Suddenly the control exclaimed: "There is a man here who is trying to talk; to you, not to me. He is a very thin old man with a white beard. He says, in very bad English, he was not always like that, he had a black beard when he knew you. His name is like Hyphen; also he has another name, Tidy; no, it is one name, very long; is it Hyphen-tidies? A Greek name, he says, Hiphentides. Do you know that name?"
"No," said Zaharoff.
"He says you lie. Why do you come here if you mean to lie?"
"I do not recall him."
"He says you robbed him. What is it he is talking about? He keeps saying gall; you have gall; many sackfuls of gall. Is it a joke he is making?"
"It must be." Zaharoff spoke with quiet decisiveness. Of all the persons Lanny knew, he was the most completely self-possessed.
"He says it is no joke. Gall is something that is sold. A hundred and sixty-nine sacks of gall. Also gum, many cases of gum. You were an agent." Tecumseh began to speak as if he were the spirit, something which he did only when the communications came clearly. "You took my goods and pledged them for yourself. Do you deny it?"
"Of course I do."
"You did not deny it in the London court. You pleaded guilty. You were in prison—what is it?—the Old something, Old Basin? It was more than fifty years ago, and I do not remember."
"Old Bailey?" ventured Lanny.
"That is it—Old Bailey. I was in Constantinople, and I trusted you. You said you did not know it was wrong; but they were my goods and you got the money—"
The voice died away; it had become querulous, as of an old man complaining of something long forgotten. If it wasn’t real it was certainly well invented.
VI
Lanny stole a glance at the living old man, and it seemed to him there was a faint dew of perspiration on his forehead. From what Robbie had told him he was prepared to believe that the Knight Commander of the Bath and Grand Officer of the Legion of Honor had many recollections which he would not wish to have dragged into the light of day.
Said Tecumseh, after a pause: "I keep hearing the name Mugla. What is Mugla?"
"It is the village where I was born."
"Is that in Greece?"
"It is in Turkey."
"But you are not a Turk."
"My parents were Greeks."
"Somebody keeps calling you Zack. Then I hear Ryas. Is your name Ryas?"
"Zacharias is one of my names."
"There is a man here who says he is your uncle. Anthony; no, not that. I don’t know these Greek names."
"I had an Uncle Antoniades."
"He says: Do you wish to talk to me?"
"I do not especially wish it."
"He says: Ha, ha! He does not like you either. You were in business with him, too. It was not so good. You made up wonderful stories about it. Do you write stories, or something like that?"
"I am not a writer."
"But you tell stories. All the spirits laugh when Uncle Antoniades says that. You have become rich and important and you tell stories about the old days. They tell stories about you. Do you wish to hear them?"
"That is not what I came for."
"There is a big strong man with a white beard; it looks like your own, only more of it. He gives the name Max. He speaks good English—no, he says it is not good, it is Yankee. Do you know the Yankee Max?"'
"I don’t recognize him."
"He says he is Maxim. You were in business with him, too."
"I knew a Maxim."
"You bought him out. He made millions, but you made tens of millions. There was no stopping you. Maxim says he did not believe in the future life, but he warns you, it is a mistake; you will be happier if you change all that materialism. Do you know what he means?"
"It does not sound like him."
"I have put off the old man. I was a strapping fellow. I could lick anybody in the Maine woods. I could lick anybody in Canada, and I did. I licked you once, you old snollygoster. Does that sound more like me?"
"Yes, I recognize that."
"I once wrote the emperor’s name with bullets on a target. You haven’t forgotten that, surely!"
"I remember it."
"All right, then, wake up, and figure out how you will behave in a better world. You cannot solve your problems as you used to do, putting your fingers in your ears."
A moment’s pause. "He went away laughing," said Tecumseh. "He is a wild fellow. When he ate soup it ran down his beard; and it was the same with icecream. You do not like such manners; you are a quiet person, Zacharias—and yet I hear loud noises going on all around you. It is very strange! What are you?"
VII
The old Greek made no reply, and the voice of the control sank to a murmur, as if he was asking the spirits about this mystery. For quite a while Lanny couldn’t make out a word, and he took the occasion to perfect his notes. Once or twice he glanced at the munitions king, who did not return the glance, but sat staring before him as if he were an image of stone.
"What is this noise I keep hearing?" burst out the Indian, sud denly. "And why are these spirits in such an uproar? A rattling and banging, and many people yelling, as if they were frightened. What is it that you do, Zacharias?"
Sir Basil did not speak.
"Why don’t you answer me?"
"Cannot the spirits tell you?"
"It is easier when you answer my questions. Don’t you like what these people are saying? It is not my fault if they hate you. Did you cheat them? Or did you hurt them?"
"Some thought that I did."
"What I keep hearing is guns. That is it! Were you a soldier? Did you fight in battles?"
"I made munitions."
"Ah, that is it; and so many people died. That is why they are screaming at you. I have never seen so many; never in the days when I commanded a tribe of the Six Nations, and the palefaces came against us. They had better guns and more of them, and my people died, they died screaming and cursing the invaders of our land. So men died screaming and cursing Zacharias the Greek. Do you run and hide from them? They come crowding after you, as if it was the first time they ever could get at you. They stretch out their hands trying to reach you. Do you feel them touching you?"
"No," said Zaharoff. For the first time Lanny thought there was a trace of quavering in his voice. Another quick glance revealed distinct drops of sweat on his forehead.
"It is like a battle going on—it gives me a headache, with all the smoke and noise. I see shells bursting away off, and men are falling out of the sky. No, no, keep back, he can’t hear you, and there is no use yelling at me. Let somebody speak for you all. Any one of you. Come forward, you man, you with the ragged flag. What is it you want to say? No, not you! I don’t want to talk to a man with the top of his head blown off. What sense can come out of only half a head? Keep your bloody hands off me—I don’t care who you are. What’s that? Oh, I see. All right, tell him. … I am the Unknown Soldier. I am the man they have buried by the Arc de Triomphe. They keep the undying flame burning for me, and they come and lay wreaths on my tomb. You came once and laid a wreath, did you not? Answer me!"
"I did." The munitions king’s voice was hardly audible.
"I saw you. I see all who come to the tomb. I want to tell them to go away and stop the next war. I want to tell them something else that will not please them. Do you know my name?"