The Vengeance of Rome Read Online Free PDF

features of that treacherous little turncoat Bolsover, late of the
Hope Dempsey
. By providence or bribery the snivelling cockney hophead had escaped Egyptian justice, weaselled his way into a job with the French as a civilian clerk, and arrived at the free port just in time to recognise me! The worst possible luck!
    I had no time to shout a warning to Mr Mix. Like me he was already jumping. Bolsover meanwhile became a maniac, tugging at the sleeves of every uniformed Negro nearby, screaming in English that a dangerous criminal was among us. As Mr Mix began to run, his hood blew back from his head revealing those magnificent, unmistakable features. We had no chance of making a discreet exit or of talking ourselves out of danger. The black had given us away! I saw his huge head snap up as he vaulted a barrier then ran through the yards towards the passenger station, a pair of baffled Zouaves in pursuit. He would have made a magnificent athlete.
    Bolsover, a mass of excited duff, had poor success in attracting any further help. All attention was now on the boxes where a French officer, concerned that the animals should not injure themselves, struggled to command his unruly men and calm the horses.
    My emotional resources were already very low. Rather than waste time remonstrating, I shouted for Mr Mix to keep running while my own strategy was to point to his fleeing back, crying in Arabic: ‘There he goes!’ and, with my hood over my head, my sack over my back and my bag in my hand, mingle with the gathering crowd of dock workers attracted by the double commotion. I heard Bolsover’s grating French: ‘He’s a famous Parisian crook! He’s wanted for fraud and manslaughter!’ The man had developed some bizarre grudge against me. He was obsessed. Who else would give credence to that Parisian airship business? Forced to leave for New York before I could prove my case to the
Sûreté
, which with its usual lazy prejudice had fixed on me as an easy scapegoat, I had been unable to defend myself.
    By the time it was safe to trudge slowly up to the passenger station I saw that they had caught poor Mr Mix. I think he was wounded, as he shouted at them furiously in Arabic. I could do nothing for him, but I didnot believe he was in serious danger. At worst he would be repatriated to his native USA. This could be the making of him, for he had a wonderful career awaiting him in the lucrative field of Race Kinema. If they were to catch me I would be lucky not to be sent to Devil’s Island. Nonetheless, I knew a pang of sadness. I was sure it was the last I would ever see of
meyn hertrescher
sidekick but meanwhile I was still at liberty.
    Elijah raises his staff against black skies. He points, signalling the end of misery. My cities will fly. My sons will survive. Who will lift this burden from me? Did I not try to help them? But their blood is not mine, neither is it upon me. My flesh is clean and I have cleaned my heart.
Le’shanah haba’ah bi-Jerushalayim
. I know these things. I mourn their dead. Not all are ignorant. I do not lie.
Barach dayan emet
. You think I can accept this
trayf
, I say.
Lashon ha-ra
. They speak nothing but lies.
Brit milah
, indeed! What do they know?
    For the next few months I was forced to enter Tangier’s notorious shadow world, where Spanish officers and the local
demi-monde
mingled and where, by a variety of undignified means, I was able to sustain myself. My life became almost civilised. I even managed to spend my birthday at the Hotel Cecil in the company of Captain Juan Lopez-Allemany of the Spanish Foreign Legion, the brute who was for a while my friend and patron. I was frequently a guest at the house of Hussein de Fora, one of the best-educated and wealthiest hide-merchants in the city, and I kept a liaison with Madame de Brille, wife of the French concessionaire.
    To all these I was known as Gallibasta. In that name, Madame de Brille was kind enough to