Читать книгу Valiant Dust - Percival Christopher Wren - Страница 12

Table of Contents

One moonlight night, as Otho sat leaning against the guard-room wall, thinking, as usual, of England, Home and Beauty—home at Yelverbury Castle and the beauty (mind, body and soul) of Margaret, a légionnaire, walking delicately, came and seated himself beside him.

“Hot,” he said. “It maka da sweat. Pouf.”

Bombelli again.

What now?

“You lika get outa dis?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Sure t’ing. Yep. Me, I t’ink I get outa dis.”

“What do you mean?”

“I go on pump. I maka da promenade. You deserta wit’ me?”

“No, thank you.”

“Why you not?”

“Not such a fool. Nor such a swine.”

“By-an’-bye, perhaps, when good chance come? I gotta da dollars. We get clean away.”

“Shut up.”

Bombelli laughed, fell silent, and lit a cigarette.

“Say, Britisher, don’t get high-hat. I only maka da joke. I play fool.”

“You certainly do.”

“I don’t t’ink you desert wit’ me. I tell you trick worth better dan dat. You betcha lifa ...”

Otho vouchsafed no reply.

“Lookit,” continued Bombelli. “You wanna make good? You wanna get in good wit’ Vittorelli? Wit’ Vittorelli and da Major?”

“Why?”

“Because I can show you how. I got Vittorelli in my pocket, see?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. And Vittorelli got Big Boy Riccoli in his pocket, see?”

“No.”

“Well, he has. Like you got your three English frien’s in your pocket ... See? Lookit. Where you go, the other t’ree go too. What you do, the other t’ree do. You come in wit’ us, and bring them in, too. Then you get in good wit’ Vittorelli.”

“What are you driving at? What’s the game?”

“Big game. Riccoli’s game. You like to be a Rajah?”

“Why, going to India, are we?”

Bombelli glanced anxiously round, placed his lips close to Otho’s ear, and whispered,

“India? No, Morocco. See? You like to be a Kaid? Big man ... officer ... money ... freedom ... rank ... wine ... horses ... women ... ?”

“Call me Marguerite,” yawned Otho.

“What you mean?”

“Ever read Faust, my cheap Mephistopheles?”

“Talk sense.”

“Same to you.”

“Lookit, Bellême. Will you come in wit’ us and bring Mummery, Bossum, Harris, and Tant de Soif, Poussin, Petrovitch, and the rest of your escouade? Bring them in wit’ us and all happy together. Vittorelli smack you on back instead of on head; put you in his good books instead of punishment-cell. Big Boy Riccoli make you high officer, general, sheikh, kaid ... Ever hear of Kaid Maclean—Sir Harry Maclean? Rose from drill-sergeant to be Commander-in-Chief, uh?”

“Oh yes, I’ve heard of him. An honourable gentleman ... decent ... true to his salt and faithful to his word ... and all that.”

“Si, si. Dat’s him. Now, suppose you be honourable gentleman, true to salt, and faithful to word—to good paymaster, to employer that gives real career, fine life, glorious chances—like Sultan of Morocco gave Kaid Maclean.”

Otho laughed.

“Apply again at end of present contract,” he yawned. “I have an engagement with France; haven’t you?”

“Huh! And what does France give you?”

“What France promised.”

“You a fool, Bellême?”

“Yes. Like you. Not such a big one, though.”

“Your copains fools?”

“Yes. Like me. Not knaves, though, like you.”

“Lookit, Bellême. What about a spot of cash down? Suppose I could hand you da wad of jack, right a now. What you say?”

“Did you ever hear of Philo Vance, famous American detective—of fiction?”

“Nope.”

“There’s a little song about him.

‘Philo Vance

Needs a kick in the pance.’”

“Say, what’s bitin’ you, Bellême? You gone bug-house? Why you not answer my question?”

Otho rose to his feet.

“Stand just in front of me, Bombo—about a yard away,” he said.

“What you make?” asked Bombelli.

“Make you wish you’d never been born. Stand where I say, and I’ll give you a lift in the seat of the ‘pance’ that will land you over that wall.”

Le légionnaire Bombelli did not accept the invitation and Otho, turning suddenly to him, seized him by the collar.

“And listen,” he continued. “You say one word of this sort of talk to any of my pals and I’ll give you the damnedest hiding a man ever got. See? You may be a strong man and a juggler and an acrobat—as well as a damned rogue—but I happen to be a professional heavy-weight boxer. So let’s hear no more out of you. Have a cigarette?”

Le légionnaire Bombelli, who had seen Otho beat M’Bongu, the Senegalese Champion, accepted the cigarette, patted Otho soothingly, laughed, and assured him he did but maka da joka.

“Rotten joke,” growled Otho, as Bombelli rose and walked away.