I admit it — to my everlasting shame I admit it: as the Cornishman made that statement I gave a little gulp, and twitched away from him as from some uncanny thing, and crouched in my corner much as I had seen the German crouch in his. I did not speak. I had readied a point where I simply could not. I merely held my breath and waited.
“I do not know how long it was before the Creature spoke again,” the Cornishman went on; “but of a sudden I became aware that its voice was again sounding above the muttered thunder of the train, and that it was crooning to itself rather than talking to me. ‘Ah! he is the prince of valets is Monsieur de Paris,’ I distinctly heard it say. ‘So softly he touches, so softly! It is like the brush of a bird’s wing, that sweep of the shears round the shoulders that lays bare the neck and lets the morning air blow on it. It is like the touch of a feather, that snip! snip! behind the cars, and the gentle falling of the cropped hair on the warm, bare shoulders — the thick, matted hair that smells even yet of the pomatum Lanisparre the barber rubbed into it all those days ago. Ohé! Monsieur de Paris, I salute you. What a tender dog you are, with your sorrowful eyes and your red gloves — not to shock a man’s sensibilities! But you smell of sawdust, cher ami, and the hinge of your basket creaks. Softly, softly! don’t hurry a man when he is taking his last walk. Aha! my friend the tilting-board, you shine like glass; but we shall have a short acquaintance, you and I. Vivat! we are off! I see you open your hungry jaws, Monsieur the Lunette; I see you flash in the dawnlight, Madame Three-Corners, and I rush to meet you. It is touch and go; it is click and off. Vive la France! vice la! vive la!’ ”
Again the voice of the Cornishman dropped off into silence. I sat breathless, quivering, waiting for him to speak the next word.
“I do not know,” he said presently, “how my reason survived the shock of that moment. I do not know, I do not pretend to imagine, what would have been the end of the horrible experience had I not at that point made a discovery which gave the whole ghastly affair a different complexion, and made me shut my hands hard, and pull myself together for what I now felt would be a fight for life. It was no less a thing than the discovery of the whereabouts of my missing revolver. It was lying on the cushioned seat between the knees of the decapitated man! I sucked in my breath with a sort of gasp as I made that discovery, and a thought only less horrible than the one it had exercised hammered at the back of my brain. If the revolver had been useless to turn against it, why had the Creature been at the pains to deprive me of it? Was it a trick, then? Was my ghastly visitant merely some clever thief who had adopted this appalling disguise, and invented this daring plan, for the purpose of frightening me into complete helplessness before he summoned his confederates to rob and murder me? If that was his game—”
The Cornishman stopped short and left the sentence unfinished. I saw his eye travel to the window, and the curious smile glide up his cheek again. My own gaze followed the direction of his.
Along the vapor-smeared surface of the glass a faint glow of light was creeping — a light which presently burst into the compartment with such a fierce and blinding glare that for an instant I could see nothing.
The Italian laid aside his book for the first time, and lowered the window nearest to him; the Cornishman got up and loosened the strap of the one close to where I sat; and as a current of fresh air swung through the compartment and dispelled the fog, I became conscious that we were out of the tunnel, and that the German was still sitting in his corner with gaping lips and wide open eyes.
The Cornishman rose, lifted his portmanteau out of the rack, looked down at me and — winked.
“I reckon I’ve won that £5 note hands down,” he said, with a laugh. “Our friend from the Fatherland never slept a wink, nor snored a snore, the whole way through.”
I looked at him aghast, dimly comprehending, but too far gone to speak, and then mechanically put my hand to my breastpocket, for the train was slowing down, and I remembered what he had said with regard to his destination.
“Well, I’m dashed!” I managed to gasp at last, and pulled my purse into view.
“No, don’t pay it to me,” he said hastily. “I’ve won it, I know, but send it as a donation to Dr. Barnardo’s Home; it will do some good there. I am sure I can trust you to do it; you were so willing to pay up like a man. One last word — don’t make rash bets in future. You will always find somebody ready to take you up. Goodbye.”
The train had stopped, and the guard was at the door.
“Your station, signore,” he said, and reached out his hand for the man’s portmanteau.
And then, for the first time, the German spoke.
“Ach!” he blurted out, leaning forward as the Cornishman was getting out, and laying a twitching hand upon his sleeve. “You go like dis? Sir, you do not tell if it vas really a teef or de ghost of dot Clochard mans, and I am exploding mit curiosities already. De end of de story, it is vat?”
“What you like to make of it, my good sir,” the Cornishman replied. “It began under my hat, and there’s no earthly reason why it shouldn’t end under yours. Goodbye!” He turned and held out his hand to me. “Barnardo’s kids will be the gainer, at all events.”
“Goodbye,” I answered, as I leaned out and wrung the hand he extended. “It was ripping, and you had me nicely. I say, you know, you ought to write for the magazines.”
He looked up at me and laughed.
“I do!” he said, and walked quietly away.
Nothing so hard as a diamond
by Henry Myers
We welcome the first appearance in EQMM of Henry Myers — with whose work you are much more familiar than you may thinks... Mr. Myers was born in Chicago, but he has been a New Yorker since the age of one. He attended Public School Number 6, Townsend Harris High School, and then Columbia University, where he studied music. He went to Berlin to continue his musical career, but out of the blue he decided to become a writer. His breaks from music was gradual — he began by composing words and music for opera. Then, after a hiatus as press agent for Lee and J. J. Shubert, Mr. Myers wrote a play. It became Lorenz Harts first theatrical venture — “The First Fifty Years.”
The rest might be said to be history. Author of nearly 50 plays and musicals (some with Oscar Hammer stein, Otto Harbach, and others), Mr. Myers has also written for television (notably for Studio One) and has an impressive record in Hollywood — his motion picture scripts include that fine Western, “Destry Rides Again.” And that isn’t alclass="underline" Mr. Myers has conquered the novel too; his book, the utmost island, was a Book; of the-Month Club selection for October 1951.