by John Collier
«What's the bait there?» said L
«She's a woman,» said he. «Divine, if you like, but still a femme.» With that he pulled out a leather case from his pocket and opened it to display a very handsome little wristwatch, set in diamonds. «Picked it up in Paris,» said he modestly. «Thought of presenting it to a young lady in Cleveland. Thirty-six hips, though. And here we have thirty-four, twenty-five, thirty-five! So this goes for bait, you see. It'll fetch her. And when I see it picked up in the air, I pull the strings, and I have them goddam doves in one cage and her in the other. Then I can talk. Nothing immoral, mind you. I want to proposition that little lady to be Mrs. Thomas P. Rymer.»
«But if you can't see her—» said I.
«Wait,» said he, «till I get the Max Factor Studios on her. A sort of simonizing job, only in technicolour, if you get me. It'll be,» said he, bursting into song, «'Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light —' Nothing unpatriotic, mind you, only it's kind of appropriate.» Still singing, he went out to the wood-shed, where I heard hammering going on for the rest of the day.
Next morning, as I was shaving, I happened to glance out of the window, and there I saw the boat pulling out, with Danny at the oars, Rymer in the bow, and two vast and crazy contraptions swaying on the stern. I called out; Rymer waved his hand, and they went on toward the island.
That evening, as I approached the hotel, I saw the boat pulled up on the beach, and hurried in to find Rymer. He was sitting in the bar, with a big whiskey in front of him, looking very grim. «What happened?» said I.
«Don't ask me what happened,» said he curtly. Then, relenting, «I'll tell you,» said he. «I'm afraid that little lady's out to make a monkey of me, and I don't like it.»
«What did she do?» I asked.
«I had Danny land me on that island,» said he, «and pull out and wait off shore so as not to crowd her. I fixed up my cages and my baits, and I got behind a rock, and I waited awhile. Then I saw those birds coming along, swooping and diving at top speed — I reckon it was a marvellous number — and the old hen in the middle fluttering her damnedest to keep up with them. When they saw the traps, they slowed up. I could tell she was interested.»
«Go on,» said I.
«Well,» said he, «they visited the small trap first, and the top left-hand dove flew down and picked up bits of the corn and fed all the others.»
«I'll be damned!» said I.
«Then,» said he, «they moved over to where the big cage was, and the dexter dove flew in and picked up the wristwatch in its beak, and she did a sort of humoresque dance with it, and threw it over the cliff into the sea in front of my eyes. What do you think of that?»
«That's pretty tough,» I said.
«It's downright inconsiderate!» said he, banging on the table. «And if that dame thinks she's going to get away with it with Thomas P. Rymer, well — Landlord, I want another highball.»
«Why don't you just give her the air?» said I.
«I'd have given her the world,» said he. «And I would yet. But she's gotta see reason. I'll make her listen to me somehow. Let me get her within reach of my arms, that's all! Landlord, I'll have a bottle of this hooch up in my room, I reckon. I gotta do a bit of thinking. Good night, pal. I'm no company. She's roused up the old cave man in me, that's how it is. I'm not claiming to be any sort of sheik, but this little Irish wonder lady's gotta learn she can't make a monkey of a straightforward American business man. Good night!»
Most of the night I heard him tramping up and down his room. It was pretty late when I got to sleep, and when I did I slept heavily and woke late. I went downstairs and looked about for my friend «Where's Mr. Rymer?» said I to Doyle.
«God alone knows,» said he. «Were you not hearing the great cry he gave in the grey of the dawn?»
«What?» said I.
«I woke up,» said Doyle, «and heard him muttering. Suddenly he lets a yell out of him: 'Marriage licence! That'll get her!' And then he went silent entirely, and I dropped off to sleep again. And when I came down this morning, he was missing. And his car was missing. There was a note on the bar here: 'Back in a few days.'»
«He's gone to Galway,» said I, «to get his confounded licence.»
«Like enough,» said Doyle. «It's a great affliction, to be sure.»
Sure enough, after a few days I was wakened in the early morning by the sound of a car driving up. I looked out in the half-light and recognized the impressive lines of Rymer's huge American roadster. At breakfast time I hurried downstairs, eager to have a word with him.
I met Doyle in the passage. «So Mr. Rymer's come back?» I said.
«He's come,» said Doyle. «And he's gone.»
«Gone? Where?»
«It must be to the island,» said Doyle. «He must have drove up in the night and took the boat out right away. I've sent Danny for the loan of Murphy's boat from the fishing lodge. I told him to row straight out to the island, to see what's happened to the poor unfortunate gentleman.»
There were no field glasses in the place. We waited impatiently till Danny came in sight, rowing the borrowed boat and towing the other. We saw that Danny was alone.
«Did you not find him?» shouted Doyle.
«Never the hide nor hair of him,» said Danny, making fast the painter. «Sure it was one of the Good People he was after, right enough. The poor man has vanished entirely.»
«Could he have fallen over a cliff?» said I.
«I see'd the pigeons,» said Danny, shaking his head. «Four of 'em I saw, sitting each alone in a bush, just round the place we first saw them, and the creatures were mourning.»
«And the fifth?» said I.
«The misfortunate bird was lying on the grass in the middle,» said Danny, «with its neck wrung.»
THE RIGHT SIDE
A young man, who was looking extremely pale, walked to the middle of Westminster Bridge and clambered onto the parapet. A swarthy gentleman, some years his senior, in evening dress, with dark red carnation, Inverness cape, monocle, and short imperial, appeared as if from nowhere, and had him by the ankle.
«Let me go, damn you!» muttered the would-be suicide, with a tug and a kick.
«Get down, and walk beside me,» said the stranger, «or that policeman, who has already taken a step or two in our direction, will most certainly run you in. Let us pretend to be two friends, one of whom wished for a thrill, while the other was anxious that he should not tumble over.»
The young man, who was so eager to be in the Thames, had a great aversion to being in prison. Accordingly he fell into step with the stranger, and, smiling (for now they were just passing the bobby), «Damn and blast you!» he said. «Why can't you mind your own silly business?»
«But, my dear Philip Westwick,» replied the other, «I regard you as very much my business.»
«Who may you be?» cried the young man impatiently. «I don't know you. How did you get hold of my name?»
«It came into my mind,» said his companion, «just half an hour ago, when first you formed your rash resolution.»
«I don't know how that can be,» said Philip. «Nor do I care.»
«You lovers,» said his companion, «are surprised by nothing, except first that your mistresses should fancy you, and next, that they should fancy someone else.»
«How do you know,» cried our poor Philip, «that it was over that sort of thing?»
«I know that, and much more, equally ridiculous,» replied the other. «What would you say if I reminded you that no less than a month ago, when you considered yourself in Heaven, and were, in point of fact, in your Millicent's arms, you discerned something of the essence of ennui in the nape of her neck, and actually wished her transformed into the little brunette who serves in a tea-shop in Bond Street? And now you are on the brink of suicide because your Millicent has left you, though the little brunette is, for all you know, in Bond Street still. What do you say to that?»
«You seem to be unaware,» said Philip, «that what a man wishe
s when he is in his girl's arms, and what he wishes when someone else is probably there, are two very different things. Otherwise, I admit your knowledge is devilish uncanny.»
«That is only natural,» replied the other with a complacent smile, from which Philip immediately realized that he was in the company of none other than the Devil himself.
«What are you up to?» he demanded, drawing back a little.
The Devil, with a look of great benevolence, offered him a cigarette.
«I suppose it's not doped?» inquired Philip sniffing at it suspiciously.
«Oh, come!» said the Devil with a sneer. «Do you think I need resort to such measures as that to overcome you? I have reason on my side. Will you have a light?» Without pausing for a reply, he extended his middle finger, the tip of which immediately ignited the cigarette.
«You have a reputation for reasoning to some effect,» said Philip. «I have very little desire to be eternally damned.»
«What did you expect, then,» said the Devil, «when you contemplated suicide?»
«I see nothing wrong in that,» said our hero.
«Nor does a puppy that destroys his master's slipper,» retorted the Devil. «However, he is punished for it.»
«I can't believe it,» said Philip obstinately.
«Come with me, then,» said the Devil, and took him to a Fun Fair in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road. Here a number of the ugliest wretches on earth were amusing themselves with gambling games; others were peering into stereoscopes which showed scenes of Parisian nightlife. The rest of them were picking pockets, making overtures to certain female habitudes of the place, swearing, and indulging in all manner of filthy conversation.
The Devil looked on all these much as one who has been walking among the poppies and the wild cornflowers of the fields looks upon the cultivated plants in the garden about his backdoor. The commissionaire touched his cap much as gardeners do; the Devil acknowledged the salute and, taking out a latch-key, led Philip to a little door in the wall which, being opened, discovered a small private elevator.
They got in, and descended for several minutes at an incredible speed.
«My dear Devil,» said Philip, puffing at his cigarette, which was, in fact, doped, and gave him the impression of being a man of affairs, «my dear Devil, if we go on at this rate, we shall soon be in Hell itself.»
Nothing could have been more true. The lift stopped and they got out. They were in a vast hall which resembled nothing so much as the foyer of some gargantuan theatre or picture palace. There were two or three box offices, in front of which the prices of admission were displayed: Stalls — gluttony; Private Boxes — lechery; Dress Circle — vanity; Gallery — sloth; and so forth. There was also a bar, at which one or two uniformed fiends were chatting with the barmaids, among whom our friend was astonished to see the little brunette from Bond Street
Now and then a door opened upon the vast auditorium, and it was apparent that the play or movie in progress was a lively one.
«There's a dance lounge through here,» said the Devil, «to which I particularly wanted to take you.»
A door was opened for them. They found themselves in a reasonably large apartment got up in the grotto style, with ferns and imitation rock-work, and a damp and chilly air. A band was playing a travesty of Scarlatti. Several people were dancing rather listlessly. Philip observed that many of them were disgustingly fat
The Devil led him up to a slim and pale girl, murmured a few words, and Philip, seeing nothing else to do, bowed, offered her his arm, and they began to circle the room.
She danced very languidly, and kept her heavy lids drooped low over her eyes. Philip uttered one or two trifling remarks. «Do you come here often?» he said. She smiled faintly, but did not reply.
He was a little piqued at her remaining so listless (besides, he had smoked one of the Devil's cigarettes). «How very cold your hand is!» he said, giving it a slight squeeze. It certainly was. He manoeuvred this unresponsive partner into a corner, where he clutched her waist rather more tightly than was necessary for dancing. He felt a chilly moisture penetrate the sleeve of his jacket, and a faint but unmistakable smell of river-mud become perceptible. He looked at her closely, and observed something extremely pearly about her eyes.
«I did not catch your name,» said Philip.
His partner scarcely moved her colourless lips. «Ophelia,» she said.
«Excuse me,» said Philip.
He lost no time in rejoining the Devil.
«Now,» said that worthy, «are you still unable to believe that those who drown themselves are eternally damned?»
Philip was forced to admit the point.
«You have no idea how bored that poor girl is,» said the Devil compassionately. «And she has only been here a few hundred years. What is that, in comparison to Eternity?»
«Very little. Very little, indeed,» said Philip.
«You see what sort of partners she gets,» continued the archfiend. «During every dance they reveal to her, and she to them, some little unpleasantness of the sort that so disquieted you.»
«But why should they be in a dance lounge?» asked Philip.
«Why not?» said the Devil with a shrug. «Have another cigarette.»
He then proposed that they should adjourn to his office, to talk matters over.
«Now, my dear Westwick,» said he, when they were comfortably ensconced in armchairs, «what shall our little arrangement be? I can, of course, annihilate all that has occurred. In that case you will find yourself back on the parapet, in the very act of jumping, just as you were when I caught you by the ankle. Shortly afterwards you will arrive in the little dance lounge you saw; whether fat or thin depends upon the caprice of the waters.»
«It is night,» said Philip. «The river flows at four miles an hour. I should probably get out to sea unobserved. Yes, I should almost certainly be one of the fat ones. They appeared to me remarkably deficient in it or S.A., if those terms are familiar to you.»
«I have heard of them,» said the Devil, with a smile. «Have a cigar.»
«No, thanks,» said Philip. «What alternative do you suggest?»
«Here is our standard contract,» said the Devil. «Do have a cigar. You see — unlimited wealth, fifty years, Helen of Troy — well, that's obsolete. Say Miss —,» and he mentioned the name of a delightful film star.
«Of course,» said Philip, «there's this little clause about possession of my soul. Is that essential?»
«Well, it's the usual thing,» said the Devil. «Better let it stand. This is where you sign.»
«Well, I don't know,» said Philip. «I don't think I'll sign.»
«What?» cried the Devil
Our hero pursed his lips.
«I don't want to influence you, my dear Westwick,» said the Devil, «but have you considered the difference between coming in tomorrow as a drowned suicide, and coming in — fifty glorious years hence, mind — as a member of the staff? Those were members of the staff you saw talking to the little brunette at the bar. Nice girl!»
«All the same,» said Philip, «I don't think I'll sign. Many thanks, though.»
«All right,» said the Devil. «Back you go, then!»
Philip was aware of a rushing sensation: he seemed to be shooting upwards like a rocket. However, he kept his presence of mind, kept his weight on his heels, and, when he got to the parapet, jumped down, but on the right side.
SPRING FEVER
There was a young sculptor named Eustace whose work was altogether too life-like for the modern taste. Consequently he was often under the necessity of dropping in upon his friends at about seven in the evening, in the hungry hope of being pressed to stay for dinner. «I carve the stone,» said he to himself, «and chisel my meals. When I am rich it will be much the same thing, only the other way round.»
He would eagerly snuff up the odours of sputtering roasts and nourishing stews that crept in from the kitchen, and, excited by the savour, he would exult in
his incorruptible ideals and furiously inveigh against the abstractionists. But nature and art were combined against the unfortunate Eustace, for the stimulating vapours worked powerfully upon his salivary glands, and the moderns he most hissingly denounced were Brancusi, Lipchitz, and Brzeska.
It was usually the wives who, thus clumsily reminded of Niagara, demanded that Eustace be got rid of without delay. Numerous devices were employed to this end; one of the most humane was to give him a ticket for some show or other and bid him hurry off and get there before it started.
Thus it came about one evening that Eustace, defeated of a seven-rib roast, found himself unexpectedly watching Charlie McCarthy, whom he regarded with the humourless and critical eye of a hungry sculptor. «I don't know what all the applause is for,» said he to the man beside him. «Those jokes are not his own; it's obviously all done by ventriloquism. And considered as a work of art — well, I happen to be a sculptor myself, and I can assure you he's an all-time low.»
«All the same,» returned the stranger, «he earns I don't know how many hundred thousand bucks a year for his owner.»
«By God!» cried Eustace, standing up and brandishing his fists. «What sort of civilization is this, anyway? Here's a coarse, crude, comic-looking dummy, not fit even to be called a piece of sculpture, and earns this fellow doesn't know how many hundred thousand a year, while the most life-like work of the century is …» At this point, the ushers took him by the seat of the pants and slung him out of the auditorium.
Eustace picked himself up, and shuffled off in the direction of Brooklyn, where the old garage was situated that was at once his abode and his studio. In the near neighbourhood of this place there was a dingy little book shop, with a tray of second-hand books in the entrance. One of these bore the conspicuous title, «Practical Ventriloquism.» Eustace's eye fell upon this title, and he stopped and picked up the book and looked at it with a sneer. «Art and the Ideal,» said he, «have brought me to this pass. If that fellow's figures were correct, Ventriloquism and the Practical may get me out of it.» He glanced into the interior of the shop and saw that no one was looking at him. He at once slipped the book under his jacket, and made his way off. «I am now a thief,» said he to himself. «How does it feel to be a thief, Eustace?» And he answered, «It feels fine.»