He was known to his intimates as Knocker Thompson, and as such had a surprisingly wide reputation. In outward appearance he was a gentleman, for long experience had taught him to avoid the flashy and distinctive in dress. Indeed, his quiet taste had often proved a valuable business asset.
Naturally, his fortunes varied, but he was usually more or less in funds. As Knocker sometimes said in his more genial moments: "For every mug that dies there's ten others born."
Funds were rather low, however, on the evening when he met the old man. Knocker had spent the early part of the evening with two acquaintances in a hotel near Leicester Square. It was a business meeting, and relations had been a little strained; opinions had been freely expressed which indicated a complete lack of confidence in Knocker, and an unmistakable atmosphere had resulted. Not that he resented the opinions in the least, but at that juncture he needed the unquestioned trust of the two men.
He was not in the best of humours, therefore, as he turned into Whitcomb Street on his way to Charing Cross. The normal plainness of his features was deepened by a scowl, and the general result startled the few people who glanced at him.
But at eight o'clock in the evening, Whitcomb Street is not a crowded thoroughfare, and there was no one near them when the old man spoke to him. He was standing in a passage near the Pall Mall end, and Knocker could not see him clearly.
"Hullo, Knocker!" he said.
Thompson swung round.
In the darkness he made out the dim figure, the most conspicuous feature of which was a long, white beard.
"Hullo!" returned Thompson, suspiciously, for as far as he knew he did not number among his acquaintances an old man with a white beard.
"It's cold . . ." said the old man.
"What d'you want?" asked Thompson curtly. "Who are you?" "I am an old man, Knocker."
"Look here, what's the game? I don't know you . . ." "No. But I know you."
"If that's all you've got to say . . ." said Knocker uneasily.
"It is nearly all. Will you buy a paper? It is not an ordinary paper, I assure you."
"How do you mean . . . not an ordinary paper?"
"It is to-morrow night's Echo," said the old man calmly.
"You're loopy, old chap, that's what's wrong with you. Look here, things aren't too brisk, but here's half a dollar . . . and better luck!" For all his lack of principle, Knocker had the crude generosity of those who live precariously.
"Luck!" The old man laughed with a quietness that jarred on Knocker's nerves. In some queer way it seemed to run up and down his spine.
"Look here!" he said again, conscious of some strange, unreal quality in the old, dimly-seen figure in the passage. "What's the blinking game?"
"It is the oldest game in the world, Knocker." "Not so free with my name ... if you don't mind." "Are you ashamed of it?"
"No," said Knocker stoutly. "What do you want? I've got no time to waste with the likes of you." "Then go . . . Knocker."
"What do you want?" Knocker insisted, strangely uneasy.
"Nothing. Won't you take the paper? There is no other like it in the world. Nor will there be—for twenty-four hours."
"I don't suppose there are many of to-morrow's papers on sale . . . yet," said Knocker with a grin.
"It contains to-morrow's winners," said the old man, in the same casual manner.
"I don't think!" retorted Knocker.
"There it is; you may read for yourself."
From the darkness a paper was thrust at Knocker, whose unwilling fingers closed on it. A laugh came from somewhere in the recesses in the passage, and Knocker was alone.
He was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of his beating heart, but gripped himself and walked on until he came to a lighted shop front where he glanced at the paper.
"Thursday, July 29, 1926 . . ." he read.
He thought a moment.
It was Wednesday ... he was positive it was Wednesday. He took out his diary. It was Wednesday, the twenty-eighth day of July —the last day of the Kempton Park meeting. He had no doubt on the point, none whatever.
With a strange feeling he glanced at the paper again. July 29, 1926. He turned to the back page almost instinctively—the page with the racing results.
Gatwick. . . .
That day's meeting was at Kempton Park. To-morrow was the first day of the Gatwick meeting, and there, staring at him, were the five winners. He passed his hand across his forehead; it was damp with cold perspiration.
"There's a trick somewhere," he muttered to himself, and carefully re-examined the date of the paper. It was printed on each page
. . . clear and unaltered. He scrutinized the unit figure of the year, but the "six" had not been tampered with.
He glanced hurriedly at the front page. There was a flaring headline about the Coal Strike . . . that wasn't twenty-five. With professional care he examined the racing results. Inkerman had won the first race . . . Inkerman—and Knocker had made up his mind to back Paper Clip with more money than he could afford to lose. Paper Clip was merely an also-ran. He noticed that people who passed were glancing at him curiously. Hurriedly he pushed the paper into an inner pocket and walked on.
Never had Knocker so needed a drink. He entered a snug little "pub" near Charing Cross and was thankful to find the saloon bar nearly deserted. Fortified with his drink he turned again to the paper. Inkerman had come home at 6 to 1. He made certain hurried but satisfactory calculations. Salmon House had won the second; he had expected that, but not at such a price . . . 7 to 4 on. Shallot—Shallot of all horses!—had romped away with the third, the big race. Seven lengths ... at 100 to 8! Knocker licked his dry lips. There was no fake about the paper in his hand. He knew the horses that were running at Gatwick the following day and the results were there before him. The fourth and fifth winners were at short prices; but Inkerman and Shallot were enough . . .
It was too late to get into touch with any of the bookmakers that evening, and in any case it would not be advisable to put money on before the day of the race. The better way would be to go to Gatwick in the morning and wire the bets from the course.
He had another drink . . . and another.
Gradually, in the genial atmosphere of the saloon bar, his uneasiness left him. The affair ceased to appear uncanny and grotesque, and became a part of the casual happenings of the day. Into Knocker's slightly fuddled brain came the memory of a film he had once seen which had made a big impression on him at the time. There was an Eastern magician in the film, with a white beard, a long, white beard just like the one belonging to the old man. The magician had done the most extraordinary things ... on the screen.
But whatever the explanation, Knocker was satisfied it was not a fake. The old chap had not asked for any money; indeed, he had not even taken the half-crown that Knocker had offered him. And as
Knocker knew, you always collected the dibs—or attempted to—if you were running a fake.
He thought pleasantly of what he would do in the ring at Gatwick the following day. He was in rather low water, but he could put his hands on just about enough to make the bookies sit up. And with a second winner at a 100 to 8!
He had still another drink and stood the barman one too.
"D'you know anything for to-morrow?" The man behind the bar knew Thompson quite well by sight and reputation.
Knocker hesitated.
"Yes," he said. "Sure thing. Salmon House in the second race. Price'll be a bit short, but it's a snip."
"Thanks very much; I'll have a bit on meself."
Ultimately he left the saloon bar. He was a little shaky; his doctor had warned him not to drink, but surely on such a night . . .
The following morning he went to Gatwick. It was a meeting he liked, and usually he was very lucky there. But that day it was not merely a question of luck. There was a streak of caution in his bets on the first race, but he flung caution to the wind after Inkerman had come in a comfortable winner—and at 6 to 1. The horse and the
price! He had no doubts left. Salmon House won the second, a hot favourite at 7 to 4 on.
In the big race most of the punters left Shallot alone. The horse had little form, and there was no racing reason why anyone should back him. He was among what the bookies call "the Rags." But Knocker cared nothing for "form" that day. He spread his money judiciously. Twenty here, twenty there. Not until ten minutes before the race did he wire any money to the West End offices, but some of the biggest men in the game opened their eyes when his wires came through. He was out to win a fortune. And he won.
As the horses entered the straight one of them was lengths ahead of the field. It carried the flashing yellow and blue of Shallot's owner. The groan that went up from the punters around him was satisfactory, but there was no thrill in the race for him; he had been certain that Shallot would win. There was no objection . . . and he proceeded to collect.
His pockets were bulging with notes, but his winnings were as nothing compared with the harvest he would reap from the big men in the West End. He ordered a bottle of champagne, and with a silent grin drank the health of the old man with the beard before he sent for the taxi that would take him back to the station. There was no train for half-an-hour, and, when at last it started, his carriage had filled with racing men, among whom were several he knew. The wiser race-goers rarely wait until the end of a meeting.
Knocker was usually very expansive after a good day, but that afternoon he took no part in the conversation, with the exception of an occasional grunt when a remark was made to him. Try as he would he could not keep his thoughts away from the old man. It was the memory of the laugh that remained with him most vividly. He could still feel that queer sensation down his spine. . . .
On a sudden impulse he took out the paper, which was still in his pocket. He had no real interest in news, as such, for racing absorbed the whole of his very limited imagination. As far as he could tell from a casual inspection it was a very ordinary sort of paper. He made up his mind to get another in town and compare the two in order to see if the old man had spoken the truth. Not that it mattered very much, he assured himself.
Suddenly his incurious glance was held. A paragraph in the stop-press column had caught his" eye. An exclamation burst from him.
"Death in race-train," the paragraph was headed. Knocker's heart was pumping, but he read on mechanically: "Mr. Martin Thompson, a well-known racing man, died this afternoon as he was returning from Gatwick."
He got no further; the paper fell from his limp fingers on to the floor of the carriage.
"Look at Knocker," someone said. "He's ill . . ."
He was breathing heavily and with difficulty.
"Stop . . . stop the train," he gasped, and strove to rise and lurch towards the communications cord.
"Steady on, Knocker," one of them said, and grasped his arm. "You sit down, old chap . . . mustn't pull that darned thing. . . ."
He sat down ... or rather collapsed into his seat. His head fell forward.
They forced whisky between his lips, but it was of no avail. "He's dead," came the awestruck voice of the man who held him.
No one noticed the paper on the floor. In the general upset it had been kicked under the seat, and it is not possible to say what became of it. Perhaps it was swept up by the cleaners at Waterloo.
Perhaps . . .
No one knows.
From On a Chinese Screen^ by W. Somerset Maugham, copyright 1939, by Doubleday & Company, Inc., reprinted with special permission of the author.
The Taipan
By W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
NO ONE KNEW BETTER THAN HE THAT HE WAS AN IMPORTANT PERSON.
He was number one in not the least important branch of the most important English firm in China. He had worked his way up through solid ability and he looked back with a faint smile at the callow clerk who had come out to China thirty years before. When he remembered the modest home he had come from, a little red house in a long row of little red houses, in Barnes, a suburb which, aiming desperately at the genteel, achieves only a sordid melancholy, and compared it with the magnificent stone mansion, with its wide verandahs and spacious rooms, which was at once the office of the company and his own residence, he chuckled with satisfaction. He had come a long way since then. He thought of the high tea to which he sat down when he came home from school (he was at St. Paul's), with his father and mother and his two sisters, a slice of cold meat, a great deal of bread and butter and plenty of milk in his tea, everybody helping himself, and then he thought of the state in which now he ate his evening meal. He always dressed and whether he was alone or not he expected the three boys to wait at table. His number one boy knew exactly what he liked and he never had to bother himself with the details of housekeeping; but he always had a set dinner with soup and fish, entree, roast, sweet and savoury, so that if he wanted to ask anyone in at the last moment he could. He liked his food and he did not see why when he was alone he should have less good a dinner than when he had a guest.
He had indeed gone far. That was why he did not care to go home now, he had not been to England for ten years, and he took his leave in Japan or Vancouver where he was sure of meeting old friends from the China coast. He knew no one at home. His sisters had married in their own station, their husbands were clerks and their sons were clerks; there was nothing between him and them; they bored him. He satisfied the claims of relationship by sending them every Christmas a piece of fine silk, some elaborate embroidery, or a case of tea. He was not a mean man and as long as his mother lived he had made her an allowance. But when the time came for him to retire he had no intention of going back to England, he had seen too many men do that and he knew how often it was a failure; he meant to take a house near the race-course in Shanghai: what with bridge and his ponies and golf he expected to get through the rest of his life very comfortably. But he had a good many years before he need think of retiring. In another five or six Higgins would be going home and then he would take charge of the head office in Shanghai. Meanwhile he was very happy where he was, he could save money, which you couldn't do in Shanghai, and have a good time into the bargain. This place had another advantage over Shanghai: he was the most prominent man in the community and what he said went. Even the consul took care to keep on the right side of him. Once a consul and he had been at loggerheads and it was not he who had gone to the wall. The taipan thrust out his jaw pugnaciously as he thought of the incident.
But he smiled, for he felt in an excellent humour. He was walking back to his office from a capital luncheon at the Hong-Kong and Shanghai Bank. They did you very well there. The food was first rate and there was plenty of liquor. He had started with a couple of cocktails, then he had some excellent sauteme and he had finished up with two glasses of port and some fine old brandy. He felt good. And when he left he did a thing that was rare with him; he walked. His bearers with his chair kept a few paces behind him in case he felt inclined to slip into it, but he enjoyed stretching his legs. He did not get enough exercise these days. Now that he was too heavy to ride it was difficult to get exercise. But if he was too heavy to ride he could still keep ponies, and as he strolled along in the balmy air he thought
of the spring meeting. He had a couple of griffins that he had hopes of and one of the lads in his office had turned out a fine jockey (he must see they didn't sneak him away, old Higgins in Shanghai would give a pot of money to get him over there) and he ought to pull off two or three races. He flattered himself that he had the finest stable in the city. He pouted his broad chest like a pigeon. It was a beautiful day, and it was good to be alive.
He paused as he came to the cemetery. It stood there, neat and orderly, as an evident sign of the community's opulence. He never passed the cemetery without a little glow of pride. He was pleased to be an Englishman. For the cemetery stood in a place, valueless when it was chosen, which with the increase of the city's affluence was now worth a great deal of money. It had been suggested that the graves should be moved to an
other spot and the land sold for building, but the feeling of the community was against it. It gave the tai-pan a sense of satisfaction to think that their dead rested on the most valuable site on the island. It showed that there were things they cared for more than money. Money be blowed! When it came to "the things that mattered" (this was a favourite phrase with the taipan) well, one remembered that money wasn't everything.
And now he thought he would take a stroll through. He looked at the graves. They were neatly kept and the pathways were free from weeds. There was a look of prosperity. And as he sauntered along he read the names on the tombstones. Here were three side by side; the captain, the first mate, and the second mate of the barque Mary Baxter, who had all perished together in the typhoon of 1908. He remembered it well. There was a little group of two missionaries, their wives and children, who had been massacred during the Boxer troubles. Shocking thing that had been! Not that he took much stock in missionaries; but, hang it all, one couldn't have these damned Chinese massacring them. Then he came to a cross with a name on it he knew. Good chap, Edward Mulock, but he couldn't stand his liquor, drank himself to death, poor devil, at twenty-five: the taipan had known a lot of them do that; there were several more neat crosses with a man's name on them and the age, twenty-five, twenty-six, or twenty-seven; it was always the same story; they had come out to China: they had never seen so much money before, they were good fellows and they wanted to drink with the rest: they couldn't stand it, and there they were in the cemetery. You had to have a strong head and a fine constitution to drink drink for drink on the China coast. Of course it was very sad, but the taipan could hardly help a smile when he thought how many of those young fellows he had drunk underground. And there was a death that had been useful, a fellow in his own firm, senior to him and a clever chap too: if that fellow had lived he might not have been taipan now. Truly the ways of fate were inscrutable. Ah, and here was little Mrs. Turner, Violet Turner, she had been a pretty little thing, he had had quite an affair with her; he had been devilish cut up when she died. He looked at her age on the tombstone. She'd be no chicken if she were alive now. And as he thought of all those dead people a sense of satisfaction spread through him. He had beaten them all. They were dead and he was alive, and by George he'd scored them off. His eyes collected in one picture all those crowded graves and he smiled scornfully. He very nearly rubbed his hands.
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