He sat down and hitched up his trousers so that they should not bag at the knee.
“Well, Manuel, have you been breaking any hearts today?” said R. with his sardonic joviality.
The General turned to Ashenden.
“Our good friend, the Colonel, envies me my successes with the fair sex. I tell him he can have just as many as I if he will only listen to me. Confidence, that is all you need. If you never fear a rebuff you will never have one.”
“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 you 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 OK 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
