Читать книгу The First Time He Died - Ethel Lina White - Страница 6

Table of Contents

EVEN while Charlie smoked his pipe and stretched his feet blissfully to the open front of the Ideal stove, the first snag was on its way. He heard the bell, and then a prolonged murmur of voices. Presently the front door was shut again, and Puggie Williams came into the kitchen carrying a wreath.

He pitched it on to the table and then sank into a chair and mopped his brow.

"Hullo," he said. "You? Has Vera let you off the chain?"

"I came down a few minutes ago," explained Charlie. "As I pay the rent, I did not ask for permission."

"Don't blame you, old chap. But I shall go bughouse before we're through. D'you know who that was? The Vicar. And he wanted to see—you."

"M—me?" stammered Charlie. "Doesn't he know I'm dead?"

"That's just it. He wanted to kneel by your corpse and say a prayer for your soul."

Charlie's brown eyes grew suspiciously moist.

"That was really kind. I—I appreciate it. Did you thank him properly?"

"No, I took a strong line. I said you were chockful of poison. You can guess the rest." Puggie took out his notebook and scrawled 'Disinfectant.' "Sorry to be indelicate, old chap, but we've got to keep people from nosing round. Besides, it will help to explain the snap funeral."

Charlie was not listening; he appeared to be unconscious of the indignity of Puggie's proposal as well as the peril of their position. His eyes were those of a dog who sees a packet of his biscuits in the shopping-basket, as he picked up the wreath.

"For me?" he asked.

"Yes. From the Mayor."

"Oh, I say. Roses, this time of year. Those cost something. People must think a lot of me."

"Yes, you seem to have been a success."

"Tell me what they were saying about me."

He listened eagerly as Puggie obligingly racked his memory. When the recital ran dry, he nodded and then frowned.

"You can't judge a man till he's dead," he said. "I'd like my family to have heard some of that. But why did the Colonel say I was a little sportsman and gentleman? Where did he get the 'little'? I'm taller than—"

He broke off as the door was flung open and Vera came into the kitchen. Her eyes grew hard at the sight of her husband.

"You fool," she cried. "What possessed you to come down here?"

"I was so cold in the attic," explained Charlie.

"Corpses are cold," Puggie reminded him. "'Oh, ain't it grand to be blooming well dead'?"

Vera's nerves were on edge, so she continued to scold.

"You must be mad. Suppose some one had come in."

"I only wanted to get warm," pleaded Charlie.

"You've got a hot-water bottle and a rug."

"But I can see my breath in the attic. Why can't I have the stove?"

"The oil might smell. People might wonder why we were using the lumber room. Don't you understand? Nothing must be out of the ordinary. We don't want to start people thinking."

"Yes, I understand. I'll go back the instant I'm thawed. But—when I was sitting, all alone, in the dark and cold, I kept thinking of hot toast and tea."

His eyes were those of an appealing dog, but they had no effect on Vera. She ran her fingers through the waves of her fair hair and turned upon her husband.

"And who's going to make toast for you? You know the girl has gone?"

"Yes. But I've often made it for you. At a pinch, I might make some for myself."

"No." Vera's voice was shrill. "You'll go back to the attic. I'm about fed up with you. We have all the worry and planning and suspense. All you have to do is stay put. Listen. You've jolly well got to be uncomfortable. It's not for long. And it's worth it."

Puggie listened with a cynical smile. Because he admired Vera, he had sufficient natural jealousy to enjoy her husband's discomfiture. At the same time his masculine instinct made him resent female domination of the male. His sympathies were with Charlie, as he rose dejectedly from the easy-chair.

"All right. I'll go upstairs now," he said.

At that moment the bell rang loudly, making them all jump nervously.

"Stay where you are, you fool," whispered Vera fiercely, gripping her husband's arm. "You'll be seen going upstairs."

The bell rang again. Evidently the caller was not used to be kept waiting.

"Answer it at once, Puggie," commanded Vera.

"Very good, m'lady," saluted Puggie.

Straining their ears, Charlie and Vera heard a high-pitched, clear voice, which informed them that the great lady of the neighbourhood had done them the honour to stop her impressive car outside Jasmine Cottage.

"I don't know Mrs. Baxter," explained her ladyship, "but please convey my deepest sympathy. Such a charming little man. What was it?...Really?...Oh, dear, dear. I always thought he looked delicate. These artistic temperaments need a great deal of care. They just flicker out."

"Yes," chimed in a girl's voice. "You could tell he was sensitive and sympathetic just by dancing with him. He knew, by instinct, what you were going to do, before you did it."

They left cards and the car rolled away.

"Probably the poor little man was neglected by that horrid little blonde," remarked her ladyship to her daughter as Puggie returned to the kitchen.

"Lady Warren and her fat daughter, in their glad rags," he announced with a grin. "On their way to dine out or something. Both very distressed, especially the girl."

"I gave her a dance at the Hospital Ball," explained Charlie. "It was like trying to control a runaway traction engine. But I was so sorry for her. Didn't they bring any flowers for me?"

"Of course not. They have only acres of grass. Coast's clear now, Charlie. Cut."

"No," decided Vera suddenly. "Now he's here, he'd better have his tea to warm him up."

A slight smile flickered round Charlie's lips as he watched his blonde beauty whisking round the kitchen. With quick capable movements, she cut bread and filled the kettle.

"You won't forget to feed the birds to-morrow morning?" he reminded her. "I'm like Mussolini—fond of birds."

Vera paid no attention to him. Her small face was a map of lines when, presently, she brought him his toast.

"Here you are, sweetheart," she said.

"Thank you. I'd like to smoke too."

She brought him a cigarette and lit it for him. As he blew rings of smoke, in a little cold bedroom, a frantic schoolgirl was still on her knees.

"Let him be alive," she murmured at intervals, for she was growing exhausted by her grief.

Charlie's eyes were tranquil as he watched the fire.

"When I come into my money, I shall give away more to the poor," he said. "You need to be cold and hungry oneself, to understand the sufferings of others."

"You didn't give away a cent last time," Vera reminded him.

Charlie changed the subject quickly.

"Aren't you having tea?" he asked her.

She shook her head as she lit a cigarette from the stump of her old one.

"I'm too worried," she said.

"Why?"

"Because it's all been so easy. In fact it's been too easy. What have we forgotten?"

She turned to Puggie.

"What exactly did the man tell you?" she demanded. "Think."

Puggie wrinkled his brow in an effort at concentration, while Charlie, with implicit confidence in his companions, sipped his tea and warmed his knees.

"I got the dope," said Puggie, "from a chap—awfully decent fellow—I met him on a Cape liner. For once in my life I wasn't in the steerage. He was in Insurance. When I asked him exactly how easy it would be to cheat a big company he told me quite a lot."

"What?"

"Well—he said the company would expect reasonable proof of death. That meant you had to produce the death certificate, the burial certificate—that would depend—and birth certificate, to prove the age, if it hadn't been already seen by the company when the man insured his life..."

"That's all right with us," remarked Vera. "What were the snags?"

"According to this chap it would be the doctor, the undertaker, servants, relatives, friends, and creditors."

Vera began to check the list.

"Doctor. We've settled him. Undertaker. We'll take care of him too. We sent the girl away, and he hasn't any friends or creditors here. That only leaves his family."

"I have no family," Charlie told her. "I had to choose between them and you. And I choose my wife."

"Shut up, sweetheart. Puggie, his family's got to be told of his death, but they mustn't get the letter until it's too late for them to come to the funeral."

"They wouldn't raise the fare for me," said Charlie bitterly. "They always booted me out when I came home."

"If they come down here before he's buried," went on Vera, "we'd be sunk. But we must write at once or it might look queer. We can't get them suspicious and asking for exhumation. Think, both of you. What are we to do?"

In the end she found her own solution.

"I know. They've moved since your father's death, haven't they?"

"Twice," replied Charlie. "Once to a small house, and then to a flat."

"That's luck again. We'll send it to the old address. I'm not supposed to know anything about their movements as they've never written to me."

"But doesn't the Post Office send on letters?" objected Puggie.

"Only for a certain time. And if you move again too soon, they expect the letters to be forwarded on from the second address, or something like that. There's bound to be some delay, if it's only a day. You must write this instant, Puggie."

"Righto," grunted Puggie. "I'll say you're prostituted. Here, steady on."

He pushed Charlie back into his chair, just as he was rising—his face flushed and his fists clenched.

"You've insulted my wife," he shouted. "My wife's a good woman. She's married."

"Oh, dry up," said Vera, although her eyes glittered as she looked at Puggie. "He was only trying to say 'prostrated.' It only proves he went to Eton after all."

"Did you?" asked Charlie, staring curiously at the man of mystery.

"No, night-school...Very sorry and all that."

"Well, don't be funny again." His anger forgotten, Charlie rubbed his chin and suddenly smiled.

"I'll be getting rid of this bush to-morrow," he gloated. "Won't I be glad to see my old face again?"

"More than I am to see mine," said Puggie. "When I was the young lord of the manor, I had one of those bucolic complexions, all pink and white, like streaky bacon."

"Puggie, who are you?" asked Vera.

"Haven't I told you? Well, since we're all emotional, to-night, over this death, I'll tell you—in strict confidence—"

"That you're one of the Smiths of London," finished Vera derisively.

Even as she laughed her grin was frozen to a grimace.

"What's the matter?" asked Puggie.

"We've made the most ghastly blunder," she told him. "Charlie's beard has just reminded me of what we've forgotten."