"Yes. And last night I was sitting in the Tlemcen Gardens. It was getting dark. Behind the seat were bushes, and another path ran by the other side. Some légionnaires came along it, and sat down on a seat that must have been just behind mine. They were talking Italian. I know Italian well, and I always listen to foreign languages. . . . Yes, I shall be a courier again when the little trouble has blown over about the man I taught not to steal my fiancée, while I travel. Yes. . . ."
He paused dramatically, and with much eye-rolling and gesticulation continued:
"Boldini it was, and Colonna and Guantaio. He had been trying to get them to do something and they were afraid. Boldini, for some reason, also wanted Colonna to change beds with him, to make this something easier to do.
"'Yes, and what if I am caught?' said Colonna.
"'You're as good a man as he is,' said Boldini.
"'And what about his brothers? Yes--and his friends the Americans?' asked Colonna.
"'And what about your friends--me and Guantaio and Vogué and Gotto? What about Sergeant-Major Lejaune, if someone makes a row, and Corporal Dupré reports the man to him and I give my humble evidence as an eye-witness--in private? Eh? . . . "Brothers," you say! Aren't Lejaune and I like brothers?'
"'Why not do it yourself then?' said Guantaio.
"'Because I'm going to be made corporal soon,' replied Boldini, 'and I mustn't be in any rows. . . . Ah, when I'm corporal, I shall be able to look after my friends, eh?' Then he went on to remind them of what they could do with a thousand francs--more than fifty years of their pay, for a two-minute job.
"Then Guantaio, who seems to be a pluckier dog than Colonna, said:
"'How do you know he has got it?' and Boldini replied, 'Because I heard them say so. They are a gang. Swell thieves. They have asked me if thieves in the Legion are given up to the police. When the third one joined at Oran, I guessed it from what they said. And they were flash with their money. They got together at night, out in the courtyard, and I crept up behind a buttress close to them and listened. I could not hear everything, but they spoke of a jewel-robbery and thirty thousand pounds. The one they call "Le Beau" said he kept it like the canguro . . . the kangaroo . . . keeps its young! I heard him plainly.
"'And where does the canguro keep its young? In a pouch on its stomach, and that is where this thief, Légionnaire Guillaume Brown, keeps this jewel. In a pouch. . . . He wears it day and night.
"'And it's a thousand francs for the man that gets me the pouch. And I'll take the chance and risk of getting the jewel sold in the Ghetto for more than a thousand. . . . Some of those Ghetto Jews are millionaires. . . . I'd put the lamp out. One man could gag and hold him, while the other got it, and they could run to their beds in the dark.' . . .
"And much more of the same sort he talked, egging them on, and then they went away, but with nothing settled," continued Maris.
Digby and I burst into laughter at mention of the kangaroo, and Michael turned, smiling to Maris.
When the latter stopped, Digby asked if Boldini had not also divulged that he wore a sapphire eye, and I enquired if the wily Italian had not observed a lump in Digby's cheek, where a simian pouch concealed a big jewel.
"The fool overheard an elaborate joke," said Michael to Maris; "but we're very much obliged to you."
"Oh, he is the fool all right," said Maris; "but he is also the knave.
"Knave of diamonds!" he added, with a grin. "I just tell you because I like you English gentlemen, and it is just possible that they may try to steal your money-belt, if they think there is a chance of getting something valuable."
We filled the worthy Maris up with cous-cous and galettes (pancakes and honey), and strolled back to barracks.
When we were alone, I said to Michael:
"You do wear a money-belt, Beau. Let me have it at night for a bit--in case these gentle Italians have been persuaded, and something happens in the dark."
"Why?" asked Michael.
"Well," replied I, "you could favour them with your full personal attention, untroubled with grosser cares, if you had no property to protect. Also you could establish the fact that you don't wear a money-belt at night."
"I'd sooner establish despondency and alarm in the thief, thanks," said Michael.
"What a lark!" chuckled Digby. "I'm going to wear a brick under my sash and swear it's a ruby. Anyone that can pinch it while I slumber, can have it for keeps. . . . I must find this Boldini lad." . . .
But, personally, I did not regard the matter as precisely a lark.
I had heard of Italian knives, and it seemed to me that a man might well be found dead in his bed, with a knife--or his own bayonet--through his heart, and nobody be any the wiser. . . . And even if justice could be done, which was doubtful, that would not bring the dead man back to life.
We had been long enough in the Legion to know its queer code of morals, and on the subject of theft the law was very peculiar, very strict, and very savage.
One might steal any article of uniform, and be no thief. It was a case of "robbery no stealing." To take another man's uniform or kit was merely "to decorate oneself," and decorating oneself was a blameless pastime, regarded universally as profitable, amusing, and honourable. Public opinion was not in the slightest degree against the time-honoured practice, and the act was concealed from none save the owner of the sequestrated property.
This was all very silly, for it was a most serious matter, involving very heavy punishment, for a man to be found to be short of so much as a strap when "showing-down" kit for inspection by the adjudant. Nevertheless, you might "decorate yourself" with a tunic, a sash, an overcoat, a pair of boots, a pair of trousers, or the whole of a man's "washing" from the line in the lavabo, and no one thought one penny the worse of you, save the unfortunate whom you had robbed.
The idea was, that if you were short of an article of equipment (after all, the property of Madame la République, and not of the individual), you must help yourself where you could, your victim must help himself where he could, his victim must do likewise, and so on. And whoever was caught out, in the end, as short of kit, was the fool and the loser in this childish game of "beggar my neighbour" (of his uniform).
Of his uniform, public property--but of nothing else.
Anything else was private property and sacred. To steal private property was not self-"decoration" at all, but theft; and theft, in that collection of the poorest of poor men, was the ultimate horrible crime, infinitely worse than murder. The legionary did not value his life much, but he valued his few tiny possessions beyond estimation.
With the abomination of theft, the Legion itself dealt, and dealt most drastically, for it could not be tolerated where everything private was so valuable, and so easily stolen if a thief should arise in the midst.
There was no thought of appeal to Authority in a case of theft; nor was there either enquiry or comment on the part of Authority when a case occurred and was punished by the men themselves, according to Legion law and custom.
And we were soon to see the law in operation and to behold an example of the custom. . . .
Since Michael absolutely refused to let me wear his money-belt for him at night, I decided that I must think of some other plan--in view of this story told by Maris. I did not doubt its truth for one moment, as it merely confirmed, in particular, what I had thought and Buddy had voiced, in general--that Boldini's interest in our comings and goings, our conversation and habits, our antecedents and private affairs, had a sinister cause and object.
At first I thought of arranging with Digby that he and I should take turns to keep watch, but I discarded this plan as impossible. Nobody who worked as long and as hard as we did, could possibly lie awake in bed, and Michael