Читать книгу Out of the Blue - Sapper - Страница 7

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It is the next fortnight that baffles me; the fortnight that culminated in the writing on a sheet of paper and the strange end of the writer. I find it difficult, even so short a time afterwards, to get that fortnight in perspective. Little things seem to stand out, with a complete lack of proportion, from the dull monotonous days when I waited and watched, wondering whether the gleam of remembrance would pierce the poor bemused brain. Occasional flashes came, occasional rays of hope—then blankness again. And of all the little things, the one which grips me hardest—the vignette which stands out most vividly in my mind—occurred three days after 1 arrived with Pierre at the Coq de Paille.

It was at a slack hour, and the room was empty save for Madame polishing rows of glasses behind the bar. I was seated at a table reading a paper in the intervals of wondering whether I wasn't a fool to stop on, and Pierre—I'd forgotten about him until quite suddenly he spoke.

"They've got a machine-gun in that clump over there. Get through to Brigade, Tony...."

I glanced up at him quickly, and my pulses beat a little faster. He had his back to me, and was staring out of the window towards Bailleul. Was it possible that at length my patience was going to be rewarded?

"Which clump?" I got up and stood beside

"Over there." He pointed to some trees on the other side of the main road. "They've been sending up white flares."

Better get the gunners on to 'em," I hazarded,

"Why, of course," he cried irritably, and even as he spoke the gleam faded from the eyes and the vacant look returned.

"Pierre," I cried, dropping my usual caution and seizing him by the arm. "Pierre—who did you hear say that?" In my excitement I shook him to and fro. "Think, man, think. Try to remember....

But the fog had fallen again, and my hand dropped to my side. It was hopeless. He only stared at me uncomprehendingly and shook his head, babbling a little in Flemish.

"One penny, monsieur," he said after a while, "and we shall have music."

The number of pennies I expended on that cursed instrument would have bought another, but though he rarely spoke when it was playing his face seemed to become eager—less vacant. And each time I hoped that perhaps I might get something definite. Madame was kind—an understanding woman—and I had told her enough to make her sympathetic. But beyond that she was of but little assistance. She had not been the original owner of the estaminet, and had only acquired it since the war. All she could tell me was that when she had bought it, the house was not much more than a gutted shell. The whole of the wall fronting the road had been torn away; the ceiling was in ruins. And even now the wooden shutters which were nightly put up inside the windows were splintered and torn with bullet holes.

Only one piece of positive information did she give me, and that she obtained on the fourth day from M. le Maire. Pierre undoubtedly had been in the neighbourhood right up to the last; he had worked at the farm next door, and the worthy mayor further volunteered the information that the Coq de Paine was the estaminet where all the labourers on that farm used to buy their beer.

What she told me was useful up to a point, though it merely confirmed what I had long been sure of. Mad though be was, it was clear he knew the place; he recognised old landmarks, and called the farms within sight by their correct names. And more and more as days went on did I begin to feel convinced that this poor half-witted creature had, buried in his hazy brain, the remembrance of the time when the Germans came to Meteren in the last eddy forward of their offensive on the Lys. It was guess-work, true; but the Quartermaster's description of the place, and that strange trick with his hands—the sort of mannerism that a child or a lunatic would imitate—encouraged me to persevere. I believed that he had seen John Manley—seen him not long before the end. Had listened at the door, perhaps, while John spoke. How else could one account for such a remark as: "Get through to Brigade, Tony?"

But beyond belief I could not get. Often something seemed to be trembling on his lips, and I would lean forward breathless in my eagerness, only to sit back disappointed. The eyes I stared into would become vacant again: Pierre would moon listlessly away. And on the twelfth day I had almost decided to give it up and go, when he said something which made me determine to try one more thing before taking him back to Hooge.

The automatic piano was thumping out some tune which, according to the index and pointer, was a gavotte. It sounded more like a Dead March, but of all the tunes which the instrument murdered, this one seemed to have the most effect on Pierre. It was half-way through its pennyworth, when he rose and stared at it with a peculiar look on his face.

"It used to stop there, m'sieur; stop—and then later, go on."

"Did it?" I asked. "When was that?"

He was peering at it from close to—touching it gingerly with one finger, as he had touched my car.

"The night that the noise came—it had stopped, and then after the noise—it went on again. They cursed it—the officers...."

"They cursed it, did they?" My voice shook a little. "Who cursed it, Pierre?"

"The big man, who sat at the table. Where you are sitting now."

"Was he the man who did this?" I asked quickly, once more rolling my right fist in my left palm.

But it had gone; the gleam had left him—and I swore under my breath.

"I can't think, m'sieur," he muttered. "I can't think...."

Madame came in at that moment, and I rose and went over to her.

"Was there anything wrong with this piano, madame," I asked, "when you first came here?"

"Why, yes, m'sieur," she said, and her voice was surprised. "But how did you know? It used to stop at times in the middle of a tune. Something wrong with the mechanism. A clockmaker from Hazebrook mended it last winter. Has it been doing it again?"

I reassured her; the mechanical abomination did nothing so sensible. But that evening, after the estaminet had closed, I examined it carefully. And it was easy to see that by placing a small obstruction in the path of the penny the machine would stop in the middle of the tune.

It was the next evening that I decided to make my last attempt to get through the fog to the brain beneath. If this failed then I would give it up. It did not fail, though now I almost wish it had.

For I can't free myself of the dreadful suspicion that... However, this is what happened.

The last labourer had departed; the splintered wooden shutters were in position. Madame had gone to bed, leaving me to sit up with Pierre. He was sleepy—like the birds and children the day of such as he ends with sundown—and once or twice his head had nodded forward over the table littered with dirty beer glasses. It was not until I slipped in the penny and the tune started that he roused himself and sat up....

Halfway through the music stopped, and from beside the piano I watched him eagerly: would I at last be more successful?

"Thank God! that damned noise has stopped. Which of you fellows turned it on? How in the name of fortune can anybody be expected to sleep with that hurdy-gurdy performing?"

I held my breath; was I listening to the last words of John Manley?

"What's that—what's that you say? They're through!" Pierre had risen and was staring at the door. "On the right! Damn the Rutlands; they've let us down again. Two platoons from B Company—quick. Notebook, Tony—notebook...."

Feverishly I pushed a piece of paper in front of him, and a pencil.

"Are they through on the road? God! and I've got no one to throw in!"

He was writing as he spoke. "Eight hundred in three days.... Ah!" His voice rose to a dreadful shout. "Look out!"

He hurled himself flat on the floor, as a man will do who hears the screech of a shell on top of him, and in my excitement I let go of the penny. The automatic piano went on again... playing its gavotte which sounded more like a Dead March.... And Pierre, the lunatic, lay still and motionless beside the table....

With faltering steps I approached him while the tune clanged on.

"The night that the noise came—it had stopped. And then after the noise—it went on again. They cursed it—the officers."

I remembered his words, and for some strange reason I felt frightened. I felt I was confronted with something beyond my ken... even before I reached Pierre and found that he was dead. I looked at him stupidly. Dead! How could he be dead?... And still the tune clanged on....

What had killed him? A little stream of beer poured off the table on to his face, and as I bent over to cover it with a handkerchief, I gave a smothered cry. Incredible as it appears to me now, I seemed to see about him a strange likeness to John Manley.... I say it appears incredible now; I say it is incredible now, but I say it half-heartedly. Even here in London I cannot convince myself... I might be able to but for the piece of paper.

It is lying before me as I turn and re-turn the matter in my mind; a little scrap of paper stained with Flemish beer:

"B.M. 931st Bde. Enemy broken through on right flank. Am inves...."

Nothing more is written, and the last "s" tails away into a long scrawl. But the handwriting is the handwriting of John Manley.

He talked of metempsychosis—did that man in the club. I've looked it up since in the dictionary.

"Metempsychosis. The passing of the soul at death into another body, whether of a brute or a person. The doctrine was held by the ancient Egyptians, taught by the Pythagoreans and in the Orphic mysteries of Greece, and is a tenet of East Indian philosophy."

Can it be possible that with that last loud shout of warning before the shell blew him to pieces, the soul of John Manley passed into the body of Pierre, loitering, maybe, near the door outside. I know not... as I say, I try to think it is incredible.

But one thing I do know: whether it did or whether it didn't, that soul is at rest now....

And Beryl—I'm seeing her to-morrow. She rang me up and seemed surprised I'd been away so long. And I didn't tell her that I'd waited to attend the funeral of—a lunatic....

But to-morrow I'll paint her the picture—not too clearly, not with too much detail. She might wonder how I knew, or think I was making it up. But I'd like her to see in her mind that simple room with the glasses on the shelves, and hear the gavotte that sounded like a Dead March playing out the soul of John Manley, while the choking dust and falling bricks gradually settled on the floor, and the night breeze blew in through the great hole in the wall. And I've got some photos for her....

It's the paper that worries me; she wouldn't understand that paper—any more than I do. And she's happy with Billy—quite, quite happy. It might make her—worry and think useless things.... For, any way, the soul is at rest now.