Complete Works of E W Hornung

by E. W. Hornung

  Then a sash went up too slowly, limbs crossed the sill and felt the floor with excessive caution, and for a little lifetime Alfred Croucher suffered more exquisitely than toward the end in the condemned cell. The monster was leaning over him, breathing hotly in his face, all but touching his frozen skin.

  “Alfie!” said a blessed voice, as a tiny light struck through the compressed eyelids. “Alfie, it’s me!”

  And once more Alfred Croucher was a man and a liar. “Shoddy!” he croaked with a sepulchral sob. “An’ me asleep an’ dreamin’ like a bloomin’ babby! Why, wot the ‘ell you doin’ ‘ere, Shod?”

  “Come to see you, old son,” said Shoddy. “But it’s more like me arskin’ what you’re up to in a ‘ouse like this?”

  “‘Avin the time o’ me life!” whispered the excited patient. “Livin’ like a fightin’ cock, on the fat o’ the teemin’ land, at some ruddy old josser’s expense!”

  And he poured into the still adjacent ear the true fairy tale of his first day’s freedom, from his introduction to Doctor Dollar in the precincts of that very jail which was to have been his place of execution and obscene sepulcher.

  “I know. I seen you come out with him,” said Shoddy, “an’ drive off in yer car like a hairy lord. I was there with a taxi meself — —”

  “There to meet me, Shod?”

  “That’s it. That’s ‘ow I tracked you to this ‘ere ‘ouse. The room took more findin’; but there’s an old pal o’ mine a shover in the mews. ‘E showed me the back o’ the ‘ouse, an’ blowed if I didn’t spot yer at yer winder first go off!”

  “That must’ve been early on, old man? I bin in bed all day. Oh, such a bed, Shoddy! I’m goin’ to sleep me ‘ead into a pulp afore I leave it.”

  “You ain’t,” said Shoddy firmly. “You’re comin’ along o’ me, Alfie. That’s why I’m ‘ere.”

  “Not me,” replied Alfie, with equal firmness. “I know w’en I’m well off — and it’s time I was.”

  “I’m wiv yer there!” Shoddy nodded in adroit sympathy; he had kept his electric lamp burning all the time; and an extra prominence of eye and cheek-bone, a looseness of lip and a flickering glance, were not inarticulate in the chastened countenance of his friend. “It must’ve been ‘ell, Alfie, real, old red-’ot ‘ell!”

  “And all for wot I never done,” he was reminded with some stiffness.

  “That’s it,” the other agreed, with perfunctory promptitude. “But that’s exactly why I’m ‘ere, Alfie. You didn’t think I done a job like this for the sake o’ tikin’ ‘old o’ yer ‘and, didger? It’s just because it seems you didn’t commit yerself, Alfie, that I’d got to see yer by ‘ook or crook before the day was out.”

  “Where’s the fire?” inquired Alfie, idiomatically; but his professional friend, like other artists in narration, and all givers of real news, was not going to surrender the bone of the situation until his audience sat up and begged for it.

  Mr. Croucher literally did sit up, while the exasperating Shoddy interrupted himself to make a stealthy tour of the room, in the course of which his electric torch illumined the comfortably bolted door, and the delectable box of Upmanns. To one of these he helped himself without permission, but a brace were in blast before he resumed his position on the bed.

  “The fire?” said he, as though seconds and not minutes had elapsed since the cryptic question. “There’s no fire anywhere as I know of — not to-night — but there soon may be, that’s why I want you out o’ this. If you didn’t commit yourself, Alfie, don’t you see as somebody else must ‘ave done?”

  “Oh, bring it up!” cried Croucher under his breath.

  “Well, if you didn’t stiffen that copper on the night o’ the sufferygite disturbance — an’ we know you didn’t — then somebody else did!”

  “You don’t mean to tell me you know who did?”

  There had been a tense though tiny pause; there was another while Shoddy changed the torch to his right hand, and blew a cloud over the head of his now recumbent companion.

  “I know what everybody says, Alfie.”

  “More than their prayers, I’ll bet, like they did before. Wot do they say?”

  “One o’ the sufferygites — —”

  “Corpsed the copper?”

  “That’s it, old man.”

  “And I never thought of it!”

  “It bears some thinkin’ about, don’t it?” said Shoddy. “Why, you’re trem’lin’ like a blessed leaf!”

  “I should think I was trem’lin’! So would you if you’d been through wot I been ... Shod!”

  “Yuss, Alfie?”

  “I see the ‘ole blessed thing!”

  “I thought you would.”

  “It was ‘er wot broke the jooler’s winder for me!”

  “That’s wot they say.”

  “They? Who?”

  “Lots o’ people. I ‘eard it down some mews: some o’ the pipers ‘ave ‘inted at it. Topham’s in fair ‘ot water all round; they say ‘e’s ‘ushed it up because she’s in serciety.”

  “Wot’s ‘er nime, Shod?”

  “Lidy Moyle — Lidy Vera Moyle, I think it is. And ‘ere’s another thing, a thing that I was forgettin’.”

  “Out with it.”

  “I see ‘er come ‘ere this afternoon, whilst I was watchin’ the ‘ouse in case you come out.”

  “My Gawd, Shoddy! Let me sit up. I can’t breathe lyin’ down.”

  “She ‘ad some flowers wiv ‘er,” said Shoddy, pursuing his reminiscences. “Looks as though she’s got a friend in the ‘ome.”

  “I’m the friend,” said Mr. Croucher grimly. “Take and run yer light over that wash-stand; the guv’nor brought ‘em up ‘isself wiv these ‘ere smokes.”

  “Roses, in the month o’ March!” murmured Shoddy, as a bowl of beauties filled the disk of light; “‘ot’ouse flowers for little Alfie! Why, the girl’s fair struck on you, cully!”

  “I’ll strike ‘er!” said Alfie, through teeth that chattered with emotion. “I very near ‘anged for the little biter, and don’t you forget it!”

  “Not me,” said Shoddy, steering for the bed with his headlights of white-hot filament and red-hot cigar. “That’s wot brought me ‘ere through thick and thin.”

  “So she’s the great unknown!” said Croucher more than once, but not twice in the same tone. “So it was ‘er, was it?” he inquired as often, until Shoddy insisted on a hearing.

  “Don’t I keep tellin’ yer?” said Shoddy. “That’s wot brings me, at the gaudiest risks you ever see — only to ‘ear you gas! Can’t you listen for a change? There’s a big thing on if you’ve guts enough for the job.”

  It was a simple thing, however, like most big things; the projector had it at his finger-ends; and in a very few minutes Mr. Croucher was considering a complete, crude, and yet eminently practical proposition.

  “There’s money in it,” he was forced to admit, “if there ain’t the big money you flatter yerself. But I believe she thinks o’ givin’ me a start in life any’ow.”

  “This’d be a start an’ a finish, Alfie! Besides, it’d be your revenge; don’t you forget wot you’ve been through,” urged the other.

  “Catch me!” said Croucher, eagerly. “But — don’cher see? I been through so much that I was lookin’ forward to dossin’ down ‘ere a bit. I ain’t the man I was. It’s wot I need. Where’s the fire, as I said afore? The gal won’t run away.”

  “That’s just wot she will, Alfie; goin’ abroad any day — an’ might get married any day, a piece like ‘er. Then you might find it more of a job. There’s another ‘old we’ve got, an’ might lose any old day.”

  The other hold appealed with peculiar power to the character and temperament of Alfred Croucher, and not less strongly to a certain sagacity which added more to his equipment. But he had never been quite so comfortable in his life; comfort had never been so decidedly his due; and the substance of present luxury (with a fresh start in the near future) was not l
ightly to be exchanged for a gold-mine, with all a gold-mine’s gambling chances, including the proverbial optimism of prospectors.

  The discussion ended in a compromise and the withdrawal of Shoddy by the catlike ways and means of his arrival. But he did not depart without pointing, through the open window and a forest of chimney-stacks, to a lighted but uncurtained square on a lower level. And thither, at certain appointed hours, the patient might have been caught peeping, or even in the act of rude and furtive signals, for several days to come.

  Handled as it deserves, the tale of those days would make a psychological chapter of dual interest, and for reasons that may yet appear. But for the moment Alfred Croucher holds the stage, and soliloquies are out of vogue. Yet even his objective life had points of interest. He slept less than he had planned to sleep, but read more than he had ever read in all his life; and his reading, if not a sign of grace, was at least a straw that showed the way the wind might have blown but for the intrusive Shoddy.

  Out of the doctor’s little typewritten list, the patient in the top-floor-back began by choosing For the Term of His Natural Life. It held him — with a tortured brow that sometimes glistened. When the book was finished, he was advised that It Is Never Too Late to Mend was a better thing of the same kind; “In spite of its name,” added Dollar, in studied disparagement. Croucher took the hint, and was soon breathing as hard as he had done before he knew that Shoddy was Shoddy; was heard blaspheming over Hawes in his solitude, and left wondering what Tom Robinson’s creator would have made of Alfred Croucher. Something of that speculation found its way into words, with the return of the book, and was the cause of lengthier visitations from the doctor, whose eye began to brighten when it fell on Croucher, as that of a man put on his mettle after all.

  And then one morning he came in with a blue review and a new long poem, which might have hurt but might have helped; only it had no chance of doing either, because the top back room was empty of Alfred Croucher, who had walked out of the house in the loudest of his brand-new clothes.

  III

  The Rome Express had left Paris sprinkled with the green flakes of a precocious spring; and it hummed through a mellow evening into a night of velvet clasped with a silver moon. The famous train was not uncomfortably crowded; it is not everybody who will pay two pounds, eight shilling, seven pence for a berth in a sleeper which in Switzerland, say, would cost some twenty francs. Most of those who had committed the extravagance seemed by way of getting their money’s worth; even the lady traveling alone in the foremost wagon-lit, though she refrained from dining in the restaurant-car, would have struck an acquaintance as in better spirits than for some months past. And so she was. But she was still far from being the Lady Vera Moyle of last year’s fogs.

  She was going to her mother, who had been seriously ill since Christmas, but was now completing her recovery in Rome. And yet her illness had meant less to Lady Armagh than to the wayward child who had been told (by the rest of the family) to consider herself its cause; it might indeed have been a direct dispensation to tie Lady Vera’s hands and tongue; and in the train de luxe, perhaps for the first time, she herself recognized the merciful wisdom of Providence in the matter.

  Alfred Croucher was a free man: that was the great thing. There were moments when it was an even greater thing than Lady Armagh’s convalescence. But there was later and greater news yet for Lady Vera to gloat over in the train. Not only was poor Croucher a free man, but that dear Doctor Dollar had hopes of him at last! He had said so the day she left for Paris; he had never said anything of the kind before. Nothing could have been more pessimistic than the crime doctor’s first report on his latest patient; nothing franker than the way he had made room for him in the home, merely and entirely to gratify her whim. Alfred Croucher was “not his style,” and there had been an end of him but for the fact that Lady Vera was.

  She belonged to the class that he was pleased to consider as potentially the most criminal of all. She was well aware of it, and the knowledge provided her with a considerable range of feelings as the train flew on and on. She felt herself the object of a purely pathological interest; she felt almost as small as a specimen under a microscope; she felt lonelier than ever in her life before....

  Lonely she was in the way that mattered least. She was traveling for once without a maid. The faithful creature (a would-be militant of the blood-thirstiest, in her day) had been with her dear ladyship over the Sunday in Paris (hobnobbing with certain exiles for the Cause); but just as they were leaving their hotel a telegram had come to summon her to a bucolic death-bed. Esther would have let her old father die without her, but her beloved ladyship, still quick with her own filial awakenings, had sent her about her dismal business with a kiss.

  The compartment was overheated; they always are unless you complain in time. Lady Vera had made her efficient little fuss too late, and the result was not apparent before the small hours and Modane. During the long wait there she lay awake, though she had duly entrusted her keys to the conductor, and the voices of those who had omitted that precaution caused a welcome change in her “long, long thoughts.” She put her mind to her fellow-passengers, and kept it on them with native resolution.

  She was in decent company: a moderately well-known man and wife in one adjoining compartment, a white-haired ecclesiastic in the other. She wove a romance about the venerable gentleman, and speculated on the well-being of the other pair. In such innocent ways could she amuse herself when out of muddle-headed mischief in the name of God knows what. In all else she was sweet and sane enough — unless it was just one tiny matter that annoyed her memory before she fell asleep to the renewed lullaby of the express. It was the utterly unimportant matter of a youngish man in a loud suit, one of a brace of incredibly common Englishmen, who had nevertheless been staying at the hotel in Paris, had “passed a remark” to Esther in the lift, and certainly stared with insolence at Esther’s mistress, not only in Paris but in passing along the corridor of this very train, before and after the hour for dinner.

  To Vera Moyle there seemed no time at all between her passing thought of this creature and the vile glare that woke her up. At first it blinded her, for she was in the upper berth, within inches of the excruciating blaze. It came almost as a relief when a head bobbed between the glare and her eyes.

  Lady Vera blinked her indignation. She was too sleepy to do more at first, and too old a traveler to make much fuss about a mere piece of stupidity. She could not see the man’s face, but his head was of the type which occasions the inevitable libel on the bullet, and its hideousness hardly mitigated by the Rembrandtesque effect of the electric light behind it. She conceived it to belong to some blundering official, and ordered him out in pretty sharp French. But the man did not move. And in another short moment Vera Moyle had become aware of three very horrible things: it was the creature in the loud suit, and he had shut the door behind him, and was holding an automatic pistol to her breast.

  “One syl’ble that anybody else can ‘ear,” he muttered as her mouth opened, “an’ it’s yer larst in life! ‘Old yer noise an’ I won’t be ‘ard on you — not ‘alf as ‘ard as you been on me!”

  “It isn’t — oh, surely it isn’t Croucher?” cried the girl, with an emotion made up of every element but fear.

  “It is Croucher,” said he in brutal mimicry. “That bein’ just so, I puts away the barker — see? — no decepshun!” The pistol dropped into a loud tweed pocket. “I reckon I can do me own bit o’ barkin’ — yuss! an’ bitin’, too!” concluded Croucher, with an appropriate snarl.

  “Will you please go out?” said Lady Vera, still with sorrow in her steady eyes.

  “No, I will not please. I’ll see you damned first!” said Croucher, with sudden ferocity— “like you very near seen me! If we’re over’eard, you’ll be thought no better’n you ought to be; but by Gawd they won’t think you as bad as wot you are!”

  Lady Vera took no advantage of a studious pause. The ruffian was maki
ng his points with more than merely ruffianly effect; the whole thing might have been carefully rehearsed. But to the girl in the upper berth it was now no more than she deserved. It was a light enough punishment for the dreadful deed by her committed — no matter how unconscious, in how fine a frenzy or how just a cause — and on him visited with all but the last dread vengeance of the criminal law. He had a right to say what he liked to her after that, even to say it then and there, with all his natural and acquired brutality. Was it not she who had done most of all to brutalize him?

  “That is, until I tell ‘em,” added Croucher, with crafty significance. His hearer had to recall the words before the pause; when she had done so, he was again requested to leave the compartment, and there was a harder light in her eyes.

  “Surely it isn’t Croucher?”

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” she promised. “I’m going on to Rome.”

  He laughed scornfully. “You needn’t tell me where you’re goin’! I know all about you, and ‘ave done for some time. I been on yer tracks, my dear! You seen me. It’s your own fault we didn’t ‘ave it out before. This ain’t quite the pitch — but it’s a better place than the one you got me into!”