“Two years later found them in New York. Florrie picked up another lover, greatly to the relief of the Swamy, who hated paying for her dinners. This man, however, insisted on her playing the game: a straight divorce: a straight marriage; and no more foolishness. Haramzada gladly agreed. But just at this moment it was discovered that Florrie was not so penniless as had been supposed; a rich uncle wrote, offering to make her his heir, his only son having been killed in France. The Swamy instantly altered his whole position. He went back to his wife, pleaded with her, begged her forgiveness, played on her pity — ultimately got her to waver. She was now again with child by the new lover. All this time, however, Haramzada was carrying on an intrigue with a German girl, the regular Broadway type. At this moment of sham reconciliation the uncle died. Haramzada resolved on a master-stroke. During her previous pregnancy the sea-voyage had come near to causing one, if not two deaths. He hated his wife most bitterly — of course, such a creature is utterly incapable of love for anybody — he was her heir, and besides, her life was heavily insured. So he insisted on her going to England to see her children, and attend to the estate left by her uncle. She became dangerously ill, and miscarried; but she lived. The Swamy then hurried over to join her. What was his chagrin to find that her uncle’s money was left in trust for her children, so that he could not touch more than a small necessary income?
“He was in great financial straits; robbery and murder were certainly in his heart. Can we be surprised that his hand followed suit? It only needed the opportunity; and the other night he evidently had it.”
“You have failed utterly,” replied the mystic with some scorn, “to grasp the mind of the thing. All because you will not read his book on Buddhism! He had no opportunity to rob and kill. Any other, yes; but not he. Consider all his acts. We find extreme meanness, selfishness, cunning, the most ignoble attitudes throughout, never a glimpse of anything vertebrate. This is all in accordance with his view of Buddhism. He had a thousand ‘opportunities’ to kill his wife in India. But not what he, Ananda Haramzada Swamy, calls opportunities. He won’t put his neck in a noose; not he! He hopes that the Indian climate may kill her; he hopes that the sea voyage may kill her. But he won’t do more in the way of murder than say: ‘Darling, do come out; I’m so lonesome,’ or ‘Darling, do go to England; I’m so anxious about the sweet babies.’ He’s cold as a fish, but he’s never brutal, and he’s a coward to the bone.”
“That’s rather cute,” said Flynn. “Now you mention it, I’ll do another lap. I got this story from Florrie’s lover No. 3, by the same token. You wouldn’t blame him for talking. I’ve known him twenty years, and he was all broken up — just in that state when one has to tell some one or burst. He told me how he left her. When she went back to the Swamy he cut off short, and she’s been plaguing him ever since to take her back. He won’t. Well, one day he had slapped her gently for impudence. She was going to try to make a slave of him, as she had of her yellow and black men. She said to him: ‘If only Ananda had beaten me I would have loved him always.’ So evidently he never had.”
“What was your friend doing in that galley?” asked Broughton.
“Oh, he’s a crank. Saw good in her and wanted to save her. Damned fool! But of course he knew that the only way was to be like a rock — never to yield an inch to any of her gusts of passion. If the Swamy had not murdered their baby I think he might have won.”
“I agree with your estimate. Your friend’s Quixotic,” said Simon Iff. “My interest is in schools, not in hospitals. To let the degenerates drop out is the true kindness — certainly to the race, perhaps even to them.”
“To get back to the point,” said Broughton. “You still hold the Swamy innocent?”
“I do. Buddhism is a religion of the most dauntless courage. The whole force of the universe from all eternity is challenged by him who would become an arahat, as they call what we call saints, only it’s more than that. The saint has God on his side; the would-be arahat has nothing but himself and the memory that there was once a man who won in that incalculable struggle. Yet you suggest that the man who not only fails to appreciate this courage, but even to perceive it, is brave enough to kill a woman with a poker, and even to return to the house where her corpse lies. If he had killed her, by some chance, he would have fled — fled, fled to the darkest corner of the earth! “No, sir, Dr. Haramzada Swamy did not kill that woman!” A newsboy ran across the lawn. “Extry! Extry!” he shouted, “full confession by the Injun!”
Broughton and Flynn jumped for the paper; Simon Iff only poured himself another glass of brandy.
Flynn’s professional eye first caught the paragraph. “Textual!” he exclaimed gleefully, and began to read aloud.
“As every one knows,” the confession began, “Lady Brooke Hunter was notorious for her immoralities.” Iff chuckled, and rubbed his hands.
“She had become old and unattractive. I met her at the Covent Garden ball. She begged me to pass the night with her. I took pity on her, and consented. A little before five o’clock she said she must go home. I remarked, as she rose, upon her obesity, and suggested, out of pure kindness, a way to remove it by practising Indian clubs. I illustrated some exercises with the poker. Suddenly I had a dizzy fit; the poker slipped out of my hand and struck her on the temple. Horrified, I rushed out to find a doctor; but in my bewilderment I could not do so. Then I bethought me of the telephone, and returned home to use it. To my surprise I found the police in the flat. Daniels must have stolen the jewels.” Broughton gave a great shout of laughter. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he roared. “Nor will the jury.”
“Nor do I,” said Jack Flynn. “Disgusting! look how he throws all the blame on every one else. All but the deathblow — and that’s an accident. Dizziness! No, sir, he had that poker by the business end all right!”
“I don’t altogether believe the story myself,” murmured Simon Iff, in a rather deprecating manner. “He never struck that blow. I’m humbled over this thing, gentlemen; I can’t see the truth. And what’s more, I can’t see why that Eurasian can’t tell the truth; I’m sure he could save his neck if he did. I can only think of two possibilities; one, that to tell the truth would disclose some other crime, some meaner crime, some vileness possible for him; two, that, somehow or other, he doesn’t know the truth himself. Or is it that he’s incapable of truth as such? Confound it, I’ve been so keen to argue with you that I’ve not put on my thinking cap!”
“I tell you what,” interjected Flynn. “Write me an article on the case; once the man’s condemned, as he will be, I can print it. And see if you can get a reprieve on the strength of his book on Buddhism!”
“You shall have the copy to-morrow. It’s time I paddled up to Henley. So long!”
The old man went down the lawn to his skiff. He was not as straight as usual; and as he pulled off, the others thought his figure an incarnate Note of Interrogation.
Not long afterwards the case was tried. Haramzada Swamy was found guilty, as the whole country had anticipated. The next day the article by Simon Iff appeared in the “Emerald Tablet.”
“I am no orator, as Antony was,” it began. “I come not to praise Caesar, but to postpone his burial”; and went on to recapitulate in a precise and logical form the arguments already advanced on the lawn at Skindle’s. The wife of the condemned man had delightfully given permission for the publication of her nauseating story. In her own eyes she was a heroine. The article ended by saying that murder depended upon three things, will, capacity and opportunity; that in this case all three were apparently present, but that the type of murder was one of which Dr. Haramzada Swamy was incapable. “I’m not saying this to flatter him. But he is incapable of it. A snake may bite you as you walk unwarily in the jungle or across the jhil. (Simple Simon delighted in exotic words.) But a snake will never kick you. I would stake my life that Dr. Haramzada Swamy is innocent of the murder for which he has been condemned to death. HE IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH. If he is hanged, it
will not be, perhaps, altogether a miscarriage of justice. But it will be an error of law.”
The publication of this essay threw England into convulsions of merriment. Their beloved crank had surpassed all his previous efforts. Even the little clique of his admirers were compelled to represent this article as mere sublimity of paradox.
A week later came another explanatory confession from the Swamy, equally unavailing as it was unconvincing. A week before the date set for the execution he broke down altogether, made “true and full confession of deliberate murder,” disclosed the place where he had hidden the jewels, which were duly recovered, and was received into the Roman Catholic Church.
Reconciled thus with his Maker, he strove to obtain the pardon of his fellows; but the Home Secretary “declined to interfere” in a voice that destroyed a reputation for suavity of manner that he had been forty and three years in building!
At the appointed moment Ananda Haramzada Swamy, Doctor of Philosophy, suffered the extreme penalty of the law.
Jack Flynn was playing billiards with Simon Iff in the Hemlock Club. “You must be pretty fed up,” the editor remarked. “I don’t want to rub it in; but that final confession must have made you feel pretty sore!”
“Not a bit!” replied the mystic cheerfully, “it’s all of a piece with the rest of his life. He never touched that woman; and, now, I’m quite sure he was not only innocent but ignorant. Oh, I know what you want to quote: ‘A fool is more wise in his own conceit than seven men that can render a reason.’ Don’t mind my seniority!”
“Hang it,” said Flynn, “I don’t mean that; but — you — well, you are a bit obstinate, you know. By the way, here’s a letter for you. I brought it in from the office. More abuse, I suppose!”
Simple Simon put the letter in his pocket, and they finished their game.
“I’ll read the abuse,” said the mystic, taking a chair by the fire, “it may be amusing. Qui m’ abuse m’ amuse! to alter one of Wilde’s remarks a trifle.” But as he read his face did not lighten; and at the end he put the letter away carefully in his pocket. Flynn watched him in silence. For ten minutes Simon Iff remained as still as an Egyptian God. Then he rose.
“I want you to come to my house,” he said, “I have something particular to discuss.” The other fell in with his mood; they walked in silence across the park to Carlton House Terrace. The footman must have been trained to expect his master, for the door opened as the old magician and his friend reached it. Simon Iff led the way up the old marble staircase, with its satyrs and fauns at every corner, until they came to a small door of brass, on which was a relief, a curious pattern of geometry, with Greek capitals. This door opened at the touch of a secret spring. The room within was draped in black; it was lighted by a plain lamp of silver, such as one sees in churches in Italy, with a red glass and a wick floating in olive oil. At one end was a great chair of carved ebony, above which was a single blue ostrich feather. Below the lamp stood a small square altar, painted white, on which were a golden cross and a rose of scarlet enamel. On a small desk before the chair was a great book, on one side of it a naked sword, on the other a pair of balances.
“I want you to sit in that chair,” said the magician to Flynn. “This is my House of Judgement. But I want to ask you to judge in this case; I am not qualified to judge the matter that I am about to put before you; for I have already recorded my opinion.” Flynn, a little awed, obeyed with a certain diffidence.
Simon Iff stood before the altar, drew the letter from his pocket, and began to read:
“My dear sir:
“This letter is due to you, for you understand the nature of Truth.
“In your article upon the recent murder, that of my wife Sybil, you had no knowledge of what happened, for you had no facts on which to base your judgement; nor indeed was the discovery of the murderer the object of your inquiry; you confined yourself to proving not what did happen, but what could not have happened. In this limited investigation you were extraordinarily accurate.
“I have adored my wife since the day I met her; more, I have revered her with a passionate devotion as of a man to a goddess. For this exaggeration of proper feeling I am punished.
“I have always believed in her purity and fidelity, despite numerous rumors which reached my ears. But in July last I allowed myself to be tempted by an old friend, who was importunate, and justifiably so, since the honor of his own wife was involved in a way to which I need not refer more precisely.
“I therefore purchased a disguise and presented myself at the Costume Ball at Covent Garden on the 3d of July last. I soon recognized my wife, and observed her conduct closely. She danced several times with Dr. Haramzada Swamy, and they left the ball together. I followed them; I still hoped that no serious wrong was contemplated. They went up in the lift; I took the opportunity to slip upstairs, unobserved. I was just able to distinguish into which door they went. At this door I waited and listened. In ten minutes I had heard enough. The blow was crippling; I must have fainted; for the next thing I remember is that I was sitting on the floor, but alert and intent upon the dialogue. I heard first the whimpering voice of the Eurasian, punctuated with a nauseating giggle. ‘It is a most unfortunate necessity, dear lady,’ were his first words. She replied with a torrent of oaths and curses. She was apparently defying him, but I could not tell why. ‘You see, I put the dainty little thing away,’ he said, ‘where you can’t find it, dear lady; you surely wouldn’t deprive your adorer of such an intimate souvenir. And you mustn’t make a noise in the flat, must you, dear? We’re so respectable here.’ Again she cursed him, but in a lower voice. I had no idea she knew such words; some of them I did not know myself. ‘Your husband will certainly kill you outright, or divorce you at the very least, if he finds you out; personally, I’m inclined to think he’ll kill you, you know. He’s such a severe type of man, not at all a ladies’ man, dear, I’m afraid. So you’ll give me all those pretty little toys, and you can make up a story about a robbery; I’m sure he’ll believe you, you’re so clever, rather like my wife in some ways.’
“I cannot describe the impression made by his little whining voice, but it made me screw up my face like one who has bitten into a sour apple. I heard the noise of clattering; evidently Sybil had thrown her jewels on the floor. ‘I’ll take the rings, too,’ he went on. ‘It will be better for the story you’ll tell him. I’m advising you in your own interests, you know.’ Again the horrible little giggle. ‘Such a sensible little lady!’ he added, ‘and now I’ll get my hat and coat and leave you for an hour, so that you can dress and go home. I’m so sorry I haven’t got a maid to help you.’
“By instinct, I suppose, I withdrew from the door and concealed myself beyond the elevator. Let him go out, jewels and all; my business was with my wife.
“He slipped hurriedly and stealthily out, as I could see through the gilded palings of the elevator shaft, ran down one flight of stairs and rang for the lift. The moment the machine started he began to run down the stairs again. At the same moment I strode across the landing and struck my fist upon the door. It yielded; he had left it unlatched.
“You, Mr. Iff, are probably the one person in England who can imagine — that is, in the proper sense of the word, make an image of — my state of mind. Coincident were, firstly, a blaze of wrath at her treachery of a life time; and, secondly, a habit of protection. She was an infamous woman who had destroyed the life of a good man; and she was also a helpless woman who had been blackmailed and robbed by a man more wretched and infamous than she.
“I honestly believe that my brain had become dull to the former of these impressions; that my main conscious idea was to comfort. But I had not counted on the effect of the scene itself. Some people, as you know better than anybody, visualize everything; some don’t. Tell one man to shut his eyes; then whisper ‘church’; he will see twenty familiar churches in a moment just as if they were in front of him. I am not one of these men. When my eyes are closed I see nothing. So
, though I had the fact of adultery in my mind, I had nowise staged the act in the theatre of my mind. Therefore the opening of the door was a new shock. Sybil was standing, clad only in a light garment, and that torn across; her hair disheveled, her eyes bloodshot; the paint and powder on her face — that was itself a revelation of infamy to me.
“The divan was in a state of disorder; everything testified with open mouth to the atrocity perpetrated against me. I believe that doctors would prove — I believe that you yourself would agree — that I became totally insane for the moment. This is probably then true; yet what I know of it is this, that I lost all sense of anger or distress. She said one word, a word of extreme filth, at seeing me. I simply stooped, picked up the poker, and struck her down. I had no idea that I was killing a woman; so far I will agree with you; my act was entirely reflex, like a knee-jerk, or as one brushes a fly from one’s head without consciousness of its presence.
“Still without true volition, I went out and closed the door. The interview was at an end. I walked down the stairs; Daniels, preoccupied with predatory ideas, apparently failed to see me at all.
“Why did I not explain this a week or two ago? Sir, I was desirous that a certain half-breed cur should meet with his desert.
The Complete Simon Iff Page 12