The Definite Object

by Jeffery Farnol

  “An’ now,” said M’Ginnis, leaning against a corner of the desk, “sit down here, nice an’ close, an’ write that letter—there’s pen an’ ink an’ paper—an’ quick about it or by—”

  M’Ginnis sprang up and turned as the glass of the window splintered to fragments, and, almost with the crash, Ravenslee leapt—a fierce twist, a vicious wrench, and the deadly weapon had changed hands.

  “Lucky it didn’t go off,” said Ravenslee, smiling grimly at the revolver he held, “others might have heard, and, Mr. Flowers, I want to be alone with you just a little longer. Of course, I might shoot you for the murderous beast you are, or I might walk you over to the nearest police depot for the crook I think you are—but—oh, well, of late I’ve been yearning to get my hands on you and so”—Ravenslee turned and pitched the revolver through the broken window. But, almost as the weapon left his hand, M’Ginnis was upon him, and, reeling from the blow, Ravenslee staggered blindly across the room, till stayed by the wall, and sank there, crouched and groaning, his face hidden in his hands.

  With a cry hoarse and fierce, M’Ginnis followed and stooped, eager to make an end—stooped to be met by two fierce hands, sure hands and strong, that grasped his silken neckerchief as this crouching figure rose suddenly erect. So for a wild, panting moment they grappled, swaying grimly to and fro, while ever the silken neckerchief was twisted tight and tighter. Choking now, M’Ginnis felt fingers on his naked throat, iron fingers that clutched cruelly, and in this painful grip was whirled, choking, against the wall and thence borne down and down. And now M’Ginnis, lying helpless across his opponent’s knee, stared up into a face pale but grimly joyous, lips that curled back from gnashing white teeth—eyes that glared merciless. So Ravenslee bent M’Ginnis back across his knee and choked him there awhile, then suddenly relaxed his hold and let M’Ginnis sink, gasping, to the floor.

  “A little—rough, Mr. Flowers,” he panted, “a trifle—rough with you—I fear—but I want you—to know that you—shall not utter—her name—in my presence. Now the key—I prefer door to window—the key, Mr. Flowers—ah, here it is!” So saying, Ravenslee stood upright, and wiping blood and sweat from him with his sleeve, turned to the door. “One other thing, Mr. Flowers; have the goodness to take off your neckerchief next time, or I—may strangle you outright.”

  Halfway down the passage Ravenslee turned to see Murder close on his heels. Once he smote and twice, but nothing might stay that bull-like rush and, locked in a desperate clinch, he was borne back and back, their trampling lost in the universal din about them, as reeling, staggering, they crashed out through wrecked and splintered door and, still locked together, were swallowed in the night beyond.

  Thus the Spider, crouching in the dark beneath the broken window with Spike beside him, was presently aware of the sickening sounds of furious struggling close at hand, and of a hoarse, panting voice that cursed in fierce triumph—a voice that ended all at once in a ghastly strangling choke; and recognising this voice, the Spider hunched his great shoulders and bore Spike to a remote spot where stood a solitary lamp-post. Here he waited, calm-eyed and chewing placidly, one arm about the fretful Spike.

  Presently Ravenslee joined them; the shabby hat was gone, and there was a smear of blood upon his cheek, also he laboured in his breathing, but his eyes were joyous.

  “Bo, what about Bud?”

  “Oh, he’s lying around somewhere.”

  “Hully Chee—d’ ye mean—”

  “He tried gouging first, but I expected that; then he tried to throttle me, but I throttled a little harder. He’s an ugly customer, as you said, but”—Ravenslee laughed and glanced at his bloody knuckles—”I don’t think he’ll be keen to rough it with me again just yet.”

  “Bo, I guess you can be pretty ugly too—say, when you laugh that way I feel—kind of sorry for Bud.”

  “Why, what’s wrong with Spike?”

  “Dunno—I guess they’ve been slinging dope into him. And he’s copped it pretty bad from Young Alf too—look at that eye!”

  “Spike!” said Ravenslee, shaking him, “Spike, what is it? Buck up, old fellow!” But Spike only stared dazedly and moaned.

  “It’s dope all right,” nodded the Spider, “or else Bud’s mixed th’ drinks on him.”

  “Damn him!” said Ravenslee softly. “I wish I’d throttled a little harder!”

  “I guess you give Bud all he needs for the present,” said Spider grimly, “anyway, I’m goin’ t’ see. The Kid ain’t hurt none. Get him home t’ bed, an’ he’ll be all right s’long, long, Geoff.”

  “Good night, Spider, and—thank you. Oh, by the way, who’s Heine?”

  “Heine’s a Deutscher, Geoff. Heine’s about as clean as dirt an’ as straight as a corkscrew; why, he’d shoot his own mother if y’ paid him, like he did—but say, what d’ you know about him, anyway?”

  “Well, for one thing, I know he’s been arrested in Jersey City—”

  “Heine? Pinched? Say, bo, what yer givin’ us—who says so?”

  “Bud, and—”

  But the Spider, waiting for no more, had turned about and was running back across the open lot.

  CHAPTER XXI

  HOW M’GINNIS THREATENED AND—WENT

  “Mr. Geoffrey, prayer is a wonderful prop to a anxious ‘eart!” said Mrs. Trapes, leaning over the banisters to greet him as he ascended. “Mr. Geoffrey, my hands has been lifted in prayer for ye this night as so did me behoove, and here you are safe back with—that b’y. A prayer prayed proper, and prayed by them as ain’t plaguein’ the Lord constant about their souls an’ other diseases, is always dooly regarded. Yes, sir, a occasional petition is always heard and worketh wonders as the—my land, Mr. Geoffrey, look at your face!”

  “I know, Mrs. Trapes. Has she come in yet?”

  “Not yet—an’ glad I am. You’re all bleedin’—stoop your head a bit—there!” and very tenderly she staunched the cut below the curly hair with an apron clean and spotless as usual. “And the b’y—lord, what’s come to him?”

  “A black eye—two, I’m afraid. Anyhow, I’ll look after him and get him into bed before she comes; can you keep her away till I’ve done so?”

  “I’ll try. Poor lad!” she sighed, touching Spike’s drooping head with bony fingers, “if she wasn’t his sister, I’d be sorry for him!”

  So Ravenslee took Spike in hand, bathing his bruised and battered features and setting ice water to his puffy lips, which the lad gulped thirstily. Thereafter he revived quickly but grew only the more morose and sulky.

  “All right,” he muttered, “I’ll go t’ bed, only—leave me, see!”

  “Can’t I help you?”

  “No—you lemme alone. Oh, I know—you think I’m soused, but I ain’t; I—I’m not drunk, I tell ye—I wish I was. I ain’t no kid, so lemme alone—an’ I ain’t drunk. What if me legs is shaky? So ‘ud yours be if you’d got—what I got. It was dat last swing t’ d’ jaw as done me—but I ain’t drunk ‘n’ I ain’t a kid t’ be undressed—so chase ye’self an’ lemme alone!”

  “All right, Spike—only get to bed like a good chap before your sister comes.”

  “You leave my sister alone; she ain’t—that kind, an’ she ain’t fer you, anyway.”

  “That will do, Arthur—get into bed! I’ll give you five minutes!” So saying, Ravenslee turned away, but, as he closed the door, his quick ear detected the clink of glass, and turning, he saw Spike draw a small flask from his pocket.

  “Give me that stuff, old fellow.”

  “Oh, you can’t con me! I ain’t a kid, so you lemme alone!” and Spike raised the flask to his lips, but in that instant it was snatched away. Spike staggered back to the wall and leaned there, passing his hand to and fro across his brow as though dazed, then stumbled out into the room beyond.

  “Gimme it, Geoff, gimme it!” he panted, “you won’t keep it, no, no—Bud slipped it to me after I come to. Gimme it, Geoff. I want t’ forget—so be a sport an’ give it me—you
will, won’t ye?”

  Ravenslee shook his head, whereat the boy broke out more passionately:

  “Oh—don’t ye see, Geoff—can’t ye understand? I—I was knocked out t’night—I took th’ count! I—I’m done for, I had me chance, an’ I didn’t make good! I—didn’t—make good!” As he spoke, the lad hid his bruised face within his hands, while great sobs shook him.

  “Why, Spike! Why, Arthur, old chap—never mind—”

  “Gimme th’ bottle, Geoff! Be a pal an’ gimme th’ stuff—I want t’ forget!”

  “This wouldn’t help you.”

  “Give it me, d’ ye hear—I want it—I’ll have it, anyway—I’ll—” Spike’s voice failed, and cowering back, he sank into a chair at sight of her who stood within the doorway so very silent and pale of lip.

  “Ah, don’t, Hermy—don’t look at me like that,” he whispered. “Your eyes hurt me! I ain’t drunk—this time!”

  “Oh, boy!” she sighed, “oh, boy—after all your promises!”

  Spike rose with hands stretched out appealingly, but even so, he swayed slightly, and seeing this, she shivered.

  “Is it th’ fightin’ you mean, Hermy? Why, I did it all for you, Hermy, all for you—I wanted t’ be a champion ‘cause all champions are rich. I wanted t’ make you a real lady—t’ take you away from Mulligan’s—but now—I’m only—a ‘has-been.’ I’ve lost me chance—oh, Hermy, I’m done for; I—oh, Geoff, I—think I’ll—go to bed.”

  So Ravenslee set down the flask, and, clasping an arm about Spike’s swaying form, led him from the room, while Hermione stood rigid and watched them go. But when the door had closed behind them, she bowed her head upon her hands and sobbed miserably, until, spying the half-emptied flask through her tears, she sprang forward, and snatching it from the table, dashed it passionately to the floor.

  “Oh, dear God of Heaven!” she whispered, sinking to her knees, “not that way—ah, save him from that—keep him from treading that path!” With head bowed upon her folded hands she knelt thus awhile until a sound in the passage aroused her, and rising to her feet, she turned and confronted Bud M’Ginnis.

  He stood upon the threshold, and though his glowing, eager eyes dwelt yearningly upon her beauty, he made no motion to enter the room. Upon one cheek the skin was torn and grazed from nose to ear, and upon his powerful throat were vivid marks that showed fierce and red, and these seemed to worry him, for even while he stared upon her loveliness, his hand stole up to his neck, and he touched these glowing blotches gently with his fingers.

  “God, Hermy,” said he at last, “you get more beautiful every day!”

  She was silent, but reading the fierce scorn in her eyes, he laughed softly and leaned nearer. “Some day, Hermy, you’ll be—all mine! Oh, I can wait; there’s others, an’ you’re worth waitin’ for, I guess. But some day you’ll come t’ me—you shall—you must! Meantime there’s others, but some day it’ll be you an’ you only—when you’re my wife. Ah, marry me, Hermy; I could give you all you want, an’ there’d never be any one else for me—then!”

  Her eyes still met his unflinchingly, only she drew away from his nearness, shivering a little; seeing which, he frowned and clenched one hand, for the other had wandered up to his throat again.

  “Won’t ye speak t’ me?” he demanded savagely, then shrugging his great shoulders, he continued in gentler tones: “I ain’t here t’ quarrel, Hermy; I only came t’ see if th’ Kid got home all right.” Hermione’s firm, red lips remained tightly closed. “Did he?” Hermione slowly inclined her head.

  “Say now, Hermy,” he went on, and his voice grew almost wheedling, “there was a guy here the other night—a stranger, I guess—one o’ these tired, sleepy guys—one o’ the reg’lar soft-talkin’ nancy-boys—who is he?” Hermione only sighed wearily, whereat his voice grew hoarse with passion, and he questioned her fiercely: “Who is he, eh—who is he? What was he doin’ around here, anyway? Well, can’t ye talk? Can’t ye speak?”

  Hermione only looked at him, and before those calm, fearless eyes, M’Ginnis burned in a wild yet impotent rage.

  “Won’t talk, hey?” he questioned between grinding teeth. “Well, now, see here, Hermy. If you let this guy come any love business with you behind me back, it’ll be his finish—an’ he can blame you for it! An’ see here again—watch out for young Arthur. Oh!” he cried, seeing her flinch, “you think you’ve got the Kid tied to ye, you think you’ve got him, I guess—but you ain’t! I’ve got him—right here!” and holding out his hand, M’Ginnis slowly clenched it into a fist. “I’ve got th’ Kid, see—an’ he’s goin’ th’ way I want him—he’s got to, see?”

  “Ah!” she cried, her scorn and fearless pride shattered to trembling pleading at last. “What do you mean—oh, what do you mean?”

  “I mean as I want ye, an’ I’m goin’ to have ye!” he answered. “I mean that instead of ‘no’ you’re goin’ t’ give me ‘yes’—for th’ Kid’s sake!”

  “What do you—mean?” she said again between quivering lips, her eyes full of a growing terror.

  “Mean?” he continued relentlessly, viewing her trembling loveliness with hungry eyes. “Well—that’s what I mean!” and he pointed to the broken flask upon the floor. “If you want t’ see it in his face more an’ more, if you want t’ smell it in his breath—say ‘No!’ If you want t’ see his hands begin t’ shake, if you want t’ hear his foot come stumbling up th’ stair—say ‘No!’ I guess you remember what it’s like—you’ve seen it all before. Well, if ye want Arthur t’ grow into what his drunken father was before him—say ‘No!’”

  “Go away!” she moaned, “go away!”

  “Oh, I’ll go, but first I’ll tell you this—”

  “I think not, Mr. Flowers—no, I’m sure you won’t!”

  Ravenslee’s voice was soft and pleasant as usual, but before the burning ferocity of his eyes, the merciless line of that grim, implacable mouth, before all the hush and deadly purpose of him, the loud hectoring of M’Ginnis seemed a thing of no account. Beholding his pale, set face Hermione, sighing deeply, shrank away; even M’Ginnis blenched as, very slowly, Ravenslee approached him, speaking softly the while.

  “Get out, Mr. Flowers, get out! Don’t say another word—no, not one, if only because of ‘that dog-gone fool Heine!’ Now go, or so help me God, this time—I’ll kill you!”

  Hermione leaned her trembling body against the table for support. And yet—could it be fear that had waked this new glory in her eyes, had brought this glowing colour to her cheek, had made her sweet breath pant and hurry so—fear?

  M’Ginnis stood rigid, watching Ravenslee advance; suddenly he tried to speak yet uttered no word; he raised a fumbling hand to his bruised and swollen throat, striving again for speech but choked instead, and, uttering a sound, hoarse and inarticulate, he swung upon his heel and strode blindly away.

  Then Ravenslee turned to find Hermione sunk down beside the table, her burning face hidden between her arms, her betraying eyes fast shut.

  “You are tired,” he said gently, “that damned—er—I should say Mr. Flowers and—other unpleasant things have upset you, haven’t they?”

  Hermione made a motion of assent, and Ravenslee continued, softer than before:

  “I wanted you to make up your mind to come away to-night, but—I can’t ask you now, can I? It—it wouldn’t be—er—the thing, would it?”

  Hermione didn’t answer or lift her head and, stooping above her, he saw how she was trembling; but her eyes were still fast shut.

  “You—you’re not afraid—of me, are you, Hermione?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not—crying, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’d—better go, hadn’t I? To Mrs. Trapes and supper—stewed beef, I think, with—er—carrots and onions—”

  Her head was still bowed, and his tone was so light, his voice so lazy, how was she to know that his hands were quivering or see how the passion of his yearni
ng was shaking him, fighting for utterance against his iron will? How was she to know anything of all this until, swiftly, lightly, he stooped and kissed the shining glory of her hair? In a while she raised her head, but then—she was alone.

  CHAPTER XXII

  TELLS OF AN EARLY MORNING VISIT AND A WARNING

  Ravenslee dreamed that he was in a wood—with Hermione, of course. She came to him through the leafy twilight, all aglow with youth and love, eager to give herself to his embrace. And from her eyes love looked at him unashamed, love touched him in her soft caressing hands, came to him in the passionate caress of her scarlet mouth, love cradled him in the clasp of her white arms. And the sun, peeping down inquisitively through the leaves, showed all the beauty of her and made a rippling splendour of her hair.

  But now the woodpecker began a tap-tapping soft and insistent somewhere out of sight, a small noise yet disturbing, that followed them wheresoever they went. Thus they wandered, close entwined, but ever the wood grew darker until they came at last to a mighty tree whose sombre, far-flung branches shut out the kindly sun. And lo! within this gloom the woodpecker was before them—a most persistent bird, this, tap-tapping louder than ever, whereat Hermione, seized of sudden terror, struggled in his embrace and, pointing upward, cried aloud, and was gone from him. Then, looking where she had pointed, he beheld no woodpecker, but the hated face of Bud M’Ginnis—

  Ravenslee blinked drowsily at the wall where purple roses bloomed, at the fly-blown text in the tarnished frame with its notable legend:

  LOVE ONE ANOTHER

  and sighed. But in his waking ears was the tap of the woodpecker, loud and persistent as ever! Wherefore he started, stared, sat up suddenly and, glancing toward the window, beheld a large cap and a pair of shoulders he thought he recognised.

  “Why, Spider!” he exclaimed, “what the—”

  “Sufferin’ Mike!” sighed the Spider plaintively, “here I’ve been knockin’ at your all-fired winder—knockin’ an’ knockin’, an’ here you’ve been snorin’ and snorin’.”