The Lives of Harry Lime v1.0 Read online

‘It’s never been done yet, even in a small way?’ I asked.

  John answered, ‘It will be done. We shall do it. If not we, those who come after us. We are leaving our great fortune to the foundation.’

  John took up the explanation again: ’The foundation of a college for young scientists, for research into the making of gold.’

  Later, after we had moved into the sitting-room for our coffee, I remarked that their search was awfully intriguing, that I’d like to know more.

  ‘Who would not like to know more?’ asked John.

  I pressed him. ‘And no one has ever found the secret?’

  Gregory answered, ‘It will be known, when my brother and I have the power to know all.’

  ‘Well, old man, when you get the power, let me know!’ I called after him, as they went slowly up the stairs to their laboratory.

  They were an odd couple, those two old gentlemen with their velvet smoking jackets. After dinner each night they’d go off to their laboratory, and Helen and I were left on our own. I *felt sorry for her; she seemed wistful, and those big grey eyes of hers really melted me. But sometimes I had an idea that she was sizing me up. She used to get me to talk about my business affairs, and in a couple of weeks I’d built up quite a big office and a whole firm around myself. I got to know everyone in it, down to the lowest clerks.

  That was all very well, but what interested me was the laboratory and the search for gold. One night, after Pd heard the uncles going off to bed, I decided to have a look at things for myself.

  I crept into the laboratory through a window that separated it from the upstairs landing. It was an airless summer night: behind me I could hear a nightingale singing in the garden.

  As soon as my eyes accustomed themselves to the semi-darkness, I looked around. There was a strange jumble of globes and bottles—bottles filled with bright, clear liquids; one was red, like blood; there were little crucibles and jars, all labelled; and, by the light of a torch, I saw that there were books around the walls.

  My beam roved around the room. Sulphur…mercury…nitric acid…Queer! Here’s a crystal…and this phial’s labelled ‘Pigeon’s Blood’…What can they want that for…mandragora? There’s a little figure made of wax…so they need that for making gold?’

  I began to wonder; I began to think. I looked at the wax figure and I saw that it was the figure of a child. Then gradually I knew it wasn’t only alchemy the old men practised in that laboratory—it was witchcraft. The landlord had said that crops failed, animals grew sick, and children died. I reached for one of the books, opened it at random, and began to read.

  I read quickly, skipping from sentence to sentence. ‘Make an image in his name, when you would hurt or kill, of virgin wax…the person whose death you desire…to make the Hand of Glory, let the hand of a murdered stranger be cut from him, and the hair of a stranger that is hanged placed within it as a wick. Let it bum through die night, and you shall have power to know all! ’

  If ever the hair rose on my head, it did at that moment. And not only because of what I read. I had also heard a sound: a laugh. But I knew no one was in the room. No one had opened the door. Then I looked again, and saw the old man, Gregory Carew.

  I explained that I had seen a window open and had come in to shut it. When in here I had got interested in the books.

  He looked over my shoulder at the book I was still holding. ’The Hand of Glory, yes.’ he said. ‘A hanged man and a murdered man. One would be fortunate to obtain both the articles required simultaneously.’

  ‘Most fortunate,’ I replied.

  ’One would have to be willing to wait a long time…stranger.’

  There was a long silence. He finally broke,it by saying, ‘And now we will close up the laboratory and go back each to our own room. Let me thank you again for your solicitude. I will show you down the staircase to your room…stranger.’

  He came behind me in the darkness, moving sofdy. The hair was still rising on my head as we went down those stairs, and along the corridor. But at my door he said good night politely, and without another word he left me. I sat in my room for a long time, thinking.

  But in the morning, in the light of day, I laughed at myself. I’d had a nightmare: I’d scared myself over a dream. But all the same, I didn’t particularly care for it when the old man still called me ‘stranger’.

  All next day I thought about Gregory Carew and his brother. In my heart I knew that it wasn’t a dream; and I knew that they were mad, stark staring mad. Obviously they would stop at nothing in their search for the secret of making gold.

  Something warned me to get away—but then there was Helen. I couldn’t leave her. So I told her I wanted her to come away with me. She said she’d do it, and we decided to go next day. I’d no idea where I’d take her, but I couldn’t leave without her.

  That afternoon I saw the uncles walking up the drive. Someone was with them—a tramp, an old, tattered-looking figure who hobbled along between them. They came near, and I stayed hidden behind the arbour.

  They stopped just in front of where I was standing. The tramp, who was obviously on his last legs, was sent to the kitchen to get a hot meal. After that, they told him he might spend the night in the attic. The old ragamuffin was profuse in his thanks.

  He went hobbling up the path towards the kitchen, and I felt there was some good in Helen’s uncles after all. They’d been really solicitous towards the tramp, really pleased to give him a bed for the night. They were pleased: I could see that by their faces.

  They came and sat on the other side of the arbour.

  We’ve waited a long time,’ one said.

  ‘But now we need wait no longer. Two strangers—under the same roof.’

  ’Tonight?’ asked the first. The other apparently nodded his agreement, for the speaker went on: ‘He’ll sleep in the attic. We’ll give him a drug and he’ll sleep very soundly.’

  ‘We’ll hang him before midnight.’

  ’The other shall be first. A knife in his back. First the stranger, then the tramp. It will be easy to explain when the police come.’

  ‘Yes, the tramp murdered the stranger, and hanged himself out of remorse.’

  I began to creep away, but I just caught the words: ’The Hand of Glory at last; so simple, so easy, and for us—the power to know all.’

  So I’d found out the role for which I was being cast. Very nice!

  My first idea was to fetch the police and have the old men put away. But it didn’t happen to suit me to go to the police just at that moment, so I thought I’d work out things in my own way.

  That night I didn’t go to bed. I hid behind the curtains of the big window in my room. Outside, the nightingale was still singing, and the moon shone brightly.

  I waited; and just before midnight the handle of my door began to turn.

  John spoke in a whisper: ‘Have you the knife?’

  ‘I have it here.’ Gregory answered.

  There was a pause; the only sound was that of breathing. Then:

  ‘Have you done it?’

  Suddenly Gregory’s voice broke the silence ’The bed is empty! The stranger has gone!’

  ‘Gone?’

  Their voices were rising to shouts.

  ‘You have betrayed us.’ cried Gregory.

  ‘Liar! liar! It is you have hidden him for your own ends.’

  ‘You’d take the gold from me—your own brother. Where is the stranger?’ His voice was hysterical.

  Both began shouting at once. I caught isolated sentences, here and there, as I leaned back, flat against the window.

  ‘Liar!’

  ‘Let me go, Gregory, or I’ll raise the house!’

  ‘You will not’

  There was a sound of furniture being knocked over.

  ‘Give me the knife.’

  ‘No.:

  ‘Give it me.’

  ‘No! You shall pay—for—what—you have done.’ His breath came in spurts. ’Take that, and that—and tha
t*

  . A scream, a groan, and the sudden silence. I heard the nightingale continue its song.

  It had all happened very quickly. John Carew lay on the floor in the moonlight, in a pool of blood. His brother Gregory was gone.

  But where was the tramp? I rushed up the stairs, and found him peacefully asleep. Gregory Carew was nowhere to be se$n. I ran back, roused the servants, and led them to the laboratory.

  With difficulty we broke down the door. In a far, dim corner, something swung backwards and forwards from a beam. We went up to the thing that hung there…Gregory Carew!

  A murdered man, and a hanged man. The brothers had got their wish all right—the things they wanted for the Hand of Glory.

  The police came, and in deference to Helen there was as little fuss as possible. The facts were too obvious. I stayed a day or two, wondering what I ought to do about her, but she solved the problem herself.

  Uncle Gregory, it appeared, had made a new will just before he died. He had left everything to her. That meant she would be rich, very rich. I asked her when we would be leaving.

  “I’m not leaving now. I’m staying here.’ she replied. T don’t need your money now I’ve got my own.’

  So she had been using me, too. And of the four of us, she was the only one to get the gold, after all!.

  THE HYACINTH PATROL

  by

  Virginia Cooke

  The Panama Canal Zone is a poisonous place . …perhaps that’s why I like it…for in spite of wartime improvements and sanitation, I sensed an air of fetid decay overhanging the place; and the moist brilliant jungle and swamps lie constantly in wait for men and ships like great treacherous beasts. On this particular trip, the air was even more than usually filled with the danger and tension. Why? I decided to lay over for a night or two in Christobal and find out…I found an air-cooled hotel and then sought out the most popular bar in town—a bistro by the charming name of ‘Ptomaine Joe’s’.

  Inside, the air was hot, sticky, and pulsing with the baser human emotions. Tourists and men in uniform jammed the tiny tables, tinier dance floor, and bar, in various stages of perspiration and alcoholism. But since I needed something tall, cool, and with a decided flavour of rum, I decided to take my life in my hands and push my way to the bar.

  I was getting near my goal when the argument between two service men began to get beyond the stage where words are effective. A great red-headed monster of a sergeant took a swing at his buddy, who avoided it most professionally: but the blow didn’t fail to connect with somebody. Who? Your old friend Harry, of course, took it straight on the point of the jaw.

  I must say that no one could have been more apologetic. Inside of two minutes he had me at a table and had bought me a rum and swiggle while he, in turn, was making short work of a bottle of beer. He asked me my name, and I was giving him one of my famous evasive answers, when he started talking about himself:

  ‘Me…I’m Tiger Dolan. Ever heard of me two-three years back?’

  ‘Dolan?’ I mused, sipping my concoction, ‘I don’t believe…’

  He was clearly disappointed: ‘Most promisin’ young middleweight in th’ fight game—that’s what they called me. I was all set fer a try at th’ championship when Uncle Sammy called th’ decision.’

  Things began to get a bit clearer. ’Oh…you’re a boxer. I don’t follow…’

  He interrupted me. ‘Kept up training in th’ Army, of course…have had a few bouts…I’m in better shape than ever…just wait’ll this tea party’s over, pal…and th’ sports writers will be hailin’ Tiger Dolan champion.’

  We made incursions into our drinks, and I watched over the rim of my glass. ‘You know, Tiger,’ I finally said, ‘you’d better do something about that red hair of yours.’

  ‘Whaddya mean?’

  ‘It gets you into too much trouble.’

  He gave a sheepish grin: ‘I get it. I used to keep my fightin’ fer th’ ring, but since Hero shoved me into th’ Hyacinth Patrol…’

  ‘Who…shoved you into what’ I asked.

  ’Th’ Hyacinth Patrol…an’ Hero is th’ louse sittin’ over at that corner table with my gal Lola/

  I took a look, and looking at Lola was like looking into the face of the jungle itself. She was lush, magnificent…and waiting. Her eyes were insolent, her mouth voluptuously curving and cruel, her hair the dark red of ageing blood. She met my gaze…slowly smiled…and then…Tiger brought me back with a jolt.

  ‘Hey…ain’t you listenin’ to me?’

  ’Er…for a louse…as you term him…your lieutenant is well featured.’

  Tiger was bitter: ‘Handsome if you like lizards! I was doing all right with Lola until he moved in. That guy’s fouled me up since boot camp.’ He took a long swig at his beer, and then went on. ‘I almost busted for joy when they transferred me to Panama…studied and worked like mad…looked like I was goin’ to make one of th’ gun crews…Then Lieutenant Nugent was transferred here—to my outfit! He details me to th’ Hyacinth Patrol.’

  ‘Just what is this Hyacinth Patrol that raises your gorge?’ I queried.

  ‘It’s a stinkin’ flower detail, that’s what it is! Clearing water hyacinths outa th’ channels so’s they won’t foul up ships or breed malarial mosquitoes.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. Any more incongruous occupation for Tiger Dolan would be hard to imagine. I looked across at Lola and smiled at her. She returned the courtesy with interest. Lieutenant Nugent caught our pleasant interchange, frowned, and, after a few words with Lola, called the proprietor—Joe—over to their table.

  What he said couldn’t have been intended for our advantage, for when I tried to order another round of drinks, we were politely told that the joint would like things better if we took our custom elsewhere. Tiger reacted to this as might have been expected, and we left the hard way—tossed into the street…on our…well, from one extreme to another!

  Three hours and eight bars later, I was ready to call it a night. By now, Tiger Dolan and I were bosom friends and had arranged to meet on the morrow. Looking forward to a shower and peaceful slumber, I let myself into my room, switched on the light and electric fan, and…there was Lola.

  She wanted to apologise for our over hasty exit…so she said. She also wanted to know what Tiger had told me about her. I said that we had been discussing the flora of the Canal Zone.

  ’Flora?’ she asked.

  ‘Water hyacinths to you.’

  ’That’s why he was glaring at Ross Nugent. He’s never forgiven him for that detail.’

  ’That…among other things,’ I said. She didn’t appear to be anxious to leave, so I tried to use a little persuasion: ‘Good night, Lola,’ I said, and moved towards the door.

  She got up reluctantly. ‘Well…if you want it that way…want to see me tomorrow?’

  ‘Where?’

  ’At my place…23 Villana…when?’

  ‘Darkish…about eight?’

  ‘Good…I’ll be waiting…’

  There was more promise in her smile and eyes than in any heaven ever conceived by man, but I have long since learned that such paradise can hold more torment than that other warmish place conceived by man and lorded over by the Prince of darkness. I escorted Lola to the door…opened it…and…there was Tiger!

  Was Lola put out? Not she. She merely wished me sweet dreams and went on her way. But Tiger’s simple mind was perplexed in the extreme. However, I managed to convince him of my honest intentions towards his erstwhile girl friend, and suggested that the hour was getting a little late for social calls. Tiger, however, had news to give me and wasn’t going to budge until he had told me all.

  ‘Harry, you gotta listen. I, think Nugent’s workin’ for th* enemy.’

  This was too much for me. I tried to persuade him that his health might improve if he exercised more care in his choice of liquors. But he was earnest: ‘I’m not kiddin’,’ he pleaded, ‘a friend of mine just told me…She came into town from th’ swa
mps to tell me…’

  I was amused at this. ‘She. And I thought you were grieving over Lola! Why, Tiger, you old rascal!’

  ‘Will you listen? Rita lives near th’ old French Channel…an’ she’s seen our spit-an’-polish lieutenant goin’ to an ol’ cabin there, owned by a fellow by th’ name of Gibber. How do you like that?’

  ‘Not too well.’ I yawned. ’Tell me about it tomorrow, Tiger.’

  ’Tomorrow’s too late. That’s why I’m tellin’ you now! I want you to go there with me first thing in th’ mornin’.’

  This was too much. ‘My dear Tiger, you’ve already inveigled me into several predicaments, the like of which I usually try to avoid. And now you want me to take a hike in the swamps? ’

  But he was insistent, and I finally gave in: ‘If I say yes, will you leave me alone?’

  ’Until six a.m.’

  So we left it at that until the next morning.

  I’ve never been partial to swamps—they’ve always seemed damp dismal places where all sorts of poisonous insects are flying about. This one proved I’d underestimated their unattractiveness as, in the dingy hours of dawn, Tiger laboriously rowed us through something that was half mud, half glue…and the rest, those cursed water hyacinths.

  After what seemed an age we came to a small dock, and the whole tedious journey seemed worth while. For there was Rita. And as Lola had been all jungle, this small Panamanian girl with glowing black eyes and fawn-like grace, was whatever loveliness that a dawn in the swamplands could hold. She had the quality of…how shall I say it…of just being hatched from some Neanderthal egg, blossoming from an age of ooze and monsters into a new young world. For a moment, as I looked into her young grave face, I felt as young as she…

  She led us up a path that oozed under my feet, and into the shack that sheltered her. It was bare, spotlessly clean and forlorn. But hyacinths bloomed in a milk bottle on the wooden table. It was the gracious touch…Rita’s touch.

  She explained that she lived there alone with her father: her mother was dead. She had met Tiger one day when he was up there on patrol duty, and occasionally went into Cristobal to meet him. Before that she would never have noticed anything odd about an officer like Lieutenant Nugent visiting Gibber.