The Short Stories of Warwick Deeping

by Warwick Deeping

Merrow listened to the sound of her weeping, and the prattle of the water against the planks. A stupor descended upon him; he was no more than a child in a cradle, while she—the sudden woman, held to her course. And presently, Merrow fell asleep.

  It was daylight when he woke. He was lying in the bottom of the boat, with his head on a coil of rope and turned towards the boat’s bow. Sappho was at the tiller, standing, her eyes looking westwards over the purple sea. And behind her the sun was rising, a great knot of cerise in the midst of a blue-black cloud.

  “Sappho?”

  Her eyes fixed themselves on him suddenly.

  “I can never go back again—never.”

  And Merrow, watching the sun shake itself free of the flat cloud, knew that what she had said was true.

  THE BLACK CAT

  He stood in the vestibule of the Hôtel de Provence while the blue-coated concierge signalled for a taxi. Of medium height, dressed in black, with a cigar tucked between his full red lips, he had the air of a man who enjoyed life, and who enjoyed it with suave ferocity. His little black beard was cut to a point. He wore a soft collar, a big black tie, and a large-brimmed soft hat. His boots were of patent leather. He looked the musician or the artist.

  The concierge returned through the swing doors.

  “The taxi, monsieur.”

  He held back one of the leaves of the door and watched the man in the soft hat cross the pavement. The man’s name was Muller—at least that was the name in the hotel register—and his French was not the French of a native. The concierge observed him; for it was part of his business to observe people, and his pleasure was to make inward comments upon them.

  “A fellow who enjoys life. Fond of women. Plenty of money. Purrs like a cat.”

  Monsieur Muller was speaking to the taxi-driver.

  “The bureau of the Compagnie Transatlantique.”

  “Bien, monsieur.”

  The taxi rattled down the Cannebière towards the old port, and Muller sat smoking his cigar and watching the crowd. His eyes dwelt principally upon the women. It was obvious that he was a connoisseur. His red lips were appreciative, and when he smiled his sharp white teeth made his lips look more red. As the artist—or the musician—and the man of pleasure he tasted life delicately, and with success. He smiled; he was well fed; but there were moments when his red mouth and his glassy brown eyes were cruel.

  The taxi passed the Fort St. Jean, and the broad sky opened above the Bassin de la Joliette. Masts and funnels showed. Casks and sacks and cases were piled in the sheds; rough-looking men lounged and spat. The taxi drew up outside the offices of the Compagnie Transatlantique, and Monsieur Muller alighted.

  The footwalk had become a temporary camping ground for a complex crowd of Arabs, Maltese, Negroes, Corsicans, and people of mixed colour, who had either arrived or were awaiting departure, and when Mr. Muller had dismissed his taxi, he had to find a passage through this assortment of humans who sprawled or squatted, with their nondescript luggage scattered about them. There were women in the crowd, and children, and Mr. Muller showed his good nature by chucking a small child under the chin, and by smiling upon its parents. The people made way for him. He walked softly and politely like a sleek black cat.

  Leaning against the wall was a tall man dressed in the dirty clothes of a coal-porter. He had a knife in one hand and a raw onion in the other, and he was cutting slices from the onion and slipping them into his mouth. His hair and beard were grey, and yet he was a youngish man who looked as though he had been frosted before his time.

  Muller was emerging from the crowd when the coal-porter happened to raise his eyes, and the slice that he had cut from the onion remained poised upon the blade of the knife. His blue eyes stared. They looked like two hard circles of stone. He remained absolutely still, with the onion slice balanced upon the blade of the knife.

  Muller was not conscious of the man’s stare. He was moving towards the main doorway, and he disappeared into the vestibule. The man with the onion made a quick, gliding movement along the wall, and saw Muller pushing open the glass door of the office. There were a number of people strung along the counter, waiting to buy tickets or to make inquiries as to the boat-sailings, and Muller took his place at the counter, and leaning easily against it, glanced at some of the pamphlets and advertisements that were displayed there.

  The man with the onion had disappeared. He was running across the road in the direction of a lorry that had unloaded a pile of cases outside one of the sheds. A group of stevedores had gathered behind the lorry; they were arguing and making a great deal of noise. A slightly-built man with melancholy eyes and a pale face was leaning against the lorry, smoking a cigarette.

  The man with the onion called to him and made a sign.

  “Gorouki——”

  The melancholy eyes expressed surprise. He moved languidly in the direction of the coal-porter, who stood waiting with an air of suppressed fierceness.

  “What’s the trouble, Saratoff? Seen a ghost?”

  The man with the onion uttered two words.

  “Petrovsky—Ginkelstein.”

  They had an extraordinary effect upon Gorouki. His melancholy eyes seemed to fill with red light; his languor disappeared; the whole of him seemed to stiffen.

  “What are you saying——?”

  Saratoff pointed with his knife.

  “Over there in the office. Sure of it. His white rubber face and red mouth. Come and look——”

  They went—these two—Saratoff, tall and lined and grey, and with eyes that seemed to stare at something that was a long way off; and Gorouki, fragile and fierce and trembling—and they stood among those Mediterranean people upon the pavement, and watched the doorway of the Compagnie Transatlantique. Gorouki was shaking. Saratoff kept a hand on his arm.

  “Be careful, little mouse.”

  Gorouki made a noise in his throat.

  “Mouse! Yes; and does he still slide about like a sleek black cat? You—remember?”

  The big man’s fingers tightened on his arm.

  “Yes; that was a filthy night. He sat there and purred. Look——!”

  Muller had reappeared. He stood for a moment on the step examining a steamer ticket. He smiled as he slipped it into a wallet, and replaced the wallet in his pocket. He did not see the two men.

  Saratoff was holding Gorouki by the arm.

  “Quiet, Paul.”

  Gorouki’s eyes were red.

  “Lend me your knife.”

  Saratoff restrained him.

  “Not so fast. We did not expect such luck to come to us, did we? And just to use a knife is too easy. Besides, it is my knife.”

  “You are afraid?”

  “Hardly. Don’t you remember how often we have sat and discussed what we would like to do to that evil beast? And here he is. A miracle!”

  Muller, alias Petrovsky, alias Ginkelstein, was walking away along the quay in the direction of Fort St. Jean.

  “We shall lose him.”

  “I think not. Did you not see that ticket, and the colour? Let us enjoy ourselves.”

  Saratoff’s deliberation was far more grim than Gorouki’s febrile ferocity, and as they followed Ginkelstein along the Quay de la Joliette, a light came into the tall man’s grey-blue eyes. He walked with a long-limbed jauntiness, holding Gorouki above the elbow; Ginkelstein was strolling, very much at his leisure; he paused to light another cigar.

  Saratoff swung his friend round and made a show of being interested in a ship lying in the Bassin.

  “He will be staying at an hotel. We will follow him there. He will dine. It is possible that he will stroll out to sit at a café and to look at the women. We shall be there. But we must be very careful; we must not waste this God-sent opportunity.”

  “Saratoff,” said the little man, “if you will lend me your knife—I will do it now.”

  “Not so fast. There is a time and a place for everything. Besides—why should we have to pay up? We are going to collect a
debt, and no one need know about it.”

  They followed Ginkelstein along the Quay de la Port, and up the Cannebière to the Cours Belsunce. The imagined smell of Ginkelstein’s cigar drifted back to provoke them; he was the comfortable lounger, looking in the faces of the women, or dawdling by shop windows. The two friends had to be very careful in the crowded streets, for if Saratoff and Gorouki had recognized Ginkelstein, Ginkelstein might recognize Gorouki and Saratoff.

  “But it is not very likely,” said the tall man. “Who would imagine us here, carrying coal and cement; two aristos—ex-officers? Our friend is more interested in the women. Have you noticed it?”

  Again Gorouki made that noise in his throat.

  “Yes; and on that night—it was our women, my friend. Our helpless women. And we were trussed up. I wish you would give me that knife.”

  “My child, that would be too easy for Ginkelstein. Does one gulp down choice wine?”

  They shadowed the suave, black Bohemian figure to the Hôtel de Provence, and they saw the blue-coated concierge open the door to it. Saratoff looked up at the windows of the hotel and at the great gilded letters of its name, and then he glanced humorously at his own rough, coal-grimed hands.

  “The hands of a worker, Paul! What rot! And that little fat friend of the poor has the soft hands of a parasite! What is he doing in Marseilles? Why is he going to Algiers?”

  Gorouki was staring like a starved man at the hotel doorway.

  “Does it matter? The only thing that matters—is—that I shall tear his throat out to-night.”

  Saratoff caught the little man by the arm and swung him round.

  “Come, a little drink; we must get on the other side of the street. That café. Now, I want to ask you a question.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Do you like to gulp down good wine, or sit and sip it, and let it trickle down slowly?”

  “I want to make sure of my wine,” said the little man grimly.

  “Yes, yes; so do I. But, I tell you, I mean to enjoy it.”

  But the procuring of the rich red wine of their revenge was not to be the simple matter that it appeared to Paul Gorouki. Here were they, a couple of exiles, common toilers in this Mediterranean port, while the notorious Ginkelstein—alias Petrovsky—alias Muller, was well sheltered behind the plunder that he—like other of his ilk—had taken care to transfer to other countries. Muller put on a starched shirt, and dined à la carte at the Hôtel de Provence, while the two exiles skulked in the street and watched the door of the hotel. They watched it in vain, for it is possible that the suave Muller preferred to remain in the hotel after dark, for Marseilles can be a wicked city.

  It grew cold, for the mistral was blowing, and the two Russians were thinly clad. Gorouki began to cough, but if the wind blew through him, his eyes remained two furnaces of hate.

  “I shall stay here all night.”

  Big Saratoff would not hear of it.

  “No, my friend. Besides, the police might begin to take notice. Obviously, he is not coming out. By the way, how much money have we?”

  Gorouki kept the firm’s books.

  “About thirty francs. Why?”

  “Because we may have to go to Algiers. It would do you good, my little Paul, and the Black Cat’s affairs interest me. To-morrow, he will drive straight to the quay, and go on board the General Chanzy. We too must sail on the General Chanzy. I shall have to sell that ring.”

  He put his arm across Gorouki’s shoulders and walked him down the street, but this little hater with the melancholy eyes was loth to leave his watch upon the hotel that sheltered the murderer of children and women.

  “That butcher may not be going to Algiers. He may be going to Paris, or Rome.”

  “I tell you I saw his ticket, and I ought to know a boat ticket when I see it. You will go to bed, and at dawn I shall be out here on the watch, while you go and raise money on the ring. It is a good thing we kept it—for some great occasion.”

  “It will be a very great occasion,” said Gorouki with terrible simplicity.

  The General Chanzy sailed from Marseilles at noon. It was a blue day with a north wind blowing gently. The golden figure of Nôtre Dame de la Garde glittered against the azure north, and upon the grey Château d’If the sun shone as though that grim island had no memories. The first-class passengers were at lunch in the saloon, and on the main deck—among the riff-raff of all colours—Saratoff and Gorouki gnawed dry bread. But the third-class passengers could look into the windows of the saloon, though they were shut out like beggars in a street, and Saratoff peered in through one of the windows.

  He beckoned to Gorouki.

  Ginkelstein was at one of the tables. They saw him in profile, a napkin tucked into his collar, and a bottle of choice wine before him. They watched the movements of his jaw and of his full red lips. He was enjoying his meal; he looked sleek and complacent; his voracity was smiling and bland.

  “Why does he go to Algiers?” murmured Gorouki, with eyes of fierce desire.

  “We shall see. I managed to get a glimpse of his luggage. His name is Muller these days.”

  “And what was the address?”

  “Muller—Algiers. That was all.”

  They had a rough passage, and both Saratoff and his friend lay about on deck with that African crowd, dolorously sick; but Mr. Muller enjoyed himself on the boat promenade. He smoked his cigars, and went in to his meals; he was like white rubber, and he had no qualms. He was as superior to sea-sickness as he had been superior to pity during the days of the terror.

  At Algiers the sun shone on the white houses, and the sea was very blue, but Gorouki was the colour of a lemon, even when the General Chanzy was roped up beside the quay. The crowd poured down the gangway to merge into that other many-coloured crowd thronging under the high walls of the harbour. Saratoff ploughed through alone towards a space where hotel buses and motor-cars were picking up the wealthy. He knew Ginkelstein by his big, broad-brimmed black hat and his spreading tie. An Arab porter was loading luggage into a taxi, and Mr. Muller stood with one foot on the step of the taxi, smiling and showing his white teeth.

  He spoke to the driver.

  “The Villa Felix, Mustapha. You know it?”

  The driver scratched his head. There were so many new villas with strange names.

  “The lane turns off the road to El Biar.”

  “Ah, from the Colonne Voirol.”

  “That’s it.”

  Mr. Muller tipped his porter, got into the car, and was driven up into Algiers; while Saratoff looked about him for a little man with burning eyes and a yellow face.

  “Come, little one, the earth is solid, and I know where the Black Cat has his saucer of milk.”

  Gorouki smiled faintly.

  “My stomach is still going up and down. What do we do next, big one?”

  “Look for a lodging. I’m hungry. Never have I felt so hungry in all my life.”

  The road from Algiers to Mustapha climbs steadily, with clanging trams and hooting automobiles and labouring carts, and ever the sea grows broader and the hills more green. The swinging curves of this great road seem to turn the landscape upon its axis. It is a dusty road, full of tree shadows and broad sunlight, and when Saratoff and Gorouki toiled up it on that spring morning it showed them life in rags and in royal blue. They passed the Governor’s summer residence, where two or three Spahis lounged in their red cloaks, and the cosmopolitan Hôtel St. George where Americans make quick lunches and buy innumerable picture-postcards, and the gardens offer to red-faced northern ladies the white trumpets of arum lilies. They passed under the pines of the Bois and so came to the Colonne Voirol, and here Saratoff leaned against a wall and produced a carefully-folded piece of paper.

  “Never trust to your memory, little one.”

  Gorouki snuggled up beside him, glancing at the paper upon which Saratoff had scribbled in pencil those magic words:

  “Villa Felix. Lane off the road from the Colonn
e Voirol to El Biar.”

  He had spelt the names incorrectly, but that did not matter.

  A sign indicated the road to El Biar. Saratoff produced two oranges, and gave one to Gorouki.

  “We begin to explore. It is unwise to ask questions.”

  They went up the El Biar road, scattering orange peel, and discussing life. Once or twice Gorouki had to slip a hand under his shirt, for their lodging in the Kasbah had been full of other sorts of life.

  There were roses in the hedgerows.

  “I gather that our friend has a bed of roses. It is very peaceful country.”

  “Plenty of cream for the cat.”

  “It is a sly animal.”

  They came to a lane running to the right, and they adventured down this lane. It was leafy and still, and on either side of it the hidden gardens of scattered villas were full of secret flowers and perfumes. Cypresses close the blue of the sky. There were fruit trees, and old pines and olives, and mimosa, and creepers of purple and gold. Birds sang. White walls glimmered amid the green, and the hillside sunned itself happily.

  “If he lives up here——” said the little man.

  “Ah, it is gentler than Russia. The cat has chosen a spot in the sun. Wise cat.”

  They looked at each other and smiled.

  Quite suddenly they arrived at the gateway of Monsieur Muller’s retreat. It was an inconspicuous gate of wood, set back in a recess between two high stone pillars and overshadowed by trees. “Villa Felix.” It was impossible to see over the gate, and from the lane the villa itself was invisible, for trees and shrubs screened it.

  The two stood in silence, eyeing the gate.

  “Oh, wise cat,” said Saratoff in a whisper, “and yet—not quite wise enough. Life finds one out.”

  The lane descended, and Saratoff and Gorouki descended with it, peering cautiously into the green tangle for a glimpse of Ginkelstein’s house. Where the garden ended a rough path led from the lane along a wild old terrace overgrown with trees. The two Russians explored the terrace. The garden of the Villa Felix was shut off from it by a bank of oleander and arbutus, and it was little Gorouki who found the spy-hole in the bottom of this evergreen hedge. He went on his knees. He held up a hand for silence, and then beckoned.