pencil markings confirmed his suspicion.... Was it Doctor Bergius?
Absurd! Yet why not? Doctor Bergius with his beard shaved off, his
head cropped, would not look very unlike Wilbur P. Hoffmann. He had
noticed, even in the obscurity, the man’s large, beak-like nose.
Conviction grew on him. Yes, the tall American was Doctor Bergius. Here
now was a pretty mess. What was he to do? The Casino had been robbed
of three million francs. He was alone with the booty in the savage
heart of Corsica; he could not return it to the robbers, and to return
it to the Casino ... hum! That didn’t quite appeal to him either. He
had not much sympathy with the Casino. They could well afford to lose
it. It would be better to hand it over to some deserving charity. In
the meantime what was to be done? He could not carry the stuff round.
He must dispose of it for the moment. That was it. He would hide it.
He had been hearing for some time, as he walked, the roar of a great
waterfall, and saw it about three hundred yards further on at the head
of a very wild and solitary gorge. Climbing over the rocks, he reached
the base of the cliff where the white shaft of water plunged into a
deep pool. He found that the rock over which it fell shelved back into
a low cave. He crawled in; it was quite dry. He took out the bundles
of bank-notes, and wrapping them in his waterproof coat, bound the
parcel tightly with stout cord. Then he crawled still further into the
cave and jammed it into a fissure of the rock.
“There! It’s safe,” he said. “It can remain in that cleft a thousand
years and no one will find it.”
He crawled out cautiously, and, after reconnoitring to see that no one
had observed him, continued on his way.
CHAPTER TWO
IN THE “MAQUIS”
1.
Amid the gorges of the Golo the white road wound on and up. The
_maquis_ encroached on it, frowned on it shaggily. Once or twice Hugh
plunged into the perfumed cover and explored it for a few yards. The
landscape lay sunny and still.
On the other side of the road, all strength and joy, the river leapt
like a living thing; it charged the boulders, it flashed in foam, it
gleamed in green pools. Sometimes he saw peasants with cane-poles
tempting the unsophisticated trout.
He came on other ancient shepherds, with big flocks of black sheep,
or goats. They always bowed profoundly, then resumed their statuesque
pose. From time to time he passed cottages with red tiled roofs. Sturdy
children, peach-skinned, with dark, glossy hair, and bold black eyes,
came out to stare at him. A poor, proud, self-reliant race.
Beside each house was its own private graveyard. Often the tombs were
walled, so that the dead were better housed than the living.
Sometimes the road dived into groves of cork-trees. They had all been
stripped of their barks, the new growth showing by its colour and depth
the number of years since each tree had been scaled.
Hugh found the way full of interest, and would have been very happy
indeed, had it not been for the thought of the money. It haunted him.
Why had Doctor Bergius brought it here? Had he given the others the
slip, or were they all here? If they were, then heaven help him!
They would soon be on his trail, and would never let up. They were
relentless. In this lonely seabound island how could he escape them?
In spite of the bright sunshine and the reassuring tranquillity of his
surroundings, he shuddered.
High up in the folds of the hills he saw grey mountain villages, each
clustered about a tall church, and looking so still, so dreamlike, that
it was hard to believe any one lived there. Nearly all the women he
met were dressed in black with black-silk scarfs knotted around their
heads. He remembered that in this land the period of mourning is seven
years, so that it is rare for a woman to be out of black.
He had passed many round rings of stone on the green sward. He asked a
stalwart farmer what they were and was told that they were threshing
floors. They still used oxen to trample the corn as they had done ever
since the time of the Romans. Then as the sun was setting, he met a
caped and bearded shepherd, leading home his flock, and carrying a lost
lamb in his arms.
It was evening when he reached Ponte Lecchio and found a lodging for
the night. His room was large and lofty, quite bare except for a large
crucifix on the white-washed wall. As he was dropping off to sleep he
thought of Margot. She must be very busy preparing for her wedding.
He ought to write to her, and give her his fraternal blessing. But
somehow he couldn’t. Of course, what she was doing was for the best.
He hoped she would be happy and all that sort of thing. He had always
advised her to marry, and now she was doing it; yet somehow it made him
melancholy.
“I’ll get over it,” he sighed dolefully; “I’ll forget all about her.”
In the morning he resumed his tramp. He had luncheon at a place called
Omessa, in an _auberge_. He ate slices of the raw ham of the country,
Roquefort cheese made on the neighbouring farms, figs and walnuts,
all washed down with the rich wine of the country. Thus heartened
he continued his way. As he neared the station of Omessa he heard
the train whistle. He loitered to let it pass. He bought a couple of
oranges from a woman squatting on the platform beside a great round
basket full of them, then stepped back into the grimy waiting room. He
was idly peeling one of the oranges when the train drew up. The window
of the waiting room was plastered with time-table bills, but in the
narrow space between them Hugh peered out.
Suddenly his heart seemed to lift in a sickening way. At the door of a
first class carriage were three men,--Castelli, Golaz and Gamba. They
were after him. As he stared through the narrow chink he saw Gamba
descend and buy some oranges. Then a fourth man came from the back
of the compartment. It was Wilbur P. Hoffmann. The supposed American
looked up and down the platform. His face was worried and anxious.
Hugh’s suspicion was correct. That hard, grim face, dominated by its
beak-like nose, was none other than Doctor Bergius.
“Take a look round the station,” cried the doctor to Gamba. “He may be
here. We cannot afford to take any chances.”
Hugh had just time to rush from the waiting room by the back door
as Gamba entered. He heard a step on the wooden floor, and knew the
little man was coming after him. How could he escape? At the end of
the station house was a small stone building into which he darted.
He pulled the door shut, holding the handle with all his strength.
Around him were brushes and a ladder. Under his feet he heard the
crunch of coal. He was evidently in the closet used by the caretaker
of the station. As he held the door, he heard a step outside and Gamba
seized the handle, cursing volubly. Hugh held on grimly. Although Gamba
supposed the door was locked, he made another effort to open it. He
had powerful hands had the Strangler. Hugh felt the handle gradually
turning in his grip. Another instant and Gamba would conquer. Then the
train whistled, and Gamba hurried off.
Hugh waited a full ten minutes before he emerged from the closet. The
train has gone; he saw it puffing far up the valley. There was no one
on the platform. He was safe.
For the moment at least. The train was bearing his enemies away, but
to-morrow they would return. When they discovered he had not arrived at
Agaccio they would double back. They were like a pack of blood hounds
on his trail and the hunt was only beginning. He was entirely at their
mercy. He must use his wits and trust to Providence.
2.
Before he reached Corte the weather had changed; clouds had collected,
and a fine rain was falling. He found a poor room in a large,
unsanitary hotel, but dined decently on an omelette and some fried
trout.
Corte in the drizzling twilight was very depressing. An old fortress
stood on a rocky point against a savage mountain. Clammy scarfs of mist
wreathed the peaks and trailed down the passes. Hugh wandered about the
muddy main street, halting on the greasy pavement to peer down dark
and ruinous courts. Seen under that cowl of sky, through the curtain of
soft rain, Corte was indeed a joyless and discomforting place.
He sought his room, and spent an uneasy night between damp sheets. He
was sorry now he had not made for Bastia and hid there until a boat
sailed. The thought of the doctor and his band of desperadoes frankly
terrified him. Well, he would go on now, and trust to luck.
Next morning the rain had ceased, although it still threatened. It
would be better, he thought, to lunch by the wayside; and he bought
some cheese, fruit, bread and a bottle of wine. Thus provisioned he
started up the mountain road that was to take him on the next stage of
his journey.
Ever since he had left Cassamozza he had been climbing steadily. He
had left behind the lemon and orange groves, and now was steadily
mounting to a land of oak forests and ravines. The flocks of sheep had
given place to herds of goats, and the _maquis_ was growing more and
more aggressive. Down in the dim valley, like a silver tape, was the
Tavignano meandering to the sea. On the other side of the valley were
two precipitously perched villages. He passed many little roadside
shrines, and one or two old lime kilns. Here and there were bearded
goatherds in long black cloaks, standing as motionless as scarecrows in
a wheatfield. At noon he sat down on the edge of the _maquis_ and ate
his luncheon.
He was just finishing his meal, when he paused and listened. Surely he
heard the faint chugging of a motor.... Yes, yonder it was, a small car
cautiously descending the mountain road. Some instinct made him draw
back into the bush. Well he did so, for it was the four men who were
hunting him, Castelli driving with the doctor, Golaz and Gamba behind.
Hugh saw their eyes searching the road on either side. Now they were
looking at the very spot where he lay. But the brush was thick, and
they passed slowly on. A narrow escape!
They must have started early that morning from Agaccio. He knew they
would have little difficulty in tracing him on that island where
strangers were rare. It was just a question of time, of getting his
location narrowed down. They would learn that he had stopped at Corte
and had taken the road to Agaccio. Then they would turn back to search
for him, inquiring at every house and village on the way. Beyond him
was the little hillside town of Venaco. They would inquire if he had
passed through. Well, he would not pass through; he would take to the
_maquis_ and go round.
All afternoon he kept to the _maquis_, avoiding villages, hamlets
and even houses. He scrambled over rocks, stumbled through brush. He
flattered himself that not even a peasant had seen him. He kept close
to the road, his ear ever alert for the far off sound of a motor.
He was making slow progress, but he could see no other way. By now
they must have traced him to Corte, and learned that he was but a few
miles away. Doubtless they had asked the peasants to look out for him,
even offered a reward. Perhaps at that very moment a score of stalwart
Corsicans were scouring the bush for him. He had but one slim chance of
escape, that of lying low, working his way to Agaccio and catching the
boat for Marseilles.
He decided to sleep that night in the _maquis_. Under the shadow of
an overhanging rock he found a place that was quite dry and screened
by the foliage of an oak tree. He made a tiny fire, ate what remained
of his food, and smoked a good deal. If only he had had a blanket he
would have been fairly comfortable.
He arose with the dawn, stiff and sore. He took to the road, thinking
he would meet no one at that early hour. He was ravenously hungry and
felt reckless. When he came to the solitary house of a shepherd, he
ventured to approach it and ask for food.
It was a two storied house with plastered walls, and a red tiled roof.
An outer stairway led to the upper floor where the family lived; the
ground floor was used as a stable.
As he knocked at the rough door he told himself he must seem rather a
sorry sight. A night in the _maquis_ had not improved his appearance.
If he had only been wearing the corduroys of the country ... but he was
in a brown Norfolk jacket, grey flannel trousers and a panama. He was
not surprised when the bearded and spectacled old man who opened the
door stared at him with astonishment.
“Can I have something to eat?” he asked.
Corsican hospitality is proverbial.
“_Entrez donc, monsieur_,” said the old man.
Hugh entered. The house consisted of but one big room meagerly
furnished. Hams hung from the rafters, and at a small stove a woman,
surrounded by a brood of half-clad children, was preparing coffee. The
old man offered him a chair.
“The place is yours, monsieur. Make yourself at home.”
He ate some bread and drank his coffee, then rose to go. The old man
detained him. In half intelligible French he began to relate the
family history: they were miserably poor; his son, the father of the
small brood, only worked at intervals. They had a garden, some goats,
pigs, chickens, a few cultivated acres. Praise God there was always
something to feed the children. Would monsieur like to taste their
home-cured ham? Ah! now he must insist.
There was a heavy step on the outer stair and the old man went quickly
to the door. Hugh heard hurried whispers then the step descended
rapidly. The old man returned, and continued to cut the ham. He offered
it raw after the fashion of the country. Hugh would have preferred it
cooked, but under the circumstances he thought it best to bolt it down
as it was. Then he rose again and said he must be on his way.
Again the old man tried to detain him. “Why not stay a little and rest
yourself? There is a nice warm bed, and we have goat’s meat for dinner.
You must see how good it is.”
The old man almost hung onto his arm. His eagerness seemed very
suspicious, so Hugh gently detached himself and bade good-bye to the
family. As he went up the road, he saw them all watching him from the
doorway.
No sooner was the house out of sight than he took to the _maquis_. His
fears were justified, for about an hour later two cars passed very
slowly. The first, the small green one he had already seen, contained
Castelli, Golaz and Gamba; the other, a big powerful grey, driven by a
chauffeur, held Doctor Bergius. They had heard of him, no doubt, at the
house of the shepherd, and were patrolling the road. But, hidden as he
was in that dense jungle of _maquis_, they had little chance of finding
him. He imagined that they must have telegraphed to Bastia for the big
grey car.
About two o’clock he saw the two cars going back in the direction of
Venaco, and once more ventured to take to the road. As he passed a
dismal farm a man and a woman paused in their work to regard him. He
wanted to ask them for food, but their manner was so strange that he
decided it was wiser to go on. When he was a little way from the house,
he saw the man leap on a mule and ride off in the opposite direction.
Evidently the whole countryside had been warned, and every one was on
the look-out for him. It would be only a matter of time before they
cornered him. Once again he took to the _maquis_.
Rain had begun to fall. The underbrush was drenched and he was cold and
wet. Still he pushed doggedly on. His despair gave him strength and he
covered quite a distance. He cut off a big bend in the road by going
straight through the bush. As he was in the midst of the _maquis_ he
heard again the sound of a motor. Climbing a rock he peered cautiously
over the country. Close to the road a number of peasants were moving
back and forth. They were beating the bush for him.
Still more cautiously he moved forward. Half an hour later he came
out on the road once more. Not far away he heard the beaters crashing
through the brush. Soon they must find him. He peered around carefully
... then his heart leaped.
Standing by the side of the road was the little green car. It was
empty. Castelli and the others had gotten out and were searching for
him. He looked up and down the road. There was no sign of them.
Then a desperate idea came to him.... Yes, he would do it.
CHAPTER THREE
IN THE MOUNTAINS
Once more he looked up and down the road. Still no sign of any one. Now
was the moment.
He sprang to the little green car and spun the handle. Would it start
or not? The motor breathed gently. Exultation flamed in him. A good
car and a good road ... the devil himself could not stop him now. He
leapt to the seat, jerking off the brake and giving her gas at the same
moment. Then he heard a shout from behind, and turned his head sharply.
About a hundred yards behind him Gamba had come out of the _maquis_.
There was no time to lose. The little man was running like a deer. How
about the gears? Hugh looked down at the gate in which they worked, a
four-speed gear box. They must go the usual way,--front, back, cross
and front, back. Quick, Gamba was getting closer! He jammed in the
first speed, and the car moved slowly forward. Second speed! He was
going faster now, but Gamba was still gaining. Third speed! He heard
close behind him the hard, panting breath of his pursuer. Gamba was
running like the wind. Quickly he shot into high; and at the same
instant he heard a heavy thump on the back of the car. Gamba had jumped
and was hanging on behind.
The car was going at a fair speed now. If he only could get rid of that
grinning little devil behind all would be well. Gamba was hoisting
himself up. Soon he would be in the car, and then.... Hugh looked back
once more. The man was waist-high above the hood. In another moment it
would be too late. Ha! there on the floor by his feet was a spare can
of petrol. That might do. He reached for it and with all his strength
flung it over his shoulder. It must have caught Gamba square on the
face, for he heard a crash and a howl. When he looked again Gamba was
gone. He had a brief glimpse of him sprawling on the road. Then on and
on at increasing speed.
Suddenly from the _maquis_ he heard a shout like the hoarse bellow of a
bull. Before him, on a snag of rock, was the burly figure of Golaz. The
man shook huge fists at him in impotent rage. The rock was about twenty
yards away from the road and Hugh knew he could pass it before Golaz
had time to descend. He put on a burst of speed. The car leapt forward.
What was Golaz after? He had bent down and was wrenching furiously at
the rock. He detached a great fragment of it and stood with it poised
above his head. What a ferocious figure he made against that savage
background, his dark face distorted with rage!
Instinctively Hugh slowed up. He knew what was coming. A car is a hard
object to miss, and that great rock crashing down on any part of it,
would hopelessly wreck him. There was no way of avoiding it; the road
was narrow with thick brush on either hand. Nothing but to dash forward
and take his chance.
He opened the throttle to the full, and the little car answered like a
living thing. It seemed to pause for an astonished moment, then bounded
forward so swiftly that it almost seemed to leave the ground. At the
same instant the great stone came crashing down.
Would it hit him? He heard a snarl of rage from Golaz and a dull thump
on the road behind him. Yes, that admirable response of his engine,
that sudden spurt of speed had deceived the man. The great stone had
missed by a hand’s breadth.
“Oh, you gallant little beast!” breathed Hugh to the car. “You’re a
thoroughbred. You’ll save me yet.”
Behind him Golaz continued to roar and wave his arms. Hugh had a flash
of intuition that his danger was not yet over. He was right. From the
_maquis_ about a hundred yards ahead, darted the figure of another man
... Castelli. He stood in the centre of the road with his automatic
pistol, and waited. Hugh was reckless. He must pass that man. A wave of
hate surged through him; Castelli was trying to kill him; well, then,
he would try to kill Castelli. He would run him down.
The car was going at full speed, rocking and bounding in its leaps.
Castelli drew a little to one side and with a quick twist of the wheel
Hugh swerved and bore down on him. The man saw his intention and sprang
away. That leap saved Hugh; a bullet struck and starred his windshield;
another whistled past his head; a third punched a harmless hole in one
of his rear mud-guards. Then he passed out of range. He was free ...
free.
Once more exultation flamed in him. The road, ever climbing higher,
followed the folds of the mountains. Sometimes, as he looked ahead,
it would seem to come to an end and the careening car be about to
leap into the vast void of the valley. But as he drew near, it hooked
sharply round, and with a wrench of the wheel he was safe on a new
stretch. Below him, far, far below, he could see the white bed of the
Tavignano, the river like a blue ribband tangled amid the boulders.
He seemed to be in the clouds, and rising, rising to the top of the
world. He stopped the car for a moment to consult his map.
Good! It was only three o’clock, and not more than some eighty
kilometres to Agaccio. If nothing happened he could make it by
nightfall. True, they might telegraph to the police, and have him
stopped at some wayside village. No, that was not likely. They did not
want to have any dealings with the police. Once at Agaccio he was safe.
He was about to start again, when he heard a sound that checked him.
With a hand on the wheel he listened intently. From far down the valley
it came, the faint tick-tock of a straining motor. He ran his eye along
the sinuous curve of road that was like a white tape-line tacked to the
mountain. Yes, there it was, about two miles away, the long grey auto
racing in pursuit.
“If they want to catch me, they’ll have to do some giddy going,” he
muttered, as once more he slammed on his speeds.
The little car, panting with eagerness, ate up the road. If only it had
been a straight road he could have launched forward, but the hair-pin
bends baffled him. As he swung around them, a swerve of a few inches
would have shot him a thousand feet into the valley below. Ahead of
him the mountains rose like a solid wall, gaunt and stupendous. They
seemed to crowd around him, to close him in, to block his way. Clouds
cloaked their higher summits and the drizzling rain had grown chill and
dispiriting. The increasing stickiness of the way made careful driving
more and more necessary. Dizzily on his right rose the mountain; on his
left sheerly dropped the valley. A skid would be fatal.
Nervously he slackened speed, but even as he did so his heart seemed
to contract. On the bend of the hill below he saw the grey car. It
swung madly round a corner and strained on with relentless energy. That
chauffeur must be a demon. The four men were urging him to greater
speed, bending forward with fierce excited gestures. They were not more
than half a mile behind and every second the distance was lessening.
Once more Hugh gave the car gas and she leaped forward.
They should not capture him. That would mean torture, death. He knew
them. They were exasperated now beyond all reason. They would show him
no mercy. And they were gaining on him, gaining relentlessly, inch by
inch.
It was getting gloomier, he noticed,--and more chilly. Yet in spite of
the increasing cold, great drops of sweat beaded his brow. With hands
tensely clutching the driving wheel he glared at the glistening road
ahead. His motor was going with a steady roar; and the car was bucking
and plunging in a maddened frenzy of speed. He was near the top of the
long valley, and soon would be dashing into the dark defiles of the
mountains. But before he could reach them he would have to pass over a
long bit of straight road. It was on this, he feared, the final tussle
would come.
He had not gone more than a third of a mile when he heard the grey car
come around the corner behind him. They were now on the same stretch,
running for every last ounce of power in their motors. The grey car
roared down on him like the wind. It must be doing eighty miles an hour
to his forty. With his foot jammed hard on the gas-pedal, he clutched
the bucking wheel. The car bounded and rocked beneath him. It was all
he could do to keep it on the road. The hillside was a blur, the wind
screamed in his ears.
With every spin of its great engine the grey car was gaining. He dared
not look around, but he felt sure that the four men were reaching
forward, revolvers in hands, tense, grim, implacable. The giant panting
of their motor drowned the roar of his own. He could do no more, ... he
was at his full burst of speed.