The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four

by Louis L'Amour

  “There was a charter plane at the field. You knew him, I think? Milligan? He would fly you anywhere for a price and land his plane on a pocket handkerchief if need be. Moreover, he could be trusted, and there were some, in those days, who could not. I placed five hundred dollars in his hand and said I wished to leave for Shanghai at once.

  “‘After I gas up,’ he said.

  “‘Now,’ I told him. ‘Right now. There is petrol at—’ I took his map and put my finger on the place. ‘And you can land there.’

  “‘If you say,’ he replied doubtfully. ‘I never heard of—’

  “‘The petrol is there,’ I promised him. ‘I had it placed there for just such an emergency.’”

  The general looked around at me. “You are young, lieutenant, and wise as you may be, you are still learning, so remember to trust no one! Prepare for every eventuality no matter how remote! Not even a mouse trusts himself to one hole only. That is an old saying, but it has remained in my mind, and can I be less wise than a mouse?

  “We took off at once. Within twenty minutes of my realization I acted! And that night I was in Shanghai with her!”

  “Her?” He had lost me.

  “Of course! With Milton’s blonde. What was her name? I’ve forgotten. No matter. I was there, consoling her.

  “Of course”—he glanced at me—“I was younger then and not so—so—well, I am a little overweight now. But then, ah, I was handsome then, lieutenant! I was handsome, and I was, of course, younger.

  “I found her in tears. She was weeping for him. For Milton. Or perhaps she was weeping for that lost trip to Paris. About women, lieutenant, one never knows. No matter.

  “There on the floor was the black bag. It was out of the way, back against the sofa’s end, but I recognized it at once. True, I’d never seen it before, but I’d seen others of the kind. In it would be the money! All that delightful, beautiful money! And she was crying? Well, as I have said, she was a woman, and about women one never knows.

  “I consoled her. What else could I do? What does one do with a pretty woman who is sad and has a quarter of a million dollars, give or take a few? I told her she must not worry, that I—I would take her to Paris! And who knew Paris better? Who knew the nightspots, the cafés, the bordel—Well, who knew the town better than I? Even its history!

  “Oh, I was marvelous that day! I told her exciting and glamorous tales of what the city was like, of living there, and I dropped names, names of all the famous and infamous. As a matter of fact, I actually did know some of them.

  “She was consoled! She rested her head on my shoulder. As you have seen, they are very broad. She dried her tears; then she smoothed her dress, she touched up her makeup, and she said, ‘I still have the tickets. We could go at once. I—there is nothing more for me here! Nothing!’

  “‘I know.’ I took her two hands. ‘It is tragic. But in Paris, my dear, you can forget. In Paris there is music, there is dancing, there is love, and there is beauty! And we shall be there—together!’”

  He paused, refilling his glass. “She listened, her blue eyes very wide and wondering. She was a dear girl, no question of it. The black bag was at my feet. ‘Look!’ I took from my pocket a packet of bills and stripped off several of the thousand-dollar denomination. ‘Take this! I shall meet you in Paris! Go to this place—’ I wrote out the name of a small, discreet hotel—‘and wait for me. I shall not be long.’

  “Then I picked up the black bag and walked out. Once beyond the door with the bag I did not wait for the lift, but ran down the stairs. I had it, did I not? I had the black bag with the quarter of a million, and more to come from my own sale of the munitions! Ah, it was exciting, my friend, most exciting! It is always exciting when one is making money! And such delightful sums! Into my car then and away to the field where Milligan awaited me.

  “Racing out on the field, I leaped from the car. Milligan was there, beside his plane, but he was not alone.

  “Three men were with him, and one of them was the old marshal. He was the last person I expected in Shanghai, where he had many enemies, but here he was. One of the men stood guard over Milligan, and the other had a pistol directed at me.

  “My eyes caught those of Milligan. He was a man I knew—a tough man, a ready man. Did I tell you that he was from Texas? Anyway, a lift of the brows, a small hand gesture—he knew what was coming. There was no doubting that he wished to be away as much as I.

  “‘Ah, Marshal Chang! How delightful to see you! And what a surprise to find you in Shanghai of all places! Once I knew what happened I flew here at once! At once, Marshal. It was my duty as your aide, your confidant, and your friend to rectify this error!’

  “You see, one does what one can, and I had already given up on this money. True, what I was about to do would hurt! Hurt, lieutenant! But it was my only way out. The old marshal would be in no mood for games, and every second here was filled with danger for him, so he was desperate. As for me, it is a wise soldier who knows when to retire from the field.

  “Anyway, did I not have money awaiting me at the other end? From my sale of the arms?

  “‘When I realized what had happened, Marshal, I flew to recover your money! It was the least I could do for one who has been my friend, my adviser, almost a second father!’

  “‘Recover?’ he asked, puzzled.

  “‘Of course! It is here! In this bag! Now if you would like to fly back with me?’

  “‘Let me see the money,’ he demanded.

  “‘Of course,’ I said, and yielded the bag to his grasp. Yielded it reluctantly, you understand, for I had hoped to have that money somehow, someway. If I could just get the marshal into the plane—

  “He gestured to one of his men, he who had been covering me, to open the bag. He did so. The marshal leaned over and peered inside; then he looked up at me, and his face was dark with anger.

  “Looking into the bag, I knew why, knew that we had been cheated, that—

  “The bag was filled with old newspapers, and there was a novel there to give it weight. And that novel? How could it have had weight enough? It was by a writer I have never liked—never!

  “The old marshal was trembling with anger. ‘You!’ he shouted. ‘You—!’

  “It was a time, lieutenant, a time for decision! Never have I been more pleased with myself than what I did then! In an instant I should have been killed! And Milligan, also! It was a time for action, and like the old soldier I was, I acted!

  “He who guarded me had lowered his pistol while he opened the bag, and for that reason he was holding the pistol but loosely. I struck down at the base of his thumb with the edge of my hand, and as the pistol fell from his hand, I seized it and fired!

  “Not at the man I had disarmed but at the man guarding Milligan.

  “Turning swiftly, I shoved the old marshal. He was a heavy man, and he tottered back off balance and fell. Milligan had leaped into the plane, and the man I had disarmed leaped at me. My pistol exploded, and he fell; then I leaped into the plane, and we were off—gone!

  “Once again, lieutenant, I had snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. I do not wish to appear smug, but it is only the truth.

  “In Kansu I received payment for the guns and told them where the junk would be. Then once more we took off. In the air I changed clothing, changed to such a costume as an English scientist might wear in the field. I had it always with me, for you know how the English are—one is apt to find them anywhere, in any out-of-the-way, godforsaken place, doing God knows what.

  “I was to be a hunter of butterflies and a bit vague about all else. You see? It was an excellent cover.

  “We landed—I shall not say where, for it is a field I have often used and may well use again. I have such places here and there. One never knows, does one?

  “There I paid Milligan. Ten thousand dollars, more than he had ever seen before at one time, and there I left him, but with regret. He was a man, that one!

  “I bought horse
s, and in a small town I found some equipment abandoned at some time by a scientific scholar before he attempted the Karakoram Pass. Have you tried it? If not, do not. It is—anyway, there is another older pass not far from there that is useful if one does not mind swinging bridges over gorges with roaring water beneath.

  “It is a very remote country, yet it seemed by far the best and far from troublesome officials. Who would expect to find anyone in such a place. Yet when we reached Chabrang—”

  “Yes?”

  “We went to a place where we might find food, and I heard a merchant, a Kirghiz, complaining in a loud voice against the government! He had been stopped, searched, questioned. It seemed there were soldiers there looking for someone with a great deal of money. As if any merchant dared carry any money at all in such a place!

  “You can see my problem. But again I refused to be defeated! It is my decision that counts! I decided, and I acted! Promptly!

  “I inquired, and in a voice just loud enough that all might hear, as to the ruins of Tsaparang and which road must I take?

  “I knew the road, and I had seen the ruins. Who could forget them, high in that yellow cliff? Built into the very face of it like some of your cliff dwellings.

  “Of course I knew where the ruins lay, and we went to them. The men I had hired to travel with me and who owned the horses were only too glad to lie in the shade and rest. I took a pack from a horse, some scientific instruments, and of course the money. Then I made my way up the steep slope. One too curious fellow chose to follow me, but I found heavy stones that must be moved from my path, so he soon lost interest.

  “I hid the money, hid it securely, in a place only I shall find, and in its place I packed some broken bits of pottery, a few blue beads, bits of carnelian and such. I took measurements, and took pictures with an old camera I had wheedled from Milligan, and then returned to my horses.

  “We were stopped, of course, and questioned. We were searched, and they found the shards of pottery, some butterflies collected long ago by that traveler, whoever he was, and some very smelly bottles.

  “I had donned thick-lensed glasses with which I peered at them—I had to peer to see anything at all—and there, where they think much of the evil eye, they were pleased to be rid of me.”

  “And now you have been back? Did you pick up the money?”

  He smiled. “One does what one must, lieutenant. Now I live here in Paris, and, I might say, I live well.” He patted his stomach affectionately. “Even very well.”

  He sipped his wine. “Of course one must be careful when one has enemies. The old marshal—yes, he is alive and well—too well, altogether. He dislikes me for some reason. He would have me shot if he could. And regrettably there are others.”

  “What of the blonde? Milton’s girlfriend? Did you ever see her again?”

  “See her?” He smiled complacently. “In fact, I shall see her tonight. I see her quite often, in fact.”

  “And the money? Milton’s money?”

  “She had taken it out of the black bag and hidden it. But she was a fool! Did she spend it on beautiful clothes? Did she buy jewels and wine? She did not. She invested it, every centime! Invested it, can you imagine?”

  He emptied his glass. “She invested in the black market. Somewhere she found truckloads of American cigarettes and tanks of petrol.”

  “So the quarter of a million is forever beyond your reach?”

  “Did you say a quarter of a million? It is more than a million now, and only the good Lord knows where it will end! Given time, that stupid girl will own half of Paris.”

  I stood up. After all, I had things to do even if he did not, and as I turned to pick up my cap from an adjoining chair, there was a spiteful little snapping sound from beside me and a loud report from the door. Turning quickly, I saw the student, he who had been drinking coffee and working his sums at the outside table. The student had a Luger pistol that was slipping from his fingers, and as if by magic, the gendarmes were running into the court.

  “Sit down, lieutenant.” The general caught my arm, and holding it out from my body a little, guided me to a chair. “You cannot leave now. There will be questions.”

  Glancing out the door, I saw the student, or whatever he was, lying as he had fallen. Evidently he had spun when hit, for he lay face down almost in the doorway but headed the other way.

  “Relax, lieutenant. It is nothing. The poor man! It is terrible, the kind of help one gets today! So inefficient!”

  The police were there, questioning everybody, but of course nobody knew anything. We were the last.

  The general spoke excellent French. “I am General—”

  “We know, mon général, we know. Did you, by any chance, see what took place?”

  “I did not, but you know how it is. The Free French are still finding pockets of resistance, and of course they are hunting collaborators. When they find them—” He held up his forefinger and thumb like a pistol. “When they find them—ping! And they deserve no better.”

  He stood up. “If you would like to search—?”

  “Oh, no!” The gendarme was appalled. “Of course not, mon général! Of course not!”

  When I reached my quarters that night, it was with some relief that I pulled off my tie and then started to shed my trench coat. Something bumped my side, and I slid my hand into the pocket—an automatic, small, neat, and very deadly.

  It was not easy to be a friend of the general.

  Author’s Tea

  I’ve been reading your work, Mr. Dugan, and like it tremendously! You have such power, such feeling!”

  “Thank you,” he heard himself saying. “I’m glad you liked it.” He glanced toward the door where several women were arriving. They weren’t young women. He sighed and glanced hopelessly toward the table where one of those faded dowagers who nibble at the crusts of culture was pouring tea. Now if they only had a steak—

  “Mr. Dugan,” his hostess was saying, “I want you to meet Mrs. Nowlin. She is also a writer.”

  She was so fat she had almost reached the parting of the stays, and she had one of those faces that always reminded him of buttermilk. “How do you do, Mrs. Nowlin?” He smiled in a way he hoped was gracious. “It is always a pleasure to meet someone in the same profession. What do you write?”

  “Oh, I’m not a regular writer, Mr. Dugan, but I do so love to write! Don’t you find it simply fascinating? But I just never have been able to get anything published. Sometimes I doubt the publishers even read my manuscripts! Why, I believe they just couldn’t!”

  “I imagine they are pretty busy, Mrs. Nowlin. They get so many stories, you know.”

  “Why, I sent one of my poems away not long ago. It was a poem about James, you know, and they wouldn’t take it. They didn’t even say anything! Just one of those rejection slips. Why, I read the poem at the club, and they all said it was simply beautiful!”

  “Was—was James your husband?” he asked hopefully, glancing toward the tea table again. Still no steak.

  “James! Oh, goodness no! James is my dog! My little Pom. Don’t you just adore Poms, Mr. Dugan?”

  Then she was gone, fluttering across the room like a blimp escaped from its moorings.

  He sighed again. Every time chance caught him at one of these author’s teas, he would think of Frisco Brady. He could imagine the profane disgust of the big Irish longshoreman if he knew the guy who flattened him in the Harbor Pool Room was guest of honor at a pink tea.

  Dugan felt the red crawling around his ears at the thought, and his eyes sought the tea table again. Someday, he reflected, there is going to be a hostess who will serve real meals to authors and achieve immortality at a single stroke. Writers would burn candles to her memory, or better still, some of those shadowy wafers that were served with the tea and were scarcely more tangible than the tea itself.

  He started out of his dream and tried to look remotely intelligent as he saw his hostess piloting another body through the cro
wd. He knew at a glance that she had written a book of poetry that wouldn’t scan, privately published, of course. Even worse, it was obvious that in some dim, distant year she had seen some of Garbo’s less worthy pictures and had never recovered. She carried her chin high, and her neck stretched endlessly toward affected shoulders.

  “I have so wanted to meet you! There is something so deep, so spiritual about your work! And your last book! One feels you were on a great height when you wrote it! Ah!…”

  She was gone. But someone else was speaking to him, and he turned attentively.

  “Why do so many of you writers write about such hard things? There is so much that is beautiful in the world! All people aren’t like those people you write about, so why don’t you write about nice people? And that boy you wrote about in the story about hunger, why, you know perfectly well, Mr. Dugan, that a boy like that couldn’t go hungry in this country!”

  His muscles ached with weariness, and he stood on the corner staring down the street, his thoughts blurred by hunger, his face white and strained. Somehow all form had become formless, and things about him took on new attitudes and appearances. He found his mind fastening upon little things with an abnormal concentration born of hunger and exhaustion. Walking a crack in the sidewalk became an obsession, and when he looked up from that, a fat man was crossing the street, and his arms and legs seemed to jerk grotesquely. Everything about him seemed to move in slow motion, and he stopped walking and tried to steady himself, conscious it was a delirium born of hunger.

  He had been standing still for a moment trying to work his foot free from the sock where it was stuck with the dried blood from a broken blister, and when he moved forward suddenly, he almost fell. He pulled up sharply and turned his head to see if anyone noticed. He walked on then with careful attention.

  He was hungry.

  The words stood out in his consciousness, cold and clear, almost without thought or sensation. He looked at them as at a sign that had no meaning.