The Last Drive (15 page)

“By the way,” Mr. Carlsen was saying, and his tone seemed to indicate that the time had come for serious business, “you haven't told me your name.”

“No, I haven't,” she replied stupidly.

“Well—” he observed meaningly.

“Jennie Bellay,” said Veronica, her invention failing her, and reflecting that it wouldn't do Jennie any harm.

“Ah, Bellay!” said Mr. Carlsen as though he had been expecting that all along. “Pretty name. You don't mind if I call you Jennie, do you?”

“Well—you see, I don't know you—”

“That's all right. What's the use of being unfriendly? I like that name, Jennie. I suppose you go out sometimes of evenings?”

“Sometimes—yes.”

“Ever go to the shows?”

“Why—yes.”

Miss Tellon felt that she was playing her part miserably, but she managed to preserve the silly smile.

“They've got on a beauty down at the Stuyvesant now,” went on Mr. Carlsen with increasing enthusiasm. “I don't suppose you'd care to see it?”

“Why—I don't know—”

“We could go down any night this week—any night you're off. What do you say we go?”

“But why do you want me to go?”

“Because I like you,” said Mr. Carlsen promptly. “You ought to know that—how could I help it? I don't go around with my eyes shut. I'm not blind. I like you fine, and I want to like you better. Believe me, it won't be a hard job. When shall we go?”

“I'm not sure I can go,” Veronica replied weakly.

“Oh, I guess you can. Why not? Shall I get tickets for Thursday night? I—”

He stopped abruptly, looking at her curiously as though he had just thought of something, then suddenly got up and stood by her chair, in front, quite close.

“Look here,” he said, leaning down and speaking in a new tone, “don't you think I like you?”

“Why—I don't know—” stammered Veronica.

“Well I do, and I'll prove it,” he replied gaily.

And the next thing Miss Tellon knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips were planted on hers. Mr. Carlsen was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.

“When shall we—” he began to murmur in her ear. But she, feeling herself partially released, sprang to her feet and stood trembling violently, with her face a flaming red all over.

“Oh—” she gasped, “I—you—you—”

Then a shadow caught her eyes, and she glanced at the door in time to see Albert Crevel enter. Carlsen, seeing her look, turned.

Mr. Crevel, dressed irreproachably in a dark walking-coat and gray trousers, advanced toward them with the easy familiarity of one at home.

Veronica heard his greeting but was unable to reply, and she saw him standing before her with a puzzled smile on his lips.

“What—” he began, looking at Carlsen.

Veronica made a great effort.

“It is just—just the piano-tuner.”

She added turning to the other:

“You have finished, I believe?”

Mr. Carlsen was already picking up his hat and leather case. Whether he realized his horrible mistake is an open question; he may or may not have become aware that he had kissed a princess. Certain it is that he retained all his presence of mind, for as he straightened himself and turned after picking up his hat he sent a deliberate wink, superbly executed, straight at Miss Tellon.

“Good afternoon,” he said pleasantly, and departed.

They watched him to the door. Then they turned to look at each other. Veronica's face was still a little flushed, but she had regained control of herself.

“Well!” said Crevel with emphasis. “What's all this? What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” she replied coolly, setting herself on the piano bench.

“But you were positively flustered,” he insisted. “What did he do? Was he impudent?”

She smiled faintly.

“Oh, no. We disagreed, that was all.”

“Ah! I see.”

He remained standing for a moment, looking at her, then sat down on the chair she had left shortly before. There was an uncomfortable silence. Veronica kept her eyes turned from him; a thousand mad thoughts were rushing through her brain, all the more confused because of her burning lips. She wanted to rub them with her handkerchief, but somehow could not. She was aware that Crevel was looking at her, and she felt a strain, a high tension, in the atmosphere.

Suddenly she turned and met his gaze.

“Albert,” she said, “I can't marry you.”

It was impulse that spoke, but as she heard the words coming from her mouth she experienced a feeling of divine relief. Then unbounded wonder. Where had she found the strength to utter them? For many months she had been trying to say just those five words; what drove them forth now? The kiss of a piano-tuner? Well, why not? Let us be thankful for anything that brings freedom with it! As for Crevel, of course he was shocked, astounded; he would refuse to believe her. She didn't know him very well, but she rather expected an explosion.

But he said absolutely nothing; he made no sound or movement, but merely sat and looked at her, though his eyes narrowed a little. It was she who was amazed. Hadn't he heard her? Surely he had. And finally he spoke.

“I've been waiting for you to say that for six months,” he said calmly.

Astonishment—!

“But you took long enough to get to it,” he went on, seeing that she was speechless. “Only two weeks before the wedding. That makes it inconvenient.”

“You expected it!” gasped Veronica.

“Of course.”

“But why—I can't believe—”

“My dear Veronica, I'm no fool. You have never wanted to marry me. And I knew you had the courage to say so, so it was merely a matter of time. But, by Jove, I've been frightened lately. I was afraid you were going to wait till we were actually at the altar—I was, really. That would have been awful. For of course we would have had to call it off.”

Veronica was too amazed to speak.

“But why—” she stammered.

“Well?”

“Aren't you going—to insist on it?”

“On what?”

“On my marrying you.”

“Good heavens, no!”

He smiled at her. His sincerity was unmistakable. She couldn't understand it. But what was it she couldn't understand? Oh, yes. She put the question:

“Then why didn't you—call it off—yourself?”

It was Crevel's turn to hesitate and search for words. He seemed suddenly stricken with a terrible embarrassment. The smile left his lips.

“I don't think I can tell you that,” he said finally.

“Why not?”

“Well, I will.” He took a breath. “You will probably laugh, but I can stand it.”

Another breath.

“Because I love you.”

Then he went on hurriedly, “You won't understand, but I'll try to explain. I've thought you knew all along, the past month or so. I do love you. The funny part of it is, I know just when it began, the very day and hour. It was when I first saw that you didn't want to marry me, one day last July at Newport.”

Veronica glanced at him. She remembered that day very well, but she hadn't supposed he did. This began to sound interesting.

“I couldn't believe it at first,” he went on, “that I loved you. It seemed so absurd. I'd known you nearly all my life—that is, I'd been acquainted with you. You know how it was: they had it all fixed up for us to marry each other a long time ago. Then after I came of age I kept putting it off. I didn't know you very well, and I didn't like you. Neither did you like me, though I didn't know it then. Finally I had to give in and I asked you to marry me. That was the tenth of last December.”

He paused. Veronica nodded, and he went on:

“So we were engaged. I thought about it as little as possible, and I saw you only when I had to, to keep up appearances. I began to think I hated you and I regarded it as a weakness, because I knew we were doing only what others do in our set. And besides, you—well, you—”

“I know,” said Veronica shortly. “I was sentimental. You needn't remind me of it.”

“Then came that day at Newport. I was positively amazed to find that you hated me too. Conceit, I suppose, but you cured it. And it changed me entirely—I mean it changed you. You didn't seem to be the same person. In a single hour, in one minute, I think, my hate was changed to love. I laughed at myself, I cursed myself, I went out on DuMont's yacht with the Halloway crowd. I did everything, but the result was that when I saw you again I loved you more than ever.”

Veronica stirred uneasily. Her eyes were on the floor.

“So you see what a fix I was in,” Crevel continued. “As a matter of fact, I had some pretty bad times with myself. But I finally decided to leave it up to you. Several times I resolved to tell you—to try to show you—but every time you did or said something that sent me back to cover. It's an impossible thing to tell a girl you love her after you're engaged if you haven't told her before. So I decided that if you went through with it perhaps it would be all right in the end. But I knew all the time that sooner or later you'd call it off. And you see,” he finished, “I was right.”

“It may be,” Veronica said in a low tone, as if to herself, in answer to her thoughts, “that you are merely—clever.”

“No. Because I am not asking you for anything. You must not misunderstand
that.
You must believe in my frankness, for I admit I am not giving up hope either. You have had no reason for disliking me except that you were engaged to me. Now, thank heaven, it's all over, and I can take my chance.”

“Your chance—?”

“Of making you love me. I don't want to marry you now. That's past and forgotten. Thank God, you had the courage to do it!
I
couldn't; I wanted you too much for that. Listen: You will understand—you will feel it better if you do something. Give me back my ring.”

As she heard the word Veronica glanced involuntarily at the solitaire diamond on the third finger of her left hand. Then, with a hasty, impulsive movement, she drew it off. There she stopped, and gazed at it as it lay in her palm, a symbol of misery and suffering, never to end. And now, merely by stretching out her hand, she could be rid of it forever.

She glanced at Crevel, a fugitive, wild glance, then down again at the ring.

“I think I must be crazy,” she said slowly. “I don't want to give it to you.”

“But you must. Of course it doesn't mean anything, but still you must give it to me. You will feel better then.”

“I know.” She paused. “But I don't want to.”

He merely held out his hand. She did not move. He waited a moment, then rose to his feet and stood before her and spoke in a tone of impatience.

“This is absurd. We are acting like children. Come, give it to me.”

Still she did not move.

“Look here, Veronica,” he said, and his voice began to tremble a little. “You don't by any chance imagine you love me, do you?”

“No,” she replied, without looking up.

“Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“Do you want to marry me?”

“No. I don't know.”

“
Do
you?” He demanded. “Look at me.”

She raised her eyes as far as his chin.

“Honestly, I don't know,” she said almost pathetically. “I thought I hated you, but now it all seems to be changed.” She appeared to recover herself a little. “The truth is I haven't the slightest idea whether I want to marry you or not. Not the slightest idea.”

Crevel sat down, then got up. Suddenly he took a determined step forward.

“Look here,” he said in a new tone, “there's a way of finding out. It won't hurt you, at least.”

And the next thing Victoria knew an arm was passed around her neck and a pair of firm lips was planted on hers. Mr. Crevel also was no bungler. He did the thing expertly, firmly and thoroughly. There was no roughness in it, but nevertheless, his encircling arm held her as in a vise. This exhibition of the oldest art in the world lasted while a watch would tick off five seconds.

He released her and stepped back, his face pale as death.

“Now,” he said, “you will know—if you hate me—”

She did not speak, but she saw a quivering movement pass over her body from head to foot. Something fell from her hand and rolled on the floor, but neither of them moved. Then suddenly a tiny spot of color appeared on her cheeks and spread slowly, like the birth of a summer's dawn, until her whole face and neck were suffused with a rosy flaming blush. More slowly still she raised her eyes to his.

It was half an hour later that they found the ring. They found it on the floor under the piano bench.

Ask the Egyptians

This intriguing story is one of Rex Stout's few stories to feature hints of the supernatural. In it, a poor golfer rises to stardom under the inspiration of a beloved dog. The story appeared in March 1916 in
Golfers Magazine
, which began serializing
The Last Drive
four months later.

“D
ormie,” said Tom Innes cheerfully, standing on the thirteenth tee. He took his driver from the caddie, addressed the ball with a professional waggle, and with a clean, well-timed swing sent it soaring through the air over the brook a hundred and seventy yards away.

“Nice drive.”

This came from his opponent, Mr. Aloysius Jellie, who had in turn taken his driver in hand. In place of the other's athletic build and graceful, easy motion, Mr. Jellie was the possessor of an angular­, every-which-way figure and his movements were awkward and inele­gant. His lips tightened grimly as he waved the wooden club back and forth over the ball. A sudden jerk of his body, a mighty swish, and the ball hopped crazily from the tee and trickled over the turf some sixty yards away.

“Topped it,” observed Mr. Innes sympathetically. “Too bad.” But the last two words were drowned by another sound, a yelp of mingled pain and dismay that came from the third spectator of Mr. Jellie's foozle.

Caddies, being dumb by tradition as well as from self-interest, are not counted. The yelp issued from the throat of a dog, a white, middle-sized dog of heterogeneous pedigree who had sat on his haunches regarding Mr. Jellie with anxious eyes as he addressed the ball. As the ball hopped from the tee the dog had commenced to whine, and when the profound ineptitude of the shot became apparent, the whine increased to a long-drawn-out, unearthly howl.

Mr. Jellie did not reply to his opponent's sympathetic remark, nor did the howl appear to either surprise or bother him.

“Come on, Nibbie,” he said without turning his head, and off he went towards the ball, with the dog trotting along at his heels and the caddie bringing up the rear.

“Brassie,” said Mr. Jellie grimly, stopping beside the ball and holding out his hand.

The caddie hesitated. “Bad lie, sir. I think an iron—“

“Brassie,” repeated Mr. Jellie, “I want to reach the green.”

Then as the caddie pulled the brassie from the bag his employer suddenly changed his mind.

“Alright, midiron,” he agreed.

A moment later the iron head whistled through the air, the ball rose high—too high—and dropped in the middle of the brook.

“Too much turf, sir,” observed the caddie.

Again Mr. Jellie did not reply, and again he started off with the dog at his heels. Arrived at the brook, he stood on the bank and pointed at the spot where the ball had seemed to drop.

“Get it, Nibbie,” he commanded.

The dog looked up at his master with an expression of amazed reproach. “Good heavens,” his eyes seemed to say, “didn't you get over this?” Then he scurried down the bank, nosed about among the bushes at the water's edge, and presently set up a plaintive whine. Mr. Jellie took his niblick from the caddie and scrambled down. There the ball lay, buried in the weeds. The next few seconds were full of action. Mr. Jellie swung savagely with the niblick once, twice, three times; the caddie held his hand tightly over his mouth; the dog let loose a series of fearful howls. Finally the ball, gouged from its nesting-­place, came to rest at the top of the further bank.

From there it was an easy mashie approach to the green, on which Mr. Innes's ball was already lying eight feet from the pin. Mr. Jellie holed out in two putts, and his opponent did the same.

“Eight,” said Mr. Jellie.

“Four,” said Mr. Innes.

“That's the match,” the other returned. “Better than I did with Tom Hudson yesterday. He ended it on the twelfth green. Come on, Nibbie.”

Fifteen minutes later, as the two golfers passed down the piazza of the Grassview Country Club house on their way to the nineteenth hole, Mr. Jellie called out to Mac Donaldson, the club professional, who was loitering about:

“Oh, Mac! Give Mr. Innes a box of balls and charge it to me.”

Which explains why so poor a golfer as Aloysius Jellie never experienced any difficulty in getting a match. There was every reason why he should have been the most unpopular member of the Grassview Country Club. His average score for the eighteen holes was 121; he had once made a 98 and had framed the score card and hung it in the room which he kept at the club house the year round. He cut up turf frightfully; he was a strong man and his divots always flew so far away that no caddie could ever find them again. He refused to play in foursomes, and he was outspoken in his criticism of a bad shot, whenever and by whomsoever made.

Worst of all, he was the owner of Nibbie. Where the dog got the name of Nibbie was Mr. Jellie's secret, but it was openly asserted by other members of the club that it was a nickname, or term of endearment, derived from “niblick.” Whoever took Mr. Jellie on for a match was forced to deduct beforehand a considerable amount of the pleasure and profit of the encounter by discounting the presence of Nibbie. He was always at his master's heels, and he was the only serious critic of his master's play. If Mr. Jellie topped his drive or missed a two-footer Nibbie howled his disapproval and dismay. A long iron or brassie over a hazard, or a soaring recovery from a sandpit, or the holing of a 30 foot putt, was the signal for joyous barks and caperings. But he was always careful to indulge in none of these noisy demonstrations while his master's opponent was addressing the ball; he appeared to know the etiquette as well as the science of the game. It was wonderful the way his actions and feelings responded to the movements of the little white sphere.

“That dog,” said Mac Donaldson, the club pro, one day, “is Scotch. I don't know what kinds of a dog it is, but it's Scotch for sure. I never saw such an understanding of the game in any animal whatever, unless it was Tom Ferguson's cow who lay down on Sandy MacRae's ball so he couldn't find it, and Tom won the hole. It's a great dog, and I could name some humans he could give lessons to.”

But it is certain that the other club members would never have stood for the ubiquitous Nibbie, with his eternal howlings and barkings, if they had not been so desirous to avoid offending Mr. Jellie; for Mr. Jellie, score 121, was always willing to play anyone on even terms for a box of balls or a set of clubs or a ten spot. He never won. The numbers of balls and mashies and drivers and putters he paid for every month was appalling. But he always refused to take a handicap.

“I am a strong and fairly intelligent man,” he would say, “and I ought to be able to play golf as well as anyone. I refuse to baby myself with a handicap. Make it a ball a hole.”

Then he would make the first in 9, and would probably be 61 at the turn. He usually took his defeats gracefully, but now and then after an unusually bad round he would become morose and refuse absolutely to utter a word. He was also known to lose his temper occasionally; once he had taken his bag of clubs and thrown them into the lake—the water hazard on the eleventh hole—and was prevented just in time from throwing his caddie in after them. It was truly pitiful, the earnest and determined manner in which he strove day after day to improve his game, and the sustained horror of his score.

Then came Nibbie's tragic end. Late one Saturday afternoon in May, there was gathered at the nineteenth hole a representative group of the members of the Grassview Country Club. Marsfield, the Egyptologist, was there, with his soft beard and sleepy, studious eyes; Innes and Fraser, lawyers; Huntington, Princeton professor; and several New York bankers and business men. They had just come in from the links; the day was hot and dry and they were emptying many tall glasses in which the cracked ice clinked.

They were talking, of course, of Scores and Reasons Why, otherwise known as Alibis. Fraser was explaining that the bite of a mosquito while he was addressing the ball had cost him the fourteenth hole and probably the match (though he had finished four down); Marsfield, the Egyptologist, was telling of a 20 foot putt that went absolutely in the hole and then bounced out again; Innes was making sarcastic and pointed remarks concerning the incredible luck of Huntington, who had beaten him 2 and 1.

“Ah,” exclaimed Marsfield suddenly, interrupting himself, “here comes Rogers. Lucky dog! He got Jellie today. He was out Wednesday too and had him then.”

“A bit thick, I call it,” observed Penfield, who had once spent a month in England.

“He takes poor old Jellie for too much of a good thing,” put in Huntington, glancing at the two men as they approached down the corridor.

“But I say, look at Jellie's face,” went on Penfield. “Must be one of his bad days. Just look at him.”

It was indeed evident from the expression on Mr. Jellie's face that he was far from happy. His eyes were drawn half shut, as if in pain, his lips were quivering with emotion and his face was very white. Mr. Rogers, his companion, appeared on the contrary to be making an attempt to conceal some secret inner pleasure. A scarcely repressed smile twisted his lips and a twinkle of delight shone from his eyes. As he reached the corner where the others were seated he greeted them with familiar heartiness and beckoned to the waiter for a glass of something. Mr. Jellie sank into a chair with the briefest of nods in reply to the others' greetings, thrust his hands deep in his pockets and gazed straight ahead at nothing with his eyes still half closed as though to shut out some painful sight.

It was Huntington who noticed at once an unusual vacancy in the atmosphere. He turned to Rogers to ask:

“Where's Nibbie?”

Rogers grinned, glanced apprehensively at Mr. Jellie, and replied in one word:

“Dead.”

There was a chorus of astonished inquiry.

“Yes, dead,” Rogers reiterated.

“Dead as a dead dog. Jellie killed him.”

“What!” There was unbelief in ten voices.

Another broke in, Mr. Jellie himself.

They all turned to him.

“I suppose you're glad of it,” he observed in a voice of mingled grief and indignation. “Well I'm not. I didn't mean to do it. It was at the tenth hole. Rogers had me four down. Nibbie—” Mr. Jellie hesitated and gulped a little—“Nibbie had been very demonstrative all the way. I was 64 at the turn. I'd made a lot of rotten shots, and Nibbie was right after me all the time. You know how he feels—how he felt when I made a bad shot. Well, on the tenth I got a beauty from the tee, right down the aisle about 220 yards. On the second I took a brassie and carried the brook. It sure was a fine shot, I'll leave it to Rogers.”

Mr. Rogers nodded in confirmation. “I always have to play short there myself,” he confessed.

“But Nibbie must have thought I didn't carry it,” Mr. Jellie went on. “He must have thought I made the brook. Anyway, he evidenced disapproval. It made me mad, that's all there is to it. He'd been howling at me all day for my rotten shots, which he had a right to do, but that was the best brassie I've had for a month, and when he set up that yelp I turned before I thought and threw the club at him. Of course I didn't mean to hit him, or at least didn't mean to hurt him—”

Mr. Jellie paused to control the tremble in his voice.

“It must have caught him right in the temple,” he finished.

It is not surprising that this recital of Nibbie's death caused no demonstration of grief on the part of those who heard it. Call it heartlessness if you will; the reply is that these men were golfers with golfers' nerves and that Nibbie had more than once made them miss a stroke. They did not even feign regret. They grinned openly; their remarks were for the most part facetious and satirical; one or two were openly exultant. There were ironic expressions of sympathy and advice.

“One trouble is,” observed Rogers to the grief-stricken Jellie, “that now you'll have no way of knowing when you make a bad shot.”

“And probably,” added Huntington, “your game will suffer in consequence.”

“Why not have the body stuffed and set it up on wheels?” suggested another. “The caddie could pull it around for you.”

“Or have the hide cured and have a caddie bag made of it.”

“Or use the hide for leather grips on your clubs.”

“Anyway, you're safe for awhile,” put in Marshfield, the Orientalist. “According to the old Egyptians, a dog's soul roams the earth for three moons after his death. For that long, at least, Nibbie will be with you in spirit if not in body.”

Mr. Jellie got up abruptly and removed his hands from his pockets.

“You fellows think you're funny,” he said quietly, looking from one to the other, “ but it's no joke to me. Nibbie was the best friend I've ever had. He always found my ball in the rough, and he was a good sound critic.”

“He was sound alright,” observed Tom Innes, “if you mean noisy.”

“Oh, I know he was a nuisance to the rest of you,” Mr. Jellie agreed. “I don't blame you any, but I can't sit here and have a good time with Nibbie dead. I'm going up to my room.”

And he did so.

He remained in his room all evening without eating any dinner. He was in fact a very unhappy man. A bachelor without home ties, the possessor of an inherited fortune and therefore spared the worries of the business of making a living, golf had for three years been the absorbing interest of his life. And what, he asked himself, what would golf be without Nibbie? What—for instance—what if he did carry the bunker from the eighth tee? There would be no joyful bark from Nibbie to acclaim the performance. What if a thousand things? Nibbie was gone.

His thoughts were dreary and melancholy as he crept between the sheets, and it was an hour before he slept.

Perhaps it was during that hour that a certain fantastic idea first entered his brain. He had thought during the evening of many ways of paying tribute to Nibbie's memory. He would give up golf. He would ask the club governors for permission to bury his dead at some appropriate spot on the links, say under the first tee. He would have the body stuffed and set up in his room. But finally he rejected all these plans in favor of one that had been suggested in a spirit of jocosity by someone downstairs. The more he considered it the better he liked it as a fitting and poetic method of expressing his sentiment for poor dead Nibbie.