"Yes, sir," I managed to get out.
He climbed slowly out of the car.
"You'll get seven days' detention for that, sergeant," he said, glaring at me. "Maybe that'll teach you to keep your hands to yourself!"
He walked slowly into the hotel without looking back.
I fingered my throat and cursed him.
On the stroke of seven the next morning I rapped on his door.
If I hadn't been straining my ears I wouldn't have heard him tell me to come in.
I opened the door and carried in the tray.
He was standing by the window in a silk dressing gown, his hair tousled and a cigarette hanging from his shapeless mouth.
He looked ten years older than he had done the previous night, and there were lead-coloured smudges under his eyes.
"Morning, sergeant," he said mildly.
"Morning, sir."
I set down the tray and stood to attention.
He came over and looked at the tray, picked up the whisky and carried it back to the window.
"Run my bath, sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
I ran his bath, took the temperature of the water, added more cold, decided it would be about right by the time he had finished the whisky, and returned to the bedroom.
"What do we do today?" he asked.
He had already drunk the whisky, and held the empty glass In his big, brown hand as if he didn't know what to do with it.
"You wanted to see the Uffizi Gallery and the Palazzo Vecchio this morning, sir," I said. "In the afternoon, the Pitti Palace and the Piazzale Michelangelo."
He frowned at me.
"Was that what we had arranged to do?"
"Yes, sir."
He mussed his hair still more, put down the glass and went over to the night table.
"I guess we can do better than that," he said. "Take a look at these."
He handed me the picture postcards of the Cathedral, the Baptistery and the Medici Chapels he had bought the previous afternoon.
"I don't know where they came from," he said. "Maybe the hotel manager sent them up, but they look pretty good to me."
I stared at him and he stared at me.
"The Cathedral looks terrific," he went on. "I think we should see that first. Look at that tower—what do they call it?"
"The campanile, sir."
He sat on the bed and began to rub his eyes with the heels of his palms.
"Yes. Well, for God's sake, we should see that first. Your job is to act as a guide, sergeant. I shouldn't have to tell you this. Take a look at that Medici thing. Ever seen anything like it? I haven't We'll take that in too. Maybe tomorrow we'll go to this gallery of yours."
I started to say something, then stopped.
"Nine sharp at the reception desk, sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
I about-faced, walked smartly to the door, opened it and went out.
I went down to the restaurant and had breakfast. While I chewed my way through a couple of rolls, butter and marmalade, I wondered about the General.
Was he kidding me in the hope I'd speak out of turn and give him a chance to slap a charge on me, or had he really forgotten where he had been the previous afternoon? If he had forgotten, he was a sick man, and I remembered again Lieutenant Rawlins saying he was on sick leave.
If he had forgotten, then he must be in a bad way. He might go on visiting the Cathedral, the Baptistery and the Medici Chapels until the end of his leave. He might even want to overstay his leave.
A lot of guys who had been through a battle went of their heads. They called it shellshock or war neurosis or something like that. A few of them went right round the bend. I'd met some of them, and had seen what had happened to them. Maybe the General had gone a little round the bend himself.
I decided to watch him for a couple of days, and then, if he continued to act strange, to put a call through to Major Kay and ask him what I had better do.
It was a sound idea, but it would have been a lot sounder if I had got up right away and put the call through. I wouldn't have got into the jam I did get into if I had done that, but I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to stick my neck out.
It's a dangerous thing for a sergeant to call up a major and tell him a general is going round the bend.
The General was waiting at the reception desk when I came out of the lounge on the stroke of nine.
"We'll go first to this Cathedral," he said. "The hall porter tells me it's the place to see. You should have known that, sergeant."
"Yes, sir," I said.
He went out and inspected the car. He even wiped the distributor head with his handkerchief. I had gone over every lead, every pipe, every goddamn connection, with my own handkerchief about half an hour before, and I knew he wouldn't find any oil: he didn't.
He inspected the coachwork and the inside of the car. He couldn't find anything to grumble at, so he got in and sat down.
I drove him to the Cathedral.
It was like a carbon copy of the previous afternoon. He went over every inch of the place. He stood looking at Michelangelo's Pieta as if he had never seen it before, and made me tell him its history. We examined Ghiberti's bronze doors of the Baptistery.
We went to the Medici Chapels, and I told him the history of the Medici family while he sat under Michelangelo's Night and Day just as he had done the previous afternoon.
He seemed to be sopping up the information with the same fanatical interest, but this time I wasn't fooled. He even bought the same picture postcards he had bought before.
We got back to the hotel in time for lunch.
"Where do we go this afternoon?" he asked as he got out of the car.
"There's the Uffizi Gallery if pictures interest you, sir," I said. "The bulk of the great Italian masterpieces are on show there."
"I want to see the pictures," he said. "Do you know anything about pictures, sergeant?"
"A little; enough to tell you a few points of interest, sir. If you want details we could hire a guide."
"I don't want details. I dare say you can tell me what I want to know. Fourteen hundred hours sharp."
Once again I was tempted to telephone Major Kay, but I didn't.
I decided to see what happened during the afternoon and the evening. If he continued to act queer, I'd call the Major in the morning.
After lunch we went to the Uffizi Gallery.
I was glad I had spent many hours in the gallery in the days before the war. My knowledge stood me in good stead, as he wanted to know details of the artists' lives, how they mixed their colours, the meaning behind Botticelli's primavera, and his Calumny, and a host of other questions.
We got back to the hotel around' six o'clock. He had bought a big bunch of picture postcards of the masterpieces that particularly appealed to him, and he told me to come up to his room and go through them. He made me tell him the history of the artists all over again while he jotted notes down on the back of the cards.
We did this until seven-thirty.
"I guess we'll finish these tomorrow," he said, laying aside the cards. "I've enjoyed today, sergeant. You're a damned good guide. I wish I had your knowledge of painting. It's a subject that interests me."
I suggested he should read Vasari's ‘Lives of the Painters,’ and he made a note in his notebook.
"Go and get some dinner. What are we doing tonight?"
"Whatever you wish, sir."
"Yeah." He stared blankly at me. "Didn't you say there was some kind of leg show in town? Maybe that'd be amusing."
"There is one sir, but it isn't much."
"I'll chance it. I've got to relax, sergeant. Can't go on being educated all day and night. Let’s take in the leg show."
My heart sank.
"Yes, sir."
"Twenty-one hundred hours sharp, sergeant."
"Yes, sir."
I had visions of another five-hour wait in the car.
When we met at nine o'clock, I had
a half-pint of Scotch in my hip pocket and a paperbacked novel. I wasn't sitting in that car for five hours with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.
I took him to the same Casino as before. He made the same remarks about it, and I agreed with him.
"Wait for me. I may not be long."
But this time I wasn't fooled. I settled myself down with the book and the half-pint of Scotch and forgot about him.
Around eleven o'clock, I happened to look up and saw him standing in the doorway of the Casino, staring towards me. I did some quick moving, got the car going and pulled up beside him.
"What the hell do you mean, keeping me waiting?" he said in a low, furious voice. "My God! I'll teach you to keep awake! You'll lose your stripes for this, and I'll see you don't get promotion again."
"Yes, sir," I said.
He got into the car.
"Drive to the end of the street and stop there."
He was drunk all right, but not so drunk as he had been the previous night.
I drove to the end of the street and pulled up.
We waited.
We waited for maybe ten minutes, then I heard the click of wooden shoes coming along the sidewalk.
"Open the door," the General said under his breath.
I got out.
Coming down the street towards us was a tall, blonde girl in a fur coat, hatless, and walking on very high-heeled shoes.
She couldn't have been more than twenty-two or three, but she was old in sin and experience. She had big, hard eyes, and even the heavy load of lipstick couldn't disguise the greed and hardness of her mouth.
She stopped by the car and I opened the door.
As she got into the car I caught a whiff of her perfume: the kind of stuff that needed plenty of fresh air to go with it.
She sat down beside the General, and patted his hand.
"What a lovely car, darling," she said, showing him her small, white teeth. She opened her coat. She had the big bosomy chest the Italian women seemed to specialize in, and her strapless evening gown seemed to be having hard work in coping with it.
"Where do you live?" the General asked, looking at her the way he might look at a dirty rifle.
"Via Speziali: it's not far, darling."
"Do you know it, sergeant?" he asked, looking at me.
"Yes, sir."
"Go there then."
I shut the door, got in under the wheel and drove rapidly along Via Dei Magazzini, past the famous Church of Orsanmichele, to Via Speziali. I slowed down.
"This is it, sir."
"The house by the lamppost," the girl said, leaning forward.
I pulled up by the lamppost, got out and opened the car door.
The girl got out and gave me a quick, sly wink, then walked across the sidewalk and began to fumble in her bag for her key.
The General climbed out of the car slowly. He looked up at the house, frowning.
It was tall and narrow and in darkness.
"Wait here, sergeant," he said softly. "Keep your ears alert. If I shout, come running."
"Yes, sir."
He joined the girl as she unlocked the door.
I heard her say, "Don't make a noise, darling. I'm not supposed to bring gentlemen friends here."
I watched them disappear into the dark hall, and the front door closed.
I lit a cigarette, crossed the street, and stared up at the dark house. After about three or four minutes a light sprang up in a top floor room, lighting up a yellow blind.
Five flights up, I thought gloomily. I hoped he wouldn't yell for me.
I paced up and down, watching the lighted window, smoking and thinking. I was pretty sure that if I ever went with a street woman, I'd be damned if I'd let my servant know about it: that is if I ever had a servant.
I walked up and down like that for maybe an hour, then , suddenly I spotted a, shadow cross the lighted blind. I recognized the big, lumpy shoulders and the bullet shaped head of the General. He passed three times across the blind, and I wondered what he was doing. Then he stopped before the window, pulled up the blind and opened the window.
He leaned out, looking down into the street.
I looked up at him, and waved to attract his attention.
"That you, sergeant?"
His voice, soft and low, just reached me.
"Yes, sir."
"I want you. Come on up."
I wasn't certain if I had heard him correctly.
"Shall I come up, sir?" I called.
"Yes, damn you! Come up!"
Puzzled, I crossed the street, pushed open the front door of the house, and groped my way across the dark hall. In front of me I could just make out a flight of stairs. I went up them quietly, walked along a passage, found more stairs and went up them. I kept going like that, feeling my way in the darkness, climbing stairs, until I thought I was going on climbing them all night.
Above me suddenly I saw a light, and I quickened my step.
"Come on, sergeant," the General said impatiently. He was standing on the landing, peering over the banister rail at me. "We don't want to be here all night."
I ran up the last of the stairs and joined him on the landing.
I was breathing heavily.
"Yes, sir?"
"I want your help, sergeant," he said. He was standing with his back to the light, and I couldn't see his face clearly, but I didn't like the short, jerky way he was breathing, nor the husky way he spoke.
"Yes, sir," I said, staring at him.
"Go in there and see what you make of her. I think she's passed out."
I hesitated.
"Passed out, sir?"
"Go in there, damn you!"
The sudden viciousness in his voice sent a chill up my spine.
I knew then something was wrong in that room.
I walked past him and went to the door and looked into the lighted room.
It was big; furnished with big lounging chairs, a settee, gay rugs, and a sideboard loaded with drinks. On the opposite side of the room was an archway that led to the bedroom. From where I stood I could see the foot of a divan bed.
"She's in the bedroom," the General said. "Go and look at her."
There was an odd smell coming to me as I stood in the doorway: a smell I seemed to recognize.
"Perhaps she wouldn't like it, sir," I said, my mouth turning dry.
"She won't mind," the General said, and his thick fingers closed on my arm. He shoved me forward. "Go and look at her."
I crossed the room, and as I reached the archway I knew what that smell was. My stomach tightened into a hard coil of nausea, but I had to be sure.
Standing in the archway, I looked into the bedroom, and I looked at the bed. I felt cold sweat start out over my body, and my mouth suddenly filled with saliva.
I have seen a man hit in the chest by a mortar bomb. I have seen a shell drop squarely on five men as they sat around an ammunition box, playing Gin Rummy. I have seen a pilot bale out with his parachute in flames and come down within fifty feet of me, smashed to pulp. But I've never seen anything so gruesome and ghastly as what I saw on that bed.
The knife lay on the floor: a big carving knife, red with her blood. He had hacked her to pieces. He had ripped her open the way you rip open a pig. The only thing about her that was untouched was her face.
She was grimacing at me in terror, her big, hard eyes wide and staring, her white teeth gleaming in the lamplight, her blonde hair spread out on the pillow.
I shut my eyes and turned away, sick to my stomach. I stood, my hand against the wall, fighting the urgent need to vomit, my body as cold as ice. "Better sit down, sergeant," the General said. "You don't look so good."
I controlled my nausea, stiffened, and looked at him.
He was standing by the door. He held a Beretta automatic in his right hand, and it was pointing at me.
The little Swiss clock on the overmantel struck the half-hour: its sharp, bell like chime sounded loud in the
still, silent room.
"Sit down, sergeant," the General said. "I want to talk to you."
I sat down on the arm of the settee. I was glad to. The muscles in my legs were fluttering.
He moved slowly round the room, keeping me covered with the gun until he reached the sideboard. He poured two big whiskies without lowering the gun, took one, moved away, and jerked his head at the other whisky.
"Get it, sergeant, and sit down again."
I went over to the sideboard, collected the drink and returned to the settee. My hand was shaking so badly I slopped some of the drink on the carpet.
The General took his whisky in one long swallow. I took mine more slowly.
"That's better," he said, and set the glass on a table. "I wanted that." He touched his forehead with his fingers, shook his head, frowning. "You saw what I did to her?"
"Yes," I said.
"They call that a brainstorm, I guess," he said, and again shook his head. "I've been waiting to do that for months. It's a damn funny thing, sergeant, how an idea like that creeps up on you. Maybe if they let generals go in the front line and take a smack at the enemy, it wouldn't have happened. I'm not cut out for desk work. Every now and then I've got to have a blood bath. It accumulates inside my head. It keeps growing until I can think of nothing else, then I can't work anymore, and I have to let of a little steam."
I didn't say anything: I couldn't.
"Well, it's done now," he went on, and sat on the arm of an armchair. "I feel a hell of a sight better already. By tomorrow I'll be fit to start work again." He took out a cigarette case, lit a cigarette, and tossed the case to me. "Have a smoke, sergeant. You and I have to talk seriously."
I let the case lie at my feet.
"It's a damned nuisance there'll be a fuss about her," he went on. "She isn't worth making a fuss about, but they'll try and pin it on someone. Now I'm going to ask you a question, and I want an unbiased answer. Who do you think is more important to the Army: you or me?"
I looked at him.
"Come on, sergeant. You can answer that one," he said mildly.
"I guess you are, or you were," I said huskily.
He smiled.
"I still am, sergeant. Now I've got this little business of my mind I'm as good as I've always been. I'm good for another couple of years before it'll bother me again. I know. This isn't the first time it's happened."
1952 - The Wary Transgressor Page 13
