Читать книгу The Dumb Gods Speak - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 7

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In less than an hour's time Catherine Oronoff and Mark Humberstone were seated at the back of one of the side boxes in the Casino. Mark tapped with his forefinger upon the programme.

"Excellent staff work," he remarked, smiling at his companion. "Our friend's turn comes next."

Almost as he spoke the curtain rose upon what was described as "the greatest scientific riddle of the century." They both leaned curiously forward. The strangely still, sombrely attired figure of Mr. Jonson was disclosed standing outside a small open tent. He was rather far back upon the stage and about ten yards in front of him was a thickly drawn white line of chalk. He waited until the complimentary round of applause died away and then he addressed the audience in excellent French, without apparently raising his voice, and yet with such clarity of tone that he was heard in the remotest corners just as distinctly as he was heard by his unseen observers.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he began. "I come once more to place before you a scientific problem which I presented in this same building two years ago and which remains to this moment unsolved. I claim to have made a great discovery in one of the byways of an unexplored science and though full acknowledgment of my success has not yet been made, that I know will arrive in due course. My challenge, ladies and gentlemen, is at your disposal once more. You observe the steps leading from the auditorium to the stage? I invite any member of the audience who chooses, to mount them and to endeavour to cross the white line and approach me. I warn him that he will not be able to do so because at that particular point I have interfered with the rotation of the earth. To anyone who succeeds in passing it and reaching me I will present the sum of two thousand francs."

Already the eager competitors were forming in line. The first to mount the steps was a stout young man of consequential appearance carefully, almost foppishly dressed, his manner full of bravado. He paused on the stage and bowed to the man who stood looking at him gravely from the opening of the tent.

"It is understood, monsieur," he demanded with a note of challenge in his tone, "that if I pass the chalk line between you and myself you pay me two thousand francs?"

"It is perfectly well understood," was the calm reply.

The young man walked forward gingerly yet with unabated confidence. All of a sudden, about a yard from the line, he stopped and threw up his hands, his feet began to move faster and yet he made no progress. His hair seemed to become disarranged as though by the action of an unsuspected wind. He threw up his arms to balance himself. Those who were in the front rows saw the colour leave his cheeks, saw fear creep into his eyes. Those who were behind saw nothing but the funny sight of a human being who had lost control over his feet. His paroxysms were like the frantic efforts of a man trying to walk backwards down an automatic stairway. Roars of laughter came from the rear of the auditorium. From the front rows, however, there were gasps of something which sounded more like exclamations of fear. Then the showman's voice, clear and bell-like, rang through the auditorium.

"Try a little harder, my friend," he mocked. "Two thousand francs is a good deal of money. You can take the young lady out to-night, yes? You think that the earth is rising to meet you? That is fancy. It is because the earth has ceased to move that you find progress difficult. Come—try once more."

The man suddenly seemed to lose control. He collapsed upon the floor a yard or two away from the chalked line. An attendant, who apparently had been waiting in the wings for that purpose, rushed forward and raised the adventurous competitor to his feet. The latter seemed a smaller person, shrunken with some fear.

"You wish to try again?" Professor Ventura asked.

The young man shivered. He turned towards the steps. The attendant helped him down. He staggered back to his place amidst a chorus of mingled applause and cries of ridicule.

"If the next person will kindly come forward," the Professor invited. "It is unfortunate that what we call the stationary vibrations were too much for our friend...What, no one is anxious to come? That is distressing."

A man in the audience rose to his feet.

"What is it that you have in that tent?" he asked.

Mr. Jonson turned and threw wide open the flaps. The tent contained nothing but an iron table upon which rested a small machine, the flywheel of which was whizzing round in space.

"There is nothing here, as you see," Mr. Jonson explained, "except the instrument of my own invention with the aid of which I perform the miracle."

A youth of a different class came resolutely forward. He was shabbily dressed and carried with him an unpleasant impression of life in the unsavoury places. He stood stolidly upon the platform and gazed at the imperturbable Professor.

"I ask you, Professor Ventura," he demanded in a loud voice, "whether there is any trick in this business?"

"If there is a trick find it out," was the curt reply. "Tiens—"

Mr. Jonson never finished his sentence. The young man had apparently made up his mind to try rush tactics. He made a spring forward for the chalk line. He had reached it within a foot when he suddenly jumped into the air. For the space of sixty seconds he gave a far more exciting performance than his predecessor—then he too collapsed and was led away. Mr. Jonson advanced to the extreme edge of the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "To show you that there is no trick in my marvellous discovery I will now earn my own two mille."

He lit a cigarette. Half the audience rose from their places to watch him. He glanced over his shoulder towards the table on which his little instrument stood. With his cigarette in one hand he turned round.

"You will observe, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the conditions remain exactly the same. Voilà!"

He turned and walked—sauntered perhaps would be the better word—across the space. He stood with both feet upon the chalk line, re- entered his tent a moment or two later, and with a farewell bow disappeared amidst the usual storm of confused applause. A small crowd of supers rushed out from the wings. Some of them busied themselves eliminating the white chalk line, two others removed with great care the instrument and the table, another one folded up the tent and disappeared with it upon his shoulder. There was no sign anywhere of Professor Ventura...

"How does he do it?" Catherine asked curiously.

Mark shrugged his shoulders. There was a slightly puzzled frown on his forehead.

"To tell you the truth," he confessed, "I don't quite know, but I am beginning to understand where he got the idea."