Death and the Visiting Firemen

by H. R. F. Keating

  Left behind. Isolated. Two men: antagonists.

  ‘Get up, Wemyss,’ said Hamyadis.

  ‘I understood I was to take the part of the highwayman.’

  ‘The plan has been changed.’

  ‘But it’s in my contract. I’m not sure I would have come except on the understanding I was to play that part. I’m certain I wouldn’t have done.’

  ‘What contract?’ said Hamyadis.

  The iron finger crushes the shell.

  ‘Well, of course, not exactly a contract But I came to a definite understanding with Miss Kett acting on your behalf that I was to have the part.’

  ‘Get up.’

  ‘But I could sue you for this.’

  ‘You can try, but it won’t do you any good. Now get up and stop arguing.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Wemyss. ‘But under protest. I feel I’ve been let down. From now on …’

  He climbed the iron ladder up on to the roof of the coach.

  The shell ground to powder.

  Kristen Kett gave him a wan smile and said to Hamyadis:

  ‘That’s all very well, Georgie, but who is going to play the highwayman?’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Hamyadis.

  ‘But I’ve a right to know. I can’t play with just anyone.’

  ‘Major,’ said Hamyadis, ‘have you got the pistols?’

  ‘Georgie, I’ve got a right to know. After all, whoever it is is oing to kiss me.’

  ‘Major, the pistols.’

  ‘I’m frightfully sorry, old boy. Fact is I forgot to bring them down. Mea culpa.’

  ‘Go and get them.’

  The major dropped off the side of the coach without a word. Heavily.

  As he turned to go towards the inn, Hamyadis said:

  ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Schlemberger, that this – gentleman’s incompetence should put you out twice in one day. I think I can promise you it won’t happen again.’

  ‘That’s of no consequence,’ said Schlemberger. ‘I’m very happy right where I am just now.’

  Hamyadis walked away impatiently. Schlemberger said in a low voice to Smithers who sat next to him:

  ‘Very embarrassing situation. I’m just a mite surprised the major takes it so coolly.’

  ‘I think it fair to say that he’s awkwardly placed,’ said Smithers. ‘It’s not a subject one can refer to easily, but the life of a man on retired pay in this country nowadays is in many ways very difficult.’

  A polite warning.

  ‘I get you,’ said Schlemberger. ‘I can see as far as the next man. Money troubles. I guess they’re one hell of a lot worse than love troubles. And I’ve had both. I’ll right out now and tell you something. The way I have to pay alimony I don’t have a cent in the bank, ever. I wake up nights and think about it. If I got sick, or had to quit for any reason, I’d be finished. You know what I’d do? I’d go straight out and walk under an automobile.’

  He sat staring ahead. A bleak future.

  ‘Mind you,’ he added, ‘the major’s position may not be a hundred per cent the fault of your inflationary tendencies.’

  He looked at Smithers. Elementary shrewdness.

  ‘I was talking to him this afternoon,’ he went on. ‘We got on to the subject of the way a guy amuses himself on what he called “a spot of furlough”. He told me one of his stories. About someone he called “a brother officer”. Something to do with a gambling club in London for officers back from India and all those places. This “brother officer” went there and lost all he’d saved over the years.’

  ‘Such places exist, or existed, I suppose,’ said Smithers.

  ‘Major Mortenson seemed pretty bitter about this one,’ Schlemberger said. ‘And do you know something?’

  Smithers said nothing.

  ‘I reckon the guy’s his own brother officer,’ Schlemberger said.

  ‘Georgie,’ Kristen called.

  ‘Well, what is it now?’ said Hamyadis turning towards the coach again.

  ‘Georgie, I do think you might tell me who the highwayman’s going to be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to know.’

  A demand. Suddenly all or nothing.

  The others on the coach moving to disassociate themselves. Fremitt glanced round as if seeking a subject for conversation, decided that conversation would not help, took off his hat, and began to examine the braiding.

  Hamyadis strolled towards the coach until he stood directly beneath Kristen. He looked up at her.

  ‘You would like to know?’ he asked.

  Demureness. A demure bison.

  ‘Now, tell me,’ he said, ‘what right have you got to know about the decisions I happen to take? Let’s hear all about it.’

  ‘I told you before,’ Kristen said, ‘if I’m going to play opposite someone, I have to know who it’s going to be. And besides we’re friends. You’ve always told me everything up to now.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said Hamyadis.

  He softly brought his hands together.

  ‘Friends. But isn’t that nice? And I thought we weren’t quite friends any longer. And now I find all those hard words have been taken back, all those unkind thoughts.’

  ‘But–but I didn’t’

  Smithers put out a hand on to the coach rail as if he might be going to pull himself to his feet.

  Kristen turned in her seat, leant over, staring directly down at Hamyad is.

  ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll take the hard words back. I’ll take them all back. We’ll start again. You tell me this little thing and I – I’ll forget everything.’

  ‘How charming, how perfectly charming. All that bit about snatching the gun from under my pillow and – what was it? – “shooting my face full of holes”. All forgotten. How delightful.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it, you know I didn’t,’ Kristen said.

  She sat up straight again, turned for an instant to look at the others, saw glances averted, turned away.

  ‘Georgie,’ she said. Urgently, quietly. ‘Just tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what?’

  A sob, choked back.

  ‘I just want to know who’s going to be the highwayman. That’s all.’

  ‘Then you must just wait your turn.’

  Calculated.

  ‘But – but you said. Listen, Georgie Hamyadis, I know enough about you to blast you to hell.’

  ‘I don’t think so. And, Kristen, aren’t you forgetting: we are not alone.’

  Kristen turned back to her seat.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to no one in particular.

  The sulky schoolgirl.

  Wemyss, next to her, got up, went to the side of the coach, and leant down, white-faced.

  ‘I’d like a word with you,’ he said quietly to Hamyadis.

  ‘Certainly,’ Hamyadis said, ‘though I generally prefer to discuss finance rather more in private.’

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ Wemyss said.

  Still all too easily heard.

  ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘I want some respect shown to Miss Kett.’

  ‘Indeed. Now what exactly is your claim to be her defender? We might as well have the whole unsavoury business out, now we’ve gone so far. I take it you’re what is called “interested” in the lady?’

  ‘What my relations with her are is nothing to do with it. It’s just a matter of – of common decency.’

  ‘Except that I’ve been given to understand nothing of the sort,’ Hamyadis said. ‘Nothing to do with common decency at all.’

  ‘I won’t be insulted,’ Wemyss said.

  ‘And, if I choose to insult you, what will you do about it?’

  ‘I – I’ll get even with you. I warn you. You may think you can treat me like dirt. But there comes a time. I’ve got a certain amount of control, but after just so much it goes. And then I don’t hold myself responsible. It’s been pointed out to you already that you’re not immortal… Watch out, that’s all.’


  Back to the dignified pose.

  And the major came out of the hotel into the calm sunlight and trotted across towards them holding a box of pistols.

  ‘Thank you, major,’ said Hamyadis.

  The voice calm as the sunlight.

  Without a word the major handed the box to him.

  ‘One will be quite enough,’ Hamyadis said. ‘You’d better put the other in a safe place in case you contrive to mislay this one.’

  The major took back the box with one of the pair of pistols in it.

  Without another look at him Hamyadis said:

  ‘Now this pistol must be hidden somewhere for the highwayman not to see it and little Peter to be able to snatch it up and fire as the highwayman turns to ride off.’

  ‘There might be a secret compartment in the coach,’ the major said. ‘They sometimes had them to hide valuables in.’

  ‘Valuables like important letters?’ said Hamyadis.

  ‘I dare say they were often used for that, too,’ said the major. ‘I could find the place for you this evening. Or perhaps Joe knows where it is.’

  ‘I never found it, if it’s there, colonel,’ said Joe.

  ‘I could look about straight away,’ said the major moving towards the coach.

  ‘There’s no need, major,’ said Hamyadis. ‘You told me the other day such places existed. I spent two or three minutes just now finding it. It wouldn’t be suitable to hide a pistol in. Would it, Christine?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Kristen said.

  Hamyadis smiled.

  ‘We’ll just put this pistol under the seat, I think,’ he said. ‘Here, Peter, put it where you’re sitting.’

  He handed up the pistol and Peter poked it under the seat.

  ‘Is it loaded, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘There’s a little powder in it,’ said the major. ‘But the barrel is blocked. Mind you, if you wanted to put it back into use it wouldn’t be difficult. The block is only a little lead. You could melt it out with a cigarette lighter. Nothing easier.’

  ‘Is it really real then?’ said the boy.

  ‘It certainly is,’ the major said. ‘The pair is from my own collection. They’re by Durs Egg.’

  Peter laughed.

  ‘Very famous early nineteenth-century maker of pistols, my boy,’ Major Mortenson said. ‘This pair are small weapons specially made for coach passengers to carry in their pockets for protection against highwaymen. They’re as fine a pair as you’ll see, though I say it myself.’

  ‘When you’ve finished, major,’ said Hamyadis.

  ‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, got carried away. Arma virumque, you know.’

  ‘Very good then,’ said Hamyadis. ‘Now when the highwayman comes up to the coach, keep your seats. Here are some purses to hand over. There’ll be kisses for the women. Then as the rider turns, the boy fires. Quite simple. We’ll do it now.’

  From the pockets of the bold yellow coaching coat he took a handful of small bags tightly knotted with long leather strings. They clinked as he reached up and distributed them.

  ‘Is it proper money?’ said Daisy. ‘I played with someone once who made out they couldn’t get the feel of the part unless they were given real money in a purse.’

  ‘You stage people,’ said the major. ‘Wonderful sensibility.’

  ‘He was sensible in a way all right,’ Daisy said. ‘At the end of the run he pocketed the purse.’

  ‘I think I won’t tell you whether the money is real or not,’ said Hamyadis.

  He laughed. The cat suddenly gets to the cream.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘You are on a stage coach making your way along a lonely road, like on the downs over there. You look about. No one in sight. You are happy.’

  He turned and walked rapidly along the side of the inn yard and disappeared behind a stable door.

  ‘He’s up to something,’ Kristen said. ‘I hope …’

  ‘People always think that actors in a scene like this do nothing but mutter “Rhubarb”,’ Daisy said. ‘But what always happens to me is that I get a terrible feeling I want to gossip about anybody a bit downstage.’

  ‘You’ve known our damn’ shady friend a good many years, haven’t you?’ said Wemyss.

  A wild blow.

  ‘Poor George,’ Daisy said. ‘He looked so pleased with himself just now. You’re quite right, Kristen. He’s going to do something he thinks is clever.’

  Fremitt leant over towards Smithers and said in a low voice:

  ‘He certainly is an odd man in many ways. Or perhaps you don’t think so? He seems to take liberties, if that isn’t too strong a word.’

  Before Smithers could reply the door of the stable burst open.

  Hamyadis came out mounted on a huge black horse. The yellow coat and hat had been replaced by an enveloping black cloak and a thin black mask. The heavily jowled face, the powerful shoulders still unmistakable.

  With an expert movement of his knees he urged the horse forward.

  ‘Stand and deliver,’ iie shouted.

  ‘Pretty good,’ said Schlemberger.

  He grinned and put his hands up.

  Smithers, then Fremitt, followed suit.

  Daisy said:

  ‘I don’t think I am going to be kissed, not now. I’ll do a rather big faint. Somebody will catch me, won’t they?’

  ‘Adsum,’ said the major.

  ‘I hope that means “Yes”,’ Daisy said.

  She lowered herself towards the major’s arms.

  Hamyadis urged the big horse nearer the coach.

  ‘Your money or your lives.’

  A shower of purses. Adroitly caught.

  Wemyss threw his last. Hard and high.

  Hamyadis heaved the horse back by main strength, flung his arm up with surprising quickness, caught the purse at his finger tips, and with a swing of his immense bulk regained his seat.

  ‘Well,’ said Kristen, ‘you certainly can ride.’

  ‘But not so well as your Richard,’ Hamyadis said.

  The bait grabbed.

  ‘I don’t expect Richie’s half so good,’ said Kristen.

  ‘I was riding long before he was born, so it’s not so unlikely. There was no other way of getting about in that part of the world when I was a young man.’

  ‘Isn’t that romantic?’ Kristen said.

  ‘You know I can never feel quite the same about a bicycle as I can about a horse,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Well,’ said Kristen, ‘I’m ready for my part of the hold-up.’

  She sat forward holding her face out to be kissed.

  Hamyadis urged his horse nearer the coach again. He took Kristen’s bonneted head in both his hands and kissed her. With savagery.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Are you ready, Peter?’

  The boy nodded. Too excited to speak. Bright-eyed.

  ‘Ho, ho, you’re in for it now, Admiral,’ said Joe Dag. ‘The sheriff of Dead Man’s Gulch is going to drill you through.’

  ‘You mustn’t mix up your history, Joe,’ said the major. ‘Otherwise we’ll have the highwayman drawing his automatic and turning into a gangster.’

  ‘Oh, he couldn’t do that,’ Kristen said, ‘he only has it with him at night.’

  ‘When you’ve quite finished discussing my personal affairs,’ Hamyadis said.

  He looked intently at Kristen. Eyes behind the narrow mask hard.

  ‘I forgot,’ she said.

  Petulance.

  A sudden smile on the heavy mouth under the mask. The eyes harder.

  ‘Poor Kris,’ he said. ‘You’d be glad to see the end of me, wouldn’t you? And now, ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for your purses.’

  He wheeled his horse under him, and started off. Peter snatched the pistol from under his seat, waved it towards him and jerked at the trigger. There was a satisfying bang. Hamyadis threw up his hands and slipped heavily from the saddle.

  He fell with a thump on the hard cobblestones of the yard, and lay stil
l.

  The performance was excellent.

  Four

  Tableau vivant. Time passed while the whole party on top of the coach sat and stared at the inert figure, face down half-way across the inn courtyard. Even the horse after a moment’s alarm dropped its head and cropped at a tuft of grass growing between the cobbles. Only the hands of the stable clock seemed to move, gold across blue.

  They moved a perceptible distance. Forty-five seconds passed between the time the gross figure of Hamyadis slid to the ground and the moment Daisy Miller spoke.

  ‘Poor George,’ she said, ‘you ought to have arranged for some extras to enter with a hurdle and carry you off. Like they do in those Shakespeare productions when you have to pretend the stage hasn’t got a curtain.’

  There was no response.

  ‘He’s hurt,’ said Smithers.

  ‘He didn’t utter a sound,’ said Schlemberger.

  Unwilling to pay out without proof of loss.

  ‘You don’t think he’s… Perhaps he’s dead,’ said Kristen Kett.

  She sat up straighter, looked about. Emergence from the dark.

  ‘What a horrible thing,’ said Smithers forcefully.

  A declaration. A setting up of the norm.

  He scrambled quickly, awkwardly down, and went hurriedly across towards the stone-still figure.

  Nature morte.

  But Smithers’s jog-trot, shambling, inefficient, undignified, was not quick enough. The torpid summer air moved to a wind on his cheek as Kristen Kett, her costume draperies fanning out, rushed past him. Beneath the long clothes the tanned legs pounding.

  She reached Hamyadis long before Smithers, flung herself to the ground, and with a wrench heaved over the massive body.

  Which laughed. Which gave a long, gurgling, luxuriant laugh.

  And when Hamyadis had finished, still lying on his back his arms flopped out beside him, he mimicked coarsely Kristen’s voice:

  ‘You don’t think he’s … Perhaps he’s dead.’

  Kristen stood up. Her face totally without colour, the makeup standing out like coloured countries on a map.

  ‘No such luck, eh?’ Hamyadis said.

  Kristen turned away.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said.

  Hamyadis leapt to his feet, put an arm briefly round her waist, and said:

  ‘Don’t be a silly little fool.’

  He walked over to the coach.