The Masque of Love/Chapter 6

HE limousine drew up in front of the Empire Music Hall and Monkhouse got out, nodded to the chauffeur as though in confirmation of some previous order and made his way up the steps. Once inside the vestibule he paused, looked about him and apparently not finding the individual he sought, went out into the street again. There he waited, studying the new arrivals and passers-by, and finally began to stroll in the direction of Charing Cross. Once on the opposite side of the square, however, he changed his course and his pace and began to walk briskly, swerving at last into a narrow side street. It was an unsalubrious district—one of those murky stagnant backwaters which form a companion picture to many of our fashionable thoroughfares—and the little eating-house which he presently entered was well in keeping with its surroundings. Inside, the old-fashioned wooden partitions were already fairly full, and no one noticed him as he took his place at one of the few tables which claimed only one occupant. The man on the opposite side merely glanced at him, and then resumed his meal with a feverish vigor which disguised the fact that he scarcely touched his food. He was a man well on into the fifties, with a shaggy gray beard and restless eyes under black brows. His clothes were shabby, and there was indeed nothing noticeable about him except the short white line of an old cut immediately over the right brow. Monkhouse, ignoring his companion, ordered his meal and drawing out an evening paper from his pocket appeared to lose himself in its contents. Then suddenly he uttered an exclamation which seemed to arouse the old man from his absentminded activity.

“Any news?” he asked, rather loudly.

“The Mexican President assassinated,” Monkhouse answered without looking up. “Devil of a shindy. But they thrive on that kind of thing.”

“Rotten lot,” the old man observed grumpily. “Let's have a look.”

Monkhouse passed the paper across, and for the first time his vis-à-vis looked at him with a penetrating intentness. “Thank heaven!” he said, in a low tone. “I was getting gray with worry. Are you better?”

“Yes. It was touch and go, though—pleurisy. Two days in an open boat. I was afraid you'd worry, but I didn't dare write, and I guessed I should manage it in time.”

“You saw Machran?”

“Yes. Very keen. I have full authority to act for them as soon as we know the lowest offers.”

“Friday is the last day.”

“I know. By the merest chance I heard that the Great East Syndicate send in on Thursday.”

“How did you hear that?”

“From young Haig himself.” Monkhouse leaned forward pointing with his finger to a headline in the paper. “He suspects,” he went on quietly. “I'm bound to warn you that he may be dangerous.”

The old man sniggered contemptuously.

“He can't know anything. I take care of that. He can't act unless he has some definite proof. You shall have the lists on Thursday night.”

“You're not afraid of—possible accidents?”

Another twitching of the thin, well-cut, yet cruel lips—a flash of the nervous eyes to the door.

“Not more than you. I want money—you want it. Don't let's get nerves. I've never been afraid of anybody—anything—by God, I haven't.” His almost violent protest revealed a tremulousness of the voice which seemed to quicken Monkhouse's attention. His electric eyes flashed over every line of the other's face with a cold, slightly contemptuous interest.

“Is there anything wrong? Are you ill? I can't see through that damned get-up.”

The other put his hand to his forehead, revealing its incongruous and curiously repellent whiteness and delicacy. But the whole gesture was indeed an involuntary self-betrayal.

“It's nothing—at least—I've been sleeping badly—and had to take things—drugs, you know. They shake one's nerve. Brian—” In a flash he had dropped his pose of casual interest and leaned across the table, his eyes fixed and staring, his breath coming in quick gasps. “Brian, have you ever seen people—people who are dead—walking—talking—”

“For God's sake, don't look like that!” Monkhouse implored under his breath. “What are you talking about? The dead? What do you mean?”

“I have,” the old man whispered, ignoring the question. “I've seen Margaret—Margaret as she was years ago—young, beautiful—with my shadow walking at her side—and they stared at me. It's a ghastly thing to see oneself walking with a dead woman.”

Monkhouse laid his great hand on the other's shaking arm, and with a gtip that might have dragged a scream from a braver man. But there was not a tremor of the white face to betray even consciousness of the touch.

“You're dreaming,” Monkhouse said, coolly. “And, anyhow, the dead wouldn't haunt you. If they have any regard for law and order, I'm their victim.”

“The dead go their own way,” the other whispered. “They know. Margaret knew. She couldn't drown her memory with her body. I tell you, I'm not afraid of anything on earth, but if Margaret comes again—” He stopped short, staring about him as though he had been awakened from a dream, and seeing Monkhouse's startled face frowned slightly. “Why do you look so excited? It's not wise. Have I been saying anything—unusual?” He was now himself again—watchful, tensely alert, and Monkhouse relaxed into an attitude of indifference.

“You gave me a bad start,” he said. “You seemed upset by someone—something. Almost in a funk, dear John.”

“Hush, don't use my name. Funk? That's not true. But I've suffered a great deal—a great deal. That whole affair—shook me terribly. You don't understand—you're a man of iron—you've never cared for anyone—no one's ever cared for you, eh? She didn't. How could she? You're too damned ugly—too much of the brute—”

He stopped to laugh with a foolish self-complacency, and Monkhouse sat rigidly still, staring stonily in front of him. “But afraid? Good God, no! What have I to be afraid of? Haig? A nincompoop. Who else is left to bother me? There's Margaret's younger sister, Brian. I've thought of her sometimes. Margaret loved her. She was away those two years—acting somewhere—she knew nothing—and afterward she gave no sign. That's seventeen years ago. Sometimes I try to think she was a myth—”

“And even if she were a reality,” Monkhouse interrupted, deliberately, “even if she were that terrible thing—a woman set on her vengeance—a patient Nemesis waiting her hour to demand just atonement—she wouldn't trouble you, my dear fellow. She'd come to me for her pound of flesh. Let that console you.”

The old man drew a short sigh of satisfaction.

“Of course—she wouldn't make a mistake. Well, must you be going? Thursday night, then—as usual. Thanks for the paper. He doesn't seem to be much loss, eh? Blackguards all of them. Good night good night.”

Monkhouse paid his reckoning, and with his coat collar turned up about his ears went out through the swinging doors. Outside he paused for a minute beneath a street lamp, and taking some small object from an inner pocket studied it carefully. It was an old-fashioned mourning ring with a strand of fair hair set amidst the valueless pearls. There was nothing to distinguish it from a hundred of its kind, and yet suddenly Brian Monkhouse laughed out loud as though the trinket had conveyed to him an amazing jest of fortune.