Читать книгу The First Time He Died - Ethel Lina White - Страница 5

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THE first time he died, Charlie Baxter was genuinely touched by the signs of his popularity. He had an inferiority complex—the result of being avoided by the nice girls in his home town in his youth. He was also generally in disgrace with his family, because of the regularity with which he changed his plans for the future.

In turn, it was arranged that he should be a doctor, a lawyer, an auctioneer. In fact, his only objection to any reputable profession was the system of examination before qualification.

He had discovered, however, other ways of making money—and losing it—besides earning a salary. He went to horse-races and the dogs. Besides this, he was not too proud to turn his hand to anything, and when he lacked a shilling to buy fags, would enter the Children's Competition in the newspapers.

In spite of snubs and neglect he retained a real affection for his home, and always came back when his funds ran out. He never received a welcome, but he remained cheerful, amiable, and quite a charming fellow.

The Baxters had one rich relative—a widowed aunt—whom Charlie cultivated. At her death, the family was astonished to learn that their black sheep was the sole member to receive a legacy. He promptly married Vera—a pretty blonde, who made what might truthfully be described as "a personal appearance"—at some Vanities.

She was a sensible moral little person, and much too good for Charlie; but the Baxters, who were snobs, could not accept her as a member of a family which wore rather more than the average quantity of clothing. Once again the front door was closed upon Charlie. He left the town, and this time he did not return.

While their money lasted, the young Baxters had a riotous time. They went to the Riviera and cut a modest dash. Vera was a genuine actress, and had the power of dramatising herself until she lost her sense of reality. The world was her Stage and she played a Star part. In their theatrical surroundings of blue sea, palms and gilt-cane chairs, she became an Oppenheim adventuress, and she wore big furs and draped herself with ropes of cheap pearls.

But, deep down below her trimmings, she remained the thrifty, honest little soul who took off more and more, as she earned less and less, in order to pay her landlady. She often wished that she had insisted on being keeper of the purse, when she would have combined economy with security.

They got to know some curious people—Puggie Williams among the rest. It was he who suggested the insurance fraud, when they were within sight of their legacy's end. He was living on them at the time, so he sold his brains on the understanding that they should pool interests.

Following his advice, they moved to a small country town, where living was cheap—rented a furnished cottage from a certain Major Blake—budgetted within the limits of a modest income—and posed as people of leisure, refined tastes and means, who wished to live a quiet life.

Puggie Williams had instructed Charlie not to approach an insurance agent, but let the agent come to him.

"Be a good mixer," was his advice.

True to his forecast, a Mr. Acorn, who was local agent for an important insurance company, rose to the occasion, when Charlie, during a round of golf, admitted that he was not insured. Before long he contracted for annual payments of eighty pounds, so that his widow might receive the sum of five thousand pounds at his death.

He paid two instalments—and then he died.

They had beginner's luck in the matter, for in Dubarry they found an ideal doctor to gull. He had inherited a small fortune, and now only visited an old lady or two, who clung to him like limpets, because of his charming bedside manner.

Vera did her utmost to captivate him. She sent for him in an alleged case of nervous prostration—or something equally picturesque in stage production—when he was called upon to do a little more than feel her pulse and be discreetly appreciative of her charming creamy ostrich-feather negligée.

It was natural, therefore, after her own recovery from illness, that Vera should swear that he was the only doctor in whom she could have confidence.

They waited impatiently for the sensational epidemic of flu, when doctors were run off their legs and nurses not to be had for love or money. Their chief danger was that Dr. Dubarry would not remain in England, for it was the time of the year when he always went to the Riviera.

Just as he was on the point of departure, Vera made her tearful appeal. She was distracted; Charlie had flu, and he was the one man who could pull her husband through.

Dr. Dubarry stayed, against his will, compelled by Vera's concealed strength of character. He came daily to Jasmine Cottage, where he saw a little of the patient and quite a lot of Vera. He had not opened a medical journal for years, but he could judge the case by the symptoms, as described by Charlie, and the evidence of the thermometer.

He did not notice that when Charlie was "smoking" it was always the minute when Vera drew away his attention from the bedside. Charlie's scraps of knowledge, gleaned as a medical student, had taught him that somewhat difficult feat for a lay eye—how to read the mercury at a glance. He had also experimented as to the exact length of time he should keep the thermometer buried in the hot baked potato under his pillow, to get desired results.

He knew how to tell the tale, and presently he ran a high temperature, which soared to a peak when Dr. Dubarry looked grave. He hinted at a second opinion and a hospital nurse. But Vera sobbed that she trusted him implicitly and that she could not bear to leave her husband to the mercies of any stranger.

Dr. Dubarry yielded, partly because it was difficult to get a second doctor and nurse. After all, it was a straight case, without complications, and Charlie was receiving the orthodox treatment.

Meanwhile, the plotters were anxiously awaiting for the snow which had been predicted by the weather experts. The instant the first flakes fell, Charlie's temperature shot up like a rocket and then took a sensational nose-dive, while his heart was weak and fluttering after stiff doses of tobacco-ash mixed with tea.

Dr. Dubarry felt it was his painful duty to warn the poor little woman of the danger. He broke the news to her that unless Charlie's strength could be maintained, he might flicker out of life.

"He's not putting up a fight," he complained. "You'd think he was just letting himself go."

Vera broke down and sobbed on Dr. Dubarry's shoulder.

"Oh, doctor," she cried, "that is Charlie. I know the best of him. And the worst of him. And I love him for all...But he never could make an effort."

That night the snow fell thickly. In the morning Dr. Dubarry, who lived in the heart of the country, looked out on a white muffled landscape. While he was dressing he was called to the telephone, when Puggie Williams, speaking in a voice choked with emotion, told him that poor Baxter had passed away during the night. In view of the terrible weather they had not sent for the doctor, since nothing could be done.

Dr. Dubarry thanked them for their thoughtfulness in not dragging him from his warm bed, just to tell them what they already knew. He also offered heroically to come over immediately.

But Williams would not accept the sacrifice. The roads were too awful, and Mrs. Baxter would not hear of it.

"She says you'll be the next to go down with flu, and she would never forgive herself if anything happened to you. If you don't mind sending round the Certificate—that should meet the case."

Dr. Dubarry hesitated...At the other end of the line the three plotters held their breath. If he decided to come, or to deputise another doctor, they would have to stage a sensational revival of the corpse and face the collapse of their carefully laid plans.

Fortunately for them, Dubarry was both soft and nervous. Common sense assured him that it was a straight case which had run true to type and that the collapse was practically inevitable.

Instead of taking a long cross-country drive into Starminster and running the risk of being blocked by a snowdrift, he could motor by the main road to the nearest large town and take the first express to London. It was true that he could also reach Starminster by the same method—but the Blue Coast was calling him.

He looked again at the Arctic scenery and the slowly falling flakes, like black pompons against the sky, and he decided that it was his duty to his wife and family not to risk his own valuable life.

So he followed the sun, and the death certificate was sent to Jasmine Cottage by special messenger. With its arrival Charlie Baxter became officially dead.

Vera and Puggie shook hands after the front door was closed.

"We've won," declared Vera jubilantly.

But Puggie looked grave.

"We're only beginning," he told her. "So far, we've had the usual beginner's luck. Now—for the snags."