The Dark Star

by Robert W. Chambers

  CHAPTER XVI

  SCHEHERAZADE

  At the Orangeville garage Neeland stopped his car, put on his strawhat, got out carrying suitcase and box, entered the office, and turnedover the care of the machine to an employee with orders to drive itback to Neeland's Mills the next morning.

  Then he leisurely returned to his prisoner who had given him her nameas Ilse Dumont and who was standing on the sidewalk beside the car.

  "Well, Scheherazade," he said, smiling, "teller of marvellous tales, Idon't quite believe your stories, but they were extremelyentertaining. So I won't bowstring you or cut off your unusuallyattractive head! No! On the contrary, I thank you for yourwonder-tales, and for not murdering me. And, furthermore, I bestowupon you your liberty. Have you sufficient cash to take you where youdesire to waft yourself?"

  All the time her dark, unsmiling eyes remained fixed on him, calmlyunresponsive to his badinage.

  "I'm sorry I had to be rough with you, Scheherazade," he continued,"but when a young lady sews her clothes full of papers which don'tbelong to her, what, I ask you, is a modest young man to do?"

  She said nothing.

  "It becomes necessary for that modest young man to can hismodesty--and the young lady's. Is there anything else he could do?" herepeated gaily.

  "He had better return those papers," she replied in a low voice.

  "I'm sorry, Scheherazade, but it isn't done in ultra-crooked circles.Are you sure you have enough money to go where destiny and booty callyou?"

  "I have what I require," she answered dryly.

  "Then good-bye, Pearl of the Harem! Without rancour, I offer you thehand that reluctantly chastened you."

  They remained facing each other in silence for a moment; hisexpression was mischievously amused; hers inscrutable. Then, as hepatiently and good-humouredly continued to offer her his hand, veryslowly she laid her own in it, still looking him directly in theeyes.

  "I'm sorry," she said in a low voice.

  "For what? For not shooting me?"

  "I'm sorry for _you_, Mr. Neeland.... You're only a boy, after all.You know nothing. And you refuse to learn.... I'm sorry....Good-bye."

  "Could I take you anywhere? To the Hotel Orange? I've time. Thestation is across the street."

  "No," she said.

  She walked leisurely along the poorly lighted street and turned thefirst corner as though at hazard. The next moment her trim andgraceful figure had disappeared.

  With his heart still gay from the night's excitement, and the drop ofIrish blood in him lively as champagne, he crossed the square briskly,entered the stuffy station, bought a ticket, and went out to thewooden platform beside the rails.

  Placing box and suitcase side by side, he seated himself upon them andlighted a cigarette.

  Here was an adventure! Whether or not he understood it, herecertainly was a real, story-book adventure at last. And he began toentertain a little more respect for those writers of romance who haveso persistently attempted to convince an incredulous world thatadventures are to be had anywhere and at any time for the mere effortentailed in seeking them.

  In his case, however, he had not sought adventure. It had been thrustupon him by cable.

  And now the drop of Irish in him gratefully responded. He was muchobliged to Fate for his evening's entertainment; he modestly venturedto hope for favours to come. And, considering the coolly veiledthreats of this young woman whom he had treated with scant ceremony,he had some reason to expect a sequel to the night's adventure.

  "She," he thought to himself, "had nothing on Godiva--except a pianocover!"

  Recollection of the absurd situation incited his reprehensiblemerriment to the point of unrestrained laughter; and he clasped hisknees and rocked to and fro, where he sat on his suitcase, all aloneunder the stars.

  The midnight express was usually from five to forty minutes late atOrangeville; but from there east it made up time on the down grade toAlbany.

  And now, as he sat watching, far away along the riverside a star camegliding into view around an unseen curve--the headlight of a distantlocomotive.

  A few moments later he was in his drawing-room, seated on the edge ofthe couch, his door locked, the shade over the window looking on thecorridor drawn down as far as it would go; and the train rushingthrough the starry night on the down grade toward Albany.

  He could not screen the corridor window entirely; the shade seemed tobe too short; but it was late, the corridor dark, all the curtains inthe car closed tightly over the berths, and his privacy was not likelyto be disturbed. And when the conductor had taken both tickets and theporter had brought him a bottle of mineral water and gone away, hesettled down with great content.

  Neeland was in excellent humour. He had not the slightest inclinationto sleep. He sat on the side of his bed, smoking, the olive-wood boxlying open beside him, and its curious contents revealed.

  But now, as he carefully examined the papers, photographs, anddrawings, he began to take the affair a little more seriously. And thepossibility of further trouble raised his already high spirits andcaused that little drop of Irish blood to sing agreeably in hisveins.

  Dipping into Herr Wilner's diary added a fillip to the increasingfascination that was possessing him.

  "Well, I'm damned," he thought, "if it doesn't really look as thoughthe plans of these Turkish forts might be important! I'm not very muchastonished that the Kaiser and the Sultan desire to keep forthemselves the secrets of these fortifications. They really belong tothem, too. They were drawn and planned by a German." He shrugged. "Arotten alliance!" he muttered, and picked up the bronze Chinese figureto examine it.

  "So you're the Yellow Devil I've heard about!" he said. "Well, youcertainly are a pippin!"

  Inspecting him with careless curiosity, he turned the bronze over andover between his hands, noticing a slight rattling sound that seemedto come from within but discovering no reason for it. And, as hecuriously considered the scowling demon, he hummed an old song of hisfather's under his breath:

  "Wan balmy day in May Th' ould Nick come to the dure; Sez I 'The divil's to pay, An' the debt comes harrd on the poor!' His eyes they shone like fire An' he gave a horrid groan; Sez I to me sister Suke, 'Suke!!!! Tell him I ain't at home!'

  "He stood forninst the dure, His wings were wings of a bat, An' he raised his voice to a roar, An' the tail of him switched like a cat, 'O wirra the day!' sez I, 'Ochone I'll no more roam!' Sez I to me brother Luke, 'Luke!!!! Tell him I ain't at home!'"

  As he laid the bronze figure away and closed, locked and strapped theolive-wood box, an odd sensation crept over him as though somebodywere overlooking what he was doing. Of course it could not be true,but so sudden and so vivid was the impression that he rose, opened thedoor, and glanced into the private washroom--even poked under the bedand the opposite sofa; and of course discovered that only a livingskeleton could lie concealed in such spaces.

  His courage, except moral courage, had never been particularly tested.He was naturally quite fearless, even carelessly so, and whether itwas the courage of ignorance or a constitutional inability to beafraid never bothered his mind because he never thought about it.

  Now, amused at his unusual fit of caution, he stretched himself out onhis bed, still dressed, debating in his mind whether he should undressand try to sleep, or whether it were really worth while before heboarded the steamer.

  And, as he lay there, a cigarette between his lips, wakeful, hisrestless gaze wandering, he suddenly caught a glimpse of somethingmoving--a human face pressed to the dark glass of the corridor windowbetween the partly lowered shade and the cherry-wood sill.

  So amazed was he that the face had disappeared before he realised thatit resembled the face of Ilse Dumont. The next instant he was on hisfeet and opening the door of the drawing-room; but the corridorbetween the curtained berths was empty and dark and still; not acurtain fluttered.

  He did not care to leave his doorway, either
, with the box lying thereon his bed; he stood with one hand on the knob, listening, peeringinto the dusk, still excited by the surprise of seeing her on the sametrain that he had taken.

  However, on reflection, he quite understood that she could have had nodifficulty in boarding the midnight train for New York without beingnoticed by him; because he was not expecting her to do such a thingand he had paid no attention to the group of passengers emerging fromthe waiting room when the express rolled in.

  "This is rather funny," he thought. "I wish I could find her. I wishshe'd be friendly enough to pay me a visit. Scheherazade is certainlyan entertaining girl. And it's several hours to New York."

  He lingered a while longer, but seeing and hearing nothing exceptdarkness and assorted snores, he stepped into his stateroom and lockedthe door again.

  Sleep was now impossible; the idea of Scheherazade prowling in thedark corridor outside amused him intensely, and aroused every atom ofhis curiosity. Did the girl really expect an opportunity to steal thebox? Or was she keeping a sinister eye on him with a view to summoningaccomplices from vasty metropolitan deeps as soon as the trainarrived? Or, having failed at Brookhollow, was she merely going backto town to report "progress backward"?

  He finished his mineral water, and, still feeling thirsty, rang, onthe chance that the porter might still be awake and obliging.

  Something about the entire affair was beginning to strike him asintensely funny, and the idea of foreign spies slinking aboutBrookhollow; the seriousness with which this young girl took herselfand her mission; her amateur attempts at murder; her solemn mention ofthe Turkish Embassy--all these excited his sense of the humorous. Andagain incredulity crept in; and presently he found himself hummingIrwin's immortal Kaiser refrain:

  "Hi-lee! Hi-lo! Der vinds dey blow Joost like die wacht am Rhine! Und vot iss mine belongs to me, Und vot iss yours iss mine!"

  There came a knock at his door; he rose and opened it, supposing it tobe the porter; and was seized in the powerful grasp of two men andjerked into the dark corridor.

  One of them had closed his mouth with a gloved hand, crushing himwith an iron grip around the neck; the other caught his legs andlifted him bodily; and, as they slung him between them, his startledeyes caught sight of Ilse Dumont entering his drawing-room.

  It was a silent, fierce struggle through the corridor to the frontplatform of the vestibule train; it took both men to hold, overpower,and completely master him; but they tried to do this and, at the sametime, lift the trap that discloses the car steps. And could not manageit.

  The instant Neeland realised what they were trying to do, he divinedtheir shocking intention in regard to himself, and the struggle becameterrible there in the swaying vestibule. Twice he nearly got at theautomatic pistol in his breast pocket, but could not quite grasp it.They slammed him and thrashed him around between them, apparentlydetermined to open the trap, fling him from the train, and let himtake his chances with the wheels.

  Then, of a sudden, came a change in the fortunes of war; they weretrying to drag him over the chain sagging between the forward mail-carand the Pullman, when one of them caught his foot on it and stumbledbackward, releasing Neeland's right arm. In the same instant he drovehis fist into the face of his other assailant so hard that the man'shead jerked backward as though his neck were broken, and he fell flaton his back.

  Already the train was slowing down for the single stop between Albanyand New York--Hudson. Neeland got out his pistol and pointed itshakily at the man who had fallen backward over the chain.

  "Jump!" he panted. "Jump quick!"

  The man needed no other warning; he opened the trap, scrambled andwriggled down the mail-car steps, and was off the train like a snakefrom a sack.

  The other man, bloody and ghastly white, crept under the chain afterhis companion. He was a well-built, good-looking man of forty, withblue eyes and a golden beard all over blood. He seemed sick from theterrific blow dealt him; but as the train had almost stopped, Neelandpushed him off with the flat of his foot.

  Drenched in perspiration, dishevelled, bruised, he slammed both trapsand ran back into the dark corridor, and met Ilse Dumont coming out ofhis stateroom carrying the olive-wood box.

  His appearance appeared to stupefy her; he took the box from herwithout resistance, and, pushing her back into the stateroom, lockedthe door.

  Then, still savagely excited, and the hot blood of battle stillseething in his veins, he stood staring wickedly into her dazed eyes,the automatic pistol hanging from his right fist.

  But after a few moments something in her naive astonishment--heramazement to see him alive and standing there before her--appealed tohim as intensely ludicrous; he dropped on the edge of the bed andburst into laughter uncontrolled.

  "Scheherazade! Oh, Scheherazade!" he said, weak with laughter, "if youcould only see your face! If you could only _see_ it, my dear child!It's too funny to be true! It's too funny to be a real face! Oh, dear,I'll die if I laugh any more. You'll assassinate me with your face!"

  She seated herself on the lounge opposite, still gazing blankly at himin his uncontrollable mirth.

  After a while he put back the automatic into his breast pocket, tookoff coat and waistcoat, without paying the slightest heed to her or toconvention; opened his own suitcase, selected a fresh shirt, tie, andcollar, and, taking with him his coat and the olive-wood box, wentinto the little washroom.

  He scarcely expected to find her there when he emerged, cooled andrefreshed; but she was still there, seated as he had left her on thelounge.

  "I wanted to ask you," she said in a low voice, "did you _kill_them?"

  "Not at all, Scheherazade," he replied gaily. "The Irish don't kill;they beat up their friends; that's all. Fist and blackthorn, my prettylass, but nix for the knife and gun."

  "How--did you do it?"

  "Well, I got tired having a ham-fisted Dutchman pawing me and closingmy mouth with his big splay fingers. So I asked him to slide overboardand shoved his friend after him."

  "Did you shoot them?"

  "No, I tell you!" he said disgustedly. "I hadn't a chance in hotblood, and I couldn't do it in cold. No, Scheherazade, I didn't shoot.I pulled a gun for dramatic effect, that's all."

  After a silence she asked him in a low voice what he intended to dowith her.

  "Do? Nothing! Chat affably with you until we reach town, if you don'tmind. Nothing more violent than that, Scheherazade."

  The girl, sitting sideways on the sofa, leaned her head against thevelvet corner as though very tired. Her small hands lay in her laplistlessly, palms up-turned.

  "Are you really tired?" he asked.

  "Yes, a little."

  He took the two pillows from his bed and placed them on the sofa.

  "You may lie down if you like, Scheherazade."

  "Won't you need them?"

  "Sunburst of my soul, if I pillow my head on anything while you are inthe vicinity, it will be on that olive-wood box!"

  For the first time the faintest trace of a smile touched her lips. Sheturned, settled the pillows to her liking, and stretched out hersupple figure on the sofa with a slight sigh.

  "Shall I talk to you, Scheherazade, or let you snuggle into the chastearms of Morpheus?"

  "I can't sleep."

  "Is it a talk-fest, then?"

  "I am listening."

  "Then, were the two recent gentlemen who so rudely pounced upon me thesame gentlemen who so cheerfully chased me in an automobile when youmade red fire?"

  "Yes."

  "I was betting on it. Nice-looking man--the one with the classical mapand the golden Frick."

  She said nothing.

  "Scheherazade," he continued with smiling malice, "do you realise thatyou are both ornamental and young? Why so young and murderous, fairhouri? Why delight in manslaughter in any degree? Why cultivateassault and battery? Why swipe the property of others?"

&n
bsp; She closed her eyes on the pillow, but, as he remained silent,presently opened them again.

  "I asked them not to hurt you," she said irrelevantly.

  "Who? Oh, your strenuous friends with the footpad technique? Well,they obeyed you unwillingly."

  "Did they hurt you?"

  "Oh, no. But the car-wheels might have."

  "The car-wheels?"

  "Yes. They were all for dumping me down the steps of the vestibule.But I've got a nasty disposition, Scheherazade, and I kicked and bitand screamed so lustily that I disgusted them and they simply left thetrain and concluded to cut my acquaintance."

  It was evident that his good-humoured mockery perplexed her. Once ortwice the shadow of a smile passed over her dark eyes, but theyremained uncertain and watchful.

  "You really were astonished to see me alive again, weren't you?" heasked.

  "I was surprised to see you, of course."

  "Alive?"

  "I told you that I asked them not to really hurt you."

  "Do you suppose I believe _that_, after your pistol practice on me?"

  "It is true," she replied, her eyes resting on him.

  "You wished to reserve me for more pistol practice?"

  "I have no--enmity--for you."

  "Oh, Scheherazade!" he protested, laughing.

  "You are wrong, Mr. Neeland."

  "After all I did to you?"

  To his surprise a bright blush spread over her face where it layframed by the pillows; she turned her head abruptly and lay withoutspeaking.

  He sat thinking for a few minutes, then leaning forward from where hesat on the bed's edge:

  "After a man's been shot at and further intimidated with a large,unpleasantly rusty Kurdish dagger, he is likely to proceed withoutceremony. All the same, I am sorry I had to humiliate you,Scheherazade."

  She lay silent, unstirring.

  "A girl would never forgive that, I know," he said. "So I shall lookfor a short shrift from you if your opportunity ever comes."

  The girl appeared to be asleep. He stood up and looked down at her.The colour had faded from the one cheek visible. For a while helistened to her quiet breathing, then, the imp of perversity seizinghim, and intensely diverted by the situation, he bent over her,touched her cheek with his lips, put on his hat, took box andsuitcase, and went out to spend the remaining hour or two in thesmoking room, leaving her to sleep in peace.

  But no sooner had he closed the door on her than the girl sat straightup on the sofa, her face surging in colour, and her eyes brilliantwith starting tears.

  When the train arrived at the Grand Central Station, in the grey of aJuly morning, Neeland, finding the stateroom empty, lingered to watchfor her among the departing passengers.

  But he lingered in vain; and presently a taxicab took him and his boxto the Cunard docks, and deposited him there. And an hour later he wasin his cabin on board that vast ensemble of machinery and luxury, theCunarder _Volhynia_, outward bound, and headed straight at thedazzling disc of the rising sun.

  And thought of Scheherazade faded from his mind as a tale that istold.