Francis, glad of a moment or two's solitude in which to rearrange his
somewhat distorted sensations, found an empty space in the stern of the
launch and stood leaning over the rail. His pulses were still tingling
with the indubitable excitement of the last half-hour. It was all there,
even now, before his eyes like a cinematograph picture--the duel between
those two men, a duel of knowledge, of strength, of science, of courage.
From beginning to end, there had been no moment when Francis had felt
that he was looking on at what was in any way a degrading or immoral
spectacle. Each man had fought in his way to win. Young Wilmore,
graceful as a panther, with a keen, joyous desire of youth for supremacy
written in his face and in the dogged lines of his mouth; the budding
champion from the East End less graceful, perhaps, but with even more
strength and at least as much determination, had certainly done his best
to justify his selection. There were no points to be scored. There
had been no undue feinting, no holding, few of the tricks of the
professional ring. It was a fight to a finish, or until Harrison gave
the word. And the better man had won. But even that knock-out blow which
Reggie Wilmore had delivered after a wonderful feint, had had little
that was cruel in it. There was something beautiful almost in the
strength and grace with which it had been delivered--the breathless
eagerness, the waiting, the end.
Francis felt a touch upon his arm and looked around. A tall, sad-faced
looking woman, whom he had noticed with a vague sense of familiarity in
the dancing-room, was standing by his side.
“You have forgotten me, Mr. Ledsam,” she said.
“For the moment,” he admitted.
“I am Isabel Culbridge,” she told him, watching his face.
“Lady Isabel?” Francis repeated incredulously. “But surely--”
“Better not contradict me,” she interrupted. “Look again.”
Francis looked again.
“I am very sorry,” he said. “It is some time, is it not, since we met?”
She stood by his side, and for a few moments neither of them spoke. The
little orchestra in the bows had commenced to play softly, but there
was none of the merriment amongst the handful of men and women generally
associated with a midnight river picnic. The moon was temporarily
obscured, and it seemed as though some artist's hand had so dealt with
the few electric lights that the men, with their pale faces and white
shirt-fronts, and the three or four women, most of them, as it happened,
wearing black, were like some ghostly figures in some sombre procession.
Only the music kept up the pretence that this was in any way an ordinary
excursion. Amongst the human element there was an air of tenseness which
seemed rather to increase as they passed into the shadowy reaches of the
river.
“You have been ill, I am afraid?” Francis said tentatively.
“If you will,” she answered, “but my illness is of the soul. I have
become one of a type,” she went on, “of which you will find many
examples here. We started life thinking that it was clever to despise
the conventional and the known and to seek always for the daring and the
unknown. New experiences were what we craved for. I married a wonderful
husband. I broke his heart and still looked for new things. I had a
daughter of whom I was fond--she ran away with my chauffeur and left me;
a son whom I adored, and he was killed in the war; a lover who told
me that he worshipped me, who spent every penny I had and made me the
laughing-stock of town. I am still looking for new things.”
“Sir Timothy's parties are generally supposed to provide them,” Francis
observed.
The woman shrugged her shoulders.
“So far they seem very much like anybody's else,” she said. “The fight
might have been amusing, but no women were allowed. The rest was very
wonderful in its way, but that is all. I am still hoping for what we are
to see downstairs.”
They heard Sir Timothy's voice a few yards away, and turned to look at
him. He had just come from below, and had paused opposite a man who had
been standing a little apart from the others, one of the few who was
wearing an overcoat, as though he felt the cold. In the background were
the two servants who had guarded the gangway.
“Mr. Manuel Loito,” Sir Timothy said--“or shall I say Mr. Shopland?--my
invited guests are welcome. I have only one method of dealing with
uninvited ones.”
The two men suddenly stepped forward. Shopland made no protest,
attempted no struggle. They lifted him off his feet as though he were a
baby, and a moment later there was a splash in the water. They threw a
life-belt after him.
“Always humane, you see,” Sir Timothy remarked, as he leaned over the
side. “Ah! I see that even in his overcoat our friend is swimmer enough
to reach the bank. You find our methods harsh, Ledsam?” he asked,
turning a challenging gaze towards the latter.
Francis, who had been watching Shopland come to the surface, shrugged
his shoulders. He delayed answering for a moment while he watched the
detective, disdaining the life-belt, swim to the opposite shore.
“I suppose that under the circumstances,” Francis said, “he was prepared
to take his risk.”
“You should know best about that,” Sir Timothy rejoined. “I wonder
whether you would mind looking after Lady Cynthia? I shall be busy for a
few moments.”
Francis stepped across the deck towards where Lady Cynthia had been
sitting by her host's side. They had passed into the mouth of a
tree-hung strip of the river. The engine was suddenly shut off. A gong
was sounded. There was a murmur, almost a sob of relief, as the little
sprinkling of men and women rose hastily to their feet and made their
way towards the companion-way. Downstairs, in the saloon, with its white
satinwood panels and rows of swing chairs, heavy curtains were drawn
across the portholes, all outside light was shut out from the place. At
the further end, raised slightly from the floor, was a sanded circle.
Sir Timothy made his way to one of the pillars by its side and turned
around to face the little company of his guests. His voice, though it
seemed scarcely raised above a whisper, was extraordinarily clear and
distinct. Even Francis, who, with Lady Cynthia, had found seats only
just inside the door, could hear every word he said.
“My friends,” he began, “you have often before been my guests at such
small fights as we have been able to arrange in as unorthodox a manner
as possible between professional boxers. There has been some novelty
about them, but on the last occasion I think it was generally
observed that they had become a little too professional, a little
ultra-scientific. There was something which they lacked. With that
something I am hoping to provide you to-night. Thank you, Sir Edgar,” he
murmured, leaning down towards his neighbour.
He held his cigarette in the flame of a match which the other had
kindled. Francis, who was watching intently, was puzzled at the
expression with which for a moment, as he straightened himself, Sir
Timothy glanced down the room, seeking for Lady Cynthia's eyes. In
a sense it was as though he were seeking for something he
needed--approbation, sympathy, understanding.
“Our hobby, as you know, has been reality,” he continued. “That is what
we have not always been able to achieve. Tonight I offer you reality.
There are two men here, one an East End coster, the other an Italian
until lately associated with an itinerant vehicle of musical production.
These two men have not outlived sensation as I fancy so many of us
have. They hate one another to the death. I forget their surnames,
but Guiseppe has stolen Jim's girl, is living with her at the present
moment, and proposes to keep her. Jim has sworn to have the lives of
both of them. Jim's career, in its way, is interesting to us. He has
spent already six years in prison for manslaughter, and a year for
a brutal assault upon a constable. Guiseppe was tried in his native
country for a particularly fiendish murder, and escaped, owing, I
believe, to some legal technicality. That, however, has nothing to do
with the matter. These men have sworn to fight to the death, and
the girl, I understand, is willing to return to Jim if he should be
successful, or to remain with Guiseppe if he should show himself able
to retain her. The fight between these men, my friends, has been
transferred from Seven Dials for your entertainment. It will take place
before you here and now.”
There was a little shiver amongst the audience. Francis, almost to his
horror, was unable to resist the feeling of queer excitement which stole
through his veins. A few yards away, Lady Isabel seemed to have become
transformed. She was leaning forward in her chair, her eyes glowing,
her lips parted, rejuvenated, dehumanised. Francis' immediate companion,
however, rather surprised him. Her eyes were fixed intently upon Sir
Timothy's. She seemed to have been weighing every word he had spoken.
There was none of that hungry pleasure in her face which shone from the
other woman's and was reflected in the faces of many of the others. She
seemed to be bracing herself for a shock. Sir Timothy looked over his
shoulder towards the door which opened upon the sanded space.
“You can bring your men along,” he directed.
One of the attendants promptly made his appearance. He was holding
tightly by the arm a man of apparently thirty years of age, shabbily
dressed, barefooted, without collar or necktie, with a mass of black
hair which looked as though it had escaped the care of any barber for
many weeks. His complexion was sallow; he had high cheekbones and a
receding chin, which gave him rather the appearance of a fox. He shrank
a little from the lights as though they hurt his eyes, and all the time
he looked furtively back to the door, through which in a moment or two
his rival was presently escorted. The latter was a young man of stockier
build, ill-conditioned, and with the brutal face of the lowest of his
class. Two of his front teeth were missing, and there was a livid mark
on the side of his cheek. He looked neither to the right nor to the
left. His eyes were fixed upon the other man, and they looked death.
“The gentleman who first appeared,” Sir Timothy observed, stepping up
into the sanded space but still half facing the audience, “is Guiseppe,
the Lothario of this little act. The other is Jim, the wronged
husband. You know their story. Now, Jim,” he added, turning towards
the Englishman, “I put in your trousers pocket these notes, two hundred
pounds, you will perceive. I place in the trousers pocket of Guiseppe
here notes to the same amount. I understand you have a little quarrel to
fight out. The one who wins will naturally help himself to the other's
money, together with that other little reward which I imagine was the
first cause of your quarrel. Now... let them go.”
Sir Timothy resumed his seat and leaned back in leisurely fashion. The
two attendants solemnly released their captives. There was a moment's
intense silence. The two men seemed fencing for position. There was
something stealthy and horrible about their movements as they crept
around one another. Francis realised what it was almost as the little
sobbing breath from those of the audience who still retained any
emotion, showed him that they, too, foresaw what was going to happen.
Both men had drawn knives from their belts. It was murder which had been
let loose.
Francis found himself almost immediately upon his feet. His whole being
seemed crying out for interference. Lady Cynthia's death-white face and
pleading eyes seemed like the echo of his own passionate aversion to
what was taking place. Then he met Sir Timothy's gaze across the room
and he remembered his promise. Under no conditions was he to protest
or interfere. He set his teeth and resumed his seat. The fight went
on. There were little sobs and tremors of excitement, strange banks of
silence. Both men seemed out of condition. The sound of their hoarse
breathing was easily heard against the curtain of spellbound silence.
For a time their knives stabbed the empty air, but from the first the
end seemed certain. The Englishman attacked wildly. His adversary waited
his time, content with avoiding the murderous blows struck at him,
striving all the time to steal underneath the other's guard. And then,
almost without warning, it was all over. Jim was on his back in a
crumpled heap. There was a horrid stain upon his coat. The other man
was kneeling by his side, hate, glaring out of his eyes, guiding all
the time the rising and falling of his knife. There was one more
shriek--then silence only the sound of the victor's breathing as he rose
slowly from his ghastly task. Sir Timothy rose to his feet and waved his
hand. The curtain went down.
“On deck, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” he said calmly.
No one stirred. A woman began to sob. A fat, unhealthy-looking man in
front of Francis reeled over in a dead faint. Two other of the guests
near had risen from their seats and were shouting aimlessly like
lunatics. Even Francis was conscious of that temporary imprisonment of
the body due to his lacerated nerves. Only the clinging of Lady Cynthia
to his arm kept him from rushing from the spot.
“You are faint?” he whispered hoarsely.
“Upstairs--air,” she faltered.
They rose to their feet. The sound of Sir Timothy's voice reached them
as they ascended the stairs.
“On deck, every one, if you please,” he insisted. “Refreshments are
being served there. There are inquisitive people who watch my launch,
and it is inadvisable to remain here long.”
People hurried out then as though their one desire was to escape from
the scene of the tragedy. Lady Cynthia, still clinging to Francis' arm,
led him to the furthermost corner of the launch. There were real tears
in her eyes, her breath was coming in little sobs.
“Oh, it was horrible!” she cried. “Horrible! Mr. Ledsam--I can't help
it--I never want to speak to Sir Timothy again!”
One final horror arrested for a moment the sound of voices. There was
a dull splash in the river. Something had been thrown overboard. The
orchestra began to play dance music. Conversation suddenly burst out.
Every one was hysterical. A Peer of the Realm, red-eyed and shaking
like an aspen leaf, was drinking champagne out of the bottle. Every
one seemed to be trying to outvie the other in loud conversation, in
outrageous mirth. Lady Isabel, with a glass of champagne in her hand,
leaned back towards Francis.
“Well,” she asked, “how are you feeling, Mr. Ledsam?”
“As though I had spent half-an-hour in Hell,” he answered.
She screamed with laughter.
“Hear this man,” she called out, “who will send any poor ragamuffin to
the gallows if his fee is large enough! Of course,” she added, turning
back to him, “I ought to remember you are a normal person and to-night's
entertainment was not for normal persons. For myself I am grateful
to Sir Timothy. For a few moments of this aching aftermath of life, I
forgot.”
Suddenly all the lights around the launch flamed out, the music stopped.
Sir Timothy came up on deck. On either side of him was a man in ordinary
dinner clothes. The babel of voices ceased. Everyone was oppressed by
some vague likeness. A breathless silence ensued.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Sir Timothy said, and once more the smile upon
his lips assumed its most mocking curve, “let me introduce you to the
two artists who have given us to-night such a realistic performance,
Signor Guiseppe Elito and Signor Carlos Marlini. I had the good
fortune,” he went on, “to witness this very marvellous performance in a
small music-hall at Palermo, and I was able to induce the two actors to
pay us a visit over here. Steward, these gentlemen will take a glass of
champagne.”
The two Sicilians raised their glasses and bowed expectantly to the
little company. They received, however, a much greater tribute to their
performance than the applause which they had been expecting. There
reigned everywhere a deadly, stupefied silence. Only a half-stifled sob
broke from Lady Cynthia's lips as she leaned over the rail, her face
buried in her hands, her whole frame shaking.