The Schirmer Inheritance

They had been driving for nearly an hour, and the promised moon had begun to rise, when the road joined another coming from the north. Ten minutes later they turned to the left and began a long, steady climb through the hills. They passed one or two isolated stone barns, then the road began to get steadily worse. Soon the car was bouncing and sliding along over a surface littered with loose stones and rocks. After a mile or two of this, the car suddenly slowed down, lurched across the road to avoid an axle-deep pot-hole, and stopped dead.

The lurch and the sudden stop flung George against Miss Kolin. For a moment he thought that the car had broken down; then, as they disentangled themselves, he saw that the driver was standing there with the door open, motioning them to get out.

“What’s the idea?” George demanded.

The old man said something.

“He says that this is where we get out,” reported Miss Kolin.

George looked round. The road was a narrow ledge of track running across a bleak hillside of thorn scrub. In the bright moonlight it looked utterly desolate. From the scrub there came a steady chorus of cicadas.

“Tell him we’re staying right here until he takes us where we’re supposed to go.”

There was a torrent of speech when this was translated.

“He says that this is as far as he can take us. This is the end of the road. We must get out and walk on. Someone will meet us on the road beyond. He must wait here. Those are his orders.”

“I thought he said it was the end of the road.”

“If we will come with him he will show us that he speaks the truth.”

“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait here, Miss Kolin?”

“Thank you, no.”

They got out and began to walk on.

For about twenty yards the old man walked ahead of them, explaining something and making large dramatic gestures; then he stopped and pointed.

They had indeed come to the end of the road; or, at least, to the end of that stretch of it. At some time a big stone culvert had carried a mountain stream beneath the roadbed. Now the remains of it lay in a deep boulder-strewn gully that the stream had cut for itself in the hillside.

“He says that it was blown up by the Germans and that the winter rains have made it bigger every year.”

“Are we supposed to cross it?”

“Yes. The road continues on the other side and there we will be met. He will stay by the car.”

“How far on the other side will we be met?”

“He does not know.”

“That advice about comfortable shoes should have warned me. Well, I suppose that now we’re here we may as well go through with it.”

“As you wish.”

The bed of the stream was dry and they were able to pick their way over the stones and between the boulders without much trouble. Clambering up on the far side, however, was less easy, as the gully was deeper there. The night was warm and George’s shirt was clinging stickily to his body by the time he had helped Miss Kolin up to the road.

They stood for a moment getting their breath and looking back. The old man waved and went back to his car.

“How long do you think it would take us to walk back to Florina from here, Miss Kolin?” George asked.

“I think he will wait. He has not been paid yet.”

“ I didn’t hire him.”

“He will expect you to pay all the same.”

“We’ll see about that. We’d better do what he says, anyway.”

They began to walk.

Except for the chirruping of cicadas and the grating of their own footsteps, there was no sound on the road. Once they heard the faint tinkle of a distant sheep bell, but that was all. They had been walking steadily and in silence for some minutes when Miss Kolin spoke quietly.

“There is someone on the road ahead.”

“Where? I can’t see anyone.”

“By those bushes we are coming to. He moved out of the shadow for a moment and I saw the moonlight on his face.”

George felt his calves tightening as they walked on. He kept his eyes fixed on the bushes. Then he saw a movement in the shadows and a man stepped out into the road.

It was Arthur; but a rather different Arthur from the one George had talked to in the hotel. He wore breeches, a bush-shirt open at the neck, and a peaked cap. The thin pointed shoes had been replaced by heavy ankle boots. There was a pistol holster on the broad leather belt round his waist.

“Evening, chum,” he said as they came up to him.

“Hullo,” said George. “Miss Kolin, this is Arthur.”

“Pleased to meet you, miss.” The tone was humbly respectful, but George could see the shrewd, insolent eyes summing her up.

Miss Kolin nodded. “Good evening.” Her hostility was clearly audible.

Arthur pursed his lips at the sound. “No trouble getting here, I hope, Mr. Carey?” he asked anxiously. He was suddenly like a week-end host apologizing for the inadequacies of the local train service.

“None to speak of. Will that old man wait for us?”

“Oh, you don’t want to worry about him. Shall we go?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“It’s not far. I’ve got transport. Just up the road here.”