The Monkey's Paw and Other Tales Of Mystery and the Macabre

by W. W. Jacobs

  “I waited a couple of minutes and then knocked again, and my stick was still beating the door when it opened suddenly and a tall bony old woman, holding a candle, confronted me.

  “‘What do you want?’ she demanded gruffly.

  “‘I’ve lost my way,’ I said, civilly; I want to get to Ashville.’

  “‘Don’t know it,’ said the old woman.

  “She was about to close the door when a man emerged from a room at the side of the hall and came toward us. An old man of great height and breadth of shoulder.

  “‘Ashville is fifteen miles distant,’ he said slowly.

  “‘If you will direct me to the nearest village, I shall be grateful,’ I remarked.

  “He made no reply, but exchanged a quick, furtive glance with the woman. She made a gesture of dissent.

  “‘The nearest place is three miles off,’ he said, turning to me and apparently trying to soften a naturally harsh voice; ‘If you will give me the pleasure of your company, I will make you as comfortable as I can.’

  “I hesitated. They were certainly a queer-looking couple, and the gloomy hall with the shadows thrown by the candle looked hardly more inviting than the darkness outside.

  “‘You are very kind,’ I murmured, irresolutely, ‘but—’

  “‘Come in,’ he said quickly; ‘shut the door, Anne.’

  “Almost before I knew it I was standing inside and the old woman, muttering to herself, had closed the door behind me. With a queer sensation of being trapped I followed my host into the room, and taking the proffered chair warmed my frozen fingers at the fire.

  “‘Dinner will soon be ready,’ said the old man, regarding me closely. ‘If you will excuse me—’

  “I bowed and he left the room. A minute afterward I heard voices; his and the old woman’s, and, I fancied, a third. Before I had finished my inspection of the room he returned, and regarded me with the same strange look I had noticed before.

  “‘There will be three of us at dinner,’ he said, at length. ‘We two and my son.’

  “I bowed again, and secretly hoped that that look didn’t run in the family.

  “‘I suppose you don’t mind dining in the dark,’ he said, abruptly.

  “‘Not at all,’ I replied, hiding my surprise as well as I could, ‘but really I’m afraid I’m intruding. If you’ll allow me’—

  “He waved his huge gaunt hands. ‘We’re not going to lose you now we’ve got you,’ he said, with a dry laugh. ‘It’s seldom we have company, and now we’ve got you we’ll keep you. My son’s eyes are bad, and he can’t stand the light. Ah, here is Anne.’

  “As he spoke the old woman entered, and, eyeing me stealthily, began to lay the cloth, while my host, taking a chair the other side of the hearth, sat looking silently into the fire. The table set, the old woman brought in a pair of fowls ready carved in a dish, and placing three chairs, left the room. The old man hesitated a moment, and then, rising from his chair, placed a large screen in front of the fire and slowly extinguished the candles.

  “‘Blind man’s holiday,’ he said, with clumsy jocosity, and groping his way to the door opened it. Somebody came back into the room with him, and in a slow, uncertain fashion took a seat at the table, and the strangest voice I have ever heard broke a silence which was fast becoming oppressive.

  “‘A cold night,’ it said slowly.

  “I replied in the affirmative, and light or no light, fell to with an appetite which had only been sharpened by the snack in the middle of the day. It was somewhat difficult eating in the dark, and it was evident from the behaviour of my invisible companions that they were as unused to dining under such circumstances as I was. We ate in silence until the old woman blundered into the room with some sweets and put them with a crash upon the table.

  “‘Are you a stranger about here?’ inquired the curious voice again.

  “I replied in the affirmative, and murmured something about my luck in stumbling upon such a good dinner.

  “‘Stumbling is a very good word for it,’ said the voice grimly. ‘You have forgotten the port, father.’

  “‘So I have,’ said the old man, rising, it’s a bottle of the “Celebrated” to-day; I will get it myself

  “He felt his way to the door, and closing it behind him, left me alone with my unseen neighbour. There was something so strange about the whole business that I must confess to more than a slight feeling of uneasiness.

  “My host seemed to be absent a long time. I heard the man opposite lay down his fork and spoon, and half fancied I could seen a pair of wild eyes shining through the gloom like a cat’s.

  “With a growing sense of uneasiness I pushed my chair back. It caught the hearth-rug, and in my efforts to disentangle it the screen fell over with a crash and in the flickering light of the fire I saw the face of the creature opposite. With a sharp catch of my breath I left my chair and stood with clenched fists beside it. Man or beast, which was it? The flame leaped up and then went out, and in the mere red glow of the fire it looked more devilish than before.

  “For a few moments we regarded each other in silence; then the door opened and the old man returned. He stood aghast as he saw the warm firelight, and then approaching the table mechanically put down a couple of bottles.

  “‘I beg your pardon,’ said I, reassured by his presence, ‘but I have accidentally overturned the screen. Allow me to replace it.’

  “‘No,’ said the other man, gently, ‘let it be. We have had enough of the dark. I’ll give you a light.’

  “He struck a match and slowly lit the candles. Then I saw that the man opposite had but the remnant of a face, a gaunt wolfish face in which one unquenched eye, the sole remaining feature, still glittered. I was greatly moved, some suspicion of the truth occurring to me.

  “‘My son was injured some years ago in a burning house,’ said the old man. ‘Since then we have lived a very retired life. When you came to the door we—’ his voice trembled, ‘that is—my son—’

  “‘I thought,’ said the son simply, ‘that it would be better for me not to come to the dinner table. But it happens to be my birthday, and my father would not hear of my dining alone, so we hit upon this foolish plan of dining in the dark. I’m sorry I startled you.’

  “‘I am sorry,’ said I, as I reached across the table and gripped his hand, ‘that I am such a fool; but it was only in the dark that you startled me.’

  “From a faint tinge in the old man’s cheek and a certain pleasant softening of the poor solitary eye in front of me I secretly congratulated myself upon this last remark.

  “‘We never see a friend,’ said the old man, apologetically, ’and the temptation to have company was too much for us. Besides, I don’t know what else you could have done.’

  “‘Nothing else half so good, I’m sure,’ said I.

  “‘Come,’ said my host, with almost a sprightly air. ‘Now we know each other, draw your chairs to the fire and let’s keep this birthday in a proper fashion.’

  “He drew a small table to the fire for the glasses and produced a box of cigars, and placing a chair for the old servant, sternly bade her to sit down and drink. If the talk was not sparkling, it did not lack for vivacity, and we were soon as merry a party as I have ever seen. The night wore on so rapidly that we could hardly believe our ears when in a lull in the conversation a clock in the hall struck twelve.

  “‘A last toast before we retire,’ said my host, pitching the end of his cigar into the fire and turning to the small table.

  “We had drunk several before this, but there was something impressive in the old man’s manner as he rose and took up his glass. His tall figure seemed to get taller, and his voice rang as he gazed proudly at his disfigured son.

  “‘The health of the children my boy saved!’ he said, and drained his glass at a draught.”

  12

  The Brown Man’s Servant

  – I –

  The shop of Solomon Hyams stood in a small tho
roughfare branching off the Commercial Road. In its windows unredeemed pledges of all kinds, from old-time watches to seamen’s boots, appealed to all tastes and requirements. Bundles of cigars, candidly described as “wonderful,” were marked at absurdly low figures, while silver watches endeavoured to excuse the clumsiness of their make by describing themselves as “strong workmen’s.” The side entrance, up a narrow alley, was surmounted by the usual three brass balls, and here Mr Hyams’ clients were wont to call. They entered as optimists, smiled confidently upon Mr Hyams, argued, protested shrilly, and left the establishment pessimists of a most pronounced and virulent type.

  None of these things, however, disturbed the pawnbroker. The drunken client who endeavoured to bail out his Sunday clothes with a tram ticket was accommodated with a chair, while the assistant went to hunt up his friends and contract for a speedy removal; the old woman who, with a view of obtaining a higher advance than usual, poured a tale of grievous woe into the hardened ears of Mr Hyams, found herself left to the same invaluable assistant, and, realising her failure, would at once become cheerful and take what was offered. Mr Hyams’ methods of business were quiet and unostentatious, and rumour had it that he might retire at any time and live in luxury.

  It was a cold, cheerless afternoon in November as Mr Hyams, who had occasional hazy ideas of hygiene, stood at his door taking the air. It was an atmosphere laden with soot and redolent of many blended odours, but after the fusty smell of the shop it was almost health-giving. In the large public-house opposite, with its dirty windows and faded signboards, the gas was already being lit, which should change it from its daylight dreariness to a resort of light and life.

  Mr Hyams, who was never in a hurry to light up his own premises, many of his clients preferring the romantic light which comes between day and night for their visits, was about to leave the chilly air for the warmth inside, when his attention was attracted by a seaman of sturdy aspect stopping and looking in at his window. Mr Hyams rubbed his hands softly. There was an air of comfort and prosperity about this seaman, and the pawnbroker had many small articles in his window, utterly useless to the man, which he would have liked to have sold him.

  The man came from the window, made as though to pass, and then paused irresolute before the pawnbroker.

  “You want a watch?” said the latter genially. “Come inside.”

  Mr Hyams went behind his counter and waited.

  “I don’t want to buy nothing, and I don’t want to pawn nothing,” said the sailor. “What do you think o’ that?”

  Mr Hyams, who objected to riddles, especially those which seemed to be against business, eyed him unfavourably from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.

  “We might have a little quiet talk together,” said the seaman, “you an’ me; we might do a little bit o’ business together, you an’ me. In the parler, shall we say, over a glass o’ something hot?”

  Mr Hyams hesitated. He was not averse to a little business of an illicit nature, but there rose up vividly before him the picture of another sailor who had made much the same sort of proposal, and, after four glasses of rum, had merely suggested to him that he should lend him twenty pounds on the security of an I.O.U. It was long since, but the memory of it still rankled.

  “What sort of business is it?” he inquired.

  “Business that’s too big for you, p’raps,” said the sailor with a lordly air. “I’ll try a bigger place. What’s that lantern-faced swab shoving his ugly mug into the daylight for?”

  “Get off,” said the pawnbroker to the assistant, who was quietly and unobtrusively making a third. “Mind the shop. This gentleman and I have business in the parlour. Come this way, sir.

  He raised the flap of the counter, and led the way to a small, untidy room at the back of the shop. A copper kettle was boiling on the fire, and the table was already laid for tea. The pawnbroker, motioning his visitor to a dingy leather armchair, went to a cupboard and produced a bottle of rum, three parts full, and a couple of glasses.

  “Tea for me,” said the seaman, eyeing the bottle wistfully.

  The pawnbroker pricked up his ears. “Nonsense,” he said, with an attempt at heartiness, “a jolly fellow like you don’t want tea. Have some o’ this.”

  “Tea, confound yer!” said the other. “When I say tea, I mean tea.”

  The pawnbroker, repressing his choler, replaced the bottle, and, seating himself at the table, reached over for the kettle, and made the tea. It was really a pleasing picture of domestic life, and would have looked well in a lantern slide at a temperance lecture, the long, gaunt Jew and the burly seaman hobnobbing over the blameless teapot. But Mr Hyams grew restless. He was intent upon business; but the other, so far as his inroads on the teapot and the eatables gave any indication, seemed to be bent only upon pleasure. Once again the picture of the former sailor rose before Mr Hyams’ eyes, and he scowled fiercely as the seaman pushed his cup up for the fourth time.

  “And now for a smoke,” said his visitor, as he settled back in his chair. “A good ’un, mind. Lord, this is comfort! It’s the first bit o’ comfort I’ve ’ad since I come ashore five days ago.”

  The pawnbroker grunted, and producing a couple of black, greasy-looking cigars, gave one to his guest. They both fell to smoking, the former ill at ease, the latter with his feet spread out on the small fender, making the very utmost of his bit of comfort.

  “Are you a man as is fond of asking questions?” he said at length.

  “No,” said the pawnbroker, shutting his lips illustratively.

  “Suppose,” said the sailor, leaning forward intently—“suppose a man came to you an’ ses—there’s that confounded assistant of yours peeping through the door.”

  The pawnbroker got up almost as exasperated as the seaman, and, after rating his assistant through the half-open door, closed it with a bang, and pulled down a small blind over the glass.

  “Suppose a man came to you,” resumed the sailor, after the pawnbroker had seated himself again, “and asked you for five hundred pounds for something. Have you got it?”

  “Not here,” said the pawnbroker suspiciously. “I don’t keep any money on the premises.”

  “You could get it, though?” suggested the other.

  “We’ll see,” said the pawnbroker; “five hundred pounds is a fortune—five hundred pounds, why it takes years of work—five hundred pounds—”

  “I don’t want no blessed psalms,” said the seaman abruptly; “but, look here, suppose I wanted five hundred pounds for something, and you wouldn’t give it. How am I to know you wouldn’t give information to the police if I didn’t take what you offered me for it?”

  The pawnbroker threw up his huge palms in virtuous horror.

  “I’d mark you for it if you did,” said the seaman menacingly, through his teeth. “It ’ud be the worst day’s work you ever did. Will you take it or leave it at my price, an’ if you won’t give it, leave me to go as I came?”

  “I will,” said the pawnbroker solemnly.

  The seaman laid his cigar in the tray, where it expired in a little puddle of tea, and, undoing his coat, cautiously took from his waist a canvas belt. In a hesitating fashion he dangled the belt in his hands, looking from the Jew to the door, and from the door back to the Jew again. Then from a pocket in the belt he took something wrapped in a small piece of dirty flannel, and, unrolling it, deposited on the table a huge diamond, whose smouldering fires flashed back in many colours the light from the gas.

  The Jew, with an exclamation, reached forward to handle it, but the sailor thrust him back.

  “Hands off,” he said grimly. “None of your ringing the changes on me.”

  He tipped it over with his finger-nail on the table from side to side, the other, with his head bent down, closely inspecting it. Then, as a great indulgence, he laid it on the Jew’s open palm for a few seconds.

  “Five hundred pounds,” he said, taking it in his own hands again.

  The pawnbroker laughed. It wa
s a laugh which he kept for business purposes, and would have formed a valuable addition to the goodwill of the shop.

  “I’ll give you fifty,” he said, after he had regained his composure.

  The seaman replaced the gem in its wrapper again.

  “Well, I’ll give you seventy, and risk whether I lose over it,” continued the pawnbroker.

  “Five hundred’s my price,” said the seaman calmly, as he placed the belt about his waist and began to buckle it up.

  “Seventy-five,” said the pawnbroker persuasively.

  “Look here,” said the seaman, regarding him sternly, “you drop it. I’m not going to haggle with you. I’m not going to haggle with any man. I ain’t no judge o’ diamonds, but I’ve ’ad cause to know as this is something special. See here.”

  He rolled back the coat sleeve from his brawny arm, and revealed a long, newly healed scar.

  “I risked my life for that stone,” he said slowly. “I value my life at five hundred pounds. It’s likely worth more than as many thousands, and you know it. However, good-night to you, mate. How much for the tea?”

  He put his hand contemptuously in his trouser pocket, and pulled out some small change.

  “There’s the risk of getting rid of the stone,” said the pawnbroker, pushing aside the proffered coin. “Where did it come from? Has it got a history?”

  “Not in Europe it ain’t,” said the seaman. “So far as I know, you an’ me an’ one other are the only white men as know of it. That’s all I’m going to tell you.”

  “Do you mind waiting while I go and fetch a friend of mine to see it?” inquired the pawnbroker. “You needn’t be afraid,” he added hastily. “He’s a respectable man and as close as the grave.”

  “I’m not afraid,” said the seaman quietly. “But no larks, mind. I’m not a nice man to play them on. I’m pretty strong, an’ I’ve got something else besides.”

  He settled himself in the armchair again, and accepting another cigar, watched his host as he took his hat from the sideboard.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” said the latter somewhat anxiously. “You won’t go before I come?”