The Devil Man

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He was a queer, incongruous figure of a man. His height could not have been more than five feet; the big, dark, deep-set eyes were the one pleasant feature in a face which was utterly repulsive. They were the eyes of an intelligent animal. The forehead was grotesquely high, running in furrows almost to where, at the crown of the head, a mop of grey hair rolled back. The unshaven cheeks were cadaverous, deeply lined and hollow. There was a ferocity in the overthrust jaw as the little man moved it from side to side. His thick, rough coat was soddened with sleet, his boots left little pools of water on the black carpet. He wore home-knitted mittens, and in one hand clutched an ancient violin case.

"Delighted!" murmured madame. "You are a good man to come. I am in need of your inspiration. Play, play, play!"

The little man was glaring malignantly at Alan. "You couldn't stop and gimme a lift, mister?" he demanded resentfully. "I must trudge through the muck and the mire. I called to tha', but no, he goes on—him ridin'—me walkin'!" Alan's eyes had wandered to the nurse. She stood rigid, and in her face was a look of horror that helped to tell a story he intended knowing before he left the house that night.

"Play!" The order was imperious. The little man squatted down on a chair and opened the case on his knees. He took out an old violin and a bow and cuddled the fiddle under his chin.

Then he began to play, and all the time those animal eyes of his were fixed on Jane Garden's face. He played a queer obbligato and he was extemporizing every note. There were moments when he defied every law of harmony, when he became so musically illiterate that Alan, who was no music-lover, winced. There were times when he achieved a breath-taking peak of beauty, when the very soul of humanity trembled on the taut strings of the instrument.

And always he looked at Jane, and it came to Alan Mainford that this man was playing her as though she were a piece of music, translating thought, discordant fear, jarring uncertainty, wild despair, into the terms of melody.

"Play me, ugly man! Leaf her! You hear, play me!" Madame's voice was an angry wail. It was true then—that was what this ugly little devil was doing—playing souls.

He saw the violinist turn his eyes to the older woman and the pace of the music quickened, became distorted, wild, dreamy and strident. Then, suddenly, in a discord that set Alan's teeth on edge, the music ceased.

"Out of me head!" The ugly man pronounced his boast loudly. He was pleased with himself, triumphant was the better word. His deep chest swelled, he wiped his streaming forehead with a brightly coloured handkerchief, and the thick lips were unlatched in a grin.

"Out of me head! You're an educated man. I'm self-learnt—but I got more cleverness in me than you! Next time I say give me a lift, you give it!" He had become suddenly a bully, overbearing. Alan, who had reason for being annoyed, was amused; for all this bluster was for the benefit of Jane Garden. The little ugly man was showing off.

"I can sing, recite, do a dance," he went on. "I bin before public in real theatres. I can whistle like a bird—" He pursed his lips and of a sudden there was a blackbird in the room, singing with the joy of life and the unborn spring in its little heart. Alan listened, fascinated.

"No more, you have done well, my dear little friend." Madame arrested a further demonstration. "Here is the money." She thrust her hand into a bag that hung from her wrist. They heard the jingle of gold and then she held out two sovereigns to the whistler. He accepted the gift with an odd air of condescension: it was as though he was the donor and she the recipient.

"You are a truly great man,"—her tone was almost caressing. "Some day you shall be the greatest man in the world. I love you, because you are so ugly and dirty. Tomorrow—or on Sunday—I will send for you. Goodbye."

He hesitated, his dark eyes again sought Jane Garden. "I don't walk back, missus. You ain't going to let a poor old man walk back?"

"I'll give you a lift as far as the city," said Alan, still amused. "I didn't know you were coming to this house or I would have picked you up."

The little man's lips curled in a sneer. "I daresay you would," he said.

And then Alan caught the girl's eyes, saw the urgency of the summons in them, and went across to her. To his amazement she was breathless, hardly able to speak.

"I want you to get me away from here," she said in a low tone. "Can you—will you"?"

"But how—?"

"I don't care how you do it. I know you can't take me away tonight, but can't you send for me tomorrow and give me some instructions about Mrs Stahm's treatment? They won't let me go near Sheffield—please!"

Mainford thought quickly. Both Madame Stahm and Baumgarten were watching him closely. It almost seemed as though they had expected her to approach him.

"I'll send the trap over for you tomorrow, Nurse Garden," he said in a loud voice. "The test won't take very long, and I think that it should—"

"Send the trap over?" repeated Madame sharply. "Why?"

He looked at her steadily. "Because Nurse Garden is not particularly well, and I would like to make a blood test," he said.

"It can be made here," said Baumgarten quickly.

"It will be made just where I want it to be made!" Here was the imperious army doctor speaking, authority in his tone.

There was a brief and embarrassing silence.

"I'm afraid I can't spare the nurse," said Madame Stahm acidly, and quailed under Alan Mainford's cold gaze. He had that effect upon some people; this woman might not be a coward, but she was incapable of resisting authority.

"Is there any reason why she should not go into Sheffield?" he asked.

"None at all," snapped Madame. "But I think a sick patient is entitled to be consulted before a nurse is taken away from her."

Alan smiled. "You are consulted, Madame Stahm. I will send the trap for this young lady at three o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Either my groom will drive over or my friend Sergeant Eltham, who is an expert driver, will call for her." It was a threat; nobody in that room mistook the significance of Alan's alternative suggestion. He heard a low grumble behind him, like the growl of an animal, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the little man's face pucker in anger.

"Very good," said Madame Stahm hastily. "There is no reason why the nurse should not go, though it will be very inconvenient. Mr Baumgarten will pay you your fee, doctor. I shall not require you again."

Alan bowed. "That is for you to decide, Madame Stahm. But I would advise you, if you have another such attack as you had today, not to let your prejudice against me stand in the way of calling me in. You have a very bad heart, but I suppose you know that?"

She glared down at him malignantly from her raised seat. "It's a lie!" She spoke with difficulty. "I have goot health—goot health! You shall not say that I am sick because I have visions...you said this to anger me? Tell me, doctor, you said this to anger me, and I will forgive you."

"You have a bad heart," repeated Alan quietly. "Your pulse is not at all as it should be, and you have certain facial symptoms which are rather alarming. I repeat, don't let the fact that I have annoyed you stop you from calling me in if you cannot get another doctor." He nodded to the girl, made another little bow to Madame Stahm and walked out of the room, followed by Baumgarten. At the door he turned to look back at Jane. She had already disappeared, but the ugly little man had made his way to Madame Stahm's side and was talking to her eagerly in a low voice. She nodded, nodded again, shook her head and smiled.

"Have no fear, little friend," she said. "You shall have all you desire." As the man came towards them, Baumgarten, with some ostentation, opened a purse which he took from his trousers pocket and put a golden sovereign and a shilling in Alan's palm.

"That, I think, is a generous fee," he said, a little pompously. And then his voice changed. "Do you think she's ill—yes? Really, with her heart?" He tapped his own anxiously.

"I think so," replied Alan.

He was not anxious to discuss the symptoms of his patient with the mysterious Mr Baumgarten and made his way down the stairs into the dimly lit hall.

"One question, doctor—Do you know a dull, stupid man—a Swiss—who has a factory; the Silver Steel Company, eh?"

"No," said Alan shortly.

The cob and the trap were standing at the door and Alan mounted to his seat. He had just taken up the reins when there came a sound that made his blood run cold. It was a long, muffled shriek, that ended in an agonized wail, and it came from somewhere in the house.

"What was that?" he asked quickly.

"It is the railway whistle, my friend," said Baumgarten's voice. He could hardly see him in the darkness. "You are nervous!"

"That was no railway whistle," said Alan, and waited, listening, but the scream was not repeated.

He had forgotten all about the little man until he began clambering up on the opposite side and fell into the more comfortable seat.

"Give me some of that apron, will you?" he growled. "Haven't you got any heart for an old man?...Ought to be ashamed of yourself." Alan unwrapped the driving apron which he had drawn around himself; slipping one of the leather loops round the iron batten at his side, he passed the rest of the cover to his unwelcome passenger. A touch of the reins and the cob was heading down the drive.

He was half annoyed, half amused with himself. Why on earth had he taken this line with Madame Stahm? He had deliberately tried to frighten her, and he had most certainly antagonized her beyond forgiveness, though this was a matter of no account.

He was amused to find himself acting in the role of champion to distressed nurses, but there was something behind that girl's terror, something peculiarly sinister in the atmosphere of the house. He had not hesitated; the only uneasiness he had in his mind was whether he should leave her there for another night. All the time he had been in that queer habitation he had a sense that it was overtenanted.

He was conscious of the presence of men whom he did not see, and had a feeling that strange and unfriendly eyes had watched him all the time he had been there...

That shriek—it was a shriek; it could not have been anything else. Was Mrs Stahm passing through another hysterical crisis? The little man at his side fidgeted uneasily, grumbling under his breath.

"You've got too much of the apron." He tugged at it savagely. "Do you want to make me ill so as you can cure me? I wouldn't have you for a doctor! I hate the sight of doctors. They go round telling people they're sick when there's nowt wrong with 'em."

"Why did you come out at this hour of the night?" asked Alan, ignoring the abuse. "Is it a practice of yours?"

"Mind your own business," snarled the other. "I go out any hour of the night I like—do you see?"

"If you're not civil I'll stop the trap and throw you out," said Alan angrily.

"It'd take a better man than you—" began the other, when the young doctor pulled his horse to a standstill.

"Get out and walk," he said curtly.

"See this?" The little man stretched out his arm. In the reflected light of the lamp Alan saw, dangling from his wrist, a snub-nosed revolver, evidently fastened by a strap to his wrist.

"That's a shooter, young man. You know what a shooter is—hold hard, don't hit!" He had seen Alan's hand go back, and the bullying tone became suddenly a supplicating whine. "You wouldn't hit an old man, would you? Mind you, I could throw you out of this trap as easy as cutting butter! But I don't want to get into any trouble with you or with anybody else. I'm an old man, and all I want is peace and quietness."

"Then sit quiet," said Alan savagely. He flung the apron back over the man's knees and tchk-ed to the cob. "And shut your mouth," he added.

The latter injunction was instantly disobeyed.

"I don't wonder you're surprised seeing me here," said the little man. "But I go out when I'm sent for. And they send for me all hours of the day and night—women! They take a liking to me—they go off their heads about me. There was a girl in Sheffield—" He told a story to which Alan found it difficult to listen with patience.

"Madame is a lady bred and born," he went on. "That woman knows me better than I know myself. I heard what you said, mister—I play her! I can play anybody! I see inside 'em and put it into the fiddle. There ain't another man in England could do that. There ain't another man in England who can recite like I can recite. I've been on the stage." He went on in this strain for ten minutes, and then abruptly broke off and asked: "What do you think of my girl?"

"Your girl?"

"That's what I said," said the other; "the young nurse lady; the one you're going to operate on tomorrow."

"I'm not operating on anybody tomorrow, but if you mean the nurse, will you explain what you mean by 'your girl'?" asked Alan in a cold fury.

The little man chuckled continuously, beating his knees in the ecstasy of his humour.

"She'll be mine," he said at last. "I don't say she is at the minute. Notice her looking at me as if I was a snake? I've seen dozens of 'em do that, and how have they ended up?"

"I don't particularly want to know," said Alan.

But his passenger could not be snubbed.

"There's a lady bred and born coming to live near me. Her husband's a gentleman, but she's coming to live next door to me, and for why? Because she's off her head about me—and a lady! You ought to see her, mister—young—" He smacked his lips and became physically descriptive.

Alan was not easily revolted. He was not revolted even now. He listened with a sort of resentful amazement to the boasting of this little blackguard, and if once or twice he had the temptation to hit him on the head with the butt of his whip he restrained himself.

"Where do you work?" he asked, more to turn the conversation than to elicit the information.

"Work? What—me? I'm a master man. I don't work for nobody. I'm independent. I can earn my living in a dozen ways. My wood-carving is better than any woodcarving you've ever seen. I can frame pictures, I can make a cabinet—there's nothing I couldn't do. Some of these lah-de- da-dy swells in Sheffield think they're clever, but I've forgot more than they knew. You're not going to drop me here, are you?" Alan pulled up the cob before his house. "Take me on to Darnell, mister. It's only a couple of miles."

"Walk," said Alan laconically.

"I'm an old man," wailed his dogged passenger. "You wouldn't let an old man walk through the slush and the snow on a night like this? It's not human!"

"You're not human either. Get down!" Out of the shadow of the porch before Alan's house came a burly figure.

"Hullo, doctor! You're the man I wanted to see." It was Sergeant Eltham, and at the sound of his voice the little man slipped from the trap on the offside and vanished into the night.

"Thought you had somebody with you? He went quickly enough—not so quick that I didn't see him," said Sergeant Eltham. "What kind of persons are you picking up at night, doctor?"

"Do you know him?" asked Alan, in surprise.

"Know him?" scoffed Baldy. "I should say I did know him! The cleverest burglar in the north of England, the nastiest little brute in the world."

"What is his name?" asked Alan, suspecting another demonstration of Baldy's weakness, but for once Sergeant Eltham had the name on the tip of his tongue and could pronounce it.

"His name is Charles Peace," he said.