‘“Tom, Tom! It’s old Lidgett—Gawd, ain’t it awful?”
‘Tillett withdrew his broad shoulders from the window and together they blundered down the stairs and joined the gathering group of Alleyites, already in various stages of fragmentary dress, standing agitatedly round the doorway.
‘It was locked, but Tillett and Danny Benskin’s broad shoulders made short work of the crazy door, and the crowd, led by the Tilletts, surged up the stairs. The babbling had died down to a ghastly low moaning, and now as they clattered up, this also ceased, but it had led them to the old man’s door, and Liz Tillett held her breath as her husband tried it.
‘Locked! His foot struck against a small object on the floor, and he took it up—a saucer, still half full of milk, though his touch had spilt some. They found a few sardine-heads in a plate and the remains of cream, all untouched and putrefying. Tillett scratched his head and put down the saucer, trying the door again—but the woman at his side shivered and drew away from these dreadfully pathetic little things—efforts at conciliation, but untouched, ignored . . . the cat, again the white cat! . . .
‘With a crash the door gave, and the foremost group burst into the dark room, but the moon fell straight across the bed, and showed a sight they none of them forgot to their dying day, a sight that sent Danny Benskin, hardened tough, into a shuddering heap against the wall, his head buried in his hands. Under the dirty quilt lay wicked Mat Lidgett, his head thrown back against the pillow, his chin raised, and in the cold, white moonlight his lean throat, strained back, showed scored and ragged and bloody, torn open to the chest!
‘His hands clutched the clothes in a twisted grip of dire agony, his eyes were rolled up and fixed in a blank stare of terror, his mouth gaped wide—and on his chest crouched the white cat, its paws bloody, its flat head turned to stare at the group cowering in the doorway! As they stared, fascinated, it rose slowly, deliberately, to its feet, leaped lightly to the ground and thence to the sill of the open window.
‘The moon was full on it as it moved, and Liz Tillett noted with a sick feeling of certainty that on its dirty white coat showed two large marks, and one was red and dull—like fruit-juice, she had thought . . . or blood. And just before the blackness of the night swallowed it, the creature turned to the frightened watchers a last stare from its lambent eyes . . . and in the slanting moonlight the eyes shone red!’
December
The Engineer’s Story
The Haunted Saucepan
‘Yes,’ said the long lean man in the comer, ‘I have had one odd experience that I suppose certainly comes under the heading of “Spook” stories. Not that I ever saw the ghost—I never saw a real ghost in my life. But this was odd. Yes. Odd . . . tell you? Yes, of course, if you like, Saunderson! Ask that youngster by the drinks to pour me out another whisky-and-splash, if she will—thanks, Laurie! Now then. Here’s the yarn, and don’t interrupt. . . .
‘I was hunting for a flat in London—say about three seasons ago—a furnished flat, as I didn’t know how long I was going to stay in England, and it wasn’t worth getting my furniture out of store. Rents were pretty high in the district I wanted—somewhere about St James’s or thereabouts—and I didn’t want to go out far, as it was essential that I kept in touch with my business interests. I had almost given up in despair and concluded that I should have to go either to a hotel or my Club, when an agent rang me up and said he had a flat for me, he thought. The owner, a woman, was abroad—he thought I might find it just the thing. The address was just what I wanted, the rent almost incredibly low—I jumped into a taxi and rushed round to see it, feeling sure there must be a catch somewhere, but it was a delightful flat, nicely furnished and as complete in every detail as you could wish. I was cautious and asked all sorts of questions, but as far as the agent knew it was a straightforward deal enough—the lady was staying abroad indefinitely, the previous tenants had gone. . . . Why did they leave? I wanted to know . . . but the agent played with his pencil and assured me he didn’t know. Illness in the family made them decide to leave very suddenly, he believed. . . . Well, at any rate, a week’s time saw me settled in, with my faithful man Strutt to do for me—you know Strutt, of course—one of the best fellows that ever lived? He plays an important part in the remarkable story I’m going to tell you.
‘The first evening I spent there seemed too delightful for words after the discomfort and inconvenience I had been enduring in various hotels for the last six months, and I drew a sigh of enjoyment as I stretched out my legs before the fire and sipped the excellent coffee at my elbow. Strutt had found me a woman of sorts to do the cooking—marvelous fellow Strutt!—and certainly she could cook, though the glimpse I had caught of her through the kitchen door as I went into the dining-room proved her a dour and in truth most ill-favoured looking old lady, with a chenille net, a thing I had thought as dead as the Dodo, holding up her black hair. I rang for some more coffee, and as usual, Strutt was at my elbow almost as my finger left the bell-push.
‘“More coffee, please, Strutt—and, by the way, a very good dinner,” I said carelessly. “Where did you find this cook—she seems an excellent one?” Strutt took up my empty cup as he replied in his usual even voice—is there anything quite so woodenly self-contained as the well-trained valet’s voice, I wonder?
‘“She came one day to fetch something—day or so before you came in, sir, and I was here getting a few things ready for you. We got talking, sir, and I found she was servant to the lady who owns the flat, and caretaker when she left; she seemed a sensible useful sort of body, sir, and I engaged her—after trying to get references from the lady, sir, and failing, as nobody seemed to know her address, I took the liberty of exercising my own judgment, sir, and took her for a month on trial. I hope you think I did right, sir?”
‘“Oh, of course,” I said hastily—as indeed Strutt’s judgment is invariably better than my own! “ I should say she’s a find, if she can keep up this standard of cooking. All right—tell her I’m pleased. . . .”
‘The door closed noiselessly and I sank into a brown study. The flat was very silent and the pleasant crackle of the flames sounded loud in the stillness, like little pistol-shots—the deep leather chair was comfortable, and beneath the red lampshade rested three books I particularly wanted to read. With a sigh of satisfaction I reached for one, and was in five minutes so deep in it that the entrance of Strutt with my second cup of coffee passed almost unnoticed, and I gulped it down heedlessly as I read. Buried civilisations have always been my hobby, though I’ve never had the money to go and explore in person—this book was a new and thrilling account of some recent diggings and discoveries, and I devoured the thing till I woke with a start to realise that it was after twelve and the fire out!
‘With a laugh and a shiver I struggled out of my chair, flipped on the full light and poured myself out a whisky—the syphon hissed as I pressed down the jet, and I cursed Strutt’s forgetfulness (most unlike him it was, too!) as I saw it was empty. Perhaps there was another in the kitchen—I went along there to look, feeling rather peevish and very sleepy. The kitchen was flooded with moonlight and all the pots and pans and bottles and things struck little high lights of silver—it was quite a pretty effect; there were several things on the stove, and I remember now that one, a little saucepan, had its lid not quite on—not fitted on levelly, I mean—and it had the oddest look for a moment, just as if it had cocked up its lid to take a sly look at me! I found a fresh syphon on the dresser, had a drink and went to bed; my last thought as I curled luxuriously between the cool linen sheets was that the woman who had had this flat furnished and fitted it up so perfectly must have been a sybarite in her tastes, since I had yet to find the article in her flat that did not show the true lover of luxury. I wondered idly why she had left it, with all its contents, even to linen, plate, pots and pans . . . then sleep came, and I sank into unconsciousness, my query unanswered. I must have slept some two hours, I think, when I was awakened by a sudde
n attack of pain, of all extraordinary things! I awoke shaking and gasping, my hands alternately clutching my throat and stomach as the most awful griping agonies seized me, throwing me into convulsive writhings as the pain twisted me into knots and the sweat poured down my face, or fits of frantic coughing that I thought must surely split my lungs—I felt as though I had swallowed some ghastly acid that was burning my very vitals out! . . . Feebly I reached for the bell, but before I touched it Strutt was in the room, awakened by my coughing, and bending anxiously over me.
‘“My God, sir, what’s the matter? You waked me coughing! Wait a second, sir, and I’ll get you a drop of brandy. . . .”
‘The spirit spilled against my chattering teeth, for I was shaking like a man with ague, and my staring eyes were glazed with pain—poor old Strutt’s face was a study—he’s always been very devoted to me. A few drops went down my throat, however, and after another dose of it I seemed to feel a shade better, and lay back against the pillows panting and shivering. My pyjamas were damp and streaked with perspiration, and now my perceptions were coming back to me and I began to wonder—why this attack, and what on earth had happened to cause it? Strutt bustled about my room getting out a fresh pair of pyjamas, his anxious eye flitting back to me every minute. No need to worry any further though, as I was rapidly returning to my normal healthy self—but this only made it stranger.
‘Strutt approached the bed.
‘“You feeling better now, sir? If you’ll take my advice you’ll change them damp things and let me rub you down before you go to sleep again.”
‘Feeling almost sound again, though still shaken from the memory of that ghastly ten minutes, I slipped out of bed and stood lost in speculation as Strutt rubbed me—certainly, back in bed in a few minutes in clean pyjamas, with a stiff brandy-and-soda inside me, I could not understand what on earth could have attacked me so terribly, yet passed away so entirely, leaving no trace—for I felt as well as before the attack.
‘“Strutt,” I said, “Heaven only knows what was the matter with me—it can’t have been anything I’ve eaten, since you’ve probably had the same, and you’re all right. But it was the most damnable attack—fever’s nothing to it. Besides, it wasn’t fever; I’ve had too many bouts of that not to know it. Wonder if my heart’s all right?”
‘“I should have said so, sir, but it might be as well to see the doctor tomorrow. What sort of pain was it? You’ll forgive me saying so, sir, but you looked simply ghastly. Never seen fever make you look so—never, sir!” Strutt’s voice held conviction—moreover, the fellow had seen me through enough fever to know. I knitted my brows:
‘“What did I have? Clear soup—a sole—piece of steak and vegetables. All well cooked—oh, and a savoury—mushrooms on toast. Mushrooms!”
‘I looked at Strutt triumphantly—for a minute I thought I’d hit it.
‘“Mushrooms—she must have got hold of some poisonous stuff, not real mushrooms. It’s easily done—”
‘“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Strutt firnily, “but that can’t be it. Being rather partial to mushrooms myself, sir, I took a few—and Mrs Barker she did, too . . . so that can’t be the reason. There’s nothing else you had, sir, barring your coffee, which I made myself—the second lot at least, as Mrs Barker had gone home when you rang.”
‘I lay back on my pillows silenced, but more puzzled than ever—however, I was too thankful to feel well again to worry very much over the cause of my strange attack.
‘“Well, I can’t worry any more over it, Strutt. Turn out the lights. I shall see the doctor in the morning.”
‘I did, and his report confirmed my own opinion and added not a little to my puzzlement—I was as sound as a bell in every respect; even the trace of occasional fever left by my long sojourn in the East seemed to have vanished. Old Macdonald punched me in the ribs as he said goodbye, and grinned.
‘“Don’t you come flying to me next time you get a pain under your pinny from a whisky or two too many, young feller-me-lad—go for a good long tramp and blow it away. You’re as strong as a young horse, and as for heart—don’t you try to pull any of that stuff on me. You’ve got a heart that’ll work like a drayhorse, and never turn a hair. . . .”
‘I walked up St James’s more puzzled than ever—what on earth had happened to me last night? In the light of my present feeling of supreme health and well-being my last night’s agonies seemed more inexplicable than ever—obviously old Mac thought I had been more or less tight and exaggerated a nightmare into this. . . . It was very irritating—yet I still had the vivid memory of that terrible, choking, burning sensation, the torturing pains that had gripped my frame, tearing and wrenching me, it seemed, till my very bones groaned and quivered within me. Good Lord!—a dream? Still lost in thought about the whole curious affair I ran full tilt into an old chum of mine on the steps of the Club—George Trevanion, who seized me delightedly by the hand and poured forth questions. We dined together that night at the Club and spent a long time yarning over the fire afterwards—when we parted Trevanion had promised to dine with me the next night—I was, I admit, rather keen on showing him my new quarters. I had been so engrossed in talking shop—we’re both engineers—and there had been so many things to say that I had forgotten to tell him, as I had meant, about my remarkable attack of pain, an omission that annoyed me a little, as having spent thirty years knocking about the world he might have been able to put his finger at once on the cause of it.
‘There were some letters lying on the table in the dark little hall of my flat as I let myself in. I picked them up; nothing interesting, only some bills and an invitation or two. I dropped them again and turned to hang up my coat. The kitchen door opened into the hall, and when I entered it had been shut—now I saw when I turned that it had swung noiselessly open, and I could see into the moonlit kitchen, the usual little place one finds in these small flats. The gas stove was in line with the door, with various utensils upon it ready for use in the morning—I think there was a large kettle and two saucepans, a big one and a little enamel one. The open door made me jump for a second, but, of course, I said “draughts” and thought so—I paused a second to light a cigarette—and the match dropped from my fingers and sputtered out upon the carpet. I held the unlighted cigarette between my fingers as I stared. As I am a living man, this is what I saw—or thought I saw. The saucepan—the little one on the stove, nearest the door—seemed to lift its lid a shade—it seemed to tilt, ever so slightly, cautiously, and from beneath its tilted lid, it looked at me! Yes, I suppose it doesn’t sound as horrible as I want it to, but I swear to you that was the most eerie thing I ever saw, or want to see. . . . For a second I stood cold and dumb, my mouth sticky with fright—somehow the utter banality of the thing made it more terrifying—then I swore at myself, strode into the kitchen and seized the saucepan, holding it to the light.
‘It was, of course, a mere trick of light—I remember noticing the previous night how brilliantly the moonlight streamed into the kitchen—but good heavens, it had shaken me for a minute, positively! That attack last night must have upset my nerves more than I knew—Lord, what a fool! I put the saucepan back, laughing heartily, and going into the hall, picked up my letters again, still grinning at my own folly. I glanced back at the kitchen as I went along to my room—I could still see the stove and the silent row of pans upon it. The lid of the little saucepan was still askew—it still had the absurd air of watching me stealthily from beneath it! There almost seemed a menace in its very stillness . . . I laughed again as I got into bed. It seemed so lunatic—fancy being scared of a saucepan . . . good Lord, a chunk of tin, an absurd piece of ironmongery—it just shows you what light and a few jangled nerves can do for one! . . .
‘I slept splendidly, and awoke hungry as a hunter, and flung myself into work that day like a giant refreshed. Trevanion and I met at the Club about six-thirty for a cocktail, and had several cocktails—it was good to see the old man again; we’d been boon companions i
n all sorts of odd places, and I really didn’t know how much I’d missed him till we met again. We walked back to the flat about seven fifteen and found a rattling good dinner awaiting us—I’d told Strutt to put Mrs Barker on her mettle, and, by Jove! she turned us out a feed fit for a king. Cream soup, oysters done with cheese—marvellous things they were—roast chicken and salad and a soufflé that melted in your mouth; we were too occupied appreciating flavours to talk much at first, but at last Trevanion sat back, regarding me with reverence, and drew a long breath of repletion.
‘“Man, you must be a perfect Croesus! Where on earth did you strike the cash to pay for this place, this feeding, and your cordon bleu in the kitchen, I should like to know?”
‘I grinned with triumph, sipping the last drops of my claret.
‘“Why, sheer luck, dear boy—the rent of this flat is a mere flea-bite—the cook fell into my hands with the flat, and being a bit of an epicure I feel justified in spreading myself a trifle in the feeding line—especially when an old companion in crime like you turns up!”
‘Trevanion’s brow wrinkled.
‘“A flat in St James’s—for a flea-bite rental? Are you sure you’re not being done somehow, old man? It seems to me almost impossible.”
‘I shrugged as I rose and we sought our armchairs by the smoke-room fire; the reason why was still as obscure to me as ever, and after a while we dismissed the subject and began to talk of other things. Strutt brought in coffee and liqueurs, and the hours passed unperceptibly as we chewed our pipes and yarned over old times, adventures old and new. At last Trevanion looked at the clock and laughed, putting down his pipe.
NIGHTS OF THE ROUND TABLE Page 24
