Part 11

It was nearing ten and he was debating within himself whether he should go to bed or test his will by a visit to a café where he knew some friends of his would be, when he heard the street door slam and looked over his shoulder. It could only be Sault or--

The door opened and Jan Steppe came in, dusting the snow from the sleeve of his coat. It was a handsome coat, deeply collared in astrachan and its lining was sealskin, as Mr. Moropulos did not fail to observe.

"Alone, huh?" said Steppe. He glanced at the barley water by the Greek's side and grinned sardonically. "That's the stuff, not a headache in a bucketful!"

"Nor a cheerful thought," said Moropulos. "What brings you this way, Steppe?"

"I want to put some things in the safe."

Sault's invention stood on a wooden frame behind a screen.

"Have to be careful about this word--give me some more light," said Steppe at the dial.

Moropulos rose wearily and turned a switch.

"That's better--huh. Got it!"

The door swung open and, taking a small package from his pocket, the big man tossed it in.

"Got something here, huh?"

He pulled out an envelope. There was a wax seal on the back.

"'The photograph'?" he read and frowned at the other.

"It is mine," said Moropulos.

"Nothing to do with the business?"

"Nothing."

Steppe threw it back and turned the dial.

"Nothing new, huh?"

He glanced at the barley water again.

"Where's Sault?"

"He goes home early. I don't see him again unless one of your hounds sends for him."

Steppe's smile was half sneer.

"You don't like Sault--a good fellow, huh?"

Moropulos wrinkled his nose like an angry dog. His beard seemed to stiffen and his eyes blazed.

"Like him--he's not human, that fellow! Nothing moves him, nothing. I tried to smash him up with a bottle, but he took it away from me as if I were a child. I hate a man who makes me feel like that--if he hadn't got my gun away I'd have laid him out. It would be fine to hurt the devil--and he is a devil, Steppe. Inhuman. Sometimes I give him a newspaper to read--just for the fun of it. But it never worries him."

"Don't try. He's a bigger man than you. You want to rouse him, huh? The day you do, God help you! I don't think you will. That's how I feel about him. He's cold. Chilly as a Druid's hell. He is dangerous when he's quiet--and he's always quiet."

"He is no use to me. It is a waste of money keeping him. I'll give you no more trouble."

Steppe pursed his lips until his curling black moustache bristled like the end of a brush. It was a grimace indicative of his skepticism. He had reason.

"Leave it. Sault will not give you any bother. I don't want strangers here, huh? Cleaners who are spying detectives."

Moropulos took his book again as his employer went out. But he did not read. His eyes looked beyond the edge of the page, his mind was busy. Detestation of Ambrose Sault was not assumed, as he had simulated so many likes and dislikes. Sault's maddening imperturbability, his immense superiority to the petty annoyances with which his daily companion fed him, his contempt for the Greek's vulgarity, these things combined to the fire of the man's hatred. They were incompatibles--it was impossible to imagine any two men more unlike.

Moropulos was one whose speech was habitually coarse; his pleasures fleshly and elemental. He delighted to talk of his conquests, cheap enough though they were. He had collected from the Levant the pictures that hawkers and dragomen show secretly, and these were bound up in two huge volumes over which he would pore for hours. So it pleased him, beyond normal understanding, to bring Beryl Merville into the category of easy women. He had never doubted that she was bad. There were no other kind of women to Moropulos. Suspecting, before there were grounds for suspicion, he had watched and justified his construction of the girl's friendship with Ronnie Morelle. He was certain when he watched her come out of the Knightsbridge flat that if he had been fortunate, he would have seen her there before, perhaps the previous night. Beryl was no less in his eyes than she had been. She was bad. All women were bad, only some were more particular than others in choosing their partners in sin.

He had reason to meet Ronald Morelle the next morning and returning he brought news.

Ambrose was clearing the snow from the steps and path before the house when he arrived.

"Come in," he was bubbling over with excitement, "I've got a piece of interesting information." Ambrose in his deliberate fashion put away broom and spade before he joined the other.

"You know Beryl Merville, don't you? Steppe is marrying her."

He had no other idea than to pass on the news, and create something of the sensation which its recital had caused him. But his keen eyes did not miss the quick lift of Sault's head or the change that came to his face. Only for the fraction of a second, and then his mask descended again.

"What do you think of it, Sault? Some girl, eh?"

He added one of his own peculiar comments. "Who told you?"

"Ronald Morelle. I don't suppose he minds--now. Lucky devil, Steppe. God! If I had his money!"

Ambrose walked slowly away, but his enemy had found the chink in his armor. He was certain of it. It was incredible that a man like Ambrose Sault would feel that way, but he would swear that Ambrose was hurt. Here he was wrong. Ambrose was profoundly moved; but he was not hurt.

That day Moropulos said little. It was on the second and third days that he went to work with an ingenuity that was devilish to break farther into the crevice he had found.

Ambrose made little or no response. The slyest, most outrageous innuendo, he passed as though it had not been spoken. Moropulos was piqued and angry. He dare not go farther for fear Sault complain to Steppe. That alone held him within bounds. But the man was suffering. Instinctively he knew that. Suffering in a dumb, hopeless way that found no expression.

On the Friday night Ambrose returned to his lodging looking very tired. Christina was shocked at his appearance. "Ambrose--what is the matter?"

"I don't know, Christina--yes, I know. Moropulos has been trying, very trying. I find it so much more difficult to hold myself in. I suppose I'm getting old and my will power is weakening."

She stroked the hand that lay on the arm of the chair (for she was sitting up) and looked at him gravely.

"Ambrose, I feel that you have given me some of your strength. Do you remember how you gave it to mother?"

He shook his head. "No, not you--I purposely didn't. I've a loving heart for you, Christina. I shall carry you with me beyond life."

"Why do you say that tonight?" she asked with an odd little pain at her heart.

"I don't know. Steppe wants me to go down with Moropulos to his place in the country. Moropulos has asked me before, but this time Steppe asked me. I don't know--"

He shook his head wearily. She had never seen him so depressed. It was as if the spirit of life had suddenly burned out.

"I hope it will be as you say, Ambrose, but, my dear, you are overtired; we oughtn't to discuss souls and eternities and stuff like that. It is sleep you want, Ambrose."

"I'm not sleepy."

He bent over her, his big hand on her head. "I am glad you are well," he said.

She heard him go downstairs and out of the house, late as it was. A few minutes afterwards Evie came in.

"Where is Sault going?" she asked. "I saw him stalking up the street as though it belonged to him. And oh, Chris, what do you think Ronnie says! Mr. Steppe is marrying that girl who came here--Beryl Merville!"

"Fine," said Christina absently.

She knew now and her heart was bursting with sorrow for the man who had gone out into the night.

XV

"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."

A gasp. "God--! Why!"

"He knew--he said you had told him. He knew because he was outside your flat all night and photographed her as she went out."

The blood of the listener froze with horror. "I--I don't know what you're talking about--who is the 'she'?"

"Beryl Merville."

"It is a lie--absurd--Miss Merville--! Here?"

He found his breath insufficient for his speech. Something inside him was paralyzed: his words were disjointed.

"It is true--she was here. She told me."

"You--you're mad! Told you! It is a damned lie. She was never here. If Moropulos said that, I'm glad you've killed him!"

"He took a photograph and wrote a statement; you know about that because he spoke to you and you admitted it all."

"I swear before God that Moropulos has never spoken to me. I would have killed him if he had. The story of the photograph is a lie--he invented it. That was his way--where is this picture?"

Ambrose did not answer. Was this man speaking the truth? His version was at least plausible. He must go at once to the house in Paddington and get the envelope--it must be destroyed. How would he know if Ronnie was speaking the truth? Ronald Morelle, his teeth biting into his lip, saw judgment wavering. He was fighting for his life; he knew that Sault had come to kill him and his soul quivered.

"Where is that picture--? I tell you it is an invention of that swine. He guessed-- Even to you I will not admit that there is a word of truth in the story."

He had won. The hand that was thrust into the overcoat pocket returned empty.

"I will come back," said Sault.

When he reached the street he saw a man looking at the number plate of his car. He took no notice, but drove off. He had to break a window to get into the house at Paddington. He had forgotten to bring his keys. That delayed his entrance for some while. He was in the room, and his fingers on the dial of the combination, when three men walked through the door.

He knew who they were. "I have a revolver in my pocket, gentlemen," he said. "I have killed Paul Moropulos, the owner of this house." They snapped handcuffs upon his wrists.

"Do you know the combination of this safe, Sault?" asked the tall inspector in charge. He had been reading a typewritten notice affixed to the top.

"Yes, sir," said Ambrose Sault.

"What is it?"

"I am not at liberty to say."

"What is in it--money?"

No answer. The officer beckoned forward one of the uniformed men who seemed to fill the hall.

"This safe is not to be touched, you understand? By anybody. If you allow the handle to be turned, there will be trouble. Come along, Sault."

The handcuffs were unnecessary. They were also inadequate. In the darkness of the car--

"I am very sorry, inspector--I have broken these things--I was feeling for a handkerchief and forgot."

They did not believe him, but at the police station they found that he had spoken the truth. The bar of the cuff had been wrenched open, the steel catch of the lock torn away.

"I did it absentmindedly," said Ambrose shamefaced.

They put him into a cell where he went instantly to sleep. The handcuffs became a famous exhibit which generations of young policemen will look upon with awe and wonder.

II

Sunday morning, and the bells of the churches calling to worship. Fog, thin and yellow, covered the streets. All the lamps in Jan Steppe's study were blazing, he had the African's hatred of dim lights and there was usually one lamp burning in the room he might be using, unless the sun shone.

He paced up and down the carpet, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his mind busy. He was too well-equipped a man to see danger in any other direction than where it lay. In moments of peril, he was ice. He could not be cajoled or stampeded into facing imaginary troubles, nor yet to turn his back upon the real threat. All his life he had been a fighter and had grown rich from his victories. Struggle was a normal condition of existence. Nothing had come to him that he had not planned and worked for, or to gain which he had not taken considerable risks. The risks now were confined to Ambrose Sault and his fidelity to the trust which had been forced upon him by circumstances. He was satisfied that Ambrose would not speak. If he did--

Steppe chewed on an unlighted cigar.

The removal of Moropulos meant an inconvenience Sault scarcely counted. The Greek was a nuisance and a danger, whilst his extravagance and folly had brought his associates to the verge of ruin. When the police arrested Ambrose Sault they took possession of the house in which he had been found. Amongst other things seized, was the safe upon which Moropulos had pasted a typewritten notice in his whimsical language:

TO BURGLARS AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN -------------------- CAUTION

Any attempt to open this safe, except by the employment of the correct code word, will result in the destruction of the safe's contents.

_DON'T TURN THE HANDLE_