The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “I will if it kills me!” cried Spike, springing toward the door.

  “Hold on, Kid, you’ll need some mazuma, maybe. Here’s a ten-spot. It’ll be more useful t’ you than me after t’night, I reckon. So get your hooks on to it, an’ now—beat it!”

  Without more words Spike snatched the money, crammed it into his pocket and, running down the stairs, was gone.

  Then, after having lighted another cigarette, Soapy descended to M’Ginnis’s dingy office, where having dragged away the desk, he brought a chair and sat with his ear against the safe, turning the combination lock with long, delicate fingers. To and fro he turned it, very patiently hearkening to the soft clicks the mechanism gave forth while the cigarette smouldered between his pallid lips. Soapy, among other accomplishments, was a yeggman renowned in the profession, and very soon the heavy door swung softly back, and Soapy became lost in study. Money there was and valuables of many kinds, and these he didn’t trouble with, but to the papers he gave a scrupulous attention; sometimes as he read his white eyelids fluttered somewhat, and sometimes the dangling cigarette quivered. Presently he arose and bore these many papers to the sheet iron upon which stood the rusty stove; here he piled them and set them alight and stood watching until they were reduced to a heap of charred ash. Then, returning to the safe, he took out a bundle of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon, and seating himself at M’Ginnis’s desk, he slipped off the ribbon and very methodically began to read these letters one after the other.

  But as he read the humble entreaties, the passionate pleading of those written words, blotted and smeared with the bitter tears of a woman’s poignant shame and anguish, Soapy’s pendent cigarette fell to the floor and lay there smouldering and forgotten, and his lips were drawn back from sharp, white teeth—pallid lips contorted in a grin the more awful because of the great drops that welled from the fierce, half-closed eyes. Every letter he read and every word, then very methodically set them back within the faded blue ribbon and sat staring down at them with eyes wider open than usual—eyes that saw back into the past. And as he sat thus, staring at what had been, he repeated a sentence to himself over and over again at regular intervals, speaking with a soft inflection none had ever heard from him before:

  “Poor little Maggie—poor little kid!”

  CHAPTER XLII

  TELLS HOW RAVENSLEE BROKE HIS WORD AND WHY

  “Past eleven o’clock, dear,” said Hermione.

  “Still so early?” sighed Ravenslee.

  They were sitting alone in the fire glow, so near that by moving his hand he could touch her where she sat curled up in the great armchair; but he did not reach out his hand because they were alone and in the fire glow, and Hermione had never seemed quite so alluring.

  “How cosy a fire is—and how unnecessary!” she sighed contentedly.

  “I’m English enough to love a fire, especially when it is unnecessary,” he answered.

  “English, dear?”

  “My mother was English; that’s why I was educated in England.”

  “Your mother! How she must have loved you!”

  “I suppose she did; but, you see, she died when I was a baby.”

  “Poor lonely mite!” Here her hand came out impulsively to caress his coat sleeve and to be prisoned there by two other hands, to be lifted and pressed to burning lips, whereat she grew all rosy in the fire glow.

  “I suppose,” said he, the words coming a little unevenly, “it would be too much to ask my wife to—come a little—nearer?”

  “Nearer? Why, Geoffrey, dear, our chairs are touching now.”

  “Our chairs? Why, yes—so they are! I suppose,” sighed he, “I suppose it would be breaking my word to my wife if I happened to—kiss my wife?”

  “Why, Geoffrey—of course it would!”

  “Yes, I feared so!” he nodded and kissed her hand instead, and there fell a silence.

  “How heavenly it is!” she whispered softly, leaning a little nearer to him.

  “Heavenly!” he answered, leaning a little nearer to her and watching the droop of her lashes.

  “So—so quiet and—peaceful!” she added, drawing away again, conscious of his look.

  “Horribly!” he sighed.

  “Geoffrey!”

  “Quiet and peace,” he explained, “may hold such an infinitude of possibilities impossible of realisation to a husband who is bound by promises, that it is apt to be a little—trying.”

  Hermione didn’t speak but drew his hand to be caressed by the soft oval of a cheek and touched by the velvet of shy lips.

  “And yet,” he went on, staring resolutely at the fire, “I wouldn’t change—this, for anything else the world could offer me!”

  “Bear with me—a little longer, dear!” she murmured.

  “As long as you will, Hermione—providing—”

  “Well, my Geoffrey, dear?”

  “That it is only—a little longer.”

  “You don’t think I’m very—silly, do you, dear?” she enquired, staring into the fire.

  “No, not very!”

  “Oh!” she said softly, glancing at him reproachfully. “You don’t think me—cruel?”

  “Not very,” he answered, kissing her hand again.

  “Dear Geoffrey, you don’t think I’m very selfish, do you?” she questioned wistfully.

  “No—never that!” he answered, keeping his gaze averted.

  “Because if—”

  “If?” said he.

  “If it is hard for you—” the soft voice faltered.

  “Yes, Hermione?”

  “If you really think I’m—cruel and—silly, you—needn’t wait—any longer—if you wish—”

  His arms were about her, drawing her near, clasping her ever closer, and she held him away no more, but—beholding her wistful eyes, the plaintive droop of her vivid mouth, and all the voiceless pleading of her, he loosed her and turned away.

  “I love you so much—Hermione, so much, that your will shall be my will.”

  She rose, and leaning against the carved mantel stared down into the fire; when at last she spoke, there was a note in her voice he had never heard before,

  “Geoffrey, dear, this world is a very bad world for a lonely girl, and sometimes a very hateful world, and I have been lonely nearly all my life—and I didn’t think there were such men as you; I didn’t think any man could love so unselfishly. All my life I shall—treasure the recollection of this hour—yes, always! always!”

  Then she turned and, ere he knew, was on her knees before him, had twined soft arms about his neck, and was looking up at him through shining tears.

  “Yes, I’m—crying a little! I don’t do it often, dear—tears don’t easily come with me. But now I’m crying because—oh, because I’m so proud—so proud to have won such a wonderful love. Good night—good night! Oh, break your word for once—kiss me, my husband!”

  So while she knelt to him thus, he kissed her until she sighed and stirred in his embrace. Then she rose and hand in hand they crossed the room and he opened the door; for a blissful moment they stood there silent in the shadows, but when he would have kissed her again she laughed at him through her tears and fled from him up the wide stairway.

  CHAPTER XLIII

  HOW SPIKE GOT EVEN

  A clock in the hall without struck midnight, but Ravenslee sat on long after the silvery chime had died away, his chin sunk on broad chest, his eyes staring blindly at the fading embers, lost in profound but joyful meditation; once he turned to look where she had stood beside the mantel, and once he reached out to touch the thrice-blessed chair that had held her.

  The curtains stirred and rustled at the open window behind him, but he sat looking into the flickering fire, seeing there pictures of the future, and the future was full of a happiness beyond words, for in every picture Hermione moved.

  All at once he started and glanced swiftly around, his lounging attitude changing to one of watchful alertness, for he had heard a s
ound that drew rapidly nearer—the hiss and pant of breath drawn in quick gasps. Silently he arose and turned to see the curtains swing apart and a shapeless something stagger forward and fall heavily. Then he reached out to the switch beside the hearth, and the room was flooded with brilliant light; the figure kneeling just inside the swaying curtains uttered a strangled cry and threw up a hand before his face, a hand dark with spattering blood.

  “Oh, Geoff—oh, Geoff!” panted Spike, “I ain’t—come thievin’ this time—honest t’ God, I ain’t!”

  “Why, you’re hurt—what’s the matter?”

  “They see me down th’ road as I came an’ shot me, but this ain’t nothin’. Out th’ lights, Geoff—out ‘em—quick!”

  But Ravenslee had crossed the room, had seized the lad’s arm, and was examining the ugly graze that bled so freely.

  “That ain’t nothin’—douse th’ lights, Geoff—out ‘em quick. Bud’s coming here close behind—Bud an’ Heine—they mean t’ plug you—oh, put out th’ lights—”

  Instinctively Ravenslee turned, but even as he did so Spike uttered a hoarse cry.

  “No, ye don’t, Bud—not this time, by God!” and sprang upon the form that towered between the curtains; came the sound of fierce scuffling, a deafening report, and running forward, Ravenslee caught Spike as he staggered back; heard a rush and trample of feet along the terrace, the sound of blows and fierce curses behind the swaying curtains, heard the Spider’s fierce shout and Joe’s deep roar, two more shots in rapid succession, and the swift patter of feet in flight and pursuit.

  “How is it, Spike? Are you hurt, old chap?”

  But Spike just then was beyond words, so Ravenslee bore the swooning boy to a settee, and laying him there, began to search hastily for the wound.

  But now the door was flung wide and Hermione was beside him.

  “Geoffrey—oh, my love! Have they hurt you?”

  “No, dear—thanks to Spike, here!”

  “Arthur! Oh, thank God—did he—?”

  “Took the bullet meant for me, Hermione. I owe your brother my life!”

  She was down on her knees and very soon her skilful fingers had laid bare the ugly wound in the lad’s white arm. But now came Mrs. Trapes, looking taller and bonier than ever in a long, very woolly garment, and while she aided Hermione to bandage the wound, Ravenslee brought water and brandy, and very soon Spike sighed and opened his eyes.

  “Hello, Hermy!” he said faintly. “Don’t worry, I’m all O. K. Bud shot me an’ I’m glad, because now I can ask you t’ forgive me. Y’ see, he’d have got old Geoff sure if it hadn’t been for me, so you—you will forgive me, won’t you?”

  For answer Hermione bent and kissed his pallid cheek.

  “I’ll go and ‘phone for the doctor,” said Ravenslee.

  “Which,” said Mrs. Trapes, “I done ten minutes ago, Mr. Geoffrey. Doctor’ll be right along.”

  Ravenslee turned to Spike.

  “How are you now, old fellow?”

  “Only a bit sick, like. But say, Geoff—I know I played it low down on you, but—will you—shake an’ try t’ forget?”

  Ravenslee took and held the boy’s outstretched hand.

  “I think we’re going to be better friends than ever, Spike!”

  “Good!” said Spike, smiling wearily, “but say, Geoff—dear old Geoff—if I got t’ die I don’t mind—because I guess this makes us quits at last—don’t it, Geoff?”

  CHAPTER XLIV

  RETRIBUTION

  Half-stunned by a blow from Joe’s mighty fist, M’Ginnis saw Heine felled by Spider, who, having promptly and scientifically kicked him unconscious, snatched the revolver from his lax fingers and turned to pursue. As he came M’Ginnis fired rapidly but, dazed by the blow, his aim was wild, so he turned and ran, with the Spider in hot pursuit. The moon was down, and it was very dark, and soon M’Ginnis found himself in the denser gloom of trees. On he ran, twisting and doubling, on and on, until spent and breathless, he paused to hearken. Far away, voices shouted to each other, voices that gradually grew more distant; so, finally having caught his breath, M’Ginnis went on again. But the wood was full of noises—strange rustling and sudden, soft night sounds—and at every sound the fugitive paused to listen, finger on trigger. And ever as he went the wild blood throbbed and pulsed within his brain, sounding now like the pad-pad of pursuing feet that would not be shaken off, and again like a voice that mumbled and muttered querulous words in the air about him, and at such times he glanced around upon the dark, but the words would not be stilled:

  “She’s married—married—married! You drove her into his arms—you did—you did—you did! And he’s alive still and with her, alive—alive—alive!”

  And sometimes as he stumbled along through that place of gloom, he cursed bitterly beneath his breath, and sometimes he ground sweating jaws since needs must he hearken to that taunting devil-voice:

  “Alive and with his wife beside him—alive! And yours the fault—yours—yours! Your shot at Spike so near the house lost you the game—lost—lost! Your shot at Spike was a call for help—saved the life of the man you came to kill! Your shot at Spike lost you the game—lost—lost!”

  So, followed by the pad-pad of running feet, haunted by the querulous demon-voice, M’Ginnis stumbled out upon the road—a lonely road at most times but quite desolate at this hour. The fugitive hastened along, dogged by sounds that none but he might hear, yet to him these sounds were dreadfully real, so real that once, goaded to a paroxysm of blind fury, he whirled about and fired wildly—a shot that seemed to split asunder the deep night silence, filling it with a thousand echoes. Once more he turned and ran, ran until his breath laboured painfully and the sweat ran from him, but ever the sounds were close about him.

  At last he beheld lights that moved, and reaching a way-side halt, clambered aboard a late trolley and crouched as far from the light as possible. But even so, his disordered dress, his pallor, and the wild glare of his eyes drew the idle glances of the few passengers.

  “Looks like you’d been through th’ mill, bo!” said one, a great, rough fellow; but meeting M’Ginnis’s answering glare, he quailed and shrank away.

  Dawn was at hand when at last he reached O’Rourke’s saloon and, letting himself in, strode into the bar. The place was deserted at this hour, but from a room hard by came the sound of voices, hoarse laughter, and the rattle of chips that told a poker game was still in progress.

  Scowling, M’Ginnis stood awhile to listen. Then, lifting the flap of the bar, he passed through the narrow door beyond, along the passage and so to that dingy office, from the open door of which a light streamed.

  Scowling still, M’Ginnis strode in, then stood suddenly still, lifted his right hand toward his breast, then paused as Soapy, turning about in the swing chair, took a heavy, ivory-handled revolver from where it had lain on the desk beside a packet of letters tied up in a faded blue ribbon.

  “Lock th’ door, Bud, lock th’ door!” said he softly. “So!” he nodded, as M’Ginnis obeyed. “‘N’ say, Bud, take that hand away from y’r gun an’—keep it away—see?” And the lamplight glittered on the long barrel that rested on Soapy’s knee.

  “So—this is th’ game—hey?” demanded M’Ginnis hoarsely, his bloodshot eyes fixed on Soapy unwinkingly.

  “‘S right, Bud. Y’ see, I been takin’ a peek int’ that little tin safe o’ yours—say, it looks like you’d had a bit of a rough house, Bud!”

  Soapy’s cigarette quivered and was still again, while M’Ginnis watched him, breathing thickly but speaking no word, and Soapy went on again:

  “I been takin’ a peek into that little tin safe o’ yours, an’ I found some papers you’d been kind o’ treasurin’ up about me, so I burnt ‘em, Bud—not as they mattered very much, there ain’t nobody t’ worry when I snuff it—but I found as you’d got other papers about other guys as would matter some t’ them, I guess—so I burnt ‘em too, Bud.”

  “Burnt ‘em!” cr
ied M’Ginnis in a strangled voice, “burnt ‘em—you—”

  “It ain’t no use t’ get riled, Bud; I burnt ‘em—there’s th’ ashes!”

  M’Ginnis glanced at the heap of ash by the stove and burst into a frenzy of curses and fierce invective, while Soapy, lounging back in the chair, watched him unmoved until he had done, then he spoke again:

  “Also I found—letters, Bud, a packet tied up in blue ribbon—an’, Bud, they matter a whole lot. Here they are—look at ‘em!”

  For a moment Soapy’s baleful eye turned aside to the desk as he reached for the letters, and in that moment M’Ginnis’s pistol spoke, and Soapy, lurching sideways, sagged to his knees, his back against the desk. Again and again M’Ginnis’s weapon clicked, but no report followed, and Soapy slowly dragged himself to his feet. His cigarette fell and lay smouldering, and for a moment he stared at it; then he laughed softly and glanced at M’Ginnis.

  “You fool, Bud, you dog-gone fool! Forgot t’ load up y’r gun, eh? But I guess you got me all right, anyway—you’re shootin’ better t’night than you did in the wood that time—eh, Bud? Now I want t’ tell you—” He was choked suddenly with a ghastly coughing, and when he spoke again, his voice was fainter, and he held a smartly-bordered handkerchief to his mouth.

  “They say God made this world, Bud—if He did, I guess He was asleep when you was made, Bud—anyway, remembering little Maggie, you ain’t got no right to breathe any longer—so that’s for me—an’ that’s for her!”

  Lounging still, he fired twice from the hip and M’Ginnis, twisting upon his heels, fell and lay with his face at his slayer’s feet. Then, spying the packet of letters that lay upon the grimy floor, Soapy stooped painfully and fired rapidly four times; when the smoke cleared, of those tear-blotted pages with their secret of a woman’s anguish, there remained nothing but a charred piece of ribbon and a few smouldering fragments of paper. And now Soapy was seized with another fit of coughing, above which he heard hoarse shouts and hands that thundered at the door. Lazily he stood upon his feet, turned to glance from that scorched ribbon to the still form upon the floor and, lifting a lazy foot, ground his heel into that still face, then, crossing unsteadily to the door, unlocked it. Beyond was a crowd, very silent now, who drew back to give him way, but Soapy paused in the doorway and leaned there a moment.