by Mike Ashley
I
ROGER WROXHAM LOOKED round his studio before he blew out the candle, and wondered whether, perhaps, he looked for the last time. It was large and empty, yet his trouble had filled it, and, pressing against him in the prison of those four walls, forced him out into the world, where lights and voices and the presence of other men should give him room to draw back, to set a space between it and him, to decide whether he would ever face it again—he and it alone together. The nature of his trouble is not germane to this story. There was a woman in it, of course, and money, and a friend, and regrets and embarrassments—and all of these reached out tendrils that wove and interwove till they made a puzzle-problem of which heart and brain were now weary. It was as though his life depended on his deciphering the straggling characters traced by some spider who, having fallen into the ink-well, had dragged clogged legs in a black zig-zag across his map of the world.
He blew out the candle and went quietly downstairs. It was nine at night, a soft night of May in Paris. Where should he go? He thought of the Seine, and took—an omnibus. The chestnut trees of the Boulevards brushed against the sides of the one that he boarded blindly in the first light street. He did not know where the omnibus was going. It did not matter. When at last it stopped he got off, and so strange was the place to him that for an instant it almost seemed as though the trouble itself had been left behind. He did not feel it in the length of three or four streets that he traversed slowly. But in the open space, very light and lively, where he recognised the Taverne de Paris and knew himself in Montmartre, the trouble set its teeth in his heart again, and he broke away from the lamps and the talk to struggle with it in the dark quiet streets beyond.
A man braced for such a fight has little thought to spare for the details of his surroundings. The next thing that Wroxham knew of the outside world was the fact that he had known for some time that he was not alone in the street. There was someone on the other side of the road keeping pace with him—yes, certainly keeping pace, for, as he slackened his own, the feet on the other pavement also went more slowly. And now they were four feet, not two. Where had the other man sprung from? He had not been there a moment ago. And now, from an archway a little ahead of him, a third man came.
Wroxham stopped. Then three men converged upon him, and, like a sudden magic-lantern picture on a sheet prepared, there came to him all that he had heard and read of Montmartre—dark archways, knives, Apaches, and men who went away from homes where they were beloved and never again returned. He, too— well, if he never returned again, it would be quicker than the Seine, and, in the event of ultramundane possibilities, safer.
He stood still and laughed in the face of the man who first reached him.
“Well, my friend?” said he, and at that the other two drew close.
“Monsieur walks late,” said the first, a little confused, as it seemed, by that laugh.
“And will walk still later, if it pleases him,” said Roger. “Good-night, my friends.”
“Ah!” said the second, “friends do not say adieu so quickly. Monsieur will tell us the hour.”
“I have not a watch,” said Roger, quite truthfully.
“I will assist you to search for it,” said the third man, and laid a hand on his arm.
Roger threw it off. That was instinctive. One may be resigned to a man’s knife between one’s ribs, but not to his hands pawing one’s shoulders. The man with the hand staggered back.
“The knife searches more surely,” said the second.
“No, no,” said the third quickly, “he is too heavy. I for one will not carry him afterwards.”
They closed round him, hustling him between them. Their pale, degenerate faces spun and swung round him in the struggle. For there was a struggle. He had not meant that there should be a struggle. Someone would hear—someone would come.
But if any heard, none came. The street retained its empty silence, the houses, masked in close shutters, kept their reserve. The four were wrestling, all pressed close together in a writhing bunch, drawing breath hardly through set teeth, their feet slipping, and not slipping, on the rounded cobble-stones.
The contact with these creatures, the smell of them, the warm, greasy texture of their flesh as, in the conflict, his face or neck met neck or face of theirs—Roger felt a cold rage possess him. He wrung two clammy hands apart and threw something off—something that staggered back clattering, fell in the gutter, and lay there.
It was then that Roger felt the knife. Its point glanced off the cigarette-case in his breast pocket and bit sharply at his inner arm. And at the sting of it Roger knew that he did not desire to die. He feigned a reeling weakness, relaxed his grip, swayed sideways, and then suddenly caught the other two in a new grip, crushed their faces together, flung them off, and ran. It was but for an instant that his feet were the only ones that echoed in the street. Then he knew that the others too were running.
It was like one of those nightmares wherein one runs for ever, leaden-footed, through a city of the dead. Roger turned sharply to the right. The sound of the other footsteps told that the pursuers also had turned that corner. Here was another street—a steep ascent. He ran more swiftly—he was running now for his life—the life that he held so cheap three minutes before. And all the streets were empty—empty like dream-streets, with all their windows dark and unhelpful, their doors fast closed against his need.
Far away down the street and across steep roofs lay Paris, poured out like a pool of light in the mist of the valley. But Roger was running with his head down—he saw nothing but the round heads of the cobble stones. Only now and again he glanced to the right or left, if perchance some window might show light to justify a cry for help, some door advance the welcome of an open inch.
There was at last such a door. He did not see it till it was almost behind him. Then there was the drag of the sudden stop—the eternal instant of indecision. Was there time? There must be. He dashed his fingers through the inch-crack, grazing the backs of them, leapt within, drew the door after him, felt madly for a lock or bolt, found a key, and, hanging his whole weight on it, strove to get the door home. The key turned. His left hand, by which he braced himself against the door-jamb, found a hook and pulled on it. Door and door-post met—the latch clicked—with a spring as it seemed. He turned the key, leaning against the door, which shook to the deep sobbing breaths that shook him, and to the panting bodies that pressed a moment without. Then someone cursed breathlessly outside; there was the sound of feet that went away.
Roger was alone in the strange darkness of an arched carriage-way, through the far end of which showed the fainter darkness of a courtyard, with black shapes of little formal tubbed orange trees. There was no sound at all there but the sound of his own desperate breathing; and, as he stood, the slow, warm blood crept down his wrist, to make a little pool in the hollow of his hanging, half-clenched hand. Suddenly he felt sick.
This house, of which he knew nothing, held for him no terrors. To him at that moment there were but three murderers in all the world, and where they were not, there safety was. But the spacious silence that soothed at first, presently clawed at the set, vibrating nerves already overstrained. He found himself listening, listening, and there was nothing to hear but the silence, and once, before he thought to twist his handkerchief round it, the drip of blood from his hand.
By and by, he knew that he was not alone in this house, for from far away there came the faint sound of a footstep, and, quite near, the faint answering echo of it. And at a window, high up on the other side of the courtyard, a light showed. Light and sound and echo intensified, and light passing window after window, till at last it moved across the courtyard, and the little trees threw back shifting shadows as it came towards him—a lamp in the hand of a man.
It was a short, bald man, with pointed beard and bright, friendly eyes. He held the lamp high as he came, and when he saw Roger, he drew his breath in an inspiration that spoke of surprise, sympathy, and pity.
“Hold! hold!” he said, in a singularly pleasant voice, “there has been a misfortune? You are wounded, monsieur?”
“Apaches,” said Roger, and was surprised at the weakness of his own voice.
“Your hand?”
“My arm,” said Roger.
“Fortunately,” said the other, “I am a surgeon. Allow me.”
He set the lamp on the step of a closed door, took off Roger’s coat, and quickly tied his own handkerchief round the wounded arm.
“Now,” he said, “courage! I am alone in the house. No one comes here but me. If you can walk up to my rooms, you will save us both much trouble. If you cannot, sit here and I will fetch you a cordial. But I advise you to try and walk. That porte cochère is, unfortunately, not very strong, and the lock is a common spring lock, and your friends may return with their friends; whereas the door across the courtyard is heavy and the bolts are new.”
Roger moved towards the heavy door whose bolts were new. The stairs seemed to go on for ever. The doctor lent his arm, but the carved bannisters and their lively shadows whirled before Roger’s eyes. Also, he seemed to be shod with lead, and to have in his legs bones that were red-hot. Then the stairs ceased, and there was light, and a cessation of the dragging of those leaden feet. He was on a couch, and his eyes might close. There was no need to move any more, nor to look, nor to listen.
When next he saw and heard, he was lying at ease, the close intimacy of a bandage clasping his arm, and in his mouth the vivid taste of some cordial.
The doctor was sitting in an armchair near a table, looking benevolent through gold-rimmed pince-nez.
“Better?” he said. “No, lie still, you’ll be a new man soon.”
“I am desolated,” said Roger, “to have occasioned you all this trouble.”
“Not at all,” said the doctor. “We live to heal, and it is a nasty cut, that in your arm. If you are wise, you will rest at present. I shall be honoured if you will be my guest for the night.”
Roger again murmured something about trouble.
“In a big house like this,” said the doctor, as it seemed a little sadly, “there are many empty rooms, and some rooms which are not empty. There is a bed altogether at your service, monsieur, and I counsel you not to delay in seeking it. You can walk?”
Wroxham stood up. “Why, yes,” he said, stretching himself. “I feel, as you say, a new man.”
A narrow bed and rush-bottomed chair showed like doll’s-house furniture in the large, high, gaunt room to which the doctor led him.
“You are too tired to undress yourself,” said the doctor, “rest— only rest,” and covered him with a rug, roundly tucked him up, and left him.
“I leave the door open,” he said, “in case you have any fever. Good night. Do not torment yourself. All goes well.”
Then he took away the lamp, and Wroxham lay on his back and saw the shadows of the window-frames cast on the wall by the moon now risen. His eyes, growing accustomed to the darkness, perceived the carving of the white panelled walls and mantelpiece. There was a door in the room, another door from the one which the doctor had left open. Roger did not like open doors. The other door, however, was closed. He wondered where it led, and whether it were locked. Presently he got up to see. It was locked. He lay down again.
His arm gave him no pain, and the night’s adventure did not seem to have overset his nerves. He felt, on the contrary, calm, confident, extraordinarily at east, and master of himself. The trouble—how could that ever have seemed important? This calmness— it felt like the calmness that precedes sleep. Yet sleep was far from him. What was it that kept sleep away? The bed was comfortable— the pillows soft. What was it? It came to him presently that it was the scent which distracted him, worrying him with a memory that he could not define. A faint scent of—what was it? Perfumery? Yes—and camphor—and something else—something vaguely disquieting. He had not noticed it before he had risen and tried the handle of that other door. But now—— He covered his face with the sheet, but through the sheet he smelt it still. He rose and threw back one of the long French windows. It opened with a click and a jar, and he looked across the dark well of the courtyard. He leaned out, breathing the chill, pure air of the May night, but when he withdrew his head, the scent was there again. Camphor— perfume—and something else. What was it that it reminded him of ? He had his knee on the bed-edge when the answer came to that question. It was the scent that had struck at him from a darkened room when, a child, clutching at a grown-up hand, he had been led to the bed where, amid flowers, something white lay under a sheet—his mother they had told him. It was the scent of death, disguised with drugs and perfumes.
He stood up and went, with carefully controlled swiftness, towards the open door. He wanted light and a human voice. The doctor was in the room upstairs; he——
The doctor was face to face with him on the landing, not a yard away, moving towards him quietly in shoeless feet.
“I can’t sleep,” said Wroxham, a little wildly, “it’s too dark——”
“Come upstairs,” said the doctor, and Wroxham went.
There was comfort in the large, lighted room, with its shelves and shelves full of well-bound books, its tables heaped with papers and pamphlets—its air of natural everyday work. There was a warmth of red curtain at the windows. On the window ledge a plant in a pot, its leaves like red misshapen hearts. A green-shaded lamp stood on the table. A peaceful, pleasant interior.
“What’s behind that door,” said Wroxham, abruptly—“that door downstairs?”
“Specimens,” the doctor answered “preserved specimens. My line is physiological research. You understand?”
So that was it.
“I feel quite well, you know,” said Wroxham, laboriously explaining—“fit as any man—only I can’t sleep.”
“I see,” said the doctor.
“It’s the scent from your specimens, I think,” Wroxham went on; “there’s something about that scent——”
“Yes,” said the doctor.
“It’s very odd.” Wroxham was leaning his elbow on his knee and his chin on his hand. “I feel so frightfully well—and yet— there’s a strange feeling——”
“Yes,” said the doctor. “Yes, tell me exactly what you feel.”
“I feel,” said Wroxham, slowly, “like a man on the crest of a wave.” The doctor stood up.
“You feel well, happy, full of life and energy—as though you could walk to the world’s end, and yet——”
“And yet,” said Roger, “as though my next step might be my last—as though I might step into my grave.”
He shuddered.
“Do you,” asked the doctor, anxiously—“do you feel thrills of pleasure—something like the first waves of chloroform—thrills running from your hair to your feet?”
“I felt all that,” said Roger, slowly, “downstairs before I opened the window.”
The doctor looked at his watch, frowned and got up quickly. “There is very little time,” he said.
Suddenly Roger felt an unexplained opposition stiffen his mind. The doctor went to a long laboratory bench with bottle-filled shelves above it, and on it crucibles and retorts, test tubes, beakers—all a chemist’s apparatus—reached a bottle from a shelf, and measured out certain drops into a graduated glass, added water, and stirred it with a glass rod.
“Drink that,” he said.
“No,” said Roger, and as he spoke a thrill like the first thrill of the first chloroform wave swept through him, and it was a thrill, not of pleasure, but of pain. “No,” he said, and “Ah!” for the pain was sharp.
“If you don’t drink,” said the doctor, carefully, “you are a dead man.”
“You may be giving me poison,” Roger gasped, his hands at his heart.
“I may,” said the doctor. “What do you suppose poison makes you feel like? What do you feel like now?”
“I feel,” said Roger, “like death.”
Every nerve, every muscle thrilled to a pain not too intense to be underlined by a shuddering nausea.
“Then drink,” cried the doctor, in tones of such cordial entreaty, such evident anxiety, that Wroxham half held his hand out for the glass. “Drink! Believe me, it is your only chance.”
Again the pain swept through him like an electric current. The beads of sweat sprang out on his forehead.
“That wound,” the doctor pleaded, standing over him with the glass held out. “For God’s sake, drink! Don’t you understand, man? You are poisoned. Your wound——”
“The knife?” Wroxham murmured, and as he spoke, his eyes seemed to swell in his head, and his head itself to grow enormous. “Do you know the poison—and its antidote?”
“I know all.” The doctor soothed him. “Drink, then, my friend.” As the pain caught him again in a clasp more close than any lover’s he clutched at the glass and drank. The drug met the pain and mastered it. Roger, in the ecstasy of pain’s cessation, saw the world fade and go out in a haze of vivid violet.
II
Faint films of lassitude, shot with contentment, wrapped him round. He lay passive, as a man lies in the convalescence that follows a long fight with Death. Fold on fold of white peace lay all about him.
“I’m better now,” he said, in a voice that was a whisper—tried to raise his hand from where it lay helpless in his sight, failed, and lay looking at it in confident repose—“much better.”
“Yes,” said the doctor, and his pleasant, soft voice had grown softer, pleasanter. “You are now in the second stage. An interval is necessary before you can pass to the third. I will enliven the interval by conversation. Is there anything you would like to know?”