Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You mean to say that you shed blood — the blood of your old friend — merely because he meddled with a miserable batch of butterfly’s eggs?” I asked, astounded.

  “I certainly did shed his blood for just that particular thing! And listen; you’re in my way — you’re standing on a part of the carpet which I want to tear up. Do you mind moving?”

  Such cold-blooded calmness infuriated me. I sprang at Quint, seized him, and shouted to Jones to tie his hands behind him with the blood-soaked handkerchief which lay on the floor.

  At first, while Jones and I were engaged in the operation of securing the wretched man, Quint looked at us both as though surprised; then he grew angry and asked us what the devil we were about.

  “Those who shed blood must answer for it!” I said solemnly.

  “What? What’s the matter with you?” he demanded in a rage. “Shed blood? What if I did? What’s that to you? Untie this handkerchief, you unmentionable idiot!”

  I looked at Jones:

  “His mind totters,” I said hoarsely.

  “What’s that!” cried Quint, struggling to get off the chair whither I had pushed him: but with my handkerchief we tied his ankles to the rung of the chair, heedless of his attempts to kick us, and sprang back out of range.

  “Now,” I said, “what have you done with the poor victim of your fury? Where is he? Where is all that remains of Professor Boomly?”

  “Boomly? I don’t know where he is. How the devil should I know?”

  “Don’t lie,” I said solemnly.

  “Lie! See here, Smith, when I get out of this chair I’ll settle you, too—”

  “Quint! There is another and more terrible chair which awaits such criminals as you!”

  “You old fluff!” he shouted. “I’ll knock your head off, too. Do you understand? I’ll attend to you as I attended to Boomly—”

  “Assassin!” I retorted calmly. “Only an alienist can save you now. In this awful moment—”

  A light touch on my arm interrupted me, and, a trifle irritated, as any man might be when checked in the full flow of eloquence, I turned to find Mildred at my elbow.

  “Let me talk to him,” she said in a quiet voice. “Perhaps I may not irritate him as you seem to.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Jones and I are here as witnesses.” And I folded my arms in an attitude not, perhaps, unpicturesque.

  “Dr. Quint,” said Mildred in her soft, agreeable voice, and actually smiling slightly at the self-confessed murderer, “is it really true that you are guilty of shedding the blood of Professor Boomly?”

  “It is,” said Quint, coolly.

  She seemed rather taken aback at that, but presently recovered her equanimity.

  “Why?” she asked gently.

  “Because he attempted a most hellish crime!” yelled Quint.

  “W-what crime?” she asked faintly.

  “I’ll tell you. He wanted the Carnegie medal, and he knew it would be given to me if I could incubate and hatch my batch of Silver Moon butterfly eggs. He realised well enough that his Heliconian eggs were not as valuable as my Silver Moon eggs. So first he sneaked in here and put an ichneumon fly in my breeding-cage. And next he stole the Silver Moon eggs and left in their place some common Plexippus eggs, thinking that because they were very similar I would not notice the substitution.

  “I did notice it! I charged him with that cataclysmic outrage. He laughed. We came into personal collision. He chased me into my room.”

  Panting, breathless with rage at the memory of the morning’s defeat which I had witnessed, Quint glared at me for a moment. Then he jerked his head toward Mildred:

  “As soon as he went to luncheon — Boomly, I mean — I climbed over that transom and dropped into this room. I had been hunting for ten minutes before I found my Silver Moon eggs hidden under the carpet. So I pocketed them, climbed back over the transom, and went to my room.”

  He paused dramatically, staring from one to another of us:

  “Boomly was there!” he said slowly.

  “Where?” asked Mildred with a shudder.

  “In my room. He had picked the lock. I told him to get out! He went. I shouted after him that I had recovered the Silver Moon eggs and that I should certainly be awarded the Carnegie medal.

  “Then that monster in human form laughed a horrible laugh, avowing himself guilty of a crime still more hideous than the theft of the Silver Moon eggs! Do you know what he had done?”

  “W-what?” faltered Mildred.

  “He had stolen from cold storage and had concealed the leaves of the Bimba bush, brought from Singapore to feed the Silver Moon caterpillars! That’s what Boomly had done!

  “And my Silver Moon eggs had already begun to hatch!!! And my caterpillars would starve!!!!”

  His voice ended in a yell; he struggled on his chair until it nearly upset.

  “You lunatic!” I shouted. “Was that a reason for spilling the blood of a human being!”

  “It was reason enough for me!”

  “Madman!”

  “Let me loose! He’s hidden those leaves somewhere or other! I’ve torn this place to pieces looking for them. I’ve got to find them, I tell you—”

  Mildred went to the infuriated entomologist and laid a firm hand on his shoulder:

  “Listen,” she said: “how do you know that Professor Boomly has not concealed these Bimba leaves on his own person?”

  Quint ceased his contortions and gaped at her.

  “I never thought of that,” he said.

  “What have you done with him?” she asked, very pale.

  “I tell you, I don’t know.”

  “You must know what you did with him,” she insisted.

  Quint shook his head impatiently, apparently preoccupied with other thoughts. We stood watching him in silence until he looked up and became conscious of our concentrated gaze.

  “My caterpillars are starving,” he began violently. “I haven’t anything else they’ll eat. They feed only on the Bimba leaf. They won’t eat anything else. It’s a well-known fact that they won’t. Why, in Johore, where they came from, they’ll travel miles over the ground to find a Bimba bush—”

  “What!” exclaimed Mildred.

  “Certainly — miles! They’d starve sooner than eat anything except Bimba leaves. If there’s a bush within twenty miles they’ll find it—”

  “Wait,” said Mildred quietly. “Where are these starving caterpillars?”

  “In a glass jar in my pocket — here! What the devil are you doing!” For the girl had dexterously slipped the glass jar from his coat pocket and was holding it up to the light.

  Inside it were several dozen tiny, dark caterpillars, some resting disconsolately on the sides of the glass, some hungrily travelling over the bottom in pitiful and hopeless quest of nourishment.

  Heedless of the shouts and threats of Dr. Quint, the girl calmly uncorked the jar, took on her slender forefinger a single little caterpillar, replaced the cork, and, kneeling down, gently disengaged the caterpillar. It dropped upon the floor, remained motionless for a moment, then, turning, began to travel rapidly toward the doorway behind us.

  “Now,” she said, “if poor Professor Boomly really has concealed these Bimba leaves upon his own person, this little caterpillar, according to Dr. Quint, is certain to find those leaves.”

  “‘This little caterpillar ... is certain to find those leaves.’”

  Overcome with excitement and admiration for this intelligent and unusually beautiful girl, I seized her hands and congratulated her.

  “Murder,” said I to the miserable Quint, “will out! This infant caterpillar shall lead us to that dark and secret spot where you had hoped to conceal the horrid evidence of your guilt. Three things have undone you — a caterpillar replete with mysterious instinct, a humble bunch of Bimba leaves, and the marvellous intelligence of this young and lovely girl. Madman, your hour has struck!”

  He looked at me in a dazed sort of way,
as though astonishment had left him unable to articulate. But I had become tired of his violence and his shouts and yells; so I asked Jones for his handkerchief, and, before Quint knew what I was up to I had tied it over his mouth.

  He became a brilliant purple, but all he could utter was a furious humming, buzzing noise.

  Meanwhile, Jones had opened the door; the little caterpillar, followed by Mildred and myself, continued to hustle along as though he knew quite well where he was going.

  Down the hallway he went in undulating haste, past my door, we all following in silent excitement as we discovered that, parallel to the caterpillar’s course, ran a gruesome trail of blood drops.

  And when the little creature turned and made straight for the door of Professor Farrago, our revered chief, the excitement among us was terrific.

  The caterpillar halted; I gently tried the door; it was open.

  Instantly the caterpillar crossed the threshold, wriggling forward at top speed. We followed, peering fearfully around us. Nobody was visible.

  Could Quint have dragged his victim here? By Heaven, he had! For the caterpillar was travelling straight under the lounge upon which Professor Farrago was accustomed to repose after luncheon, and, dropping on one knee, I saw a fat foot partly protruding from under the shirred edges of the fringed drapery.

  “He’s there!” I whispered, in an awed voice to the others.

  “Courage, Miss Case! Try not to faint.”

  Jones turned and looked at her with that same odd expression; then he went over to where she stood and coolly passed one arm around her waist.

  “Try not to faint, Mildred,” he said. “It might muss your hair.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but I had no time then to analyze it, for I had seized the fat foot which partly protruded from under the sofa, clad in a low-cut congress gaiter and a white sock.

  And then I nearly fainted, for instead of the dreadful, inert resistance of lifeless clay, the foot wriggled and tried to kick at me.

  “Help!” came a thin but muffled voice. “Help! Help, in the name of Heaven!”

  “Boomly!” I cried, scarcely believing my ears.

  “Take that man away, Smith!” whimpered Boomly. “He’s a devil! He’ll murder me! He made my nose bleed all over everything!”

  “Boomly! You’re not dead!”

  “Yes, I am!” he whined. “I’m dead enough to suit me. Keep that little lunatic off — that’s all I ask. He can have his Carnegie medal for all I care, only tie him up somewhere—”

  “Professor Boomly!” cried Mildred excitedly. “Have you any Bimba leaves concealed about your person?”

  “Yes, I have,” he said sulkily. There came a hitch of the fat foot, a heavy scuffling sound, heavy panting, and then, skittering out across the floor came a flat, sealed parcel.

  “There you are,” he said; “now, let me alone until that fiend has gone home.”

  “He won’t attack you again,” I said. “Come out.”

  But Professor Boomly flatly declined to stir.

  I looked at the parcel: it was marked: “Bimba leaves; Johore.”

  With a sigh of unutterable relief, I picked up the ravenous little caterpillar, placed him on the packet, and turned to go. And didn’t.

  It is a very sickening fact I have now to record. But to a scientist all facts are sacred, sickening or otherwise.

  For what I caught a glimpse of, just outside the door in the hallway, was Jones kissing Mildred Case. And being shyly indemnified for his trouble with a gentle return in kind. Both his arms were around her waist; both her hands rested upon his shoulders; and, as I looked — but let it pass! — let it pass.

  Deliberately I fished in my pocket, found my packet of cigarettes, lighted one.

  Tobacco diffugiunt mordaces curae et laetificat cor hominis!

  THE BETTER MAN

  CONTENTS

  THE PROGRESS OF JANET

  A LYNX PEAK PASTORAL

  WILDRICK’S DUMP

  HELL’S ASHES

  THE FIRE-BIRD

  THE BETTER MAN

  THE GERM OF MADNESS

  LUCILLE’S LEGS

  A NURSERY TALE

  NUMBER SEVEN

  DOWN AND OUT

  CARONDELET

  OWL’S HEAD

  OLE HAWG

  THE REAL THING

  TO PRISCILLA SOUSA

  PRISCILLA

  By any other name you’d look as sweet —

  By any other names, the Rose and You, —

  But the two things which made you both complete

  Were added when your names were added too.

  Roses were Roses when the first rose bloomed.

  Priscilla dear, what need to christen you

  Who to your name were pre-ordained, fore-doomed

  Ere Chaos crumbled and the stars were new.

  Fair vestal priestess of that inner shrine,

  Serving the altars of the mystic Nine!

  O wisest maid that ever Vassar grew,

  Deign to accept this silly book of mine

  Which I have dared to dedicate to you.

  R W. C.

  THE BETTER MAN

  Which is the Better Man:

  A man who wins

  Because another fails?

  A Prince who flails

  A servant for his sins?

  The Beggar, or the Viceroy of Nan Shan?

  Which is the Better Man?

  Which is the Better Man:

  A man who lives Because another dies?

  Hwang-Ti the wise?

  A starving thief who gives?

  The captive who forgives the Sword of Han?

  Which is the Better Man?

  Ride on, my Banneret; the wretched flee!

  The weaker fall beneath thy sabre, Kaou-te!

  For day is night, and might is right; — and yet

  Death to the slave who slays my Banneret!

  From the Chinese.

  THE PROGRESS OF JANET

  It was Glade’s eighteen-year-old wife who first saw the man fishing in Lynx Brook. Standing at her washtub, she could easily keep an eye on the stranger’s movements. For at Glade’s Bush the forest had been thinned from both sides of the glen, opening a mile-long vista through which Lynx Brook was visible, tumbling down the rocky valley.

  Kathleen Glade’s grey eyes followed the stranger. Half a year as Glade’s wife had nearly paralyzed every human impulse in the girl, but a spark of natural loyalty still remained alive, and it was, perhaps, instinct and not fear that inclined her to warn her husband.

  But Glade came that evening and slapped her face till her mouth bled, before hunching himself over his supper of trout, pork and flapjacks.

  It was a silent meal; nobody spoke. Glade, often loudly loquacious abroad, was full of mean silences and furtive, half-articulated sounds at home. Only his ratty eyes were eloquent now.

  An hour later the local game protector took a lantern and slouched off to Wildrick’s Tavern, four miles south, it being Saturday night. Which meant that he’d remain there, drunk, until Monday; a matter of infinite relief to his wife and to her young sister, Janet, scarcely turned sixteen.

  On Monday night Glade returned, dingy, unkempt, ghastly, from his carouse with the forest loafers at Wildrick’s Dump.

  His fox-like countenance was caked with dry blood, where Wildrick had hit him with a cartridge belt — an incident involving a girl, one Helen Grey — and Glade’s hands were still twitching from the effects of his debauch as he squatted beside the spring trough to cleanse himself.

  His young wife brought him a towel: he stood drying his sharp and battered features, eyeing her malevolently the while. But he said nothing to her nor to his little sister-in-law until he had bolted his breakfast. Then he opened fire:

  “So you seen a man a-fishin’ into Lynx Brook, and you hain’t said nothing about it — hey?”

  “You struck me — for nothing — before I could tell you, Hal,” returned Kathleen, in t
he dull, accentless voice which was becoming characteristic.

  “You’re a liar,” observed her husband, scraping the leavings of his plate together on the blade of his knife and shoving in all into his mouth.

  He munched reflectively for a moment; then, looking sideways from his wife to his sister-in-law:

  “You watch out, both of you. D’y’ hear what I say? There’s talk down to Wildrick’s.”

  Kathleen said indifferently:

  “There’s always talk at Wildrick’s, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, an’ some of it’s about you!” snarled Glade, showing a full set of very yellow and pointed teeth — a fox-face full, as Jim Wildrick once had remarked. Kathleen’s bruised cheeks reddened.

  Glade continued:

  “Yaas, you an’ a feller named Kent who calls hisself a timber-looker. Say, what the hell do you talk to him about?”

  Kathleen said:

  “I have not seen him in two months. I never said anything to him except good-morning.”

  Nursing his sullen irritation for a while in silence, he presently shot another very evil glance at his wife: “If I ever ketch you philanderin’, jest you say your prayers!”

  “I say little else, Hal.”

  “Wall, say ’em some more, then!” he snapped, “an’ quit talkin’ to me!”

  For an hour he slunk around the rough, frame house, shuffling from the little vegetable patch to the log barn, where a horse stood munching wild hay.

  But after the local warden had braced himself with sufficient whiskey, he took his shotgun and a dozen shells full of buck and went out to where Kathleen was pinning up his freshly washed shirts.

  “Keep your eyes skinned,” he growled. “That there man a-fishin’ into Lynx Saturday is too dum careless to suit me an’ Jim Wildrick. An’ he might be one of Burling’s men at that!”

  Burling, the new Conservation Commissioner, remained as yet an unknown quantity to faithless local wardens, law-breakers and forest bummers in general. But dire rumours were already astir in the State Forest and the mountainous country adjacent: strange men had begun to appear here and there in localities never before affected by strangers. And there was much whispering at Wildrick’s Dump.