THE PRIZE STORY.

Otago Witness, Issue 3755, 2 March 1926, Page 85

THE PRIZE STORY.

By Mary Drewe Tempest. (Copyright.—For the Witness.) “A prize of £IOO is offered for the most realistic short story ” Three bobbed heads—two dark, one fail' almost touched above the weekly newspaper containing this most tempting advertisement. The three youn- women were seated at a small table in the corner of a busy City Lyon’s, and up to the discovery of this interesting notice, had been dividing their attention between “cocoa and toasted scones,” and the relentless minute hand of the clock facing them. . “Do let’s have a try for it—just for the fun of the thing!” urged the fair-haired girl; “after all, one can but fail;” her soft Devonion voice had a wistful note in it, as she added: “There’s alv/ays a chance—however small, and a hundred pounds would give me the holiday of my Ji^e~ a moneymoon all on my lonesome!” Redlips smiled, but the wide, blue eyes were sad She pushed away her unfinished cocoa, and, mechanically onawing an inky thumbnail, conned that tantalising advertisement again. ‘But neither of us can write !” objected her particular chum, a typist with sallow complexion and anxious eyes, “so, of couree, we haven’t got an earthly.” “Don’t always act the wet blanket, Tricksy dear! Realism’s what they’re out for her,” tapping the paragraph, “and Realism will win that big cheque—not literary talent.” “All right, my ox-eved daisy • we’ll have a shot at it. Nothing venture—you know.” She turned to the silent third, a young woman with whom their friendship was in the prefix stage: “Going in for it, too, Miss Lindsay?” “Why shouldn’t I? Neither of you can crave for that hundred pounds \ orse than I do.” ie somewhat truculent words dragged themselves out, as if the speaker was thinking aloud. From under the sheltei of her mushroom bat. “Tricksy” studied this determined rival For some little time past, Miss Lindsay had been an object of consuming curiosity to the two friends. Good-looking —almost a beauty, with ’-or sombre, black eyes, warm, red mouth, with it glistening teeth, her perfect figure, and free, grace ful carriage: how was it that she seemed to spend her life alone? Surely such a girl should have an “embarras de choix” in men acquaintances, to say nothing of women ! And yet she seemed woefully friendless To-day, she would have lunched by herself as usual, had not these two taken pity on her and invited her to come to their table Very odd: . . .. ‘Then you mean to make a bid for it?” On receiving a curt nod, the sallow-faced girl shrugged, and turned a look of comic despair on her friend : “Small chance for you and me, Ethel, with a real, live journalist in the running!” “But—according to Miss Hedges—‘Realism'll win that big cheque—not literary talent;’ so you’ve nothing to fear from me.” Miss Lindsay’s voice sounded faintly mocking; latent hostility, eagerness, uncertainty, also coloured it. She was leaning across the table with parted lips and heaving breast, her hungry black eyes fastened on that advertisement; a study fo' a picture with “Greed” as its title. “Of course, you are as free to try for it as we are,” “Tricksy” said; “Only let’s play fair and not ‘snitch” each other’s plots. On that understanding. I’ll take you into my confidence? . . . All right, then here goes.” She paused to light a cigarette, then held the match to that of her friend. Satisfied that both were “making smoke,” she leant back and gave her imagination full play. “Mine’s going to be the ‘Burglary with Violence’ stunt I saw the other night, when that handsome cracksman downed the peeler, getting clean way (you remember rny tellin'g you about it, ducky?) My! 1 shall never forget his face if I live to be a hundred! And he looked straight at me with eyes that’d charm the soul out of a poor girl’s body. . . . You bet, I can write plenty of ‘Realisin’ about him!” “But,” timidly, “would there be enough ‘incident’ in that?” “Tricksy” exhaled a long serpent of smoke, in a futile attempt to blow it into a ring. “Not ‘enough’? My dear, I’m going to make that man abduct me, marry me by force; then, under my gentle influence, turn over a whole volume of new leaves, and finally save that peeler’s life.” She stared into space for a moment, visualising things . . . then came back with a jerk. “That’s my plot. What’s yours, darling? With your big blue eyes and romantic mind you’ll chose ‘Love’ for a dead cert.” “Yes,” her friend answered slowly, “I’ll write about a broken fuith and —a broken heart, buried under smiles and jests.” She put up a ringless left hand to stop an impending objection, “Indeed, I can make that real enough; I know the girl ” “Tricky’s” eyes grew moist; she couldn’t tell why. . . . and—because they were moist, she laughed. “Think my plot’s the better, kiddie; got more ‘atmosphere’ and ‘incident.’ Drama too. Why, my innocent little amateur, Romance is as dead as last year’s—mutton! Police court stuff’l is what they’re yearning for, and police court stuff’ll win that hundred pounds. I’ll stand you a movie if it doesn’t. ” She turned to older girl. “Now for your plot, Miss Lindsay,” she said, carefully depositing the stump of her cigarette on the burnt debris of her toasted scone; “we expect something nice and tasty from you; a free-lanoe writer.”

“I back i/ut. . . Waste of time and money.” Miss Lindsay spoke with sullen reluctance, her black eyes roving moodily from face to face of her two companions. “Tricksy” looked at her in sheer amazement. “Waste of twopence in postage stamps. Dear me, we are hard up! Out you’re not in earnest, surely? You are?. . You’ve got me beat. . . Ah, well, the better chance for us, lovely, and well share the boodle between us.” The fair gill nodded and laughed, with a swift, mystified look at the backer-out. The restaurant clock struck two. “Heavens! did you hear that? Well never get back on time!” And the three girls snatched up their “chits,” and hurried to the pay box. Six weeks drifted by: six weeks of busy days and, sometimes, busy night, when the two friends burnt the midnight oil in furious literary effort. Results, however, were worth tiie cost for eventually two certain winners of the £IOO prize lay, neatly typed, under the drugget in the little 100 m they shared together—safe from prying eyes, to ait the great day. That day came, heralded by another announcement in the Weekly Trumpet: “All competitors for our £IOO prize are hereby invited to be present at the Eldon Literary Club at 8 p.m., on the 15th inst., to witness the presentation of the cheque, and to hear the prize story read.” On that momentous evening, “Ox-eved’* and “Tricksy,” clad in their holiday best, and armed * with a box of chocolates, arrived at the club in excellent time, and were duly piloted to the seats assigned to them, in the second of the six tows reserved for competitors. It was only seven, but the hour of waiting quickly passed in munching chocolates and criticising each rival as he or she appeared. As the hall filled up, they commented on the fact that there was not one familiar face among the crowd behind Ihem, and, interest in that quarter flagging, they turned their attention to the platform —just in time to see the judges file in and fill the little circle of cane chairs that nestled behind a pretty barricade of flowering plants. Promptly at eight the chairman bustled in, and with a perfunctory bow in acknowledgment of a clap or two, took up a prominent position in advance of his colleagues, on the left of the only remaining seat —a red-cushioned arm chair. While he fussed about with some MSS on the little table besides him, took a sip of water, and rose, the girls wondered greatly for what important personage that throne was intended, Suddenly hey knew . . . and “ Tricksy ” mentally began to practise bowings to right and left, in response to general acclamation; while Ethel, more diffident, wished the plant in front of that chair was a little higher. . . Their checks grew scarlet with excitement. for each privately believed herself to be the winning lady. Indeed, their hopes ran so high that they had a long way to fall when, after the* desultory reading of some club minutes, came the stentorian announcement: — “ Now, ladies and gentlemen, we come to the interesting ceremony which lias brought us together in unusually large numbers this evening: the presentation of our £IOO prize. The winning story—which I shall presently read to you—is entitled: ‘An Unsolved Crime/ and we have much pleasure in inviting Miss Elizabeth Lindsay, its gifted authoress, to come up and receive her cheque, together with our hearty congratulations/* The two girls listened in dumb astonishment, and they gripped hands in an agony of fierce sensations when they, saw the young womun who had so deliberately “cried off” rise from behind a pillar, make her way along a row of disappointed competitors, and, amid a half-hearted clapping, take the seat of honour on the platform. There, clutching her cheque with both hands, lips tightly shut, black eyes, staring blankly before her, she prepared to listen to the reading of her prize story. She’s stolen my plot; that’s what she s done! ” muttered “Tricksy” in a stage whisper. “ Or mine ” began “ Ox-eyed. •• gh—sli—! ” from the audience. The chairman looked warningly round, waited till the last sound had died away, cleared his voice, and began to read the prize story. , In simple, forceful, arresting terms it told the tale of a greedy woman’s double lit' An able seaman’s grass-widow, sho liad bigamously married a rich old man. Followed in breathless sequence a description of daily subterfuges; suspicions awakened and sent to sleep again; the husband’s unexpected return, finding her absent; her hurried, contradictory explanations; his growing doubts of her; her terror of discovery; chance gossip overheard, linking her name with that of the wealthy neighbours; the husbands determination to “get down to tile bottom of it”; bis intercepted letter, challenging the other man to a meeting after dusk in Nameless Wood; his forcing her to accompany him there to “ face this thing out.” (Here various sounds among the audidence, indicating lack of interest, died quite away.) The ghastly time spent waiting fol the man who never came; then described witli dreadful minuteness —tlia woman’s supreme effort to regain her husband’s lovo and confidence .... as she slowly backed him to the edge of a deep, bush-fringed quarry; then—as he was drawing her to him for a kisa of reconciliation —the stabbing dagger . . . plunged again and again; finally as he staggered . . . the frantio

push . . . and the long, crashing fall —into his hidden grave. (Here a sobbing sigh rose from that wall of white faces—as if the tension had grown past bearing. The reader paused, smiled, and turned the page.) A momentary madness of relief and exultation was next decribed; then the disoovery that' her right-hand glove was drenched ii blood. . . The hurried burying of that glove benfrfttih an oak that brooded over the spot. Then the back-ward-glancing, creeping home to watch, wide-eyed, through the night that hid a crime that only dumb stars had witnessed . . while dreams came and went. . . safety, freedom, wealth unlimited—through an endless vista of years; to watch till, one by one, those stars went out, and a steel-blue dawn heralded a shuddering day of re-awakened terrors. Then—the creeping back—as murderers will do—to make assurance sure: ‘ Had that dagger gone safely down with it? Were there no clues left? No. . . not even a blood-stained blade of grass. Just one last glance—then no more looking back, for pleasure and luxury beckoned. W—what had happened to that oak tree? Surely last night it was clad in all its spring time glory? Was she mad? or were her eyes still full of nightmare? That oak looked blasted now—blackened and rent by lightning that never came. (A shudder swept that mass of white, tense faces in front of the reader. He paused once more, well pleased to note the dramatic effect of this potential ‘best seller’; then proceeded to the end of the story). It told how for sixty terror-stricken seconds she stared at that tree —cursed by some unseen power because of the dread secret hidden at its roots. Then, of a frenzied impulse to hide, anyhow, anywhere, out of that dangling shadow of a rope. Followed on the heels of terror, her certainty of retribution; for—as that awful power had found out and smitten, so niu6t human justice—ultimately—find out and smite too. Is it not written: “An eye for an eye?” The reading voice ceased; and for the fraction of a second, the ony sound to be beard was the droning of a bumble bee as it dashed itself against a window pane in a futile effort to get out; then the storm broke in a cataract of applause. The two girls looked enviously at the forest of clapping hands. Suddenly that clapping stopped, and out of the pool of*silence came a thin, shrill cry—like that of some wild creature trapped, and in moral agony. Terrified now, the two gripped hands again, and turned their startled faces to the stage. As they looked a man in blue laid a heavy hand on the shrinking shoulder of the prize winner. “Elizabeth Dixon,” his voice stabbed the breathless paise that followed that despairing cry, “in the name of the law, I arrest you for the murder of your husband.” The woman was staring up at him, while the hundred pound cheque slipped from her shakin- fingers and fluttered to the floor.