Not on the Passenger List

by Unknown

  Lady Adela was certainly quite right to give me up, which she did in a most tactful and sympathetic letter.

  The Tower

  IN the billiard-room of the Cabinet Club, shortly after midnight, two men had just finished a game. A third had been watching it from the lounge at the end of the room. The winner put up his cue, slipped on his coat, and with a brief “Good-night” passed out of the room. He was tall, dark, clean-shaven and foreign in appearance. It would not have been easy to guess his nationality, but he did not look English.

  The loser, a fair-haired boy of twenty-five, came over to the lounge and dropped down by the side of the elderly man who had been watching the billiards.

  “Silly game, ain’t it, doctor?” he said cheerfully. The doctor smiled.

  “Yes,” he said, “Vyse is a bit too hot for you, Bill.”

  “A bit too hot for anything,” said the boy. “He never takes any trouble; he never hesitates; he never thinks; he never takes an easy shot when there’s a brilliant one to be pulled off. It’s almost uncanny.”

  “Ah,” said the doctor, reflectively, “it’s a queer thing. You’re the third man whom I have heard say that about Vyse within the last week.”

  “I believe he’s quite all right—good sort of chap, you know. He’s frightfully clever too—speaks a lot of beastly difficult Oriental languages—does well at any game he takes up.”

  “Yes,” said the doctor, “he is clever; and he is also a fool.”

  “What do you mean? He’s eccentric, of course. Fancy his buying that rotten tower—a sweet place to spend Christmas in all alone, I don’t think.”

  “Why does he say he’s going there?”

  “Says he hates the conventional Christmas, and wants to be out of it; says also that he wants to shoot duck.”

  “That won’t do,” said the doctor. “He may hate the conventional Christmas. He may, and he probably will, shoot duck. But that’s not his reason for going there.”

  “Then what is it?” asked the boy.

  “Nothing that would interest you much, Bill. Vyse is one of the chaps that want to know too much. He’s playing about in a way that every medical man knows to be a rotten, dangerous way. Mind, he may get at something; if the stories are true he has already got at a good deal. I believe it is possible for a man to develop in himself certain powers at a certain price.”

  “What’s the price?”

  “Insanity, as often as not. Here, let’s talk about something pleasanter. Where are you yourself going this Christmas, by the way?”

  “My sister has taken compassion upon this lone bachelor. And you?”

  “I shall be out of England,” said the doctor. “Cairo, probably.”

  The two men passed out into the hall of the club.

  “Has Mr Vyse gone yet?” the boy asked the porter.

  “Not yet, Sir William. Mr Vyse is changing in one of the dressing-rooms. His car is outside.”

  The two men passed the car in the street, and noticed the luggage in the tonneau. The driver, in his long leather coat, stood motionless beside it, waiting for his master. The powerful headlight raked the dusk of the street; you could see the paint on a tired woman’s cheek as she passed through it on her way home at last.

  “See his game?” said Bill.

  “Of course,” said the doctor. “He’s off to the marshes and that blessed tower of his to-night.”

  “Well, I don’t envy him—holy sort of amusement it must be driving all that way on a cold night like this. I wonder if the beggar ever goes to sleep at all?”

  They had reached Bill’s chambers in Jermyn Street.

  “You must come in and have a drink,” said Bill.

  “Don’t think so, thanks,” said the doctor; “it’s late, you know.”

  “You’d better,” said Bill, and the doctor followed him in.

  A letter and a telegram were lying on the table in the diminutive hall. The letter had been sent by messenger, and was addressed to Sir William Orlsey, Bart., in a remarkably small hand-writing. Bill picked it up, and thrust it into his pocket at once, unopened. He took the telegram with him into the room where the drinks had been put out, and opened it as he sipped his whisky-and-soda.

  “Great Scot!” he exclaimed.

  “Nothing serious, I hope,” said the doctor.

  “I hope not. I suppose all children have got to have the measles some time or another; but it’s a bit unlucky that my sister’s three should all go down with it just now. That does for her house-party at Christmas, of course.”

  A few minutes later, when the doctor had gone, Bill took the letter from his pocket and tore it open. A cheque fell from the envelope and fluttered to the ground. The letter ran as follows:

  “ DEAR BILL ,—I could not talk to you to-night, as the doctor, who happens to disapprove of me, was in the billiard-room. Of course, I can let you have the hundred you want, and enclose it herewith with the utmost pleasure. The time you mention for repayment would suit me all right, and so would any other time. Suit your own convenience entirely.

  “I have a favour to ask of you. I know you are intending to go down to the Leylands’ for Christmas. I think you will be prevented from doing so. If that is the case, and you have no better engagement, would you hold yourself at my disposal for a week? It is just possible that I may want a man like you pretty badly. There ought to be plenty of duck this weather, but I don’t know that I can offer any other attraction.—Very sincerely yours,

  “ EDWARD VYSE . ”

  Bill picked up the cheque, and thrust it into the drawer with a feeling of relief. It was a queer invitation, he thought—funnily worded, with the usual intimations of time and place missing. He switched off the electric lights and went into his bedroom. As he was undressing a thought struck him suddenly.

  “How the deuce,” he said aloud, “did he know that I should be prevented from going to Polly’s place?” Then he looked round quickly. He thought that he had heard a faint laugh just behind him. No one was there, and Bill’s nerves were good enough. In twenty minutes he was fast asleep.

  * * *

  The cottage, built of grey stone, stood some thirty yards back from the road, from which it was screened by a shrubbery. It was an ordinary eight-roomed cottage, and it did well enough for Vyse and his servants and one guest—if Vyse happened to want a guest. There was a pleasant little walled garden of a couple of acres behind the cottage. Through a doorway in the further wall one passed into a stunted and dismal plantation, and in the middle of this rose the tower, far higher than any of the trees that surrounded it.

  Sir William Orlsey had arrived just in time to change before dinner. Talk at dinner had been of indifferent subjects—the queer characters of the village and the chances of sport on the morrow. Bill had mentioned the tower, and his host had hastened to talk of other things. But now that dinner was over, and the man who had waited on them had left the room, Vyse of his own accord returned to the subject.

  “Danvers is a superstitious ass,” he observed, “and he’s in quite enough of a funk about that tower as it is; that’s why I wouldn’t give you the story of it while he was in the room. According to the village tradition, a witch was burned on the site where the tower now stands, and she declared that where she burned the devil should have his house. The lord of the manor at that time, hearing what the old lady had said, and wishing to discourage house-building on that particular site, had it covered with a plantation, and made it a condition of his will that this plantation should be kept up.”

  Bill lit a large cigar. “Looks like checkmate,” he said. “However, seeing that the tower is actually there——”


  “Quite so. This man’s son came no end of a cropper, and the property changed hands several times. It was divided and sub-divided. I, for instance, only own about twenty acres of it. Presently there came along a scientific old gentleman and bought the piece that I now have. Whether he knew of the story, or whether he didn’t, I cannot say, but he set to work to build the tower that is now standing in the middle of the plantation. He may have intended it as an observatory. He got the stone for it on the spot from his own quarry, but he had to import his labour, as the people in these parts didn’t think the work healthy. Then one fine morning before the tower was finished they found the old gentleman at the bottom of his quarry with his neck broken.”

  “So,” said Bill, “they say of course that the tower is haunted. What is it that they think they see?”

  “Nothing. You can’t see it. But there are people who think they have touched it and have heard it.”

  “Rot, ain’t it?”

  “I don’t know exactly. You see, I happen to be one of those people.”

  “Then, if you think so, there’s something in it. This is interesting. I say, can’t we go across there now?”

  “Certainly, if you like. Sure you won’t have any more wine? Come along, then.”

  The two men slipped on their coats and caps. Vyse carried a lighted stable-lantern. It was a frosty moonlit night, and the path was crisp and hard beneath their feet. As Vyse slid back the bolts of the gate in the garden wall, Bill said suddenly, “By the way, Vyse, how did you know that I shouldn’t be at the Leylands’ this Christmas? I told you I was going there.”

  “I don’t know. I had a feeling that you were going to be with me. It might have been wrong. Anyhow, I’m very glad you’re here. You are just exactly the man I want. We’ve only a few steps to go now. This path is ours. That cart-track leads away to the quarry where the scientific gentleman took the short cut to further knowledge. And here is the door of the tower.”

  They walked round the tower before entering. The night was so still that, unconsciously, they spoke in lowered voices and trod as softly as possible. The lock of the heavy door groaned and screeched as the key turned. The light of the lantern fell now on the white sand of the floor and on a broken spiral staircase on the further side. Far up above one saw a tangle of beams and the stars beyond them. Bill heard Vyse saying that it was left like that after the death in the quarry.

  “It’s a good solid bit of masonry,” said Bill, “but it ain’t a cheerful spot exactly. And, by Jove! it smells like a menagerie.”

  “It does,” said Vyse, who was examining the sand on the floor.

  Bill also looked down at the prints in the sand. “Some dog’s been in here.”

  “No,” said Vyse, thoughtfully. “Dogs won’t come in here, and you can’t make them. Also, there were no marks on the sand when I left the place and locked the door this afternoon. Queer, isn’t it?”

  “But the thing’s a blank impossibility. Unless, of course, we are to suppose that——”

  He did not finish his sentence, and, if he had finished it, it would not have been audible. A chorus of grunting, growling and squealing broke out almost from under his feet, and he sprang backwards. It lasted for a few seconds, and then died slowly away.

  “Did you hear that?” Vyse asked quietly.

  “I should rather think so.”

  “Good; then it was not subjective. What was it?”

  “Only one kind of beast makes that row. Pigs, of course—a whole drove of them. It sounded as if they were in here, close to us. But as they obviously are not, they must be outside.”

  “But they are not outside,” said Vyse. “Come and see.”

  They hunted the plantation through and through with no result, and then locked the tower door and went back to the cottage. Bill said very little. He was not capable of much self-analysis, but he was conscious of a sudden dislike of Vyse. He was angry that he had ever put himself under an obligation to this man. He had wanted the money for a gambling debt, and he had already repaid it. Now he saw Vyse in the light of a man with whom one should have no dealings, and the last man from whom one should accept a kindness. The strange experience that he had just been through filled him with loathing far more than with fear or wonder. There was something unclean and diabolical about the whole thing that made a decent man reluctant to question or to investigate. The filthy smell of the brutes seemed still to linger in his nostrils. He was determined that on no account would he enter the tower again, and that as soon as he could find a decent excuse he would leave the place altogether.

  A little later, as he sat before the log fire and filled his pipe, he turned to his host with a sudden question: “I say, Vyse, why did you want me to come down here? What’s the meaning of it all?”

  “My dear fellow,” said Vyse, “I wanted you for the pleasure of your society. Now, don’t get impatient. I also wanted you because you are the most normal man I know. Your confirmation of my experiences in the tower is most valuable to me. Also, you have good nerves, and, if you will forgive me for saying so, no imagination. I may want help that only a man with good nerves would be able to give.”

  “Why don’t you leave the thing alone? It’s too beastly.”

  Vyse laughed. “I’m afraid my hobby bores you. We won’t talk about it. After all, there’s no reason why you should help me?”

  “Tell me just what it is that you wanted.”

  “I wanted you if you heard this whistle”—he took an ordinary police-whistle down from the mantelpiece—“any time to-night or to-morrow night, to come over to the tower at once and bring a revolver with you. The whistle would be a sign that I was in a tight place—that my life, in fact, was in danger. You see, we are dealing here with something preternatural, but it is also something material; in addition to other risks, one risks ordinary physical destruction. However, I could see that you were repelled by the sight and the sound of these beasts, whatever they may be; and I can tell you from my own experience that the touch of them is even worse. There is no reason why you should bother yourself any further about the thing.”

  “You can take the whistle with you,” said Bill. “If I hear it I will come.”

  “Thanks,” said Vyse, and immediately changed the subject. He did not say why he was spending the night in the tower, or what it was he proposed to do there.

  * * *

  It was three in the morning when Bill was suddenly startled out of his sleep. He heard the whistle being blown repeatedly. He hurried on some clothes and dashed down into the hall, where his lantern and revolver lay all ready for him. He ran along the garden path and through the door in the wall until he got to the tower. The sound of the whistle had ceased now, and everything was horribly still. The door of the tower stood wide open, and without hesitation Bill entered, holding his lantern high.

  The tower was absolutely empty. Not a sound was to be heard. Bill called Vyse by name twice loudly, and then again the awful silence spread over the place.

  Then, as if guided by some unseen hand, he took the track that led to the quarry, well knowing what he would find at the bottom of it.

  * * *

  The jury assigned the death of Vyse to an accident, and said that the quarry should be fenced in. They had no explanation to offer of the mutilation of the face, as if by the teeth of some savage beast.

  The Four-Fingered Hand

  CHARLES YARROW held fours, but as he had come up against Brackley’s straight flush they only did him harm, leading him to remark—by no means for the first time—that it did not matter what cards one held, but only when one held them. “I get out here,” he remarked, with resignation. No one else seemed to care for further play. The two other men left at once, and shortly afterwards
Yarrow and Brackley sauntered out of the club together.

  “The night’s young,” said Brackley; “if you’re doing nothing you may as well come round to me.”

  “Thanks, I will. I’ll talk, or smoke, or go so far as to drink; but I don’t play poker. It’s not my night.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Brackley, “that you had any superstitions.”

  “Haven’t. I’ve only noticed that, as a rule, my luck goes in runs, and that a good run or a bad run usually lasts the length of a night’s play. There is probably some simple reason for it, if I were enough of a mathematician to worry it out. In luck as distinct from arithmetic I have no belief at all.”

  “I wish you could bring me to that happy condition. The hard-headed man of the world, without a superstition or a belief of any kind, has the best time of it.”

  They reached Brackley’s chambers, lit pipes, and mixed drinks. Yarrow stretched himself in a lounge chair, and took up the subject again, speaking lazily and meditatively. He was a man of thirty-eight, with a clean-shaven face; he looked, as indeed he was, travelled and experienced.

  “I don’t read any books,” he remarked, “but I’ve been twice round the world, and am just about to leave England again. I’ve been alive for thirty-eight years, and during most of them I have been living. Consequently, I’ve formed opinions, and one of my opinions is that it is better to dispense with superfluous luggage. Prejudices, superstitions, beliefs of any kind that are not capable of easy and immediate proof are superfluous luggage; one goes more easily without them. You implied just now that you had a certain amount of this superfluous luggage, Brackley. What form does it take? Do you turn your chair?—are you afraid of thirteen at dinner?”