BWFCKOCAKV
The Greek Poropulos
Edgar Wallace
November 19, 1910
Crime/Suspense
Short story of colonial South Africa
en-gb
Edited for eBook by dlHart
.prc - dlHart
eBook Version 2.1 rtf

The
Greek

Poropulos

Edgar
Wallace

Originally
published in

The Weekly Tale-Teller,

November 19, 1910

At Carolina, in the Transvaal, was a store
kept by a man named Lioski, who was a Polish Jew. There was an officers'
clubhouse, the steward of which was a Greek sportsman named Poropulos, and this
story is about these two men, and about an officer of Hampton's Scouts who took
too much wine and saw a pair of boots.

I have an intense admiration for George
Poropulos, and I revere his memory. I admire him for his nerve; though, for the
matter of that, his nerve was no greater than mine.

Long before the war came, when the
negotiations between Great Britain and the Transvaal Government were in the
diplomatic stage, I drifted to Carolina from the Rand, leaving behind me in the
golden city much of ambition, hope, and all the money I had brought with me
from England. I came to South Africa with a young wife and £370—within a few
shillings—because the doctors told me the only chance I had was in such a hot,
dry climate as the highlands of Africa afforded. For my own part, there was a
greater attraction in the possibility of turning those few hundreds of mine
into thousands, for Johannesburg was in the delirium of a boom.

Φ Φ Φ

I left Johannesburg nearly penniless. I
could not, at the moment, explain the reason of my failure, for the boom
continued, and I had the advantage of the expert advice of Arthur Lioski, who
was staying at the same boarding house as myself.

There were malicious people who warned me
against Lioski. His own compatriots, sharp men of business, told me to 'ware
Lioski, but I ignored the advice because I was very confident in my own
judgment, and Lioski was a plausible, handsome man, a little flashy in
appearance, but decidedly a beautiful animal.

He was in Johannesburg on a holiday, he
said. He had stores in various parts of the country where he sold everything
from broomsticks to farm wagons, and he bore the evidence of his prosperity.

He took us to the theater, or rather he
took Lillian, for I was too seedy to go out much. I did not grudge Lillian the
pleasure. Life was very dull for a young girl whose middle-aged husband had a
spot on his lung, and Lioski was so kind and gentlemanly, so far as Lil was
concerned, that the only feeling I had in the matter was one of gratitude.

He was tall and dark, broad-shouldered,
with a set to his figure and a swing of carriage that excited my admiration. He
was possessed of enormous physical strength, and I have seen him take two
quarreling Kaffirs—men of no ordinary muscularity—and knock their heads
together.

He had an easy, ready laugh, a fund of
stories, some a little coarse, I thought, and a florid gallantry which must
have been attractive to women. Lil always brightened up wonderfully after an
evening with him.

His knowledge of mines and mining
propositions was bewildering. I left all my investments in his hands, and it
proves something of my trust in him, that when, day by day, he came to me for
money, to “carry over” stock—whatever that means—I paid without hesitation. Not
only did I lose every penny I possessed, but I found myself in debt to him to
the extent of a hundred pounds.

Poor Lil! I broke the news to her of my
ruin, and she took it badly; reproached, stormed, and wept in turn, but quieted
down when I told her that in the kindness of his heart, Lioski had offered me a
berth at his Carolina store. I was to get a £16 a month, half of which was to
be paid in stores at wholesale prices and the other half in cash. I was to live
rent free in a little house near the store. I was delighted with the offer. It
was an immediate rise, though I foresaw that the conditions of life would be
much harder than the life to which I had been accustomed in England. We
traveled down the Delagoa line to Middleburg, and found a Cape cart waiting to
carry us across the twenty miles of rolling veldt. The first six months in
Carolina were the happiest I have ever spent. The work in the store was not
particularly arduous. I found that it had the reputation of being one of the
best-equipped stores in the Eastern Transvaal, and certainly we did a huge
business for so small a place. It was not on the town we depended, but upon the
surrounding country. Lioski did not come back with us, but after we had been
installed for a week he came and took his residence in the store.

Φ Φ Φ

All went well for six months. He taught Lil
to ride and drive, and every morning they went cantering over the veldt [†]
together. Me he treated more like a brother than an employee, and I found
myself hotly resenting the uncharitable things that were said about him, for
Carolina, like other small African towns, was a hotbed of gossip.

[†]
Veldt: A grassland especially of
southern Africa usually with scattered shrubs or trees.

Lil was happy for that six months, and then
I began to detect a change in her attitude toward me. She was snappy, easily
offended, insisted upon having her own room—to which I agreed, for, although my
chest was better, I still had an annoying cough at night which might have been
a trial to anybody within hearing.

Φ Φ Φ

It was about this time that I met
Poropulos. He came into the store on a hot day in January, a little man of
forty-five or thereabouts. He was unusually pale, and had a straggling, weedy
beard. His hair was long, his clothes were old and stained, and so much of his
shirt as was revealed at his throat was sadly in need of laundering.

Yet he was cheerful and debonair—and
singularly flippant. He stalked in the store, looked around critically, nodded
to me, and smiled. Then he brought his sjambok [†] down on the counter
with a smack.

[†]
Sjambok: South
Africa, animal-skin whip: a sturdy whip or riding crop made from
the hide of a rhinoceros or hippopotamus.

“Where's Shylock?” he asked easily.

I am afraid that I was irritated.

“Do you mean Mr. Lioski?”

“Shylock, I said,” he repeated.
“Shylockstein, the Lothario of Carolina.” He smacked the counter again, still
smiling.

I was saved the trouble of replying, for at
that moment Lioski entered. He stopped dead and frowned when he saw the Greek.

“What do you want, you little beast,” he
asked harshly.

For answer, the man leaned up against the
counter, ran his fingers through his straggling beard, and cocked his head.

“I want justice,” he said unctuously—”the
restoration of money stolen. I want to send a wreath to your funeral: I want to
write your biography——”

“Clear out,” shouted Lioski. His face was
purple with anger, and he brought his huge fist down upon the counter with a
crash that shook the wooden building.

He might have been uttering the most
pleasant of compliments, for all the notice the Greek took.

Crash! Went Lioski's fist on the
counter.

Smash! Came Poropulos's sjambok,
and there was something mocking and derisive in his action that made Lioski
mad.

With one spring he was over the counter, a
stride and he had his hand on the Greek's collar—and then he stepped back
quickly with every drop of blood gone from his face, for the Greek's knife had
flashed under his eyes. I thought Lioski was stabbed, but it was fear that made
him white.

The Greek rested the point of the knife on
the counter and twiddled it round absentmindedly, laying his palm on the hilt
and spinning it with great rapidity.

“Nearly did it that time, my friend,” he
said, with a note of regret, “nearly did it that time—I shall be hanged for you
yet.”

Lioski was white and shaking.

“Come in here,” he said in a low voice, and
the little Greek followed him to the back parlor. They were together for about
an hour; sometimes I could hear Mr. Lioski's voice raised angrily, sometimes
Poropulos's little laugh. When they came out again the Greek was smiling still
and smoking one of my employer's cigars.

“My last word to you,” said Lioski huskily,
“is this—keep your mouth closed and keep away from me.”

“And my last word to you,” said Poropulos,
jauntily puffing at the cigar, “is this—turn honest, and enjoy a sensation.”

He stepped forth from the store with the
air of one who had gained a moral victory.

Φ Φ Φ

I never discovered what hold the Greek had
over my master. I gatherered that at some time or another, Poropulos had lost
money, and that he held Lioski responsible.

In some mysterious way Poropulos and I
became friends. He was an adventurer of a type. He bought and sold indifferent
mining propositions, took up contracts, and, I believe, was not above engaging
in the Illicit Gold Buying business. His attitude to Lillian was one of
complete adoration. When he was with her his eyes never left her face.

It was about this time that my great sorrow
came to me. Lioski went away to Durban—to buy stock, he said—and a few days
afterwards Lillian, who had become more and more exigent, demanded to be
allowed to go to Cape Town for a change.

I shall remember that scene.

I was at breakfast in the store when she
came in. She was white, I thought, but her pallor suited her, with her
beautiful black hair and great dark eyes.

She came to the point without any
preliminary. “I want to go away,” she said.

I looked up in surprise.

“Go away, dear? Where?”

She was nervous. I could see that from the
restless movement of her hands.

“I want to go to—to Cape Town—I know a girl
there—I'm sick of this place—I hate it!”

She stamped her foot, and I thought that
she was going to break into a fit of weeping. Her lips trembled, and for a time
she could not control her voice.

“I am going to be ill if you don't let me
go,” she said at last. “I can feel——”

“But the money, dear,” I said, for it was
distressing to me that I could not help her toward the holiday she wanted.

“I can find the money,” she said, in an
unsteady voice. “I have got a few pounds saved—the allowance you gave me for my
clothes—I didn't spend it all—let me go, Charles—please, please!”

I drove her to the station, and took her
ticket for Pretoria. I would have taken her to the capital, but I had the store
to attend to.

“By the way, what will your address be?” I
asked just as the train was moving off.

She was leaning over the gate of the car
platform, looking at me strangely.

“I will wire it—I have it in my bag,” she
called out, and I watched the tail of the train round the curve, with an aching
heart. There was something wrong; what it was I could not understand. Perhaps I
was a fool. I think I was.

Φ Φ Φ

I think I have said that I had made friends
with Poropulos. Perhaps it would be more truthful to say that he made friends
with me, for he had to break down my feeling of distrust and disapproval. Then,
again, I was not certain how Mr. Lioski would regard such a friendship, but, to
my surprise, he took very little notice of it or, for the matter of that, of
me.

Poropulos came into the store the night my
wife left. Business was slack; there was war in the air, rumors of ultimatums
had been persistent, and the Dutch farmers had avoided the store.

A week passed, and I began to worry, for I
had not heard from Lil. I had had a letter from Lioski, telling me that in view
of the unsettled condition of the country he was extending his stay in Durban
for a fortnight. The letter gave me the fullest instructions as to what I was
to do in case war broke out, but, unfortunately, I had no opportunity of putting
them into practice.

The very day I received the letter, a Boer
commando rode into Carolina, and at the head of it rode the Landrost Peter du
Huis, a pleasant man, whom I knew slightly. He came straight to the store,
dismounted, and entered.

“Good morning, Mr. Gray,” he said. “I fear
that I come on unpleasant business.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“I have come to commandeer your stock in
the name of the Republic,” he said, “and to give you the tip to clear out.”

It does not sound possible, but it is
nevertheless a fact that in two hours I had left Carolina, leaving Lioski's
store in the hands of the Boers, and bringing with me receipts signed by the
Landrost for the goods he had commandeered. In four hours I was in a cattle
truck with a dozen other refugees on my way to Pretoria—for I had elected to go
to Durban to inform Lioski at first hand of what had happened.

Φ Φ Φ

Of the journey down to the coast it is not
necessary to speak. We were sixty hours en route; we were without food,
and had little to drink. At Ladysmith I managed to get a loaf of bread and some
milk; at Maritzburg I got my first decent meal. But I arrived in Durban, tired,
dispirited, and hungry. Lioski was staying at the Royal, and as soon as I got
to the station I hailed a ricksha [†] to take me there.

[†]
Ricksha: Alteration of jinrikisha;
a small covered 2-wheeled vehicle usually for one passenger that is pulled
by one man.

There had been no chance of telegraphing.
The wires were blocked with government messages. We had passed laden troop trains
moving up to the frontier, and had cheered the quiet men in khaki who were
going, all of them, to years of hardship and privation, many of them to death.

The vestibule of the Royal was crowded, but
I made my way to the office.

“Lioski?” said the clerk. “Mr. and Mrs.
Lioski, No. 84—you'll find your way to their sitting room.”

I went slowly up the stairs, realizing in a
flash the calamity.

I did not blame Lil; it was a hard life I
had brought her to. I had been selfish, as sick men are selfish, inconsiderate.

They stood speechless, as I opened the door
and entered. I closed the door behind me. Still they stood, Lil as pale as
death, with terror and shame in her eyes, Lioski in a black rage.

“Well?” It was he who broke the silence.

He was defiant, shameless, and as I went on
to talk about what had happened at the store, making no reference to what I had
seen, his lips curled contemptuously.

But Lil, womanlike, rushed in with
explanations. She had meant to go to Cape Town—the train service had been
bad—she had decided to go to Durban—Mr. Lioski had been kind enough to book her
a room——

I let her go on. When she had finished I
handed my receipts to Lioski.

“That ends our acquaintance, I think.”

“As you like,” he replied with a shrug.

I turned to Lillian.

“Come, my dear,” I said, but she made no
move, and I saw Lioski smile again.

I lost all control over myself and leaped
at him, but his big fist caught me before I could reach him, and I went down,
half stunned. I was no match for him. I knew that, and if the blow did nothing
else, it sobered me. I picked myself up. I was sick with misery and hate.

“Come, Lil,” I said again.

She was looking at me, and I thought I saw
a look of disgust in her face. I did not realize that I was bleeding, and that
I must have been a most unpleasant figure. I only knew that she loathed me at
that moment, and I turned on my heel and left them, my own wife and the big man
who had broken me.

Φ Φ Φ

One forgets things in war time. I joined
the Imperial Light Horse and went to the front. The doctor passed me as sound,
so I suppose that all that is claimed for the climate of Africa is true.

We went into Ladysmith, and I survived the
siege. I was promoted for bringing an officer out of action under fire. I
earned a reputation for daring, which I did not deserve, because always I was
courting swift death, and taking risks to that end.

Before Buller's force had pushed a way
through the stubborn lines to our relief, I had received my commission. More
wonderful to me, I found myself a perfectly healthy man, as hard as nails, as
callous as the most-experienced soldier. Only, somewhere down in my heart, a
little worm gnawed all the time; sleeping or waking, fighting or resting, I
thought of Lillian, and wondered, wondered, wondered.

Ladysmith was relieved. We marched on
toward Pretoria. I was transferred to Hampton's Horse with the rank of major,
and for eighteen months I moved up and down the Eastern Transvaal chasing a
will-o'the-wisp of a commandant, who was embarrassing the blockhouse lines.

Then one day I came upon Poropulos.

Φ Φ Φ

We were encamped outside Standerton when he
rode in on a sorry-looking Burnto pony. He had been in the country during the
war, he said, buying and selling horses. He did not mention Lioski's name to
me, and so studiously did he avoid referring to the man, that I saw at once
that he knew.

It was brought home to me by his manner
that he had a liking for me that I had never guessed. In what way I had earned
his regard I cannot say, but it was evident he entertained a real affection for
me.

We parted after an hour's chat—he was going
back to Carolina. He had a scheme for opening an officers' club in that town,
where there was always a large garrison, and to which the wandering columns
came from time to time to be re-equipped.

As for me, I continued the weary chase of
the flying commando. Trek, trek, trek, in fierce heat, in torrential downpour,
over smooth veldt and broken hills, skirmishing, sniping, and now and then a
sharp engagement, with a dozen casualties on either side

Φ Φ Φ

Four months passed, and the column was
ordered into Carolina for a refit. I went without qualms, though I knew she was
there, and Lioski was there.

We got into Carolina in a thunderstorm, and
the men were glad to reach a place that bore some semblance of civilization. My
brother officers, after our long and profitless trek, were overjoyed at the
prospect of a decent dinner—for Poropulos's club was already famous among the
columns.

My horse picked up a stone and went dead
lame, so I stayed behind to doctor him, and rode to Carolina two hours after
the rest of the column had arrived.

It was raining heavily as I came over a
fold of the hill that showed the straggling township. There was no human being
in sight save a woman who stood by the roadside, waiting, and I knew
instinctively, long before I reached her, that it was Lillian. I cantered
toward her. Her face was turned in my direction, and she stood motionless as I
drew rein and swung myself to the ground.

She was changed, not as I expected, for
sorrow and suffering had etherealized her. Her big eyes burned in a face that
was paler than ever, her lips, once so red and full, were almost white.

“I have been waiting for you,” she said.

“Have you, dear? You are wet.”

She shook her head impatiently. I slipped off
my mackintosh and put it about her.

“He has turned me out,” she said.

She did not cry. I think she had not
recovered from the shock. Something stirred from the thin cloak she was
wearing; a feeble cry was muffled by the wrapping.

“I have got a little girl,” she said, “but
she is dying.” She began to cry silently, the tears running down her wet face
in streams.

I took her into Carolina, and found a
Dutchwoman who put her and the baby to bed, and gave her some coffee.

I went up to the officers' club just after
sunset and met Poropulos coming down.

He was in a terrible rage, and was
muttering to himself in some tongue I could not understand.

“Oh, here you are!”—he almost spat the
words in his anger—”that dog Lioski——”

He was about to say something, but checked
himself. I think it was about Lillian that he intended to speak at first, but
he changed the subject to another grievance. “I was brought before the
magistrate and fined £100 for selling field-force tobacco. My club will be
ruined—Lioski informed the police—by——”

He was incoherent in his passion. I gather
that he had been engaged in some shady business, and that Lioski had detected
him. He almost danced before me in the rain.

“Shylock dies tonight,” he said, and waved
his enemy out of the world with one sweep of his hand. “He dies tonight—I am
weary of him—for eighteen—nineteen years I have known him, and he's dirt right
through——”

He went out without another word. I stood
on the slope of the hill watching him.

Φ Φ Φ

I dined at the club, and went straight back
to the house where I had left my wife. She was sleeping—but the baby was dead.
Poor little mortal! I owed it no grudge, but I was glad when they told me.

All the next day I sat by her bed listening
to Lillian's mutterings, for she was very ill. I suffered all the tortures of a
damned soul sitting there, for she spoke of Lioski—”Arthur” she called
him—prayed to him for mercy—told him she loved him——

I was late for dinner at the club. There
was a noisy crowd there. Young Harvey of my own regiment had had too much to
drink, and I avoided his table.

My hand shook as I poured out a glass of
wine, and somebody remarked on it.

I did not see Poropulos until the dinner
was halfway through. Curiously enough, I looked at the clock as he came in, and
the hands pointed to half past eight.

The Greek was steward of the club, and was
serving the wine. He was calm, impassive, remarkably serene, I thought. He
exchanged jokes with the officers who were grumbling that they had had to wait
for the fulfillment of their orders.

“It was ten to eight when I ordered this,”
grumbled one man.

Then, suddenly, Harvey, who had been
regarding Poropulos with drunken gravity, pointed downward.

“He's changed his boots,” he said, and
chuckled. Poropulos smiled amiably and went on serving. “He's changed his
boots!” repeated Harvey, concentrating his mind upon trivialities as only a
drunken man can. The men laughed. “Oh, dry up, Harvey!” said somebody.

“He's changed——”

He got no further. Through the door came a
military policeman, splashed from head to foot with mud.

“District Commandant here, sir?” he
demanded. “There's been a man murdered.”

“Soldier?” asked a dozen voices.

“No, sir—storekeeper, name of Lioski—shot
dead half an hour ago.”

Φ Φ Φ

I do not propose to tell in detail all that
happened following that. Two smart C. I. D. men came down from Johannesburg,
made a few inquiries, and arrested Poropulos. He was expecting the arrest, and
half an hour before the officers came he asked me to go to him.

I spent a quarter of an hour with him, and
what we said is no man's business but ours. He told me something that startled
me—he loved Lillian, too. I had never guessed it, but I did not doubt him. But
it was finally for Lillian's sake that he made me swear an oath so dreadful that
I cannot bring myself to write it down—an oath so unwholesome, and so against
the grain of a man, that life after it could only be a matter of sickness and
shame.

Then the police came and took him away.

Lioski had been shot dead in the store by
some person who had walked in when the store was empty, at a time when there
was nobody in the street. This person had shot the Jew dead and walked out
again. The police theory was that Poropulos had gone straight from the club, in
the very middle of dinner, had committed the murder, and returned to continue
his serving, and the crowning evidence was the discovery that he had changed
his boots between 7.30 and 8.30. The mud-stained boots were found in a cellar,
and the chain of evidence was completed by the statement of a trooper who had
seen the Greek walking from the direction of the store, at 8.10, with a
revolver in his hand.

Poropulos was cheerful to the last—cheerful
through the trial, through the days of waiting in the fort at Johannesburg.

“I confess nothing,” he said to the Greek
priest. “I hated Lioski, and I am glad that he is dead, that is all. It is true
that I went down to kill him, but it was too late.”

When they pinioned him he turned to me.

“I have left my money to you,” he said.
“There is about four thousand pounds. You will look after her.”

“That is the only reason I am alive.”

“Did you murder Arthur Lioski?” said the
priest again.

“No,” said Poropulos, and smiled as he went
to his death. And what he said was true, as I know. I shot Lioski.

THE END

Identifier:

BWFCKOCAKV

Title:

The Greek Poropulos

Creator:

Edgar Wallace

Date:

November 19, 1910

subject:

Crime/Suspense

Description:

Short story of colonial South Africa

Language:

en-gb

Coverage:

Edited for eBook by dlHart

Format:

.prc - dlHart

Relation:

eBook Version 2.1 rtf