Captains of souls

by Edgar Wallace

II

"What am I thinking about?" said Ronnie Morelle aloud.

François was not in. Ronnie had expected him to be there and yet would have been surprised had he seen him. There was a letter lying on the table. Ronnie saw it when he entered the room. He did not look at it again for some time. Strolling aimlessly round the library, hands in pockets, he stopped before the Anthony over the mantelpiece—ugly and a little unpleasant. He made a little grimace of disgust. Out of the tail of his eye he saw the letter. Why did people write to him, he wondered, troubled? They knew that he couldn't read, he made no secret of his ignorance. Yet, picking up the envelope, he read his own name and was unaware of his inconsistency. The letter was from François. His brother had arrived. He had gone to the station to meet him and would return instantly. Would Monsieur excuse? It was unlikely that monsieur would return before him, but if he did, would he be pleased to excuse. He wrote "excuse" three times and in three different ways, and they were all wrong. Ronald laughed softly. Poor François! poor—

His face became grave and slowly his eyes went back to the Anthony, that lewd painting.

Poor soul! His eyes filled with tears. They rolled with the curious leisure of tears down his face, and dropped on the gray suede waistcoat.

Poor soul! Poor weak, undeveloped soul!

Ronnie was sitting on the Chesterfield to read the letter. François, coming in hurriedly, saw a man crying into the crook of his arm and stood petrified.

"M'sieur!"

Ronnie looked up. His eyes were swollen, his smooth skin blotchily red in patches.

"Hello, François. I'm being stupid. Get me a glass of water, please."

His hand was shaking so that he could hardly hold the glass to his chattering teeth.

François watched and marvelled.

"Did you meet your brother?" Ronnie was drying his eyes and smiling faintly at the valet's grotesque dismay.

"Yes, M'sieur, I hope that m'sieur was not inconvenienced—"

Ronnie shook his head.

"No—make me something. Coffee or tea—anything—have you brought your brother here?"

"Oh, no, M'sieur."

"You will want to see him, François. You may take the rest of the day off."

"Certainly, M'sieur," said François, recovering himself. His services were seldom dispensed with until later in the day. Possibly his employer had excellent reason.

Ronnie did not hear the bell ring and until he caught the click of the lock and the sound of voices in the lobby, he had no idea that he had a caller.

François came in alone, secretive, low-voiced.

"It is Mister East, M'sieur: Yesterday was the day, but m'sieur forgot," he said mysteriously.

"Yesterday was—what day?" Ronnie rubbed his chin with a knuckle. How stupid of him to forget!

"Ask him to come in please."

François hesitated, but went, returning with a thin young man whose face seemed all angles and bosses. He was well dressed, a little too well dressed. His plastered hair was parted and one fringe curled like a wave of black ink that had been petrified just as it was in the act of breaking on the yellow beach of his forehead.

He had a way of holding back his head so that he looked down his nose in whatever direction his gaze was turned.

"Morning," he said coldly and cleared his throat.

"Good morning?" Ronnie's tone was polite but inquisitive.

"I called yesterday but nobody was in," said Mr. East, gently stern.

"Why did you call at all?" asked Ronnie.

A look of amazement toning to righteous anger from Mr. East.

"Why did I call at all?" he repeated. "To give you a chance of actin' the man; to collect what is due to a poor girl that was—"

"To commit blackmail, in fact?" smiled Ronnie. (He was quick to smile today.)

"Eh?"

"I remember—I have given you money every week, ostensibly for your sister. Tell her to come and see me."

"What! Her come to see you? In this, what I might term, den of iniquity? No! I don't allow you to see the poor girl. And as for blackmail, didn't you, of your own free will, offer to pay?"

Mr. East had grown red in the face, he was indignant, hurt, and soon would be pugnacious.

Ronnie got to his feet and the listening François heard the door open.

"Get out, please," said Ronnie pleasantly. "I don't wish to hurt you—but get out."

The man was speechless.

"I am going to a lawyer," he blustered, "I won't soil my hands with you."

"I think you are very wise," said Ronnie and closed the door on him.

On the mat outside, Mr. East stood for at least five minutes thinking, or trying to think.

"He's been drinking!" he said hollowly, and, had he consulted Parker, his suspicions would have received support.

François heard his employer's summons and came from his tiny compartment.

"I am going out," said Ronnie.

"I will telephone for the car, M'sieur," but Ronnie shook his head.

"I will walk," he said. "You need not wait, François. Have I a key?"

"Yes, M'sieur," wonderingly, "it is on the chain of m'sieur."

Ronnie pulled a bunch from his pocket.

"Which is it—this?"

"Certainly, M'sieur."

"You need not wait," said Ronnie again. "I do not know when I shall be in."

"Good, M'sieur."

Well might François wonder, for Ronnie was speaking in French, the French of a man who had lived with French people. And Ronald Morelle, though he had a knowledge of that language, never spoke it, or if he did, his accent was bad and his vocabulary limited.

It was eight o'clock at night when Ronnie returned. The flat was in darkness and was chilly. He turned on the lights before he closed the door and had a difficulty in finding the switch. It took him a longer time to locate the controls of the electric stove in the fireplace. They were skilfully hidden.

In the kitchenette he lit a gas-ring and filling a copper kettle, set the water to boil.

François, in his hurry to meet his brother that morning, had forgotten to dust the black writing table. Ronnie found a duster and remedied his man's neglect.

By the time he had finished, the kettle was boiling. The tea was in a little wooden box; the sugar he found on another shelf—there was no milk. Ronnie put on his coat and with a jug in his hand, went out to find a dairy. The hall porter saw a man in a silk hat and wasp-waisted overcoat passing his lodge, and came out hurriedly.

"Excuse me, Mr. Morelle. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"I want some milk," said Ronnie simply, "but please don't trouble; there is a dairy in the Brompton Road, I remember seeing the place."

"They will be closed now, sir," said the porter. "If you give me the jug, I'll get some for you."

He took the vessel and made a flat-to-flat canvass and was successful in his quest.

When Ronnie opened the door to the porter, Ronnie was in his shirt-sleeves and he had a broom in his hand. He explained pleasantly that he had upset a can of flour. François occasionally prepared an omelette for his master.

"If you'll let me sweep it up—" began the porter, but Ronnie declined the offer.

With a cup of tea and a slice of bread and butter he made a meal, cleared away the remnants of the feast and washed and dried the utensils.

Then he sat down to pass the evening. The book-shelves were bewilderingly interesting. He took out a book. Greek! Of course, he read Greek and this was the Memorabilia; its margins covered with pencil notes in his own handwriting!

Presently he replaced the book and tried to reduce the events of the day to some sort of order. The execution!

What happened outside the execution shed?

He had looked into the eyes of the condemned man and suddenly the placid current of his mind had been disturbed as by a mighty wind. And standing there he had watched something being taken into the death house; whose uncouth body was it that hung strapped and strangled in the brick pit? Ambrose Sault's?

He remembered a second of painful experience when he had a confused memory of strange people and places, queer earthquake memories. He recollected having been flogged by a red-haired brute of a man who wielded a strap; he recalled a dim-lit cell and the pale blue eyes of a clergyman who was pleading with him; of a woman, dark-faced and thick-lipped—his mother?—he remembered the past of Ambrose Sault! He had been Ambrose Sault in those ten seconds, with all the consciousness of Sault's life, all the passion of Sault's faith. And then the weighted traps had fallen with a thunderous clap and he was Ronald Morelle again—only different.

Yet he was not wholly conscious of the difference. What a strange business it was! How was humanity served by that ritual of death? His heart melted within him as in a vivid flash he saw the blank despair of the trussed victim of the law shuffling forward to annihilation. He was being weak—but, oh God, how sad, how unutterably sad! He sobbed into his hands and was pained at the futility of his grief. Poor soul! Poor, mean, smirched soul! How vilely it had served the beautiful body which was its habitation!

He looked up frowning, his tear-stained face puckered in perplexity. Beautiful body? Ambrose Sault was gross, uncouth. And by all accounts a good man. Even Steppe admired his principles. Why should principles be admired? It was natural to be honest and clean.

He had left the door of the pantry ajar; the shrill sound of the bell brought him to his feet.

He waited to wipe his face and the bell rang again impatiently.

"My friend, you must wait," said Ronnie.

A third time the bell rang before he opened the door.

Steppe filled the doorway, the expanse of his shirt-front showed like a great white heart, against the gloom of his evening dress.

"Hello. You're in, huh? Long time answering the bell—I suppose you've got somebody here."

He looked around. The only light in the room was the shaded table-lamp. Ronnie had extinguished the others before he sat down.

"The wicked love the darkness, huh, huh!" Steppe chuckled, and then looking past him, Ronnie saw that he was not alone. Beryl waited at the door and behind her was Dr. Merville.

"Get dressed and come out," commanded Steppe noisily. "What's the matter with all you people, huh? Come along. We're going to a theatre. You're as bad as Beryl, sitting in the dark. You overbred people think too much."

"May we come in, Ronnie?" asked Beryl.

It was very likely that Steppe's crude suggestion was justified. She had no illusions about Ronnie.

"Come in? Of course you can come in," said Steppe scornfully. "Now hurry, Morelle. We'll give you ten minutes—and put some lights on."

"There is enough light."

Ronnie's voice was calm and deep. Steppe, turning to find the switch, swung back again and peered at his face.

"What's that?" he asked sharply. "I said there wasn't—what have you done to your voice? Here!"

He walked across the room and ran his hand down the three switches.

Ronnie screwed up his eyes to meet the painful brilliance.

He saw Beryl's look of surprise, met the stare of the big man.

"He's been crying!" bellowed Steppe in delight. "Huh, huh! Look at him, Beryl, sniveling!"

"Mr. Steppe—Jan! How can you!"

"How can I? By God, he's been sniveling! Look at his face, look at his eyes!" Steppe slapped his thigh in an ecstasy of joy. "So it got you, huh? I couldn't understand how a fellow like you could see it, without curling up!"

His coarseness, the malignity, the heartlessness of the man sickened Beryl Merville. But Ronnie—! He was serene, unmoved by the other's taunts, meeting his eyes steadily.

"It was dreadful—so dreadful, Steppe. To see that poor shrieking thing thrust forward, struggling—"

"What!" shouted Steppe, and the girl gasped. "Ambrose Sault—shrieking in fear—"

"You lie!" snarled Steppe. "Sault wasn't that kind. I've seen Maxton and he says he was without fear. You're dreaming, you fool. If it had been you—yes. You'd have squealed—by God! You would have raised Cain! But Ambrose Sault—he was a man. D'ye hear, a man. He's dead and I'm glad. But he was a man."

He held himself in with an effort.

"Get dressed and come out," he ordered roughly.

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie," the girl had come to him, pity and sympathy in her sad face. "It was dreadful for you."

He nodded. "Yes—it was dreadful. I am not coming out tonight, Beryl."

She squeezed his arm gently. "Poor Ronnie!"

"Poor fiddlesticks!" sneered Steppe. "Hurry, cry-baby. I'm not going to wait here all night. What are you afraid of? You shouldn't have seen the damned thing, if you were going to snivel about it. You should have 'Tried the luck'!"

He chuckled as at a joke as he saw the swollen eyes of his victim wander to the bookshelf.

"The luck!" said Ronnie. He was speaking to himself, as he moved to the bookcase.

Beryl saw him take down a worn volume and lay it on the table. He seemed like a man walking in his sleep. Mechanically he took up a miniature sword from a pin tray and held it for a moment in his hand.

"Try the luck!" scoffed Steppe. "Shall I go to the play, shan't I go to the play—dear Lord!"

For the space of a second their eyes met and Beryl, watching, saw the big man start. Then the sword was thrust between the pages and the book opened.

Ronnie looked gloomily at the close-set type—frowned. Then he read slowly, sonorously:

"I will take away from thee the desire of thine eyes with a stroke; yet neither shall thou mourn nor weep; neither shall thy tears fall down."

The clock on the mantelpiece struck nine.

A silence, painful and intense, so profound that Beryl's quick breathings were audible.

"I will take away the desires of thine eyes with a stroke—"

"Don't read it again!" cried Steppe harshly. "I'm going—listening to this fool—come on, Beryl."

Turning at the door she saw him still standing at the table. His face was in shadow, his hands white and shapely, outspread upon the leather-covered top; the open book between them.

"He's drunk," said Steppe and she made no reply. Jan Steppe was very preoccupied all that evening, but not so completely oblivious of realities that he did not bargain with the doctor for certain shares in the Klein River Mine. Just before he had left his house Steppe had received a code cable from Johannesburg.