THEY RETURN AT EVENING

by Herbert Russell Wakefield

  He entirely approved of Bellamy, who had once secured him substantial damages in a copyright case. The damages had gone to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.

  'And what can I do for you, my dear Bellamy?' he piped, when they were seated.

  'First of all, have you ever heard of a person called Oscar Clinton? Secondly, do you know anything of the practice of sending an enemy a painted paper pattern?'

  Mr Solan smiled slightly at the first question, and ceased to smile when he heard the second.

  'Yes,' he said, 'I have heard of both, and I advise you to have nothing whatsoever to do with either.'

  'Unfortunately,' replied Bellamy, 'I have already had to do with both. Two nights ago my best friend died — rather suddenly. Presently I will tell you how he died. But first of all, tell me something about Clinton.'

  'It is characteristic of him that you know so little about him,' replied Mr Solan, 'for although he is one of the most dangerous and intellectually powerful men in the world he gets very little publicity nowadays. Most of the much-advertised Naughty Boys of the Nineties harmed no one but themselves — they merely canonised their own and each other's dirty linen, but Clinton was in a class by himself. He was — and no doubt still is — an accomplished corrupter, and he took, and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby. Eventually he left England — by request — and went out East. He spent some years in a Tibetan Monastery, and then some other years in less reputable places — his career is detailed very fully in a file in my study — and then he applied his truly mighty mind to what I may loosely call magic — for what I loosely call magic, my dear Bellamy, most certainly exists. Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power. He then joined an esoteric and little-known sect — Satanists — of which he eventually became High Priest. And then he returned to what we call civilisation, and has since been "moved on" by the Civil Powers of many countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and timid individuals — usually female — by methods highly ingenious and peculiarly his own. It is a boast of his that he has never yet missed his revenge. He ought to be stamped out with the brusque ruthlessness meted out to a spreading fire in a Californian forest.

  'Well, there is a short inadequate sketch of Oscar Clinton, and now about these paper patterns.'

  * * * * *

  Two hours later Bellamy got up to leave. 'I can lend you a good many of his books,' said Mr Solan, 'and you can get the rest at Lilley's. Come to me from four till six on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I'll teach you all I think essential. Meanwhile, I will have a watch kept upon him, but I want you, my dear Bellamy, to do nothing decisive till you are qualified. It would be a pity if the Bar were to be deprived of your great gifts prematurely.'

  'Many thanks,' said Bellamy. 'I have now placed myself in your hands, and I'm in this thing till the end — some end or other,'

  Mr Plank, Bellamy's clerk, had no superior in his profession, one which is the most searching test of character and adaptability. Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpractised by him, and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish. He liked Mr Bellamy, personally well enough, financially very much indeed. It was not surprising, therefore, that many seismic recording instruments registered sharp shocks at four p.m. on June 12th, 192-, a disturbance caused by the precipitous descent of Mr Plank's jaw when Mr Bellamy instructed him to accept no more briefs for him for the next three months. 'But,' continued that gentleman, 'here is a cheque which will, I trust, reconcile you to the fact.'

  Mr Plank scrutinised the numerals and was reconciled.

  'Taking a holiday, sir?' he asked.

  'I rather doubt it,' replied Bellamy. 'But you might suggest to any inquisitive enquirers that that is the explanation.'

  'I understand, sir.'

  From then till midnight, with one short pause, Bellamy was occupied with a pile of exotically bound volumes. Occasionally he made a note on his writing pad. When his clock struck twelve he went to bed and read The Wallet of Kai-Lung till he felt sleepy enough to turn out the light.

  At eight o'clock the next morning he was busy once more with an exotically bound book, and making an occasional note on his writing pad.

  Three weeks later he was bidding a temporary farewell to Mr Solan, who remarked, 'I think you'll do now. You are an apt pupil; pleading has given you a command of convincing bluff, and you have sufficient psychic insight to make it possible for you to succeed. Go forth and prosper! At all times I shall be fighting for you. He will be there at nine tonight.'

  At a quarter past that hour Bellamy was asking the door-keeper of the Chorazin Club to tell Mr Clinton that a Mr Bellamy wished to see him.

  Two minutes later the official reappeared and led him downstairs into an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion — the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver. He was led up to a table in the corner, where someone was sitting alone.

  Bellamy's first impression of Oscar Clinton remained vividly with him till his death. As he got up to greet him he could see that he was physically gigantic — six foot five at least, with a massive torso — the build of a champion wrestler. Topping it was a huge, square, domed head. He had a white yet mottled face, thick, tense lips, the lower one protruding fantastically. His hair was clipped close, save for one twisted and oiled lock which curved down to meet his eyebrows. But what impressed Bellamy most was a pair of the hardest, most penetrating and merciless eyes — one of which seemed soaking wet and dripping slowly.

  Bellamy 'braced his belt about him' — he was in the presence of a power.

  'Well, sir,' said Clinton in a beautifully musical voice with a slight drawl, 'I presume you are connected with Scotland Yard. What can I do for you?'

  'No,' replied Bellamy, forcing a smile, 'I'm in no way connected with that valuable institution.'

  'Forgive the suggestion,' said Clinton, 'but during a somewhat adventurous career I have received so many unheralded visits from more or less polite police officials. What, then, is your business?'

  'I haven't any, really,' said Bellamy. 'It's simply that I have long been a devoted admirer of your work, the greatest imaginative work of our time in my opinion. A friend of mine mentioned casually that he had seen you going into this Club, and I could not resist taking the liberty of forcing, just for a moment, my company upon you.'

  Clinton stared at him, and seemed not quite at his ease.

  'You interest me,' he said at length. 'I'll tell you why. Usually I know decisively by certain methods of my own whether a person I meet comes as an enemy or a friend. These tests have failed in your case, and this, as I say, interests me. It suggests things to me. Have you been in the East?'

  'No,' said Bellamy.

  'And made no study of its mysteries?'

  'None whatever, but I can assure you I come merely as a most humble admirer. Of course, I realise you have enemies — all great men have; it is the privilege and penalty of their pre-eminence, and I know you to be a great man.'

  'I fancy,' said Clinton, 'that you are perplexed by the obstinate humidity of my left eye. It is caused by the rather heavy injection of heroin I took this afternoon. I may as well tell you I use all drugs, but am the slave of none. I take heroin when I desire to contemplate. But tell me — since you profess such an admiration for my books — which of them most meets with your approval?'

  'That's a hard question,' replied Bellamy, 'but A Damsel with a Dulcimer seems to me exquisite.'

  Clinton smiled patronisingly.

  'It has merits,' he said, 'but is immature. I wrote it when I was living with a Bedouin woman aged fourteen in Tunis. Bedouin women have certain natural gifts' — and here he became remarkably obscene, before returning to the subject of his works; 'my own opinion is that I reached my zenith in The Songs of Hamdonna. Hamdonna was a d
elightful companion, the fruit of the raptures of an Italian gentleman and a Persian lady. She had the most naturally — the most brilliantly vicious mind of any woman I ever met. She required hardly any training. But she was unfaithful to me, and died soon after.'

  'The Songs are marvellous,' said Bellamy, and he began quoting from them fluently.

  Clinton listened intently. 'You have a considerable gift for reciting poetry,' he said. 'May I offer you a drink? I was about to order one for myself.'

  'I'll join you on one condition — that I may be allowed to pay for both of them — to celebrate the occasion.'

  'Just as you like,' said Clinton, tapping the table with his thumb, which was adorned with a massive jade ring curiously carved. 'I always drink brandy after heroin, but you order what you please.'

  It may have been the whisky, it may have been the pressing nervous strain or a combination of both, which caused Bellamy now to regard the mural decorations with a much modified sang-froid. Those distorted and tortured patches of flat colour, how subtly suggestive they were of something sniggeringly evil!

  'I gave Valin the subject for those panels,' said Clinton. 'They are meant to represent an impression of the stages in the Black Mass, but he drank away his original inspiration, and they fail to do that majestic ceremony justice.'

  Bellamy flinched at having his thoughts so easily read.

  'I was thinking the same thing,' he replied; 'that unfortunate cat they're slaughtering deserved a less ludicrous memorial to its fate.'

  Clinton looked at him sharply and sponged his oozing eye.

  'I have made these rather flamboyant references to my habits purposely. Not to impress you, but to see how they impressed you. Had you appeared disgusted, I should have known it was useless to pursue our acquaintanceship. All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me. I know myself to be a being apart, one to whom the codes and conventions of the herd can never be applied. I have sampled every so-called "vice", including every known drug. Always, however, with an object in view. Mere purposeless debauchery is not in my character. My Art, to which you have so kindly referred, must always come first. Sometimes it demands that I sleep with a negress, that I take opium or hashish; sometimes it dictates rigid asceticism, and I tell you, my friend, that if such an instruction came again tomorrow, as it has often come in the past, I could, without the slightest effort, lead a life of complete abstinence from drink, drugs, and women for an indefinite period. In other words, I have gained absolute control over my senses after the most exhaustive experiments with them. How many can say the same? Yet one does not know what life can teach till that control is established. The man of superior power — there are no such women — should not flinch from such experiments, he should seek to learn every lesson evil as well as good has to teach. So will he be able to extend and multiply his personality, but always he must remain absolute master of himself. And then he will have many strange rewards, and many secrets will be revealed to him. Some day, perhaps, I will show you some which have been revealed to me.'

  'Have you absolutely no regard for what is called "morality"?' asked Bellamy.

  'None whatever. If I wanted money I should pick your pocket. If I desired your wife — if you have one — I should seduce her. If someone obstructs me — something happens to him. You must understand this clearly — for I am not bragging — I do nothing purposelessly nor from what I consider a bad motive. To me "bad" is synonymous with "unnecessary". I do nothing unneccessary.'

  'Why is revenge necessary?' asked Bellamy.

  'A plausible question. Well, for one thing I like cruelty — one of my unpublished works is a defence of Super-Sadism. Then it is a warning to others, and lastly it is a vindication of my personality. All excellent reasons. Do you like my Thus spake Eblis?'

  'Masterly,' replied Bellamy. 'The perfection of prose, but, of course, its magical significance is far beyond my meagre understanding.'

  'My dear friend, there is only one man in Europe about whom that would not be equally true.'

  'Who is that?' asked Bellamy.

  Clinton's eyes narrowed venomously.

  'His name is Solan,' he said. 'One of these days, perhaps——' and he paused. 'Well, now, if you like I will tell you of some of my experiences.'

  * * * * *

  An hour later a monologue drew to its close. 'And now, Mr Bellamy, what is your rôle in life?'

  'I'm a barrister.'

  'Oh, so you are connected with the Law?'

  'I hope,' said Bellamy smiling, 'you'll find it possible to forget it.'

  'It would help me to do so,' replied Clinton, 'if you would lend me ten pounds. I have forgotten my note-case — a frequent piece of negligence on my part — and a lady awaits me. Thanks very much. We shall meet again, I trust.'

  'I was just about to suggest that you dined with me one day this week?'

  'This is Tuesday,' said Clinton. 'What about Thursday?'

  'Excellent, will you meet me at the Gridiron about eight?'

  'I will be there,' said Clinton, mopping his eye. 'Goodnight.'

  * * * * *

  'I can understand now what happened to Franton,' said Bellamy to Mr Solan the next evening. 'He is the most fascinating and catholic talker I have met. He has a wicked charm. If half to which he lays claim is true, he has packed ten lives into sixty years.'

  'In a sense,' said Mr Solan, 'he has the best brain of any man living. He has also a marvellous histrionic sense and he is deadly. But he is vulnerable. On Thursday encourage him to talk of other things. He will consider you an easy victim. You must make the most of the evening — it may rather revolt you — he is sure to be suspicious at first.'

  * * * * *

  'It amuses and reassures me,' said Clinton at ten-fifteen on Thursday evening in Bellamy's room, 'to find you have a lively appreciation of obscenity.'

  He brought out a snuff box, an exquisite little masterpiece with an inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid, from which he took a pinch of white powder which he sniffed up from the palm of his hand.

  'I suppose,' said Bellamy, 'that all your magical lore would be quite beyond me.'

  'Oh yes, quite,' replied Clinton, 'but I can show you what sort of power a study of that lore has given me, by a little experiment. Turn round, look out of the window, and keep quite quiet till I speak to you.'

  It was a brooding night. In the south west the clouds made restless, quickly shifting patterns — the heralds of coming storm. The scattered sound of the traffic in Kingsway rose and fell with the gusts of the rising wind. Bellamy found a curious picture forming in his brain. A wide lonely waste of snow and a hill with a copse of fir trees, out from which someone came running. Presently this person halted and looked back, and then out from the wood appeared another figure (of a shape he had seen before). And then the one it seemed to be pursuing began to run on, staggering through the snow, over which the Shape seemed to skim lightly and rapidly, and to gain on its quarry. Then it appeared as if the one in front could go no further. He fell and rose again, and faced his pursuer. The Shape came swiftly on and flung itself hideously on the one in front, who fell to his knees. The two seemed intermingled for a moment . . .

  'Well,' said Clinton, 'and what did you think of that?'

  Bellamy poured out a whisky and soda and drained it.

  'Extremely impressive,' he replied. 'It gave me a feeling of great horror.'

  'The individual whose rather painful end you have just witnessed once did me a disservice. He was found in a remote part of Norway. Why he chose to hide himself there is rather difficult to understand.'

  'Cause and effect?' asked Bellamy, forcing a smile.

  Clinton took another pinch of the white powder.

  'Possibly a mere coincidence,' he replied. 'And now I must go, for I have a "date", as they say in America, with a rather charming and profligate young woman. Could you possibly lend me a little money?'

&nb
sp; When he had gone Bellamy washed his person very thoroughly in a hot bath, brushed his teeth with zeal, and felt a little cleaner. He tried to read in bed, but between him and Mr Jacobs's 'Night-Watchman' a bestial and persistent phantasmagoria forced its way. He dressed again, went out, and walked the streets till dawn.

  Some time later Mr Solan happened to overhear a conversation in the club smoking-room.

  'I can't think what's happened to Bellamy,' said one. 'He does no work and is always about with that incredible swine Clinton.'

  'A kink somewhere, I suppose,' said another, yawning. 'Dirty streak probably.'

  'Were you referring to Mr Edward Bellamy, a friend of mine?' asked Mr Solan.

  'We were,' said one.

  'Have you ever known him do a discreditable thing?'

  'Not till now,' said another.

  'Or a stupid thing?'

  'I'll give you that,' said one.

  'Well,' said Mr Solan, 'you have my word for it that he has not changed,' and he passed on.

  'Funny old devil that,' said one.

  'Rather shoves the breeze up me,' said another. 'He seems to know something. I like Bellamy, and I'll apologise to him for taking his name in vain when I see him next. But that bastard Clinton!——'