The Golden Ball and Other Stories

by Agatha Christie

  whole property is practically hers and her son's--whom

  you have told me she adores. And Arthur was going to be

  married?

  "But what are we going to do, Carstairs?"

  "There's nothing to be done," I said. "We'll do our best, though, to stand between Lady Carmichael and vengeance."

  Lady Carmichael improved slowly. Her injuries healed themselves as well as could be expected--the scars of that

  terrible assault she would probably bear to the end of her

  life.

  I had never felt more helpless. The power that defeated us was still at large, undefeated, and though quiescent for

  the minute we could hardly regard as doing otherwise than

  biding its time. I was determined upon one thing. As soon

  180 Agatha Christie

  as Lady Carmichael was well enough to be moved, she must

  be taken away from Wolden. There was just a chance that

  the terrible manifestation might be unable to follow her. So the days went on.

  I had fixed September 18 as the date of Lady Carmichacl's

  removal. It was on the morning of the 14th when

  the unexpected crisis arose.

  I was in the library discussing details of Lady Carmichael's

  case with Settle when an agitated housemaid rushed

  into the room.

  "Oh, sir!" she cried. "Be quick! Mr. Arthur--he's fallen

  into the pond. He stepped on the punt and it pushed off

  with him, and he overbalanced and fell in! I saw it from

  the window."

  I waited for no more, but run straight out of the room

  followed by Settle. Phyllis was just outside and had heard

  the maid's story. She ran with us.

  "But you needn't be afraid," she cried. "Arthur is a

  magnificent swimmer."

  I felt forebodings, however, and redoubled my pace. The

  surface of the pond was unruffled. The empty punt floated

  lazily about--but of Arthur there was no sign.

  Settle pulled off his coat and his boots. "I'm going in,"

  he said. "You take the boat hook and fish about from the

  other punt. It's not very deep."

  Very long the time seemed as we searched vainly. Minute

  followed minute. And then, just as we were despairing, we

  found him, and bore the apparently lifeless body of Arthur

  Carmichacl to shore.

  As long as I live I shall never forget the hopeless agony

  of Phyllis's face.

  "Not--not--" Her lips refused to frame the dreadful

  word.

  "No, no, my dear," I cried. "We'll bring him round,

  never fear."

  But inwardly I had little hope. He had been under water

  for half an hour. I sent off Settle to the house for hot blankets

  and other necessaries, and began myself to apply artificial

  respiration.

  We worked vigorously with him for over an hour, but

  THE STRAI CAE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICHAEL 181

  there was no sign of life. I motioned to Sttle to take my

  place again, and I approacbed Phyllis.

  "I'm afraid," I said gently, "that it is no good. Arthur is

  beyond our help."

  She stayed quite still for a moment and then suddenly

  flung herself down on the lifeless body.

  "Arthur!" she cried desperately. "Arthur! Come back to

  me! Arthur--come back--come back!"

  Her voice echoed away into silence. Suddenly I touched

  Settle's arm. "Look!" I said.

  A faint tinge of colour had crept into the drowned man's

  face. I felt his heart.

  "Go on with the respiration," I cried. "He's coming

  The moments seemed to fly now. In a marvellously short

  time his eyes opened.

  Then suddenly I realized a difference. These were intelligent

  eyes, human eyes ....

  They rested on Phyllis.

  "Hallo! Phil," he said weakly. "Is it you? I thought you

  weren't coming until tomorrow."

  She could not yet trust herself to speak, but she smiled

  at him. He looked around with increasing bewilderment.

  "But, I say, where am I? And--how rotten I feel! What's

  the matter with me? Hallo, Dr. Settle!"

  "You've been nearly drowned--that's what's the matter,''

  returned Settle grimly.

  Sir Arthur made a grimace.

  "I've always heard it was beastly coming back afterwards!

  But how did it happen? Was I walking in my sleep?"

  Settle shook his head.

  "We must get him to the house,' I said, stepping forward.

  He stared at me, and Phyllis introduced me. "Dr. Car-stairs,

  who is staying here."

  We supported him between us and started for the house.

  He looked up suddenly as though struck by an idea.

  "I say, doctor, this won't knock me up for the twelfth,

  will it7"

  "The twelfthT' I said slowly, "you mean the twelfth of

  August?"

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  Agatha Christie

  "Yes--next Friday."

  "Today is the fourteenth of September," said Settle abruptly.

  His bewilderment was evident.

  "But--but I thought it was the eighth of August? I must have been ill then7"

  Phyllis interposed rather quickly in her gentle voice. "Yes," she said, "you've been very ill."

  He frowned. "I can't understand it. I was perfectly all right when I went to bed last night--at least of course it

  wasn't really last night. I had dreams, though. I remember,

  dreams .... "His brow furrowed itself still more as he strove

  to remember. "Something--what was it?---something

  dreadful--someone had done it .to me--and I was angry--desperate

  .... And then I dreamed I was a cat--yes, a cat!

  Funny, wasn't it? But it wasn't a funny dream. It was

  more--horrible! But I can't remember. It all goes when I

  think."

  I laid my hand on his shoulder. "Don't try to think, Sir Arthur," I said gravely. "Be content--to forget."

  He looked at me in a puzzled way and nodded. I heard Phyllis draw a breath of relief. We had reached the house.

  "By the way," said Sir Arthur suddenly, "where's the mater?"

  "She has been--ill," said Phyllis after a momentary pause.

  "Oh! Poor old mater!" His voice rang with genuine concern. "Where is she? In her room?"

  "Yes," I said, "but you had better not disturb---"

  The words froze on my lips. The door of the drawing room opened and Lady Carmichael, wrapped in a dressing

  gown, came out into the hall.

  Her eyes were fixed on Arthur, and if ever I have seen a look of absolute guilt-stricken terror, I saw it then. Her

  face was hardly human in its frenzied terror. Her hand went

  to her throat.

  Arthur advanced towards her with boyish affection.

  "Hallo, mater! So you've been ill too? I say, I'm awfully sorry."

  She shrank back before him, her eyes dilating. Then suddenly, with the shriek of a doomed soul, she fell backwards

  through the open door.

  THE STRANGE CASE OF SIR ARTHUR CARMICAEL 183

  I rushed and bent over her, then beckoned to Settle.

  "Hush," I said. "Take him upstairs quietly and then come

  down again. Lady Carmichael is dead."

  He returned in a few minute.

  "What was itT" he asked. "What caused itT'

  "Shock," I said grimly. "The shock of seeing Arthur Carmichael, the real Arthur Carmichael, restored to life!

  Or you may call it, as I prefer
to, the judgment of God!" "You mean---" He hesitated.

  I looked at him in the eyes so that he understood. "A life for a life," I said significantly.

  "But--"

  "Oh! I know that a strange and unforeseen accident permitted the spirit of Arthur Carmichael to return to his body.

  But, nevertheless, Arthur Carmichael was murdered."

  He looked at me half fearfully. "With prussic acid?" he asked in a low tone.

  "Yes," I answered. "With prussic acid."

  Settle and I have never spoken of our belief. It is not one likely to be credited. According to the orthodox point

  of view Arthur Carmichael merely suffered from loss of

  memory, Lady Carmichael lacerated her own throat in a

  temporary fit of mania, and the apparition of the Grey Cat

  was mere imagination.

  But there are two facts that to my mind are unmistakable. One is the ripped chair in the corridor. The other is even

  more significant. A catalogue of the library was found, and

  after exhaustive search it was proved that the missing volume

  was an ancient and curious work on the possibilities

  of the metamorphosis of human beings into animals!

  One thing more. I am thankful to say that Arthur knows nothing. Phyllis has locked the secret of those weeks in her

  own heart, and she will never, I am sure, reveal them to

  the husband she loves so dearly, and who came back across

  the barrier of the grave at the call of her voice.

  The Call of Wings

  Silas Hamer heard it first on a wintry night in February. He and Dick Borrow had walked from a dinner given by Bernard

  Seldon, the nerve specialist. Borrow had been unusually

  silent, and Silas Hamer asked him with some curiosity

  what he was thinking about. Borrow's answer was unexpected.

  "I was thinking that of all these men tonight, only two

  among them could lay claim to happiness. And that these

  two, strangely enough, were you and I!"

  The word "strangely" was apposite, for no two men could

  be more dissimilar than Richard Borrow, the hardworking

  east-end parson, and Silas Hamer, the sleek, complacent

  man whose millions were a matter of household knowledge.

  "It's odd, you know," mused Borrow. "I believe you're

  the only contented millionaire I've ever met."

  Hamer was silent a moment. When he spoke, his tone

  had altered.

  "I used to be a wretched shivering little newspaper boy.

  I wanted then--what I've-got now!--the comfort and the

  luxury of money, not its power. I wanted money, not to

  wield as a force, but to spend lavishly--on myself! I'm

  frank about it, you see. Money can't buy everything, they

  say. Very true. But it can buy everything I want--therefore

  I'm satisfied. I'm a materialist, Borrow, out and out a materialist I "

  The broad glare of the lighted thoroughfare confirmed

  this confession of faith. The sleek lines of Silas Hamer's

  body were amplified by the heavy fur-lined coat, and the

  white light emphasized the thick rolls of flesh beneath his

  chin. In contrast to him walked Dick Borrow, with the thin

  184

  THE CALL OF WINGS

  185

  ascetic face and the star-gazing fanatical eyes.

  "It's you," said Hamer with emphasis, "that I can't understand.''

  Borrow smiled.

  "I live in the midst of misery, want, starvation--all the ills of the flesh! And a predominant Vision upholds me. It's

  not easy to understand unless you believe in Visions, which

  I gather you don't."

  "I don't believe," said Silas Hamer stolidly, "in any thing I can't see and hear and touch."

  "Quite so. That's the difference between us. Well, goodbye, the earth now swallows me up!"

  They had reached the doorway of a lighted tube station, which was Borrow's route home.

  Hamer proceeded alone. He was glad he had sent away the car tonight and elected to walk home. The air was keen

  and frosty, his senses were delightfully conscious of the

  enveloping warmth of the fur-lined coat.

  He paused for an instant on the curbstone before crossing the road. A great motor 'bus was heavily ploughing its way

  towards him. Hamer, with the feeling of infinite leisure,

  waited for it to pass. If he were to cross in front of it, he

  would have to hurry--and hurry was distasteful to him.

  By his side a battered derelict of the human race rolled drunkenly off the pavement. Hamer was aware of a shout,

  an ineffectual swerve of the motor 'bus, and then--he was

  looking stupidly, with a gradually awakening horror, at a

  limp inert heap of rags in the middle of the road.

  A crowd gathered magically, with a couple of policemen and the 'bus driver as its nucleus. But Hamer's eyes were

  riveted in horrified fascination on that lifeless bundle that

  had once.been a man--a man like himself! He shuddered

  as at some menace.

  "Dahn't yer blime yerself, guv'nor," remarked a rough-looking man at his side. "Yer couldn't 'a done nothin'. 'E

  was done for anyways."

  Hamer stared at him. The idea that it was possible in any way to save the man had quite honestly never occurred to

  him. He scouted the notion now as an absurdity. Why, if

  he had been so foolish, he might at this moment... His

  thoughts broke off abruptly, and he walked away from the

  186 Agatha Christie

  crowd. He felt himself shaking with a nameless unquenchable dread. He was forced to admit to himself that he was

  afraidmhorribly afraid--of DeathDeath that came with

  dreadful swiftness and remorseless certainty to rich and poor

  alike ....

  He walked faster, but the new fear was still with him, enveloping him in its cold and chilling grasp.

  He wondered at himself, for he knew that by nature he was no coward. Five years ago, he reflected, this fear would

  not have attacked him. For then Life had not been so

  sweet .... Yes, that was it; love of Life was the key to the

  mystery. The zest of living was at its height for him; it

  knew but one menace--Death, the destroyer!

  He turned out of the lighted thoroughfare. A narrow passageway, between high walls, offered a short cut to the

  Square where his house, famous for its art treasures, was

  situated.

  The noise of the streets behind him lessened and faded, the soft thud of his own footsteps was the only sound to be

  heard.

  And then out of the gloom in front of him came another sound. Sitting against the wall was a man playing the flute.

  One of the enormous tribe of street musicians, of course,

  but why had he chosen such a peculiar spot? Surely at this

  time of night the police-- Hamer's reflections were interrupted

  suddenly as he realized with a shock that the man

  had no legs. A pair of crutches rested against the wall beside

  him. Hamer saw now that it was not a flute he was playing

  but a strange instrument whose notes were much higher and

  clearer than those of a flute.

  The man played on. He took no notice of Hamer's approach. His head was flung far back on his shoulders, as

  though uplifted in the joy of his own music, and the notes

  poured out clearly and joyously, rising higher and higher ....

  It was a strange tune--strictly speaking, it was not a tune at all, but a single phrase, not unlik the slow turn

 
given out by the violins of Rienzi, repeated again and again,

  passing from key to key, from harmony to harmony, but

  always rising and attaining each time to a greater and more

  boundless freedom.

  It was unlike anything Hamer had ever heard. There was

  THE CALL OF WINGS 187

  something strange about it, something inspiring--and uplifting.., it... He caught frantically with both hands to

  a projection in the wall beside him. He was conscious of

  one thing only--that he must keep down--at all costs he

  must keep down ....

  He suddenly realized that the music had stopped. The legless man was reaching out for his crutches. And here

  was he, Silas Hamer, clutching like a lunatic at a stone

  buttress, for the simple reason that he had had the utterly

  preposterous notion--absurd on the face of it!--that he was rising from the ground--that the music was carrying him

  upwards ....

  He laughed. What a wholly mad idea! Of course his feet had never left the earth for a moment, but what a strange

  hallucination! The quick tap-tapping of wood on the pavement

  told him that the cripple was moving away. He looked

  after him until the man's figure was swallowed up in the

  gloom. An odd fellow!

  He proceeded on his way more slowly; he could not efface from his mind the memory of that strange, impossible

  sensation when the ground had failed beneath his feet ....

  And then on an impulse he turned and followed hurriedly in the direction the other had taken. The man could not

  have gone far--he would soon overtake him.

  He shouted as soon as he caught sight of the maimed

  figure swinging itself slowly along.

  "Hi! One minute."

  The man stopped and stood motionless until Hamer came abreast of him. A lamp burned just over his head and revealed

  every feature. Silas Hamer caught his breath in involuntary

  surprise. The man possessed the most singularly

  beautiful head he had ever seen. He might have been any

  age; assuredly he was not a boy, yet youth was the most

  predominant characteristic--youth and vigour in passionate

  intensity!