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.