Ravenstreet made the most of his opportunity. “I’m glad. But as the tone you’re taking seems to suggest we ought to forget ordinary good manners, I must tell you I don’t care for this Scotland Yard style of yours. No crime’s been committed here, as far as I know. And you’ve not been invited to conduct an investigation. So I don’t like all this stuff about wanting an explanation, checking stories, reasonable explanations. If you want to ask questions, go ahead, but not in that tone, Mervil, please.”
“You don’t know me very well, Ravenstreet, or you wouldn’t talk like that. I’m entitled to an explanation, and I propose to have it. Why did you insist upon this meeting here? It seemed to me from the first unreasonable—probably out of character as far as you were concerned——”
“Now wait a minute,” cried Sepman. “I was all for it myself—and quite right too. You were keeping me waiting——”
“Sepman, you talk and behave like a child. Enterprises of this kind can’t be set up in a few weeks. And don’t interrupt,” Mervil added sharply.
“Look—I’m sick of this,” Sepman shouted angrily. “We’re all children except you. You’ve been giving us this half the night. Nobody except you and a few rich pals have grown up at all. Now, cut it out, for God’s sake. I’ve got something you want just as you’ve got something I want—don’t forget it. No, and don’t forget this—you can’t find what I’ve got anywhere else—but there are other people who can give me what I want from you.”
Mervil regarded him with cold distaste. “Don’t be too sure about that, Sepman. Other people can go a long way but not as far as I can. I must also remind you that I can hinder you just as easily as I can help you—indeed, it would be much easier and it would cost me nothing. A Press campaign—a few questions in the House——”
Sepman was on his feet, an ugly little figure of impotent fury. “You’d do that, after all you’ve said to me? After all the years of work I’ve given it! You couldn’t do it. I’d show you up—I’d—I’d——”
“Sit down and keep quiet, man. You made a threat, so I met it with another. Now we know where we are.” He turned to Ravenstreet as Sepman sat down again. “But I don’t know where you are. Why did you want us to meet here, in such a hurry? What was the object of it? Where do these three come in?”
As Ravenstreet hesitated, he caught a little affirmative nod from Marot. He took the chance. “It was at their suggestion that I asked you here, but not of course for any business reasons. You can take my word for it that these three gentlemen——”
“Aren’t competitors,” Mervil interjected, impatiently. “Of course I can see that. Don’t hedge, and waste time, Ravenstreet. What did they want?”
Ravenstreet allowed himself a faint smile. “They wanted to have a look at you.”
“Is true—yes.” Perperek sounded innocently enthusiastic. “Big important man. Is good time for little nobody men to have a look——”
“Don’t play the clown for my benefit, my dear sir,” Mervil told him. “It’s a waste of effort and an insult to my intelligence. Whatever else you may be, you’re obviously an extremely shrewd man——”
Marot took charge now. The old ruin became a fortress, bristling with power. “We wanted to look at you. We have looked at you.”
“So I’ve noticed for the last two hours. Fortunately I’m used to being stared at, otherwise I might have asked you to mend your manners. And what has all this looking and staring shown you?”
“Only another child. And not a pleasant child.”
Much to Ravenstreet’s astonishment, Mervil did nothing but make a small protesting sound, which appeared to choke in his throat. All three Magicians were regarding him fixedly. Mervil remained motionless; even his eyes were still; he might have been blind. Sepman, leaning forward, gaping, muttered something unintelligible. Mervil closed his eyes and swayed a little. Time did not seem to pass: this moment grew and grew, swelling intolerably; then it burst.
Mervil opened his eyes, and now they were furious, snapping, the eyes of an angry child. His face was flushed; he was clenching his fists; he was stamping and shouting. “You wait, that’s all. You just wait, you’re bloody rotten stinking fools. I hate you—I hate you—I hate you. I hate everybody except Nanny—and you sent her away. Well, I’ll send you away, all of you. Yes, I will—and you can’t stop me. Filthy idiot pigs! I’ll run away and get bigger and bigger and then when I come back I’ll beat everybody—I’ll stamp on your silly faces—I’ll make you eat shit. Yes, I will—I will—I will—I will.” He ended his screams by stuffing his hand into his mouth and biting it until the blood ran. Then he collapsed.
Marot waved Ravenstreet away, and it was he and Wayland who attended to Mervil, kneeling over him, bringing him round, explaining when he became conscious again that he appeared to have had a blackout, and finally helping him up to his room. “Is better they do it,” Perperek told Ravenstreet. “They know this thing.”
“So that’s the great Lord Mervil,” said Sepman, gloomy rather than malicious. “With the lid off. It’s about what you might expect. Whose turn is it next? Mine?”
For once Perperek had no smile; it was a blank moon face he turned to Sepman. “For us is no more turns. If things happen, they happen. We don’t make happen.”
“Some of the psycho-analysts and psychiatrists work on those lines,” Sepman continued. “One of ’em told me he’d seen patients of his—grown men—behaving like kids of two, screaming, yelling, tearing the place down. But that must be after weeks or months of breaking ’em down. And then they’re neurotic to start with. How did you people work it—hypnotism or something?”
“Or something,” Perperek repeated, offhandedly. He was making no attempt to return to his jovial performance. “Few men are whole men—all one piece. Most are many—all different little pieces. Some are two—one outside, one inside very different. Is possible make man show inside, forget outside. Like this Lord Mervil. I go see what happens.”
As soon as they were alone, Sepman gave Ravenstreet a sour little smile. “You collected a queer bunch, didn’t you? Do it on purpose?”
“No. I told you what happened.”
“Was it just Mervil they wanted to look at? Or all of us? And what’s the idea? Who are these chaps, anyhow?”
“Have a whisky and soda?”
“Thanks. I could do with a drink. But does that mean you’re not going to tell me anything?” He waited then until Ravenstreet came up with the drink. “Thanks. Cheers!” He swallowed half of it, and it was a big strong one. Then he stared mournfully over his glass at Ravenstreet. “Don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
Ravenstreet hesitated. At this moment there was something appealing about this little man, harassed, forlorn, ugly. Ravenstreet decided to tell him the truth, to accept or reject as he pleased. “You want to know who these three are, and what they’re doing here. I’ll tell you what they told me. To begin with, Wayland is a retired civil engineer, Marot an optician in Bordeaux, Perperek some sort of merchant operating between Italy and Greece. But they call themselves magicians—it’s half a joke, I think—and apparently they meet every few years to discuss how they can save the human race. Those are the facts, Sepman.”
“I believe you. I thought they were that type when I first met them—harmless old cranks—but then afterwards I began to wonder. But of course the Karney business was just lucky—I mean that fat chap recognising him. As for Mervil, he may have been in a queer state when he arrived—seemed jumpy to me. But what was the point of their wanting to see him?”
“Perhaps they wanted to save the human race from him.”
“They almost can, for me. I can’t make up my mind about Mervil,” Sepman continued, gloomily. “I suppose he’d put the stuff across better than anybody else, and if I took it away from him now, he might try to do me down. But I don’t like him and he doesn’t like me.” He finished his drink. “Have you noticed that? Hardly anybody likes anybody else any more
. Hell of a thing—but there it is. And don’t let anybody tell me it’s because most of us aren’t religious. Most of the Christians are the worst—always denouncing everybody except themselves. But I’m not talking now about people loving one another—but just ordinary liking. It’s going out, fading away, honestly it is. If you ask me, it’s one reason why people now put away so many double gins and whiskies they can’t afford. They’re trying to like one another—and can’t. You must have noticed it. I don’t know whether it’s money and jobs and being on the make, or something the War did to us, or what’s happening all over; but people don’t like one another any more. You work with people, you live near people, you have drinks with people—but you no longer like ’em, and you know they don’t like you. It’ud be all the same if the whole dam’ lot were suddenly changed, you wouldn’t feel any different. It didn’t used to be that way, I’ll swear. I can remember liking plenty of chaps and girls. I was glad to see them, they were glad to see me. But now, who cares? That’s one reason why I want to make a lot of money—and as soon as possible. I’ll buy what I want. I won’t expect anybody to like me. I’ll get out of this rat pit and just give orders. Mind if I have another drink? No—I’ll help myself.”
It was while he was at the decanter, with his back to the door, that his wife and Prisk entered, rosy and merry and impudent. “Hello, hello, hello!” cried Prisk. “Where is everybody?”
Sepman wheeled round, said nothing, but still carrying the decanter marched across the room, shouldered his way between the newcomers, and closed the door behind them by leaning against it. This compelled them, after a moment’s hesitation, to come further in, exchanging a quick glance as they moved.
“Ernest,” said Nancy reproachfully, “I believe you’re tight.”
He made no reply but looked from her to Prisk, who turned to Ravenstreet. “Conference over or not started, old man?”
“Not started. Both Karney and Mervil left us, for various good reasons——”
“I’d better see what’s eating his lordship,” Prisk began.
“Whatever’s eating him,” said Sepman, still at the door, “it can go on eating him a bit longer. I want to talk to you two.”
“Look, chummie, he pays me and I have a job to do——”
“I haven’t noticed you doing it this past hour——”
“Ernest, stop it. Besides, I want to go to bed.” Nancy was hovering somewhere between fear and anger.
“You’ll go to bed when I tell you to go to bed. We’re having this out now.”
Prisk forced a grin. “Mind if I borrow that decanter first, Sepman old boy? I’m a drinking type, let’s face it.”
“Let’s face a lot more while we’re at it. And keep back or you’ll have this decanter where you don’t want it.” He looked at Nancy. “Now then—what about it?”
She made a fatal decision, plumping then for anger. “All right, all right—let’s have it out then. You disgraced me at dinner—made a fool of yourself—and I was upset and couldn’t stay. But you couldn’t come after me—oh no, not you—so it had to be Major Prisk—and we drove round a bit in his car till I felt better. So what? Instead of shouting you ought to be apologising.” She glared at him defiantly. But somewhere behind this glare, Ravenstreet felt, there was a kind of hopeful appeal, one part of her silently begging him to play the scene this way for all their sakes.
Sepman kept silent for a moment or two. He seemed to dwindle, age and wither, turn cold, suggest a little stone figure; with all his long anger and frustration transformed into weariness, a final and infinite disillusion. “He’s been having you. And not for the first time. Don’t bother denying it. Don’t put on an act. Too late. I guessed it last night. I’m certain now. When I use my eyes properly, your look gives you away. And I’m remembering how many times I’ve seen it before. They’ve all been having you, anybody that fancied it. I could mention some. Laughing at me. Poor little sod! Working half the night to make some big money, so that hot little piece of his can offer it all over the place!”
She made her second and final mistake. “You shut up,” she screamed, a scarlet fury. “If you hadn’t a filthy horrible little mind, you couldn’t talk like that. And what good have you been to me? I did my best at first—but it was hopeless. I had to have something—somebody. I tried to tell you at first—but you wouldn’t listen, you were so full of yourself and your wonderful plans and discoveries. And there I was, with my life ticking away, existing in that miserable hole. So I had to make my own friends and have my own fun. Yes,” she continued wildly, reckless now because she knew she was hurrying down the wrong track, “and some of them did laugh at you. And sometimes I had to laugh too. You were always so pleased with yourself, so patronising—what you were going to do for me—when you hadn’t even the sense to see I hated you to touch me——”
“That’s enough, Sepman,” cried Prisk, lumbering forward as he saw the other man about to move.
The heavy decanter caught him full in the face and fell unbroken on to the carpet. Prisk reeled, screamed sickeningly like a hurt child, clutched at something that could not support him, then fell, blinded with blood. As Ravenstreet rushed across, he heard the hard slap of Sepman’s hand on Nancy’s cheek and her lost wailing over her world in ruins as Sepman apparently hustled her out of the room. But he had no time for them: Prisk seemed to be seriously injured. Wayland and Perperek hurried in, and he asked them to do what they could for Prisk while he telephoned for a doctor. It was at least ten minutes before he found one in, and by that time Marot and Mervil were down too and Wayland and Perperek between them had washed the deep cuts on Prisk’s face and were doing a rough-and-ready job of bandaging.
“A doctor’s on his way,” Ravenstreet explained. “Nothing more we can do, I suppose?”
“There’s not much more you can do,” said Mervil. His tone was cold, his look venomous. “But there’s a great deal more I can do. And I’ll do it, Ravenstreet.”
“Just now I’m not interested, Mervil.”
“What about the Sepmans?” asked Wayland.
“I haven’t had time to bother about them,” Ravenstreet told him. “He dragged her off——”
It was Perperek who interrupted him. “I think time to bother. Is more serious now—Sepmans. I think——”
He stopped because they heard a car starting up. It was Sepman’s old rattling two-seater. “Sounds as if they’re going,” said Ravenstreet.
“We go after,” cried Perperek. “Come—quick. I go too.”
But before they entered the garage, they saw the rear light of Sepman’s car, an angry wavering eye, far down the drive, and heard his horn harshly challenging the night. It was a wide and mild and faintly luminous night, one of those that seem vaguely tolerant of our affairs, willing to provide a hushed and not too deeply shadowed setting for them, but not disposed to help or hinder us on our way to disaster.
CHAPTER NINE
Two More Have Had It
“The trouble is,” said Ravenstreet, as he drove as fast as he dared through the village, “that although this car has twice the speed of his and I’m probably a much better driver than he is, we’ve lost him now and don’t know which road he’s taking. Even assuming he’s making for home.”
“He make for home, I think,” said Perperek. “Is somewhere to go. But if he was as you say, perhaps he never get home.”
“He didn’t seem quite suicidal. Too angry. But probably he isn’t caring a damn what he’s doing.” Ravenstreet slowed up for a moment and then turned into the main road, increasing his speed.
“Is bad all this,” said Perperek. “In old times when man is angry—not caring damn, as you say—he walk and walk or perhaps ride horse. He is tired or horse is tired—then is better, has time to think. But now he is angry in car—very fast—faster, faster—car is not tired. No chance to think. So something happen.”
“It’s the same with guns. An angry man gets hold of a gun, and he blazes away, perhaps kill
s three or four people, before he knows what he’s doing. If he’d had to use a slower weapon, he’d have had time to calm down and ask himself what he was up to. And there’s another thing I’ve noticed,” Ravenstreet continued, slowing up his speech as the big car gathered speed. “There’s a gap somewhere between deliberate suicide and mere accident, where a man isn’t trying definitely to destroy himself but at the same time isn’t really trying to keep himself alive, and that’s where Sepman may be heading for this minute.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Perperek, leaning forward to peer through the windscreen. “One little self says ‘I think we finish now—is all too difficult for us’—and turns wheel. Is finish then—but is called accident.”
“This might be them.” But it was a belated van; and Ravenstreet passed it, going well over sixty during the next few miles. Then he slowed down and finally stopped at the crossroads that offered an alternative route to Stafford. On the left was a police telephone-box, and drawn up alongside it was a police car.
“I’m following a small two-seater, heading for Stafford and South Cheshire,” Ravenstreet explained. “I wonder if you saw it go past.”
“Why might you be following it, sir?” the older of the two policemen asked. Ravenstreet, who had got out, saw that he was a sergeant.
“The owner of it was staying with me. There was a row. He left in a temper.”
“Sure he wasn’t drunk, sir?”
Ravenstreet remembered in time that it is the drunken motorist and not the one blind with anger who is a criminal. “I wouldn’t say he was, Sergeant. He’d had a few drinks but was certainly far from being incapable. But he was extremely angry. Why do you ask? Did you see him?” He did not try to hide his impatience.
This was a mistake. Few pleasures come the way of a conscientious police sergeant on duty in the Midlands late at night; this chance of delaying an impatient gentleman who had alighted from a Rolls was not to be missed; the sergeant made the most of it. “Now, now, sir, just a minute! Have you the licence number of this vehicle?”
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