Thrush gave up trying to take the other out of himself, since his boldest statements were allowed to pass unchallenged, unless they dealt with the one subject on the poor man’s mind. The cessation of his voice, however, caused a twinge of conscience in the bad listener; he made a mental grab at the last phrase, and was astonished to find it germane to his own thoughts.
“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned luck, Mr. Thrush!”
“When was the first?”
“You spoke of Friday as an unlucky day, as God knows this one is to me! Are you of a superstitious turn of mind?”
“Not seriously.”
“You don’t believe in dreams, for example?”
“That’s another question,” said Thrush, his spectacles twinkling to colossal rubies as he sipped his Santenay. “Why do you ask?”
“If you’re a disbeliever it’s no use my telling you.”
“Perhaps I’m neither one thing nor the other.”
“Have you ever known a mystery solved through a dream?”
“I’ve heard of one,” said Thrush, with a significant stress upon the verb; “that’s the famous old murder in the Red Barn a hundred years ago. The victim’s mother dreamed three nights running that her missing daughter was buried in the Red Barn, and there she was all the time. There may have been other cases.”
“Cases in which a parent has dreamt of an absent child, at the very time at which something terrible has happened to that child?”
“Any amount of those.”
The father’s voice had trembled with the question. Thrush put down his glass as he gave his answer, and his spectacled eyes fixed themselves in a more attentive stare.
“Do you think they’re all coincidences?” demanded Mr. Upton hoarsely.
“Some of them may be, but certainly not all,” was the reply. “That would be the greatest coincidence of the lot!”
“I hardly like to tell you why I ask,” said Mr. Upton, much agitated; for he could be as emotional as most irascible men.
“You’ve been dreaming about the boy?”
“Not I; but my poor wife has; that was one reason why I daren’t tell her he had disappeared.”
“Why? What was the dream?”
“That she saw him — and heard a shot.”
“A shot!”
Thrush looked as though he had heard one himself, but only until he had time to think.
“She says she did hear one,” added Mr. Upton, “and that she wasn’t dreaming at all.”
“But when was this?”
“Between six and seven yesterday morning.” This time Thrush did not move a muscle of his face; it only lit up like a Chinese lantern, and again he was quick to quench the inner flame; but now the coincidence was complete. Coincidences, however, had nothing to say to the A. V. M. system, neither was Eugene Thrush the man to jump to wild conclusions on the strength of one. He asked whether the boy was very fond of shooting in the holidays, as though that might have accounted for the dream, but his father was not aware that he had ever smelt powder in his life. He little dreamt what Thrush was driving at! The tone of subsequent inquiries concerning Mrs. Upton’s health (already mentioned as the great reason for keeping the affair as long as possible a secret) sounded purely compassionate to an ear unconsciously aching for compassion.
“Then that accounts for it,” said Thrush, when he had heard the whole sad story. There was the faintest ring of disappointment in his tone. “What do you mean?”
“That anybody as ill as that, more particularly a lady, is naturally fanciful, I’m afraid.”
“Then you think it a mere delusion, after all?”
“My dear Mr. Upton, it would be presumption to express an opinion either way. I only say, don’t think too much about that dream. And since you won’t keep me company in my cups, we may as well rejoin the faithful Mullins.”
They ran into Mullins, as it happened, in Glasshouse Street, and Mr. Upton for one would not have recognised him as the same being. His sepulchral face was alight with news — it was the transformation of the undertaker’s mute into the wedding guest. And yet he had only one box of the d’Auvergne Cigarettes to show for his evening’s work, and that chemist had declared it was the first he had sold for weeks.
Thrush ordered his man upstairs, and took his late guest’s hand as soon as ever he dared.
“You need a good night’s rest, my dear sir, and it’s no use climbing to my masthead for nothing. Mullins and I will do best if you don’t mind leaving us to ourselves for the night; but first thing to-morrow morning I shall be at your service again, and I hope there will be some progress to report.”
Mullins was waiting for him with all the lights on, his solemn face still more strikingly illuminated.
“Look at this, sir, look at this! These are the d’Auvergne Cigarettes!”
“So I perceive.”
“This stump is the stump of a d’Auvergne Cigarette.”
“I hope you enjoyed it, Mullins.”
“I didn’t smoke it, sir!”
“Who did?”
“That’s for you to say, sir; but it’s one of the little things I collected near the scene of the murder, but took for a common cheroot, yesterday morning in Hyde Park.”
“Near the actual place?”
Thrush had pounced upon the stump, and was holding it under the strongest of the electric lamps.
“Under a seat, sir, not above a hundred yards away!”
SECOND THOUGHTS
Pocket had been dreaming again. What else could he expect? Waking, he felt that he had got off cheaply; that he might have been through the nightmare of battle, as described by one who had, and depicted in the engravings downstairs, instead of on a mercifully hazy visit to the Chamber of Horrors at Madame Tussaud’s. The trouble was that he had seen the one and not the other, and what he had seen continued to haunt him as he lay awake, but quite horribly when he fell back into a doze. There was nothing nebulous about the vile place then; it was as light and bright as the room in which he lay. The sinister figures in the panelled pens were swathed in white, as he had somewhere read that they always were at nights. Their evil faces were shrouded out of sight. But that only made their defiant, portly figures the more humanly inhuman and terrifying; it was as though they had all risen, in their winding-sheets, from their murderer’s graves. Better by far their beastly faces, that you knew were wax! So he reasoned with himself, and screwed up his courage, and laid hands on one of the shorter figures that he could reach. It rocked stiffly in its place, a most palpable and reassuring waxwork. He unwound the cerements from the hollow and unyielding head; and the face was new to him; it had not been there the other afternoon. It was a young face like his own, as ill-mounted on high shoulders, with thickish lips ajar, and only a pair of intelligent eyes to redeem an apparent heaviness: one and all his own identical characteristics. And no wonder, for the last recruit to the waxen army of murderers was a faithful model of himself.
There was no awaking from this dream: the dreamer was not positive that he had been asleep. The veiled sunlight in his room was just what it had seemed in that deserted dungeon of swaddled malefactors. The boy shuddered till the bed shook under him. But after that he still lay on, facing himself as he had seen himself, and his deed as others must see it soon or late. Not the actual accident in the Park; but this hiding in the heart of London, this skulking among strangers, this leaving his own people to mourn him as the dead!
The thought of them drew scalding tears. Never had they seemed so dear to him before. It was not only Lettice and their parents. Fred and Horace, how good they had been to him at school, and how proud he had been of them! What would they think of him if he went on skulking like this? What would they have done in his place? Anything but lie low like that, thought Pocket, and resolved forthwith to play the game as preached and practised by his brothers. It was strange that he should have been so dense about so plain a duty overnight; this morning he saw it as sharp as an
image in perfect focus on the ground-glass screen.... To think that a mad photographer should have talked him into an attitude as mad as his own! This morning he saw the common sense of the situation as well as its right and wrong. Nothing would happen to him if he gave himself up, but anything might if he waited till he was caught. As for the consequences to his poor mother, surely in the end suspense and uncertainty would eat deeper into the slender cord of her life than the shock of the truth would cut.
Having made up his mind, however, as to the only thing to do, the boy behaved characteristically in not hastening to do it. The ordeal in front of him, beginning in certain conflict with Baumgartner, and ending in a blaze of wretched notoriety, was a severe one to face; meanwhile he lay in such peace and safety as it was only human to prolong a little. That night, for all his moral innocence, he might lie in prison; let him make the most of a good bed while he had one, especially as he was still mysteriously free from asthma. The last consideration took his mind off the ethical dilemma for quite a little time. He remembered the doctor at home telling him that he himself had suffered from chronic asthma, but had lost it after a carriage accident in which he was nearly killed.
“My accident may have done the same for me,” thought Pocket — and was bitterly ashamed next moment to catch himself thinking complacently of any aspect of his deed. Its other aspects were a sufficient punishment.
To get up, and raise the green linen blind, flooding with sunshine the plain upstairs room to which Baumgartner had conducted his guest, was to conjure uncomfortable visions of the eccentric doctor, with his ferocious meerschaum, his bloodthirsty battle-talk, and all his arguments in favour of the course which Pocket had now determined to abandon. The boy fully realised that he had been given his chance, and had refused it. And of all the interviews before him, that with Dr. Baumgartner was the one that he most dreaded, and would have given most to escape.
Could he escape it? That was an idea; others came of it. If he did escape, and did give himself up for what he had done, there was no reason why he should involve Baumgartner in that voluntary confession. Suppose he hailed the first cab he saw, and drove over to St. John’s Wood to borrow money (they could scarcely refuse him that), and then took the first train home to tell his father everything in the first instance, that father would never hear of his incriminating a stranger who had befriended him according to his lights. He himself need never say where he had spent the twenty-four hours after the tragedy, even if he were ever to know. And so far he had no notion, thanks to the ridiculous posture prescribed by Baumgartner in the cab; he could only suppose the motive had been to keep him out of sight, the benefit to his breathing a mere pretext; and yet it was a curious result that after a day and a night he should still be in total ignorance of his whereabouts.
He opened his window and looked out; but it was a back window, and the sunny little strip of garden below was one of many in a row. Old discoloured walls divided them from each other and from the gardens of a parallel block of bigger houses, whose slates and chimneys towered above the intervening trees. The street in front of those houses was completely hidden, but the hum of its traffic travelled pleasantly to the ear, and there were other reassuring sights and sounds. In one of the contiguous gardens a very small boy was wheeling a doll’s perambulator; on the other side, where the fine, warm gravel reminded Pocket of the carroty kind at home, a man was mowing an equally trim lawn. Pocket listened to the murmur of the machine, and watched the green spray playing over the revolving knives, and savoured the curiously countrified smell of cut grass; the combined effect was a still stronger reminiscence of his father’s garden, where his own old pony pulled the machine in leather shoes.
Because such associations filled his eyes again, there seemed no end to them. Somebody was playing the piano near some open window, and playing almost as well as Lettice did, and playing one of her things! Pocket could not bear to listen or look out any longer, and he dressed as quietly as he could. He had almost resolved to slip out without a word, whatever else he did, if the opportunity offered. It simply never occurred to him, until he made the discovery, that anybody would dare to lock him in his room!
Yet they had done it; that infernal old German doctor had had the cheek to do it; and the effect on the boy, who so expressed the situation to himself, was rather remarkable. A wholly ineffectual tug or two told him he was on the wrong side of the door for applying mere bodily strength, that either he must raise an ignominious shout for freedom or else achieve it for himself by way of the window. Unathletic as he always had been, he was sportsman enough not to hesitate an instant between the two alternatives; and on again looking out of the window, saw his way down at a glance.
Immediately underneath was another window, opening on a leaded balcony over the bow-window in the drawing-room. To shift his bedstead with the least possible noise, to tie a sheet to it, and to slide down the sheet till he had but a few feet to drop into the balcony, was the work of a very few minutes to one as excitedly determined as Pocket had become on finding himself a prisoner. Thought they would lock him in, did they? They would just find out their mistake! It was exactly the same mood in which he had scaled the upright palings in defiance of the policeman who said he might not sleep in the Park.
The balcony window was open, the room within empty. It was obviously Baumgartner’s bedroom. There was a camp bedstead worthy of an old campaigner, a large roll-top desk, and a waste-paper basket which argued either a voluminous correspondence or imperfect domestic service; it would have furnished scent for no short paper-chase. Otherwise the room was tidy enough, and so eloquent of Baumgartner himself, in its uncompromising severity, that Pocket breathed more freely on the landing. And in the hall he felt absolutely safe, for he had gained it without the creaking of a stair, and there on the pegs hung his hat, but neither the cloak nor the weird wide-awake affected by his host.
Baumgartner out. That was a bit of luck; and it was just like Pocket to lose a moment in taking advantage of it; but the truth was that he had made an interesting discovery. It was in that house the piano was being played. He heard it through the drawing-room door; he had heard it on the balcony up above; it had never stopped once, so silent had he been. It was that Phillida, with the large dark eyes, and she was playing something that Lettice sometimes played, and very nearly, though naturally not quite, as well. Pocket would have said that it was Mendelssohn, or Chopin, “or something,” for his love of music was greater than his knowledge. But it was not exactly the music that detained him; he was thinking more of the musician, who had shown him kindness, after all. It would be only decent to thank her before he went, and the doctor himself through his niece. If she knew he had been locked in, and he had to tell her how he had made his escape and yet not a sound — well, she would not think the less of him at all events, and so they would part for ever. Or perhaps not for ever! The juvenile instinct for romance was not to be stifled at such a stimulating moment. The girl would be sorry for him when she knew all; she might know enough to be sorry for him as it was; in any case it was the game to say goodbye.
The girl sprang from the music-stool in extraordinary excitement. Her large eyes were larger than ever, as it were with fear, and yet they blazed at the intruder. Pocket could not understand it, unless she already knew the truth.
“I’m so sorry for starting you,” he apologised. “I just came in to say goodbye.”
And he held out a hand which she never seemed to see.
“To say goodbye!” she gasped.
“Yes, I’ve got to go. I’m afraid the doctor’s out?”
“Yes, he is. Won’t you wait?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
She was shrinking from him, shrinking round towards the door. He stood aside, to let her bolt if that was her desire. And then she in turn took her stand, back to the door.
“He’ll be very sorry to miss you,” she said more firmly, and with a smile.
“And I’m very sorry to miss hi
m,” said Pocket, unconscientiously enough for anybody. “He’s been most awfully good to me, and I wish you’d tell him how grateful I am.”
“I’m afraid he won’t believe me,” the girl said dryly, “if he finds you gone.”
“I must go — really I must. I shall get into an awful row as it is. Do you mind giving him one other message?”
“As many as you like.”
“Well, you might tell him from me that I’ll give myself away, but I’ll never give him! He’ll know what I mean.”
“Is that all?”
She was keeping him very cleverly, putting in her word always at the last moment, and again refusing to see his hand; but again it was the boy who helped to waste his own golden opportunity, this time through an indefensible bit of boyish braggadocio.
“No; you may tell the doctor that if he wanted to detain me he went the worst way about it by locking me into my room!”
She looked mystified at first, and then astounded.
“How did you get out?”
“How do you suppose?”
“I never heard anything!”
“I took care you shouldn’t.”
And he described the successful adventure with pardonable unction in the end. After that he insisted on saying goodbye. And the young girl stood up to him like a little heroine.
“I’m very sorry, but I can’t let you go, Mr. Upton.”
“Can’t let me?”
“I really am sorry — but you must wait to see my uncle.”
He stood aghast before the determined girl. She was obviously older than himself, yet she was only a slip of a girl, and if he forced his way past — but he was not the fellow to do it — and that maddened him, because he felt she knew it.
“Oh, very well!” he cried, sarcastically. “If you won’t let me out that way, I’ll go this!”
And he turned towards the tiny conservatory, which led down into the garden; but she was on him, and there was no hesitation about her; she held him firmly by the hand.
Complete Works of E W Hornung Page 324
