The Favorite Short Stories of W. Somerset Maugham (32 page)

“Nonsense, Manuel, one has to have your way with the girls. There’s something about you that they can’t resist.”

The Hairless Mexican laughed with a self-satisfaction that he did not try to disguise. He spoke English very well, with a Spanish accent, but with an American intonation.

“But since you ask me, Colonel, I don’t mind telling you that I got into conversation on the train with a little woman who was coming to Lyons to see her mother-in-law. She was not very young and she was thinner than I like a woman to be, but she was possible, and she helped me to pass an agreeable hour,”

“Well, let’s get to business,” said R.

“I am at your service, Colonel.” He gave Ashenden a glance. “Is Mr Somerville a military man?”

“No,” said R., “he’s an author.”

“It takes all sorts to make a world, as you say. I am happy to make your acquaintance, Mr Somerville. I can tell you many stories that will interest you; I am sure that we shall get on well together. You have a sympathetic air. I am very sensitive to that. To tell you the truth I am nothing but a bundle of nerves and if I am with a person who is antipathetic to me I go all to pieces.”

“I hope we shall have a pleasant journey,” said Ashenden.

“When does our friend arrive at Brindisi?” asked the Mexican, turning to R.

“He sails from the Piraeus in the
Ithaca
on the fourteenth. It’s probably some old tub, but you’d better get down to Brindisi in good time.”

“I agree with you.”

R. got up and with his hands in his pockets sat on the edge of the table. In his rather shabby uniform, his tunic unbuttoned, he looked a slovenly creature beside the neat and well-dressed Mexican.

“Mr Somerville knows practically nothing of the errand on which you are going and I do not desire to tell him anything. I think you had much better keep your own counsel. He is instructed to give you the funds you need for your work, but your actions are your own affair. If you need his advice of course you can ask for it.”

“I seldom ask other people’s advice and never take it.”

“And should you make a mess of things I trust you to keep Mr Somerville out of it. He must on no account be compromised.”

“I am a man of honour, Colonel,” answered the Hairless Mexican with dignity, “and I would sooner let myself be cut in a thousand pieces than betray my friends.”

“That is what I have already told Mr Somerville. On the other hand, if everything pans out O.K. Mr Somerville is instructed to give you the sum we agreed on in return for the papers I spoke to you about. In what manner you get them is no business of his.”

“That goes without saying. There is only one thing I wish to make quite plain; Mr Somerville understands of course that I have not accepted the mission with which you have entrusted me on account of the money?”

“Quite,” replied R. gravely, looking him straight in the eyes.

“I am with the Allies body and soul, I cannot forgive the Germans for outraging the neutrality of Belgium, and if I accept the money that you have offered me it is because I am first and foremost a patriot. I can trust Mr Somerville implicitly, I suppose?”

R. nodded. The Mexican turned to Ashenden.

“An expedition is being arranged to free my unhappy country from the tyrants that exploit and ruin it and every penny that I receive will go on guns and cartridges. For myself I have no need of money; I am a soldier and I can live on a crust and a few olives. There are only three occupations that befit a gentleman, war, cards, and women; it costs nothing to sling a rifle over your shoulder and take to the mountains-and that is real warfare, not this manoeuvring of battalions and firing of great guns-women love me for myself, and I generally win at cards.”

Ashenden found the flamboyance of this strange creature, with his scented handkerchief and his gold bracelet, very much to his taste. This was far from being just the man in the street (whose tyranny we rail at but in the end submit to) and to the amateur of the baroque in human nature he was a rarity to be considered with delight. He was a purple patch on two legs. Notwithstanding his wig and his hairless big face, he had undoubtedly an air; he was absurd, but he did not give you the impression that he was a man to be trifled with. His self-complacency was magnificent.

“Where is your kit, Manuel?” asked R.

It was possible that a frown for an instant darkened the Mexican’s brow at the abrupt question that seemed a little contemptuously to brush to one side his eloquent statement, but he gave no other sign of displeasure. Ashenden suspected that he thought the Colonel a barbarian insensitive to the finer emotions.

“I left it at the station.”

“Mr Somerville has a diplomatic passport so that he can get it through with his own things at the frontier without examination if you like.”

“I have very little, a few suits and some linen, but perhaps it would be as well if Mr Somerville would take charge of it. I bought half a dozen suits of silk pyjamas before I left Paris.”

“And what about you?” asked R., turning to Ashenden.

“I’ve only got one bag. It’s in my room.”

“You’d better have it taken to the station while there’s someone about. Your train goes at one ten.”

“Oh?”

This was the first Ashenden had heard that they were to start that night.

“I think you’d better get down to Naples as soon as possible.”

“Very well.”

R. got up.

“I’m going to bed. I don’t know what you fellows want to do.”

“I shall take a walk about Lyons,” said the Hairless Mexican. “I am interested in life. Lend me a hundred francs, Colonel, will you? I have no change on me.”

R. took out his pocket-book and gave the General the note he asked for. Then to Ashenden:

“What are you going to do? Wait here?”

“No,” said Ashenden, “I shall go to the station and read.”

“You’d both of you better have a whisky and soda before you go, hadn’t you? What about it, Manuel?”

“It is very kind of you, but I never drink anything but champagne and brandy.”

“Mixed?” asked R. dryly.

“Not necessarily,” returned the other with gravity.

R. ordered brandy and soda and when it came, whereas he and Ashenden helped themselves to both, the Hairless Mexican poured himself out three parts of a tumbler of neat brandy and swallowed it in two noisy gulps. He rose to his feet and put on his coat with the astrakhan collar, seized in one hand his bold black hat and, with the gesture of a romantic actor giving up the girl he loves to one more worthy of her, held out the other to R.

“Well, Colonel, I will bid you good night and pleasant dreams. I do not expect that we shall meet again so soon.”

“Don’t make a hash of things, Manuel, and if you do, keep your mouth shut.”

“They tell me that in one of your colleges where the sons of gentlemen are trained to become naval officers it is written in letters of gold: There is no such word as impossible in the British Navy. I do not know the meaning of the word failure.”

“It has a good many synonyms,” retorted R.

“I will meet you at the station, Mr Somerville,” said the Hairless Mexican, and with a flourish left them.

R. looked at Ashenden with that little smile of his that always made his face look so dangerously shrewd.

“Well, what d’you think of him?”

“You’ve got me beat,” said Ashenden. “Is he a mountebank? He seems as vain as a peacock. And with that frightful appearance can he really be the lady’s man he pretends? What makes you think you can trust him?”

R. gave a low chuckle and he washed his thin, old hands with imaginary soap.

“I thought you’d like him. He’s quite a character, isn’t he? I think we can trust him.” R.“s eyes suddenly grew opaque. “I don’t believe it would pay him to double-cross us.” He paused for a moment. “Anyhow we’ve got to risk it. I’ll give you the tickets and the money and then you can take yourself off; I’m all in and I want to go to bed.”

Ten minutes later Ashenden set out for the station with his bag on a porter’s shoulder.

Having nearly two hours to wait he made himself comfortable in the waiting-room. The light was good and he read a novel. When the time drew near for the arrival of the train from Paris that was to take them direct to Rome, and the Hairless Mexican did not appear, Ashenden, beginning to grow a trifle anxious, went out on the platform to look for him. Ashenden suffered from that distressing malady known as train fever: an hour before his train was due he began to have apprehensions lest he should miss it; he was impatient with the porters who would never bring his luggage down from his room in time and he could not understand why the hotel bus cut it so fine; a block in the street would drive him to frenzy and the languid movements of the station porters infuriate him. The whole world seemed in a horrid plot to delay him; people got in his way as he passed through the barriers; others, a long string of them, were at the ticket-office getting tickets for other trains than his and they counted their change with exasperating care; his luggage took an interminable time to register; and then if he was travelling with friends they would go to buy newspapers, or would take a walk along the platform, and he was certain they would be left behind, they would stop to talk to a casual stranger or suddenly be seized with a desire to telephone and disappear at a run. In fact the universe conspired to make him miss every train he wanted to take and he was not happy unless he was settled in his corner, his things on the rack above him, with a good half-hour to spare. Sometimes by arriving at the station too soon he had caught an earlier train than the one he had meant to, but that was nerve-racking and caused him all the anguish of very nearly missing it.

The Rome express was signalled and there was no sign of the Hairless Mexican; it came in and he was not to be seen. Ashenden became more and more harassed. He walked quickly up and down the platform, looked in all the waiting-rooms, went to the
consigne
where the luggage was left; he could not find him. There were no sleeping-cars, but a number of people got out and he took two seats in a first-class carriage. He stood by the door, looking up and down the platform and up at the clock; it was useless to go if his travelling companion did not turn up, and Ashenden made up his mind to take his things out of the carriage as the porter cried
en voiture;
but, by George! he would give the brute hell when he found him. There were three minutes more, then two minutes, then one; at that late hour there were few persons about and all who were travelling had taken their seats. Then he saw the Hairless

Mexican, followed by two porters with his luggage and accompanied by a man in a bowler-hat, walk leisurely on to the platform. He caught sight of Ashenden and waved to him.

“Ah, my dear fellow, there you are, I wondered what had become of you.”

“Good God, man, hurry up or we shall miss the train.”

“I never miss a train. Have you got good seats? The
chef de gare
has gone for the night; this is his assistant.”

The man in the bowler-hat took it off when Ashenden nodded to him.

“But this is an ordinary carriage. I am afraid I could not travel in that.” He turned to the stationmaster’s assistant with an affable smile. “You must do better for me than that,
mon cher.”

“Certainement, mon général,
I will put you into a
salon-lit.
Of course.”

The assistant stationmaster led them along the train and opened the door of an empty compartment where there were two beds. The Mexican eyed it with satisfaction and watched the porters arrange the luggage.

“That will do very well. I am much obliged to you.” He held out his hand to the man in the bowler-hat. “I shall not forget you and next time I see the Minister I will tell him with what civility you have treated me.”

“You are too good, General. I shall be very grateful.”

A whistle was blown and the train started.

“This is better than an ordinary first-class carriage, I think, Mr Somerville,” said the Mexican. “A good traveller should learn how to make the best of things.”

But Ashenden was still extremely cross.

“I don’t know why the devil you wanted to cut it so fine. We should have looked a pair of damned fools if we’d missed the train.”

“My dear fellow, there was never the smallest chance of that. When I arrived I told the stationmaster that I was General Carmona, Commander-in-Chief of the Mexican Army, and that I had to stop off in Lyons for a few hours to hold a conference with the British Field-Marshal. I asked him to hold the train for me if I was delayed and suggested that my government might see its way to conferring an order on him. I have been to Lyons before, I like the girls here; they have not the
chic
of the Parisians, but they have something, there is no denying that they have something. Will you have a mouthful of brandy before you go to sleep?”

“No, thank you,” said Ashenden morosely.

“I always drink a glass before going to bed, it settles the nerves.”