Читать книгу The First Time He Died - Ethel Lina White - Страница 7

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AS the men stared at her, Vera struck her head impatiently.

"Idiot," she cried. "And it's too late now to do anything about it. Two years too late." She pointed to Charlie as she added, "He should never have come here with a beard. He should have grown it afterwards, up in London, as a disguise."

Charlie set his lips stubbornly. He had been firm on the point that he was not going through his second life as a bearded daddy.

"I don't mind growing the horrible thing for Starminster," he had compromised. "That means that for two years I shall shudder whenever I look at myself in the glass. But the instant I'm 'dead' off it comes."

At the time they had seen no flaw in his objection. Even Vera had not realised its exact significance until they had reached the critical stages of their fraud.

"Don't you see?" she asked, infuriated by their blank faces. "When he shaves off that beard he will probably fool any one here, if they knocked against him by chance in London. He may look quite a different person to them. But he will also be his old self again. His family will be sure to put his death in the local paper. Well, suppose he meets any one who knew him at home? What about it then?"

"They'll only think it a striking likeness," remarked Puggie. "You may stare at a man who sits opposite to you on the Underground, but you wouldn't tap him on the shoulder and say, 'Aren't you John Jones who died last year?' Besides, Charlie's older now. He'll have changed."

"No, I haven't," put in Charlie eagerly. "When I was having my medical examination for the insurance, the doctor said he'd never seen a younger man for my age."

"Yes, you'd remember that," remarked Vera bitterly. "It's the only examination you ever passed. But you needn't be so perky. Get this, sweetheart. This isn't a beauty contest. If anything crops up to stop us now, you'll starve."

"I could work," he reminded her.

"So you've actually heard of that funny thing? Don't believe all they tell you, honey. And as you've never tried it, we'll wash it out...The question is—how are we to alter you now?"

She lit another cigarette and paced the kitchen's uneven stone flags on perilously high Spanish heels. As usual, the men left her to deal with the problem as they watched her expectantly.

They were not disappointed in their faith, for, presently she pitched away the stump of her cigarette with a laugh. Crossing to the dresser, she opened a drawer and found a spectacle-case.

"Try these on," she commanded her husband. "They're the glasses I wore on my cruise. They're only slightly tinted. Anyway I got off with every man on the ship, in spite of them."

Charlie was boyishly delighted with his appearance when he looked at himself in the small glass on the wall.

"I look intellectual," he said. "Rather like a writer." He turned to Vera. "How do you like your literary husband?"

"I haven't one," she replied. "Thank heaven I'm a widow. I'm sick of men."

"W—What do you mean?"

"She means," explained Puggie with a grin, "that she married a bloke called Charlie Baxter. And the poor chap passed out, last night."

He was dead. It was not a pleasant thought for Charlie to take with him to bed. For the matter of that, their present lodging was more picturesque than cheerful. It was a smallish, inconvenient building, composed of two cottages knocked into one, and had tiny rooms, narrow twisting stairs, and flagged stone passages. Its only concessions to modern luxury were the Ideal stove in the kitchen and a bathroom.

Vera's precautions were not unnecessary, for most sounds could be heard all over the house, including some noises which had no apparent origin. Lying awake that night, Charlie listened to people—who were not there—creeping up the stairs and whispering in corners.

He had no company, for he still occupied the cold death-chamber, while Vera preferred to stay in the dressing-room, which she had made comfortable with her belongings. Strung up to a pitch of nervous excitement, he could not sleep because of the thought of to-morrow's ordeal.

He had to pose as a corpse. Vera had assured him that it should be only a matter of moments, but that it was essential to fool the undertaker. What he dreaded was some treachery on the part of Nature—an uncontrollable shiver or sneeze.

Vera had rubbed into him the consequences of any slip. It was prison.

"That's a place," explained Puggie, "where they make you take a bath, but there aren't any bath-salts. And if you don't fancy the French cooking it's no good complaining to the waitress. Not a bit your style, Charlie."

Charlie thought about prison, the following morning, as he lay on the bed in rigid state. He was cold, hungry, and uncomfortable after lengthy and complicated preparations. Vera had made him up with utmost skill, and had arranged the lighting with real stage artistry.

"You look wonderful," she said after she had finished. "Puggie, come here and see him. It's a mercy, after all, he has a beard to cover up his lips. They'd be first to betray him."

Puggie regarded him with critical eyes.

"He's smoking," he said.

Vera bit off a curse. The cold was still intense, and she had not attempted to warm the room by lighting a fire. She told her husband he had to lump it. Her chief concern was to keep his corpse-complexion in a state of cold-storage.

She looked in dismay at the faint wisps of vapour that issued from Charlie's nostrils and lips.

"While the undertaker's in the room you must just hold your breath," she told him.

"But I shall choke."

"You dare. Don't be a fool. Conquer your nerves."

All the same she opened a drawer and drew out a large linen handkerchief, which she placed on the bed.

"Cover his face with this, the instant the undertaker has had his professional peek," she ordered Puggie. "Whatever you do, don't forget. And don't slip up on anything. That goes for both of you. I only wish I could do it all. I can trust no one but myself."

From bitter personal experience Vera had no use for men.

"Won't you be here?" asked Charlie, his eyes appealing to the little wisp of a woman for the protection of her presence.

"No, honey. I'll be heard, not seen."

The actress in Vera was already exulting in an effective part. Her one regret was that she could not double it with that of the corpse. Then she looked at her wrist-watch.

"It's close on twelve. The shell ought to be here any minute now...Come outside, Puggie."

They went out of the room, closing the door after them. There was something stealthy in their exit which stirred up all the latent distrust in Charlie. During the last few days, he could not rid his mind of a suspicion that he was being duped.

He was positive that there was some understanding between them. Although he was friendly to him, Puggie resented Charlie because he was Vera's husband. He would not have married her while she was in the Vanities. Charlie still felt furious as he remembered the libellous word "prostituted." He had done Puggie's preliminary work for him; and now that he had made a respectable wife into a respectable widow, all objections to her would be removed.

He seemed to be getting the worst of the bargain. The nonsense verses by Lewis Carroll, which his eldest sister Emily used to read to him when he was a small boy, floated into his head:

"I passed by his garden and marked, with one eye,

How the Owl and the Panther were sharing a pie.

The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,

While the Owl had the dish as its share of the treat."

The words applied to himself only too well. He was the Owl. Vera and Puggie had treated him like a lay-figure; they had laughed and whispered in corners, while he had to endure ignominious treatment and suffer real discomforts.

And now he was completely in their power—officially dead.

He did not like being dead; he had too much imagination where his own feelings were concerned. The cold, the rigidity, the smell of disinfectant fighting the perfume of forced lilies-of-the-valley, utterly revolted him.

To increase his physical and mental discomfiture, he was powerless. They had bound his limbs tightly to his body, in order to give his shape the necessary stiff outline under the sheet. Under the influence of fright, his heart had begun to flutter badly, for he had taken some stiff doses of tobacco-ash in tea, when he was faking his collapse.

Suddenly he remembered Lady Warren's words—that his kind "flickered out of life." Since his medical examination he might have developed some disease. If he caught a chill in this Arctic temperature and died, the other two would be on velvet. All they needed for perfect immunity was to produce a real corpse.

He began to wonder whether the undertaker was coming that morning, in reality. It was now some time past twelve. This masquerade might be some deep scheme to reduce his powers of resistance.

His large eyes grew wider with panic. He was about to try and roll off the bed when he heard voices outside the window, followed by a ring at the front door. At the sounds his heart began to hammer; his suspicion of Vera had been slain, only to leave him facing the real peril.

He listened to scuffling footsteps on the stairs, and a horribly suggestive bumping against the balustrade and wall, at every corner, as if something was being carried up to the first floor.

"Quiet, you chaps." Puggie spoke to the men in a hoarse whisper. "Don't let Mrs. Baxter hear you."

Apparently, however, the widow knew all about it, for from the next room came the sound of strangled heart-broken sobs. Then Charlie heard Puggie's voice—suddenly loud and distinct—close to him.

"Put the trestles here. Foot of the bed. That's right."

Charlie held his breath for what was to seem an eternity, as he realised that the undertaker and his assistants were now inside the room. Their eyes would, naturally, be focused upon him.

As he crossed the threshold, Mr. Brown, the undertaker, looked around him. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, so that the only light came from four candles—one at each corner of the bed. In this dim illumination, he could just see the waxen forehead and nose of the late Charles Baxter. His beard hid the rest of his face.

He noticed, too, with professional disapproval, that although the bed was strewn with flowers, there were none covering the heart of the corpse, while his hands were hidden.

"He looks very well," he said.

"Well?" echoed Puggie in a horrified voice. "What d'you mean?"

"He makes a fine corpse," explained the undertaker. "He looks bigger altogether. More dignity. I was astonished when you gave me his measurements. I always thought of him as a—slight gentleman."

He beckoned to his men. Just as they were advancing towards the bed, Puggie saw, to his horror, a faint wisp of vapour curling from Charlie's lips.

In that moment he lost his head completely. He looked around desperately for the handkerchief, failed to find it, and grabbed the nearest object—a sheet of tissue-paper which had covered a wreath.

"Fly," he explained, as he laid it upon the waxen face, before he waved back the men.

"No, don't touch the poor chap. This is my job. The widow doesn't want any hands to touch him but ours."

"But can you manage?" objected the undertaker.

"On my head. He's badly wasted, poor fellow. And the widow will help me with the feet."

Almost as though an actress were awaiting her cue, the pitiful, muffled weeping broke out again on the other side of the wall.

The undertaker looked his sympathy.

"I understand," he said.

He beckoned to his men, who tiptoed from the room. Feeling elated now that the danger was over, Puggie turned confidentially to the undertaker.

"He won't be the first chap I've put to bed," he said, "especially after a Regimental reunion dinner."

"Do you still go to them?" asked the undertaker.

"Wouldn't miss them. They're the only decent chaps left."

"Um, um. What regiment were you in?"

To Charlie's horror, the men began to chat. In a corner of his brain, Puggie had the fuddled impression that he was doing a clever thing, calculated to remove any shadow of suspicion that he had anything to hide. He told himself that they were safe as houses, now that he had covered Charlie's face.

What he did not realise was that he had done the thing best calculated to precipitate disaster. The flimsy sheet of paper was sucked in with every gasp that Charlie was forced to give. As he broke out into a violent sweat, he could feel it growing limp and moulding his features like a wet veil.

Every second his agony of mind increased. He remembered an experience at the dentist's, when an impression of his mouth was taken for a denture. The composition had seemed to swell until he believed that his air-passages were completely sealed, and he had fought and choked himself black in the face.

Now the same symptoms of suffocation were rushing upon him. A preliminary tickling in his throat told him that he could not hold out much longer. Already his lungs were nearly cracking under the strain of holding his breath.

As he waited for the end, his mind painted a picture of prison in the darkest hues. Hideous, coarse garments. A cement bath, filled with tepid, greyish water, which had been sampled by others. Water-gruel and stale bread.

Imagination threw in additional horrors—rats which ran over him, and insects—not the festive species, which frisked and flitted—but horrible adhesive plasters on the wall.

At the thought, he reached breaking-point. The irritation in his throat curdled to a hard lump. He swallowed violently to try to remove the obstruction—in vain.

Suddenly, to his horror, his strangled breath rebelled and burst out in a choking wheeze.