“Ne,” and again. “Ne, ne.”
Rapidly, he crossed himself in the manner of the Greek church. Then he stepped forward, caught my arm and dragged me back. He was jabbering excitedly. Of course I couldn't understand a word of it. But he was pointing vehemently at the mark on the dead man's forehead and he was as genuinely scared stiff as a man could be.
Nothing I could do would bring him to touch that corpse, and I believe he would have fought me rather than let me handle it. There was no budging him. In the end I gave in, and we set off in his car back to Valejo. It was my determination that our first call there would be on the police to clear things up. I had no wish to find myself accused of the murder of an unknown Yugoslavian.
All the way Elaine said nothing. Mostly she sat staring ahead, though once I caught her glancing side-long at me in an odd manner, and twice I saw her look down at her hand, flexing the fingers and examining it as if it somehow surprised her. I asked her what was the matter for she was somehow unlike herself and made me feel uneasy, but she shook her head without replying.
At the police station my driver held forth to the man in charge with what appeared to be a wealth of passionate detail while I stood by unable to understand a word. There were successions of concern, incredulity and alarm on the policeman's face.
Eventually he went to fetch another man in uniform to whom I was able to give my version in stumbling German. Not until the man was asking me the name of the dead man did Elaine take any part of the conversation.
“Kristor Vlanec,” she said suddenly.
The man turned and asked in German how she knew. Then the thing happened which took my breath away. She answered him fluently in Serbo-Croat.
My astonishment must have been ludicrous to anyone who saw it. I stared at her, open-mouthed and speechless.
Leslie, I swear by anything you like that that very morning Elaine had not known three words of Serbo-Croat, and now she was talking it like a native.
That must have puzzled the police as well. They asked for our passports. While they looked at them I demanded of Elaine what it meant — why she hadn't told me she knew the language.
She looked at me as if trying hard to follow my words and when she answered it was with such a thick foreign accent that I could scarcely understand what she said.
What it amounted to was for me not to make a fuss in front of the police, and that she would explain later.
Of course, she hasn't explained. She hasn't even attempted to. Anyway, how can you explain a thing like that?
When we'd finished with the police, I gave instructions for the car to be towed in and repaired, and we came on here by tram. That was two days ago, and I'm more bewildered now than I was then.
I can scarcely talk to her. She deliberately restricts all our conversation to necessities. But she talks to other people, jabbering away to them in this Serbo-Croat as if she had known it all her life.
Another thing, Leslie, Elaine's changed in herself. Little characteristic habits she had are gone. And the way she dresses and holds herself is different. I can't describe just how, but it is. She's not Elaine any longer in the things that matter. It's like being with a stranger.
I can understand the shock of seeing that man die, but this language business gets me. I just don't know what to make of it. Of course, I wanted to bring her back to London at once, but she refused to move. There was no argument, just a flat refusal.
By the time you get this I shall have had your answer to my telegram, and I shall, I hope have got some medical opinion — if she will consent to visit the doctor.
As it is, I'm half-crazy with worry over her, but, worse than that, Leslie, I'm scared. This is queer. Nothing out of the text books. It's uncanny. I'll let you know any developments as soon as I can.
Yours ever,
Walter.
Memo from Captain of Police, Valejo to Chief of Police, Beograd. (Translation).
English tourists, Mr. and Mrs. Walter Fisson, today reported finding man, Kristor Vlanec, shot ten miles out on Sarajevo road. Inquiries and circumstances confirm their statements as made to us. Nevertheless there is something unusual about the woman, who speaks Serbo-Croat fluently. They left here for Hotel Princip, Beograd. Suggest inquiries at the British Consulate.
Memo from Chief of Police, Beograd, to Captain of Police, Valejo. (Translation).
Consulate vouches for Mr. and Mrs. Fisson. All in order. We have no information regarding Kristor Vlanec.
Letter from Dr. Leslie Linton, London, to Dr. Frederick Wilcox, Paste Restante, Budapest, Hungary.
Dear Fred:
Sorry to butt in on your holiday like this, but look upon the enclosed copy of a letter from Walter Fisson. Is he cracked, or is Elaine? How could a sane person make that mistake about languages? What can it be but a mistake?
I wondered if you, being fairly handy to the place, could drop in and see them. You meant to go on towards Belgrade anyway, didn't you? And if either of them has been to see Dr. Bljedolje there, can you get a word with Mm? I expect Walter used my name as an introduction.
I hope you won't curse too steadily at having this wished upon you, but you must admit that it looks as if one of them needed a bit of investigation. One doesn't like to see friends of one's youth headed straight for the nut-house.
Yours fraternally,
Leslie.
Memo from Captain of Police, Valejo to Chief of Police, Beograd.
Understand that there was a feud between deceased Kristor Vlanec and Beograd man called Petro Zanja.
Memo from Chief of Police, Beograd, to Captain of Police, Valejo.
Petro Zanja and brother, Mikla Zanja, found shot here. Investigation proceeding.
Letter from Dr. Frederic Wilcox, Hotel Princip, Beograd, to Dr. Leslie Linton, London.
Dear Leslie:
Lord knows what you've let me in for, blast you. Everybody in this business seems to be pretty rocky except me —and I'm beginning to wonder if I've been hearing right.
To begin with, you didn't put us out. Mary wanted to come here anyway.
It was quite clear from the start that the hotel people think there's something odd about the Fissons from the look which the man at the desk gave us when I asked about them. And right away I want you to know that all that Walter said in his letter is, as far as I can tell, absolutely true.
Elaine is as fluent as a native in this local lingo; and to all appearances she knows only a few words of English, of which her pronunciation is execrable. Walter is worried to death. He looks as if he'd put on years in a few days. He's scared, too. I may be wrong, Leslie, but I distinctly got the impression that whatever may have been his state when he wrote that letter, he is now not so much scared for her as scared of her.
Elaine did not recognize me or Mary, but Mary did her best to have a kind of ‘all girls together’ with her in spite of that and the language difficulty. She thought that out of one of those showing-one-another-clothes affairs it might be possible to get something.
Walter was about as much help as an oyster. He seemed annoyed that I'd read your copy of his letter, and he just wouldn't talk much about it. I did discover, however, that he'd been to see that doctor about it, but he hadn't been able to get Elaine to go. However, I thought it worth while to go around to see what the doctor had made of him. What an interview!