The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack

by H. Bedford-Jones

  “M’sieu! An important summons! The guard officer at the Pont Nationale demands your presence there—it is urgent, urgent! And a young woman is outside, demanding you and demanding this man Forain—”

  Rampont exploded in a storm of Gallic oaths. Forain, who had heard the words, called out excitedly. A moment more, and in upon the room burst Marie.

  “It is there, it is there!” she cried. “M. Rampont? It is there! I saw it! I pointed it out to the commanding officer—oh, my dear, my dear!”

  She flung herself down beside the bed and caught Forain’s hand between her cold hands, tears burning in her eyes; tears of happiness, of grief, of excitement, of triumph.

  And Forain, pressing her fingers to his lips, looked up at the staring Rampont.

  “Do you still want—the ceremony?”

  “Thunders of heaven, yes! More than ever!” burst out Forain with a laugh.

  Rampont disappeared. Marie broke forth with a flood of questions, of self-reproaches and bitter words about her brothers. They had boasted to her that Forain had his deserts; she had been half frantic these past days, being unable to learn anything about him.

  “But now all’s well, my dear!” she sobbed. “All’s well! What was it he said—what ceremony was he talking about?”

  Forain smiled, and touched her dark hair with his fingers.

  “My revenge upon your family and all the others. A revenge to last for life!”

  * * * *

  Giraud broke off and left the story there. We came back again to the bar of the aviators’ club, with the hurly-burly of the Bois and the Porte Maillot just outside.

  “But what about this crazy zinc-ball scheme?” queried Pollack.

  A twinkle in his eye, Giraud picked up the old letter in its transparent envelope. He bared a folded-over sheet showing a single stamp, a Paris address, and heavily scrawled below this, the magic formula: “Moulins, par Allier.”

  “There’s the answer.” He held it up reverently. “It has lost one stamp, it’s water-stained, but it’s a letter from that first ball to come through! Not that this truly submarine mail succeeded, mind you! Of fifty or more that were sent, only one other arrived; the rest turned up anywhere along the Seine for years after the siege. The war ended, you see, before the success of the luminous paint could be established and put into use.”

  “Technically, I suppose it’s submarine mail,” conceded Pollack grudgingly. “But what about those two lovers? Did Forain get rich off that luminous paint?”

  Giraud passed a hand over his bald dome, gave me a whimsical wink, and glanced at Pollack’s thinning locks.

  “No. He got rich off a hair-restorer he invented! I think I mentioned that he had a tendency to baldness—eh? I’ll give you the address in Cincinnati, and you can get the recipe from the family. You can see for yourselves what the restorer did for me!”

  Pollack surveyed us blankly, and then broke into a grin. “I get you, feller! The drinks are on me.”

  1 All fact; author can furnish sketch of the zinc ball, etc.

  THE CURIOUS LUCK OF THE EARL OF PUGWASH

  Dennis Earle wanted to see London while there was some of it left to see, so he got a two-day leave from the O.C. and went up to town. They had brought a group of Lockheed bombers across the pond and were waiting among the ruins of Liverpool for a ship back. Canadian pay being better than English, Earle was fairly well heeled.

  He got up to London about five in the afternoon, but by the time he reached the Houses of Parliament, darkness and the blackout spoiled his view; so he just wandered on up toward Trafalgar Square.

  When the Moaning Minnie cut loose with its warning, Earle followed the nearest figures and crowded into a shelter, somewhat excited by walking right into an air raid. No one else was excited, however. The people around cursed the Jerries for starting to work two hours ahead of the usual time, and getting the dinner hour all messed up.

  A bad sign, Earle gathered from the talk. Fires would be set by these first raiders, and the flames would be used as guides by the bombers following it. It would be a hard night. Earle, in his trim uniform, listened. He was good looking, being rangy and high-boned in feature; only a year out of the backwoods, in fact. But the backwoods of Nova Scotia breed hard men at an early age.

  The shelter was dimly lit. Earle felt a touch on the elbow; a woman was beside him, looking at the R.C.A.F. insignia and letters.

  “You’re a Canadian?” she asked. Her voice was soft. She was young, not pretty, not well dressed, but she had a nice face, thought Earle. She wore a hat something like a Scots bonnet, with a feather perking the front up; a red feather, a red hat, tired brave eyes.

  “Yes,” said Earle. “That is, of a sort. Nova Scotia. Ever hear of Pugwash?”

  To his surprise, she smiled a little, in assent.

  “Yes, but I’ve never been there. My folks lived down near Sheldon.”

  “Sheldon? Good lord! I’ve been there many a time. Did you know Cap’n Bruce there? And the McFees?”

  “My father was a McFee,” said she. “But he died a long time ago, and my mother too, and I came over here with a show company and—well, it’s not so good these days. Mostly, I use the shelter at the Temple or the Bank, when the raids come. I got caught here going home from work—oh, there it is now!”

  The long-drawn, whooshing All Clear was sounding. People were flocking out. Earle wanted to keep in touch with her, but a swirl of the crowd separated them, and with a wave of her hand she was gone. He could not very well pursue her, he thought. Then he suddenly wished he had, and went plunging frantically after her, but it was too late.

  He was out in the dark streets again. Here and there the sky above the buildings was lurid; fires had been started, all right. Earle wandered on—whither, he did not care a snap. This was London, and he was here; and presently he forgot all about the girl in the red bonnet, except to think of the curious chance of meeting someone who knew Pugwash.

  Hunger was making itself felt. He could not find a pub, for everything was blacked out; he wanted a drink and he wanted dinner, and had no chance of getting either. But he could find a fire, and did, for engines were clanging and flames were rising, and he came into a street swarming with people and firefighters and wardens and Auxiliary Ambulance Corps women, desperately trying to get the fire under control before the raiders returned. Earle wanted to get directions, and hesitated.

  A man came toward him, a rather stout man in a derby hat and evening clothes with a cross-barred waistcoat. He saw that the man was going to speak to him, and so it happened.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but you’re an officer?”

  “Air Force,” said Earle, which was answer enough. He was framing a question when the other spoke earnestly.

  “Very good, sir. If you’ve not dined, will you have the kindness to come to dinner? His lordship—that is to say, Lord Mortimer—sent me out to find an officer and ask him to dinner. His lordship is extremely put out when forced to dine alone.”

  “What sort of a game is this?” demanded Earle. Then he saw that the other was serious; a long-faced, solemn fellow with no humor whatever. “Look here, I’m a stranger in town, a Canadian. I don’t want any of your tricks.”

  “I assure you, sir, it is no trick,” replied the other with dignity. “I am Jenkins, his lordship’s man. It is a whim of his lordship’s to invite any officer within touch to dine of an evening, sir.”

  Earle regarded him with some astonishment, then capitulated to reality.

  “Well, I’ll be damned! All right, Jenkins. If this turns out to be a hoax, you’ll get a bloody nose. Lead on, and if you make good on the bet, it’s money in your pocket.”

  Apparently Jenkins was accustomed to incredulity and amazement on the part of his guests. With perfect aplomb he led Earle back to the corner and down the next street, and turned in at a house which seemed of some size. He held open the front door and asked an apologetic question.

  “His lordship will be at table.
Whom shall I announce, sir?”

  “Dennis Earle, of Pugwash.” From the looks of the candle-lit house, whose glassless windows were all shuttered, the adventure seemed to be coming true. With some amusement, Earle thought he might as well get some credit for his native town in these purlieus of the landed aristocracy.

  “Beg pardon, sir?” Jenkins, taking his cap, gave him a startled glance.

  “Pugwash,” repeated Earle. “A name famous in Nova Scotian annals, my man. Pugwash. Dennis Earle, of Pugwash.”

  “Very good, sir. This way, sir.”

  Having a healthy Canadian mistrust of Belgravia and the aristocracy in general, Earle was on the alert for trick or trap. He was disillusioned, when he was led into a magnificent dining-room, glowing with candles, rich with paneled oak and silver, the table perfectly appointed and a man sitting at the head, who rose to receive him…a man gaunt and gray, with white mustache over a square, uncompromising jaw, the miniature jewel of an order glinting under his white tie, and rather savage gray eyes.

  “His grace, the Earl of Pugwash,” announced Jenkins, discreetly adding: “A Canadian title, my lord.”

  “Delighted to meet you! An honor, sir, an honor!” Earle, blinking, found Lord Mortimer at his side, welcoming him with hearty words and cordial handclasp. “Any of His Majesty’s officers honors this house by his presence, and particularly a colonial. You must pardon me for not getting the name aright; I’ve never been in Canada. Pugwash, I think!”

  “Dennis Earle, of Pugwash; that’s it,” exclaimed Earle. Then, realizing the error, he tried to put it right. “But look here, I never meant to say—”

  “Nonsense, my lad! Sit down, sit down, Pugwash—hm! I do seem to know that name. I must have heard it somewhere. The cocktails, Jenkins; and mind the wine is chilled aright.”

  “Very good, your lordship,” assented Jenkins, and left the room.

  Earle was seated, was trying to orientate himself. Everything was real; it was out of the Arabian Nights, perhaps, but it was real.

  “Look here, sir,” he exclaimed desperately. “There’s a mistake. I didn’t mean to tell him that I was the Earl of Pugwash! That’s all nonsense. My name’s Earle, Dennis Earle. I told him I was Dennis Earle of Pugwash, and…”

  Mortimer was eyeing him keenly with those sardonic gray eyes. Comprehension flashed in the old face, his lips twitched, then he lifted a hand and spoke hurriedly.

  “I see, I see…but not a word more! Damme, it would never do. Never! Jenkins would never forgive himself. I’d not have him know for the world! Pugwash you were, Pugwash you must be, at least within his hearing.”

  “Oh! I get you,” said Earle. “He does seem to take himself damned seriously. Okay, then; so long as you understand, it’s all right. I was out on the Banks one season in a Lunenberg craft with two skippers. Cap’n John had shipped his brother, Cap’n George, who was a bit dotty but fancied himself the skipper and never knew the difference; all hands humored him in it, and if things came to a pinch he took orders from his brother meek and mild!’

  “Right,” said Mortimer, a twinkle in his eye. “Here are the cocktails; I don’t fancy the cocktail idea myself, but it seems to be in fashion these days.”

  The glamorous dinner began to a proper understanding, at least, and Earle relaxed. He was a bit uncomfortable until Mortimer got him at ease with talk of ferrying bombers over from Newfoundland; and the drinks helped, and then everything went off swimmingly.

  There was something fresh and alive and vigorous about Dennis Earle; small wonder that the older man took to him strangely. Age is lonely, and lonely age is damnable, yielding gladly to the interest of youth. Mortimer could talk of Magersfontein and Ypres, and Earle could talk of prismatic air compasses and the wide Atlantic, and between them they made the hour fly and were old friends by the time Minnie interrupted.

  The wailing banshee cry penetrated to them, and Jenkins came with a needless, anxious announcement.

  “I’ll let no damned Hun disturb my dinner,” said Mortimer. “Be damned to them! Serve the port, Jenkins. Draw the curtains in the other rooms, and close the doors.”

  They talked on, against a background that became more fearsome with every minute. It was Earle’s first experience of siren bombs. They cut through all the tumultuous roar of shells and barrage; they reached into the brain and wrenched it with torturing clutch. Lord Mortimer smiled grimly, seeing Earle’s gaze flicker.

  “They’re not close; the sound falls in a descending scale. It’s when the wail rises that one must look out. After a bit we’ll take a walk and see what’s going on, eh?”

  “We’ll—what?” Earle looked up very sharply. “Why, I had a notion that nobody dared go out during an air raid!”

  “Stuff and nonsense. You’d not cower in a cellar because of a blasted Hun?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t stick my neck out too far.” Earle’s eyes twinkled. “However, if you say walk, I’m with you. But mind, I’m no hero!”

  Mortimer laughed with keen relish. “Come along; cigars in the library.”

  They left the table and passed into a long, low room studded with books. The Havanas were remarkable; Earle sank into an easy chair and made himself comfortable.

  He had gathered, in the course of the dinner, that Mortimer was alone in the world, except for some distant relatives a whom he disliked heartily. A son had been killed in Flanders during the last war.

  Now, relaxing, Earle noted an exquisitely painted portrait on the wall; the portrait of a young woman whose features seemed to come alive in the soft light of the candles. He could not take his eyes from it. There was a certain vague familiarity in it that puzzled him. Mortimer, noting his gaze, nodded grimly.

  “My daughter Irene,” he said. “A wayward lass who married beneath her. Being a damned old fool, I did the most regrettable action of my life; cut her off completely. He was a fisherman—a fisherman, d’ye understand?”

  “I was, too,” said Earle stoutly. “My people were fishermen on the Banks. My Dad used to say we had a lot in common with St. Peter.”

  Mortimer looked at him, hard; the grim features softened.

  “Well said, my lad. But, twenty years ago, I was a harsh and intolerant man. She was as proud as I was, too; so were her new people. When age and loneliness had bashed in my cursed pride, I learned she was dead. There was a child, but it was lost to sight or deliberately hidden from me. Last year my solicitors offered a thousand pounds for information about the child, and got nothing.”

  “Too bad,” said Earle, sympathetically. “You don’t strike me as such a bad sort of guy. That portrait reminds me of somebody; can’t think who, though.”

  Dust seemed to come out of everything on a sudden. The house quivered. The air shook from some nearby concussion, but the duller sound of the bomb was almost lost under the inferno of sound hammering from the skies. A drumming as of ragged rifle-volleys came sharply from overhead.

  “Shrapnel on the slates,” commented Mortimer casually. “We’ll need tin hats when we go out.” He paused over his cigar, and glanced up at the portrait. “Yes, a beautiful girl. Sargent did that likeness. She died somewhere in a province of Canada.”

  “Oh!” said Earle. “What was her name? I mean her married name.”

  “McFee,” replied Mortimer, with a grimace as though the sound of it hurt him.

  Something leaped in Earle’s veins. McFee! And the tired, brave eyes—

  “By, damn!” he cried out. “Now I know! The red bonnet and the red feather…the McFees of Sheldon, sure!”

  A gust of excitement shook him. Mortimer did not notice.

  “Correct. Nova Scotia. They call ’em bluenoses. Do people there actually have blue noses?”

  “Hell, no!” Earle exclaimed, with a gusty laugh. “Used to paint the bows of the fishing vessels blue. Why, that girl would be your granddaughter, wouldn’t she?”

  The shaggy gray brows knitted. “What girl? Whom are you talking about?”

  �
��I told you the picture reminded me of someone! It was a girl I met tonight. Her name was McFee. From Sheldon. She came over here a couple years ago—it was in an air shelter—”

  Earle poured out the tale of that chance meeting underground. Mortimer forgot his Havana; the sardonic gleam died from the hard gray eyes. Then he shook his head.

  “Stuff and nonsense! By the laws of heredity, a daughter seldom looks like the mother.”

  “Damn heredity!” said Earle. “Facts are facts. I tell you, her face looked like this one on the wall—might almost be a picture of her! And with the name and the place and all, what more could you ask?”

  Mortimer laid down his forgotten cigar and rose.

  “No more, perhaps; a great deal more, if it came to my solicitors. All right, my lad. We’ll go see this young woman. Where to find her?”

  Earle stared at him blankly. “Find her? How the devil do I know?”

  “But you said—”

  “I said what she said; that was all. There wasn’t any more. Hold on, though!” He thought desperately. “She did say that she usually used the shelter at the Temple or the Bank when the raids came.”

  “That’d be underground stations, eh? And there’s a raid tonight, no doubt of that. Could you find the spot where you met her?”

  “No. Not a chance.”

  “Then it’s the underground. May still be running. Hm! We’ll try the Temple, Bank and Cannon Street stations. You’d know her again if you saw her?”

  “Of course! The red bonnet and a feather—”

  Mortimer pressed a bell and Jenkins appeared.

  “My things, Jenkins. And the tin hats. What about it, my lad?”

  Earle nodded, his eyes alight. “For the honor of Pugwash, you bet! Not that I like the prospect, though.”

  He liked it less when they got out in the streets, Mortimer enveloped in an old-fashioned inverness and a shooting cap. From a policeman who advised them to take shelter, they learned the underground was running; the trains would stop at ten, however, so Mortimer hustled away.