The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  So he came to the house, and, because he doubted his ability to waste much strength, he lifted his voice and called Lebrun.

  There was no response. Twice more Smith called the man’s name, but received no answer. The house remained silent. Smith hesitated, then turned to the avenue of palms. Just as well, perhaps! He must find Berangère—and tell her the truth.

  Slowly, drawing carefully upon his low vitality, Smith made his way along that shady avenue, and came upon the sky-blue pool at the end, with its circle of white sand and its wall. He paused, for Berangère was not here. The canvas awning shaded only white sand. What? Surely she could not have returned to the house?

  Then he perceived the gate in the wall, and that this gate stood open. Coming to it he rested a moment. Before him was outspread the little orchard. Twenty feet away, stretched out beneath a flame-tree, was Berangère. She lay motionless, with her face in her arms.

  Smith closed the gate and came forward. The girl stirred, glanced up, then rose lithely. Her eyes were angry as she spoke.

  “Monsieur! How dare you—”

  “Be quiet, please,” said Smith calmly. “You must listen to me; I have information for you which is vital and terrible. I regret that I must cause you great grief, mademoiselle; but your father did not die of ptomaine or other causes. He was murdered.”

  As she regarded him, the girl went white as death.

  “I know that,” she said in a low voice. Smith started.

  “What? You say—”

  “I guessed as much, since the letter he supposedly left for me was palpably forged.” Her voice was icy. “Also, you, a criminal, were here. And—”

  Smith checked her with upraised hand.

  “I am not a criminal,” he said quietly. “Let me speak, please—minutes may be valuable! Do you remember a man whom your father sent to Noumea for life—a rather notorious person who was called M. le Diable?”

  “I have heard something of him, yes,” she answered.

  “That man is Lebrun, with whom you breakfasted this morning. Your maid Félice is one of his accomplices. So is—or was—Le Morpion. So, presumably, were Curel and I. But Curel was a gentleman. We were not aware of what Lebrun intended here; I shot one of the gang en route, and was wounded, prostrated. You understand all this?”

  She was staring from wide, stricken eyes.

  “I was unable to prevent what happened,” went on Smith. “In order to save you, Curel and I decided to strike without delay. I killed Le Morpion this morning; but your maid, Félice, murdered Curel. Still, Félice has been attended to. There now remains Lebrun, M. le Diable himself. Against him I can do little. I am feeble, and I must depend on you to get me a weapon—a pistol, you understand? If we work together—”

  “Wait!” Berangère brushed one hand across her eyes, then looked at Smith as though she had expected to see him vanish, dream-like. “You say—you are no criminal—”

  “I am not,” said Smith. “Some time ago I learned that a number of M. le Diable’s gang were at large, and got a clue to them. I followed that clue, and was about to have them arrested when M. le Diable himself turned up, having escaped from Noumea. After that I was given no opportunity to bring about an arrest until we had left Saigon and it was too late—”

  “But—the—reward—”

  “Was offered,” and Smith smiled, “in the hope that it would remove suspicion from me, in case I were recognized—”

  “Oh!” A cry broke from the girl. “You—how do I know this is not some frightful lie—”

  A third voice interrupted, broke in upon them with suave insistence.

  “I assure you that it is the truth, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur the Devil, as he rose from the pomegranate hedge and approached them, smiling his thin smile.

  CHAPTER X

  The One Shot

  “It is the absolute truth, mademoiselle,” repeated Lebrun, advancing. “I shall presently offer proof, by killing this excellent policeman and attempting to console you in person. Please sit down and do not interrupt us, mademoiselle. Now, M. Smith, will you throw away that stick, and seat yourself? Thus I shall be able to dispense with this heavy weapon, for a time.” He indicated the automatic in his hand.

  Smith, whose face had reddened with chagrin and the astounded sense that all was lost, threw away his cane and sank down upon the grass. Evidently Lebrun considered him unarmed, especially from his recent words to Berangère.

  There was a moment of silence. Lebrun came forward, put his weapon into his pocket, and drew out a cheroot, which he lighted. Berangère drew the silk wrap closer about her, staring from wide eyes, filled with fright and terror and comprehension of her own situation. Smith, thinking of that single cartridge in his pocket, looked at the cliff-edge and the sea; and in this moment there came to him the idea of poetic retribution. When he looked back at Lebrun, he was smiling.

  “I may smoke?” he asked calmly. Lebrun nodded.

  “Certainly—your last smoke, M. Smith. I know, of course, that you will die well.” Smith put his hand into his pocket, and pulled out pipe and tobacco. He filled and lighted the pipe, bringing matches from his pocket.

  “If you had not taken the pistol from my clothes—” he said significantly.

  “Le Morpion did that. You killed Le Morpion this morning, I believe you said?”

  “Yes. And Félice has gone to sea with Curel at the helm of the ship.”

  At this, Lebrun showed a trifle of astonishment. Then he slowly smiled.

  “Well, that is not so bad!” he declared cheerfully. “So Félice is gone? Then she will not be here to interfere, if I attempt to console Mlle. des Gachons! That is excellent! And I must congratulate you, M. Smith, upon the way you fooled me in Saigon. And if L’Etoile had not stabbed you, I almost believe that you would have prevented the demise of M. des Gachons!”

  “Certainly,” responded Smith. “You will remember that, after the moment we arrived, I never saw him again. Otherwise, I should certainly have warned him—”

  A low moan broke from Berangère. Horror sat in her eyes, which were fastened on Lebrun.

  “You—then are you the man—”

  Lebrun bowed slightly. “I am the man, my dear. M. le Diable, at your service presently! First I must take care of this impertinent policeman. We three, I gather, are alone on the island. Now history repeats itself, M. Smith! So you are what is called a detective?”

  “I am many things,” said Smith calmly.

  Berangère moved. The silk wrap fell from about her shoulders, and she lay quiet. She had finally realized that she was talking with the man who had murdered her father—and she had fainted.

  “That is excellent,” said Lebrun, taking the pistol from his pocket. “Suppose, my dear Smith, that you rise and take a little walk! Let us approach the edge of the cliff.”

  With a gesture of resignation, Smith managed to rise. For an instant he stood, one hand pressed against his wound. Then he drew a deep breath, took the pipe from his mouth, and knocked it out against the palm of his hand.

  “I suppose,” he asked, casually, “there is no chance of buying my life?”

  “My dear fellow, don’t be silly!” Lebrun’s eyes glittered venomously. “I have always intended to shape events so that, in the end, this charming bit of girlhood would be mine,” and he gestured toward the inert figure of Berangère, lying like a wilted golden flower. “You see, it was at this very spot I first came out of the sea, and—”

  “Then,” said Smith, putting his pipe into his pocket, “it is obviously only proper that at this point you should go back into the sea—”

  And, as he spoke, he fired the one cartridge.

  Lebrun whirled about. The pistol flew from his hand. The hand itself dropped to his side, broken and mangled in red confusion. Smith covered the man with his empty weapon and spoke:

  “Come here!”

  Writhing under the agony of that mangled hand, Lebrun obeyed. His face was frightful to look upon. He s
pat at Smith a low vitriolic stream of curses.

  “That’s enough!” commanded Smith sharply. “Turn your back.”

  Lebrun hesitated, then obeyed, so that he was facing the cliff.

  “Now mind your step, my man,” said Smith quietly, his voice like steel. “I don’t intend to guard you, I don’t intend to take you back to Saigon, and I don’t intend to kill you. If you force a bullet, I shall shoot you in the abdomen—you comprehend? That is all.”

  Stooping, Smith picked up the silk wrap of the girl and threw it over the shoulder of Lebrun.

  “Put that over your head and walk forward,” he commanded. “You shall return to the sea whence you came. If you do not relish that program, then you may force a bullet—but in such an event, I warn you, the result will be most unpleasant and lingering. Choose!”

  * * * *

  In the gray eyes of Smith, M. le Diable read absolutely no mercy. Probably he expected none. His fate lay clear before him. At his side, his right hand dripped blood. None the less, despite this mangled hand, despite the unexpected turn which had so swiftly overwhelmed him, Lebrun smiled. In his manner was a power, a singular indomitable majesty.

  “You will never be a great man, Smith,” he observed, “because you have a sense of humor. I have none; that is why I am what I am. And do you think that you can end the life of Monsieur the Devil? Des Gachons thought so, when he sent me to Noumea; but I came back from the dead.”

  “Go at once,” said Smith coldly.

  “Very well, monsieur. But may I be permitted to say au revoir?”

  With this, Lebrun walked deliberately toward the cliff. He did not glance backward. He came to the verge, and for one instant stood there, outlined against the sky and sea. The next instant—he was gone.

  Like an echo from hell, his thin laugh floated upward.

  Smith, trembling, picked up his cane and made his way to the cliff edge. He gazed downward. There was nothing in sight. The green water swirled below in faint whiteness against the rocks.

  Smith tossed his empty pistol into the sea, and turned. “A good game, well played!” he said, and sighed. “Yet, perhaps I should have shot him and made certain! But we’ll find his body washing on the rocks tomorrow.”

  His eyes fell on the figure of Berangère, and they softened.

  “Well, it’s finished!” His voice sounded very faint and distant in his ears. “And now—and now—the rest is up to you, mademoiselle—up to you—and Curel!”

  He lay quietly upon the grass, and his eyes closed.

  NUALA O’MALLEY

  CHAPTER I

  THE BLACK WOMAN

  The horseman reined in as his jaded steed scrambled up the shelving bank, and for a space sat there motionless, for which the horse gave mute thanks. The moon was struggling to heave through fleecy clouds, as it was hard on midnight; in the half obscurity the rider gazed around suspiciously.

  There was nothing in sight to cause any man fear. Behind him rippled the Dee, and all around was desolation. Ardee itself lay a good two miles in the rear, burned and laid waste six weeks before, and ten miles to the south lay Drogheda. Indeed, as the horseman gazed about, he caught sight of a faint glare on the horizon that drew a bitter word from his lips.

  Dismounting with some difficulty, owing to his cloak and Spanish hat, he examined a long, raking gash in his horse’s flank; then flung off hat and cloak and calmly proceeded to bind up his own naked shoulder beneath.

  His was a strange figure, indeed, now that he stood revealed. He wore no clothing save breeches and high riding-boots; an enormous sword without a sheath was girt about his waist, and the caked blood on his shoulder and cheek made his fair skin stand out with startling contrast.

  About his shoulders fell long hair of ruddy yellow, while his face was young and yet very bitter, tortured by both physical and mental anguish, as it seemed. He bound up the deep slash in his shoulder with a strip of cloth torn from his cloak, felt his wealed cheek tenderly, then flung the cloak about him again and drew down his broad-brimmed hat as he turned to his weary horse.

  “Well, my friend,” and his voice sounded whimsical for all its rich tone, “you’ve had a change of masters to-day, eh? I’d like to spare you, but man’s life is first, though Heaven knows it’s worth little in Ireland this day!” With that he reeled and caught at the saddle for support, put down his head, and sobbed unrestrainedly.

  “Oh, my God!” he groaned at length, straightening himself to shake a clenched and blood-splashed fist at the sky. “Where were You this day? God! God! The blood of men on Thine altars—”

  “Faith, you must be new come to Ireland, then!”

  At the shrill, mocking voice the man whirled about and his huge blade was out like a flash. But only a cackling laugh answered him, as down from the bank above slipped a perfect hag of a creature, and he drew back in alarm. At that instant the moon flooded out; his sudden motion had flung off his wide hat, and he stood staring at the wrinkled creature whose scanty garments and thin-shredded gray locks were pierced by a pair of weird brown eyes.

  Then he quivered indeed, and even the poor horse took a step backward, for the old woman had flung up her arms with a shrill cry as she gazed on the yellow-haired young man.

  “The O’Neill!” The words seemed to burst from her involuntarily. She craned forward, her hands twisting at her ragged shawl, and a flood of Gaelic poured from her lips as she stared at the awe-struck man.

  “Are you, then, the earl, come back from the dead? Ghost of Tyr-owen, why stand you here idle in the gap of Ulster, where once Cuculain fought against the host of Meave? Do you also stand here to fight as he fought—”

  “Peace, mad-woman!” exclaimed the young man, stooping after his hat. “Peace, and be off out of my way, for I have far to ride.”

  The Gaelic words came roughly and brokenly from him, but the old hag took no heed. Instead, she advanced swiftly and laid her hand on his arm, still gazing into his face with a great wonder on her wrinkled features.

  “Who are you?” she whispered. “Tell the Black Woman your name, if you are no ghost! For even as you stand now, once did these eyes see the great earl himself.”

  “I am from Drogheda,” answered the man, something very like fear stamped on his powerful and bitter-touched young face. “My name is Brian Buidh, and I ride to join Owen Ruadh—”

  “Liar!” The old woman spat forth the word with a cackle of laughter. “Oh, you cannot fool the Black Woman, Yellow Brian! Listen—Brian your name is, and Yellow Brian your name shall be indeed, since this is your will. Owen Ruadh O’Neill lies at the O’Reilly stead at Lough Oughter, but you shall never ride to war behind him, Brian Buidh! No—the Black Woman tells you, and the Black Woman knows. Instead, you shall ride into the west, and there shall be a storm of men—a storm of men behind you and before you—”

  “For the love of Heaven, have done!” cried Yellow Brian, shrinking before her, and yet with anger in his face. “Are you crazed, woman? Drogheda has fallen; O’Neill must join with the royalists, and never shall I ride into the west. Be off, for I have no money.”

  He turned to mount, but again she stopped him. It seemed to him that there was strange power in that withered hand which rested so lightly on his arm.

  “The Black Woman needs no money, Yellow Brian,” she cackled merrily. “You shall meet me once again, on a black day for you; and when you meet with Cathbarr of the Ax you shall remember me, Brian Buidh; and when you ride into the west and meet with the Bird Daughter you shall remember me.

  “So go, Yellow Brian, upon whose heart is stamped the red hand of the O’Neills! Beannacht leath!”

  “Beannacht leath,” repeated the man thickly.

  There was a rustle of bushes, and he was alone, wiping the cold sweat from his face.

  “Woman or fiend!” he muttered hoarsely. “How did she know that last? Yes, she was crazed, no doubt. I suppose that I do look like the earl—since he was my grandfather!”

  And with a bi
tter laugh he climbed into the saddle and pushed his horse up the bank. The bushes closed behind him, the night closed over him, but it was long ere the weird words of the old hag who called herself the Black Woman were closed from his mind.

  For, after all, Yellow Brian was of right not alone an O’Neill, but The O’Neill.

  CHAPTER II

  THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM

  The people of every nation—that is, the tillers of the soil, the people who form the backbone of their race—are in continual expectancy of a Man and a Day. Theirs is always the, perhaps, dumb hope, but still the hope, that in their future lie these two things, a Man and a Day. Sometimes the Man has come and the Day has failed; sometimes the Day has come and there has been no Man to use it; but now all Ireland had swept up in a wild roar, knowing that the Man and the Day had come together.

  And so, in truth, they had. Owen, the Ruadh, or red, O’Neill, had fought a desperate struggle against the royalists. Little by little he had cemented his own people together, his personal qualities and his splendid generalship had overborne all else, and the victory of Benburb had crowned the whole. Then Owen Ruadh was stricken down with sickness, Cromwell landed and stormed Drogheda, and Yellow Brian had fought clear and fled away to the kinsman he had never seen.

  Now, standing on the castle ramparts overlooking Lough Oughter, Yellow Brian stared moodily out at the lake. His identity had been revealed to none, and the name of Brian Buidh had little meaning to any in Ireland. Years since he who was The O’Neill, the same whom the English called Earl of Tyr-owen, had fled with his family from the land. His eldest son John had settled at the Spanish court.

  John was a spineless man, unworthy son of a great father, content to idle away his life in ease and quiet. And it was in the court of Spain that Brian O’Neill had been born, with only an old Irishwoman to nurse him and teach him the tongue and tidings of Ireland which his father cared nothing for.