by Sapper
“The last four owners have died violent deaths,” remarked Mansfrey, quietly.
Fenton snorted. “Coincidence,” he cried. “Good heavens! man, you’re talking like an hysterical nursemaid.”
“When up against the standard of pure knowledge,” returned Mansfrey, mildly, “quite a number of people talk like hysterical nursemaids. When one reflects how little one knows, I sometimes wonder why even the cleverest man ever speaks at all.” He started fumbling in his waistcoat pocket. “But talking of the Maga diamond, I’ve got something here that might interest you.”
He produced a little chamois-leather bag, and untied the string that kept it closed. Then before our astonished gaze he tipped out on to the tablecloth what appeared to be a large ruby. It was a cut stone, and in the light it glowed and scintillated with a thousand red flames.
“Pretty thing, isn’t it?” said Mansfrey.
“My dear fellow,” cried Lethbridge, leaning forward, “is it real? If so, it must be worth a fortune. I’m some judge of precious stones, but I’ve never dreamed of anything to approach that.”
“Glass,” laughed its owner. “A particularly beautiful tint of red glass. No – it’s not a historic jewel that I’ve got here, Lethbridge, but something which bears on what we have been discussing.” His mild eyes once more sought Fenton’s face. “This piece of glass, so the story runs, was originally the eye of an idol in one of the most sacred shrines in Lhasa. The Tibetans, as you know, are a very religious race – and this particular idol was apparently the ‘big noise’ amongst all their gods. Some young fools, on a shooting trip, managed to get to Lhasa – no mean feat, incidentally, in itself – and not content with that they violated this most sacred temple, and stole the eye of the god.”
Fenton gave a shout of laughter. “Good lads,” he cried. “That’s the stuff to give the troops.”
Mansfrey looked at him gravely. “They were discovered by the priests,” he continued, “and had to run for their lives. All quite usual, you see: the good old historic story of fiction. Even the curse comes in, so as not to spoil the sequence. I, of course, have only heard it fifteenth hand, but I give it to you as I got it. The thing is harmless, unless allowed to remain in the hand, or up against a man’s bare flesh for a certain length of time. How long I don’t know. The sailor I got it from was a bit vague himself – all he wanted to do was to get rid of it as quickly as he could. But if, so the yarn goes, it remains for this necessary period of time in a man’s hand or up against him somewhere – the man dies.”
Fenton shook with amusement. “And do you believe that twaddle?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” said Mansfrey, slowly. “There are one or two very strange stories about it.” He prodded the glass gently with his finger, and the ruby lights shivered and danced till it seemed as if it was on fire. “A Danish sailor stole it from the man who sold it to me, on the voyage home. He was an enormously powerful, healthy fellow, but he was found dead the next morning with the thing inside his shirt. My sailor friend got it from a Chinaman in Chefoo. The Chink’s assistant had recently stolen it out of his master’s shop. He had been found dead with it in his hand, and the Chink was frightened.” Mansfrey smiled, and put the bit of glass back in its bag. “Just two yarns of many, and they’re all the same. Anybody who holds it, or lets it touch him for too long, dies. And dies to all appearances a natural death.”
“And you really believe that twaddle?” said Fenton, again, even more offensively than before.
Mansfrey shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know whether I do or don’t,” he answered. “I myself have tested the thing; and as far as I can see, it is just a piece of ordinary red glass, but–” Again he shrugged his shoulders, and then replaced the leather bag in his pocket.
“Do you mean to say that you’ve been too frightened to hold the thing in your hand and prove that it’s rot?” cried Fenton. He turned to Lethbridge. “Well, I’m hanged! And in the twentieth century. Chuck the bauble over here, Mansfrey. I’ll sleep with it in my hand tonight, and give it back to you tomorrow morning at breakfast.”
But Mansfrey shook his head. “Oh, no, Fenton,” he said, “most certainly not. If anything did happen, I should never forgive myself.”
The opposition only served to make Fenton more determined than ever, and more objectionably rude into the bargain. Personally, I had been surprised at Mansfrey carrying such a thing about with him – it did not fit in with what I knew of the man at all; but I was even more surprised at his reluctance to allow Fenton to have it. It was preposterous that he could really believe there was any danger to be feared from holding a piece of coloured glass in one’s hand, and yet for five or ten minutes he remained obdurate.
Then, suddenly, he gave in. “Very well, Fenton,” he remarked, “you shall have it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Fenton laughed. “If your preposterous stories were to be believed, and came true in my case, I gather I shouldn’t be in a condition to say much. But my ghost shall come and haunt you, Mansfrey. I’ll pull off your bedclothes, and rattle chains in the passages.”
We all laughed, and shortly after Lethbridge rose. As he got to the door he paused and looked at us doubtfully. “Of course it’s all rot, and only a joke – but I think we might as well postpone telling the ladies until Fenton gives it back tomorrow at breakfast. My wife is such a nervous woman, don’t you know. Probably come running along to your room, Fenton, every half hour to see that you’re still snoring.”
Fenton gave one of his usual bellows, and in a few minutes we had all settled down to bridge.
2
It was Fenton himself who insisted on his hand being tied up with a pocket handkerchief. The four of us were standing talking in his room before turning in: in fact, Mansfrey had already completed the first part of his toilet by donning a smoking jacket of striking design.
“Bring out your bally bit of glass, my boy,” boomed Fenton, jovially, “and put it right there.” He held out a hand like a leg of mutton. “Then I’ll close my fist, and afterwards you tie my hand with a handkerchief, so that I can’t open it in the night.”
But the idol’s eye was not immediately forthcoming. “I tell you candidly, Fenton,” said Mansfrey, “I wish you’d give it up. I don’t believe myself that there is anything in it, but somehow–” His eyes were blinking very fast behind his spectacles; he seemed the picture of frightened indecision.
Fenton laughed and clapped him on the back; and to be clapped on the back by Fenton is rather like being kicked by a mule. I have had experience of both, and I know.
“You funny little man,” he cried, and prepared to do it again, until Mansfrey discreetly withdrew out of range. “You funny little man – blinking away there like a startled owl. You know, Lethbridge, I do really believe that he fancies there’s something in his blessed old glass eye from Lhasa. Give it to me, you silly ass,” he said to Mansfrey. “I’ll show you.” To say that Fenton’s speech was thick would be to exaggerate, but as I sat on the edge of his dressing-table, smoking a cigarette, I could not help recalling that, though Lethbridge and I had each had one whisky and soda during the evening, while Mansfrey had drunk only plain Vichy, the tantalus was nearly empty when we came to bed. Fenton was, in fact, in a condition when, for peace all round, it was better not to annoy him.
Apparently the same idea had struck Lethbridge, for he turned to Mansfrey and nodded his head. “Give it to him, old boy, and let’s get to bed. I’m dog tired.”
“Very well,” answered Mansfrey. “I’ll get it. It is in my waistcoat pocket.”
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he left the room, and went along the passage to his own. While we waited, Fenton got into his pyjamas, and by the time Mansfrey returned he was already in bed.
“Here it is,” said Mansfrey, holding out the little bag. “But I wish you wouldn’t, Fenton.”
“Oh! confound you and your wishes,” said Fenton, irritably, stretching out his hand. “Put it there, l
ittle man, put it there.”
The piece of glass rolled out of the bag, and lay for a moment glittering scarlet in Fenton’s huge palm. Then his fingers closed over it, and Lethbridge tied a handkerchief round his fist.
“I’ll give it back to you at breakfast, Mansfrey,” he said, turning over on his side. “And you can prepare to be roasted, my lad, properly roasted. Good night, you fellows: turn out the light, one of you, as you go.”
I closed the door behind me, and strolled towards my own room. It was next to Mansfrey’s, and I stopped for a moment talking to him.
“What a great animal that fellow is,” I remarked.
He did not reply at once, and I glanced at him. He was standing quite still, with his pale blue eyes fixed on Fenton’s room, from which already I fancied I heard the snores of the heavy sleeper.
“Animal is not a bad description of him,” he answered, thoughtfully. “Not at all bad. Good night.”
He stepped inside his door and closed it, and it was only as I switched off my own light that it struck me that Mansfrey’s eyes had never blinked as he stood looking at Fenton’s door. And blinking was a chronic affliction of his.
I seemed only to have been asleep a few minutes when I was awakened by the light being switched on. Lethbridge was standing by my bed, looking white and shaken.
“My God! man,” he said, as I blinked up at him. “He’s dead!”
“Who is?” I cried foolishly, sitting up in bed.
“Why, Fenton,” he answered, and the whole thing came back to my mind.
“Fenton dead!” I looked at him horror-struck. “He can’t be, man: there must be some mistake.”
“I wish to God there was,” he answered hoarsely. “Mansfrey’s with him now – almost off his head.”
I reached for my dressing-gown, and glanced at the time. It was just half-past four.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” he went on, as I searched for my slippers. “That fool story of Mansfrey’s made a sort of impression on me, and I couldn’t sleep. After a while I got out of bed and went to Fenton’s room. I listened outside, and you know how he used to snore. There wasn’t a sound: absolute silence.” He wiped his forehead with a shaking hand. “I don’t know – but I got uneasy. I opened the door and went in. Still not a sound. Then I switched on the light.” Lethbridge shuddered. “There he was, lying in bed, absolutely motionless. I went over to him, and put my hand on his heart. Not a movement: he was dead.”
I stared at him speechlessly, and then together we went towards Fenton’s room. The door was ajar, and as we pushed it open Mansfrey, who was standing by the dead man, turned his white, stricken face towards us.
“Not a trace of life,” he whispered. “Not a trace.” He ran his hands through his hair, blinking at us despairingly. “What a fool I was, what an utter fool, to show him that thing.”
“Oh! rot, man,” said Lethbridge, roughly. “It can’t have been that paltry bit of red glass. He’s dead now, poor fellow, but he was a gross liver, and there’s no getting away from the fact that he drank too much last night. Probably heart failure.”
But Mansfrey only shook his head, and stared miserably out of the window to where the first faint streaks of dawn were showing in the sky.
“The point is, what we’re going to do now,” went on Lethbridge. He held up the hand holding the idol’s eye, and then let it fall again with a shudder.
“Ring up a doctor at once,” said Mansfrey. “He’s dead, but you must send for one.”
“Yes,” said Lethbridge, slowly, “I suppose we must. Er – the only thing is – er–” he looked awkwardly from Mansfrey to me, “this – er – bit of glass. You know what local people are, and the sort of things that – er – may be said. I mean, it will be a little hard to account for the poor fellow being found dead with this bauble in his hand, all tied up like this. The papers will get hold of it, and we shall have a crowd of confounded reporters buzzing round, trying to nose out a story.”
Mansfrey blinked at him in silence. “You suggest,” he said at length, “that we should take it out of his hand?”
“I do,” said Lethbridge, eagerly. “After all, the poor chap’s dead, and we’ve got the living to consider. It’s bad enough having a death in the house at all: it’ll be perfectly awful if it’s turned into a nine days’ newspaper wonder. I mean, it isn’t as if there was any question of foul play,” he glanced apologetically at Mansfrey, “we all of us are equally concerned, and it can only be a very strange and gruesome coincidence. What do you say, Mayhew?”
“I quite agree,” I answered. At the time I was engaged in a big deal, and I was certainly not anxious for notoriety – even of a reflected nature – in the papers. “I suggest that we remove the stone, and that we destroy it forthwith by smashing it to pieces and throwing the bits into the pond.”
Lethbridge gave a sigh of relief, and started to unfasten the handkerchief. “One moment,” interrupted Mansfrey, “with all due regard for both your interests, my case is not quite the same as yours. We are not all equally concerned. The thing is mine: I gave it to him.” He blinked at us apologetically. “I’ve got to think of the years to come, when the momentary unpleasantness will be forgotten, and you two – almost unconsciously – may begin to wonder whether it was a coincidence.” He silenced our quick expressions of denial with a smile. “You may,” he said, “and I prefer not to risk it. And so I will only agree to your proposal on one condition, and that is that one or other of you send the thing to some good analytical chemist and have it tested. I know that it is glass; I want you to know it too.”
“Right,” said Lethbridge, who would willingly have promised anything, so long as he was allowed to remove the glass eye. “I quite see your point of view, Mansfrey.” He was busy untying the knot in the handkerchief. “Perhaps Mayhew will take it up tomorrow to town with him, when he goes.”
At length the handkerchief was removed, and with obvious distaste Lethbridge forced back the fingers. There lay the glass, clouded a little by the moisture of the dead man’s hand – but still glittering with its devilish red light. Then suddenly the arm relaxed and the idol’s eye rolled on to the carpet.
“My God!” said Lethbridge, hoarsely, “put the vile thing away, Mansfrey, and let’s send for a doctor.”
“The bag is on my table,” he answered. “I’ll put it in.” With his handkerchief he picked the thing up, and carried it away.
Lethbridge turned to me. “I don’t often drink at this hour of the night,” he said, “but when I’ve rung up the doctor, I’m going to open a bottle of brandy. I want it.”
We tidied up the clothes, and with a last look at the great body lying motionless on the bed, we went out softly, locking the door behind us.
An hour later the doctor came and made his examination. By this time, of course, the whole house knew, and there was no question of any more sleep. The women had foregathered in Mrs Lethbridge’s room, and we three men waited for the doctor downstairs. He came, after only a short time in the dead man’s room, and helped himself to a cup of tea.
“It may be necessary,” he said, “to hold a post-mortem. You say that he was perfectly fit last night?”
“Perfectly,” said Lethbridge.
“Forgive my putting the question,” continued the doctor, “but did he have much to drink?”
“He was always a very heavy drinker and eater,” answered Lethbridge, and both Mansfrey and I nodded in agreement.
“So I should have imagined,” commented the doctor. “I have no doubt in my mind that, though he looked a strong, healthy man, we shall find he was pretty rotten inside. Brought on by over-indulgence, you know. He was essentially the type that becomes liable to fits later in life. Most unpleasant for you, Mr Lethbridge. I’ll do everything I can to spare you unnecessary inconvenience. But I’m afraid we shall have to have a post-mortem. You see, there’s no obvious cause of death.”
Lethbridge saw him to the door, and shortly after we heard his ca
r drive off.
“May Heaven be praised,” said Lethbridge, coming back into the room, “that we took that glass thing out of his hand, and that we didn’t mention it to the women last night.” He sat down and wiped his forehead. “Chuck that brandy over, Mansfrey; I want another.”
Thus ended the tragic house-party. At nine o’clock I left for town, with the idol’s eye in my pocket. I took it to a chemist and asked him to submit it to any tests he liked, and tell me what it was. Later in the evening I called for it, and he handed it back across the counter.
“As far as I can see, sir,” he remarked, “it is simply a piece of ordinary red glass, of not the slightest value save for its rather peculiar shape.”
I thanked him and took it home with me. The next day I returned it to Mansfrey with a brief note containing the chemist’s report, and a suggestion that he should drop it into the Thames.
Lethbridge sent me a cutting from the local paper giving an account of the inquest and the result of the post-mortem.
“Death from natural causes,” was the verdict; and gradually, in the stress of reconstructing a business which had suffered badly during the war, the matter passed from my head. Occasionally the strange coincidence came back to my mind and worried me: occasionally I even wondered whether, indeed, there was some deadly power in that piece of red glass: whether in a far-off Tibetan temple strange priests, performing their sinister rites round a sightless idol, kept count in some mysterious way of their god’s revenge. Then I would laugh to myself and recall the doctor’s words when he had made his brief examination of Fenton – “We shall find he was pretty rotten inside.”
And so, but for a strange freak of fate, the matter would have ended and passed into the limbo of forgotten things. Instead of which – but the devil of it all is, I don’t know what to do.
