by John Buchan
Ever since then Utlaw’s manner had been constrained, as if he were cumbered with difficult private thoughts. He never appeared now in Adam’s room before going to bed. He seemed to avoid him, and, though very friendly when they met, showed no wish to meet often. Florrie, too, looked haggard and miserable. Twice Adam saw her leaving Utlaw’s room, and he met her occasionally in the street, and each time he was struck by the anxiety in her face. Was it a lovers’ quarrel? Or was Utlaw face to face with some serious difficulty in his work?
One evening came Andrew Amos, who enlightened him.
“I’ve been verifyin’ my faacts,” said Amos, “and now I’ve come to put them before you. Utlaw’s in bad trouble — ye might say in danger. It’s no blame to him, but it’s no just that easy to see the way out o’ it.”
Then Andrew told his tale. There was a man called Marrish, who had once been an official of Utlaw’s Union, and had indeed been the runner-up for the post of local organiser. After his rejection he had left his Union job and become a free-lance journalist. He was a small dark man with a touch of the Jew in him, and had been born in the Transvaal and begun life in the Rand mines. For Utlaw he cherished an extreme jealousy, which was not improved by certain public encounters in which he got the worst of it. He was a fanatic of the Left, and Utlaw’s moderation seemed to him treason to the cause, so public differences were added to private grievances. The situation was embittered by his lack of success in his new profession. Marrish had a clever pen, but he had not much sense of atmosphere, and he attributed the coldness of the Labour press towards his work to Utlaw’s influence. The man had a delicate wife, and was himself threatened by diabetes, and the misery of his existence he set down at Utlaw’s door. Utlaw, young, healthy, popular, expansive, seemed to his morose soul to be the enemy to whose sinister power all his misfortunes were due. He was excluded from lodge meetings, but whenever Utlaw appeared on a public platform Marrish was there to make a row, and at Twining’s rally he had been especially violent.
Now things had become worse. Marrish had grown half demented. He had not enough to eat and far too much to think about. He had begun to drink, too, which was bad, for he had once been a fanatical teetotaller. Not in his cups only, but in cold blood he was announcing his intention of doing Utlaw in. He had relapsed into the atmosphere of his early days when a revolver was apt to be the final arbitrament.
“It’s a nasty business,” said Amos. “Ye see the man is no what you might ca’ certifiably mad. It wadna be possible to get him locked up. And his threats are no enough to bring him inside the law — he’s ower clever for that — just a hint here and a hint there — nothing ye could frame a charge on. Besides, if ye sent him to prison or got him bound over, what good would that do? He would be wilder than ever and the mair determined to wait his chance. I’ve made it my job to see something o’ the body, and, I tell ye, there’s murder in his een. . . . Now, sir, what’s to be done? Any moment Marrish may put a bullet in Joe’s brain. After that they may lock him up or hang him, but the mischief will be done. Till Marrish is settled wi’ Utlaw gangs in constant danger o’ his life. It’s like that auld story about the sword o’ Damicockles.”
There was that in Amos’s eye which made Adam ask if he had ever been himself in the same predicament.
“Yince,” was the grinning answer, “and I took the offensive. I lay in wait for the man and gie’d him sic a hammerin’ that he never wantit to see my face again. But my yin wasna mad — just bad, and that was simple. Daftness is the wanchancy thing that ye canna deal wi’. My mind’s clear that something must be done and the thing brocht to a heid, or Joe will get a bullet where he doesna want it, or gang in fear that will make his life a misery.”
“Have you anything to suggest?” Adam asked.
“Not preceesely. But he canna go on dodgin’ the body and keepin’ him at arm’s length. He maun get some kind o’ settlement.”
“And precipitate a tragedy?”
“Maybe. But onything is better than to gang as the Bible says in an awful looking for of judgment.”
Adam spent a day in making enquiries, after telephoning to London to one or two obscure acquaintances. He had Marrish pointed out to him in a back room of a public house, and he did not like the look of his dead-white face and hot eyes. Utlaw had an evening meeting, and Adam attended it, and contrived to keep close behind him on his walk home. He entered the house a minute later and walked into the big downstairs room.
Utlaw was shuttering the window. He turned his head and Adam noted the quick hunted look. “I can’t talk to you to-night, Milford,” he said. “I’ve a lot of work to do. Sorry, but you must be a good chap and leave me alone.”
“I’m afraid I must talk to you. Sit down and have a pipe. I’ve come to know about Marrish. You and I must have it out. The thing is too serious to let slide.”
Utlaw dropped the bar of the shutter, and flung himself into an arm-chair. “Did you lock the front door when you came in? . . . You’re right. It’s damnably serious. I’ve been living in hell for the last week or two. And poor Florrie also. But it’s no good. You can’t do anything for me. It’s my own show which I must go through alone.”
“That’s true. You must go through it alone. But possibly I can help you.”
Utlaw said nothing for a minute. He was staring into the ashes of a dying fire with his brows knitted.
“I could ask for police protection,” he said at last. “But that would mean publicity, and it would be no use, for Marrish if he means business would get me in the end. Or I could have my own bodyguard — there are plenty of young fellows who would be ready for the job. But that would be no good either, for there would be bound to come a time when Marrish would have his chance. So I have simply ignored the whole thing and led my ordinary life. My hope, if I have any hope, is that Marrish when he sees how little I care for his threats will think better of them — that my sanity will cure his madness.”
“Isn’t the other result more likely — that your contempt may increase his madness? Besides, he has only to catch a glimpse of you to see that his threats are taking effect. You’re a different man since Twining’s meeting. You look ill — sometimes you look as if you were under sentence of death.”
“You’ve realised that? Well, that’s exactly how I feel. But what else is there to do? Any action I take will merely postpone the trouble. The only thing for me is to set my teeth and go through with it, trusting to luck. But, my God! it’s a stiff test of fortitude. I don’t think I’m more of a coward than other folk, but this waiting and waiting and waiting turns my nerve to water. There are moments when I could go down on my knees to Marrish and ask him to shoot and shoot quick.”
“You are an uncommonly brave man. But you’re trying yourself too high. It would break the nerve of an archangel to go on as you’re doing. Now, I’m going to prescribe for you. I’m older than you, and I’ve seen more of the world. Things must be brought to a head right now. . . . Listen to me and don’t interrupt. You and Marrish must meet. Here — in this room — with nobody near. He must be given every chance, so that if he means to murder you he can do it and get away. You mustn’t be armed. You must offer him the key and tell him to lock the door and put it in his pocket. . . . He may shoot at once, but it isn’t likely. He will feel himself on the top of the situation and be in no hurry. Then you must talk to him — you know how to talk. Tell me, has he any earthly shadow of a grievance against you?”
“Not an earthly. It’s all a wretched misunderstanding. I rather liked him and wanted to help him, but he went off at a bend into raving dislike.”
“Good. Well, you must dig up all his grievances, and spread them out and explain them. Madmen get things in a tangled clump, and it is half the battle if you can sort out the threads. The clump looks big, but each of the threads looks small and silly. . . . You run a risk, of course, but you have a good chance, and if you don’t do something of the kind the risk becomes a black certainty. You’ve got to end the thi
ng once and for all — that’s common sense, for you can’t go on the way you’re going. Marrish must leave this room satisfied — a sane man again as far as you are concerned — and he must leave it your friend.”
Utlaw got to his feet. “Come now, that sounds good sense. It’s action anyway, and that’s easier for me than waiting.”
They talked for an hour till Adam said good night. Utlaw asked a final question.
“Were you ever in deadly danger of your life?”
“Often.”
“But I mean, a cold-blooded affair like this?”
“Yes. Worse than this.”
“For God’s sake tell me about it.”
“Not now. Some day, perhaps.”
“You’re an extraordinary fellow, Milford, and I can’t make you out. I thought of going to Lord Armine, for he was my old commanding officer, and I felt that my trouble might be a soldier’s affair. But I didn’t, for I reflected that Sniffy was a bit too thick in the head to take it in. But you — you order me about like a brigadier and you seem to have the wisdom of the serpent and the dove all in one. If I survive the next week I’m going to know what you were doing before you settled into your bagman’s job.”
Early next morning Adam saw Amos and despatched him on an errand. An hour later Amos telephoned and his voice was grave.
“I’ve seen him, Mr Milford. Things is waur than I thought. The man’s bleezin’ mad. He’s a sort of a fisherman, and I said it was a grand mornin’ and proposed that him and me should take a day on the Nesh. I saw that his thoughts were far awa’ from fishing, but he agreed. He said he wanted to get a look at the countryside, for, says he, this is likely my last day on earth. He has a pistol in his pooch, and I can see that he’s ettlin’ to kill Joe and syne do awa’ wi’ himsel’. He has gotten his resolution up to the stickin’ point, and means the blackest kind o’ business. Joe’s been in no danger afore, for the body hadna made up his mind, but now he’s for it. What about speeritin’ Marrish away for a month or two in the hopes that he will cool down? I could maybe arrange it. . . .”
“No, no,” said Adam, “that would only postpone the reckoning. I’ll join you at one o’clock at the bend of the Nesh below Applecombe Mill. Then I’ll judge for myself. If he’s stark mad we’ll have him certified, and if there’s any rudiments of sense in him we may straighten things out. Keep him off the drink at all costs.”
“That’ll be easy enough. He hasna tastit for three days. There’s ower muckle fire in his heid to want alcohol. . . . Weel, I’ll expect ye at yin o’clock. It’s no likely I’ll have a very cheery mornin’.”
Adam reached the river in the high noon of a May day, when the hawthorns were bowed down with blossom, and the waterside meadows were “enamelled,” as the poets say, with daisies and buttercups. He was wearing an old suit of rough tweeds, and a broad-brimmed felt hat that gave him something of a colonial air. Amos sat stolidly on the bank watching his float, a figure as square and restful as a tree-stump. Marrish had given up the pretence of fishing and was walking about bareheaded, sometimes throwing a word to Amos, sometimes talking to himself. He looked ill; his face had the yellow pallor of the diabetic, he had not shaved for days, his thick black hair was unkempt, and his eyes were not good to look on. He started as Adam appeared, and his hand went to his pocket.
Amos slowly raised himself to his feet.
“Hullo, Mr Milford. Are you out like huz for a day’s airin’? Man, it’s graund weather. But the fish are no takin’; for I’ve had just the yin bite. Maybe there’s thunder in the air. D’ye ken my freend, Mr Marrish? He’s out o’ South Africa like yoursel’.” He consulted an enormous silver watch. “It’s about time for our meat. Haud on, and I’ll fetch the creel wi’ our pieces.”
Adam held out his hand.
“I’m glad to meet you, Mr Marrish. I’ve heard a lot of you from a friend, Johnny Sprot.”
Marrish stared at him for a moment, and then extended an unwilling hand. Adam noted how hot and dry it was. He seemed to be wrestling with a painful memory.
“Johnny Sprot! That’s a thousand years ago. I’ve forgotten all about that.”
“Johnny hasn’t forgotten,” said Adam cheerfully. “He was in London the other day. He constantly talks about you. Says you were his best friend and a comrade of his boyhood and all that, and longs to see you again. Sit down and let’s have a crack while old Amos fetches the lunch.”
Marrish sat himself slowly on the grass as if his legs were cramped. Adam was so situated that he looked him full in the face and his kindly domineering manner had its effect. Marrish’s hot gaze met his and Adam’s steady grey eyes seemed to hold him fascinated. He stopped jerking his shoulders and his lips ceased to mutter.
“I don’t want to hear about Johnny Sprot,” he said. “That’s all dead and buried.”
“Nonsense, man. You can’t bury your youth, and you can’t bury Johnny. He’s the alivest thing on earth — the kind of friend that sticks closer than a brother. I’d rather lose twenty thousand pounds than wreck a friendship.”
“I’m done with friends. I have only enemies.”
“Well, that’s better than nothing, for an enemy may be a friend to-morrow.”
“By God, no. My enemies are enemies to the other side of Tophet. I stand alone.”
“Not you. You’ve a wife, haven’t you?”
“What the hell has that to do with you?”
Adam looked at him steadily.
“Look here, Mr Marrish, you’ve got to mend your manners. When I ask a civil question, I expect a civil answer. I don’t stand for insolence.”
“You don’t,” Marrish almost screamed, and half rose to his feet. “Then, by God, you’ve got to lump it or clear out of this.”
His right hand went to his pocket, but Adam was too quick for him. In a single deft movement he had one arm round the other’s shoulders, pinioning Marrish’s left arm to his side, while his right had grasped the hand in the pocket. Marrish, under-nourished and sick, had no chance against this exercised strength. The pressure of Adam’s fingers on the other’s right wrist paralysed it. Adam drew out the pistol.
He ignored Marrish utterly and examined the little weapon.
“A pretty toy. Loaded too. Isn’t that unnecessary for an English riverside on a summer day? You’re a bit of a marksman, Mr Marrish, aren’t you? Johnny had a story of a scrap with some drunken natives at Geduld where you were pretty useful.”
Adam turned round and faced him. Marrish was sitting humped up with eyes like a sick dog’s.
“Geduld, wasn’t it?” he repeated.
“No, it was at the Vlak Reef.”
“Well, it was a good show, anyway. Take back your gun and keep it for its proper use.”
Marrish did not replace the pistol in his pocket. It lay on the grass between them. There was no sign of Amos with the lunch, for that worthy was obeying orders.
“Johnny said you were the best-natured chap going,” Adam went on. “You’re a little off-colour this morning, aren’t you? You look to me like a sick man. Give me your hands. I know something about doctoring.”
Marrish, who seemed in a daze, surrendered both hands, and Adam’s strong grasp enclosed his wrists, and his cool eyes held the other’s fevered ones in a strict control. “Do you remember this?” he asked. “It’s not the English way of diagnosis. It’s the trick of the old witch-doctor on the Black Umvelos’, that you and Johnny Sprot met when you took a waggon-load of stores to peddle in Zululand. But it’s mighty sound medicine. . . . Shall I tell you what I learn from the blood beat in your veins and the pupils of your eyes? You are sick in body, but not deathly sick. There’s a whole man behind waiting to be cleansed of its leprosy. You are sick in mind, but not deathly sick, for there’s a good fellow behind that ought to be released. But I see in the back of your eyes a small crazy devil. I know that devil well, and out he must come, for he’s the source of all the mischief. . . . What a godless fool you were ever to come to Birkpool! You
were never meant for a rotten black city like that. It has poisoned your blood and choked your lungs. And you were never meant for the game you’ve been trying to play — too good in one way — too stiff in your joints also. England wants a darned lot of understanding, and you hadn’t the patience to learn. I’ll tell you where you should be.”
Still holding Marrish’s wrists and mastering his eyes Adam began to talk about the High Veld. He had never been there himself, but he had made it his business from his early days at the Staff College to study the atmospheres of many parts of the globe. Once in the Rhineland he had escaped from a dangerous place by talking to a Bavarian of the Wettersteingebirge with apparently intimate knowledge. He knew enough of Marrish’s early career to select the high lights. He spoke of prospecting journeys in Lydenburg and the Zoutspansberg, where the uplands break down in forested cliffs to the bushveld, and a man may look across a hundred miles to the blue peaks in Portuguese territory. He spoke of trading journeys in the Low Country, the red, scarred tracks through the bush, the slow milky rivers, and the camp in the evening with the mules kicking at their peg-ropes, and the wood fires crackling, and the guinea-fowl clucking in the trees. He spoke of hot middays on the High Veld, when the pans of Ermelo become in the mirage a shoreless ocean. Above all he spoke of that delectable climate where a man could go to bed supperless and weary on the cold ground and wake whistling with sheer bodily well-being — and of a world where there was hope and horizon, since everything was still in the making. Into Marrish’s glazed eyes there came gleams of reminiscence, and now and then a flicker of assent. Sometimes he corrected Adam. “Not the Olifants,” he would say. “It was farther north — the Klein Letaba.”
By and by Adam dropped his wrists. He lifted the pistol.
“Johnny said you used to be a fine shot. Let me see you hit the grey knot in that willow stump across the river, three yards below the big elm.”