Read Online That Devil's Madness by Dominique Wilson - Free Book Online

headman – you’ll want a Berber, if you want things to go well.’
    â€˜Why is that?’
    â€˜Ahhh, see, I didn’t know either when we first came, but then I read about it in La Revue des deux mondes . The scientists in France, they studied them. Had their skulls sent to them and studied them. Compared them to Arab skulls. And do you know what they found, Monsieur?’
    Marius shook his head.
    â€˜Apparently their skulls are like that of the German people. Who would have thought? That’s why they have that proud look about them. Makes sense, when you think about it. Not like the Arabs, all thin and nervous and dry. So that makes them more like us, more hard-working and courageous, you see. More intelligent. That’s why you have to make sure you get a Berber headman, you see?’
    â€˜May we be excused, Father?’ asked one of the sons. Bertin nodded. ‘Good night, Sir. Louis.’
    The maid brought in a tray with coffee and cups. Bertin pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. Marius did the same. Sat back, relaxed.
    â€˜Now, you’ll also have to get a pump.’
    â€˜A pump? I think the pump can wait a while; we’ll manage, carrying water.’
    â€˜Ah, no. You must get a pump. The river might dry up in summer. Everyone has to dig a well, so you’ll need a pump. I’ll be sending the well-digger to you soon. Buy it tomorrow and tell them to deliver it here – I’ll see it goes with the well-digger. I’m sorry, but I must insist. It has to be this way. You’ll find this a very different country to our dear France, Monsieur de Dercou, but you’ll learn…’ He puffed on his pipe, thoughtful. ‘You know, when we first came, we hadn’t much more than you have now. Do you remember, my dear, where we first came?’
    Madame Bertin laughed. ‘Oh dear, yes. They were hard times, Monsieur. When we first came, all we had was six children and a pig. And not a whole pig at that – its tail was missing.’ She smiled at the memory.
    â€˜You look surprised, but it’s true what my wife is telling you. We were just like you. And there wasn’t as much here then, either, was there, my dear?’ Madame Bertin shook her head. ‘But the soil here, Monsieur, it’s so rich, it’s black. You can grow anything. If you’re not afraid of a bit of hard work, you can do well here, Monsieur de Dercou. Yes, you can do very, very well indeed…’

7
    Nicolette walked across the black and white tiled floor of the reporters’ room, past the grey steel desks, past the chief of staff’s ‘playpen’ – an enclave bordered by a waist high partition – then through the swinging double doors and down the corridor until she reached Pictorials. It was still dark outside, still cool, though the weather bureau predicted another scorcher. It was fairly quiet on the third floor of The Herald building, with only the foreign sub-editor and copy boys sorting through the overnight cables from the telex machine, but Nicolette knew that by six a.m. the chief of staff and other sub-editors would arrive, followed shortly by editor John Fitzgerald, or ‘Fitzie’, as everyone called him. By then the floor would be a hive of activity, the intensity of which would only increase with the arrival of reporters and cadets bringing the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of ‘copy!’ or ‘shute!’, and the constant ringing of telephones. Which was why Nicolette preferred to arrive so early – a habit she’d formed when she too had been a copy ‘boy’. At five a.m., she knew she had a good hour which she could spend examining the previous day’s contact sheets and news photos; she might only be a cadet right now, but her three-year cadetship was almost over, and then she intended becoming a fully-fledged photojournalist.
    The routine for journalism cadets was