Finger of Fate

by Sapper

  “In the middle of it,” I went on, “he saw a nonexistent rat in the corner. And it shook him badly. It suddenly seemed to penetrate to his brain that if he was seeing rats that weren’t there he might have imagined he’d seen things that hadn’t happened.”

  I heard Mrs Cransby draw in her breath sharply.

  “And so he is very anxious to apologise to you both for the unpardonably rude things he said.”

  “But, good Heavens,” began young Congleton foolishly.

  “I think,” interrupted Mrs Cransby quietly, “that it is the least Mr MacAndrew can do. I need hardly tell you, Mr Morris, that he imagined the whole thing, and that his remarks were offensive to an insufferable degree. But I haven’t lived so long in the East not to realise the devastating effect of alcohol as a permanent diet. And to learn to make excuses for the victims. We will come over with you…”

  Very reluctantly young Congleton rose and followed us. To him the whole thing was an absurd waste of time, which might far more profitably have been spent with his adored one. Was he not going to tell Cransby when he returned the whole state of affairs? So what did it matter what the old fool saw or didn’t see? Besides – he had seen it: so what was the good of pretending he hadn’t? And had some supernatural power told him that his adored one was already bored stiff with him, and had fully determined to leave long before her devoted spouse returned in order to prevent any such embarrassing complications, he would have dismissed the suspicion with scornful laughter. Had she not kissed him that very evening? And the fact, that even had she remembered such a great event, it sank into utter insignificance beside the vital necessity of silencing old MacAndrew’s tongue, was hidden from him. Such things are hidden from those who fall to the rag and the bone and the hank of hair…

  We found MacAndrew standing by the table in the centre of the room, swaying slightly. And the first thing I noticed was a large bucket of water close beside him, an article of furniture which most certainly had not been there when I left.

  “I have been cooling my head,” began MacAndrew gravely, “so that my words, Mrs Cransby, shall be as clear as those of an old man may ever be.”

  He was rolling his R’s grandly, was Mac, and I pulled forward a chair for Mrs Cransby.

  “I am glad to hear it, Mr MacAndrew,” she said coldly. “It is a pity you didn’t think of the cure sooner.”

  “Maybe, it is,” he agreed. “But I’m an old man.”

  He broke off suddenly. With his eyes dilated with horror he was staring at Mrs Cransby’s head, and instinctively she rose to her feet.

  “What is it?” she cried.

  “Lord’s sake, don’t move,” he muttered, hoarsely. “An enormous tarantula.”

  He stretched out a vast hand, and seized Mrs Cransby’s hair. And he pulled Mrs Cransby’s hair. And with a slight sucking noise Mrs Cransby’s hair came off – every atom of it. And it disappeared into the bucket of water.

  Now I have seen in the course of my life perfectly bald men, but I have never seen except on that occasion a perfectly bald woman. And as a spectacle it shakes a man to the marrow. I stood gazing speechlessly at that shining cranium and conquering with the greatest difficulty, a desire to burst into screams of laughter. Then I stole a look at young Congleton. His jaw had dropped: his eyes were fixed on the same target. And his face had rather the expression of a man looking down the wrong end of a loaded gun.

  Only MacAndrew who was staring into the depths of the bucket seemed unmoved. He was agitating the water gently, and whistling under his breath. And at last he spoke in a hushed voice.

  “Bill,” he said, “you’re right. No r-rat: no enorrmous tarantula. I must go on the water wagon.”

  And at last Mrs Cransby spoke – not in a hushed voice. She spoke for five minutes without repeating herself. Then she happened to see her reflection in the glass. And she ceased speaking, and left.

  “A terrible thing,” said MacAndrew thoughtfully. “No r-rat: no enorrmous tarantula. And I have never apologised for my unworthy suspicions.”

  He turned to young Congleton.

  “Let this be a warning to you, laddie: keep off the strong drink. And maybe you’d take the lady’s wig over with you when you go. If she hangs it out to dry it should be fit to wear in the morn.”

  A little dazedly young Congleton took the sodden mass: then he, too, left.

  “Tell her,” called MacAndrew after him, “that I will come tomorrow to apologise. And if I should see another enorrmous tarantula in her hair, I will leave it there.”

  He looked at me and his eyes were twinkling.

  “I’m thinking, Bill, he’s cured. And the little girl will perhaps be merciful to him. But Lord’s sake! man, have ye ever seen such a fearsome spectacle as yonder woman with a head like a billiard ball?”

  “But how the devil did you know, Mac?” I asked weakly.

  “I didn’t,” he answered. “I just thought it was verra curious – that hair of hers. I thought that if I pulled hard enough, something might happen. And all I’m feared of now is that the judgement of the Lord may come upon me. It would be a terrible thing if I really did begin to see r-rats and enorrmous tarantulas, which were not there. Terrible.”

  He rose to his feet.

  “Ah weel – I’ll be away home.”

  “You mean to say, Mac, that the whole thing was a put up job,” I gasped. “Didn’t you think you saw a tarantula in her hair? And that rat?”

  “Laddie,” he said majestically, “when I see rats and tarantulas there are rats and tarantulas. To hear you talk anyone might think I was addicted to strong drink. But I suppose nothing better can be expected of a mere Sassenach. I bid you goodnight.”

  A QUESTION OF MUD

  “And who,” I asked, “is the somewhat inane-looking youth with the charming girl at whom you cracked a smile?”

  Jim Featherstone grinned.

  “He looks most kinds of an ass, doesn’t he?” he said. “And yet, Bill, not only is there a deuced quick brain behind that vacuous face of his, but his actual pose of asininity on one occasion helped him to land that girl for his wife and get one of the most notorious crooks in Europe laid by the heels. No; you can take it from me, Tommy Maunders is not such a blithering idiot as he looks.”

  “One is almost tempted to murmur the obvious,” I remarked. “But I’ll spare you that if I’m right in supposing that a story is attached.”

  Jim settled himself comfortably in his chair.

  Well, it might amuse you (he said), though I’m not much of a hand at spinning a yarn. It happened two years ago, on the occasion of the celebrated cricket match between Robert’s Rabbits and Dick’s Duds. I don’t suppose you’ll find any account of the encounter in Wisden’s – like other great things in this world, it blushed unseen. Yet for keenness, my boy, that annual match has Middlesex and Surrey beat to a frazzle. Robert’s Rabbits are a team raised each year by old Bob Seymour for the express purpose of playing this match against an eleven led by Sir Richard Templeton. Heaven knows how the thing started, but today that match is the event of the season for the twenty-two warriors concerned. It always takes place at Dick Templeton’s place in Warwickshire. He has a nice little cricket ground, and in the year dot was quite a good average player. Now he’s got a tummy like a balloon, and stops the ball with his foot – sometimes.

  His house is charming and really old. A big, rambling sort of place where Charles I hid from the Roundheads and all that sort of stuff. And since Dick, who rolls in boodle, is mercifully possessed of excellent taste, all the improvements and additions he has made fit in with the general scheme. Which is just as well, because he’s almost doubled the original property.

  The procedure is invariably the same. Robert’s Rabbits arrive on the Wednesday; the match is played on Thursday and Friday; and the party breaks up on the Saturday or Monday according to what one’s own particular plans are. The house is big enough to accommodate every one and several ladies besides, so, as you can ima
gine, it’s a pretty jolly show.

  Now, it so happened that the year before, the Duds had completely wiped the floor with the Rabbits. Defeat and utter annihilation had been our portion – I’m a Rabbit, incidentally. To such an extent, in fact, that, as Bob Seymour and I had driven off on Monday morning, Dick Templeton had pursued us with words which ate deep into our souls.

  “Try and give us a game next year, you lads,” he had said kindly. “It makes things so much more interesting.”

  Now, an insult of that sort can be wiped out only with blood, and Bob had apparently been pondering on it all through the winter. And the result of his cogitations was communicated to us as the train left Paddington.

  “It was weakness in bowling,” he announced. “Jim’s combination of half volleys and long hops wouldn’t have got a girls’ school out.”

  “Some of your lobs bounced six times,” I retorted.

  “Dry up,” he said; “your leader speaks. Now, Peter has not recovered from his hunting accident, so I had to find a substitute. I have; and he bowls.”

  “That’s all right, Bob,” said Huntly, the wicket-keeper, doubtfully, “but what sort of a cove is he?”

  You’ll understand, Bill, that in a show of that sort, however keenly you may take the cricket, it is absolutely essential to have the right type of fellow. One outsider, and the whole thing is spoilt. And since for years our two elevens had been almost the same, perhaps varying by one or two at most, Huntly’s question was not irrelevant.

  “All right,” said Bob reassuringly. “I met him lunching with a man at the club. And he seemed a very decent fellow. By name of Carruthers. He’s left-hand medium, and, in addition, I gather, is good for a few runs.”

  Well, it sounded all right, and I must say when we came to vet him he looked all right. It’s always a bit difficult coming into a big house-party who all know one another well, but he seemed perfectly at his ease at once. He could tell a deuced good story, and the general consensus of opinion was that if his cricket was up to the rest of his form, Bob had struck oil.

  So much for that end of the stick. Let’s get down to Tommy Maunders.

  Tommy was one of Dick Templeton’s main standbys. In spite of his face he was a bat distinctly above the average – which was the sole reason why he was included in the Duds. Every year did Dick’s cricketing soul war with his parental soul, as to whether Tommy should be asked, and up to date cricket had triumphed. To be a little more explicit, when Tommy was at the wicket the sun got up to shine on him, in Dick’s estimation; when he was not at the wicket the sun set with extreme rapidity. And the reason of the change was the charming girl you alluded to – Dick’s daughter.

  As a cricketer there was much to be said for Tommy; as the man who wanted to marry Moyra – Dick’s daughter – the amount to be said for him did not give Dick throat trouble. As to what was Moyra’s opinion of Tommy at the time I really can’t tell you; as she has since married him, presumably it was not entirely adverse. But whatever she thought, one thing was quite certain: she had no intention of marrying him until her father gave his consent. And that Dick showed no signs of doing. He was quite nice about it, but very firm.

  “My dear Tommy,” he was wont to say, “you’re not a bad bat, and you’re a good cover-point, but there you begin and end. You’re a lazy young devil, with the brains of an unintelligent louse. If only that fool aunt of yours hadn’t left you fifteen hundred a year you might have been some use, because you’d have had to work. True, some firm little knows what it has escaped, but that would have been their worry. This is mine, and as a husband for Moyra you don’t fit the bill at all.”

  Dick was a widower, and Moyra, being the only child, was the apple of his eye. I think that was the main reason why she wouldn’t go against his wishes. It certainly wasn’t for lack of asking on Tommy’s part. At morn, at midday, at sunset and midnight Tommy used to get it off his chest. Once, rumour had it, he was discovered in the act at breakfast, but that naturally could not be tolerated. So he was given six of the best with a stump in the pavilion, in case the rumour was true. However, enough of that. I will pass on to the actual party of two years ago.

  There were thirty of us altogether – our eleven, six of Dick’s – the rest of his team were local products – and the remainder were women. And with the exception of Bob’s new find, Carruthers, and a girl whose name I completely forget, I knew everyone there. I won’t weary you with their names, because, with the exception of one woman, they don’t come into the story. And that woman was Lady Carrington.

  I don’t know if you’ve ever met the lady. If not, you haven’t missed much. Why Dick always asked her was a bit of a mystery; personally, I always regarded her as one of the world’s worst horrors. I think Dick and her husband had had some business dealings or something of that sort; I know he disliked her himself.

  Lady Carrington was a woman of about forty – good-looking in a vapid sort of way, and entirely devoted to Society. She lived, in fact, for nothing else. The money she spent on clothes would have rebuilt a slum; if her jewellery had been realised, the cash obtained would have rebuilt a village. And of that the pièce de resistance was her pearl necklace. I am not much of a judge of these things, but even I could appreciate that necklace. It consisted of three ropes, each one graduated perfectly. It was insured, I gathered, for seventy thousand pounds, and I could well believe it.

  On the Wednesday night she wore it for dinner. My own personal opinion was that it was vulgarly ostentatious to do so. That, however, is beside the point. She wore it for dinner, and it was duly admired by those of us who had seen it before and by those of us who hadn’t. And the first class outnumbered the second largely. Lady Carrington was a hardy annual, and, except for Carruthers and the girl, we’d most of us seen those pearls before.

  I happened to know, because he had told me so the year before, that our host would infinitely have preferred her not to bring the necklace at all. The house was an old-fashioned one – low and rambling. Even a second-rate burglar would not have had the slightest difficulty in breaking into it. And with a necklace as well known as this one, the first-class men were likely to be attracted.

  “I do wish you’d allow me to put it in my safe,” he said as we stood around preparatory to going to bed. “Your house in London is one thing, Lady Carrington, but anyone could break in here.”

  However, she was obdurate.

  “My dear man,” she said, “I sleep in them. There are some eighteen good men and true in this house, and if you hear me scream in the middle of the night I shall expect a combined rush to my bedroom.”

  We all laughed, and the matter was left at that. Personally, I don’t think any of us cared a rap if the woman lost her necklace or not, but I could quite understand Dick’s point of view. If anything did happen he’d sooner it did so somewhere else. However, there was nothing to be done about it. Lady Carrington had brought her necklace; she was going to sleep in it, and that was that.

  Now, though we called ourselves Rabbits and Duds we took our cricket very seriously. And it was the invariable rule that on Wednesday and Thursday we had an early bed. Afterwards nothing mattered, but on those two nights we all hit the hay before midnight. And on that night I remember there was a bit of bridge, and Carruthers did some conjuring tricks – and did them wonderfully well.

  After which we all turned in. And the last thing I noticed before turning out my light at a quarter to twelve was that it had come on to rain. To me the only importance in the fact lay in its possible effect on the game next day. I little thought it was going to result in a marriage.

  I suppose I fell asleep about twelve. It was at a quarter past four that I was awakened by the most appalling commotion in the house. I got up, slipped on a dressing-gown, and went into the passage. Various men were running about in different conditions of semi-sleep, and from a room at the end of the wing came Lady Carrington’s agitated voice.

  “What’s happened?” I asked in alarm.
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  “The combined rush that was spoken of,” was the reply. “The bally woman has lost her pearls.”

  Just then I saw Tommy. He was coming from Lady Carrington’s room, talking to Dick Templeton, who appeared terribly worried.

  “Of course, you must get the police at once, sir,” I heard Tommy say, and Dick went on downstairs to telephone.

  “My hat, old man!” said Tommy to me with a grin. “I’ve seen some fairly awe-inspiring spectacles in my life, but Lady Carrington in the light of early dawn wins in a canter.”

  “Has she really lost her pearls?” I said.

  “Beyond a shadow of doubt,” he answered. “According to her, she went to bed wearing her necklace as usual. She says she fell asleep almost at once – a most unusual thing for her to do. But last night she felt very sleepy, and so she did not have her usual read. She woke quite suddenly about ten minutes ago, and felt that there was something strange. For a moment or two she couldn’t make out what it was; then she realised. Her necklace had gone. True to her promise, she let out a bellow that must have scared the rooks, and here you perceive the eighteen good men and true engaged in the combined rush. I was the first to arrive, and I regret to state that the pearls had undoubtedly gone. My tactful suggestion that she should search in the bed was unnecessary – she had already done so.”

  “I’ve ’phoned the police,” said Dick, joining us. “Confound that woman,” he muttered angrily. “I told her to let me lock the thing up. By Jove! you fellows, I wouldn’t have had this happen for the world.”

  “Well, anyway,” said Huntly, coming out of his room, “there’s been a pretty useful trail left. Come and look out of my window.”

  His room was next but one to Lady Carrington’s, and we all trooped in. The rain had ceased; the morning was perfect. And when Dick had peered out it seemed to me he gave a sigh of relief.

  Hundy was right. The trail was more than useful – it was obvious. Lying on the ground was a ladder, and in the flower-bed under Lady Carrington’s bedroom were two distinct marks of feet. The thief had placed the ladder in the earth of the bed, climbed up it, taken the pearls, laid the ladder down on the ground, and departed.