“Have they got the chap what did it?”
“Not yet. But they suspect a chauffeur, I think it was. Or a footman. Anyhow it was somebody in service.”
“Wonder if I know him. I’ve several boys in service. It’s awful what they do do nowadays, isn’t it? Why, I’ll never feel safe again.” She giggled inanely.
“I’ve some more news for you,” the nurse went on. “The doctor says you can get up for a little while this afternoon—and if you continue to improve at this rate you’ll be leaving us next week, probably on Monday.” She fussed around the room, lowering the blind, and moving the glasses on the bedside table. “And your landlady sent some more of your things this morning,” she concluded.
In a way Nelly was sorry to be leaving the Hospital. She had been very comfortable there, and the return to her work in the stuffy tea-shop was, at that moment, extremely uninviting.
Her thoughts returned to George. She’d get even with him somehow—see if she didn’t.
On the Sunday afternoon, the day previous to her departure, Nelly sat on her bed gossiping to the nurse, who had brought in a copy of a Sunday paper of a popular nature, that enjoyed a circulation of several millions. One of its features was a weekly competition for those who deemed themselves judges of dress, and there are very few women who do not see themselves in that guise. Also she carried a copy of the last week’s number, to show Nelly the choice she had made. Together they inspected the occasionally fantastic garments, arranging them in their order of merit. At length, a decision having at last been reached, nurse bustled off in search of pen and ink to fill in the fateful form.
Left by herself Nelly idly turned the pages of the week-old journal. From the printed page her eyes were held by the poorly printed photograph of a handsome smiling face. Underneath she read:
“GEORGE YARROW, THE MAN THE POLICE QUESTIONED.”
Laboriously but intently she read of the man’s explanation of his being in Hyde Park at the time of the crime, and of his flat denial that he was anywhere near the Common.
Nelly held the paper in her hand and stared at the report. She thought of his hurry to leave her . . . and of his jilting her. Should she go to the police? She wanted time to think.
The next day Nelly left the Hospital, but her mind was restless. What had she better do? The police? No—there was no knowing where going to the police would get you, in her opinion, and it didn’t do a girl any good getting mixed up with the law. Who then could she tell? . . . Dr. Peters?
It was half-past ten as she hurried that evening towards Dr. Peters’ house. It was quite a long walk, and Nelly’s resolution was weakening as she threaded her way through the crowded and brightly lighted streets. Suppose George should meet her going in . . . find out that she had told on him! She was approaching the garish entrance to the “Splendide” Cinema, and people were drifting out from the show. Throbbing Hearts, the posters proclaimed, was being featured that week.
There were mostly couples coming out, she noticed, with a pang. One of them had halted in the entrance. The girl was smiling up into the face of her companion. She was highly made-up, and not at all “classy,” Nelly considered. She seemed to be arguing with the tall young man. Suddenly he turned and stood facing towards Nelly, but with his face bent to his companion, as if urging her. His hands were thrust deep into his trousers pockets.
It was George. Nelly paused and pretended to look into a shop window, slyly watching him from the corner of her eye. His soft hat was tipped rakishly at an angle, his purple tie boasted a flashy tie-pin that she had given him, a thick gold albert stretched across his broad chest between the upper pockets of his waistcoat. His shoes, extravagantly pointed, were of gleaming yellow leather. Nelly recognised that he was dressed to impress.
“Oh, I couldn’t reely,” the blonde was protesting coyly, “whatever would people say? Oh, you are a one!”
They turned away, her arm tucked through that of her companion; still half-heartedly expostulating.
If anything had been needed to strengthen Nelly in her purpose she now had it. She walked quickly on her errand. She’d show him! She’d show him—and that fancy piece of his!
She reached the entrance to the drive of Dr. Peters’ house, and started up the tree-darkened gravel.
Dr. Peters sucked at his pipe. He turned to Nelly.
“And you are quite certain, Miss Torr, that it was Yarrow you saw. You could not have been mistaken?”
“Mistaken, I should say not.” She laughed shrilly. “If anybody ought to know George Yarrow, I should. I knew him most intimate . . . at one time.”
“And you would be prepared to sign a sworn statement to this effect?”
“If you say so, Dr. Peters, of course. But I don’t want no trouble with the police, mind.”
“You won’t have any, I can promise you that. For the present you must tell nobody. The matter is perfectly safe in my hands. I have your word for it?”
“Righto, Dr. Peters. Well, I’ll be going now. And remember you’ve promised that George shan’t know as how I’ve let on.”
“I have already given you my word, Miss Torr.” He rang for Smith to show her out. The butler conducted the visitor to the door with a haughty and condescending air.
When he had closed the door he returned to the study. “Is there anything I can get you, sir?”
“No, Smith. I want to talk to you. How long is it you have been with me. Fifteen years?”
“Sixteen, sir.”
“And you were fond of Miss Angela, were you not?”
“You know how I felt, sir. If she’d been my own daughter . . .”
“Very well. Now listen to me.”
For half an hour the two men talked earnestly. At the conclusion of the interview Peters stood up. Solemnly they shook hands.
“And, Smith . . . ring up Mr. Carter and say that I would be pleased if he would dine with me to-morrow. Say that it is very important. That is all. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Peters sat for a long time in his study, the fire light gleaming on his white shirt-front. Yes—Tony Carter must be in on this. Tony, who had been the heavyweight champion at Cambridge last year. He and Tony and Smith should manage it between them. An eye for an eye . . .
Smith knocked on the surgery door. Behind him stood Yarrow carrying a small bag of tools.
“What is it?” the doctor’s voice called.
“Yarrow is here, sir, to see to the lights.”
“All right. One minute.”
Yarrow was annoyed. He considered that eleven o’clock at night was an extremely inconvenient and inconsiderate hour to be called out. He had had a “date,” which he had been forced to break, and had had no opportunity of putting off the lady. Also he had just changed from his livery and had had to put it on again, knowing how fussy the old bastard was!
The door opened, and the butler stood aside to let him enter. Yarrow looked around him with interest—he had never visited the surgery before.
Dr. Peters was dressed in his white “working” clothes. Yarrow stood before him, his cap in one hand, the bag in the other. The door shut behind him.
“Put up your hands.”
A man’s voice barked the order. Instinctively Yarrow wheeled round, and found himself looking down the barrel of a revolver, behind which was the steady gaze of Tony Carter.
“What’s the meaning of this? What’s the game?” Yarrow spoke gruffly.
“That we know you for a murderer,” Peters said quietly. “Some days ago the missing piece of evidence came into my hands. If I felt so inclined I could hand you over to the police—to hang by the neck until you were dead. But hanging is too good for swine like you. The sworn statement that you were seen near the scene of the crime by one who knew you well, is in my possession.”
Smith stepped forward and snapped a pair of steel handcuffs on Yarrow’s wrists.
“What are you going to do to me?” He was frightened now, deadly frighte
ned. The set faces of the three men were merciless. Peters came towards him, a pad in his hand. Yarrow smelt a sweet sickly odour. He started to kick, but was thrown to the floor by Carter . . . he was stifling . . . choking . . . he could hear low grunts and curses as a chance kick got home, but the sounds seemed very faint, a long way off.
When he came to himself Yarrow found that he was lying on a long white table. He tried to move his arm, but something held it in a vice. His legs were confined in a similar manner by thick leather straps. He lay there, stark naked and powerless underneath a brilliant glare from the light that hung above the operating table. As far as he could see, he was alone. He felt sick, his body wracked with nausea. He strained at the straps, the muscles of his arms standing out in knots. He turned his head and saw on his right his clothes huddled in a heap on the floor. His coat and waistcoat, the breeches, the thick boots and leggings, and the peaked cap of his uniform.
He mustn’t be frightened, he told himself; old Peters was trying to bluff him, that was all. He thought he’d panic him into confessing his guilt—well, he’d show the old bastard who was the better bluffer of the two. He didn’t believe the old —— had a statement at all. He’d have the law on him for this, see if he didn’t.
The straps were chafing his arms, and angrily irritating the skin round his ankles. He wondered where the old man was, and what fresh devilry he was planning. He wished he’d come back, this waiting was getting on his nerves. He pulled at the straps, but only hurt himself the more. His face grew red, and sweat broke out on his forehead and hairy chest; his breathing became uneven with the physical efforts of his struggles.
He heard a door open, and soft footsteps crossed to where he lay. Dr. Peters still wore his white coat, and he was wheeling a table on which lay gleaming rows of knives and forceps and queer, contoured probes.
“You bloody —— you can’t do this to me. I’ll have the police on you.” Yarrow was terrified.
“I do not think you will, my friend. I am not going to kill you—and if you go to the police they will assuredly hang you.”
“But I tell you I didn’t do it. I swear I didn’t.”
Peters paid no attention. Again Yarrow felt the sickening pad pressed on to his mouth.
During the hours that followed Yarrow suffered hell. Never entirely conscious, yet never unconscious, his body endured blinding, rending pain. At intervals he fainted, only to recover to endure more agony. He lost all sense of time, the world had become for him a place of unbelievable torture, his nerves cried out for respite, his brain shrieked that he could stand no more. From time to time there were periods of near oblivion, periods of bliss it seemed to Yarrow—but these were succeeded by more spasms of pain each surmounting in intensity the previous ordeal. Wave after wave of blinding agony.
Dr. Peters worked as one possessed. All his vast knowledge of the human body was called to play a part. No one was permitted to come near the laboratory save Smith. The servants were told that he was engaged in vital experiments and must on no account be disturbed.
During the months that followed Dr. Peters spent many hours in his surgery. Separated from the main body of the house, with which it was only connected by a covered corridor, the doctor had complete privacy. After a time, even the butler was forbidden to enter the room itself, although he frequently brought his employer’s meals on a tray to the door, where he left them.
It was June when Yarrow had disappeared; and now January held London in its frigid grip.
One day Smith came down the passage to collect the luncheon tray. The door was open a few inches, and the sound of the cracking of a whip echoed between the bare walls. He could see Peters standing over a figure that crouched on the floor chained to a staple driven into the wall. The creature snarled and twisted to avoid the cruel leather thong that slashed mercilessly at its unprotected body. Smith could hardly believe his eyes. What could this travesty be, this monster that grovelled at Dr. Peters’ feet? Its hands were bound together—its legs bent and calloused. The arms, in contrast to the fore-shortened thighs, hung ape-like with simian looseness from the wasted body, whose giant bones were starting through the skin. The face was the face of an old man, wrinkled with age and fear, but with a sly cunning lurking behind the rheumy eyes. A thing of horror—of pity.
Yarrow’s disappearance was accepted as a guilty man’s flight, for none of his fellow-servants believed him innocent; in fact, “below stairs” they had none of them doubted that he would make his getaway at the earliest opportunity.
Jimmy and Naomi Clinton sat impatiently in their motor car—a long low Invicta—they were late for lunch; and the block of traffic in the Tottenham Court Road was very exasperating. Naomi gazed idly at the passers-by.
“Jimmy, look! What a disgusting sight—what do you think it is?”
“From the show at Olympia, perhaps.” He looked at the grotesque figure ambling along the pavement. The jostling lunch-hour crowds giving it as wide a berth as the pavement permitted.
“Isn’t it pathetic? Why are things like that allowed to live?”
“The Lord knows!” He was irritated by the delay. “We’re going to be awfully late, darling.” The traffic block broke and the Invicta slid forward. Naomi turned to look after the bizarre ape-like figure, alone in the crowd, an outcast for ever from its fellow creatures. She thought how terrible it was that it would never know human relationships—at the best, only pity and commiseration—or laughter and curiosity.
Naomi was puzzled by the decrees of a blind fate. Why were such abortions permitted to exist—to live? Inconsequently she remembered the terrible murder at Wimbledon, and wondered if the man had ever been caught. She turned to Jimmy.
“Darling, did they ever find the Wimbledon murderer?”
“He got off scot free.” His eyes were fixed on the traffic ahead of him. “Lord knows what happened to him. Probably found it difficult to get a job—but apart from that slight inconvenience—yes.”
The car drew up in front of the Ritz Hotel.
“Come on, darling—we’re very late; so don’t be too long doing your face.”
Their life went on . . . and Yarrow, shambling down the Tottenham Court Road, suffered—from “a slight inconvenience.”
HENRI LARNE
Nina and John had been married nearly two years when they decided to go abroad for their holiday. They lived in a small flat in St. John’s Wood, a place of light and air and new chintz, and cream-painted walls. The flat was really the top floor of an old-fashioned house hastily converted to the needs of the impoverished post-war young who wished to cut domestic responsibilities to a minimum. And so we find No. 16, Jeremy Road, housing eight people, living five separate lives under the one slate roof.
The ground floor was occupied by the Treymaines, a quiet couple who were something of a mystery to their fellow tenants. Above, two young men had bed-sitting rooms with a communal bath. The third floor housed the Misses Togarth, vaguely “arty” and with clearly defined ideas that brooked no nonsense. John and Nina Lang, as it has already been stated, lived in the top flat.
When they had first viewed their future home Nina had looked askance at the three flights of stairs, but the moderate rent and the large and well-lit studio room had proved so very attractive that John had signed a three-year lease and shortly afterwards they had moved in.
Each morning from Monday to Saturday at a quarter to nine John kissed Nina good-bye and hurried down the tree-lined road to the tube station that sucked the streams of workers down into its metalled throat, to cram them into packed trains rushing busily towards the City; and every morning Nina, watching her husband’s black-clad back from the casement window as he started for his labours, was convinced that no young woman had a more enterprising, energetic and wholly satisfactory lord and master. There were not many men, she reflected, who within eighteen months had risen from a three- to a six-hundred-a-year salary. Once again she pondered this pleasant thought on the bright Thursday morning
in early August on which this story opens.
Nina crossed to her writing-desk and salvaged paper and the stub of a pencil from its chaotic contents. Two more days and they were to start their holiday. She ran over in her mind what they would need. For two glorious weeks they were to go for a walking tour in Normandy and they had determined to be as lightly burdened as possible. She quickly jotted down her own requirements, and drew a careful line. Then she wrote in neat printing the word JOHN. He would want three spare pairs of socks, a pair of slippers for the evening after a hard day’s walking, tooth brush, shaving things . . . gradually the little list grew . . . oil yes, and a spare shirt. She liked the short-sleeved sports shirts—she would take him that evening to choose one. She thought that a bright blue would suit him. The sun blazed down on the quiet road and already the pungent smell of warm tar was noticeable. Nina put down her list and went to the small kitchenette to tell the daily woman, Mrs. Sparks, that she could clear away the breakfast and to give her the orders for the day.
Saturday morning found the flat a scene of some confusion. Tables and chairs were littered with discarded “essentials” that John had, with laughing ruthlessness, refused to take, declaring that a troop of baggage mules would be necessary to transport such an equipage rather than one frail man. At last with a pack of almost reasonable dimensions the Langs bade farewell to the interested Mrs. Sparks, and, hailing a taxi, drove to Victoria, from where they were to start their journey.
The crossing proved agreeable and the evening found them wandering round Havre, where they had decided to spend the night. A most satisfying hour was spent in poring over maps and in arguing the route which they should take. The next few days were uneventful, and it was not until Thursday evening that, healthily tired and extremely hungry, they arrived at the little village of La Bézard. The sun had lost its heat and an atmosphere of peace pervaded the little square, flanked on one side by an ancient and weather-stained church, in front of which a circular fountain of worn stone provided a seat for groups of gossiping housewives. Pigeons pecked industriously among the uneven cobbles. A few awning-shaded stalls stood in one corner of the square, their owners dozing on upturned boxes or stools; for most of their business had been conducted and the piles of vegetables and cheeses had for the greater part found their way into the baskets of their keen-eyed customers. The clock in the square tower struck seven, the deep notes very clear in the quiet of the evening.
Devils' Spawn Page 7