Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 11

On the morning of this interview, a warder opened the cell door in Strangeways Gaol, and woke John Welland from a troublous sleep. He was not known to the officials of Strangeways Gaol as John Welland, but the name he had assumed is unimportant.

“Six o'clock,” said the warder briefly, and went out.

John Welland rose, and dressed himself. Gaol delivery at Strangeways is at nine o'clock in the morning, but the big prison clock was booming the midday hour before the discharged men were released to their waiting friends. It was half past twelve when John Welland came through the little black wicket door and walked down the street, in the direction of the cars.

A prisoner who had been released that morning, and who had been detained outside the gaol by his numerous friends, jerked his head in the direction of the retreating figure and said something which diverted the attention of his friends from their hero and to the man. Welland boarded a street car and drove to the far end of the city, where he changed into a car which brought him back again, but by another route. He alighted and walked for a mile and a half, taking such short cuts as would suggest that he feared being watched and followed.

Presently he came to a quiet street, and turned in at a little house at one end. There was nobody to greet him, but a tiny fire burned in the kitchen, and somebody had laid a plate and a cup and saucer. He put the kettle on and climbed a steep little flight of stairs which led to a neat bedroom, changing his clothes for others, which he took from a hanging cupboard.

The face that looked into the mirror was gray and lined, the face of a prematurely old man. For fully five minutes he stood looking at himself, as though communing with the reflection; then with a sigh he descended the stairs, made and poured his tea, and sat down before the fire, his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palm.

He heard the door unlocked, and looked round as a motherly looking woman came in with a loaded market basket.

“Good morning, mister,” she said in a broad Lancashire dialect. “I knew you'd be back this morning, but I didn't think you'd be here so early. Have you made your tea?”

She made no reference to his absence; probably she was used to it. As she disposed of the contents of the basket she chattered incessantly—so incessantly that he rose presently and went into the little parlor and closed the door behind him. The woman went about her work until from the parlor came the faint strains of a violin, and then she sat to listen. It was a sad refrain he was playing—something Andalusian, with a sob at its end—and the good woman shook her head.

Presently Welland came out again.

“Aye,” said his housekeeper, “I wish you'd play something cheerful, Mr. Welland. Those tunes get on my nerves.”

“They soothe mine,” said Welland, with a faint smile.

“You're a champion player,” agreed the busy lady. “And I like a tune on the fiddle. Did you ever play in public, Mr. Welland?”

Welland nodded as he took down a pipe from the mantelshelf, stuffed it from an old pouch, and lit it.

“I thought you did,” said Mrs. Beck triumphantly. “I was telling my husband this morning”

“I hope you didn't tell your husband much about me, Mrs. Beck?” said the man quietly.

“Oh, not too much. I'm proper careful. I told a young man who came here yesterday”

Welland took his pipe out of his mouth and looked around, his gray eyebrows lowered in a frown.

“What young man came here yesterday?”

“He came to inquire if you were at home.”

“If I was at home,” said Welland. “Did he mention my name?”

“He did an' all,” said the woman. “That's What struck me as funny. He's the first person that's ever been to this house and asked for you by name.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him you might be home to-morrow and you might be home next week, but I don't know for certain, Mr. Welland, you're not very regular. I told him you're away for months at a time”

Welland pressed his lips together. He knew it was useless to reproach the woman. After all, it might be some tax collector or somebody canvassing for charity, for these poor streets yield a rich harvest to the charity-monger; or, perhaps, it was the vicar renewing his attempts to become acquainted—an effort on the vicar's part which had been so uncompromisingly repulsed that he never called again in person.

“It's all right, Mrs. Beck,” said Welland. “Only I don't like my business spoken of, if you don't mind.”

“I never speak of your business, Mr. Welland,” said the woman, aggrieved. “Anyway, I don't know it,” she added huffily. “It's nowt to me what you do with your time. For owt I know you might be a burglar or a policeman, you're away from home so often.”

Welland made no reply. That afternoon, when the woman had finished her labors, had laid the tea and gone back to her own home, his mind went back to this young man visitor, and he put the chain on the door, determined not to answer the knock of any caller.

None came until nightfall. He was sitting in his parlor with drawn blinds, reading, by the light of an oil lamp, when he heard a tap-tap on his door. He put down the book and listened. Presently it came again—tap-tap. In this tiny house the front door was within half a dozen feet of where he sat, and he walked out into the narrow passage. Again came the knock. It sounded as though somebody was tapping on the door with the head of a stick.

“Who is that?” asked Welland.

“Let me in,” said a muffled voice. “I want to see you, Welland.”

“Who are you?”

“Let me in,” was the reply, and John Welland recognized the voice and his face went as white as death. For a moment his head swam, and he had to hold on to the wall for support. Then after a while he steadied his nerves, but his hands were trembling when he flung back the catch of the chain, and threw the door open wide. The night was dark, for the moon had not risen, and he could only see the tall figure standing on the flagged path outside as an indistinct mass.

“Come in,” he said. He had secured control of his voice.

“Do you know me?” asked the visitor.

“I know you,” said John Welland, and every word was an effort. “You are Cæsar Valentine.”

He led the way into the parlor and Cæsar followed, and so they stood for a breathing space, one on each side of a little circular table on which the oil lamp burned, the tall man towering above his enemy, Welland watching him with eyes that were hot.

“I want to see you on an important matter,” said Cæsar coolly.

“Where is my wife?” asked Welland, breathing heavily.

Cæsar shrugged his broad shoulders.

“Your wife is dead,” he said, “you know that.”

“Where is my child?” asked Welland.

Again Cæsar shrugged. “Why do you raise a subject which is as painful to me as it is to you?” he asked in a tone of complaint, as though he were the injured person. Then, without invitation, he sat down. “Welland,” he said, “you must be reasonable. The past is dead. Why nurse your hatred?”

“The hatred harbors me,” said the other grimly. “It is the link which binds me to life, Valentine, and will keep me living until with these hands”—he stretched them forth and they were trembling—“until with these hands I kill you!”

Cæsar laughed.

“Melodrama!” he scoffed. “You will kill me? Well, here I am. Kill, my friend. Have you no gun or knife? Are you afraid? You who threatened to kill, and who have held this threat over my head all this time, now is your opportunity.”

He slipped from his pocket something which glittered, and laid it on the table before the man.

“Take this,” he said. It was a silver-plated revolver. “Shoot! I guarantee that the bullet is heavy enough to kill.”

Welland looked from the pistol to the man and shook his head. “Not that way,” he said. “You shall die in good time, and you shall suffer even more than I have suffered.”

A silence fell again, and Welland, speaking half to himself, went on: “I am glad I have seen you. You have not changed. You are as you were—look at me.” He flung out his arms. “You should be happy, Valentine, for all your life you have taken that which you wanted, and I have lost—oh, my God! What have I lost?” He covered his face with his hands, and Cæsar watched him curiously. Then. the big man picked up the revolver and put it back in his pocket.

“I shall die in good time, eh!” he sneered. “Well, here's to that good time! You had your chance. I asked you to divorce her.”

“Divorce!” groaned the other.

“She could have married again and been happy. Now, Welland, are you going to be sensible?”

“Have you said all you wanted to say?” asked Welland steadily. “Because, if you have, you can go. I say I am glad I have seen you. It has revived whatever hopes and ambitions were fading from my heart. I have gone through hell fer you, Cæsar Valentine. I have suffered beyond your understanding in order that one day—one day ” he nodded, and, despite his calm and self-possession, Cæsar felt a cold chill creeping down his spine. He was angry at the thought that any man should bring that thrill of fear to his heart.

“You've had your chance, Welland,” he said. “And if you've missed it, that is your fault. Now I have come to put the matter plainly to you. I believe you're in some government service. I have reason to believe that you have been employed to spy on me, and I tell you here and now, that the man is not born who will net Cæsar Valentine.”

He brought his fist down on the table and the lamp jumped. “Like a fool I left you alone, and never once did it occur to me that I had the whole game in my hands if I acted instead of waiting for you to make your wife a free woman.”

He had stepped round the table until he was side by side with the man he had wronged. Then suddenly, without warning, his two hands shot out and gripped Welland by the throat. Welland was strong, but Cæsar was superhuman in his strength. He swung the man backward over a chair and crashed him to the floor, his hands never releasing their grip. Welland struggled desperately, but his struggles were in vain. Cæsar's knees were upon his arms, those vice-like hands of his were pressing steadily at his throat.

“To-morrow,” whispered Cæsar, “they will find you hanging”

There was a knock at the door and he looked round. Again the knock came, and the voice of a woman.

“Are you up, Mr. Welland? I can see your light. It's only Mrs. Beck.”

Cæsar released his grip and crept out of the room as Welland struggled to a chair, voiceless, half senseless, and incapable of further movement. The big man stepped back into the room and blew out the lamp; then he came back and opened the door.

“All in the dark?” said the woman's voice. “Aye, but I could have sworn I saw a light!”

He let her pass, then leaped through the door, slamming it behind him.