by Sapper
And John Mason gave his word.
“Good. Come back here at three, and wait for me. I’m going to find that man. So long, old friend.”
And at three o’clock the lawyer returned, his mind made up. All through lunch his determination had strengthened to insist upon being released from his promise. If Hector was dying, then it was his right to die at Olford Towers.
“Now it’s my life, or what’s left of it.”
He had heard the note of yearning in the wanderer’s voice as he spoke. Besides, it was absurd; it was illegal; it was out of the question. John Mason slashed viciously at a nettle with his stick. Fanciful, too; just because Stephen had spoken to some tramps. He’d watched him snuffling over his food at lunch; there was no nerve in that quarter for conspiracy. The thing was ridiculous…
And yet – was it? What had Marcia said to him only that morning? Was it so ridiculous after all?
“All his life Stephen has been a wrong ’un.”
Her words came back to him as he sat with his back up against a tree waiting for Hector. Supposing – just supposing – And at that moment he heard the sound of two shots fired not far away.
At first he took no notice – a keeper after rabbits or something. And then a hoarse shout brought him scrambling to his feet.
“Help! Murder!”
With pounding heart he ran in the direction of the cry, forcing his way through the undergrowth. And it was Jenkins, the keeper – white in the face and shaking – who saw him and shouted again.
“Mr Mason, sir; come here, for goodness sake!”
“What is it?” gasped the lawyer. “What’s happened?”
“It’s up there, sir – behind them bushes,” stammered the keeper. “And I seed the whole thing as clear as I sees you now. Mr Spencer was a-standing there talking to a man – talking very earnest like. And I wondered to myself what he could be saying to a dirty-looking tramp like that, when suddenly the bushes parted behind them, and a great, big, black-bearded man stepped out. And then I give you my word, sir, it all ’appened so quick that I’m all mazed still. This black-bearded man, he ’it the tramp on the point of the jaw, and the tramp ’e fell like a log. Then he drew a pistol and shot Mr Spencer through the ’eart.”
“I heard two shots, Jenkins,” said John Mason quietly.
“I’m coming to that, sir,” cried the man. “’E shot Mr Spencer through the ’eart and then ’e walked back a few paces and stared for a moment or two at the house, over yonder. And then he blew his brains out.”
There was only one possible verdict, of course. It was true that the tramp’s evidence was unsatisfactory, but he was a man of low brain, and the exact topic of the conversation he had been having with Mr Stephen Spencer was really immaterial. In fact, what little interest there was in the case centred round one point. And it was to John Mason that the coroner addressed himself in his endeavour to elucidate it.
“Owing to the manner in which this man killed himself he is, as you know, Mr Mason, unrecognizable. Now, from what Lady Olford has told me you saw him on the very morning of the tragedy.”
“That is so,” assented John Mason.
“Then can you throw any light on to the question of his identity?”
And John Mason’s reply came without hesitation:
“I never saw the man before in my life.”
FER DE LANCE
Ceaselessly the machine went on. It worked somewhat on the principle of a moving staircase. An endless canvas band, lying loosely over cross-pieces placed at intervals, formed a series of ever-advancing cradles, which vanished, each with its load, into the hold. Then the band, flattening out underneath for its return journey, came back for more.
Everything worked with the smoothness born of long practice. Overhead the garish spluttering arc lights hissed, throwing crude shadows on train and boat alike. Occasionally with the harsh clanging of a bell the engine would move forward a few yards, in order to bring the opening of another truck opposite the loading machine. A moment’s respite while the train moved, and then down to it again. No pause, no respite: the SS Barare was loading bananas, and it was an all-night job. Stem after stem of the fruit – still green – was carried out of the truck by natives and placed each in its separate moving cradle, only to be seized by other natives inside the ship and stowed away in the hold.
Seated on a raised stand was an unshaven, bleary-eyed man. In front of him was a pad on which he checked the number of stems loaded; just as he had checked them for years – or was it centuries? Bananas: millions of stems of bananas had he recorded on paper – until the word banana drove him frantic. He loathed bananas with a loathing that passed description. On the occasions when he had delirium tremens – and they were not infrequent – no imaginary animals haunted him. He was denied a rat of any hue. Only bananas: bananas of all shapes and sizes and colours thronged in on his bemused brain, till the whole world seemed full of them.
He was a strange personality – this unkempt checker, and how he had held his job for nearly three years was stranger still. Perhaps the answer could only have been given by the quiet, clean-cut man who was his boss – a strange personality himself. For rumour had it that on one occasion, when a ship was loading, the boss had gone on board as usual. And as he reached the top of the companion he ran straight into a certain Austrian nobleman, who gave a startled gasp of amazement before drawing himself up and bowing punctiliously. Rumour had it also that that same nobleman, having paced the deck with him for a while, was heard to call him “Sir.”
An ill-assorted pair, one would have thought – a drunken, down-and-out Englishman and a man whom an Austrian of ancient family called “Sir.” And perhaps the reason lay in the fact that the epithet “down-and-out” is only relative. Once the crash has come, a bond of sympathy exists between those who crash, even though their falls are of different height.
The Englishman called himself Robinson when he was sober enough to remember. At other times he was apt to give a different name. The boss called himself Barlock, which, as a name, had certain advantages. It left one in doubt as to the nationality of its owner. And the two men had arrived at Port Limon about the same time in very different capacities. Barlock was taking over a responsible post in the Union Fruit Company, that vast American concern whose tentacles stretch into every corner of the West Indies and Central America. Robinson was merely drunk. He arrived as a deckhand in an old tramp, and, being temporarily mislaid when she sailed again, was left behind without lamentation or regret. And acquaintance between the two men started almost at once in a somewhat peculiar way.
Barlock was wandering round the big railway shed, which was to be the scene of his labours for the next few years, and as he stepped behind some barrels he walked on the other man.
“Don’t apologise,” remarked Robinson, getting unsteadily to his feet. “I’m used to it. Would you tell me if a bilge-laden old tub, whose name escapes me for the moment, has sailed?”
“If you mean the Corsica,” said the other, “she sailed about six hours ago.”
“It would appear, then, that I have been left behind. Not that it matters in the slightest degree. I have long given up any attempt at regularity in my habits. One small point, however, might be of interest. Where am I?”
Barlock smiled faintly: there was a certain whimsical note in the other’s voice that amused him.
“This is Port Limon,” he answered. “And in the event of your geography having been as much neglected as mine was, Port Limon is in Costa Rica.”
“Costa Rica,” said the other, thoughtfully. “Its exact position on the globe is a little beyond me at the moment, but, provided it possesses a bar, it fulfils all my requirements.”
He shambled off, leaving the other staring after him. A gentleman obviously: equally obviously a drunkard. And for a moment or two Barlock wondered how the mixture would be digested by the narrow strip of civilisation that lies at the bottom of the densely wooded hills which make up the greate
r part of the republic. Then with a shrug of his shoulders he went about his lawful occasions.
For a week he saw Robinson no more. Then one night he found him standing at his elbow. A banana train had just creaked into the station, its bell clanging furiously. Natives were lethargically replacing greasy packs of cards in their pockets; Port Limon’s justification for existence came to a groaning standstill. No bananas: no Port Limon.
“It is incredible,” remarked Robinson, “that human stomachs can consume such inordinate quantities of vegetable matter. I am not a banana maniac myself, unless they are soaked in rum. And even then – why spoil the rum? But when one sees that train, and realises that there are other trains in other places all carrying bananas, one takes off one’s hat in silent homage to the world’s eaters. By the way, I suppose you haven’t the price of a drink on you?”
A sudden idea struck Barlock.
“I have not,” he said, shortly. “But I’ll give you a job of work. Go and help load them. You’ll get the same rate of pay as the natives.”
For a moment the other hesitated: it was black man’s work. Then finding Barlock’s steady eye fixed on him, he gave a short laugh and peeled off his coat. And thus began his personal acquaintance with bananas. Began also a strange relationship between the two men.
Friendship it could hardly be called. Their positions were too widely separated. Barlock was the boss; Robinson a paid hand doing coolie work. But through the long nights, whilst the loading went monotonously on, sometimes the difference between them disappeared. They became just two white men amongst a crowd of blacks. Moreover, they became two white men of the same interests and station. Away from the railway shed it was different. Barlock, by reason of his job, belonged to the club, and could enjoy what social life the place afforded; Robinson was down and out, living native fashion. But under the hissing arc lights the two men met on a common ground – bananas.
And then there occurred an incident which insensibly brought them nearer to one another. If a competition open to the world for the number of snakes to the square yard was instituted, Costa Rica would be very near the top of the list. Moreover, her representatives would not be of the harmless variety. And it so happens that on occasions members of the fraternity go to ground in the bunches of fruit as they lie stacked beside the railway line, waiting to be picked up by the train. The snake hides itself along the stem, and may or may not be discovered at the up-country siding. If it is, it is promptly dispatched; if it is not, it makes the journey to Port Limon. And so at that terminus the danger is an ever-present one, especially as the snake, after having jolted down the line in a stuffy truck, is not in the best of tempers on its arrival.
It all happened very, quickly – some six months after Robinson’s introduction to his new trade. He had just taken a big stem of fruit from the man standing in the opening of the truck, when a native beside him gave a shout. He had a momentary glimpse of a wicked yellow head curving out of the fruit in his arms: then there came the thud of a stick, and he dropped the bunch.
He looked up a little stupidly to find Barlock standing beside him, the stick still grasped in his hand. And for a few moments the two men stared at one another in silence, whilst a native completed the good work on the platform.
“Fer de Lance,” said Barlock, curtly. “Lucky I had a stick.”
“Thanks,” muttered Robinson, staring at the dead body of perhaps the most deadly brute in existence. “Thanks. Though I wonder if it was worthwhile.”
“Don’t talk rot,” said Barlock, even more curtly, and moved away.
The incident was over; a Fer de Lance was dead. Robinson was alive. And there were still bananas to load. But when one man has saved another man’s life, it is bound to make some difference in their relationship. And though nothing changed outwardly, though they still remained boss and paid hand, under the surface there was an alteration.
“Thanks once more,” said Robinson, as the empty train pulled out the next morning. He had followed Barlock to his room in the station, and was standing in the open door. “You were deuced quick with that stick.”
“Not much good moving by numbers when there is a bone-tail about,” said Barlock with a laugh.
“So you’re of the breed, are you?” Robinson stared at the other man. “I always thought you were by the set of your shoulders. By numbers. God! how it brings things back. Do you know our immortal songster? I’ve got a new last line to one of his things: –
‘Gentlemen rankers out on the spree,
Damned from here to eternity.
God have mercy on such as we,
Ba – na – na.’
I load the damned things to the rhythm.”
Barlock looked at him thoughtfully.
“What regiment?” he asked after a moment.
“Thirteenth Lancers,” said the other. “And you?”
“Austrian Cavalry of the Guard,” answered Barlock.
“Of course, I knew you weren’t English,” said Robinson, “though you speak it perfectly. So we went through that performance on different sides. Funny life, isn’t it? Look here, I don’t want to be impertinent or unduly curious. The reason for me is obvious: I can’t keep away from the blasted stuff. But you – you don’t drink.”
Barlock smiled grimly.
“Have you ever thought, my friend, of the difference it makes when the last two o’s are lopped off a man’s income? The gap between fifty thousand and five hundred is considerable.”
“So that’s it, is it?” said Robinson, and began to laugh weakly. “And our mutual life-belt is that rare and refreshing fruit the banana.”
Suddenly he pulled himself together.
“By the way, there’s just one thing I’d like to say. I don’t suppose the situation is ever likely to arise, but it may do. There’s a lot of tourist traffic passes through – and one never knows. I’m dead.”
“I don’t quite follow,” said Barlock, quietly.
“I should have thought it was easy,” remarked the other. “But I’ll be more explicit. Six or seven years ago a regrettable accident took place. An extremely drunken man fell over Waterloo Bridge into the River Thames, and the only thing that was ever recovered was his hat. Wherefore after prolonged search the powers decided that the owner of the hat had been drowned. The powers that be were wrong, but it would be a pity if they found out. There would be complications.”
Barlock turned away abruptly; there are moments when a man may not look on another man’s face.
“I see,” he said, after a pause. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Complications,” repeated Robinson, dully. “Damnable complications. Well – I’ll be pushing on. Thanks again for that snake business.”
He slouched off down the platform, and for a time the Austrian stood staring at his retreating back. Damnable complications: the words rang in his brain. Then, with a little shrug of his shoulders, he closed his door. For when one’s job is to unload bananas by night, it is necessary to sleep by day.
It was a year afterwards that the official belief concerning Robinson was very nearly justified. Two trains came in, were unloaded and departed again, but of Robinson there was no sign. And after the second, Barlock made inquiries. It was not the first time that Robinson had missed a train, but never before had it been more than that. And the result of Barlock’s inquiries was short and to the point. A more than usually fierce drinking bout, coupled with the intense heat – it was the end of July – had just about finished him off. In fact, Barlock’s native informant stated that he was, in all probability, already dead. However, if the boss wished he would lead him to the house where the sick man was.
The boss did wish, though once or twice on the way he almost repented and turned back. There are degrees of filth and stench even in the native quarters of Port Limon, and it seemed to Barlock that his destination reached the lowest abyss in the scale. Verminous dogs slunk garbaging along the refuse-strewn gutter; naked children, the flies swarm
ing round them, stared at him with wide-open eyes as he picked his way along the road. And over everything, like a hot wet blanket, pressed the tropical heat.
He thought with longing of the club at the other end of the town, where what breeze there was came fresh from the sea, and where a man could wallow in the water through the stifling afternoon. After all, this man meant nothing to him. What was he save a broken-down waster belonging to a nation largely responsible for his own present condition? And then he laughed a little cynically. Whatever Robinson was he knew that he was going through with it. White is white, however far down it has sunk.
At last his guide turned through a ramshackle gate from which a short path, which was evidently the household dustbin, led to a dilapidated shanty. Seated outside the front door was a vast negress, who grinned expansively on seeing the white man. Her lodger was about the same, she told him, and would his honour walk in if he wished to see him. Barlock did so, dodging some hens that walked out simultaneously. And once again he almost chucked it. If the smell outside was bad, there at any rate it was not confined. But in the hovel he had just entered it was concentrated to such an extent that it produced a feeling of physical nausea. And then, as he stood there for a moment or two undecided, there came a hoarse voice from a room beyond.
“Steady, lads – steady! They’re coming on again.”
One of the breed, and they had gone through that performance on different sides. Yes – it had its humorous side, without doubt. Barlock crossed the room, and pulled aside a dirty hanging. Different sides, perhaps – but both were the same colour.
More hens scuttled out as he stood in the opening. The sick man was lying on some reeds in the corner, and as Barlock crossed to him he glanced up. His eyes showed no trace of recognition, and his visitor saw at once that matters were serious. It was a question of a doctor, and a doctor quickly.
Then his eyes caught sight of something that lay beside the sick man; he bent over him and removed it. And Robinson, delirious as he was, was not so far gone that that escaped him. He cursed foully, and tried to snatch it out of Barlock’s hand, only to fall back weakly on the rushes.