to the comedy.

The lieutenant handled things cleverly. He went over to the barracks to hold inspection. He went from one room to the other, and finally reached the one in which Gorchev lived. Naturally Sergeant Verdier and Corporal Gent followed him everywhere. The soldiers were working on cleaning their belts and rifles, with the exception of Mr. Vanek, who had purchased a portable record player, and was lying on the bed, eating salami, and playing an American dance tune for himself. When the lieutenant entered he stood up. But the record continued to play merrily.

"Private," shouted the officer. "What's that?"

"Slowfox."

"Stop it immediately!"

"The sergeant doesn't like the slowfox?... I have a tango too..."

"You idiot! Sergeant! What's happening here? Why do you make exceptions here?!"

"If you'd like," stammered Mr. Vanek, "I could play you some military marches."

"Listen to me, sergeant! You cannot punish that idiot for all this, which I've just now experienced. This is the shame of the NCOs. But if in three days' time I notice that you make even a hair's breadth of difference between him and the others, then you will be kicked from here, straight to the first assault party headed for the Sahara! Is that clear?!"

"Yes, mon lieutenant!" answered Sergeant Verdier, and his eyes began to glow with a flame of intoxication.

"Oui, mon lieutenant!" mumbled Corporal Gent, and his chest began to rise from joyful excitement.

The lieutenant departed. Using the possibilities given, he had handled the situation humanely, so that the unfortunate individual should not be punished for what had happened until then. He wasn't the guilty one. No one was guilty. But the Legion had long become the sort of place where someone pays for every mistake, even if no one made the mistake in the first place.

With reference to Mr. Vanek's tragedy, perhaps it would be better, in the interests of my more sensitive readers, that I do not go into further detail about the subsequent events. Let it suffice that when the lieutenant had disappeared around the deserted corridor, the fifty-two-year-old sergeant and the forty-three-year old corporal hugged and kissed each other and then did two or three double dance steps to the left and right, which according to Mr. Wurfli, in the language of the trade, were called the chassé.

... Who was that wearily staggering, half collapsed individual, filthy beyond recognition, making a trip from the pump to the washroom with a bucket for the twenty-fifth time, over a distance of four hundred yards there and back? You guessed it, Mr. Vanek was the man. Mr. Vanek who half an hour before reveille was awakened so that he could practise properly getting his things into order for marching. During the afternoon rest period Mr. Vanek learned to correct the tiny errors he made during a parade, from a corporal with very raw manners.

And Mehar, who didn't understand French, but had some sixth sense, it seems, because he sensed Mr. Vanek's fall, reestablished his old threatening habits, caused by Mr. Vanek's sole reference to the weather, which had insulted him so.

This is how Mr. Vanek's situation stood, and now he himself stood, with a bucket in his hand, broken in spirit, beyond consolation, not even minding that Mr. Wurfli spoke to him,

"You see, this is life. Up and down... The fate of a soldier is not to be envied."

"That's particularly true when half-wit dancing teachers can be found in the surroundings."

"You are an ill-tempered creature! From the very beginning I have tried to be friends with you, and you haven't returned it. Tell me, have you ever thought about why it is that all musicians and painters are ungrateful?"

"I hadn't thought about it, but if you like, I shall, although in my opinion, ballet dancers and stone carvers are no more grateful."

"I would have shielded you. Your fate turned bad, when they discovered that you are not Gorchev."

"And if a person isn't Gorchev, does that make him a dog? You aren't Gorchev, and they still don't torture you."

"You unfortunate soft-headed bedouin," spoke up Sergeant Verdier suddenly. "Don't waste yourself here in the courtyard! Pull yourself over to the stable and groom the Captain's horse!"

The sergeant left, and Mr. Vanek looked after him with melancholy disdain.

"That's his entire culture..."

"Believe me," said the dancing teacher, with compassion, "this kind of NCO would not be found in the Legion if attendance of dancing and etiquette courses were made compulsory. Like the smallpox vaccination, for example. Believe me that this is true, my dear Mr. Tintoretto, if you allow me that address."

"Let's rather say that I will put up with it, since it seems to be your obsession."

"Russian musicians are peculiar people."

"Yes," answered Mr. Vanek, shrugging his shoulders. "I knew one who played the accordion, and collected cigarette boxes."

"Do you collect something too?"

"Pardon?... I don't collect anything, nor do I play the accordion."

"What do you play?"

"Dominoes. But only rarely and..."

"Private, you utterly depraved scoundrel, you dirty rascal! If you don't go to that stable immediately... I'll have you in irons. What are you barking about here with this clown?"

"I was asking for advice, because I've never groomed anything, and I thought that the dancing teacher knew something about the care of horses."

"Yes? Well then both of you go to the stable! You're to groom all three horses!"

When the stable door closed behind them, Mr. Wurfli turned to the secretary furiously.

"Tell me something, why do you recommend me to the sergeant?! He hates me enough as it is!"

"If dancing and etiquette teachers were forced by law to attend their own lessons, that would be better than smallpox and typhoid vaccinations together."

After that they no longer spoke, but rubbed the horses for two hours. Then the sergeant came, looked around, and asked with disingenuous amazement, why they hadn't begun to work yet. When he was told that these damp, messed up horses had gone through the grooming, he didn't believe his ears.

"In your opinion is this grooming? Answer me honestly."

Mr. Vanek looked with understanding eyes at the sad quadruples.

"For a beginning it's quite hopeful," he answered with timely recognition.

They toiled for another four and a half hours. During which Mr. Vanek decided that he would escape from the Legion!

"I hate to break a contract," he said to Mr. Wurfli, "but after the way they have treated me, they can count on me no longer. I shall escape!"

"It's possible that they won't even look for you," answered Mr. Wurfli, obviously agreeing with this decision.

"I shall go to Italy, and work, and a lady shall go with me!!"

"And your music?"

"At the moment she only wants to sing. But I don't even mind that. Macaroni and spaghetti in tomato sauce make up for most things."

The following day Mr. Vanek disappeared from the fort, and while the radio gave out his description every three hours, he again lived in the surroundings he was used to, with Laura de Pirelli, in a comfortable wardrobe, which the singer made as homelike for him as was possible.

It is possible that the passengers and escorts of the fourteen-carat roadster would all have perished, if André hadn't borrowed the collection of cocktail recipes from Boudoin, a chef in Oran. What happened was that in the instant of the turnover, the book fell forward, and the butler, who had been sitting on the middle seat, immediately reached after it, since he had accepted the responsibility for the treasured, handwritten book.

It so happened that André, following the book, rolled under the driver's seat, and hidden there, went unnoticed by the bandits. After the attackers had galloped off he reappeared suddenly, with Boudoin's cocktail recipes under his arm, in proper butler posture, except for a bleeding nose, and deprived of two thirds of his clothing.

"If you have no objections, Messieurs, I will free you from the ropes."

A number of them answered him, and not politely. It was late evening by the time the worn-out party arrived at Azoumbar. The telegraph cable had been cut, and the forces at the oasis consisted of two Arab policemen.

What could be done, now? Laboux was put into bed with a high fever.

"Fate was against us," muttered de Bertin.

Annette didn't say anything. She was thinking of something else. God's vengeance. The girl was utterly exhausted... After wishing all a good night, Annette staggered to her room and de Bertin did the same.

Laboux lay with his eyes open, in the musty mud-walled room, while a smooth snake looked at him from the ceiling. His temples were throbbing with fever, and in the oppressive silence of the oasis night, some bird cried occasionally, Iquiwiwi!... Silence... Iquiwiwi!...

His eyes burned, and the mouldy yellow walls tended to fall towards him... 'Gorchev'... he moaned quietly, and when the door opened, he knew well... It was him... He had come...

Iquiwiwi...

It really was Gorchev who entered. In a torn and dirty uniform, and accompanied by a sluggish and sleepy lion.

"Good evening," he said smilingly. "You keep quiet, Mr. Wendriner."

Before the burning eyes of the sick man the whole vision was obscure and so was the big, pacing lion. But he was not afraid.

"You're in a pretty bad way, Laboux," said the pert ghost. "We won't fight today."

"Why did you die?" whispered the sick man.

"What?..." said the wandering spirit in amazement.

"And now shall I always see you? Those eyes, that face..."

"So? Am I ugly? Listen to me, Laboux, I'll get the automobile back one more time."

"You were there then too!" panted Laboux. "I saw you in the fog."

"Really? How interesting. Phew, Mr. Wendriner... I can't keep that decadent old beast in order," he said, as the lion licked the outstretched hand of the sick man. "He won't hurt anyone. He's an old performer, poor thing, and I think that he's a vegetarian to boot, because in the gate he ate a pot of green paint."

"No... no!" stammered the sick man. "This... this is impossible..."

"I was surprised too, but it's possible that he thought it was spinach."

Laboux, in the terror of over hundred-degree fever, almost laughed at the odd sight of the soldier and the timid lion... But the grave came into his mind... the military funeral.

"Gorchev..." he said, "...what does... death mean? What happens to a man after he dies?"

"If at all possible, he gets buried. Why do you ask? Tell me, how did you get to be so sick?"

"Malaria."

"Listen to me. I'm not going to give the roadster back to you any more, because they'll steal it again. But I'll take it to that Dalai Pala or whatever his name is, myself, to the Prophet's bedroom shoe or what. But I don't have a map..."

"Oh... if only you could... It isn't far. There's a map, with the route marked out, in my coat..."

"Where?"

He went over to the chair, and took Laboux's wallet out of his pocket, and from this removed the map.

"Hey, Mr. Wendriner! Don't sleep on the job," and he turned to Laboux highly irritated. "You've never seen a performer so lazy. He acts as though he were my grandfather."

He kicked at the lion, at which Mr. Wendriner stood up with great difficulty, and looked at him waiting for further instructions.

"Gorchev... forgive me... for refusing you my daughter."

"I'll never forgive you for that. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"My daughter said... that she... would never marry."

"Make note of the fact that I am going to marry your daughter. One fine day I'll come at night, and take her away with me!"

Laboux sat up, his eyes wide.

"No," he rattled in terror. "God be merciful!"

"What are you shouting about? Why are you so upset about my marrying your daughter? I don't have leprosy! Look!"

"No! Say that you won't take her!" rasped Laboux, his eyes popping. "Oh... please... forgive me and... say that you won't take her!"

"And I'll still take her, you old fogey!"

"I won't have it!"

"Look at him shouting... Come, Mr. Wendriner, and spit out that slipper. A fine lion... he eats salad, paint, and textiles."

"Gorchev... Forgive me..."

"Never! I'll come for the girl, you old braggart, and I'll take her with me."

The sick man pulled all his strength together and cried out, so that the vision would disappear, and then exhausted and shaking, fell back on the pillow...

De Bertin and the girl dashed in at the same time.

"What happened?!"

"Father!"

Laboux panted feverishly, his lips cracked.

"He was here... I spoke with him..."

"Who?"

"Gorchev?"

Annette shook. De Bertin sighed.

"Take a dose of quinine," he said, weighed down by thoughts.

If was difficult to calm the invalid.

"He came here... with a lion... He said he would... take the car... to Abe Padan..."

"Yes, yes, just sleep..."

"But if I say... I saw him... the lion took one of my slippers."

Annette went to the door slowly, and sadly gazed out into the night. She took a few steps down the corridor. ...In the moonlight desert the poorly kept palms of the oasis swayed sadly, with their dusty crowns...

"Be a man, old boy," said de Bertin. "Your conscience is bothering you because of poor Gorchev. Where is André? André!"

Instead of the butler, Annette came in, deathly pale.

"Peculiar," she said, "I found this outside, by the oasis..."

She held a badly chewed slipper in her hand.

Iquiwiwi, screeched the bird... It was a stifling night.

"Where are you... André! Hey!"

They finally found him, in the neighbouring room, under the bed.

"I've become unused to this, but I'll get into my stride."

"What happened to you? The corner of your mouth is bleeding!"

"I woke up at the sound of a cry, and ran to Monsieur Laboux. I ran into someone who knocked me down."

"Did you see who it was?"

"No, but the punch reminded me of the beatings of the deceased Mr. Gorchev."

De Bertin wanted to swear, but the words became stuck in his throat. He noticed a metal button on the floor, with a grenade with seven flames in the middle. A legionary had been here!

"Let's go to sleep," he said hoarsely.

None of them did sleep that night.

When Gorchev regained consciousness, he felt the kind of motion that a ship makes. He could hear nothing, could see nothing, for he was covered up. What had happened? Had he died? He began to move, to try to climb out of the blanket. Someone poked him hard in the side.

"Hey, kid!"

They took the cover off him. No, he wasn't in a cemetery after all, as a matter of fact, just the opposite. He was inside a lorry, and his benefactors, who would occasionally hit him over the head with the first thing that came into their hands, now stood around him, so that he could see nothing. Alec's grim but friendly face looked at him, while next to him, the taciturn Drugich poured whisky from a watering can.

"Listen to me," whispered Alec. "We're travelling in a lorry, and the Chief doesn't know that you're here, because we covered you with a blanket. So be quiet! He and Lingeström are going in a separate car, Aldous is driving it. But the two cars are side by side... They can get here any second.

"We cut a few holes in the blanket so that you can see. In a short time they will be going ahead with the small car, so wait patiently..."

Gorchev wanted to answer something, but the taciturn Drugich covered him again as though he were a dear departed relative, and putting the sole of his foot on the boy's chest, quietly pushed him over to the wall. Gorchev didn't understand why he hadn't hit him over the head with the watering can. It seemed that this Drugich was getting old, or something...

The holes cut on purpose made it possible to see comfortably the good-sized lorry.

In the neighbouring cage he noticed again that a certain lion called Wendriner, with wrinkled skin and wisely blinking eyes, was lying a little wearily as he placed his good-sized jaw on his spread out forepaws. The mighty beast was at this time completely toothless.

In the cage facing him a newer and more surprising sight greeted him.

Before the bars a tremendous sign swayed:

And Scarlet Wendriner, jackal and ballerina, no matter how he looked at her, was Mr. Gafirone, the world-famous racing driver, who sat in the cage in a very sad mood, taking immense care of his nails. Gorchev found this very peculiar. There was also a third cage, where they kept steel nets for catching wild animals. This also had a sign: Herman Wendriner, golden eagle. The fourth cage was comparatively the most interesting, because on it there was this sign:

The animal in the cage was much meeker than the sign led one to imagine. Emanuel Timothy Wendriner (royal tiger and conjurer), no matter how Gorchev looked at him, was an ordinary roast piglet, with a lemon in its mouth. This family of bloodthirsty Wendriners was a peculiar menagerie. Not that he had ever heard of them before. But did Brehm or the Encyclopaedia Britannica, for that matter, ever mention the Wendriners as being frequently encountered in Africa, no doubt haematotherma, vivipara and with lemons in their mouths?

However, what would happen if Gafirone the champion driver were to recognize him? He undoubtedly knew that the mysterious individual who had arrested him was one and the same Gorchev, whom in that case his friends would simply tear to pieces just as Antonius Wendriner, or especially Emanuel Timothy, in their younger days, had torn a graceful gazelle into a number of uniform bits in a brotherly way. For this reason he was happy that the blanket was covering him. It looked, too, as if the Chief and Lingeström were not nearby, because his 'friends' began to speak to him.

"A nice sugar-doll you are! You certainly did a good job of fainting!"

"What is this car?" he asked, in a voice stifled on account of the blanket, as would the spirit of the other world in a play.

"The Chief bought it from Hagenbeck," answered Alec, "complete with first-class equipment for catching wild animals."

"Do you know how to catch a wild animal?"

"I don't," answered Alec, "but that Drugich must have learned how somewhere, because in the vicinity of Amba oasis he hunted down a whole roast pig."

"And who is this Wendriner?" he asked.

"Everybody. Wendriner was Hagenbeck's first animal-tamer, and he named his favourite animals after the members of his family. He gave the proud name of Antonius to the lion because it was his own!"

"The lion?"

"He's very old, poor thing. He's a walking bathroom mat, or apt to be put beside your bed as a carpet."

"Where are you dragging me off to?" asked a complaining voice, obviously Gafirone's.

"You're going to drive the Alfa Romeo, and I will urge you on. You'll see what a splendid record we'll get out of you, even if you happen to die in the attempt."

"This is an unlawful way of handling things. You have locked up a living man in a cage!"

"My dear sir," said Brassfoot politely, "you have only to say the word, and we'll kill you. Don't feel badly about it."

"Doesn't it occur to you, in the first place, that I'm bored?!"

"We'll put in a squirrel swing, and a birdbath... Boo!... Wicked, wicked Scarlet Wendriner!"

"Get out of here with that steel rod!..."

The lion stuck his nose out towards the blanket covering Gorchev a number of times, as though instinctively he felt that here was a man with a heart who would understand him. He was an old, tame artiste, this Wendriner, and every bump frightened a hiccup out of him.

In the evening the champion driver was sound asleep in his cage, at which Gorchev finally dared to sit up. The lorry was standing in the middle of the desert. They stepped out to go for a walk...

"They're going ahead with the small car, and directly before Aboudir, at the ruined city, we will meet."

"And how do you want to catch them?"

"With the net, my boy. You can't beat the Chief for being brilliant, nah!"

This was something Gorchev was forced to admit to himself. His heart was heavy as he gazed at the desert, where the yellow blanket of sand separated itself from the falling night with a pale glow. The wicked were going to win again... This general was a hero, and a clever soldier, but he couldn't fight against scoundrels, because no matter what they did to him, he would always remain a gentleman. At times like this, that sort of attitude is a handicap. In the distance, tiny moving dots neared the campfire... The jackals, hyenas, and all sorts of Wendriners screeched in long, drawn out yells...

"Even that champion driver won't necessarily see you. We'll always cover you up," said Alec.

"Wouldn't it be possible to cover him up?" asked the boy.

"That's a good idea," nodded Fishy. He immediately went in, and covered Scarlet Wendriner's cage with a canvas.

Gafirone slept deeply, and even smiled in his dreams. No doubt he dreamt of long, narrow fingernails, pink, and gentlemanly.

"And exactly why are you working for the Chief?" Gorchev asked Brassfoot.

"What silly questions you do ask. For money. If we are successful in getting the gold to Dizard, then we get fifty thousand francs apiece."

"And if you aren't?"

"Then... a fee of fifty francs a day... Be careful."

A spotlight neared. But it wasn't the Chief's car approaching, but that of the spahis. And behind them, with tremendous light, and with a soft, soft hum, the fourteen-carat roadster raced past them.

...He saw them ...Annette was behind the wheel, and Gorchev could have reached the girl had he stretched out his arm... But how pale she was, and how sternly she stared at the road... Perhaps she was ill?

He never dreamed that the girl was mourning him, very bitterly...

The immense van ate up the miles, hours, days, with this peculiar group inside it, and with the strange equipment which looked as though it belonged there even less.

Gorchev felt that his dangerous and grotesque adventure with this oversized lorry was coming to a crucial point. The end to all problems, oppositions of will and plans was hanging in the air. This was the last round of the bitter struggle, when neither side would ask for or give mercy, because everything had been staked on the winning number. Gorchev felt that the decisive turn, the battle of life and death was nearing, in this affair of the fourteen-carat roadster, but even he never imagined the lightning speed with which the events would occur.

The first two days passed by in comparative calm. The whole thing seemed like a peaceful excursion, if one ignored Gafirone's complaints, after his cage had been covered.

Gorchev happened to be alone in the van, when the others met with the Chief and Lingeström at a nearby oasis. The first thing he did was to give water to the beast of prey, in return for which Wendriner licked Gorchev's hand, and with a good-natured nod and wink made note of the attention.

Gorchev had become very friendly with the old artiste, since he had a wide nose, and a sad expression on his face, which reminded him of Mr. Vanek. The lion, on the other hand, saw a clown from Teplitz-Schonau in Gorchev, from the romantic period of his younger days when his teeth and appetite had served to enjoy horse-meat. This clown, on the day of his benefit performance, had bought Antonius Wendriner an entire horse, for which reason he was registered everlastingly in the beast's memory.

Wendriner almost burst into tears when the young man put fresh water before him. What an attentive colleague! Because in Mr. Wendriner's mind, the living creatures in the world could be divided into exactly two main categories: the populous families of the performers - these were the colleagues - and the ushers.

"Just drink, Mr. Wendriner. I think that you won't be working for this circus long anyway."

Mr. Wendriner hung his head sadly from left to right, as if he were answering, 'You're telling me!'

And at that time neither of them knew how quickly and inescapably Mr. Wendriner's fate was to come to pass in the rush of improbable events.

At seven o'clock Gafirone woke up under the canvas in the inky darkness.

"Hello," he shouted. "Why did you cover my cage? Give me something to eat!"

"The feeding of caged champion drivers is prohibited," answered Gorchev in a deep, disguised voice.

"Who is talking?"

"The lion."

"Don't joke! What's your name?"

"Antonius Wendriner. I'm an artiste and a beast of prey. By having been placed in the cage, you understand the language of the animals. Let's have a chat."

"Won't you take off this canvas?"

"As if by magic, you guessed it."

The sound of a file could be heard.

"You take care of your nails in the dark too?" asked Gorchev in horror.

"Of course. Practice makes perfect. Who are you, who is speaking?"

"Emanuel Timothy Wendriner, the roast pig. Bengal catch, but it's all the same. Roast pig is good no matter how you catch it."

"Stop those awful jokes! Who are you, and what have you been taken here for?"

"That's something you should know," he answered, and handed a cup of water to the lion. The animal twitched his bushy tail, and lifted his blinking bloodshot eyes gratefully to the boy. He was probably thinking: 'What a pleasant young Wendriner he is...'

"So... you won't give me an intelligent answer?" asked the racing driver, while his scissors clipped away industriously.

"Mr. Gafirone!" said Gorchev. "I would make a suggestion to you: avoid spending your life in prison."

"What did you say?!"

"That's the smallest sentence for spying, but they might easily hang you."

"My dear sir... even as a joke..."

"I should like you to know that in one of the cages are hidden a number of most serious military secrets, which they plan to send abroad with you in the Alfa Romeo!"

"My God! Who are you?!"

"Scarlet Wendriner, the spotted hyena..."

"Please... don't joke!"

"Leave my incognito in peace, Mr. Gafirone, and listen to me! You are supposed to take abroad with you in the Alfa Romeo the cipher key to the secret fleet manoeuvres of France's colonial air command stations."

"My God! I should have suspected... But what can I do?"

"At the proper moment I shall free you, and with this car, you will race to the north, at breakneck speed."

"Delighted, if I'm freed!... Sir! Who are you?! But if you answer that you are Herman Wendriner, golden eagle, you're liable to be cursed."

"And why can't I be that proud poultry with the Christian name of Herman?"

"Because I am the golden eagle!" he answered triumphantly. "This morning they changed the disgraceful sign at my request!"

Gorchev nodded his head.

"I didn't think that a bird like that would manicure his own claws."

Now the sound of approaching engines could be heard, and Gorchev pulled the blanket over himself with lightning speed.

"Now, get going quickly," said Lingeström, when Alec and his companions had jumped out of the small car. Shortly afterwards, under the leadership of Portenif, the robber band, a few Arab scoundrels, arrived on camel backs. Then came Aldous, driving the Chief's car.

"You follow us with the lorry!" said the Chief. "You won't have any trouble. Now you will proceed towards the place where the wind has cleared a way, we'll cross over and get ahead of them, and stretch the nets!"

"Then?"

"In half a day we get to Aboudir, we go through without stopping, and run straight ahead to Ifiris. Be careful, because there is a dried-out bed to the left of the river as well, which is on French territory, where you would run right into Abe Padan's hands."

Meanwhile they brought the steel nets out of the depths of the lorry.

After that everything went quickly. They uncovered Gafirone, who really was bent over in his cage like a tremendous golden eagle, or rather, more like some sort of owl, which blinked in terror, his neck pulled in, from the sudden light. His pink nails almost rattled on the bars of the cage held so tightly in terror.

"Mr. Gafirone! Prepare to take the steering wheel shortly. Three people will be sitting in the back, with pistols."

"But why... why must you drag me into this?"

"I warn you to obey without argument, otherwise I will shoot a hole into you... Follow us to the ruined city, slowly. By noon they will be there too."

The Chief, Lingeström, Portenif, Aldous, and the Arabs rushed away. Dawn was breaking...

Fishy changed gears, and the van raced, rattled and rumbled away on its worn-out springs and compact tires. "Cover up the Golden gentleman," said the taciturn Drugich. "No!" shouted Gafirone, but they poured a bucket of water over him, which quieted him, while he dismally endured the darkness. Gorchev, however, threw off his blanket and sat up joyfully.

And now he was anything but joyful. "When do we arrive at the scene?"

"About noon."

The truck threw itself about so much that Mr. Wendriner began to hiccup again. Gorchev scratched the back of his neck to calm him, which made the old fellow feel indescribably good... What should he do? Gorchev pondered in despair. He felt that he had been appointed by fate to guard Laboux's mission... He couldn't figure out anything clever. He lay on his back, and closed his eyes. His hand hung in Mr. Wendriner's cage, and the care-worn king of the beasts began to lick it quietly, methodically and tenderly, as a cradle song, so that Gorchev fell asleep. He had a confused dream of Mr. Vanek... A nightmarish picture repeated itself: he was with Annette and their secondary-school-aged children on an excursion visiting the fortress of Oran; the relevant part of the guide-book read:

Sultana Corridor

A dark haunt, where Moorish king Masnir guarded his mistress. For a number of years a scantily dressed gentleman has been waiting for someone, and for an entrance fee of your choice, he may be seen. His two-yard white beard is original!

...Gorchev startled awake.

The van was empty. They were standing by the roadside. He sat up quickly. Gafirone's cage was covered.

"Hullo!" shouted Gorchev.

"Mr. Golden..."

"What do you want?"

"Have they gone?"

"Yes... Half an hour ago. And now I know that you are a brat, who is chergolets!"

'This is another Mr. Vanek,' thought Gorchev.

"Listen, I'm hungry," said the golden eagle.

"That is the least of my worries. I would like to get out of this mess, because you will all be shot or something."

"My dear sir! Pull me out too."

"I'll think about it."

He took the roast pig out of the cage, and gave half of it to the lion, that half to which the head belonged, with the half lemon. The elderly predator bit at the meat without interest, he barely ate. However, he licked at the lemon for a long time... Old performer. He had a lack of acid... Was it possible that this living bathroom mat was the same as Wendriner, the king of the beasts?

Gorchev sat sadly on the floor of the van. By now perhaps Laboux and his companions were wriggling in the steel net... And he sighed... Time passed slowly. His brain worked. Wendriner was licking at the lemon next to him, perhaps he didn't have a lack of acid after all, but was only a gourmet, as elderly gentlemen generally are.

...It was late afternoon. Gorchev, for the first time in his life, felt that he was nervous. He paced the floor. His nervousness spread to the lion as well, who looked anxiously at his beloved master.

In Gafirone's cage, the cuticle scissors clicked frequently, as though a wristwatch were ticking...

"Look, Mr. Wendriner, I shall set you free..." said Gorchev to the lion. "At this moment you are my only good friend, whom I can help... Go, and walk on the warm sand again, on your trembling feet, and let your tired eyes be greeted by the violet dawn of the Sahara. Stretch yourself out, so that your old bones crackle, and walk for the last time in your homeland."

He rolled the cage to the door, and opened it. But Mr. Wendriner didn't move. He simply didn't believe in the situation. When Gorchev gently poked his side, he finally stepped out of the cage, a slightly staggering poor King Lear of the beasts, old and tired from the many years of wandering, and in the evening of a life of disappointments.

He looked around the desert suspiciously.

He squinted his big, bloodshot eyes like a cat, and with swaying feet, and a hanging head, he went, slowly, stepping through the desert. Then he stopped, looked back at Gorchev, and started again, but hanging his head deeply, as though ashamed of himself for something...

The Russian decided! He rushed back to the van. He opened the steel door of the vehicle by pulling aside the steel rods that held it.

"Hullo, Mr. Gafirone! Your hour has come!"

What hour had come?

The characters in the play found out very shortly. By evening the group returned.

"Let's go!" shouted Alec. "Fishy, start the motor! Gafirone, you go with Portenif..."

Gafirone obediently stepped out of the cage, and went. The others jumped into the van, and... the hump-backed Fishy didn't want to get inside, but he was grabbed and thrown in!

Bang!

The door slammed shut, and someone on the outside put the heavy cross-bars designed to guard tigers, into place, and the engine began to hum...

"Hey... What's happening? Hullo!?" they shouted, and pounded on the door. In vain...

Portenif wasn't even halfway with Gafirone, when the tremendous Hagenbeck van caught up to them. From the driver's seat someone hit Portenif over the head with a monkey wrench, so that he was immediately knocked unconscious. The car stopped.

"There... And now the way we discussed it," said Gorchev. "Sit up beside me, and let's go!"

The bandits pounded rhythmically, Gorchev whistled, and Gafirone sat next to him, like Herman Wendriner, golden eagle, but much more sadly. It was a dark night... The bonnet of the Hagenbeck van rattled, and the sound of the heavy turning of the wheels could be heard, as the vehicle floundered in the sand. Then it braked and stopped.

Meanwhile the waiting gang-leaders were becoming impatient.

"Go and meet them, and find out what's up with Gafirone,' said the Chief to Aldous.

The half-caste set off, and the minutes passed without his return. The Chief and Lingeström waited impatiently.

"Where the hell is he?!"

"They have to be late now, when we're almost there!"

"Yes. It certainly is very embarrassing!" said someone in the dark, hitting the Chief over the head so that his knees gave way. "Don't move, Lingeström, or I'll shoot. This is Gorchev!"

"What!?... What do you want here?"

"We shall immediately leave for the nearest officers' club..."

And five hard fingers took hold of the baron's throat. The fourteen-carat roadster was Gorchev's again.

"My dear sir," said Gafirone gratefully, "thank you."

"Now you will take the rest of the bandits to the nearest oasis. There you will be safe from them. I locked the door on them from the outside. Not even a tiger could break out of that van. Listen."

Terrifying pounding could be heard in the night.

"Well?"

"First we rest a little. Then you will start out with the van."

"And?"

"And receive a reward."

They sat resting for a while, and in the meantime the moon rose... In the silvery light a ghostly sight appeared before them!

On the near bumper of the van, raising his two front feet high, a sad lion sniffed at the door.

"Mr. Wendriner!"

Gafirone jumped into the van shaking. The lion staggered over to Gorchev who had shouted in surprise. Poor thing... His legs shook, he was panting, and looked pleadingly at the Russian, who patted the tattered remains of the once proud mane.

"So, you came back, Mr. Wendriner?... That's all right, old man... Come on."

And because Gafirone refused to come out of the van for anything in the world, Gorchev himself went to the oasis, to report the happenings to the owner of the automobile...

But Mr. Wendriner didn't leave his side for an instant. In the morning Aboudir oasis awakened to a great sensation. There was a van there, in which men were pounding on the walls. And next to the car trembled Mr. Gafirone.

Now it came out that Gorchev was alive. Alive! Annette couldn't speak. She just twisted her handkerchief. She trembled, her face pale. Laboux lay, his eyes closed. Perhaps he was praying.

"Who are you?" the general asked Gafirone.

"Golden... or rather, Wendrin... I am a champion driver..."

Now his nervous system gave out, and he began to cry. Annette cried too, and fell into Gafirone's arms, but now no one paid any attention to this either.

Laboux just lay in bed, his eyes closed, and no one could figure out what he felt and what he thought...

The general couldn't wait for this period of feelings to be over with. He had to know what there was beyond the joyful news that Gorchev was alive.

"Please, my dear Mister Racing Driver," shouted the general finally, "tell us everything."

"I... can't. Mr. Gorchev... wrote it down... and... here..."

"At last... Please! Give it to me already!" He handed him the letter.

My dear General,

I respectfully report that in the interests of higher military matters, I have escaped from my company, and am en route to the Prophet's Sandal with the Alfa Romeo. I shall tell His Highness Baba Paladala that you send him your love.

The real reason for my absence will be kept a secret from my superiors in Fort St. Thérèse, Oran, the general may rest assured of that.

I shall deliver the two real criminals to His Highness Padalati Malatada, while the other meek rascals, if I may ask for this much reward for their goodness to me, may I hope be freed from the van which I have, as it were, enclosed with this letter, because without their help the Alfa Romeo would have been in the hands of the Portuguese long ago.

In the hope that due to the good-heartedness of the general, my absence from Fort St. Thérèse will not be taken as too serious a matter, I close my letter, and express my sincere respect.

Enthusiastically yours,

Ivan Gorchev

Private No. 27.

And now all mystery cleared away from the general's mind (or at least he thought so). In reply to his inquiry by telephone, the Marseilles fort informed him that there were two Gorchevs there at the same time. Number 27 had been sent to Fort St. Thérèse, from where de Bertin received the information that Ivan Gorchev had escaped approximately two weeks earlier.

"Now I understand everything!" shouted the general enthusiastically. "I myself shall write of the events to the minister of war!"

"I too shall write!" shouted Laboux, who seemed to have completely recovered in the meantime. "It's a question of my son-in-law!"

Annette pulled herself out of the arms of the sobbing racing driver, and continued crying on her father's shoulder. Gafirone made an attempt to throw himself into André's arms, but the butler refused even to consider it.

The monster called the Alfa Romeo had been made harmless. With its golden parts removed, it could never again harm anyone. It gave its soul to the victorious army of King Abe Padan, who were able to arm themselves through it.

And Gorchev?

The peoples of the African oases still hand on the legend of a ghostly ragged soldier, who, accompanied by one lone lion, wandered through the desert, and beat up everyone who refused to support him with food on his mysterious journey...

He slowly neared the borders of the Sahara and in the distance the faded peaks of the Jebel-Sagro mountains began to be seen. Ivan Gorchev sat beside the campfire, feeling satisfied with himself, in the company of his staid lion.

He yawned.

"You see, Mr. Wendriner," he said, stretching himself out on the soft sand. "Now that the whole thing has ended, I have to admit that that Laboux is right. It doesn't hurt to become more serious before one gets married. I know that at the wise age, which you have reached in not the very best of health, this subject doesn't sound interesting enough to you. You are a cautious predator, Mr. Wendriner, and for this reason I respect you, even if I am not in agreement with the resignation with which you accept slavery as a permanent condition, rather than loneliness in the desert."

The lion shrugged his shoulders, and conveyed a disturbed state of mind.

"Look, Mr. Gorchev," he said, in a slightly melodious, resigned tone of a tired shopkeeper. "I am an old artiste, and I would very willingly sit down in the Cafe Ring, with jugglers whose hands shake, and with circus barkers suffering from laryngitis, to whom I belong in spirit. But I can't take off my skin! And today, who is it who would sit down in a cafe to play piquet with a lion?..."

"What is this! You can speak, Mr. Wendriner?"

"No. You are dreaming. But that's really indifferent. Believe me, there is nothing nicer than to be an old artiste. In Klagenfurt, Austria, I knew one Edmund Glatsch, famous for his 'Death Wheel' number, who used to go to the 'Cafe Rathaus Keller' with his two crutches and three Pekingese, after falling from the trapeze. And he was happy though his wife fought with him daily. She was called Mea Mitta, the magic wonder, whose secrets were such that the most famous professors in the world were unable to solve them, though in my opinion, the lady in question should have been choked to death... There... The most beautiful part of life is the golden old age of a show business man. Because in our trade, age has an inverted meaning. While an artiste is young, he stands very close to death. He might die any evening, or even during the matinee, with lowered admittance fees. Death Wheel Glatsch drinks his coffee daily with the agent of an orchestra named Trautmann, whom he teaches about racing..."

"Your tone surprises me, Mr. Wendriner..."

"Surprises you, surprises you..." growled the beast sadly. "You don't know much about it, I must say. You see, a namesake of mine, Herman Wendriner, joined up with Captain Splendid and his forty dancing seals to form a theatrical agency, and every morning they drank medicinal water in the well-room of the Margareten Quelle... What importance does it have that I am the King of the Beasts? Helfheisen was the Emperor of the Bicycles, and now he is a caretaker in a house in Kopfenberg, Austria, under the name of Jerabek. An artiste's world is his billboards."

"But there was a time when you hunted in the wild and the gazelles escaped frantically at any mention of your name, that the terrible Wendriner was approaching. You, according to La Fontaine, value liberty higher than life!"

Mr. Wendriner lit a cigar, placing the end into a paper cigar-holder that became browned, deep in thought.

"I shall tell you something, Mr. Gorchev, as someone who has toured the world as King of the Idlers. I don't know who the usher that you mentioned was, but he was never at our circus. But listen now to my secret. I was born in the Schönbrunn Zoo, Austria, and am a lion of Viennese descent. I was brought by train to Africa, and taken in a steel net from the Sahara to Fez, to my naive buyer. I travelled!... It is better if I don't speak of it! It happened in this way, because a lion caught in the desert is more expensive. I, my dear sir, am the only lion who was brought to the Sahara as an import item. I am not a true Wendriner. In the Schönbrunn Zoo I had heart palpitations if the peacock screeched. Wo sind die schönen alten Zeiten?..." he sighed unhappily, and then he put on his pince-nez and began to read the 'Abend-Express' of Vienna, Austria.

Gorchev awoke shouting in alarm...

Dawn was breaking. Mr. Wendriner slept beside him, wheezing asthmatically.

Mr. Vanek spent the majority of his time for ten days in the singer's wardrobe. In the meantime, Laura de Pirelli had electric lighting installed into the lower shelf, and saw to it that he had sufficient reading material. They made plans for travel all day long, except in the afternoon, when the lady practised her singing. The lady was most studious. She practised for hours.

On the tenth day, Mr. Vanek stepped out of the wardrobe, in the midst of a singing lesson.

"Good day," he said. "Now I shall depart."

And before the dazed singer and the terrified instructor could say a word, the secretary, God only knows why, departed, his feelings insulted, and went directly to Fort St. Thérèse.

"Report me to the sergeant," he said determinedly, standing before the sentry, "and tell him that I misunderstood you all This Legion is an excellent haven."

Mr. Wurfli happened to be on guard duty, when the hand cuffs were placed on Mr. Vanek.

"Why did you report voluntarily?" he asked, whispering.

"It's a mitigating factor. They will shoot me in a much gentle way."

"Do you know that Mehar is in the guardhouse?"

"Has he been out while I've been away? I like that Mehar very much."

"But he always beat you up."

"However, he never sings. And that is an all-important factor!'

Mr. Vanek had sat in the guardhouse for six days, when a sergeant and a lieutenant appeared.

"Here is your parade uniform. Put it on."

"I understand... I am to be shot..."

"It's quite possible. The whole garrison has lined up in the courtyard," said the sergeant, but the lieutenant motioned him quiet.

"The places higher up know where you were for two weeks You suffered greatly."

"Particularly in the afternoons."

"Quiet! No details were given of your absence. You remain silent about it as well. I believe you understand me?!"

Mr. Vanek blushed, dropped his eyes, and thought he understood.

When they led him out to the courtyard, he looked about with tears in his eyes.

Execution!

The entire population of the fort stood at attention. The sun shone in his face, and Mr. Vanek held his head high, in order to enjoy it fully for the last time.

Trum-trum-trum-trum.....

The drum... So deserters were executed without sentence. His sad eyes fixed themselves on the green colour of a group of trees,

Trumpets! "Aux armes! Aux armes!..." Now the escort would arrive!... He wouldn't let them cover his eyes. Let them see how an Edouard B. Vanek could die... But his knees gave way a little, and his tongue was very dry.

The trumpet became quiet... But... this was the colonel who now stepped before him.

"Private, Number 27! Ivan Gorchev! You disappeared from the fort for two weeks! You suffered and endured staggering physical and mental strain during that time."

'Particularly the singing,' thought Mr. Vanek, and he nodded sadly.

"The President of the Republic has awarded Ivan Gorchev the Order of Merit!"

...And while the colonel pinned the Order of Merit on the jacket of the flabbergasted Mr. Vanek, the tricolour began to climb, the trumpet called, and the rows of soldiers looked at him, at attention...

At a distance, on a terrace, Annette, de Bertin, and Laboux stood, shocked, pale as death, and incapable of words.

It would be impossible to clear up the situation. God forbid anyone touching it. They would get Mr. Vanek discharged somehow. And Gorchev must be kept from reporting to the Legion. Gorchev only reported to Alec Lonesome with a hundred thousand francs. He took this from the Chief and Lingeström, who would no doubt find that they could get along very well without it, in Ifiris, in the phosphate mines where they were serving their sentences of hard labour.

Mr. Vanek was discharged on the day before the wedding. Sergeant Verdier celebrated this day by arranging a big banquet in the canteen.

"Sir," inquired Mr. Vanek of Gorchev when he reported to him, "what shall my duties be?"

"In the garden of the Laboux villa a tired artiste is living out the peaceful days of his old age. Your job, old man, will be to take care of him."

"My name is still Vanek, and I wish you would make note of this, since I have received the Order of Merit for my sufferings."

"Do you feel that you deserved it?"

"Certainly. You did not hear the lady sing."

Meanwhile de Bertin found information on Mr. Vanek. He had been in an asylum in Nice, however, not as a correspondent, but as a patient. One day he had disappeared from the swimming pool, in the assistant professor's bowler hat. They had been searching for him ever since.

...Annette bent her head toward Gorchev sadly.

"I'm frightened, Ivan... Your blood won't let you rest."

"That's foolish."

"I shall always be afraid that you will leave me one day. That you will go back to the desert, to the sea. I'll tremble if you are so much as an hour late coming home."

"Don't be afraid. I'll never be late. Your fiancé was a ghost, but your husband will be a homebody..."

And all of Annette's fears were finally dissolved by the birth of Ivan Gorchev, Jr. whom the other members of the family, Antonius Wendriner, and Mr. Vanek, gladly accepted into their happy little circle...