"The Parthenon" occupied an acre of land that had once been part of a
monastery garden. Until Mr. Moropulos with his passion for Hellenic
nomenclature had so named it, the old cottage and its land was known
by the curious title: "Brothergod Farm", or as it appeared in ancient
deeds, "The Farmstead of Brother-of-God."
For Mr. Moropulos there was a peculiar pleasure in setting up in the
monastery land such symbols of the pantheistic religion of ancient
Greece as he could procure.
The house itself consisted of one large kitchen-hall on the ground
floor and two bedrooms above. A more modern kitchen had been built
on to the main walls by a former tenant. The cottage was well
furnished, and unlike his home in Paddington, the floors were
carpeted, a piece of needless extravagance from the Greek's point of
view, but one which he had not determined, for he had bought the
cottage and the furniture together, the owner being disinclined to
sell the one without the other.
The garden was the glory of the place in the summer. It had a charm
even on the chill afternoon that Ambrose deposited his bag at the
white gate. A wintry sun was setting redly, turning to the color of
wine the white face of the fields. In the hollows of the little
valley beyond the cottage, the mists were lying in smoky pools. His
hands on the top of the gate, he gazed rapturously at such a sun set
as England seldom sees. Turquoise--claret--a blue that was almost
green.
Drawing a long breath he picked up his bag and walked into the house.
"Go down and look after Moropulos. He is weakening on that
barley-water diet--he told me himself."
Thus Steppe. His servitor obeyed without question, though he knew
that the shadow of death was upon him.
Moropulos was stretched in a deep mission chair, his slippered feet
toward the hearth. And he had begun his libations early.
On the floor within reach of his hand, was a tumbler, full of milky
white fluid. There was a sugar-basin--a glass jug half filled with
water and a tea strainer. Ambrose need not look for the absinthe
bottle. The accessories told the story.
"Come in--shut the door, you big fool--no you don't!" Moropulos
snatched up the tumbler from the floor and gulped down its contents.
"Ha-a! That is good, my dear--good! Sit down!" he pointed
imperiously to a chair.
"You'll have no more of that stuff tonight, Moropulos." Ambrose
gathered up the bottle and took it into the kitchen. The Greek
chuckled as he heard it smash. He had a store--a little locker in
the tool-shed; a few bottles in his bedroom.
"Come back!" he roared. "Come, you big pig! Come and talk about
Beryl. Ah! What a girl! What a face for that hairy gorilla to
kiss!"
Sault heard, but went on filling a kettle and presently the shouts
subsided.
"When I call you, come!" commanded Moropulos sulkily as Ambrose
returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hand.
"Drink this," said Ambrose.
Moropulos took the cup and saucer and flung them and their contents
into the fireplace. "For children, for young ladies, but not for a
son of the south--an immortal, Sault! For young ladies, yes--for
Beryl the beautiful--"
A hand gripped him by the beard and jerked his head up. The pain was
exquisite--his neck was stretched, a thousand hot needles tortured
his chin and cheek where the beard dragged. For the space of a
second he looked into the gray eyes, fathomless. Then Ambrose broke
his grip and the man staggered to his feet mouthing, grimacing, but
silent. Nor did Ambrose speak. His eyes had spoken, and the
half-drunken man dropped back into his chair, cowering.
When Sault returned to the room, after unpacking his bag, Moropulos
was still sitting in the same position. "Do you want anything cooked
for your dinner?"
"There is--fish--and chops. You'll find them in the kitchen."
He sat, breathing quickly, listening to the sizzle and splutter of
frying meat. Ambrose Sault shut the door that led into the kitchen
and the Greek stood up listening.
From beneath a locker he produced a bottle, quietly he took up the
water-jug and sugar and stole softly up to his room. He locked the
door quietly, put down his impedimenta and opened a drawer of an old
davenport. Underneath an assortment of handkerchiefs and underwear,
he found an ivory-handled revolver, a slender-barrelled, plated
thing, that glittered in his hand. It was loaded; he made sure of
that. His hatred of Ambrose Sault was an insensate obsession. He
had pulled him by the beard, an intolerable insult in any
circumstances. But Sault was a nigger--he sat down on the only chair
in the room and prepared a drink.
"Are you coming down? I've laid the table and the food is ready,"
Ambrose called from the bottom of the stairs.
"Go to hell!"
"Come along, Moropulos. What is the sense of this? I am sorry I
touched you."
"You'll be more sorry," screamed the Greek. His voice sounded
deafeningly near for he had opened the door. "You dog, you--"
Mr. Moropulos had a wider range of expletives than most men. Ambrose
listened without listening.
Pulling out a chair from the table, he sat down and began his dinner.
He heard the feet of the drunkard pacing the floor above, heard the
rumble of his voice and then the upper door was flung violently open
and the feet of Moropulos clattered down the stairs. He had taken
off his coat and his waistcoat. His beard flowed over a colored silk
shirt, beautifully embroidered. But it was the thing in his hand
that Ambrose saw, and, seeing, rose.
The man's face was white with rage; an artery in his neck was
pulsating visibly. "You pulled my beard--you ignorant negro--you
nigger thing--you damned convict! You're going on your knees to lick
my boots--my boots, not Beryl's, you old fool--"
Ambrose did not move from the position he had taken on the other side
of the table.
"Down, down, down!" shrieked Moropulos, his pistol waving wildly.
Ambrose Sault obeyed, but not as Moropulos had expected. Suddenly he
dropped out of view behind the edge of the white cloth and in the
same motion he launched himself under the table, toward the man. In
a second he had gripped him by the ankles and thrown him--the pistol
dropped almost into his hands.
Moropulos stumbled to his feet and glared round at his assailant. "I
hope to God you love that woman; I hope to God you love her--you do,
you old fool! You love her--Ronald Morelle's mistress! I know! She
stayed a night at his flat--other nights too--but I saw her as she
came out--I photographed her!"
"You photographed her as she came out?" repeated Ambrose dully.
A grin of glee parted the bearded lips.
"I've hurt you, damn you! I've hurt you! And I'm going to tell
Steppe and tell her father and everybody!"
"You liar." Sault's voice was gentle. "You filthy man! You saw
nothing!"
"I didn't, eh? Oh, I didn't! Morelle admitted it--admitted it to
me. And I've got the photograph in a safe place, with a full account
of what happened!"
"In the safe!"
Moropulos had made a mistake, a fatal mistake. He realized it even
as he had spoken.
"And you--and Morelle--have her in your cruel hands!"
So softly did he speak that it seemed to the man that it was a
whisper he heard.
Sault held in his hands the pistol. He looked at it thoughtfully.
"You must not hurt her," he said.
Moropulos stood paralyzed for a moment, then made a dart for the
door. His hand was on the latch when Ambrose Sault shot him dead.
_BOOK THE THIRD_
I
Ambrose looked a very long time at the inert heap by the door. He
seemed to be settling some difficulty which had arisen in his mind,
for the gloom passed from his face and pocketing the revolver slowly,
he walked across to where Paul Moropulos lay. He was quite dead.
"I am glad," said Ambrose.
Lifting the body, he laid it in the chair; then he took out the
pistol again and examined it. There were five live cartridges. He
only needed one. In the kitchen he put on the heavy overcoat he had
been wearing when he arrived. Returning, he lit the candle of a
lantern and went out into the back of the house where Moropulos had
erected a small army hut to serve as his garage. He broke the lock
and wheeled out the little car. Ambrose Sault was in no hurry: his
every movement was deliberate. He tested the tank, filled it, put
water in the radiator; then started the engines and drove the car
through the stable gates on to the main road, before, leaving the
engines running, he paid another visit to the house and blew out the
lamp.
As he reached the dark road again he saw a man standing by the car.
It proved to be a villager.
"Somebody heard a shot going off up this way. I told 'un it was only
Mr. Moropuly's old car backfiring."
"It was not that," said Ambrose as he stepped into the car. "Good
night."
He drove carefully, because his life was very precious this night.
He thought of Christina several times, but without self-pity.
Christina would get well--and her love would endure. It was of the
quality which did not need the flesh of him. Ronald Morelle must
die. There was no other solution. He must die, not because he had
led the woman to his way; that was a smaller matter than any and,
honestly, meant nothing to Ambrose. Ronald's offense was his
knowledge. He knew: he had told. He would tell again.
A policeman stopped him as he drove through Woking. He was asked to
produce a license and, when none was forthcoming, his name and
address were taken. Ambrose gave both truthfully. It was a lucky
chance for the policeman. Afterwards he gave evidence and became
important: was promoted sergeant on the very day that Steppe sneered
at a weeping man. That was seven weeks later--in March, when the
primroses were showing in Brother-of-God Farm.
Ambrose knew Ronald's flat. He had gone there once with Moropulos,
and he had waited outside the door whilst Moropulos was interviewing
Ronnie.
Nine o'clock was striking as the car drew up before the flat--Ronnie
heard it through the closed casement.
Nine o'clock? He dropped his pen and leaned back in his chair. What
was the cause of that cold trickling sensation--his mouth went dry.
He used to feel like that in air raids.
A bell rung.
"François--" Louder, "François!"
"Pardon, m'sieur." François came out of his pantry half awake.
"The door." Who was it, thought Ronnie--he jumped up.
"What do you want, Sault?"
Ambrose looked round at the waiting servant. "You," he said. "I
want to know the truth first--that man should go."
Ronnie flushed angrily. "I certainly cannot allow you to decide
whether my servant goes or remains. Have you come from Mr. Steppe?"
Ambrose hesitated. Perhaps it was a confidential message from
Steppe, thought Ronnie. This uncouth fellow often served as a
messenger.
"Wait outside the door, François--no, outside the lobby door."
"I haven't come from Steppe."
Suddenly Ronnie remembered. "Steppe said you had gone to the country
with Moropulos--where is he?"
"Dead."
Ronnie staggered back, his pale face working. He had a horror of
death.
"Dead?" he said hollowly, and Sault nodded.
"I killed him."