THE PECULIAR INSTINCT

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXXIII, Issue 22574, 12 November 1936, Page 6

THE PECULIAR INSTINCT

ItV JOYCE WEST

The traffic officer displayed a largo white glove. Doctor Ralph Bannantyne leaned an elbow upon the wheel ot his car and leisurely lighted a cigarette. He was a powerf nlly-built man with straight brows find a. straight mouth. His dark, strongly-cut face expressed no emotion, but a certain faint impatience at the delay, his grey eyes . . . when they should have been dark .• . . git ted him , with the uncanny effect of appearing to see more than he was intended to. Bannantyne was a successful man. bor his characteristic habit of riding roughshod over all obstacles to reach his objective, his friends sometimes affectionately dubbed him "Juggernaut Bannantvne; his foes more frequently referred to him as "that devil, Bannantvne." It was an ancient and garrulous charwoman . . . for Bannantyne had a peculiarly comprehensive practice . . who summed up, very neatly, the reason for his uncanny success. "I couldn't have died if I had wanted to, 1 was that frightened of goin' against the doctor. . ." Doctor Bannantvno flicked the ash from his cigarette with a movement of impatience. Ho had had a hard day, and he was anxious to bo home. Two operations, a sixty-mile drive to a country consultation, and his afternoon consulting hours had been followed by a football accident, a motor-cycle smash, and a frenzied call from a nerve patient who was perfectly certain that she was dying. It was a wet night, and grey; street lamps already cast pools of brightness. The stream of vehicles still crept steadily over the crossing. Behind Bannantyne a blue streamlined car came up and turned into the side street. He recognised the man at the wheel of the car, and saw that there was a woman with him, her scariet scarf floating gaily over her shoulder. Bannantyne shrugged and reached for his gear lever. The traffic officer beckoned, and the long line of cars began to move. The blue car was out of sight. Oliver Brand with another woman. . . It was not six months since the affair of the morphine poisoning of Janette, the little dancer. He had been called in to Janette, and had seen the brief letter she had left for Brand. Bannantyne turned a corner into a side street. Rotten with women . . that was Brand. A handsome fellow . . . sombre eyes, and a reckless mouth, and a low caressing voice. A charm of his own, perhaps .. . but rotten to the core. _ . The rain was setting in for the night. Heavy sheets drove across the shining roadway. The gray sky was darkening. Bannantyne lifted his foot from the accelerator, and the car glided round into the garage. Bannantyne got out and turned up his coat collar, preparatory to climbing the steps in the rain. The house was new, built in a Spanish Mission style, the surgery wing of the garage on the ground half-floor, the main part of the house reached by a low flight of shallow steps. Bannantyne stood still in the rain for a minute to survey his home. He was proud of it .. . not for the money it represented, but for the fact that Veronica had designed and finished it. Bannantyne opened the door, shed his coat in the entrance hall. It was a cheerful place; lights cunningly concealed in a mock fanlight over thfc door cast a sunlit radiance 5 the walls were of cream plaster. There wa ® a bowl of primroses on a low dark table. Veronica's leather coat hung on a peg; her scarlet silk scarf trailed across a chair-back. , , Bannantyne opened the door to the white tiled bathroom ... it was reached directly from the hall, for his convenience . . . and his daughter s clear, imperious voice floated from somewhere. "Hurry up! Dinner's waiting . . . and I'm starving!" . In ten minutes' time he was facing Veronica across the small, round table J in the alcove by the dining room window. Veronica was a slender vivid young woman with something of his own imperative cast of feature, his grey baffling eyes. She was already started on her soup. Bannantyne shook out napkin, and leisurely poured himself a class of water. "Well .. . what's your good news? You look as pleased as a cat with kittens." "I have news . . Veronica admitted. pushing the salt politely across the tame. "Guess. . "You've been commissioned to remodel Government House?" Bannantyne suggested. Veronica rippled. "No ... not that sort of news. . . she said mysteriously. Bannantyne regarded her across the table with a tinge of regret. There was nothing of her mother in Veronica. Eve had been a slender, gentle woman, yielctjng, grateful, passionate. He had been married to her for five years, and in that time there had been no shadow to mar their happiness. Eve died when her daughter was born. Veronica was all his own . . . her dark dofiniteness . . . the carriage of her head . . . her peculiar tenacity of purpose. There was no denying that yeronica had been a most obstinate child, and was a most obstinate young woman. It was inevitable that there should be times in her life when her will and her father's clashed. The first childish differences were easily settled with a slipper, but later things were much less simple. The second last time they had disagreed was over the question of school, and Bannantyne had carried the day. Veronica, at the ago of 14, considered her education finished, and decided to get herself expelled from the fashionable boarding school at which her father had placed her. To which challenge Bannantyne intimated that as fast as she left one school, he would find another. Veronica tired of the fjame first. In the last battle Veronica had come off triumphant. Bannantyne had wanted her to have a year in Sydney, to make her entry into the social world under the wing of his sister. Veronica decided instead upon a 'varsity course and a career as an architect and interior decorator. "What have you been doing to-day?" Veronica demanded gaily. "The usual thing . . Bannantyne said vaguely, "Mrs. Brent-Jones called me in a frenzy just as 1 was starting homo. . ." Veronica grinned a little. "What did you say to her?" "Told her the truth . . . that she'd be cured by an honest day's work," said Bannantyne, absently reaching for tlio bread. "You would . . said Veronica unlilially. "Oh yes . . . and that made mo late, and I got caught in a traffic jam," Bannantyne recollected. "Yes. I saw you . . ." Veronica said. She sounded suddenly a little breathless. Bannantyne glanced quickly across the table. "1 didn't see you. . "I passed you in a car. . Veronica said. She had got up suddenly, hastily, and sho came round and stood behind his chair and leaned over h>m. She laid hard cool young arms around his shoulders. "Daddy. . "What. . . P" said Bannantyne. "I'm engaged to bo married. .." Veronica burst out jvith a little breath.

A SHORT STORY

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less ripple of laughter, "to a man . . . naturally . . 1 mean I don't b'lievo you know him. . . He's a decorator; 1 met him at Morrison's . . . his name's Oliver Brand. . ." There wag a long mirror opposite them. Bannantyne sat very still, and looked at them both ill it. . . Veronica'h cool check pressed to his .. . their laces so alike, yet unalike. . Veronica's clear, dewv, grey eyes and her young sweet, resoluto inouth. . . "Veronica, my dear . . said Bannantyne, "can you not do anything like anybody else?" He looked at his own face in tho mirror, and it was impassive. Veronica was laughing breathlessly, clinging to him. "Do you know him, dad?" "1 tliink I've mot him," Bannantyne said, "a dark man .. . good-look-ing. . ." "It sounds like Oliver. . Veronica said. "Kiss mo, dad. . Caresses were raro between tho two. Ho turned his face up, and sho kissed him seriously upon the mouth. "Oliver was coming back here tonight, but ho had some sort of a meeting with the directors of his firm . . . and I shouldn't wait to tell you. . ." She straightened up, and looked at her own reflection in the mirror. "Say j'ou're pleased, dad. . she said with an odd, rare wistfulness. Bannantyne shook his head slowly. "That's asking too much of me, mv dear!" ho said bluntly. "The house will be a very lonely place without you. But I can wish you all tho very best of everything in the world. . ." Veronica's brief mood of seriousness had passed. "You're not getting sentimental over me . . . you of all people, Doctor Bannantyne 1 I'm going to leave you in peaco to finish your dinner, while I write to a client who wants a really modern dining room. . When she was gone, Bannantyne sat on at the table, looking at his own reflection. He felt old and tired, and a little sick. He shook his head, dizzily, like a man who has received a blow. He could forbid the marriage, of course . . . and Veronica was twentyone, and she would walk out of tho house and marry Brand to-morrow. Ho could tell Veronica that Brand was a rotter, and she would fly to arms in his defence. He knew, too well, that strange streak of steel beneath his daughter's gay sweetness. He clenched a hand and laid it on the table. His face, in the mirror, gave him back strange, grim reflection. After a long time he got up, and called from the door to Veronica. "I'm going out to the hospital . . . I've a patient there I want to take a look at." "Oh dear!" said Veronica, "it must be true that there's no rest for the wicked!" Then Doctor Bannantyne did a peculiar thing. He entered his surgery, donned a pair of rubber gloves, and took out of the drawer of his desk a revolver and a small box of ammunition. The revolver was an unregistered weapon; Mrs. Brent-Jones had given it to him to dispose of, because she was afraid she might shoot herself. Bannantvne loaded the revolver, and put it in his coat pocket, where it made an awkward bulge. Then ho strolled out to tho garage. _ i His plans were carefully laid. He , would go to tho hospital first, then drive straight out to Brand's and meet him as he was returning from his business conference. Brand lived alone, with a woman who came in by the day, in j a big house with park gates on one j side and a vacant section on the other. There was little fear of a revolver shot J being heard, and it would be a queer . thing if he . . . Bannantyne ... a doc- J tor . . . could not make a shooting case j look like suicide. Bannantyne smiled coldly in the j darkness as he swung tho car round | into the hospital drive entrance. Tho ward sister greeted him gratefully. "Doctor Bannantyne . . . we've been trying to get a message to you! There's been a motor smash ... a man with head injuries. . ." A few minutes later he was slowly, and heavily getting into his white operating-room overalls. The business of Oliver Brand could wait an hour as well as not. The nurse was adjusting his gauze mask, helping him on witn his gloves. Behind his mask Bannantyne smiled faintly, looking at his hands. Not a tremor ... he wondered if there were many men who would set out as coolly on the task of killing another man. . . Harrington, who had given him the report of the patient, was to administer the anaesthetic. He was there, in his white overalls and grotesque mask. . . Sister Stainer, who had assisted him at every operation for the past five years, standing ready, waiting . . . the patient inert upon the table. Depressed fracture, Harrington had reported, pulse and breathing very slow. . . It was, perhaps, as well that Doctor Bannantyne was wearing a mask. Behind its shield, his face had hardened to a curious rigidity. The man upon the table was Oliver j Brand whom he had set out to kill. j " Ready Doc. . ." Harrington murmured. "Pulse is pretty low. . ." Bannantyne stepped forward. As ever, at that minute, he became an automa- j ton, scarcely human, cold science, a| force to save life. Sister Stainer, at his elbow, responded to his laconic dc-1 mands like a second brain. Now there i was nothing to it, but a man, and a j fight to save life. "Pretty bit of work. . Harrington was murmuring, "oh, a pretty bit of work. . ." It took quite a bit to make Harrington enthusiastic. Bannantyne realised that someone was helping him out of his overalls, stripping off his gloves. Ho took a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. "I wouldn't have given sixpence for his chances. . ." Harrington said. - "I wouldn't give a great deal for them now," Bannantyne heard his own voice say normally. , Harrington shrugged., "No stamina. Pretty high liver, 1 should say. . ." They wore back at Brand's bedside. His breathing was shallow, his pulse almost negligible. Bannantyne was suddenly giving curt orders; nurses were running back and forth; he was bent above the bed, fingers on the fluttering pulse in his patient's wrist. Some time later he realised that he was putting on his overcoat. A heavy weight in the pocket swung unobtrusively against his hip. Ho caught a whispered comment ho was not meant to hear. "He hates losing a case worse than poison. . ." Harrington gave him a reassuring slap on the shoulder ... a good chap Harrington was; they had been friends for years . . . ten years . . . ever since Veronica was n school girl ... ho had always hoped that Veronica was fond of Tom Harrington. . . "Not a hope from the first. . he said, "you look all in, old man. Sure you're all right?" "Yes, I'm all right," Bannantyne said mechanically. Good-night." From the waiting room door Veronica came forward. Her eyes were tearless She seemed to have curiously aged. Bannantyne put an arm around her, and she leaned on him. Tho hardness of his face was broken up into a yearning gentleness. "Veronica, my dear. . Veronica leaned against him, and held him with tenso hands. "Oh, dad. . ." Sho recovered herself abruptly, and strove to comfort him. "Don't you feel bad about it, my dear. "You couldn't do more than your best . . . and your best is pretty good for a mortal." "Yes. . said Doctor Ralph Bannantyne slowly, "I did, mx few