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The Survivor, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 8. The Author Of "No Man's Land" |
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_ CHAPTER VIII. THE AUTHOR OF "NO MAN'S LAND" Douglas returned his greeting cordially. His _vis-a-vis_ drew the menu towards him and studied it with interest. Setting it down he screwed a single eyeglass into his eye and beamed over at Douglas. "Is the daily grind O. K.?" he inquired suavely. Douglas was disconcerted at being unable to answer a question so pleasantly asked. "I--beg your pardon," he said, doubtfully. "I'm afraid I don't quite understand." The newcomer waved his hand to some acquaintances and smiled cheerfully. "I see you're a stranger here," he remarked. "There's a _table-d'hote_ luncheon for the modest sum of eighteenpence, which is the cheapest way to feed, if it's decent. Sometimes it is, sometimes it isn't. I thought perhaps you might have sampled it." "I believe I have," Douglas answered. "I told the waiter to bring me the ordinary lunch, and I thought it was very good indeed." "Then I will risk it. Henri. Come here, you scamp." He gave a few orders to the waiter, who treated him with much respect. Then he turned again to Douglas. "You have nearly finished," he said. "Please don't hurry. I hate to eat alone. It is a whim of mine. If I eat alone I read, and if I read I get dyspepsia. Try the oat biscuits and the Camembert." Douglas did as the newcomer had suggested. "I am in no hurry," he said. "I have nothing to do, nor anywhere to go." "Lucky man!" "You speak as though that were unusual," Douglas laughed, "but I was just thinking that every one here seems to be in the same state. Some one once told me that London was a city of sadness. Who could watch the people here and say so?" The newcomer screwed in his eyeglass and looked deliberately round the room. "Well," he said, "this is a resort of the poor, and the poor are seldom sad. It is the unfortunate West-Enders who carry the burdens of wealth and the obligation of position, who have earned for us the reproach of dulness. Here we are on the threshold of Bohemia. Long life and health to it." He drank a glass of Chianti with the air of a connoisseur tasting some rare vintage. Douglas laughed softly. "If the people here are poor," he said, "what about me? I pawned my watch because I had had nothing to eat since yesterday." His new friend sighed and stuck his fork into an olive. "What affluence," he sighed, meditatively. "I have not possessed a watch for a year, and I've only ninepence in my pocket. They give me tick here. Foolish Spargetti. Long may their confidence last!" A companion in impecuniosity. Douglas looked at his neat clothes and the flower in his buttonhole, and wondered. "But you have the means of making money if you care to." "Have I?" The eyeglass was carefully removed, the small wizened face assumed a lugubrious aspect. "My friend," he said, "in a measure it is true--but such a small measure. A cold-blooded and unappreciative editor apprises my services at the miserable sum of three pounds a week. I have heard of people who have lived upon that sum, but I must confess that I never met one." "You are a writer, then?" Douglas exclaimed, eagerly. "I am a sort of hack upon the staff of the _Ibex_. They set me down in a corner of the office and throw me scraps of work, as you would bones to a dog. It is not dignified, but one must eat and drink--not to mention smoking. Permit me, by-the-bye, to offer you a cigarette, and to recommend the coffee. I taught Spargetti how to make it myself." Douglas was listening with flushed cheeks. The _Ibex_! What a coincidence! "You are really on the staff of the _Ibex_?" he exclaimed. The other nodded. "I hold exactly the position," he said, "that I have described to you. My own impression is, that without me the _Ibex_ would not exist for a month. That is where the editor and I differ, unfortunately." "It seems so odd," Douglas said. "Some time ago I sent a story to the _Ibex_, and it was accepted. I have been looking for it to appear every week." The shrewd little eyes twinkled into his. "What was the title?" "'No Man's Land.' Douglas Jesson was the name." The newcomer filled Douglas's glass with Chianti from his own modest flask. "Waiter," he said, "bring more wine. My friend, Douglas Jesson, we must drink together. I remember your story, for I put the blue chalk on it myself and took it up to Drexley. It is a meeting this, and we must celebrate. Your story will probably be used next week." Douglas's eyes were bright and his cheeks were flushed. The flavour of living was sweet upon his palate. Here he was, who, only twelve hours ago, had gone skulking in the shadows looking out upon life with terrified eyes, tempted even to self-destruction, suddenly in touch once more with the things that were dear to him, realising for the first time some of the dreams which had filled his brain in those long, sleepless nights upon the hill-top. He was a wanderer in Bohemia, welcomed by an older spirit. Surely fortune had commenced at last to smile upon him. "You are on a visit here?" his new friend asked, "or have you come to London for good?" "For good, I trust," Douglas answered, smiling, "for I have burned my boats behind me." "My name is Rice, yours I know already," the other said. "By-the-bye, I noticed that the postmark of your parcel was Feldwick in the Hills, somewhere in Cumberland, I think. Have you seen the papers during the last few days?" Douglas's left hand gripped the table, and the flush of colour, which the wine and excitement had brought into his cheeks, faded slowly away. The pleasant hum of voices, the keen joy of living, which, a moment before, had sent his blood flowing to a new music, left him. Nevertheless he controlled himself and answered steadily. "I have had nothing else to do during the last few days but read the papers." "You know about the murder, then?" "Yes." Mr. Rice was interested. He passed his cigarette case across the table and called for Kummel. "I wonder," he said, "did you know the man Guest--Douglas Guest?" Douglas shook his head. "Very slightly," he said. "I lived some distance away, and they were not sociable people." "Murders as a rule," Rice continued, leaning back in his chair, "do not interest me. This one did. Why? I don't know. I hate to have reasons for everything. But to me there were many interesting points about this one. First, now--" He rattled on until his voice seemed like a far distant echo to Douglas, who sat with white face and averted eyes, struggling hard for composure. From the murder he passed on to the tragedy on the railway train. "You know," he said, "I cannot help thinking that the police were a little hasty in assuming that the man was Douglas Guest." "An envelope was found upon him and a handkerchief with his initials," Douglas said, looking up, "besides the card. He was known too to have taken that train. Surely that was evidence enough?" "It seems so," Rice answered, "and yet--But never mind. I see that I am boring you. We will talk of something else, or rather I must talk of nothing else, for my time is up," he added, glancing at the clock. "When are you going to look up Drexley?" "When is the best time to catch him?" Douglas asked. "Now, as easily as any," Rice answered. "Come along with me, and I will show you the way and arrange that he sees you." Douglas stood up and ground his heel into the floor. Perish those hateful fears--that fainting sense of terror! Douglas Guest was dead. For Douglas Jesson there was a future never more bright than now. "Come," he said. "You must drink with me once. Waiter, two more liqueurs." "Success," Rice cried, lifting his glass, "to your interview with Drexley! He's not a bad chap, although he has his humours." Douglas drained his glass to the dregs--but he drank to a different toast. The two men left the place together. _ |
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