by Algernon Blackwood (1937)
Foreigners — they're all mad!"
"Even the English?
"Mad as hatters!"
"The Germans too?"
"Of course—Jew mad!"
"And what about the French?"
"Well—I guess I used to think them a pretty sane crowd till I came across the St. Jooles affair. After that I saw that they were as mad as all the rest—a bit more, even!"
It was the fat man in the corner of the Smoking Room on Deck A who was talking. Why, I asked myself, is there always a fat man in the corner of the Smoking Room on board these liners? I don't know, but there always is.
We were three days out from Southampton on the Borotania. Our particular Fat Man sat in his corner, a huge cigar stuck between his thick lips, and surrounded by a crew of satellites for whom he bought drinks at frequent intervals, provided they would listen to his stories. They did. I am bound to admit that he was an amusing fat man, and evidently rich. His crowd stuck to him like leeches. I myself constantly took a seat just outside the sacred circle on purpose to listen to his stories, which grew more and more racy as the evening progressed.
On this particular night he was at the top of his form; I could tell by the way he twirled the big cigar and by the flush on his face.
"Tell us about St. Jules," suggested one of the crowd.
The fat man glanced round to see if the circle was worth while, Apparently it was. He blew out a thick cloud of smoke, ordered a round of drinks, smacked his lips, and started.
"Well," he began confidentially, as the way is with good storytellers, "I guess some of you boys know the little burg as it is now, but, believe me, three years ago it was some town. Folks talk a lot about Monte, but in those days St. Jooles sure had it beaten to a frazzle. The play at Monte was pretty high, I know, but at St. Jooles it was too high to see the top. And the town was wide open from dark to dawn.
"And I'm telling you—they were a hard-boiled lot when I first hit the town. Everything was going full blast and a bit over. I went to the old Continental Hotel where I always stayed, and the very first person I ran into after checking in was Mossy Mason. And I was sure glad to see old Mossy. Mossy had been my sidekick in a good many deals when we were together back in god's country. We liquored up.
"After a bit, he took me aside to a quiet spot outside on the verandah.
"'Tommy', he says, 'you're just in time, but not a minute to spare.'
"'And the rest, Mossy?' I enquires.
""It's like this,' he says, 'I've got a real good thing, and you must come in with me.' And he gives me the quick once-over.
"'Mossy,' I told him right away, 'I don't want any of your sure-fire-systems-to-beat-the-bank. I have had some and, believe me, I have had a plenty.'
"I'm with you,' he explains. 'But this is the real thing.'
"'Get on with it, then,' from me.
"'I've got a wop,' he goes on, 'with an advertising stunt that will bring in the mazurka every time.'
"'Let's have the low-down,' I asks.
"'This is the way of it,' he tells me then. 'The wop has invented a machine that'll throw letters on the sky over a mile long. Bright as god's own fire they are. And they'll knock out all the electric signs that were ever made. They just shake the guts out of you with terror.'
"'Now, see here,' I says. 'That's an old stunt. Folks have been trying to do that since Nero played the fiddle, and nothing ever came of it.'
"'The scale was too small,' he explains. 'That was the trouble. Now, to-morrow night we 're going back into the hills with a lorry, he and I, and, believe me, we're going to show this town something it's never seen before.'
"Well, his stuff impressed me some, and I asked what was he going to do it with, this great inventor-wop?
"'A new sort of ray," he tells me.
"I thought it over a bit, but I wanted to see the goods before going in with him.
"It's O.K. with me,' I says finally, for I always make my mind up quick, 'but I got to see it first.'
"He looks me over. 'That's the stuff,' he says. 'I never knew you miss a real chance. You be down,' he goes on, 'on the terrace here to-morrow night,' he says, 'and we ll show you.'
Well, it was after he left me that I bumped into as nice a strawberry blonde as you 'll find, and she sure kept me amused the rest of the evening—only that is another story, as they say.
"And next day Mossy introduced me to his wop. He was a clever-looking guy called Cavallo. He was full of his invention, and, like all inventors, was soon talking in millions of francs. It's a way they have, you know. They could never invent anything unless they were half-batty to start with. Still, he made me feel there was something in it. He tried hard to explain the thing to me but it was too technical and I couldn't get it. Never mind, I told him. 'You show it to me to-night and it will be O.K. with me.' And he said 'Benissimo' or 'spaghetti,' or something like that, drank up his mineral water, and made off.
"And about ten o'clock that night, sure enough, a lorry came along loaded with machinery of sorts, and Mossy and Cavallo climbs in. They told me they aimed to get well away into the back country, so that no one could see them doing their stuff. It was a hell of an ascent, all hairpin bends right up to the top of the mountain, and Cavallo turns to me just as they push off. 'I'm going to give this town the scare of its life,' he says. They need it.
"'That's all right with me,' I says. 'They do. Scare hell out of them if you can.'
"'I do that,' he replies—and they push off.
"I got two hours to fill in, so I go look for my blonde, and we fill in time at the Casino. I run into a streak of luck and the time passes very quickly. So I drag my blonde out of the rooms about a quarter of twelve and we sit on the terrace. We did not know it then, of course, but that was the very last night the Casino was open. Naturally, I didn't say a word about the show I was expecting from the mountains, but as the minutes slipped by I began to get a bit anxious."
The Fat Man stopped and yelled to the steward to bring more drinks all round. And it was while he was doing this that I noticed, sitting in my corner, that a dark, foreign-looking fellow with a black beard had slipped into the chair beside me. He was obviously French, judging by the Maryland cigarette he was smoking with pleasure. Obviously, too, he had been listening to Fatty's story and was very much amused by what he heard.
The steward having served the drinks, Fatty took a couple of good-sized gulps and went on with his yarn:
"Where was I, boys? Oh, yes; I had the blonde parked on the terrace. Well, I'm telling you I had a job to keep her there. She tried all the time to sting me for a mille and get back to the rooms, but I wasn't having any. I worked hard to get her to look at the lovely night—how the moon shone on the water, how swell a cruise-boat looked as it passed out to sea all lit up, how the lights of the fishing boats in the harbour twinkled. But, I tell you, she was difficult to hold. And all the time the minutes were slipping away and nothing happened. It got to twelve-thirty, and I thought something must have gone wrong with all that apparatus they took up into those steep mountains—accident, maybe, or something. Twelve-forty came, and then suddenly the quiet of the night was shattered. A terrible voice roared from the clouds: 'REPENT! REPENT!' and at the same time the words were repeated in flaming letters a mile long in the sky.
"I tell you, boys, I was scared dumb myself, The voice was really awful. It seemed to go right through you, and for a moment I got the appalling notion it must be God speaking. The Frenchies were scared to death, as well they might be. They tore out of the Casino like cattle was stampeding— out of all the restaurants and dance halls they came pouring in a rush and went flopping on their knees in the square by hundreds. A terrible sigh rose from the whole crowd as the voice began to thunder out again, but I can't tell you what it said, as I guess it was Italian, and anyway, I was too scared to take it in.
"Then silence. A silence you could feel. The sky and the night were empty again— just quiet stars and deep blue.
"Was I pleased? I'll say I was, now that my nerves were steady again. I was right on a winner, I knew. I was feeling generous, so I slipped the blonde a couple of notes and told her to beat it. Believe it or not, she was still on her knees, but she kind of regained consciousness when I crackled the notes by her ear. She stopped praying for a moment to shove the notes down her dress— what there was of it—and then went at it again, praying like a loud-speaker.
"I left her to it, and walked to the hotel, treading on air. I felt kind of sorry for all those punks still praying in the square, as I mixed myself a high-ball, but I thought they were a hard-boiled lot and a little spot of praying couldn't do them any harm. I guess most of them hadn't prayed for twenty years, if ever. I got a good laugh when I thought about Charles, the head waiter. Not many guys can boast that they've seen a head waiter pray I Anyway, I would put it all right with them next day. I'd tell them it was only a stunt.
"But that's just where I went wrong. They wouldn't believe me. That's what shook me about the French, as I mentioned at the beginning of this story. I had always thought the French were logical and would listen to reason, but these Froggies all got mad as blazes when I told them the truth. "No, no!' they cried, and whispered, 'It was God'—le bon Doo, as they called Him. Even Charles went on the same way. I told him after breakfast that I'd bring the boys round who had worked the stunt, but he' just smiled in a superior way and, by God, he had the last laugh, too!"
"Why? How was that?" cut in some of his listeners.
"Because those two blasted fools came down that mountain road in the dark too fast and had smashed up the lorry and killed themselves. That's why and how it was. Can you beat it for bad luck? And that's why St. Jools still believes in the Miracle of the Voice, as they call it, and how it got reformed. They're building a church now to the Voice. Anyway, the little burg is no use now to any American citizen who aims to see Europe!"
Fatty stopped. The black-bearded Frenchman in the chair beside me was shaking all over, and when I turned I saw tears running down his cheeks. Never before or since have I seen a guy laugh as that Frenchie laughed.
"What's the matter?" I asked him. "It was a good story. I don't see what's so terribly funny about it—"
He wiped his eyes and recovered his breath. "Well," he said in a low voice, "you see, I've heard it before many, many times—'
"Heard him tell it, you mean?" I asked in surprise.
"Mais oui," he whispered, no longer laughing now. "He used to tell it every night three years ago when he was staying with me—"
"In your house?" I interrupted.
He nodded. "I was in charge of him in the St. Jules Private Lunatic Asylum."