Get a Load of This (6 page)

     She was suddenly conscious that something awful for her had happened. She heard the driver suck in his breath sharply and she heard him mutter, “For Pete's sake,” and she realized with a dreadful sinking feeling that he had found the roll of money.
     She struggled up and tried to snatch it from him, but he was too quick for her. He shoved her away roughly and stood up.
     “Where did you get this?” he shouted, holding the roll in a trembling hand.
     “Give it to me—it's mine.”
     “Yeah? Well, prove it's yours.”
     “I tell you it's mine,” Gerda said, nearly sobbing with fury. “Give it to me!”
     The roll disappeared into the driver's pocket. “You pinched it,” he said. “Maybe you got it from the house that was on fire way back. A tramp like you wouldn't have so much dough.”
     Gerda threw herself on him, her fingers clawing for his eyes. He hit her between her eyes as she came in, sending her in a heap on the floor-boards, then he stepped over her and booted her out of the truck. She landed in the wet mud of the road with a thud that shook the breath out of her.
     He said, as he dropped to the road beside her: “If you want the dough, come along to Fort Pierce an' ask the cops for it. Maybe they'll have it for you.” He gave a little snigger. “Somehow I don't think they'll know much about it,” and he ran back to the truck and drove away.

     
     The Lieutenant stopped and held up his hand. Over to his right he had seen the farm, half hidden by a clump of coconut palms.
     The four negro soldiers shuffled to a standstill, grounding their rifles and leaning on them.
     Overhead the sun beat down on the little group. The Lieutenant, the sweat oozing out of his fat hide, wriggled his body inside his uniform which stuck to him uncomfortably. He was acutely aware of the great patches of damp that stained his white uniform; and he cursed the heat, the President and, above all, the A.B.C. terrorists.
     Contemptuously he regarded the four negroes, who stood staring with vacant eyes on the ground, like emasculated cattle. “This is the place,” he said, thrusting forward his bullet head. “Two of you to the right; two to the left. No noise. No shooting—use your bayonets if there's trouble.”
     He drew his sword. The steel blade flashed in the sunlight.
     The soldiers opened out and advanced towards the farm at a trot. They held their heads down, and their rifles hung loosely in their hands. As they shambled over the uneven ground they looked like bloodhounds picking up a scent.
     The Lieutenant moved forward at a slower pace. He walked gingerly, as if he were treading on egg-shells. Inside his once beautiful uniform, his fat body cringed at the thought of a bullet smashing into him. He took the precaution of keeping the coconut palms between him and the farm. When he could no longer shelter himself behind the slender trunks he broke into a run. The heat waves coiled round him like a rope as he lumbered over the rough ground.
     The four soldiers had already reached the farm, and they stood in an uneven circle, waiting for the Lieutenant to come up. They were more animated now. They knew that very soon they would be back in the barracks out of the heat of the afternoon sun.
     The farm was a squat dwelling, with a palm-thatched roof and whitewashed walls. As the Lieutenant approached cautiously, the door of the place opened and a tall, poorly dressed Cuban stepped into the sunshine.
     The soldiers jerked up their rifles, threatening him with the glittering bayonets. The Cuban stood very still, his hands folded under his armpits, and his face wooden.
     The Lieutenant said, “Lopez?”
     The Cuban's eyes flickered round at the soldiers, seeing only the ring of steel before him. He looked at the Lieutenant. “Yes,” he said, a dry rustle in his voice.
     The Lieutenant swung his sword. “You may have heard of me,” he said, a wolfish smile pulling at his mouth. “Ricardo de Crespedes.”
     Lopez shuffled his feet in the sand. His eyes flinched, but his face remained wooden. “You do me much honour, senor,” he said.
     The Lieutenant said, “We'll go inside,” and he stepped past Lopez, holding his sword at the alert. He walked into the dwelling.
     Lopez followed him with two of the soldiers. The other two stood just outside the door.
     The room was very poor, shabby, and dirty. De Crespedes moved to the rough table standing in the middle of the room and rested his haunches on it. He unbuttoned the flap on his revolver-holster and eased the revolver so that he could draw it easily. He said to one of the soldiers, “Search the place.”
     Lopez moved uneasily. “Excellency, there is no one here—only my wife.”
     The negro went into the other room. De Crespedes said, “See if he's armed.”
     The other soldier ran his big hands over Lopez, shook his head, and stepped back. De Crespedes hesitated, then reluctantly put up his sword. There was a long, uneasy pause.
     The negro came back from the other room pushing a Cuban woman before him.
     De Crespedes looked at her and his small eyes gleamed. The woman ran to Lopez and clung to him, her face blank with fear. She wore a white blouse and skirt; her feet were bare. De Crespedes thought she was extraordinarily nice. He touched his waxed moustache and smiled. The movement was not lost on Lopez, who tightened his hold on his wife.
     De Crespedes said: “You're hiding guns here. Where are they?”
     Lopez shook his head. “I have no guns, Excellency. I am a poor farmer—I do not trade in guns.”
     De Crespedes looked at the woman. He thought her breasts were superb. The sight of her drew his mind away from his duty and this faintly irritated him, because he was quite a good soldier. He said a little impatiently: “It will be better for you to say so now than later.”
     The woman began to weep. Lopez touched her shoulder gently. “Quiet,” he said, “it's Richardo de Crespedes.”
     The Lieutenant drew himself to his full height and bowed. “He is right,” he said, rolling his bloodshot eyes a little. The woman could feel his rising lust for her.
     Lopez said desperately: “Excellency, there has been some mistake—”
     De Crespedes lost patience. He told the soldiers to search the place for guns. As the negroes began hunting, he pulled the woman away from Lopez. “Come here,” he said, “I want to look at you.”
     Lopez opened his mouth, but no sound came from him, his eyes half closed and his hands clenched. He knew he could do nothing.
     The woman stood close to de Crespedes, her hands clasped over her breasts. Her fear stirred his blood.
     “Do you understand why I'm here?” he said, putting his hand on her bare arm. “Traitors are arming the people against the President. Guns have been hidden here. We know that. Where are they?”
     She stood quivering like a nervous horse, not daring to draw away from him. She said: “Excellency, my man is a good man. He knows nothing about guns.”
     “No?” De Crespedes pulled her closer to him. “You know nothing about these terrorists? Nothing about plots to overthrow Machado?”
     Lopez stepped forward, pushing his wife roughly away, so that de Crespedes' hold was broken. “We know nothing, Excellency.”
     De Crespedes shoved himself away from the table. His face hardened. “Seize this man,” he barked.
     One of the soldiers twisted Lopez's arms behind him and held him.
     The woman ran her fingers through her thick hair. Her eyes grew very wide. “Oh no... no...” she said.
     De Crespedes himself supervised the search, but they found nothing. He went out into the sunlight again and shouted to the remaining soldiers to look round the outside of the farm. Then he came back. He stood in the doorway, looking at Lopez. “Where are the guns?” he said. “Quick—where are they?”
     Lopez shook his head. “We know nothing about guns, Excellency.”
     De Crespedes turned to the soldier. “Hold him very tightly.” Then he began to walk towards the woman. She turned to run into the other room, but the other soldier was standing against the door. He was smiling, and his teeth looked like piano keys. As she hesitated, de Crespedes caught up with her and his hand fell on the back of her blouse. He ripped it from her. She crouched against the wall, hiding her breasts with her hands, weeping softly.
     De Crespedes looked over his shoulder at Lopez. “When you are dead,” he said, “I will have your woman—she is good.”
     Lopez controlled himself with a great effort. He was completely powerless in the grip of the soldier.
     De Crespedes said to the soldiers who came in at this moment, “Cut off his fingers until he's ready to talk.”
     The woman screamed. She fell on her knees in front of de Crespedes, wringing her hands. “We know nothing, Excellency,” she said wildly. “Don't touch my man.”
     De Crespedes looked down at her with a smile. Then he put his dusty boot on her bare breasts and shoved her away. She fell on her side and lay there, her head hidden under her arms.
     The soldiers forced Lopez to sit at the table, and they spread his hands flat on the rough wood. Then, using his bayonet like a hatchet, one of the negroes lopped off a finger.
     De Crespedes sat looking at the blood that ran across the table and dripped on to the floor. He stood up with a little grimace of disgust.
     A thin wailing sound came from Lopez, although he didn't open his lips. The two soldiers who held him shifted as they strained to keep his hands in position.
     “Until he talks,” de Crespedes said, unhooking his jacket and removing his sword-belt.
     The negro raised his bayonet and brought it down with a swish. There was a little clicking sound as it went through bone, and he had difficulty in getting the blade out of the hard wood.
     De Crespedes threw his jacket and sword-belt on the bench and walked over to the woman. With a grunt, he bent over her. Taking her under her arms, he dragged her into the other room. He threw her on the bed. Then he went back and kicked the door shut. He noticed that it was very hot in the room, although the shutters kept out the sun.
     The woman lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chin. She kept her eyes shut, and her lips moved as she prayed. De Crespedes lowered his bulk on to the bed. He took her knees in his hands and turned her on her back. Then he forced her knees down and ripped the rest of her clothes from her. He did not hurry, and once, when she resisted, pushing at him with her small hands, he thumped her on her chest with his fist, like he was driving in a nail with a hammer.
     Then, because he knew this rigid body could give him no pleasure, and because he had much experience, he set about breaking her down. His two hands settled on her arms and his fingers dug into her soft muscles. Her eyes opened and she screamed. He leant on her, crushing her with his bulk, and dug further with his fat, thick fingers. It was not long before the violence of the pain turned the woman into a weeping, gibbering thing of clay on the bed. And when he took her, she lay placid, her tears falling on his shoulder.
     Later on, one of the soldiers had to go out and get a bucket of water to throw over Lopez, and although they did many things to him, they could not get him to speak, so they lost patience with him and they killed him.
     When de Crespedes came out of the room he found his soldiers standing uneasily waiting for him. He looked down at Lopez and stirred him with his boot. He wiped his face with the back of his hand and yawned. “Did he talk?” he asked indifferently. He was thinking of the long tramp back to the barracks. When they shook their heads, he shrugged and put on his jacket. He was feeling devilishly tired. Listlessly he tightened the sword-belt round his thick middle and put on his cap. Then he went back and looked at Lopez again. “It is possible he knew nothing about guns,” he said half aloud, “they've made a lot of mistakes before.” He shrugged and turned to the door.
     The soldiers picked up their rifles and moved after him. Outside, he paused. “The woman,” he said irritably, “I was forgetting the woman.” He looked at one of the soldiers. “Attend to her. Use your bayonet.”
     While they waited in the blinding heat, he thought regretfully how much better it would have been if she had loved him. There was little satisfaction to be had from a weeping woman. Still, he felt better for it. Women were necessary to him.
     When the soldier came out, they gave him time to clean his bayonet and then they all tramped across the uneven ground towards the barracks.

     
     The first time I met George Hemingway was when I was after marlin off Key West. I ran into him in a casual sort of way in the Plaza Hotel. He was with a large crowd and I was on my own. It was my first experience of deep-sea fishing, and I rather wanted to experiment by myself. I had had a year of worry and hard work steering my firm through the depression, and now that things were looking pretty good again, I considered that I had earned a few weeks off. So down I went to Key West. I had heard a lot about the fishing there, and I thought it sounded just the right sport for my frame of mind.
     I put myself in the hands of Joppy, one of the finest fishermen on the coast. He and I went out in a fast motor-boat nearly every day. He was a soft-spoken, patient sort of a guy, and I guess he wanted all his patience by the time I got through. We fished those waters for over a week without seeing anything remotely resembling marlin. I guess they thought I was too mean a guy to bother about, and even Joppy began looking at me thoughtfully towards the end of the week.
     I remember sitting in the lounge bar of the 'Plaza' after a completely uneventful day, wondering what the hell deep-sea fishermen could see in such a slow sport, when about a dozen people drifted in, making enough row to scare all the marlin right out of the Mexican Bay. They crowded up to the bar, and because I was at a complete loose end I watched them with, what must have amounted to, almost rude curiosity.
     The girls were the usual type of brittle beauty that infest the luxury hotels during the season. There were five of them, and they all were wearing beach trousers, sandals, and gay-coloured handkerchiefs that hid their firm, curved breasts. They were chattering and laughing as they always do, and as soon as they had settled their neat little bottoms on stools they began drinking pink gins at an astonishing rate.
     With the exception of George Hemingway, the men were also true to type. They wore white trousers, a handkerchief of various hues round their necks and, of course, the inevitable doe-skin shoes.
     My eyes swept over the group and came to rest on George. He immediately attracted my attention, and I wondered who he was. His personality was so strong that he made the others seem mere paintings on the wall. He was tall, with big powerful shoulders, tapering away to a small waist and very long legs. You could see at a glance how much he enjoyed the good things in life, and his enormous vitality for absorbing them.
     I noticed that he paid for all the drinks out of a well-worn wallet. It amused me to watch these people and to see the clever way the women out-manoeuvred one another to be the centre of attraction.
     After a while they all got through with their drinks and decided to go out for a bathe. George told them to go on as he'd left his costume in his room. He stood with a big, humorous grin on his bronzed face watching them troop out, and then turned to the elevator. As he turned he caught my eye, and realizing that I had been watching him for sometime he came over.
     “I'm Hemingway,” he said. “Are you all by yourself?”
     I explained that it was of my own choosing, and went on to tell him about the deep-sea fishing. His eyes lit up at the mention of marlin. “What sort of sport have you had?” he asked.
     I shrugged. “I find it mighty slow,” I said ruefully. “I haven't seen anything that looks like a big fish since I've been here.”
     Hemingway looked rather guiltily out of the big window at the group running down to the bathing-pool. “Listen, buddy,” he said, “how about you and me having a go tomorrow morning early? Believe it or not, there's no one interested in fishing in my party, and I've been itching to get my hands on a rod. What do you say?”
     I readily agreed. By now I had seen the error in not having a companion on this trip. I had imagined that I should have been so busy fishing that another person would have only been in the way.
     Well, to cut a long story short, we had a day's fishing which will remain long in my memory. George seemed to know where to find the fish, and Joppy, who came with us, was almost as excited as I.
     During that day, cruising in the dark blue waters of the Mexican Bay, we formed a friendship which was altogether remarkable, because neither of us had anything in common. My real interest was in my work. I was unmarried, and had little or no use for a gay life. I was fortunate in having a number of good friends, most of them connected with my business, and as a hobby I wrote light novels which had a moderate success.
     On the other hand, George lived recklessly, drank heavily, and, in his own words, 'chased dames'. His absorbing passion was speed. He owned a number of cars, but his favourite was a big racing Bugatti, which he would drive, whenever he could, at an almost fantastic speed.
     I often wondered why it was that he so obviously liked me and sought my company. During the three weeks I remained at Key West he was my constant companion. The little regiment of lovelies who followed him around regarded me with suspicion. I could quite understand my unpopularity. In my company, George seemed to find them boring, and that meant they had to look elsewhere for someone to buy them their drinks and the hundreds of other little luxuries they could not afford for themselves.
     On the last night of my stay at the 'Plaza' I remember George coming into my room and sitting on my bed. I was just putting a finishing touch to my toilet, and I recollect having difficulty in fixing my tie to my satisfaction.
     George sat there watching me. Then he said: “I'm going to miss you a hell of a lot. I wish you were staying.”
     “Yes, I'm sorry to go. I've had a grand time. Maybe we'll see something of each other later on.”
     George said seriously: “When I come to New York I'd like to see a lot more of you.”
     I was pleased that he felt that way, and we exchanged cards. I hoped I would see him soon, as I found his company very exhilarating.
     Well, you know how it is. I got back to New York and was immediately caught up in arrears of business. For several weeks I forgot all about him. Then one morning I saw his photograph in the
Times
and an account of a motor-race he had taken part in. The racing correspondent considered that he was going to be a leading star in the racing world. I was surprised that he had entered this field, but I sent him a note of congratulation, as I thought it would please him. Whether he received the note or not I don't know, but I didn't have any reply. I had to go to Washington for a couple of months as we were operating a new branch there, so any hope of meeting George in New York had to be postponed.
     His rise to fame in the speed world was remarkable. Soon no motor-race was considered anything at all unless he was a competitor. In fact, he began to win so consistently that his name rapidly became a household word. He apparently had no nerves. It was not that he was more skilful than the other drivers, but that he attained a maximum speed and kept to it. Cornering rough roads and dangerous hills meant nothing to him. He sent the machine he was driving forward like a bullet, and by some miracle finished in one piece. So great was the enthusiasm and talk about his daring that one Saturday afternoon I made an effort and attended one of the races in which he was competing.
     I shall never forget that afternoon. And when his car hurtled past the flag a good quarter of a mile ahead of the next man, I found that my legs were almost too weak to support me to the Club bar, and that my shirt was sticking to my back in a most unpleasant manner as I sweated with fear for him and morbid excitement.
     I knew it was quite hopeless to get near George until the admiring crowd had moved away, so I fortified myself in the meantime with some very excellent bourbon.
     About half an hour after the race George came into the bar, followed by a large crowd of people. One glance was sufficient to tell me that his company was the usual hard-drinking, empty-headed lot. As I hadn't seen him for over six months, I regarded him with interest. I thought he looked a lot thinner and a lot older. I was rather astonished to see that he was drinking ginger ale, whilst the crowd was belting neat Scotch.
     I hesitated to approach him, surrounded by so many obviously ardent admirers; and while I was making up my mind what to do, he happened to glance up and see me. For a moment he looked puzzled, then his face lit up, and with an abrupt excuse he left his party and hurried over to me.
     He shook my hand almost feverishly. “This is marvellous,” he said; “for God's sake where have you been all this time?”
     I told him about my business engagements, but I could see he was only giving me half his attention. In fact, he broke in to say: “I must talk to you. I've got to get rid of this crowd first. Will you meet me outside and have dinner with me?”
     I readily agreed, and he returned to his party, who had been watching us with curious attention, no doubt wondering who I was.
     He didn't keep me waiting long. It was really quite astonishing how quickly he got rid of so many people, but in less than fifteen minutes he joined me outside the Club. Grabbing my arm, he hurried me across the road to where his Bugatti was standing.
     “Still got the old bus, I see,” I said, climbing in rather gingerly.
     “Yes, she's been overhauled from time to time, but I wouldn't part with her.” He settled himself in the driving-seat. “It's grand to see you again. Where shall we go? How about Max's? They give you a good dinner there.”
     “Sure, any place. Only take it easy,” I pleaded. “I'm not used to high speeds.”
     George laughed and engaged the gears. He drove at quite a reasonable speed. He wanted to know the fullest details about my trip to Washington, and so insistent was he that I suspected he was anxious not to talk about himself until we had settled down from our sudden meeting.
     We got a quiet table at Max's, which was not overcrowded, and ordered a light meal. I asked him what he would drink, but he shook his head. “I've given it up,” he said. “It wanted a lot of doing, but in my game it just doesn't pay.”
     I ordered a bottle of light wine for myself. “You certainly have jumped into fame, George,” I said. “What on earth made you take up racing so seriously?”
     He looked at me in an odd way. “Why shouldn't I? You know how keen I am on speed.”
     “I know, but I didn't think you were as keen as all that. After all, if you do want a burst of speed now and then you have the Bugatti. Frankly, I think you are taking the most damnable risks. You scared the life out of me this afternoon.”
     George nodded. “You're a wise old guy. There is a reason, and a very good reason too.”
     “It must be,” I said. “I've never seen, nor do I hope ever to see again, such mad driving in all my life. Do you honestly mean to tell me that you have been doing this for the last six months?”
     “It is very difficult for me. I've got nothing on these professionals in the way of tricks—and, believe me, there are plenty of tricks in this game. In order to win I just keep going as fast as I can and that's my one ace.”
     I couldn't understand this at all. “Surely it isn't so important to win as all that,” I said, frowning. “I mean, you don't strike me as a person who must win at everything, and it is not as if you can't afford to lose sometimes.”
     The waiter interrupted us just then with our first course, and for a few minutes there was silence. Then George said, “You see, Myra expects me to win.”
     I said, “Oh,” rather blankly, and then: “I'm sorry, George, but I'm rather out of touch. Who is Myra?”
     George said with an effort: “Myra is the girl I'm going to marry.”
     Automatically I murmured my congratulations, but I was extremely puzzled, as he didn't seem at all happy. In fact, my congratulations fell rather flat.
     There was rather a long, strained silence after that, then I said, “Well, tell me all about it.”
     George sat back with a little shrug. “Oh, I don't know,” he said, “I don't want to bother you with details. You see, Myra likes celebrities. At first she wouldn't look at me. Then some of the crowd began to talk about my driving and she took a little interest. I sort of took up the racing to please her, and now we are going to get married.”
     All the time he was talking he avoided looking at me, and I thought it was a most extraordinary story. “But surely, George, she must realize what risks you are taking. I mean, she wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”
     I found that I was floundering, and stopped talking, annoyed at myself. I am old-fashioned enough to believe that marriage should be founded on a quarter of love and three-quarters companionship. It seemed too much like a Hollywood wedding to please me.
     George shook his head. “Why, I guess she's got a lot of confidence in my driving.”
     I said, rather dryly, “I see.”
     “No, you don't,” George said miserably. “You think it is most odd, and so it is. What is more, this racket is getting too much for me. I can't keep it up much longer.”
     As he spoke his face relaxed, and I saw a horror in his eyes that startled me. It is not often that one sees naked fear in a man's face, but I saw it that night and it wasn't a pleasant experience.
     “I don't think there is a man alive who could,” I said. “Why don't you drop it right away? After all, you have enough fame now. You've done quite enough.”
     “No, I can't do that. I can't expect you to understand. I've got to go until I'm married—then perhaps—”
     I said: “Let's go to the bar and have a brandy. It'll do you good.”
     “I daren't touch it,” George said. “If I once start again, I'm sunk.” He ran his fingers through his thick hair. “My God! I had a close shave once. It was when Myra came to see me race for the first time. I wanted to put on a good show, but I felt edgy and nervous. So I hit the bottle. That cured me. I took a bend at over a hundred miles an hour. Everyone thought it was marvellous driving, and Myra got a tremendous kick out of it, but I knew how close I had been to a smash-up. I found I was losing my sense of judgment, so I gave up the booze. I tell you, sometimes I get pretty scared.”
     I began to get seriously worried. It was quite obvious to me that he was making a tremendous effort to seem casual, but every now and then I would get a glimpse of an expression in his eyes that told me he was in a very bad shape. There was no doubt that he was terrified, almost as pathetically as a child awakening from some evil nightmare.