as they ran. Golaz and Gamba came plunging through the bushes. They
were appallingly near. The top of the wall was covered with bits of
broken glass that caught his dressing-gown, as he leaped down on the
other side. As he tried to wrench it free, a brown hand reached over
and gripped it. With a twist and a turn, Hugh wriggled out of it. His
pistol fell from the pocket. He snatched it up and rushed on.
A few yards further he darted behind an ancient olive tree and looked
back. Gamba was already astride of the wall. Hugh fired twice and he
saw the man drop back. Then he ran blindly on, taking the terraces of
olive trees in reckless leaps, often landing on his knees. At length
he came out on the mountain side amid boulders and prickly scrub. He
dodged among the rocks, and cowered behind the bushes. He was torn and
bleeding in a dozen places, and his clothes were in shreds. Presently
he sank exhausted.
For over an hour he lay without moving. Everything was quiet; they had
evidently given up the pursuit. He rose and by a round-about route he
made his way back to the Casino.
Bob Bender was waiting for him on the steps. He looked anxious and
excited. He dragged Hugh through a side door.
“Quick! tell me what’s happened. You’re in a hell of a state. We were
afraid they’d got you.”
“Didn’t you know?... Vulning has escaped.”
“No!”
“Yes, he arrived at an awkward moment for me. I’ve had to jolly well
risk my life for your people.”
“Vulning must have got out by the window. It was over thirty feet from
the ground. We never thought of guarding that. He must have made a
desperate effort.... Well, did you discover anything?”
“All.”
“The devil! Quick! Tell me. How pleased the chief will be!”
“There’s a hold-up of the Casino planned for to-morrow night.”
“A hold-up!”
“Yes. They’ve got over sixty gunmen. Vulning’s to give the signal by
shooting himself with a blank cartridge. The men are to swarm up by
the windows of the small room facing the band-stand. They have two fast
steam launches to make their getaway in.”
“It was planned for to-morrow at six, you say?”
“To-morrow at six.”
“They’ll never try it now. We’ve got them beaten, thanks to you. It has
taken you a long time to get here.”
“Over two hours.”
“More. Look, it’s nearly six now.”
“I had to make a big detour to avoid them.”
“Well, there’s no time to lose. They may try to-morrow after all; we
must be prepared. Oh, won’t the chief be pleased! We must try to find
him. He’s in the Casino somewhere. He has many disguises. Come....” Bob
peered everywhere, but could see no sign of Krantz.
“Let’s look at the windows they mean to swarm up,” suggested Bob. The
two men pulled aside the yellow blinds and looked down. The ledge was
broad and the height not great.
“Easy enough,” commented Bob. “By getting into the band-stand a dozen
men could command the whole terrace. The plan’s been well considered,
but we’ll fix it so as it can never be carried out. We’ve got you
beaten, Mister Bergius.... God! What’s that?”
Hugh looked to where Bob was pointing. On the calm sea, lying close in,
were two long steam launches. They manœuvred up and down, until they
were hidden by the terrace.
“Did you see them, or did I dream?”
“No, it’s them ... _them_!”
A sudden fear seized Bob Bender. He looked up at the clock.
“Just on the stroke of six. If only Krantz were here. I wonder....”
The two men stared at one another, and even as they stared, a sudden
shot rang out.
Bob Bender gripped Hugh by the arm and cried hoarsely: “Hear that! the
signal! _They’ve advanced the time by twenty-four hours. If I’m not
mistaken the ‘hold-up’ is now on._”
2.
They turned swiftly. The people at the table had left their places,
and grabbing their stakes, were running in the direction of the sound.
Only the croupiers sat still. These looked at one another in a rather
uncomfortable way.
“Come,” said Hugh, “I want to see if it’s really Vulning.”
He ran after the others. The crowd was so dense, it was impossible to
get near the victim. Hugh saw the lackeys struggling to extricate a
limp form from under the table. The faces of the crowd wore a mixture
of curiosity and awe; they pushed and jostled shamelessly, to get a
glimpse of the suicide. The inspector, the floor director and the
director of games hurried to the scene. It had been a long time since a
suicide had taken place at the tables. It would make a nasty scandal.
“_C’est tres embetant_,” Hugh heard one of them say. He saw a lackey
arrive with a black sheet to cover the corpse. Then a woman pushed her
way out of the crowd; she was in a hysterical state.
“I saw him do it,” she cried. “I was sitting beside him. It was a big
blonde man, a Swede, I think.”
“Look!” said Hugh, suddenly gripping Bob’s arm. “It’s true. There they
come.” Almost simultaneously there were a dozen revolver shots, and a
bunch of croupiers tumbled from the smaller salon, their hands in the
air, their faces sick with fear.
“This is no place for me,” said Bob Bender. “They’ll shoot me at sight.
I’m willing to work for the Casino, but I’m not willing to lose an inch
of my skin for them.”
Bob disappeared and not a moment too soon. Hell seemed to have broken
loose. With a rush and a roar a score of men burst from the small
salon. They whooped as they ran, brandishing revolvers and firing in
the air. Their swarthy faces were lit by the savage joy of combat.
They drove every one before them; if a croupier showed a sign of
resisting he was felled with the butt of a heavy revolver. But few of
the croupiers resisted; most of them ran like rabbits, diving under the
tables.
All was pandemonium. Women shrieked and fainted; there was a general
struggle to get to the doors. Hugh could not move; he was wedged in a
mob of players who fought and roared and cursed, as they backed away
from the bandits.
Then in the midst of the mad tumult, hushing and dominating it, a harsh
metallic voice rang out. “There is no danger so long as no one resists.
Go quickly, all of you, and leave the rooms empty.”
It was Doctor Bergius. He was standing on the table to the right, an
automatic in either hand. Around his head was bound a white bandage.
Suddenly Hugh heard a report near him. A croupier had put his hand on
the metal box where the big notes were kept; he collapsed instantly,
shot in the head by Castelli.
Hugh was forced with the crowd into the refreshment room. He could
still see swarthy ruffians pouring from the small salon and hear
shrieks, shots, howls of excitement.
The centre of the Casino had been cleared, hundreds of players had been
driven into the atrium, hundreds of others penned in the refreshment
room. Doctor Bergius still stood there, while Castelli and two others
looted the tables. The band that had worked the private rooms came
running back with their booty. They were joined almost immediately
by the gang that had been pillaging the main rooms. With revolvers
in hands, they formed a solid mass, their eyes flashing, their teeth
gleaming ferociously. The voice of Doctor Bergius again rang out:
“Stay where you are, all of you. We have men posted to command the
crowd. If one of you moves from his place before a full ten minutes has
passed he will be shot. This is a solemn warning.”
The doctor leaped down, and his men followed him, firing as they went.
Hugh edged through the crowd; he wanted to see what was happening. The
last of the rear guard had disappeared into the smaller salon. Through
the open doorway he saw them descending by the window. No one had as
yet dared to move. Yes, there was _one_, a woman. Hugh saw her run
in from the atrium, and marvelled at her daring. Then he recognized
her. It was the tall woman who always dressed in grey. As she crossed
the threshold of the small salon, she fired at the two men who were
balanced on the sill; they swung around and returned the fire. Hugh
recognized Castelli and the doctor. Then they, too, disappeared and the
woman in grey lay still on the floor.
Everything was quiet, impressively quiet. The ten minutes were up but
still no one was inclined to move. Hugh was the first to break the
spell. He ran across the empty hall to the nearest open window. Two
launches were steaming away. All was over now. The grand _coup_ had
been successful. When he turned back, the lackeys were carrying the
veiled woman into one of the private rooms. Suddenly Hugh remembered
the supposed suicide. He ran into the grand salon. The body still lay
under the table. He bent down and examined it. It was Vulning; the
false blonde beard was crimsoned with blood, and his head was blown
open. The revolver had been loaded with a real ball. The poor devil had
put an end to his own life. Doctor Bergius had seen to it that he had
saved them his share of the swag. What a joker the doctor was!
3.
Hugh was sitting in his garden the following afternoon when Bob Bender
came to see him. He counted out ten bills of a thousand francs each.
“There! if we failed it was through no fault of yours. You’ve earned
this. Now we want you to go away for awhile, disappear somewhere. We
want to hush the whole thing up, choke off all inquiries.”
“All right. By the way, what about that poor woman who was shot?”
“Oh, she’s all right! They only winged her. She dropped to avoid
further injury. But then I shouldn’t say ‘she.’ Do you know who that
was?”
“No.”
“Krantz.”
“The devil!”
“Yes, I was surprised myself. He’s been spying on the gang for months.
He’ll be all right in a few weeks.”
“I’m glad. I liked Krantz. I say, you don’t need to be afraid of my
blabbing anything. But I don’t see how you are going to hush up a thing
like that. How are you going to account for it?”
Bob grinned.
“We’re giving out that it was the rehearsal of a cinema production.”
“Well, I’ll be hanged!... All right. I’ll make myself scarce. I’ll
shove off somewhere this very night.”
And three hours later he was on the boat bound for Corsica.
END OF BOOK FOUR
BOOK FIVE
_The Man Hunt_
CHAPTER ONE
THE VALLEY OF THE GOLO
1.
In the glimmer of early dawn, the big boat swung slowly into the
harbour. Under the lightening sky the steel grey waters changed to
steel blue; and the dark mysterious land smiled into friendliness. The
grey cubes piled against the mountain brightened into tall houses still
locked in sleep. Presently, with a fore-glow of citron, the clear rim
of the sun cut the sea-line; and the sea became jade green. The air
was diamond pure; the mountains took on colour; and Bastia awakened to
another careless day.
High caserne-like houses, massive-walled and stucco-fronted; shabby
shops half a century behind the times; mustiness and age; cigarettes,
vendetta knives, and goat-flesh,--these were some of Hugh’s first
impressions of Bastia.
He found a room in a tall hotel near the upper end of the town. It had
vast rambling corridors with many doors, none of which were numbered,
and to find his room he had to count each time the doorways from the
head of the staircase. The interiors of all the rooms were alike in
their simplicity. Each had high yellow walls, and a ceiling painted
with a design of flowers and fruit, a bed, a _commode_ with water-jug,
two cane bottomed chairs.
Bastia soon bored Hugh. It’s streets seemed gloomy and sordid, its
people sunk in tradition. There was nothing to do. The first morning he
wandered up and down buying the numerous brands of local cigarettes.
In the afternoon he craved a cup of tea, but it seemed to be unknown.
Finally at a big café he found a brew which tasted like _tisane_. A
single gulp sufficed.
At his hotel the food was very bad. The place was run on casual lines
by a family of Corsicans, swarthy, hairy, oily, with a suavity that
signified nothing. At his special request they procured him butter, but
it looked so much like axle-grease that he did not have the courage to
discover what it tasted like. At dinner he had a ragout of very young
lamb that tasted quite good, until the smallness of the bones suggested
to him that the lamb had been still-born, then he ate no more.
In his overwhelming loneliness he thought that he would write to
Margot. He went to the so-called _salon_, dipped a rusted pen hopefully
into a dusty ink-bottle. Alas! it was dry. Discouraged, he rose and
sought the streets again. A few cheap cinemas were open, the bills
displaying cowboy pictures,--strong, silent, wooden-faced men and
romping, sunny-haired heroines. The streets were badly lighted and
suggested nocturnal adventure; but the frequent display of the vendetta
knife in the shop windows was an incentive towards virtue. He found a
big, dingy café, and, ordering a liqueur, fell to sampling one after
another the various brands of cigarettes he had purchased. He was
abysmally bored. Bastia was the finest place in the world, he decided,
to pass through without stopping.
Then he went home to his hotel. Sitting on his bed in the candlelight,
he read his little guide-book. Suddenly he had an idea. He was fit,
foot-loose, free,--why not walk across the island? Yes, that was it.
He would tramp from Bastia to Agaccio.
2.
Next morning he bought a small, cheap valise and packed in it the few
clothes he needed, also his sketching materials, as he might want to
make some colour notes on the way. He planned to take about a fortnight
to the trip, jogging along easily, studying the people, perhaps fishing
a little, and generally enjoying himself.
This cheerful prospect reconciled him to another day in Bastia. He made
the acquaintance of a tourist party that were stopping at his hotel.
They were nearly all women, and their great subject of conversation was
not the beauties of the island but Food,--the feasts that awaited them
of fresh trout, black-birds and passionate pink wine.
“Ah! you are English!” said a vivacious French girl to Hugh. “There
are so many English in Corsica, very aristocratic English. They have
been coming here for years, and seem to think they have discovered
the place. They rather resent us ordinary tourists. There is another
Englishman in the hotel. Perhaps you have seen him. He has the
room next to yours. Or he may be an American, he is so tall and
clean-shaven, and he wears those funny big round tortoise-shell
spectacles. They make people look like owls, I think. Do you know him?
I ask because he seems so quiet, so retiring. I am quite curious about
him.”
“No, I haven’t seen him. But then I haven’t been near my room all day.
If I see him I’ll speak to him, and allay your curiosity about him.”
That evening he passed the tall man in the gloom of the corridor. Hugh
was about to accost him when the man brushed past him and disappeared
hurriedly into his room.
“Can’t be an American, after all,” thought Hugh, “or he’d be more
sociable. I’ll look up his name in the register.”
When he did look it up, he found it was Wilbur P. Hoffmann, Jersey
City; that settled it.
3.
The next morning, before starting out, he sought the proprietor of the
library where he had bought his guide-book, and inquired the best road
for his journey.
“But, monsieur,” said the man, “it would be better to take the train to
Cassamozza; it is very flat and uninteresting as far as that. There the
mountains begin, and you go up the valley of the Golo. The train starts
in half an hour. You have just time to catch it, if you hurry.”
The idea was a good one. Hugh hurried back to the hotel, leaped up the
two flights of stairs and burst into his room. He grabbed his valise,
which he had packed before going out, and rushed down into the street.
Within ten minutes he was seated in the train.
The first class carriage in which he found himself was very small and
very dirty. He had to rub the windowpane with a newspaper in order to
see out. On the walls of the compartment were advertisements of the
wine of Cap Corse, a local _apéritif_, and a liquor called Cederatine.
There were three other passengers in the carriage, a fat, spectacled
man and two thin, spectacled women. From their accent he thought they
were German at first, but later decided they were Dutch. They did not
interest him. When the train started he turned his attention to the
scenery. A green level stretched away to brown marshes that in turn
yielded to the grey of the sea. At the tiny stations, sheltered by
eucalyptus trees, peasants laden with baskets got in and out. Hugh
attached a strap to the rings of his valise so that he could sling it
from his shoulder. He had packed it with bread, cheese and fruit, a tin
billy and a packet of tea.
He had decided to walk for two hours after reaching Cassamozza, then
lunch in the open, so that it was with a sense of cheerful adventure
that he descended at the little station and started out on his long
tramp. How hot the way was! As he strode up the valley of the Golo the
sun was scorching, the road a dazzling white; below him was a furious
torrent, now dashing in dazzling foam amid great boulders, now swirling
greenly in gravelly pools. It delighted him; it was so pure, so wild,
so free. There was the _maquis_, too. It rose on either hand, clothing
the mountain sides with rich dark green. It was pathless, dense, the
best cover in the world. Here in the old days bandits had defied the
forces of law and order; but now, doubtless, they were all dead.
With every step he realized more and more that he was advancing into
the land of legend and history. He passed a hoary shepherd, who might
have stepped from the pages of romance. The old man had a long beard
and was dressed in brown corduroy. On his head he wore a picturesque
_beret_, and strapped to his back was a huge blue umbrella and a gun.
He was leaning motionless on his long staff, gazing over a flock of
black-haired sheep that mottled the hillside. Hugh felt the poetry of
it--the mountains soaring to meet the sky, the white torrent roaring
in his ears, the solitary shepherd, white-bearded as a patriarch of old.
He was becoming hungry, furiously hungry, and he thought with joy of
the simple fare tucked away in his valise. He climbed down to the
river, and in the shadow of a great rock made a cheerful fire of
driftwood. Now for the tea. Confound it! What was the matter with his
valise? His key refused to turn in the lock.
“That is the worst of these cheap bags,” he complained; “the key always
jams when you are in a devil of a hurry.”
He was ravenously hungry. His mouth watered even at the thought of
bread and cheese. Damn the thing! It was a pity to break the lock but
there seemed no help for it. Another effort. There, it was yielding.
Bravo! it had suddenly burst open.... Good God!
He stared blankly at what he saw. He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
No, he was not dreaming, he was not mad ... they were there, dozens of
them ... packets tightly tied, neatly arranged, numbered.... _Thousand
franc bank-notes_. There seemed to be a hundred to a packet, and there
were twenty-eight packets. Nearly three million francs! What could it
all mean? Still staring at the wealth in his possession, he sat down
and tried to think. The Golo roared in his ears. Between two grim grey
boulders it crashed; it swirled and eddied into a great green pool. In
those pure depths could be seen the darting shadows of trout.
_Three million francs!_
He breathed the perfume of the _maquis_. He saw it carpeting the broad
valley, rising to the mountain ridges that met the sky. Yonder like a
carved figure the patriarchal shepherd stood motionless by his flock.
It was like a dream.
_Three million francs._
Yes, there they were in that little valise. He looked closely at it;
it was not his valise. It was quite different from the one he had
bought, bigger and finer! He had taken it by mistake. How could he
have made such a blunder? It had been in his room.... Or had it been
in his room? Ah! that was it. In his furious hurry to catch the train
he must have entered the wrong room.... But whose? Why, whose but the
tall American’s; Wilbur P. Hoffmann’s. Now he was getting at it. He
had rushed into the room adjoining his and carried away the American’s
valise. It was not such a strange thing to do, after all. The rooms
were all alike, the doors unnumbered. He had not examined particularly
his valise when he had bought it; and it was little wonder that he had
not noticed the difference. Yes, he had carried away another man’s
valise containing nearly three million francs. What should he do with
it? Go back to Cassamozza and telegraph, of course! The tall American
must be in a devil of a stew. But what was Wilbur P. Hoffmann doing
packing three million francs around in a hand valise? It was a rum
affair....
Hugh realized suddenly his own position. It was dangerous to be
carrying such a treasure in this wild, primitive country. Few men would
hesitate to kill him to gain possession of it. Even now some one might
be watching him. Half fearfully he looked around. Then he closed the
valise with a snap. Some one _was_ watching him. It was a peasant lad
who had bobbed up from the other side of the big boulder.
“Hullo,” said Hugh.
“_Bon jour, monsieur._”
The lad drew nearer. He carried a long cane fishing-rod and had a
canvas wallet slung at his back. He wore an old army tunic on which was
sewn the yellow ribband of the military medal. He also limped badly.
His age was about that of Hugh, and his face was olive tinted and bold
featured.
“How is the fishing?”
“Not bad, monsieur. A little too clear. Still, look....”
Opening his satchel he showed Hugh four fine trout. Suddenly Hugh
remembered that he was hungry.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve walked from Cassamozza, and I’ve forgotten to
bring anything to eat. I’m dying of hunger. I suppose it wouldn’t be
possible to cook these?”
“Nothing easier, monsieur. I generally cook a fish or two for lunch.
See....”
He took from his wallet a small frying-pan and a bottle of olive oil.
“Already you have a fire made. We will cook these in no time, and you
will see how nice they will be.”
He soon had the fish simmering on the fire. He produced a piece of
coarse bread and even some salt. When the fishes were cooked Hugh
laid them on a flat stone. He ate with his hands, stripping the bones
with his fingers. What matter! There was lots of water to wash in
afterwards, all the Golo a giant finger-bowl at his feet. He had never
tasted fish quite so delicious.
“There! I feel better,” he said at last. “Now for a good drink at the
river and a smoke.”
He produced cigarettes and the two smoked comfortably.
“Been at the War?” asked Hugh.
“Yes,” said the lad. “Verdun. I got wounded in the leg there. It still
bothers me. Two of my brothers were killed. There’s not a family here
but lost some one. You know we Corsicans are brave. There were no
braver men in the French army than our regiments. But they don’t like
the Corsicans in France. The French generals sacrificed us.”
He shook his head sadly.
“Ah! poor Corsica. It is the forgotten island. So rich, yet so
neglected. We are supposed to be savage, but there is no people so
kindly. But we are poor, oh, so poor. Look at me. I have not a _sou_.
And I will always be like this, poor, ragged, ignorant. It is hard.”
“What would you do if you had ... say three million francs?”
“Ah, monsieur, you jest. That is all the money in the world. Why, I
would buy my old mother the cottage she lives in; then I would go to
Paris and get an education. I would live like a fine gentleman. Ah!
Paris. I was there once. What a time I had! I shall never forget it.
Well, now I must catch some more fish for our supper this night.”
Hugh tried to give him a bill for five francs, but the lad drew back
proudly.
“No, monsieur, we are a hospitable people. We do what little we can to
make the stranger welcome. I thank you, but I can accept nothing.” He
limped away in his rags and Hugh did not see him again.
4.
Once more Hugh climbed to the road. He would go on, he decided, to the
next station and telegraph there. What a beastly nuisance! He would
have to return to Bastia. That American, who was he? Even in that brief
moment in the corridor there had been something vaguely familiar about
him. What if he were a criminal fleeing from justice! What if.... Good
Heavens!... Hugh stopped short as the great idea flashed on him. Could
it be?... Could it be that Wilbur P. Hoffmann was....