The Pointing Man

by Marjorie Douie

  VI

  TELLS HOW ATKINS EXPLAINS FACTS BY PEOPLE AND NOT PEOPLE BY FACTS, ANDHOW HARTLEY, HEAD OF THE POLICE, SMELLS THE SCENT OF APPLE ORCHARDSGROWING IN A FOOL'S PARADISE

  Social life went its way in Mangadone much as it had before the 29th ofJuly, but Hartley was not allowed to rest and feel comfortable and easyfor very long. Mhtoon Pah waylaid him in the dark when he was ridinghome from the Club, and waited for him for hours in his bungalow. Likehis own shadow, Mhtoon Pah followed him and dogged his comings andgoings, always with the same imploring tale, but never with any furtherevidence. Leh Shin was officially watched, and Leh Shin's assistant wasalso under the paternal eye of authority, but all that authority coulddiscover about him was that he led a gay life, gambled and druggedhimself, hung about evil houses, and had been seen loitering in thevicinity of the curio shop; but, as Paradise Street was an openthoroughfare, he had as much right to be there as any leprous beggar.

  Hartley's peace of mind was soon shattered again, this time by a newelement that Hartley had not thought of, and so he was caught in anothernet without any previous warning.

  Atkins, the rector of St. Jude's bungalow companion, was a dry littleman, adhering to simple facts, and neither a sensationalist nor analarmist; therefore his words had weight. He was a small man, alwaysdressed in clothes a little too small, with his whole mind given up tothe subject of his profession; besides which he was religious, anon-smoker, a teetotaller, and particular upon these points.

  Being but little in the habit of going into Mangadone society, he seldommet Hartley except at the Club, and it was there that he ran him into acorner and asked for a word or two in private. Hartley took him out intothe dim green space where basket chairs were set at intervals, anddrawing two well away from the others, sat down to listen.

  Sweet scents were wafted up on the evening air, and drowsy, dark cloudsfollowed the moonlike heavy wisps of black cotton-wool, drowning thelight from time to time and then clearing off again; and all over thegrass, glimmering groups of men in white clothes and women in trailingskirts filled the air with an indistinct murmur of sound.

  "It is understood at the outset," began Atkins, clearing his throat witha crowing sound, "that what I have to say is said strictly in a privateand confidential sense. I only say it because I am driven to do so."

  Hartley's basket chair squeaked as he moved, but he said nothing, andAtkins dropped his voice into an intimate tone and went on:

  "You came to see Heath one day lately, and I told you he was ill. Well,so he was, but there are illnesses of the mind as well as of the body,and Heath was mind-sick. I am a light sleeper, Hartley. I wake at asound, and twice lately I have been awakened by sounds."

  "The _Durwan_," suggested Hartley.

  "Not the _Durwan_. If it had been, I would not have spoken to you aboutit. Heath has been visited towards morning by a man, and it was thesound of voices that awoke me. It is no business of mine to pry or totalk, and I would say nothing if it were not that I admire and respectHeath, and I believe that he is in some horrible difficulty, out ofwhich he either will not, or cannot, extricate himself."

  "Who was the man?"

  Atkins ignored the question.

  "I admit that I listened, but I overheard almost nothing, except justthe confused sounds of talking in low voices, but I heard Heath say, 'Iwill not endure it, I am bearing too much already.' I think he spokemore to himself than to the man in his room, but it was a ghastly thingto hear, as he said it."

  "Go on," said Hartley. "Tell me exactly what happened."

  "I heard the door on to the back veranda open, and I heard the sound offeet go along it--bare feet, mind you, Hartley--and then I went tosleep. That was a week ago."

  "And something of the same nature has occurred since?"

  Atkins dried his hands with his handkerchief.

  "I said something to Heath at breakfast about having had a bad night,and he got up at once and left the table. After that nothing happeneduntil last night. I had been out all day, and came home dog-tired. Iturned in early and left Heath reading a theological book in theveranda. I said, I remember, 'I'm absolutely beat, Padre; I have hadenough to-day to give me nine or ten hours without stirring,' and helooked up and said, 'Don't complain of that, Atkins; there are worsethings than sound sleep.' It struck me then that he hadn't known what itwas for weeks, he looked so gaunt and thin, and I thought again of thatother night that we had neither of us spoken about."

  "Heath never explained anything?"

  "No, I never asked him to."

  "What happened then?" Hartley's voice was hardly above a whisper, and heleaned close to Atkins to listen.

  "I slept for hours, fairly hogged it until it must have been two orthree in the morning, judging by the light, and then I awoke suddenly,the way one wakes when there is some noise that is different to usualnoises, and after a moment or two I heard the sound of voices, and I gotout of bed and went very quietly into the veranda. Heath's lamp wasburning, his room is at the far end from mine, and I stood there,shivering like a leaf out of sheer jumps. I had a regular 'night attack'feeling over me. I heard a chair pushed back, and I heard Heath say in alow voice 'If you come here again, or if you dog me again, I'll hand youover to the police,' and the man laughed. I can't describe his laugh;it was the most damnable thing I ever listened to, and I thought ofrunning in, but something stopped me, God knows why. 'Take your pay,'said Heath; I heard him say it, and then I heard the door open again,and the same sound of feet." He shivered. "They stopped outside my room,and I caught the outline of a head, a huge head and enormous, heavyshoulders, and then he was gone."

  "Why the devil didn't you raise the alarm?" Hartley's voice was angry."You've got a policeman on the road. Why didn't you shout?"

  "Because I was thinking of Heath," said Atkins a little stiffly. "He isthe man we have both got to think about. Some devil of a native isblackmailing him, and Heath is one of the best and straightest men Iknow. Not one item of all this mystery goes against him in my mind, butwhat I want you to do, is to have the bungalow watched."

  "I shall certainly do that," said Hartley with decision. "And as foryour opinion of Heath--well, it strikes me as curious that a man of goodcharacter should be a mark for blackmail."

  "I explain facts by people, not people by facts," said Atkins hotly."And I have told you--"

  "I think it is only fair to say that you have told me something thatlays Heath under suspicion," said Hartley, slowly. "He behaved veryoddly, lately, when I asked him a simple question, and he chose torefuse to see me when I went to his house. All that was a small matter,but what you tell me now is serious."

  "Serious for Heath, and for that very reason I particularly want himprotected. But as for suspicion, I know the man thoroughly, and that isquite absurd." Atkins got up and terminated the interview. "It is absurdto talk of suspicion," he said again, irritably. "I hope you will dropthat attitude, Hartley. If I had imagined for a moment that you werelikely to adopt it, I should have kept my mouth shut."

  He went away, his narrow shoulders humped, and his whole figuretestifying to his annoyance, and Hartley sat alone, watching themoonlight and thinking his own thoughts. He was interrupted by a woman'svoice, and Mrs. Wilder sat down in the chair left vacant by Atkins.

  "What are you pondering about, Mr. Hartley? Are you seeing ghosts ormoon spirits? You certainly give the idea that you are immenselypreoccupied."

  "Do I?" Hartley laughed awkwardly. "Well, as a matter of fact, I was notthinking of anything very pleasant."

  "Can I help?"--her voice was very soft and alluring.

  "No one can, I am afraid."

  She touched his arm with a little intimate gesture, and her eyes shonein the moonlight.

  "How can you say that? If I were in any sort of fix, or in any sort oftrouble, I would ask you to advise me, and to tell me what to do, beforeI would go to anyone else, even Draycott, and why should you leave meoutside your worries?"

  "You see, that's just it, they a
ren't exactly mine. If they were Iwould tell you, but I can't tell you, because what I was thinking aboutwas connected entirely with someone else."

  Mrs. Wilder's eyes narrowed, and she lifted her slightly pointed nose avery little.

  "Ah, now you make me inquisitive, and that is most unfair of you. Don'ttell me anything, Mr. Hartley, except just the name of the personconcerned. I'm very safe, as you know. Could you tell me the name, orwould it be wrong of you?"

  "The name won't convey very much to you," said Hartley, laughing. "I wasthinking of the Padre, Heath. That doesn't give you much clue, does it?"

  It was too dark for him to see a look that sprang into Mrs. Wilder'seyes, or perhaps Hartley might have found a considerable disparitybetween her look and her light words.

  "Poor Mr. Heath, he is one of those terribly serious, conscientiouspeople, who go about life making themselves wretched for the good oftheir souls. He ought to have lived in the Middle Ages. I won't ask you_why_ you are thinking about him"--she got up and lingered a little, andHartley rose also--"but you know that you should not think of anyoneunless you want to make others think of them, too; it isn't at all safe.I shall have to think of Mr. Heath all the way home, and he is _such_ agaunt, scraggy kind of thought."

  "I wish I could replace him with myself," said Hartley, in a burst ofadmiration.

  Mrs. Wilder accepted his compliment graciously and walked across thegrass to the drive, where her car panted almost noiselessly, as is theway of good cars, and he put her in with the manner of a jewellerputting a precious diamond pendant into a case. He watched the cardisappear, and considered that some men are undeservedly lucky in thislife.

  Hartley was nearly forty, that dangerously sentimental age, and he beganto wonder if, by chance, he had met Clarice Wilder years ago in aDevonshire orchard, life might not have been a wonderful thing. Hecalled her a "sweet woman" in his mind, and it was almost a pity thatMrs. Wilder did not know, because her sense of humour was subtle andacute, and she would have thoroughly enjoyed the description of herself.She could read Hartley as quickly as she could read the telegrams in the_Mangadone Times_, and she could play upon him as she played upon herown grand piano.

  She had not asked any questions, and she knew nothing of what Atkins hadsaid about Heath; but her face was set and tense as she drove towardsher bungalow. She was certainly thinking very definitely, quite asdefinitely as Hartley had been thinking as he watched the moonlightplaying hide-and-seek with the shadows of the palm branches and thedarkness of the trees, and her thoughts left no pleasant look upon herface or in her eyes; and yet Hartley, on his way to the bungalow wherehe lived, was thinking of her in a white dress and a shady hat, with afleecy blue and white sky overhead and the scent of apple-blossom in theair.

  The power of romance is strong in adolescence, but it is stronger stillwhen the turnstile of years is reached and there is finality in the air.Hartley was built for platonics; Fate gave him the necessary touch ofthe commonplace that dispels romance and replaces it with a kind ofdeadly domesticity; and yet Hartley was unaware of the fact.

  He had never thought of being "in love" with Mrs. Wilder, partly becausehe felt it would be "no use," and partly because she had never seemed toexpect it from him, but as he walked along the road he began to findthat her manner had of late altered considerably. She seemed to take aninterest in him, and though she had always been his friend, her newattitude was charged with invisible electricity.

  So far as Mrs. Wilder was concerned, Hartley was to her what a sittinghen would be to a sporting man. You couldn't shoot the confiding thing;but you might wring its neck if necessary, or push it out of the waywith an impatient foot. She knew her power over him to a nicety, and sheknew of his secret desire for "situations," because her instinct wasnever at fault; but she felt nothing more than contempt, slightlycharged with pity towards him. Hartley was a good-natured, idiotic man,and Hartley had principles; Clarice Wilder had none herself, though shefelt that they were definite factors in any game, but she also believedthat principles were things that could be got over, or got at, by anywoman who knew enough about life to manage such as Hartley.

  All the same, it was not of Hartley that she thought. She had been quitetruthful when she said that he had suggested Heath to her mind, andthat she would have to consider his gaunt face and hollow cheeks duringher drive.

  If he had sat on the vacant seat beside her, the Rev. Francis Heathcould hardly have been more clearly before her eyes, and could hardlyhave drawn her mind more strongly, and it was because of her thought ofhim that she preserved her steady look and strange eyes.

  A strong woman, a woman with character, a woman who once she saw herway, was able to follow it faithfully, wherever it twisted, wherever itwound, and wherever it eventually brought her. No one could picture herflinching or turning back along a road she had set out to follow; if ithad run in blood, she would have gone on in bare feet, not picking hersteps, and yet Hartley dreamed of apple orchards and an Eve in a whitemuslin dress.