The Dinner Club Read online

  “I left him to chew over what I’d said and went to bed, feeling infernally sorry for both of them. But the one fact over which there was no doubt whatever in my mind was that if Morrison married Molly Felsted, then Jack Manderby would have to be removed as far as geographically possible from temptation.

  “My remarks apparently had some effect, because the next day Jack buttonholed me on deck.

  “‘I’ve told Molly what you said last night, old man, and we’ve been talking it over. Morrison is meeting her apparently at Rangoon, and she has agreed to tell him what has happened. And when he knows how the land lies it’s bound to be all right. Of course, I’m sorry for him, poor devil, but–’ and he went babbling on in a way common to those in love.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention; I was thinking of Morrison and wondering whether Jack’s optimism was justified. Apart from his moroseness and drinking, there were other stories about the man – stories which are not good to hear about a white man. I’d never paid any heed to them before, but now they came back to me – those rumours of strange things, which only the ignorant sceptic pretends to scorn; strange things done in secret with native priests and holy men; strange things it is not well for the white man to dabble in. And someone had it that Rupert Morrison did more than dabble.”

  The Ordinary Man paused and sipped his whisky.

  “He met the boat at Rangoon,” he continued after a while, “and came on board. Evidently the girl wasted no time in telling him what had occurred, because it was barely ten minutes before I saw him coming towards Jack and myself. There was a smouldering look in his eyes, but outwardly he seemed quite calm. He gave me a curt nod, then he addressed himself exclusively to Jack.

  “‘Miss Felsted has just made a somewhat unexpected announcement to me,’ he remarked.

  “Jack bowed gravely. ‘I am more than sorry, Mr Morrison,’ he said, ‘if it should appear to you that I have acted in any way caddishly.’ He paused a little constrainedly and I moved away. The presence of a third person at such an interview helps nobody. But once or twice I glanced at them during the next quarter of an hour, and it seemed to me that, though he was trying to mask it, the look of smouldering fury in Morrison’s eyes was growing more pronounced. From their attitude it struck me that Jack was protesting against some course of action on which the other was insisting, and I turned out to be right.

  “‘Morrison has made the following proposal,’ he said irritably to me when their conversation had finished. ‘That Molly should be left here in Rangoon with the English chaplain and his wife – apparently he’d fixed that already – and that we – he and I – should both go up country for a month or six weeks. Neither of us to see her during that time, and at the end of it she to be free to choose. As he pointed out, I suppose quite rightly, he had been engaged to her for more than four years, and it was rather rough on him to upset everything for what might prove only a passing fancy, induced by being thrown together on board ship. Of course, I pointed out to him that this was no question of a passing fancy – but he insisted.’

  “‘And you agreed?’ I asked.

  “‘What else could I do?’ he cried. ‘Heaven knows I didn’t want to – it’s such awful rot and waste of time. But I suppose it is rather rough luck on the poor devil, and if it makes it any easier for him to have the agony prolonged a few weeks, it’s up to me to give him that satisfaction.’

  “He went off to talk to the girl, leaving me smoking a cigarette thoughtfully; for, try as I would, I could not rid my mind of the suspicion that there was something behind this suggestion of Morrison’s – something sinister. Fortunately, Jack would be under my eye – in my bungalow; but even so, I felt uneasy. Morrison had been too quiet for safety, bearing in mind what manner of man he was.

  “We landed shortly after and I went round to the club. I didn’t see Morrison – he seemed to have disappeared shortly after his interview with Jack; but he had given the girl full directions as to how to get to the chaplain’s house. Jack took her there, and I’d arranged with him that he should come round after and join me.

  “The first man I ran into was McAndrew – a leather-faced Scotsman from up my part of the country – who was down in Rangoon on business.

  “‘Seen the bridegroom?’ he grunted as soon as he saw me.

  “‘Travelled out with the bride,’ I said briefly, not over-anxious to discuss the matter.

  “‘And what sort of a lassie is she?’ he asked curiously.

  “‘Perfectly charming,’ I answered, ringing the bell for a waiter.

  “‘Is that so?’ he said slowly, and our eyes met. ‘Man,’ he added still more slowly, ‘it should not be, it should not be. Poor lassie! Poor lassie!’

  “And then Jack Manderby came in, and I introduced him to two or three other fellows. I’d arranged to go up country that evening – train to Mandalay, and ride from there the following morning – and Jack, of course, was coming with me. He had said goodbye to the girl; he wasn’t going to see her again before he went up country, and we spent the latter part of the afternoon pottering round Rangoon. And it was as we were strolling down one of the native bazaars that he suddenly caught my arm.

  “‘Look – there’s Morrison!’ he muttered. ‘I distinctly saw his face peering out of that shop.’

  “I looked in the direction he was pointing. It was an ordinary native shop where one could buy ornaments and musical instruments and trash like that – but of Morrison I could see no sign.

  “‘I don’t see him,’ I said; ‘and anyway there is no reason why he shouldn’t be in the shop if he wants to.’

  “‘But he suddenly vanished,’ persisted Jack, ‘as if he didn’t want to be seen.’ He walked on with me slowly. ‘I don’t like that man, Hugh; I hate the swine. And it’s not because of Molly, either.’

  “He shut up at that, and I did not pursue the topic. It struck me that we should have quite enough of Morrison in the next few weeks.”

  The Ordinary Man paused and lit a cigarette; then he smiled a little grimly.

  “I don’t know what I expected,” he continued thoughtfully: “I certainly never said a word to Jack as to my vague suspicions. But all the time during the first fortnight, while he was settling down into the job, I had the feeling that there was danger in the air. And then, when nothing happened, my misgivings began to go.

  “After all, I said to myself, what could happen, anyway? And perhaps I had misjudged Rupert Morrison. On the two or three occasions that we met him he seemed perfectly normal; and though, somewhat naturally, he was not over effusive to Jack, that was hardly to be wondered at.

  “And then one morning Jack came to breakfast looking as if he hadn’t slept very well. I glanced at him curiously, but made no allusion to his appearance.

  “‘Did you hear that music all through the night?’ he said irritably, halfway through the meal. ‘Some infernal native playing a pipe or something just outside my window.’

  “‘Why didn’t you shout at him to stop?’ I asked.

  “‘I did. And I got up and looked.’ He took a gulp of tea; then he looked at me as if he were puzzled.

  “‘There was no one there that I could see. Only something black that moved over the compound, about the size of a kitten.’

  “‘He was probably just inside the jungle beyond the clearing,’ I said. ‘Heave half a brick at him if you hear it again.’

  “We said no more, and I dismissed the matter from my mind. I was on the opposite side of the bungalow, and it would take more than a native playing on a pipe to keep me awake. But the following night the same thing happened – and the next, and the next.

  “‘What sort of a noise is it?’ I asked him. ‘Surely to Heaven you’re sufficiently young and healthy not to be awakened by a bally fellow whistling?’

  “‘It isn’t that that wakes me, Hu
gh,’ he answered slowly. ‘I wake before it starts. Each night about the same time I suddenly find myself wide awake – listening. Sometimes it’s ten minutes before it starts – sometimes almost at once; but it always comes. A faint, sweet whistle – three or four notes, going on and on – until I think I’ll go mad. It seems to be calling me.’

  “‘But why the devil don’t you go and see what it is?’ I cried peevishly.

  “‘Because’ – and he stared at me with a shamefaced expression in his eyes – ‘because I daren’t.’

  “‘Rot!’ I said angrily. ‘Look here, young fellow, nerves are bad things anywhere – here they’re especially bad. You pull yourself together.’

  “He flushed all over his face, and shut up like an oyster, which made me rather sorry I’d spoke so sharply. But one does hear funny noises in the jungle, and it doesn’t do to become fanciful.

  “And then one evening McAndrew came over to dinner. It was during the meal that I mentioned Jack’s nocturnal serenader, expecting that Mac would treat it as lightly as I did.

  “‘Seven times you’ve heard him, Jack, haven’t you,’ I said, ‘and always the same tune?’

  “‘Always the same tune,’ he answered quietly.

  “‘Can you whistle it now?’ asked McAndrew, laying down his knife and fork and staring at Jack.

  “‘Easily,’ said Jack. ‘It goes like this’ – and he whistled about six notes. ‘On and on it goes – never varying – Why, McAndrew, what the devil is the matter?’

  “I glanced at McAndrew in amazement; then out of the corner of my eye I saw the native servant, who was shivering like a jelly.

  “‘Man – are you sure?’ said Mac, and his face was white.

  “‘Of course I’m sure,’ answered Jack quietly. ‘Why?’

  “‘That tune you whistled – is not good for a white man to hear.’ The Scotsman seemed strangely uneasy. ‘And ye’ve heard it seven nights? Do you know it, Walton?’

  “‘I do not,’ I said grimly. ‘What’s the mystery?’

  “But McAndrew was shaking his head dourly, and for a while he did not answer.

  “‘Mind ye,’ he said at length, ‘I’m not saying there’s anything in it at all, but I would not care to hear that whistled outside my window. I heard it once – years ago – when I was ’way up in the Arakan Mountains. Soft and sweet it was – rising and falling in the night air, and going on ceaselessly. ’Way up above me was a monastery, one into which no white man has ever been. And the noise was coming from there. I had to go; my servants wouldn’t stop. And when I asked them why, they told me that the priests were calling for a sacrifice. If they stopped, they told me, it might be one of us. That no one could tell how Death would come, or to whom, but come it must – when the Pipes of Death were heard. And the tune you whistled, Manderby, was the tune the Pipes of Death were playing.’

  “‘But that’s all bunkum, Mac,’ I said angrily. ‘We’re not in the Arakans here.’

  “‘Maybe,’ he answered doggedly. ‘But I’m a Highlander, and – I would not care to hear that tune.’

  “I could see Jack was impressed; as a matter of fact I was myself – more than I cared to admit. Sounds rot here, I know, but out there, with the dim-lit forest around one, it was different.

  “McAndrew was stopping with us that night. Jack, with the stubbornness of the young, had flatly refused to change his room, and turned in early, while Mac and I sat up talking. And it was not till we went to bed ourselves that I again alluded to the whistle.

  “‘You don’t really think it meant anything, Mac, do you?’ I asked him, and he shrugged his shoulders.

  “‘Maybe it is just a native who has heard it,’ he said guardedly, and further than that he refused to commit himself.

  “I suppose it was about two o’clock when I was awakened by a hand being thrust through my mosquito curtains.

  “‘Walton, come at once!’ It was McAndrew’s voice, and it was shaking. ‘There’s devil’s work going on, I tell you – devil’s work.’

  “I was up in a flash, and together we crept along the passage towards Jack’s room. Almost instinctively I’d picked up a gun, and I held it ready as we paused by the door.

  “‘Do you hear it?’ whispered Mac a little fearfully, and I nodded. Sweet and clear the notes rose and fell, on and on and on in the same cadence. Sometimes the whistler seemed to be far away, at others almost in the room.

  “‘It’s the tune,’ muttered McAndrew, as we tiptoed towards the bed. ‘The Pipes of Death. Are ye awake, boy?’

  “And then he gave a little cry and gripped my arm.

  “‘In God’s name,’ he whispered, ‘what’s that on the pillow beside his head?’

  “For a while in the dim light I couldn’t make out. There was something big and black and motionless on the white pillow, and I crept nearer to see what it was. And then suddenly my heart seemed to stand still. I saw two beady, unwinking eyes staring at Jack’s face close by; I saw Jack’s eyes wide open and sick with terror staring at the thing which shared his bed. And still the music went on outside.

  “‘What is it?’ I muttered through dry lips.

  “‘Give me your gun, man,’ whispered McAndrew hoarsely. ‘If the pipes stop, the boy’s doomed.’

  “Slowly he raised the gun an inch at a time, pushing the muzzle forward with infinite care towards the malignant, glowing eyes, until at last the gun was almost touching its head. And at that moment the music died away and stopped altogether. I had the momentary glimpse of two black feelers shooting out towards Jack’s face – then came the crack of the gun. And with a little sob Jack rolled out of bed and lay on the floor half-fainting, while the black mass on the pillow writhed and writhed and then grew still.

  “We struck a light, and stared at what was left of the thing in silence. And it was Jack who spoke first.

  “‘I woke,’ he said unsteadily, ‘to feel something crawling over me on the bed. Outside that infernal whistling was going on, and at last I made out what was – what was – My God!’ he cried thickly, ‘what was it, Mac – what was it?’

  “‘Steady, boy!’ said McAndrew. ‘It’s dead now, anyway. But it was touch and go. I’ve seen ’em bigger than that up in the Arakans. It’s a bloodsucking, poisonous spider. They’re sacred to some of the sects.’

  Suddenly out of the jungle came one dreadful, piercing cry.

  “‘What was that?’ Jack muttered, and McAndrew shook his head.

  “‘We’ll find out tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There are strange things abroad tonight.’

  “We saw the darkness out – the three of us – round a bottle of whisky.

  “‘They’ve been trying to get you for a week, Manderby,’ said the Scotsman. ‘Tonight they very near succeeded.’

  “‘But why?’ cried Jack. ‘I’ve never done ’em any harm.’

  “McAndrew shrugged his shoulders.

  “‘Don’t ask me that,’ he answered. ‘Their ways are not our ways.’

  “‘Has that brute been in my room every night?’ the boy asked.

  “‘Every night,’ answered McAndrew gravely. ‘Probably two of them. They hunt them in pairs. They starve ’em, and then, when the music stops, they feed.’ He thoughtfully poured out some more whisky.

  “And then at last came the dawn, and we went out to investigate. It was Jack who found him. The face was puffed and horrible, and as we approached, something black, about the size of a big kitten, moved away from the body and shambled sluggishly into the undergrowth.

  “‘You’re safe, boy,’ said McAndrew slowly. ‘It was not the priests at all. Just murder – plain murder.’

  “And with that he took his handkerchief and covered the dreadful, staring eyes of Rupert Morrison.”

  Chapter 5

  The Soldier’s Story, bei
ng A Bit of Orange Peel

  “You can set your minds at rest about one thing, you fellows,” began the Soldier, with a grin. “My yarn isn’t about the war. There have been quite enough lies told already about that performance without my adding to the number. No; my story concerns peace soldiering, and, strangely enough, I had an ocular demonstration when dining at the Ritz two nights ago that everything had finished up quite satisfactorily, in the approved storybook manner. At least, when I say quite satisfactorily – there was a price, and it was paid by one of the principal actors. But that is the unchangeable rule: one can but shrug one’s shoulders and pay accordingly.

  “The regiment – I was a squadron-leader at the time – was quartered at Murchester. Not a bad station at all: good shooting, very fair hunting, especially if you didn’t scorn the carted stag, polo, and most excellent cricket. Also some delightful houses in the neighbourhood; and as we’d just come home from our foreign tour we found the place greatly to our liking. London was an hour and a bit by train; in fact, there are many worse stations in England than the spot I have labelled Murchester.

  “The only fly in the ointment when we first arrived was a fairly natural one, and a thing which only time could cure. The men were a bit restive. We’d been abroad, don’t forget, for more than ten years – India, Egypt, South Africa – and the feel of the old country under their feet unsettled ’em temporarily. Nothing very bad, but an epidemic of absence without leave and desertion broke out, and the officers had to settle down to pull things together. Continual courts-martial for desertion don’t do a regiment any good with the powers that be, and we had to stop it.

  “Of course, one of the first things to look to, when any trouble of that sort is occurring, is the general type and standard of your NCOs. In my squadron they were good, though just a little on the young side. I remember one day I discussed the matter pretty thoroughly with the squadron sergeant-major – an absolute top-notcher.