Finger of Fate

by Sapper

  “Listen, Robinson,” said Barlock, speaking slowly and distinctly. “I’m going to get a doctor.”

  But the sick man only muttered and mouthed, and glared at his visitor with a look of venomous hatred.

  “Now, you old devil,” continued Barlock to the negress who had come shambling in, “if I find he has any more of this, you’ll be sorry. Police after you, unless you’re careful. I go get doctor.”

  He strode out, leaving the old woman shaking like a mountain of jelly. Then, having smashed to bits a bottle of illicit native spirit, he went in search of the one tolerable doctor the place boasted of. By luck he found him taking his siesta, and dragged him out despite his protests. And between them they saved what was left of Robinson.

  Barlock did most of it. For hours on end when he was free did he sit beside the sick man, listening to his ravings – and in the course of those ravings learning the truth. And after a while a great pity for the wretched derelict took hold of him. For the first time he found out Robinson’s real name, and truly the crash was greater than he had guessed. And for the first time he found out that there was a woman involved.

  At last came the day when the fever died out, and the sick man opened sane eyes to the world.

  “Hullo!” he said, staring at Barlock, “have I been talking out of my turn?”

  “Don’t worry about that,” answered the other quietly. “I’m the only person who has heard. And it’s safe with me.”

  “You know who I am?” persisted Robinson, and Barlock nodded.

  “Yes – I know who you are,” he answered.

  “You know I’m married. Or rather” – the smile was a little pitiful – “was married.”

  “I gathered so,” said Barlock. “Look here – we’ll talk it all over when you’re a bit stronger. You go to sleep now.”

  Robinson shut his eyes wearily.

  “Damnable complications,” he muttered. “That’s why I’m dead. Because Ulrica has married again.”

  And at that it was left. A fortnight later Robinson reported for duty again, but now there was a difference. The fever had left its indelible mark: the physical labour required for that continuous carrying of heavy bunches of fruit was beyond his powers. And so Barlock promoted him; he became assistant checker. Seated on his raised stand, he checked on the pad in front of him the number of stems loaded, and he went on checking them as each ship came in. Until in the fullness of time the SS Barare arrived, and, as usual, it was an all-night job.

  Leaning over the ship’s rail, watching the scene, was a tall, fair-haired man. He was smoking, and every line of his figure breathed that lazy contentment which only a good cigar can give. Occasionally a faint smile flickered round his lips, at some monkey-like contortion of one of the niggers, but for the most part his face was that expressionless mask which is the hallmark of a certain type of Englishman.

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed: he leaned forward, staring into the crowd below.

  “Good God!” he muttered, “it can’t be. But it is, by Jove!”

  Barlock was coming up the gangway, and the tall, fair-haired man moved along the deck so that the two met at the top.

  “But what astounding luck!” he cried. “My dear Baron – how are you? And what are you doing here?”

  The faintest perceptible frown showed for a moment on Barlock’s forehead.

  “How are you, Lord Rankin?” he said. “But if you don’t mind – not Baron. My name here is just Barlock.”

  The other stared at him in puzzled amazement.

  “My dear fellow,” he stammered, “I don’t quite follow.”

  “And yet it’s fairly easy,” answered Barlock. “Financial considerations made it necessary for me to work. So I now superintend the loading of bananas for the Union Fruit Company. And since the job, though honest and homely, is hardly one that I ever saw myself doing in the past, I decided, temporarily at any rate, to drop my title.”

  “Well, I’m damned!” said the other, a little awkwardly. “You stagger me, my dear chap. One thing, however, is perfectly clear. Whatever your name is here, to me you are Baron von Studeman, who was amazingly good to a young military attaché in Vienna. And I insist – first on your having a drink, and second on your meeting Ulrica.”

  “Ulrica!” said Barlock, standing of a sudden very still.

  “My wife,” explained the other. “I’ve been married seven years, old boy. Her young hopeful is below now, safely tucked up in the sheets.”

  But Barlock’s eyes were fixed on the back of an unshaven, bleary-eyed man who was checking stems of bananas on a pad. Seven years: an uncommon name like Ulrica. Had the unexpected happened?

  And then a peculiarity in the other’s phrasing struck him.

  “Her young hopeful!” he said with a slight smile.

  “Yes,” answered Lord Rankin. “My wife had been married before. He was drowned, leaving her with a boy two years old.”

  Once again Barlock stared at the man with the pencil below.

  “I see,” he heard himself saying. “By the way, did you ever meet your wife’s first husband?”

  Lord Rankin raised his eyebrows. Loading bananas did not seem to have increased the Baron’s tact.

  “I did not,” he said curtly, and changed the conversation.

  But Barlock hardly heard what he was saying. The unexpected had happened. Back to his mind came the remembrance of that day when Robinson had stood in the doorway of his office. He saw once more the look on his face, heard once more those low-breathed words, “Damnable complications.” And unless he did something the complications had arrived.

  He tried to force himself to think clearly – to get the salient facts in his brain. There, on the dock, within fifteen yards of where he stood, was a man whose wife and child were on board the boat. At any moment Lady Rankin might appear, and what was going to happen then? For even if she did not recognise him, he would be bound to recognise her.

  “Excuse me for a few minutes,” he said. “There are one or two things I must see to on the quay.”

  “You’ll come back?” cried the other, and Barlock nodded. At all costs he must speak to Robinson.

  He went swiftly down the gangway, and crossed to the stand where he sat.

  “Hullo, my noble boss!” said Robinson. “You seem a little agitated.”

  “Look here, Robinson,” he said, quietly, “you’ve got to pull yourself together. Something that you have long feared has happened.”

  For a moment the other stared at him uncomprehendingly; then he sat up with a jerk.

  “You mean that–”

  “I mean that Lord Rankin is on board.”

  “And Ulrica?”

  “Yes, she is on board, and your son.”

  “My God!” Mechanically he was ticking off the bunches as they passed. “My God!”

  “Don’t look round,” went on Barlock. “Rankin is leaning over the rail now, and Lady Rankin has just joined him.”

  He watched the other stiffen, till the sweat dripped off his forehead on to the paper in front of him.

  “If I could only see her once again,” he muttered. “And the boy.”

  “But you mustn’t,” said Barlock, quietly. “Of course – you mustn’t.”

  “Of course I mustn’t,” repeated Robinson, dully. “Why – no; you are right.”

  “So keep your back turned, Robinson,” continued Barlock.

  “Yes, I’ll keep my back turned, Barlock. But tell me how she is looking, Barlock, and whether she still has that quaint little trick of hers of throwing her head sideways when she laughs. Go and talk to her, Barlock – while I go on counting bananas. And if maybe she did drop her handkerchief, why, I don’t think she’d miss it much, would she, Barlock?”

  “Hell!” grunted the other as he turned away. “You poor devil.”

  “Come along,” came Lord Rankin’s cheery hail. “We’ll go and split a bottle.”

  “One thousand three hundred and twenty-one bunches up to
date,” said Robinson, with a twisted grin. “Yes – go and split a bottle, Barlock.”

  And with the feeling that the whole night was a dream from which he would wake soon, the Baron von Studeman went to split a bottle. It increased, that sense of unreality, as the three of them sat in the smoking-room, till he became conscious that his host was looking at him curiously. And he realised he was speaking at random and must pull himself together.

  “All natives, I suppose?” said Rankin. “Don’t you find it damned boring? Except that fellow you were talking to, who looked white.”

  “I rather think he is white,” he answered, slowly. “As white as you or I.”

  It came unexpectedly, the sudden commotion on the platform outside. There was a hoarse shouting from the natives, and then some excited babbling.

  “Probably only a snake,” said Barlock, reassuringly. “They always lose their heads when one arrives in the bananas. Hullo! who is this young man?”

  Standing in the open doorway was a small figure arrayed in a large dressing-gown.

  “I say, mummie,” remarked an enthusiastic treble voice, “I’ve had a priceless time. They’ve just walloped a snake.”

  “Tommy!” cried his mother. “You naughty boy! Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “That funny machine woke me up,” answered the child. “So I put my head out to look. And then I saw all the bananas. So I thought I’d go and see what was happening. There was such a nice gentleman sitting on a stool who wanted to know if I’d shake hands with him.”

  Barlock rose a little abruptly and stared out into the darkness.

  “What’s this about a snake, young fellah?” said Lord Rankin.

  “Well, daddie, just as I was talking to this gentleman, somebody suddenly gave a shout. And I looked round, and there was a yellowy-green snake on the platform close to me. And the gentleman sort of fell out of his chair, and the snake bit him in the hand.”

  “What’s that you say, laddie?” Barlock’s voice seemed to come from a distance. “The snake bit him in the hand?”

  “Why, yes,” said the child. “And then he was so funny. He said, ‘I used to field in the slips, old man,’ and then he went away ever so quickly, while the natives killed the snake.”

  “Well, come to bed at once now,” cried his mother. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  She bustled him out, leaving the two men alone.

  “Young devil,” chuckled Lord Rankin. “Not going yet, von Studeman, are you?”

  “For a little,” returned the other evenly. “I will come back later.”

  But he searched for twenty minutes before he found Robinson. A glance told him it was too late. The end was very near. He had been bitten in the wrist, and nothing could be done.

  “A bonnie kid, Barlock,” he said, feebly. “I’m glad I saw him. Just got my hand there in time. It was one thousand seven hundred and thirty–”

  The voice died away, and the man called Robinson lay still.

  “A very narrow escape for the boy.” It was an hour later, and the Baron von Studeman was standing with Lord Rankin on deck. “The snake was a Fer de Lance, one of the most deadly in the world. They generally remain in the bananas until the stem is lifted out. But this one apparently escaped in the truck; anyway, it was loose on the platform. And but for – Robinson’s quickness, the kid would now be dead.”

  “Good God! It would have broken his mother’s heart,” said the other. “Where is this man, Robinson? Because I must thank him.”

  “I don’t think you quite realise what happened, Rankin,” said the Baron, quietly. “Robinson received the bite intended for the boy in his own wrist.”

  The other stared at him speechlessly.

  “You don’t mean–” he stammered, and the Baron nodded gravely.

  “My God!” repeated the other. “This is too awful. Poor devil! Dead!”

  He paced up and down in his agitation.

  “Anything I could have done for him I would. You see, von Studeman, I didn’t tell you before. But my wife’s first husband was the most frightful waster. And it broke her up badly before he was drowned. Made her put everything into the kid. If anything had happened to him, I don’t know what she’d have done. And this poor chap – dead. I can’t get it somehow. Look here, I must do something. He was probably not too well off, and you could help me here. What about giving a present to his wife? He was married, I suppose?”

  A queer smile flickered round the lips of the Baron von Studeman.

  Below him the machine went on ceaselessly, for the SS Barare was loading bananas and it was an all-night job.

  “Married?” he said. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  THE GREEN DEATH

  Part 1

  1

  “And why Major Seymour, do they call you ‘Old Point of Detail’?”

  The tall, spare man, with a face tanned by years in the tropics, turned at the question, and glanced at the girl beside him. At the time when most boys are still at school, force of circumstances had sent him far afield into strange corners of the earth – a wanderer, and picker-up of odd jobs. He had done police work in India – he had been on a rubber plantation in Sumatra. The Amazon knew him and so did the Yukon, while his knowledge of the customs of tribes in Darkest Africa – the very names of which were unknown to most people – was greater than the average Londoner has of his native city. In fact, before the war it would have been difficult to sit for an evening in one of those clubs which spring into being in all corners where Englishmen guard their far-flung inheritance without Bob Seymour’s name cropping up.

  Then had come the war, and in the van of the great army from the mountains and the swamps which trekked home as the first shot rang out, he came. As his reward he got a DSO and one leg permanently shortened by two inches. He also met a girl – the girl who had just asked him the question.

  He’d met her just a year after the Armistice, when he was wondering whether there was any place for a cripple in the lands that he knew. And from that day everything had changed. Even to himself he wouldn’t admit it; the thought of asking such a glorious bit of loveliness to tie herself to a useless has-been like himself was out of the question. But he let the days slip by, content to meet her occasionally at dinner – to see her, in the distance, at a theatre. And now, for the first time, he found himself staying under the same roof. When he’d arrived the preceding day and had seen her in the hall, just for a moment his heart had stopped beating, and then had given a great bound forward. She, of course, knew nothing of his feelings; of that he felt sure. And she must never know; of that he was determined. The whole thing was out of the question.

  Of course – naturally. And the only comment which a mere narrator of facts can offer on the state of affairs is to record the remark made by Ruth Brabazon to a very dear friend of hers after Bob Seymour had limped upstairs to his room.

  “That’s the man, Delia,” she said, with a little smile. “And if he doesn’t say something soon, I shall have to.”

  “He looks a perfect darling,” remarked the other.

  “He is,” sighed Ruth. “But he won’t give me the chance of telling him so. He thinks he’s a cripple.”

  With which brief insight into things as they really were, we can now return to things as Bob Seymour thought they were. Beside him, on a sofa in the hall, sat the girl who had kept him in England through long months, and she had just asked him a question.

  “The Old, I trust, is a term of endearment,” he answered, with a smile, “and not a brutal reflection on my tale of years. The Point of Detail refers to a favourite saying of mine with which my reprobate subalterns – of whom your brother was quite the worst – used to mock me.”

  “Bill is the limit,” murmured the girl. “What was the saying?”

  “I used to preach the importance of Points of Detail to ’em,” he grinned. “One is nothing; two are a coincidence; three are a moral certainty. And they’re very easy to see if you have eyes to see them with.”


  “I suppose they are, Old Point of Detail,” she replied, softly.

  Was it his imagination or did she lay a faint stress on the Old?

  “It was certainly a term of endearment,” she continued deliberately; “if what Bill says is to be believed.”

  “Oh! Bill’s an ass,” said Seymour, sheepishly.

  “Thank you,” she remarked, and he noticed her eyes were twinkling. “I’ve always been told I’m exactly like Bill. I know we always used to like the same things when we were children.” She rose and crossed the hall. “Time to dress for dinner, I think.”

  In the dim light he could not see her face clearly; he only knew his heart was thumping wildly. Did she mean–? And then from halfway up the stairs she spoke again.

  “Two are certainly a coincidence,” she agreed, thoughtfully. “But the third would have to be pretty conclusive before you could take it as a certainty.”

  2

  “Well, Major Seymour, hitting ’em in the beak?” The Celebrated Actor mixed himself a cocktail with that delicate grace for which he was famed on both sides of the Atlantic.

  “So–so, Mr Trayne,” returned the other. “All the easy ones came my way.”

  The house-party were in the hall waiting for dinner to be announced, but the one member of it who mattered to Bob had not yet appeared.

  “Rot, my dear fellow,” said his host, who had come up in time to hear his last remark. “Your shooting was magnificent – absolutely magnificent. You had four birds in the air once from your guns.”

  “Personally,” murmured the Celebrated Actor, “it fails to appeal to me. Apart from my intense fright at letting off lethal weapons, I have never yet succeeded in hitting anything except a keeper or – more frequently – a guest. I abhor violence – except at rehearsals.” He broke off as a heavy, bull-necked man came slowly down the stairs. “And who is the latest addition to our number, Sir Robert?”