The Dark Star by Robert W. Chambers (best fiction novels of all time TXT) 📖

rubber band for a moment, released it. The door opened very slowly.

For a few seconds two dark eyes were visible between door and curtain, regarding intently the figure lying prone upon the floor. Then the curtain was twitched noiselessly aside; a young woman in the garb of a trained nurse stepped swiftly into the stateroom on tip-toe, followed by a big, good-looking, blue-eyed man wearing a square golden beard.

The man, who carried with him a pair of crutches, but who did not appear to require their aid, hastily set the dinner-tray and camp-table outside in the corridor, then closed and bolted the door.

Already the nurse was down on her knees beside the fallen man, trying to loosen his grasp on the box. Then her face blanched. 204

“It’s like the rigor of death itself,” she whispered fearfully over her shoulder. “Could I have given him enough to kill him?”

“He took only half a cup and a swallow of water. No.”

“I can’t get his hand free––”

“Wait! I try!” He pulled a big, horn-handled clasp-knife from his pocket and deliberately opened the eight-inch blade.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, seizing his wrist. “Don’t do that!”

The man with the golden beard hesitated, then shrugged, pocketed his knife, and seized Neeland’s rigidly clenched hand.

“You are right. It makes too much muss!” tugging savagely at the clenched and unconscious hand. “Sacreminton! What for a death-grip is this Kerls? If I cut his hand off so iss there blood and gossip right away already. No—too much muss. Wait! I try another way––”

Neeland groaned.

“Oh, don’t! Don’t!” faltered the girl. “You’re breaking his wrist––”

“Ugh!” grunted her companion; “I try; I can it not accomplish. See once if the box opens!”

“It is locked.”

“Search this pig-dog for the key!”

She began a hurried search of Neeland’s clothing; presently discovered her own handkerchief; thrust it into her apron pocket, and continued rummaging while the bearded man turned his attention to the automatic pistol. This he finally succeeded in disengaging, and he laid it on the wash basin.

“Here are his keys,” whispered the nurse feverishly, 205 holding them up against the dim circle of evening sky framed by the open port. “You had better light the stateroom; I can’t see. Hurry! I think he is beginning to recover.”

When the bearded man had switched on the electric light he returned to kneel once more beside the inert body on the floor, and began to pull and haul and tug at the box and attempt to insert the key in the lock. But the stiffened clutch of the drugged man made it impossible either to release the box or get at the keyhole.

“Ach, was! Verflüchtete’ schwein-hund––!” He seized the rigid hand and, exerting all the strength of a brutally inflamed fury, fairly ripped loose the fingers.

“Also!” he panted, seizing the stiffened body from the floor and lifting it. “Hold you him by the long and Yankee legs once, und I push him out––”

“Out of the port?”

“Gewiss! Otherwise he recovers to raise some hell!”

“It is not necessary. How shall this man know?”

“You left your handkerchief. He iss no fool. He makes a noise. No, it iss safer we push him overboard.”

“I’ll take the papers to Karl, and then I can remain in my stateroom––”

“No! Lift his legs, I tell you! You want I hold him in my arms all day while you talk, talk, talk! You take his legs right away quick––!”

He staggered a few paces forward with his unwieldy burden and, setting one knee on the sofa, attempted to force Neeland’s head and shoulders through the open port. At the same moment a rapid knocking sounded outside the stateroom door.

“Quick!” breathed the nurse. “Throw him on his bed!” 206

The blue-eyed, golden-bearded man hesitated, then as the knocking sounded again, imperative, persistent, he staggered to the bed with his burden, laid it on the pillows, seized his crutches, rested on them, breathing heavily, and listening to the loud and rapid knocking outside the door.

“We’ve got to open,” she whispered. “Don’t forget that we found him unconscious in the corridor!” And she slid the bolt noiselessly, opened the stateroom door, and stepped outside the curtain into the corridor.

The cockney steward stood there with a messenger.

“Wireless for Mr. Neeland––” he began; but his speech failed and his jaw fell at sight of the nurse in her cap and uniform. And when, on his crutches, the bearded man emerged from behind the curtain, the steward’s eyes fairly protruded.

“The young gentleman is ill,” explained the nurse coolly. “Mr. Hawks heard him fall in the corridor and came out on his crutches to see what had happened. I chanced to be passing through the main corridor, fortunately. I am doing what I can for the young gentleman.”

“Ow,” said the steward, staring over her shoulder at the bearded man on crutches.

“There iss no need of calling the ship’s doctor,” said the man on crutches. “This young woman iss a hospital nurse und she iss so polite and obliging to volunteer her service for the poor young gentleman.”

“Yes,” she said carelessly, “I can remain here for an hour or two with him. He requires only a few simple remedies—I’ve already given him a sedative, and he is sleeping very nicely.”

“Yess, yess; it iss not grave. Pooh! It is notting. He slip and knock his head. Maybe too much 207 tchampagne. He sleep, and by and by he feel better. It iss not advisable to make a fuss. So! We are not longer needed, steward. I return to my room.”

And, nodding pleasantly, the bearded man hobbled out on his crutches and entered his own stateroom across the passage.

“Steward,” said the nurse pleasantly, “you may leave the wireless telegram with me. When Mr. Neeland wakes I’ll read it to him––”

“Give that telegram to me!” burst out a ghostly voice from the curtained room behind her.

Every atom of colour left her face, and she stood there as though stiffened into marble. The steward stared at her. Still staring, he passed gingerly in front of her and entered the curtained room.

Neeland was lying on his bed as white as death; but his eyes fluttered open in a dazed way:

“Steward,” he whispered.

“Yes, sir, Mr. Neeland.”

“My—box.” His eyes closed.

“Box, sir?”

“Where—is—it?”

“Which box, sir? Is it this one here on the floor?”—lifting the olive-wood box in its case. The key was in the lock; the other keys hung from it, dangling on a steel ring.

The nurse stepped calmly into the room.

“Steward,” she said in her low, pleasant voice, “the sedative I gave him has probably confused his mind a little––”

“Put that box—under—my head,” interrupted Neeland’s voice like a groan.

“I tell you,” whispered the nurse, “he doesn’t know what he is saying.” 208

“I got to obey him, ma’am––”

“I forbid you––”

“Steward!” gasped Neeland.

“Sir?”

“My box. I—want it.”

“Certainly, sir––”

“Here, beside my—pillow.”

“Yes, sir.” He laid the box beside the sick man.

“Is it locked, steward?”

“Key sticking in it, sir. Yes, it’s locked, sir.”

“Open.”

The nurse, calm, pale, tight-lipped, stood by the curtain looking at the bed over which the steward leaned, opening the box.

“’Ere you are, sir,” he said, lifting the cover. “I say, nurse, give ’im a lift, won’t you?”

The nurse coolly stepped to the bedside, stooped, raised the head and shoulders of the prostrate man. After a moment his eyes unclosed; he looked at the contents of the box with a perceptible effort.

“Lock it, steward. Place it beside me.... Next the wall.... So.... Place the keys in my pocket.... Thank you.... I had a—pistol.”

“Sir?”

“A pistol. Where is it?”

The steward’s roving glance fell finally upon the washbasin. He walked over, picked up the automatic, and, with an indescribable glance at the nurse, laid it across Neeland’s up-turned palm.

The young man’s fingers fumbled it, closed over the handle; and a ghost of a smile touched his ashen face.

“Do you feel better, sir?”

“I’m tired.... Yes, I feel—better.”

“Can I do anything for you, Mr. Neeland?” 209

“Stay outside—my door.”

“Do you wish the doctor, sir?”

“No.... No!... Don’t call him; do you hear?”

“I won’t call him, sir.”

“No, don’t call him.”

“No, sir.... Mr. Neeland, there is a—a trained nurse here. You will not want her, will you, sir?”

Again the shadow of a smile crept over Neeland’s face.

“Did she come for—her handkerchief?”

There was a silence; the steward looked steadily at the nurse; the nurse’s dark eyes were fixed on the man lying there before her.

“You shan’t be wanting her any more, shall you, sir?” repeated the steward, not shifting his gaze.

“Yes; I think I shall want her—for a little while.”... Neeland slowly opened his eyes, smiled up at the motionless nurse: “How are you, Scheherazade?” he said weakly. And, to the steward, with an effort: “Miss White and I are—old friends.... However—kindly remain outside—my door.... And throw what remains of my dinner—out of—the port.... And be ready—at all times—to look after the—gentleman on crutches.... I’m—fond of him.... Thank you, steward.”

Long after the steward had closed the stateroom door, Ilse Dumont stood beside Neeland’s bed without stirring. Once or twice he opened his eyes and looked at her humorously. After a while he said:

“Please be seated, Scheherazade.”

She calmly seated herself on the edge of his couch.

“Horrid soup,” he murmured. “You should attend a cooking school, my dear.” 210

She regarded him absently, as though other matters absorbed her.

“Yes,” he repeated, “as a cook you’re a failure, Scheherazade. That broth which you seasoned for me has done funny things to my eyes, too. But they’re recovering. I see much better already. My vision is becoming sufficiently clear to observe how pretty you are in your nurse’s cap and apron.”

A slow colour came into her face and he saw her eyebrows bend inward as though she were annoyed.

“You are pretty, Scheherazade,” he repeated. “You know you are, don’t you? But you’re a poor cook and a rotten shot. You can’t be perfection, you know. Cheer up!”

She ignored the suggestion, her dark eyes brooding and remote again; and he lay watching her with placid interest in which no rancour remained. He was feeling decidedly better every minute now. He lifted the automatic pistol and shoved it under his pillow, then cautiously flexed his fingers, his arms, and finally his knees, with increasing pleasure and content.

“Such dreadful soup,” he said. “But I’m a lot better, thank you. Was it to have been murder this time, too, Scheherazade? Would the entire cupful have made a pretty angel of me? Oh, fie! Naughty Scheherazade!”

She remained mute.

“Didn’t you mean manslaughter with intent to exterminate?” he insisted, watching her.

Perhaps she was thinking of her blond and bearded companion, and the open port, for she made no reply.

“Why didn’t you let him heave me out?” inquired Neeland. “Why did you object?” 211

At that she reddened to the roots of her hair, understanding that what she feared had been true—that Neeland, while physically helpless, had retained sufficient consciousness to be aware of what was happening to him and to understand at least a part of the conversation.

“What was the stuff with which you flavoured that soup, Scheherazade?”

He was merely baiting her; he did not expect any reply; but, to his surprise, she answered him:

“Threlanium—Speyer’s solution is what I used,” she said with a sort of listless effrontery.

“Don’t know it. Don’t like it, either. Prefer other condiments.”

He lifted himself on one elbow, remained propped so, tore open his wireless telegram, and, after a while, contrived to read it: