Six months later Michael stood on the deck of the ss. Gigantic. He stood spellbound, gazing at the wonder that was New York’s skyline. The dream buildings shot up in arrogant splendour as if to probe the secrets of the sky itself. The towers of the most amazing city in the world, Michael thought, a city that in the last hundred and fifty years had sprung from a humble Colonial town. Yet a city with a black record of crime and mystery. Only recently the world had been horrified at a series of inexplicable disappearances of children from the crowded suburbs of New York. During the last three months no fewer than eight children had vanished; vanished as completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed them, leaving no trace. In every instance they had been members of poor families—and had last been seen playing in the streets. The American police had done their best, no line of inquiry had been ignored, but nothing had been discovered. There had been a panic among the mothers of the districts, and a national outcry for some solution. Then, after a discreet interval, the matter had been dropped, and the disappearances had taken their place among the unsolved mysteries of recent years.
The morning promised great heat; for it was early July, and New York was experiencing one of its blazing summers.
And now Michael was to set foot in New York for the first time; the gangways were being put into position, the passengers were bustling to and fro in their eagerness to be the first ashore, and the liner was the scene of great activity. The docks were crowded with people meeting friends and relatives—handkerchiefs were fluttering—questions and answers were shouted eagerly by those on deck and those who waited for the moment when officialdom should permit passengers to leave the liner. Michael felt aloof, as he looked at the smiling faces and gesticulating figures of his companions. New York seemed foreign—far more so than France or Germany.
“Isn’t it marvellous, darling?”
Penelope, his wife, put her hand on his coat-sleeve. She smiled up into his face.
“I’m glad you like it,” Michael laughed; “we’re going to be here for the next three years, you know.”
“I’m going to love it, I know I shall.”
“We can go now, darling, if you’re ready. Shall I carry Clare?” Penelope glanced at the child at her skirt.
“Yes, do, Michael. Isn’t it a pity she’s not old enough to remember this?”
“Well, she’ll remember leaving it—she’ll be nearly nine by the time we go home.”
They were struggling towards the nearest gangway.
“Oh, Michael—isn’t this all exciting!”
Michael squeezed his wife’s arm. They were very much in love—and this America was just a little alarming.
Over two years had passed since that day when Michael and Penelope arrived with some hesitation on the threshold of New York. There was only a week until Christmas, and all the shops were bright with special displays—great electric signs bewildered the eye with their brilliancy, and crowds battled on the sidewalks, gazing in admiration at the store windows, or thrusting their way through the parcel-impeded throng into the stores themselves.
Michael walked slowly. He really must think of something to give Penelope, something that she would really like. Clare was no problem—children were easy to please. But Penelope. . . .
He stopped in front of a window filled with lingerie and stockings made apparently from gossamer. No, he decided, clothes weren’t exactly a “holiday” present. The next shop was a jeweller’s, and suddenly he saw what he wanted. A ring. It was a large aquamarine, mounted in platinum. He went in and asked the price. Two hundred dollars, the sales girl said, and a bargain at the price! It was rather more than he had wanted to pay—but after all it was Christmas, and only that afternoon a letter had come from the Head Office in London, saying that the directors were very pleased with his work, and that promotion was waiting for him on his return.
And that was—in just over a year.
“Thank you, I’ll take it.”
He laughed as he thought of Penelope’s pleasure. Seven o’clock. He hadn’t realised it was so late . . . and they were dining early and going to Radio City.
Penelope met him at the door of their furnished “apartment.” She looked worried.
“Michael! The most terrible thing has happened. I tried to get you at the office—but you’d just left. Clare is lost—oh, what can we do?”
“Penelope—what do you mean? She can’t be lost.”
“I’m nearly off my head. I came in about six o’clock, and was just going to fetch her from Sally O’Brien’s, where she was having tea—as you know, it’s just at the end of this block—when the telephone rang. It was Sally, who told me not to bother to come, as Clare would come back by herself. There are no streets to cross, so I told myself not to coddle the child. I said I’d go and meet her. Well—I went, and I couldn’t find her. It only takes two minutes from door to door, and Sally says she can’t understand how I missed her. She’s as upset as I am. I’ll never forgive myself if anything has happened to her. Never. Never.”
Michael ran his finger round the inside of his stiff white collar.
“Darling, what could have happened to her? It’s not your fault, sweetest. Tell me—what did you do then?”
“I told the nearest policeman what had happened, and he telephoned to headquarters.” She was crying with choking, gulping sobs. “And he said that they’d find her in no time. And then I telephoned you, but you’d left.”
“But, Pen, that was over an hour ago. Haven’t you heard anything since?” Michael’s eyes were worried, the line of his jaw very hard.
“No—nothing.”
And they heard no more that night, nor the next day. In fact, Clare had disappeared just as if she had never existed.
It was a sad Christmas for the Harwoods. Penelope, languid and worn with ceaseless grief and worry, refused to be comforted. Michael spent his days trying to discover some clue, however slight, to put the police on the trail of the kidnappers—for such an explanation was, to his mind, the only reasonable one.
And then, as time went on, they ceased to feel tearing, rending sorrow, but a dull grief was always in their hearts. Penelope refused to keep anything that reminded them of Clare. Not even a photograph was allowed to remain. But, unknown to her, Michael carried one in his pocket-book, and sometimes he would look at it, and remember all the vivid frail beauty of his lost child—her fair hair, her wonderful topaz-coloured eyes fringed with dark lashes. They were so unusual that even strangers had stopped to exclaim at their beauty; he thought of how, on the boat, Clare had been by far the loveliest child. He wondered if he and Penelope would have more children. Nothing else, he knew, would banish that look of hopelessness from her face. She seemed frozen, in a trance. There had been a telegram of condolence from Sir James Wood, the head of his firm: “My most sincere sympathy, if there is anything I can do cable me.” But what could he, or anyone, do?
Of course, Michael realised, he was lucky. Damn lucky; he had his work, and so could forget—sometimes. But Penelope . . . he had suggested her going home to England, but she had replied: “Does it matter where we are . . . any more?”
He turned to the pile of papers awaiting his attention. He was glad to see the work lying there on his desk.
Another sweltering July held New York suffering in its fiery grip. Michael had noticed at breakfast that morning that Penelope looked unusually washed-out. He was thankful that they were returning to England at the end of August.
It was a Saturday morning, and the office week finished at midday.
“Where shall we go this afternoon, darling?”
“A cinema?”
“Pen, my dear. In this heat?”
“They’re very well cooled.”
“Even so. I say, darling—what about Coney Island? We’ve never been there, and as we’re going home so soon it seems a pity to miss seeing it.”
“But think of the crowds.”
“That will make it all the more fun.” His face w
as eager. He was boyish in his enthusiasm.
“All right.”
“I’ll be back at one. Let’s have a cold lunch—and start directly afterwards. Then we can come back early and go to a cinema this evening, if you still want to.”
Three o’clock found the Harwoods climbing up into one of those gigantic motor charabancs that plied to Coney Island—the Fun Fair of the New Yorkers. They got the last two seats; sitting wedged among pretty shopgirls and typists gay in the light summer frocks, and escorted by leather-belted young men in flannel suits and straw “boaters.” Laughter and talk filled the air.
“Any seats left?” a lovely young Jewess asked the conductor.
“Plenty—bring the family, too. Use your eyes, lady—try the next coach. Dames like that bore my pants off!” he added to no one in particular. With a jerk the charabanc moved away.
Coney Island beach was literally black with sweltering humanity. The myriad side-shows were doing good business. Switchbacks bearing their cargoes of shrieking passengers swooped up and down, “barkers” inveigled the passers-by into the side-shows, sellers of rock and peanut brittle were doing a brisk trade; the ice-cream soda bars were three deep in patrons.
The sun beat pitilessly down upon this scene of bustling pleasure.
Michael and Penelope followed the crowd. They threw darts at playing cards, were thrilled by the dangers of “The Wall of Death,” drank ice-cream sodas.
And then the rain came. At first in big slow drops, then in a quick tattoo. The holiday-makers dashed for the nearest cover. Michael put his arm round his wife, “In here, darling. Quickly, or your dress will be ruined.”
They pushed their way into a large stuffy tent; peering over the shoulders of the people in front.
“Fifty cents!” a blowzy woman tapped Michael’s back. “Fifty cents to see the Freaks, sir,” she repeated.
Michael fumbled for the coin in his trousers’ pocket.
“Oh, Michael, how horrible, don’t let’s.” Penelope turned to struggle out. But they were by now pushed some yards from the doorway, and could hear the downpour of the rain.
“They won’t be too bad, darling. They’re mostly faked.”
Slowly they made their tour of the big tent—looking at its incredible denizens. The fat lady, her face inhuman in its stupidity; the living skeleton; the two tiny dwarfs.
They were stopped by a crowd in front of a small wooden enclosure. In front of it was a placard, on which was printed: “The Missing Links: These extraordinary creatures are believed to be the only two remaining in the world to-day. At terrific expense we . . .”
Michael couldn’t see how it went on, but between the shoulders of two young men in their shirt sleeves, Penelope caught a glimpse of “The Missing Links.” Their skin was dark brown, and leathery in texture, their heads distorted out of all semblance to a human being’s. Their tiny eyes were lashless and red rimmed, and their limbs moved constantly, aimlessly. Faint clucking noises came from their twitching mouths.
“They’re ghastly—take me out. I don’t mind if it is raining.”
Michael could see the flapped entrance of the tent a little way in front of him. Only one more “exhibit” remained. But their way was blocked, for this evidently was the star attraction.
A showman stood in front of a wooden pen similar to that containing the two monstrosities. He was addressing his gaping audience. A huge coarse-looking fellow, he was standing with his thumbs tucked into the wide leather belt that encircled his waist. Sweat glistened on his face and hairy arms.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen, you will see the world-famed ‘What-is-it?’ The only creature of its kind in the world to-day. The creature that has baffled the most famous scientists. Discovered in the forest of one of the upper reaches of the River Amazon it is believed to be unique. Medical men can give no explanation—they say it is a female, probably of under ten years of age. But a female of what? Man or Monster? See if any of you ladies and gentlemen can decide. I will give fifty dollars if any of you can give an explanation of this remarkable phenomenon.” He paused to wipe his arm across his streaming forehead. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Any of you young men like to marry her when she grows up?” He grimaced at his audience. “She’d make a good wife.”
Penelope and Michael found themselves pressed close to the pen’s side. On a bed of straw sat the “What-is-it.” Its hair was long and dark, its skin mottled with spots like a leopard’s. Its fingers hung straight from the second joints. Ears it had none. One of its eyes was closed, the lids sewn together.
“This remarkable creature,” continued the showman, “is unfortunately completely dumb. But in a woman that’s an advantage, eh?” He laughed lewdly.
“Go and shake hands with the ladies and gentlemen.”
Automatically the creature got slowly to its feet.
It waddled towards the side where Michael stood. Its one eye of a remarkable golden colour was without intelligence.
“And now, ladies and gentlemen—photographs of the ‘What-is-it’ may be purchased at the door. Ten cents each.”
The crowd surged towards the opening; and Penelope found herself once more in the fresh air. The rain had almost stopped.
“It was horrible . . . horrible. Michael, I think I’m going to be sick.” Suddenly she began to cry.
“Let’s leave this place. I’m sorry, darling, I didn’t know they’d be as nauseating as that.”
Their bus back to New York was almost empty; but they passed fleets of other charabancs going to the Island. Saturday night was the best night of the week. All the side-shows were full; and hundreds of thousands of dollars changed pockets.
Penelope stood in the sitting-room of the flat that had been their home for the last three years, the flat where she had known such unhappiness. Strapped trunks, and half-filled suit-cases cluttered the floor. She frowned slightly as she tried to think if anything had been forgotten—her fur coat and Michael’s big woolly Teddy-bear coat lay across a chair ready for the voyage that evening.
At the thought of going back to England her heart warmed. And she had news for Michael—glorious news.
She heard his key in the lock, and the next minute he strode into the room, big and broad-shouldered; and she was in his arms.
“Excited, darling?”
“Aren’t you?”
“You bet! What time is the baggage-man coming for the luggage?”
“At three o’clock.”
“Oh, Pen, it’s good to be going home, isn’t it?”
“Michael!”
“Yes, darling?”
She pulled his head down to hers. “Michael, darling, I think I’m going to have another baby.”
“Penelope—my sweet darling!”
He closed his eyes. They were leaving New York that night—and with New York he hoped that Clare’s memory would gradually fade. They were going home, and now Penelope was going to have a baby, and they could make a fresh and happier start.
“Oh, Pen,” he said again, and there was great joy in his voice.
Michael paid off the taxi at the docks and followed his wife. As he turned into the dark doorway of the customs shed a boy touched his sleeve. “Paper, sir? Horrible discovery in Harlem, sir.”
Absentmindedly Michael took a paper and thrust a quarter into the boy’s hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
On the great liner Atlantis all was confusion. Flashlight photographs of celebrities making the trip to Europe intermittently dazzled the eyes. He asked a steward the whereabouts of their cabin.
Half an hour later, he and Penelope stood by the rail watching New York draw away from them. Her great turrets were outlined against a sky illumined by a thousand lights, their bulk pierced by countless windows, lending them glamour.
His hand felt something in his overcoat pocket. It was the newspaper he had bought before coming on board. He unfolded it. On the front page in staring black letters he saw the following announcement sprawled ac
ross the whole sheet:
HARLEM HORROR!
GHASTLY DISCOVERY IN SECRET SURGERY!
FOUR YEARS’ OLD ENGLISH MYSTERY EXPLAINED!
Fascinated he read of how the police, acting on information supplied by neighbours, had forced their way into a house in a low quarter of Harlem, how they had been obstructed by a maniac who was subsequently identified as Sir John Trowbridge, the famous plastic surgeon who had disappeared from his home in London four years before; of the abhorrent scene that had met their eyes in the Laboratory, of the bodies of children, vivisected out of all semblance to the human form. Of how Sir John had babbled and boasted of his remarkable achievements, and of his success in selling his “productions” to fairs and freak shows. Michael felt the world reel. He remembered Coney Island, and the “What-is-it” with one vacant topaz eye. . . .
He did not notice that Penelope was reading the paper over his arm.
“Michael! Oh, God—those children! . . . you don’t think that Clare? . . .” Her voice rose to a shrill scream.
“No, dear, no, of course not.”
“But how can we ever know, how can we ever know? . . .”
Michael realised that he had to make his decision quickly.
“I know. Darling—I never dared to tell you, but Clare was run over . . . she never suffered, poor little thing. They took me to see her body. It was pretty badly mangled. There would have been no point in taking you.”
At all costs Penelope must never never realise this supreme horror.
“But, Michael, my own child, and you never told me! You denied me the right of seeing my child for the last time.” Penelope’s voice was cruel in its cutting quiet. “I think I hate you for this. I shall always hate you.”
The great liner ploughed on towards the open sea.
Michael said nothing. There was nothing to say. Only that Penelope must never never know.
A POEM AND A BUNCH OF ROSES
“Why—did—I come, why—did—I come? why—did—I come?” The regular throbbing of the engine beat the words into Sally Russell’s mind as the dingy train rattled past the few stations that lay between Natombre and the little village of Civennes.
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