Murder in the Night (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries). Arthur Gask

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СКАЧАТЬ a grain of pluck in you—you're a worm, sir, a worm," and he thumped and banged on the table so heavily that I thought every moment Mrs. Bratt would rush in to know what was happening, and what was the matter.

      Yes, the old man's friendship was a bit of a trial sometimes, and I often came to wish he had never spoken to me.

      I have said he was my only friend, but there was Lucy—Lucy Brickett. She was not exactly a friend, however, for I was her devoted lover. I had got to know her at our little chapel, where every Sunday she played the harmonium and led the singing of the hymns. She didn't know I loved her, or, perhaps, even admired her, for here again my cowardice damned me and I hardly dared to say a word when she was present.

      She was the younger of two sisters, and about twenty-two years of age. Of medium height, and with a plump and well-formed figure, she was undeniably pretty, with a soft and gentle face and dove-grey eyes.

      The harmonium at the chapel sounded old and wheezy when the others touched it, but when she was playing there was no sweeter music in all the world to me. It reminded me of the kingdom of Heaven. Her face, too, I thought, was like one of the angels, and the memory of her eyes was always with me when I said my prayers. I never missed a service at the chapel, and, always sitting where I could easily see her, regarded all Sundays as the red letter days of my poor and lonely life.

      Her uncle—oh, her uncle—was a very different type of being. He was a fat, gross man, with big, heavy features and a large, coarse face. He breathed very heavily and ate too much. A confirmed drunkard in his younger days, a file-tongued doctor had one day put the fear of hell into him, and he had never touched a drop of liquor since. Of late years, he had become a shining light of the prohibitionists, and he argued for them, just as he argued for all his other beliefs, in a coarse, pig-headed, and persistently narrow way. He never forgot his own profit in anything, and things were good or bad, and right or wrong, just as he was the gainer or loser in the transaction.

      He was a widower and kept a little general and cool-drink shop on the Port Road, or rather, his two nieces kept it, and he gathered in the proceeds. He never seemed to do any work, but sat most of the day in a big well-cushioned chair behind the counter, laying down the law and making himself generally objectionable to his family.

      Save that his two nieces were pretty and obliging, but little custom would have come to the shop; as it was, however, they did a fairly good trade, and of an evening especially plenty of young fellows lounged and dawdled over sweet fizzy drinks to get an opportunity of speaking to Lucy or her sister Maud.

      I myself was often there, and sat either dumbly listening to the laughs and chatter around or very occasionally joining in and acquiescing with the bigoted assertions of the old man.

      "Just so—just so, Mr. Brickett," I would assent hypocritically, "you're quite right; there's no getting away from it there," and I would order another drink from Lucy, as an excuse for lingering.

      I think the two girls rather liked me, or at any rate were pleased for their uncle to have someone to agree so whole-heartedly with everything he said. Lucy always gave me a sweet smile when I came in, and on hot nights always saw that I had a big lump of ice in my tumbler. She sometimes, too, asked me about the work in the office, and seemed then inclined to sympathise with me and mother me in her soft, gentle way.

      But her uncle always annoyed me, and I many a time longed to tell him what an ass he was, when Lucy wasn't there. He had absolutely no sense of humor, and was an awful bore.

      One evening, coming home, I overtook him in the Port Road, just opposite the Admiral Nelson, the chief hotel of the neighborhood.

      "Look at them beasts there," he growled, pointing with a fat and dirty finger to the saloon entrance, "look at them there hogs a-going in and out of that booze door. Think of the money they's a-spending—think of the money that might go on good cool drinks. I've a line of squash as would keep 'em busy all the evening—specially," and he winked knowingly at me, "if a pinch or two of good salt was put in with it to bring out the flavor."

      I agreed with him, of course, and for my hypocrisy was a full twenty minutes late for my tea.

      He was quite a big man at the chapel, however, and clothed in his black Sunday suit was not without a sort of ponderous dignity. He was one of the deacons, and bawled and bellowed like a bull when any of his favorite hymns were sung. He was a fair contributor to the chapel funds, but serving most of the congregation with groceries, as he did, the account in the end was probably, I expect, not on the losing side.

      He was a dreadful bully his nieces and tyrannised over them in a way that sometimes made my blood boil. Often Lucy looked as if she had been crying, and when I saw the load of trouble in her gentle eyes I could have killed the old man for his beastliness, though he never knew it.

      CHAPTER III.—THE POT OF RED PASTE.

       Table of Contents

      ONE Saturday it unexpectedly rained all day long, and after dinner Captain Barker, hearing from Mrs. Bratt that I was at home, sent word to enquire if I would go in for a game of chess.

      I had had a very worrying week at the office, and would have dearly liked to say "No," but I had no excuse ready, and so meekly went in.

      I thought the old chap was looking very ill, and I could see at once that he had been at the brandy.

      He was irritable and inclined to be rude—a sure sign with him that he had started drinking. We began to play, but my thoughts were wandering, and I played very badly.

      I made two bad blunders, and the old man swore angrily at me for my carelessness. I told him apologetically that I was not in a mood for playing, and then in a sudden burst of confidence let him know how things were going at the office, and that I was almost daily expecting to get the sack.

      He listened quite quietly to me, but with a sneer that hardened and deepened as I went on.

      "Oh, you little rotter," he jeered, when I had finished, "and to think that I call you my friend. You little crawling worm—you've not got the courage of a bug. Man alive, how long are you going to put up with it? Can't you see just where it's leading you to, and what a hell you're warming up for your poor dirty little soul? Where's it going to end? What are you always going to do? 'Rabbits' they call you, do they?—well, don't you make any mistake, it's the rabbits they insult—not you! Oh, you little swab!"

      I was too miserable to feel the faintest twinge of anger, but just leaned back in my chair, and dispiritedly regarded the driving rain upon the window.

      "Yes, you swab," he went on presently, seeing I was not going to make any excuses, "and do you know I could alter it all for you if I chose, yes, alter it at once. If you were worth it, and I could trust you, I'd send you out of this room with fifty times more courage even than I have. Fifty times more courage than I have—do you hear that, sir, and me—me, that in all my life's never been afraid of any man that's lived—do you hear that, I say?"

      Perhaps I looked incredulous or perhaps it was I smiled, but the next moment he was pointing angrily to a large cabinet in a corner of the room.

      "Open that door, you ass," he spluttered in his rage, "give me out the black box on the bottom shelf. I'll show you something, too, Mr. Rabbits—Mr. Bug."

      The box I carried to him was about the size of a cigar box. It was an ordinary looking wooden box without a СКАЧАТЬ