A Bottomless Grave

  ‘You have some money in your pocket now.’

  Mr Osborne’s amazement grew apace—his friend’s manner was so very strange.

  ‘What a nose you always have for money; however did you find that out? But it isn’t mine. You know Jim Baker left me guardian to that boy of his, and I’ve been drawing the youngster’s dividends—it’s only seventy pounds, Geoff.’

  Mr Fleming stretched out his hand—his reply was brief and to the point.

  ‘Give it to me!’

  ‘Give it to you!—Geoff!—young Baker’s money!’

  Mr Fleming reiterated his demand.

  ‘Give it to me!’

  His manner was not only distinctly threatening, it had a peculiar effect upon his friend. Although Mr Osborne had never before shown fear of any living man, and had, in that respect, proved his superiority over Fleming many a time, there was something at that moment in the speaker’s voice, or words, or bearing, or in all three together, which set him shivering, as if with fear, from head to foot.

  ‘Geoff!—you are mad! I’ll see what I can find for you, but I can’t give you young Baker’s dividends.’

  Mr Osborne was not quite clear as to exactly what it was that happened. He only knew that the friend of his boyhood—the man for whom he had done so much—the only person in the world who loved him—rose and took him by the throat, and, forcing him backwards, began to rifle the pocket which contained the seventy pounds. He was so taken by surprise, so overwhelmed by a feeling of utter horror, against which he was unable even to struggle, that it was only when he felt the money being actually withdrawn from his pocket that he made an attempt at self-defence. Then, when he made a frantic clutch at his assailant’s felonious arm, all he succeeded in grasping was the empty air. The pressure was removed from his throat. He was able to look about him. Mr Fleming was gone. He thrust a trembling hand into his pocket—the seventy pounds had vanished too.

  ‘Geoff! Geoff!’ he cried, the tears streaming from his eyes. ‘Don’t play tricks with me! ! Give me back young Baker’s dividends !’

  When no one answered and there seemed no one to hear, he began searching round and round the room with his eyes, as if he suspected Mr Fleming of concealing himself behind some article of furniture.

  ‘Geoff! Geoff!’ he continued crying. ‘Dear old boy !—give me back young Baker’s dividends!’

  ‘Hullo !’ exclaimed a voice—which certainly was not Mr Fleming’s. Mr Osborne turned. Colonel Lanyon was standing with the handle of the open door in his hand. ‘Frank, are you rehearsing for a five-act tragedy?’

  Mr Osborne replied to the Colonel’s question with another.

  ‘Lanyon, did Geoffrey Fleming pass you as you came in?’

  ‘Geoffrey Fleming!’ The Colonel wheeled round on his heels like a teetotum. He glanced behind him. ‘What the deuce do you mean, Frank? If I catch that thief under the roof which covers me, I’ll make a case for the police of him.’

  Then Mr Osborne remembered what, in his agitation, he had momentarily forgotten, that Geoffrey Fleming had had no bitterer, more out-spoken, and, it may be added, more well-merited an opponent than Colonel Lanyon in the Climax Club. The Colonel advanced towards Mr Osborne.

  ‘Do you know that that’s the blackguard’s chair you’re standing by?’

  ‘His chair!’

  Mr Osborne was leaning with one hand on the chair on which Mr Fleming had, not long ago, been sitting.

  ‘That’s what he used to call it himself—with his usual impudence. He used to sit in it whenever he took a hand. The men would give it up to him—you know how you gave everything up to him, all the lot of you. If he couldn’t get it he’d turn nasty—wouldn’t play. It seems that he had the cheek to cut his initials on the chair—I only heard of it the other day, or there’d have been a clearance of him long ago. Look here—what do you think of that for a piece of rowdiness?’

  The Colonel turned the chair upside down. Sure enough in the woodwork underneath the seat were the letters, cut in good-sized characters—‘G.F.’

  ‘You know that rubbishing way in which he used to talk. When men questioned his exclusive right to the chair, I’ve heard him say he’d prove his right by coming and sitting in it after he was dead and buried—he swore he’d haunt the chair. Idiot!—What is the matter with you, Frank? You look as if you’d been in a rough and tumble—your necktie’s all anyhow.’

  ‘I think I must have dropped asleep, and dreamed—yes, I fancy I’ve been dreaming.’

  Mr Osborne staggered, rather than walked, to the door, keeping one hand in the inside pocket of his coat. The Colonel followed him with his eyes.

  ‘Frank’s ageing fast,’ was his mental comment as Mr Osborne disappeared. ‘He’ll be an old man yet before I am.’

  He seated himself in Geoffrey Fleming’s chair.

  It was, perhaps, ten minutes afterwards that Edward Jackson went into the smoking-room—‘Scientific’ Jackson, as they call him, because of the sort of catch phrase he is always using—‘Give me science!’ He had scarcely been in the room a minute before he came rushing to the door shouting—

  ‘Help, help!’

  Men came hurrying from all parts of the building. Mr Griffin came from the billiard-room, where he is always to be found. He had a cue in one hand, and a piece of chalk in the other. He was the first to address the vociferous gentleman standing at the smoking-room door.

  ‘Jackson!—What’s the matter?’ ,

  Mr Jackson was in such a condition of fluster and excitement that it was a little difficult to make out, from his own statement, what was the matter.

  ‘Lanyon’s dead! Have any of you seen Geoff Fleming? Stop him if you do—he’s stolen my pocket-book!’ He began mopping his brow with his bandanna handkerchief, ‘God bless my soul! an awful thing! —I’ve been robbed—and old Lanyon’s dead !’

  One thing was quickly made clear—as they saw for themselves when they went crowding into the smoking-room—Lanyon was dead. He was kneeling in front of Geoffrey Fleming’s chair, clutching at either side of it with a tenacity which suggested some sort of convulsion. His head was thrown back, his eyes were still staring wide open, his face was distorted by a something which was half fear, half horror—as if, as those who saw him afterwards agreed, he had seen sudden, certain death approaching him, in a form which even he, a seasoned soldier, had found too horrible for contemplation.

  Mr Jackson’s story, in one sense, was plain enough, though it was odd enough in another. He told it to an audience which evinced unmistakable interest in every word uttered.

  ‘¡ often come in for a smoke about this time, because generally the place is empty, so that you get it all to yourself.’

  He cast a somewhat aggressive look upon his hearers—a look which could hardly be said to convey a flattering suggestion.

  ‘When I first came in I thought that the room was empty. It was only when I was half-way across that something caused me to look round. I saw that someone was kneeling on the floor. I looked to see who it was. It was Lanyon. “Lanyon!” I cried. “Whatever are you doing there?” He didn’t answer. Wondering what was up with him and why he didn’t speak, I went closer to where he was. When I got there I didn’t like the look of him at all. I thought he was in some sort of a fit. I was hesitating whether to pick him up, or at once to summon assistance, when——’

  Mr Jackson paused. He looked about him with an obvious shiwer.

  ‘By George ! when I think of it now, it makes me go quite creepy. Cathcart, would you mind ringing for another drop of brandy?’

  The brandy was rung for. Mr Jackson went on.

  ‘All of a sudden, as I was stooping over Lanyon, someone touched me on the shoulder. You know, there hadn’t been a sound—I hadn’t heard the door open, not a thing which could suggest that anyone was approaching. Finding Lanyon like that had made me go quite queer, and when I felt that touch on my shoulder it so startled me that I fairly screeched. I jumped up to see who it was. And w
hen I saw’—Mr Jackson’s bandanna came into play—‘who it was, I thought my eyes would have started out of my head. It was Geoff Fleming.’

  ‘Who?’ came in chorus from his auditors.

  ‘It was Geoffrey Fleming. “Good God!—Fleming!” I cried. “Where did you come from? I never heard you. Anyhow, you’re just in the nick of time. Lanyon’s come to grief—lend me a hand with him.” I bent down, to take hold of one side of poor old Lanyon, meaning Fleming to take hold of the other. Before I had a chance of touching Lanyon, Fleming, catching me by the shoulder, whirled me round—I had had no idea the fellow was so strong, he gripped me like a vice. I was just going to ask what the dickens he meant by handling me like that, when, before I could say Jack Robinson, or even had time to get my mouth open, Fleming, darting his hand into my coat pocket, snatched my pocket-book clean out of it.’

  He stopped, apparently to gasp for breath. ‘And pray, what were you doing while Mr Fleming behaved in this exceedingly peculiar way—even for Mr Fleming?’ inquired Mr Cathcart.

  ‘Doing!’ Mr Jackson was indignant. ‘Don’t I tell you I was doing nothing? There was no time to do anything—it all happened in a flash. I had just come from my bankers—there were a hundred and thirty pounds in that pocket-book. When I realised that the fellow had taken it, I made a grab at him. And’—again Mr Jackson looked furtively about him, and once more the bandanna came into active play—‘directly I did so, I don’t know where he went to, but it seemed to me that he vanished into air—he was gone, like a flash of lightning. I told myself I was mad—stark mad! but when I felt for my pocket-book, and found that that was also gone, I ran yelling to the door.’

  IV

  It was, as the old-time novelists used to phrase it, about three weeks after the events transpired which we have recorded in the previous chapter. Evening—after dinner. There was a goodly company assembled in the smoking-room at the Climax Club. Conversation was general. They were talking of some of the curious circumstances which had attended the death of Colonel Lanyon. The medical evidence at the inquest had gone to show that the Colonel had died of one of the numerous, and, almost innumerable, varieties of heart disease. The finding had been in accordance with the medical evidence. It seemed to be felt, by some of the speakers, that such a finding scarcely met the case.

  ‘It’s all very well,’ observed Mr Cathcart, who seemed disposed to side with the coroner’s jury, ‘for you fellows to talk, but in such a case, you must bring in some sort of verdict—and what other verdict could they bring? There was not a trace of any mark of violence to be found upon the man.

  ‘It’s my belief that he saw Fleming, and that Fleming frightened him to death.’

  It was Mr Jackson who said this. Mr Cathcart smiled a rather provoking smile.

  ‘So far as I observed, you did not drop any hint of your belief when you were before the coroner.’

  ‘No, because I didn’t want to be treated as a laughing-stock by a lot of idiots.’

  ‘Quite so; I can understand your natural objection to that, but still I don’t see your line of argument. I should not have cared to question Lanyon’s courage to Lanyon’s face while he was living. Why should you suppose that such a man as Geoffrey Fleming was capable of such a thing as, as you put it, actually frightening him to death? I should say it was rather the other way about. I have seen Fleming turn green, with what looked very much like funk, at the sight of Lanyon.’

  Mr Jackson for some moments smoked in silence.

  ‘If you had seen Geoffrey Fleming under the circumstances in which I did, you would understand better what it is I mean.’

  ‘But, my dear Jackson, if you will forgive my saying so, it seems to me that you don’t show to great advantage in your own story. Have you communicated the fact of your having been robbed to the police?’

  ‘Ihave.’

  ‘And have you furnished them with the numbers of the notes which were taken?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘Then, in that case, I shouldn’t be surprised if Mr Fleming were brought to book any hour of any day. You’ll find he has been lying close in London all the time—he soon had enough of Ceylon.’

  A newcomer joined the group of talkers—Frank Osborne. They noticed, as he seated himself, how much he seemed to have aged of late and how particularly shabby he seemed just then. The first remark which he made took them all aback.

  ‘Geoff’Fleming’s dead.’

  ‘Dead!’ cried Mr Philpotts, who was sitting next to Mr Osborne.

  ‘Yes—dead. I’ve heard from Deecie. He died three weeks ago.’

  ‘Three weeks ago!’

  ‘On the day on which Lanyon died.’

  Mr Cathcart turned to Mr Jackson, with a smile.

  ‘Then that knocks on the head your theory about his having frightened Lanyon to death; and how about your interview with him—eh Jackson?’

  Mr Jackson did not answer. He suddenly went white. An intervention came from an unexpected quarter—from Mr Philpotts.

  ‘It seems to me that you are rather taking things for granted, Cathcart. I take leave to inform you that I saw Geoffrey Fleming, perhaps less than half-an-hour before Jackson did.’

  Mr Cathcart stared.

  ‘You saw him!—Philpotts!’

  Then Mr Bloxham arose and spoke.

  ‘Yes, and I saw him, too—didn’t I, Philpotts?’

  Any tendency on the part of the auditors to smile was checked by the tone of exceeding bitterness in which Frank Osborne was also moved to testify.

  ‘And I—I saw him, too!—Geoff!—dear old boy!’

  ‘Deecie says that there were two strange things about Geoff’s death. He was struck by a fit of apoplexy. He was dead within the hour. Soon after he died, the servant came running to say that the bed was empty on which the body had been lying. Deecie went to see. He says that, when he got into the room, Geoff was back, again upon the bed, but it was plain enough that he had moved. His clothes and hair were in disorder, his fists were clenched, and there was a look upon his face which had not been there at the moment of his death, and which, Deecie says, seemed a look partly of rage and partly of triumph.

  ‘I have been calculating the difference between Cingalese and Greenwich time. It must have been between three and four o’clock when the servant went running to say that Geoff’s body was not upon the bed—it was about that time that Lanyon died.’

  He paused—and then continued—

  ‘The other strange thing that happened was this. Deecie says that the day after Geoff died a telegram came for him, which, of course, he opened. It was an Australian wire, and purported to come from the Melbourne sporting man of whom I told you.’ He turned to Mr Philpotts. ‘It ran, “Remittance to hand. It comes in rather a miscellaneous form. Thanks all the same.” Deecie can only suppose that Geoff had managed, in some way, to procure the four hundred pounds which he had lost and couldn’t pay, and·had also managed, in some way, to send it on to Melbourne.’

  There was silence when Franks Osborne ceased to speak—silence which was broken in a somewhat startling fashion.

  ‘Who’s that touched me?’ suddenly exclaimed Mr Cathcart, springing from his seat.

  They stared.

  ‘Touched you!’ said someone. ‘No one’s within half a mile of you. You’re dreaming, my dear fellow.’

  considering the provocation was so slight, Mr Cathcart seemed strangely moved.

  ‘Don’t tell me that I’m dreaming—someone touched me on the shoulder!—What’s that?’

  ‘That’ was the sound of laughter proceeding from the, apparently, vacant seat. As if inspired by a common impulse, the listeners simultaneously moved back.

  ‘That’s Fleming’s chair,’ said Mr Philpotts, beneath his breath.

  Coolies

  by W. CARLTON DAWE

  As the British Empire spread across nearly one-fifth of the entire globe, so new fields opened up for writers of novels and short stories. Africa provided H. Rider Haggard
with the source material for his string of successful novels, as it did to a lesser degree with other writers such as Bertram Mitford and F. A. M. Webster. India gave Rudyard Kipling the background for many of his tales, while authors such as Somerset Maugham, Joseph Conrad and H. de Vere Stacpoole weaved stories from their experiences in the Far East and the South Seas.

  As well as these more famous names, many other writers who had obviously travelled the world produced works of fiction based on their experiences. One of them was W. Carlton Dawe, who apparently knew the Far East well, and wrote a now forgotten book of short stories called Yellow and White (1895). Dawe was obviously intrigued with the shifting relationship between white man and the Oriental races, as were others of his contemporaries like B. L. Putnam Weale and Lafcadio Hearn. In ‘Coolies’ he spins a nautical tale of terror around the voyage of a boatload of coolies and the ever present ‘Yellow Peril’.

  Cheong-Wo did not bear a very good name even among his unprincipled compatriots, though I doubt if we could justly blame him for what happened during the voyage. I have since heard that several of our passengers were very badly ‘wanted’ by the police, and that Cheong-Wo was well paid to ship them out of the colony; but that is what any yellow man would do, or white one either, if he thought he wouldn’t get found out. Both are ‘on the make’; honestly on it if possible, if not, one must seize every trifling advantage. The aggregate mounts up rapidly. In China one must either ‘squeeze’ or be ‘squeezed’, and as the former is the more pleasant sensation, its cultivation is obvious. Might is always right; but cunning is the supreme test of intelligence.

  We were chartered this time to carry coolies from Hong Kong to Singapore and Penang, returning through the Straits to Bangkok, where we were to load with rice. On this particular occasion the aforementioned Cheong-Wo was the important person who had chartered us, and I can’t say that he was neglectful of his own interest, for he not alone presented each of us officers with a box of good cigars, but the night before we sailed he had as many of us ashore as could come, and gave us the best dinner we had had for a long time. You may be sure that the ‘old man’, which is the familiar way sailors speak of their captain—behind his back—also came in for something substantial. It was not likely that Cheong, who had propitiated the juniors, would forget that all-powerful one.