Complete Works of Rudyard Kipling (Illustrated) (518 page)

“Then the Western Mail came in to Paddin’ton on the big magic lantern sheet. First we saw the platform empty an’ the porters standin’ by. Then the engine come in, head on, an’ the women in the front row jumped: she headed so straight. Then the doors opened and the passengers came out and the porters got the luggage — just like life. Only — only when any one came down too far towards us that was watchin’, they walked right out o’ the picture, so to speak. I was ‘ighly interested, I can tell you. So were all of us. I watched an old man with a rug ‘oo’d dropped a book an’ was tryin’ to pick it up, when quite slowly, from be’ind two porters — carryin’ a little reticule an’ lookin’ from side to side — comes out Mrs. Bathurst. There was no mistakin’ the walk in a hundred thousand. She come forward — right forward — she looked out straight at us with that blindish look which Pritch alluded to. She walked on and on till she melted out of the picture — like — like a shadow jumpin’ over a candle, an’ as she went I ‘eard Dawson in the ticky seats be’ind sing out: ‘Christ! There’s Mrs. B.!’”

Hooper swallowed his spittle and leaned forward intently.

“Vickery touched me on the knee again. He was clickin’ his four false teeth with his jaw down like an enteric at the last kick. ‘Are you sure?’ says he. ‘Sure,’ I says, ‘didn’t you ‘ear Dawson give tongue? Why, it’s the woman herself.’ ‘I was sure before,’ he says, ‘but I brought you to make sure. Will you come again with me to-morrow?’

“‘Willingly,’ I says, ‘it’s like meetin’ old friends.’

“‘Yes,’ he says, openin’ his watch, ‘very like. It will be four-and-twenty hours less four minutes before I see her again. Come and have a drink,’ he says. ‘It may amuse you, but it’s no sort of earthly use to me.’ He went out shaking his head an’ stumblin’ over people’s feet as if he was drunk already. I anticipated a swift drink an’ a speedy return, because I wanted to see the performin’ elephants. Instead o’ which Vickery began to navigate the town at the rate o’ knots, lookin’ in at a bar every three minutes approximate Greenwich time. I’m not a drinkin’ man, though there are those present” — he cocked his unforgetable eye at me — ”who may have seen me more or less imbued with the fragrant spirit. None the less, when I drink I like to do it at anchor an’ not at an average speed of eighteen knots on the measured mile. There’s a tank as you might say at the back o’ that big hotel up the hill — what do they call it?”

“The Molteno Reservoir,” I suggested, and Hooper nodded.

“That was his limit o’ drift. We walked there an’ we come down through the Gardens — there was a South-Easter blowin’ — an’ we finished up by the Docks. Then we bore up the road to Salt River, and wherever there was a pub Vickery put in sweatin’. He didn’t look at what he drunk — he didn’t look at the change. He walked an’ he drunk an’ he perspired in rivers. I understood why old Crocus ‘ad come back in the condition ‘e did, because Vickery an’ I ‘ad two an’ a half hours o’ this gipsy manoeuvre an’ when we got back to the station there wasn’t a dry atom on or in me.”

“Did he say anything?” Pritchard asked.

“The sum total of ‘is conversation from 7.45 P.M. till 11.15 P.M. was ‘Let’s have another.’ Thus the mornin’ an’ the evenin’ were the first day, as Scripture says…. To abbreviate a lengthy narrative, I went into Cape Town for five consecutive nights with Master Vickery, and in that time I must ‘ave logged about fifty knots over the ground an’ taken in two gallon o’ all the worst spirits south the Equator. The evolution never varied. Two shilling seats for us two; five minutes o’ the pictures, an’ perhaps forty-five seconds o’ Mrs. B. walking down towards us with that blindish look in her eyes an’ the reticule in her hand. Then out walk — and drink till train time.”

“What did you think?” said Hooper, his hand fingering his waistcoat pocket.

“Several things,” said Pyecroft. “To tell you the truth, I aren’t quite done thinkin’ about it yet. Mad? The man was a dumb lunatic — must ‘ave been for months — years p’raps. I know somethin’ o’ maniacs, as every man in the Service must. I’ve been shipmates with a mad skipper — an’ a lunatic Number One, but never both together I thank ‘Eaven. I could give you the names o’ three captains now ‘oo ought to be in an asylum, but you don’t find me interferin’ with the mentally afflicted till they begin to lay about ‘em with rammers an’ winch-handles. Only once I crept up a little into the wind towards Master Vickery. ‘I wonder what she’s doin’ in England,’ I says. ‘Don’t it seem to you she’s lookin’ for somebody?’ That was in the Gardens again, with the South-Easter blowin’ as we were makin’ our desperate round. ‘She’s lookin’ for me,’ he says, stoppin’ dead under a lamp an’ clickin’. When he wasn’t drinkin’, in which case all ‘is teeth clicked on the glass, ‘e was clickin’ ‘is four false teeth like a Marconi ticker. ‘Yes! lookin’ for me,’ he said, an’ he went on very softly an’ as you might say affectionately. ‘
But?
he went on, ‘in future, Mr. Pyecroft, I should take it kindly of you if you’d confine your remarks to the drinks set before you. Otherwise,’ he says, ‘with the best will in the world towards you, I may find myself guilty of murder! Do you understand?’ he says. ‘Perfectly,’ I says, ‘but would it at all soothe you to know that in such a case the chances o’ your being killed are precisely equivalent to the chances o’ me being outed.’ ‘Why, no,’ he says, ‘I’m almost afraid that ‘ud be a temptation,’

“Then I said — we was right under the lamp by that arch at the end o’ the Gardens where the trams came round — ’Assumin’ murder was done — or attempted murder — I put it to you that you would still be left so badly crippled, as one might say, that your subsequent capture by the police — to ‘oom you would ‘ave to explain — would be largely inevitable.’ ‘That’s better,’ ‘e says, passin’ ‘is hands over his forehead. ‘That’s much better, because,’ he says, ‘do you know, as I am now, Pye, I’m not so sure if I could explain anything much.’ Those were the only particular words I had with ‘im in our walks as I remember.”

“What walks!” said Hooper. “Oh my soul, what walks!”

“They were chronic,” said Pyecroft gravely, “but I didn’t anticipate any danger till the Circus left. Then I anticipated that, bein’ deprived of ‘is stimulant, he might react on me, so to say, with a hatchet. Consequently, after the final performance an’ the ensuin’ wet walk, I kep’ myself aloof from my superior officer on board in the execution of ‘is duty as you might put it. Consequently, I was interested when the sentry informs me while I was passin’ on my lawful occasions that Click had asked to see the captain. As a general rule warrant officers don’t dissipate much of the owner’s time, but Click put in an hour and more be’ind that door. My duties kep’ me within eyeshot of it. Vickery came out first, an’ ‘e actually nodded at me an’ smiled. This knocked me out o’ the boat, because, havin’ seen ‘is face for five consecutive nights, I didn’t anticipate any change there more than a condenser in hell, so to speak. The owner emerged later. His face didn’t read off at all, so I fell back on his cox, ‘oo’d been eight years with him and knew him better than boat signals. Lamson — that was the cox’s name — crossed ‘is bows once or twice at low speeds an’ dropped down to me visibly concerned. ‘He’s shipped ‘is court-martial face,’ says Lamson. ‘Some one’s goin’ to be ‘ung. I’ve never seen that look but once before when they chucked the gun-sights overboard in the
Fantastic
.’ Throwin’ gun-sights overboard, Mr. Hooper, is the equivalent for mutiny in these degenerate days. It’s done to attract the notice of the authorities an’ the
Western Mornin’ News
— generally by a stoker. Naturally, word went round the lower deck an’ we had a private over’aul of our little consciences. But, barrin’ a shirt which a second- class stoker said ‘ad walked into ‘is bag from the marines flat by itself, nothin’ vital transpired. The owner went about flyin’ the signal for ‘attend public execution,’ so to say, but there was no corpse at the yardarm. ‘E lunched on the beach an’ ‘e returned with ‘is regulation harbour-routine face about 3 P. M. Thus Lamson lost prestige for raising false alarms. The only person ‘oo might ‘ave connected the epicycloidal gears correctly was one Pyecroft, when he was told that Mr. Vickery would go up country that same evening to take over certain naval ammunition left after the war in Bloemfontein Fort. No details was ordered to accompany Master Vickery. He was told off first person singular — as a unit — -by himself.”

The marine whistled penetratingly.

“That’s what I thought,” said Pyecroft. “I went ashore with him in the cutter an’ ‘e asked me to walk through the station. He was clickin’ audibly, but otherwise seemed happy-ish.

“‘You might like to know,’ he says, stoppin’ just opposite the Admiral’s front gate, ‘that Phyllis’s Circus will be performin’ at Worcester to-morrow night. So I shall see ‘er yet once again. You’ve been very patient with me,’ he says.

“‘Look here, Vickery,’ I said, ‘this thing’s come to be just as much as I can stand. Consume your own smoke. I don’t want to know any more.’

“‘You!’ he said. ‘What have you got to complain of? — you’ve only ‘ad to watch. I’m
it
,’ he says, ‘but that’s neither here nor there,’ he says. ‘I’ve one thing to say before shakin’ ‘ands. Remember,’ ‘e says — we were just by the Admiral’s garden-gate then — ’remember, that I am
not
a murderer, because my lawful wife died in childbed six weeks after I came out. That much at least I am clear of,’ ‘e says.

“‘Then what have you done that signifies?’ I said. ‘What’s the rest of it?’

“‘The rest,’ ‘e says, ‘is silence,’ an’ he shook ‘ands and went clickin’ into Simons Town station.”

“Did he stop to see Mrs. Bathurst at Worcester?” I asked.

“It’s not known. He reported at Bloemfontein, saw the ammunition into the trucks, and then ‘e disappeared. Went out — deserted, if you care to put it so — within eighteen months of his pension, an’ if what ‘e said about ‘is wife was true he was a free man as ‘e then stood. How do you read it off?”

“Poor devil!” said Hooper. “To see her that way every night! I wonder what it was.”

“I’ve made my ‘ead ache in that direction many a long night.”

“But I’ll swear Mrs. B. ‘ad no ‘and in it,” said the Sergeant unshaken.

“No. Whatever the wrong or deceit was, he did it, I’m sure o’ that. I ‘ad to look at ‘is face for five consecutive nights. I’m not so fond o’ navigatin’ about Cape Town with a South-Easter blowin’ these days. I can hear those teeth click, so to say.”

“Ah, those teeth,” said Hooper, and his hand went to his waistcoat pocket once more. “Permanent things false teeth are. You read about ‘em in all the murder trials.”

“What d’you suppose the captain knew — or did?” I asked.

“I never turned my searchlight that way,” Pyecroft answered unblushingly.

We all reflected together, and drummed on empty beer bottles as the picnic-party, sunburned, wet, and sandy, passed our door singing “The Honeysuckle and the Bee.”

“Pretty girl under that kapje,” said Pyecroft.

“They never circulated his description?” said Pritchard.

“I was askin’ you before these gentlemen came,” said Hooper to me, “whether you knew Wankies — on the way to the Zambesi — beyond Buluwayo?”

“Would he pass there — tryin’ to get to that Lake what’s ‘is name?” said
Pritchard.

Hooper shook his head and went on: “There’s a curious bit o’ line there, you see. It runs through solid teak forest — a sort o’ mahogany really — seventy-two miles without a curve. I’ve had a train derailed there twenty- three times in forty miles. I was up there a month ago relievin’ a sick inspector, you see. He told me to look out for a couple of tramps in the teak.”

“Two?” Pyecroft said. “I don’t envy that other man if —  — ”

“We get heaps of tramps up there since the war. The inspector told me I’d find ‘em at M’Bindwe siding waiting to go North. He’d given ‘em some grub and quinine, you see. I went up on a construction train. I looked out for ‘em. I saw them miles ahead along the straight, waiting in the teak. One of ‘em was standin’ up by the dead-end of tke siding an’ the other was squattin’ down lookin’ up at ‘im, you see.”

“What did you do for ‘em?” said Pritchard.

“There wasn’t much I could do, except bury ‘em. There’d been a bit of a thunderstorm in the teak, you see, and they were both stone dead and as black as charcoal. That’s what they really were, you see — charcoal. They fell to bits when we tried to shift ‘em. The man who was standin’ up had the false teeth. I saw ‘em shinin’ against the black. Fell to bits he did too, like his mate squatting down an’ watchin’ him, both of ‘em all wet in the rain. Both burned to charcoal, you see. And — that’s what made me ask about marks just now — the false-toother was tattooed on the arms and chest — a crown and foul anchor with M.V. above.”

“I’ve seen that,” said Pyecroft quickly. “It was so.”

“But if he was all charcoal-like?” said Pritchard, shuddering.

“You know how writing shows up white on a burned letter? Well, it was like that, you see. We buried ‘em in the teak and I kept… But he was a friend of you two gentlemen, you see.”

Mr. Hooper brought his hand away from his waistcoat-pocket — empty.

Pritchard covered his face with his hands for a moment, like a child shutting out an ugliness.

“And to think of her at Hauraki!” he murmured — ”with ‘er ‘air-ribbon on my beer. ‘Ada,’ she said to her niece… Oh, my Gawd!”…