[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A CRISIS ON A LINER

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XL, Issue 8, 22 February 1908, Page 47

[COPYRIGHT STORY.] A CRISIS ON A LINER

By

C. MANVILLE FENN

Author of “Crimson Crjme," Etc,

.4 NYTHING for me?” m/B It was growing late, and the porter of the so-called Night- / B Hawk Club started up into * wakefulness and stared confusedly at the speaker. “I said, anything for me?” was the query, repeated angrily. “Beg pardon, sir; yes, sir.” And a letter was taken from the rack and handed to the addressee, who scowled fts he snatched it, turned away, and taking a few steps across the hall, uttered a low “Hah!” as he recognised the handwriting. Pausing beneath a lamp, he hastily tore open the envelope and hesitated for a few moments, before unfolding the enclosure with trembling fingers, when he uttered an ejaculation of triumph as he caught sight of a cheque for a heavy sum. Then, glancing at the hastily written note within, he grasped three words only—“the last time” —before quickly thrusting note and cheque back into the envelope, placing them in his breast pocket, and re-buttoning his coat with a low chuckle of satisfaction. “Last time, eh?” he muttered. “Always is.” He crossed the hall and entered the empty coffee-room, where a sleepy waiter started up. “What, are you all asleep? Here, soda and 8., quickly.” The startled waiter hurried off, and the fresh arrival laughed softly to himself, and began to hum an air from the last new comic opera. “No, not the last time, dear boy,” he said, quietly, with a little laugh. “You have the wrong man to deal with. —Eh?” he added, turning sharply, for the waiter had come behind him silently, ami was holding out a tray bearing the sparkling draught. “Oh, yes, thanks.” He took the glass, drained it, set it down upon the table, and walked jauntily out into the street, nodded to the driver of the first cab that he met, and as he threw himself back in the seat he picked up the broken melody that he had begun humming, and lay back with half closed eyes, till the cab was checked at the entrance to one of the West Central Inns and the Judas was thrown open. “Drive in, sir?” *No; that will do.” The member of the club sprang out, pased under the grim-looking archway, passed under the grim-looking archway, ing a soul, and then stopped short beneath a lamp which badly illuminated a doorway whose side's displayed a couple of columns of names of the occupants. A sudden thought had occurred to him which made him begin to breathe hard as he tore the letter from his breast; and his hands trembled again as he glanced sharply round, to find that he ,was quite alone, and quite in silence save for the distant rumble of a vehicle passing the entrance of the Inn. “Not selling me, is he?” muttered the man, as he opened the envelope and snatched out its contents; and his fingers trembled more than ever as ho separated the long partly printed, partly written slip with its stamped end, from the notepaper. And just then the naked flame of the lamp over the door began to turn from dingy yellow to a sickly blue as if

it were going out. “What the—” he began; and as if startled by the adjuration the lamp flashed up again so that he could see plainly the figures “£200.” “Suspicious fool!” muttered the man, os he hastily replaced the cheque and note in the envelope, thrust it into his breast, nervously buttoned his coat again and gave a sharp slap to the outside of his pocket. “He daren’t,” he muttered triumphantly. “I’ve got him fast; and he knows it too.” He turned to enter the dim doorway, and took a couple of steps towards the flight of ill-lit stairs, a gas lamp from high up showing him doorways to right and left; and as he laid his hand upon the iron balustrade and raised one foot to plant it upon the first step, it seemed as if a sudden chill had been communicated to his heart from the icy iron, for he winced, started back, and hurried through the entrance on to the pavement, to look sharply to right and left; and then breathing hard, he snatched off his hat and let the chill night air play through the thin hairs of his partially bald head. “What the devil’s the matter with me?” he muttered. “Was it that S. and B.? Hallo! Puss! Going out?” he said, half laughingly; but the mirth sounded forced, as he stooped to pat a great black cat which had followed him out of the doorway and now rubbed itself against his leg. “Tchah! ” iie muttered. “I want tone. Not myself. I’ll have a bit of advice.” And pulling himself together with a jerk, his footsteps went ‘pat, pat,’ on the stone entry as he walked straight to the foot of the stairs, slowly and thoughtfully, followed by the cat, which seated itself in the first doorway and sat watching, the nervous man as he tried to walk firmly, but with trembling knees, and stopped short on the first landing where he began to fumble for his handkerchief, and made a pretence of wiping his eyes. “Bile,” he muttered—“liver, I must be more careful.” Thrusting back his handkerchief, he turned to ascend the second Hight of stairs, when the lamp above, which lit two doorways to right and left of the Ist floor, played the same prank as that below, the flame sinking and changing from a dull yellow in to blue and affecting the man so that he began to breathe hard again for a few minutes, during which he half turned to descend. “What the devil—” he muttered. “Bah! Get to bed;” and tearing open his coat once more he thrust his fingers into his vest pocket and snatched out a latch key. Now hurrying up the next flight of steps, with his footsteps echoing strangely from the bare walls, he reached the landing, passed the dark doorway to his left and crossed to the one to the right, and as the gas flame began to descend again, he leaned forward, key in hand, and was in the act of thrusting it into the lock when it appeared as if the jet quite expired, and he missed the keyhole consequent upon the darkness which suddenly seemed to blot out everything, making him start so violently that the little steel key escaped from his fingers and fell jingling upon the stone floor. A faint cry escaped his lips as he made a movement to stoop and pick up the

fallen key, and then dropped face downward with a groan following upon one dull heavy, sickening crash which had come out of the darkness; and then there was nothing but a sharp rustling sound as in the deep shadow of the doorway a quick busy movement was going on, and the naked gas jet burned of a more deep blue, till, after a quick rustling as of paper, light began to illumine the landing, not given by the gas but from some crumpled up paper ignited from the hissing and fluttering jet, which now gave forth a peculiar whistling wail. Darkness again, the smell of burning paper, a few sparks playing about in tinder; then a fragment that was only half burned was snatched from the floor, and held to the gas jet, with the result that shadowy fingers and a dimly seen face were illumined for a few seconds, before the silence was broken by another deep groan. Then for a moment there was a hurried movement on the landing, a sound of something heavy being dragged over the stone flags, and then being allowed to fall with a dull sound upon the floor. Then ‘ thud, thud, thud,’ three heavy blows. Silence, and as the gas jet began to rise slowly with a feeble wail and turn from pallid blue into sickly yellow, a dark and muffled figure slowly and steadily descended the stairs, thrusting something into its breast, passed calmly out beneath the dismal lamp at the entrance, crossed the square, showed up plainly for a moment by the porter’s lodge, and turned a way to the right, pause for a moment or two in a doorway to strike a match. Then a cigar was lit, and as tne dark actor in the scene walked quietly away, a hansom was hailed, and the act was at an end. Something horrible but welcome, to the evening papers. The contents bills made the most of it; the streets rang with it—The Mysterious Murder in the Silent Inn. Where were the police? Was this to be the last addiion to the long roll of undiscovered crimes? Was there to be no end to these tragedies in which even a gentleman returning from his club at night, who, as the inquest showed and witnesses proved, had been driven to the entrance of the Inn, was struck down at the door of his silent chamber, in the full glow of his health and strength, by some deadly enemy? This was not Venice, with bravoes lurking at street corners, stiletto-armed, ready to perpetrate some private vengeance. For it was an enemy that had done this thing. Was no life to be safe, when such a crime could be committed in the very centre of busy London? Where were the police? Private vengeance? Yes. The charred fragments of paper, scattered about the landing, wore eloquent testimony to the accuracy of that idea. But who was the deadly enemy of the quiet occupant of the lonely chambers in the Inn? He had been struck down from behind the doctor said, evidently by some blunt instrument, most probably by what is known as a life preserver; the blow had evidently stunned the victim, and the “ post-mortem ” evidence was in favour of the body having been afterwards turned over, and three more fearful blows given upon the temples. The papers said that careful research

had proved that this was a gentleman who led a quiet, unoffending life, and that it was supposed that he had at one time been connected with the law; but in spite of careful investigation on the part of the detectives, his life had been so blameless that it could not be connected, with anything that could have given rise to the catastrophe. But some people knew more than the police, and these people were of a kind who would be classified as shady. The deceased Mr. Edgar Brydgcs, who was evidently not ashamed of his name, for it was painted in black letters on each side of the doorstep at No. 01 in the Inn, and also repeated upon the door of his chambers was looked upon by the authorities of the place as an excellent tenant and was known to live comfortably and well. But he might Lave hail a large holding in Consols or some other gilt-edged security for aught anybody in an ordinary way knew. It was sufficient for the world that he had an income, and that he paid his way. One, perhaps two, of his intimates could have told talcs, about something that would have been classed as blackmail; but it was not their business, and ii was a subject which, for reasons of their own, they did not care to treat. So after a few weeks the excitement began io die out, literally fading away in the blaze and novelty of the next “ cause cclebre.” The police made no discovery, and quiet, ultrasensitive John Mildred, a man of wealth, who had been led to do something in his early hot-blooded youth of which he was heartily ashamed and which had been the curse of his otherwise harmless life, stayed on in London, weighted, crushed by remorse. Finally, however, he went away to try and forget, after waiting for what he felt to be inevitable —- the arrest for that which he had done when driven to madness by the blackmailing scoundrel who had ruined his lite with the threat to publish the old story of shame if his price were not paid. It had condemned him to a life of celibacy, to the sense of feeling that sooner or later the world must know; and now, to destroy one haunting demon he had created another, and in his despair he had made up his mind to go anywhere so long as it was away from England, away from where he was known, until the fatal time came. But still in the streets he found that no one looked at him more than at any other passer by. The people at the shipping office welcomed him politely, and in due time thq guard at Euston found him a corner seat in the Liverpool express, while on the huge liner the purser, taking him, from his”ways, to be an invalid, health-seeking in the pure air of the Veldt, was particularly attentive, and arranged at once that he should have'a seat for a tabic in a quiet corner. So far no one knew, and in the calm and repose of a pleasant passage something like peace came over his troubled spirit, and with it a certain feeling that it would be better for him that the discoverey should not be made until he was at his journey's end. There were many pleasant people on board the Giipe-bound vessel, and more and more the feeling of repose lulled tl»t haunting horror of his life.

It was many years since, he had mingled much witli society, and those he had known were always men—club intimates, or people pursuing the same studies in which he had tried to forget the. past; and it was something strange to him to be there on board that vessel, thrown amongst ladies, whose company he avoided as much as possible; but before many days had passed he encountered Winifred Rayne. In his efforts to dull his feelings, to crush out thought and force himself to wait for his punishment, it seemed to have happened to him that, closing one mental door, he had unwittingly opened another. That door had been so rigidly sealed up that for long past all impressions connected therewith were dead, frozen, nonexistent. But now day after day he was finding more and more that love had only been latent and was being awakened in all its strength, now when it was an impossibility for such as he, while to the great increasing of his mental agony, he realised the fact that there was a growing current of sympathy between them, and that for some reason or another, Fate was teaching him that, whatever might be in store, he was not to avoid this fellow-passenger. One evening as he passed the musicroom Winifrid Rayne was seated at the piano singing, and accompanying herself with the sympathetic hands which lightly touched the keys and sustained the voice which hushed the many listeners to appreciative silence. John Mildred stopped short as if entranced; a strange feeling of emotion swelled within his breast, and he felt as if he could have sobbed aloud. And he stood with brimming eyes, trembling and agitated, feeling at last in agony as the final notes died away moving him to a> strong desire to forget all there, and to hurry across to beg her to sing again. But he could not stir, until as he stood there supporting himself by the back of one of the settees, he started violently, for someone spoke, and the Sweet singer was looking into his eyes, while a murmur of applause had aceom-

panied her as she left the piano and crossed the wide cabin. Just then two of the gentlemen came up, and one of them spoke. What he said was all a dull sound to John Mildred; all he knew was that he was speaking words endorsed ’by his companion, and whatever they w’ere they had awakened a strange feeling of rage, of almost hatred, against this man who had dared to speak to her. Then she replied with a quiet smile, and Mildred sighed with relief as the two bowed and passed on. Then their eyes met again. “I eould not do that,” she said. ‘‘lt was an effort to sing, but people begged so hard.” “And you have refused to sing again?” he said earnestly. “No, no,” she replied, smiling, “but I should have declined. I wish to be quiet. It was to play a few waltzes that they might dance.” “And you did not care to do that?” said Mildred eagerly. “No; certainly not.” “Why?” She made a gesture, and looked down sorrowfully, and he observed for the first time that she was in mourning. He looked at her enquiringly, and earnestly. “My mother died,” she said—“a year ago,” “Ah!” he said earnestly; and he raised his hand slightly as if nerved to take hers, but it fell back to his side. “I am going to join my brother at the Cape.” The room was nearly empty now, for, attracted by the delicious calm of the warm night, most of the passengers had strayed on deck to watch the spangled heavens, whose myriad stars were reflected in the heaving waters beneath their feet, and hardly knowing what he did, he drew a chair towards her, into which he sank at onee, and leaning towards him she said half tremulously. “And you too—you are in mourning.” “I?” he said, starting. “I thought—l hardly know what I was

going to say. Forgive me if I have made a mistake and hurt your feelings.” “Oh, it is nothing,” he said. “1 am afraid I have blundered. I am very sorry;” and the tears were in her eyes as she held out her hand. The movement sent a spasm of excitement through him. What might have been, thrilled him to the core. Starting forward, in another moment he would have clasped that hand in his and raised it passionately to his lips; but uttering a faint gasp he shrank back, and shivered as he shook his head and drew away. “No, no. Impossible!” he cried hoarsely. “I cannot —I dare not.” He covered his eyes for a moment with one hand and seemed to wrench himself from his seat as he rose to his feet and hurriedly walked on deck, unconscious of the fact that his companion was gazing at him wistfully, his one thought now to reach some spot where he could be alone. “Handsome girl that, sir,” said a voice behind him; and Mildred strated violently, to find that he had walked right aft into the soft darkness of the summer night, and a feeling of strange resentment at what he looked upon as a daring insult from a comparative stranger took possession of him. For how dared this man, a passenger whom he hardly knew by sight, speak of her like this! “I beg your pardon,” said the stranger quickly. “Forgive me. I meant no offence. What a lovely night! Will you have a cigar?” It was on Mildred’s lips to decline, but feeling that it would be better to accept the position he took the cigar offered. Then a light was struck and held out by the stranger, and they drew close together, gazing full in each other’s eyes, till the two rolls of leaf were well ignited, and Mildred’s anger began to gather again as he resented the other’s searching look. But it died out directly as his fellow passenger said quietly and rather awkwardly, as he rolled his cigar - in his mouth and jerked one hand towards a distant light: “Bright light that. Miles away, I sup-

pose. But would that be where tvs si* to touch first?” “Madeira,” said Mildred quietly. “I don’t know. This is my first voyage.”He stopped short and laid one han® upon the rail, standing just beneath onei of the swinging lanterns quite alone and as far as either could have made out no one within sight or hearing, while the notes of one of Waldteufel’s saddest waltzes floated to their ears. Suddenly one of the passenger’s hands came firmly down upon Mildred’s wrist as he supported himself by the brass rail, and he said in a low stern tone. , “Mr. John Mildred!” Mildred started violently. “Yes,” he said, in a startled voice. “How did you know my name?” “I have been slightly in doubt, sir, ever since we came on board, but I am certain now. Ulysses Club, St. James’s.” “Quite right,” said Mildred wonderingly; “but I do not know you, sir, except as a fellow-passenger.” “No, of course not, sir, for I would not intrude upon you until I was perfectly sure. Will you take it quietly, sir? It is useless to make a scene. I arrest you for the murder of Edgar Brydges. I am from Scotland Yard.” a “My God! ” The expected that he had felt he should take as a calm relief was agonising, and he saw nothing now but the sweet sad face of her who had spoken to him so sympathetically but a short time back, whose thrilling voice still rang in his ears. But a few hours back he had been ready to welcome death, even the most shameful that man can die, the execrated of his fellow creatures. But she had interposed and seemed to hold out before him life, ecstatic life and happiness, with' a future of which he had never dreamed. And now there was this—this! And with every nerve palpitating within hisframe he made one effort to fling offthe hand that grasped his wrist, when another closed upon him. There was a quick effort, a heave with a strength of whose existence he was

not aware, and with a faint cry the detective officer went over the rail, which Mildred clutched with both hands as he gazed downward to where there was a brilliant flash as the phosphorescent water parted, and from somewhere near at hand as Mildred turned away, a voice shouted, “Man overboard!” a cry which seemed to thrill the vessel from end to end. The music had ceased as if by magic, and as he stood holding on by the rail, gazing aft into the golden phosphosreseent water that had been churned up by the screw, John Mildred was conscious that the deck, the whole vessel, was palpitating with life. Orders were ringing out, a boat was being lowered, a buzz of question and answer raged around him, but no one seemed to heed his presence—he, the mainspring of the whole, was no more than the meanest man in the ship. And yet it vibrated within his brain that by this last act in resistance of the law whose operation he had been ready to welcome, he might have added another crime to his account. And why was this? he asked himself, though the question was needless, for the answer thrilled him. He wished now to live, if only to go through some long and painful penance that should make him fit to take that hand he had shrunk from touching, and live and love the only woman who had ever awakened that great passion within his breast. They were alone—he and that man who was trying to arrest him —and his action had been the almost unconscious natural effort for life. No one had seen in the darkness; no one heeded him now. Everyone was intent upon the efforts being made to save him who was floating half a mile astern, the direction plainly marked by two bright lights that had burst out like blue stars of hope, as the triggers were touched which set free a couple of life-buoys, to be left behind by the liner when the screw had ceased to revolve. Thought crushed out thought in the wretched man’s brain as an awful mental struggle went on, his eyes meanwhile fixed on the flashing water as the oars of the boat that had been lowered splashed up a golden spray. He felt that he could not die. It was impossible now to give up. The eyes he had gazed into that night had avowed a sweet sympathetic love, and if she knew all, he read • that within them as something which repeated itself now—she would bid him for her sake live. And meanwhile, the wild excitement in what was taking place literally raged around him, but no finger pointed at him. There was none to accuse, none to say, “Behold the murderer! Seize him, for it was he!” No. It was more and more beginning to be forced upon him that there had been no witness to his act, and he had but to stand firm with closed lips and wait. His secret was that officer’s alone, and he was far away astern, waiting to be saved, or to meet his end. Which was it to be? Thought ran more swiftly still in John Mildred’s breast. Would the boat reach him? Would he have swum for one of the lit-up life-buoys? Would he be picked up? And if picked up, would he be living, or would they be too late? That man alone knew his secret, and if picked up dead —dead was the secret too. John Mildred loosened one hand from the polished rail and tried to stand firmly as he drew out a handkerchief to wipe away the drops that streamed from his forehead, trembling the while lest his action should be observed, conscious the next moment that even if he were noticed, the mildest interpretation would be placed upon his act. Then came the desire to look round, and see whether she, who had influenced him so strangely, was near him upon the deck; and his nerves quivered as something seemed to tell him that she must be amongst the trembling agitated women who were gazing wildly astern; and at last, making a desperate effort, he hurried down to his cabin, turned up the light, busied himself at his cabin trunk, and then, opening the door, stood listening and trying to make out what was passing on deek. What was it to be? What fate for him did Justice hold in her carefully balanced scales? He was not fit to live, he felt; and yet there was that withiu him that said it was now too hard to die. lie could not die now, with such a dazzling future before him as life seemed to hold out. But what was it to be? He stood with his teeth set, his eyes staring, every nerve upon the strain,

until, no longer able to bear it, he hurried once more on deck and stood close to the cabin stairs, listening to the distant shouts that he knew must come from the boat; and these were answered by a wild cheer from the deck, and his heart sank, for the meaning was too plain. The boat had reached the drowning man; he had been saved; and that meant—arrest—trial—death! Death, when almost for the first time, hope and happiness had shone down upon his accursed life. He descended and walked back slowly to his cabin, to stand and think. If he could go back now to the music room and take that hand and hold it for a moment to his lips, he could then have come back here. A few brief words would have aroused her compassion, and it would have been easier then. “No; it would have been a coward’s act. He could not have spoken. How could she have understood, even if he had confessed all? He waited till an hour must have passed, and no one disturbed the silence. Then there was a burst of talking, and through his slightly open cabin door he gathered from the eager voices that the ship’s surgeon had said all was over, that the unhappy passenger - must have committed suicide, and no one knew who he was. Dead, then—and his secret too! Life began bubbling up, as it were, till every nerve was palpitating with a joyous thrill that drove down repentance, desire for reparation, the purging of the great offence. “I must—l will live for the future, for the life I have never known; and then some day—ah! ” There was a buzz of voices outside the cabin. They were talking aloud, and he could hear more —hear the endorsement of the fact that his secret was dead, and he had but to live and wait in penitence and hope.

The next moment the captain and two of his officers pressed open the cabin door and stood before him. “Mr. John Mildred,” said the officer sternly—“ That is not your name on the passenger list?” “No,” said the unhappy man firmly. “Then the warrant for your arrest is right?” “Quite,” was the reply, firmly. “That, sir, is what is written upon the warrant found upon the detective officer just picked up astern.” “Well, sir?” said Mildred gravely. “The unfortunate man you were seen to struggle with to-night and throw over the side.” “Who saw that?” said Mildred quietly. “I,” said a voice, “the officer of the watch. Quick!” shouted the speaker, and he made a start to catch Mildred’s hand, but the bullet was quicker still. A loud report, the cabin filled with smoke which floated out after the spirit had gone to seek judgment in the great Beyond.