The Last Chapter

Auckland Star, Volume LXIX, Issue 206, 1 September 1938, Page 30

The Last Chapter

U V TO man can be sure," asserted my I>| new friend, "that he will not one day l>e a murderer." '•Maybe," I replied, "but for most of •is it e a remote possibility." "But it's so easily done," he insisted. A rush of anger. A revolver shot. \ man ls dead! As in this case," he added pointing to the newspaper that lav on the table before us. "There certainly are a lot of crime*passionels in France," I admitted. "The Latin temperament, I suppose—and too much revolver carrying." "It is so easily done,- he said again. We chatted on for „ while. lie wars a* smallish, good-looking chap of middle age, whom I knew as Fleming a native of London on leave from Singapore, and a fellow gucKt there at my hotel in Clermont-Ferrand. Perhaps it was on account of his beard, and an occasional <|uick gesture, that I bad not. until we lirst *poke, taken him to be Kltglish. \\e sot on ipiite well together, and joined forces for auto-bus excursions to Mont-d'Or. Chatel-Giiyon. and other stations-thermales, though happily neither of us had need to drink their bitter waters. In long roving* over the h'r-clad hills, we became more friendly in a tew days than I had with my next door neighbours in Putnev after ten

years. "Suppose we take the tram up to Koyat," he suggested when we had shelved the topic of murder, 'and then walkon towards the Puy. Will Ik: cooler up there. , ' In lens than an hour we wen! footing it on a road whence Cherinont-IVrrand — whose ancient churches make strange company for its modern rubber factories—was displayed lieneatli us like an aerial photograph in colour. In the opposite direction, clear c it and splendid in the sunshine rose the peak of the I'uy-de-Dome, lord-paramount of beautiful Auvergne. i hen it was that my companion etartled me.

"Jt is not far from here," he said, "to the spot where I shot a man." "Oood Lord!" I ejaculated . . "Why?" "Would you like to hear the yarn?" "Very much." "Then you must first know that my real name is not Fleming—it is Paul (iarron. and that I am not English— but French." "Keally! . . . . T should never have guessed it from your speech." "There it a good reason why I ehouM speak your language fliientlv*. . . Well, the story began twenty five years ago, though the last chapter has only just lieen written ... I was i:\. mid in love with a girl named EstHle KourU'ville. She wiia tall, with n fine figure, and of course to me the most l*eautifiil woman in the world. Her nature was rather hard, but she lm«l <|iiii-k wits and intelligence. Like every lover T thought life without the woman I loved was impossible. You know how it is." "Yes."

"Alas, for me she had only an infatuation that soon passed. For a few months I lived in heaven. Then she l»egan to grow cold—her smile, her voice, the touch of her hand, every day a little colder. She was freezing me off, ae you say. But I demanded no explanation. Why? Because I knew I was losing her—l knew and yet I dared not let myself know, if you understand what I mean." "You could not face it." "I could not, I simply could not. When two people love and then one turne away, it is hell for the other, is it not?" "No doubt about that." At this point we left the road and took a footpath. "We will go this way," said Garron, "and so we shall come to the very house where I shot Gaeton Verdier." "He, I take it, was your rival?" "Yes. But that I did not know till the day I shot him. I was aware that he knew Eatelle, but I thought it was just in a casual wny. At the time, it was easy for them to meet, lxvnuse she lived at Royat. and it was not n great distance from there to his house—which >e really a country cottage where he and hig mother used to come up in summer to escape the heat of the town. "Hβ was taking a long holiday, and free all day, while I wae busy in Clermont, well out of the way. Oh, I do not doubt that they met often up here in these wilds—a splendid background for an affair of the heart, hein ?" "Splendid indeed," I said. "And how did you find out what was going on ?" "Let us eit down," he proposed, pointing to a felled tree; and when we had installed ourselves there and lit our pipes, he resumed: ' "One day when I went to the office where I worked as an English correspondent, there was not much to do, and my employer gave me the afternoon off. I came to Royat to see Estelle, thinking we might go for a country walk. Because there had recently been a highway robbery in the district, I brought my revolver—for which it chanced that I had only one cartridge left.

"Eetelle was not at home. Her mother —who approved of me as a suitor—told me she had gone to visit friends who lived in one of those villus back on the road we came along. As I knew the people, I called there, but found they had not seen her that day. So to pass the time I decided to take a walk up here in the hills. Then on returning through Royat I should no doubt find that Eetelle hnd got home again. "I walked for miles, and coming back I took a path that paesee Verdier's cottage, which, as you will see, lies in an isolated place. It was dusk. As I was nearing the cottage, someone lit a lamp in one of the rooim. It was Verdier, and there in the room with him was Ewtelle!" Garron's dark eyes blazed at the memory. "But was not his mother there?" I asked. "*o—no one else was there at all," "H'm," "I etood behind a tree and watched Verdier close the shutters. Already I believed the worst. My first idea was to go straight to the cottage—but then I dicided to wait .... When it was quite dark I crept into the garden and* ■up to the window. There was a tiny crevice in the shutters. I saw Verdier kissing Estelle "At such moments it is some other self that takes possession of us. I drew my revolver—but was afraid of shooting Estelle, so f tapped on the wood. \ erdier jumped up and stepped towards the window. I fired through the crevice .... I had a glimpse of him staggering backwards . . . ." Garron paused. "And then ?" I asked. '"Ihen panic seized me. I turned to run, but had only got a yard or so when I tripped and fell. My head struck the stone border of a flower bed. I lost consciousness, .... When I recovered, I was lying just inside the door of the cottage, with Estelle standing over me, : weeping. She told me that Verdier was dead ....

"She raged at me. I had killed the only man she ever loved, ruined her life. I was a murderer, fit only for the guillotine. So she stormed on. "When I asked her if sho was quite sine he was dead, she *aid his body was already growing cold. She threw' open lor a moment the door of the room where he lay. covered bv a sheet.

'•lint soon *U Q became less hysterical, Tcrhaps it WiiK a little my fault,' she iidinitted. 'It is terrible that 1 should Iμ- tlu> cause of two nu>n dying. 'IVrrilile! Look, I'mil—you must escape. Tliat's why 1 drugged you in here, so tlmt if anyone passed they should not ; is you.' She was so strongly built, and i so light, that lii'r Willi; alile to do that did not surprise hip, 'So one has comc, no one could have heard the shot,' she went on. 'You must escape!' " 'It is no use,' I protested. 'I should lie a miserable fugitive, and finally caught. They may as well take me now. I have lost you, i have nothing to live for. , ,; 'Hut you must escape for my sake,' she insisted. 'I cannot have another death on my conscience—von must go nlinwird. , * "I argued that it was impossible, but she held to her idea. 'Listen,' she said. It is dark, and if wv are careful we can liotli get home without being seen. When the police come to me, I shall say that when I left (Jastoii he wile all right. I cannot deny I Sil w him at all, because oil our way here we met several people. I shall tell them that 1 came here to see his mot Her, i,»d when 1 found she was not at home, I went awav . . . .You must come with me till we" get near lioyut. Come, we must fro at once;' "./list as v.e not outside the cottage, she slipped in again. '1 have taken the sheet oil , him.' she explained when she came out. 'An enemy would not cover himup so—ah, his poor face -terrible;' ' To-night,' tdie said as soon as we were fairly on our way, 'you will write to your employer saying you have news that a close relative in the north of France is dying, and that you are leaving; at once, to see him. But what you will actually do is to get the first train to Marseilles. There you must get work on a ship and go —anvwliere—(he further the better.' "Jll my distress, it was not till we were Hearing Kivyat that I remembered my revolver. 'What has happened to it?' I asked her. " '.Won Dion,"' slio cried, 'but T did not thing of it—it must still lie. there where you fell!' " " Without that.' T said, 'how could they prove that I killed him? We must go hack for it.' " "But she would not have it—saying that having once got away from' the place it would be madness to go back. How could we Iμ- sure there wa* not already someone there? .... Well. I

was in no fit state to withstand her, and she had her way .... "She talked as though it was. easy to get out of France by finding work on a ship under a false name—for me who knew nothing about ships! It did not look easy at all to me. Yet, liv some miracle of luck, as it seemed, I managed it, for the next day, in Marseille*, I was engaged as a stoker on a small British tramp just sailing for the East. Several of the crew had deserted, and the captain did not a*k too manv questions."

At this juncture, T interrupted Garron to ask whether lie had not read the newspapers before he left Marseilles.

"Yes, I did," he told me, "but there was nothing about Verdier. That did not surprise me, as it was quite likely that there Mould be some delay in finding the body."

"You mnet have had a pretty tough imp as a stoker." I remarked.

"Indeed I did." he said, "but I got used to it more or less .... And now I must pas* rapidly over the next 25 years, for the first two of which I was at sea. I took every chance to improve my English, which was already good when I left France, for I decided to adopt the role of an Englishman as soon as possible. Well, one night the ship I was on collided with another and sank. We were saved and taken to Singapore, and in the circumstances there was nothing strange about my having no proof of identity. On the ship, they hadn't believed my name was really John Fleming, but no one in Singapore troubled to question it. I boldly declared I was English, and before long I got a job ashore. "Three years later the war broke out, and I joined up with the British forces. I was sent to Egypt and the Dardanelles, but never to France. "After the war I returned to Singapore, where I found better employment than before, and ultimately worked myself into a good position— an you can judge from the fact that I am now on four months' leave on full pay. "From the day I left Marseilles, I made no attempt to get hold of newspapers reporting the death of Verdier.

I wanted to forget. I never wanted to see his name or Estelle's again. It seemed to me fortunate, in one eense, that I was an orphan and had no relatives who cared much about me, because

Short Story .... By FRANK WESTON

"Yes." answered Oarron, smiling eardonieally. "When two men strive for a woman," he added, "it is not always he who gets her ie the lucky one."

that made it easier to banish the old life and immerse myself more completely in the new.

"P.ut as they grow older, men learn wisdom—or at any rate, their opinions change, lie that sis it may, I came to realise that love is a disease that attacks whom it will, and i* one of the most difficult maladies to escape. How could anyone be blamed for falling in lover Such tilings are outside the hi,man will. They just happen to people, They do not justify murder

"So it wns that my remorse at killing Verdicr, instead *of dying away, remained an ever-present cloud over an otherwise fait ly happy life. It would never disperse. That was what 1 still k'lieved when, yielding at last to the desire to see my native land again, I embarked six weeks ago at Singapore.

"\<>u will ask me if | did no t fear tc return to France. I did not. My crimt was *<> old, the war luid come between and with niv English papers then seemed to lie i:,> risk. Why, I ever speak French with a slight hesitation s<. little have I used it for a quarter ol a century. "Then, my friend, came one of thos< ironic strokes that happen at least onei in most men'K lives. My firm receiver from one of the rubber factories lien a proposal to take their agency foi Malaya. What more natural than t<. cable me to go to I'Wmont and discuss the matter? They did so. I could no) refuse. I never lad any relatives 01 cl<*c friends in Clerniont, other thai lstelle. and even if she was still then and recognised me. she would not givi me away. At the end of my first day ir the town my fears had almost vanished "That evening I went for a walk fiwcnxihly, I was drawn in this direct ion. There is. I suppose, some psveho logical reason for such things but 'all ] (■an tell you is that 1 could not resist To put it shortly, I ended by findinj. myself before the very cotta<r e where i shot Verdier. ' ° "To describe my feelings would noi be possible. I stood there etill as i stone. It was dark, and I was so thrusl back into the past, that I half expectec to see a light come on and reveal Verd icr and Kstelle .... "And it did! Ves, you may well 100 l incredulous, but it 'did. there thej were, before my eyes! Kstelh—urn Verdicr. changed by agp. hut alive am unmistakable! .... This time he die not close the shutters, and through tlu open window-they were engaged in c heated argument — 1 could hoar theii voices. "I was still standing there, stiff witl terror, when Vcnlicr came out into tlit garden ami saw me. lie came ii| and shone an electric torch into mj face. In two seconds he knew me "Criititl ilieii-—e'est Oanoii!' he cried.' (iarion stopped, and after refilling his pipe thoughtfully, invited me to guesi the solution to the riddle. "I can only suppose," J hazarded "that F.etelle was mistaken in thinkin; you had killed Verdier —that he wa> badly wounded, but recovered." , "She was not mistaken," lie answered "She knew all the time that I had onlj wounded him slightly." "But when she showed you him lyinj in that room?" "He was posing, of course—slu guessed lightly that I would not wan! to go near him." "Then I give it up." "It was like this. When they founc lie was not much hurt, they went up stairs and peered out of a window.Thev aw me lying on the ground, and cami lown and carried me in. J W a« a lonjj time recovering my senses, and bv thei the quick-witted Estelle had devised hei cynical plan—which, if it succeeded would simplify everything for them. II would get rid of me, and punish me I should canine no more trouble. Witl me out of the way Kstelle's parents would no doubt agree to her marryinj Verdier. . . . If it did not succeed nothing would be lost. . . . Voila—What dc you thing of it, my friend?" "It's the most extraordinary thin< I've heard of for a long time."* "TJfe is extraordinary .... And now if we go a little further, I will ehow you the cottage." "You aren't afraid of Verdier goinj t i the police?" "Xo. I had quite a chat with then that night, lie admitted that, in mj place, he might have done what I did Believe me, they don't want to rake i all up again—even if they could provi that I am not John Fleming." Ten minutes later we were close t< the cottage that had been the stage o this curious drama. From the sheltei of a spinney, we gazed on a thin, grey haired man, and a portly woman, whi were in the garden. They were talkin; loudly and gesticulating a e thougl having a far from friendly discussion The woman's voice etruck me as tha of a shrew. "So that is Verdier and Estelle," said.