The End of the Road
The man laughed.It was a faint cynical murmur of a laugh. Its expression hardlydisturbed the composition of his features."I fear, Lady Muriel," he said, "that your profession is ruined.Our friend - `over the water' - is no longer concerned about theaffairs of England."The woman fingered at her gloves, turning them back about thewrists. Her face was anxious and drawn."I am rather desperately in need of money," she said.The cynicism deepened in the man's face."Unfortunately," he replied, "a supply of money cannot beinfluenced by the intensity of one's necessity for it."He was a man indefinite in age. His oily black hair was brushedcarefully back. His clothes were excellent, with a precisedetail. Everything about him was conspicuously correct in theEnglish fashion. But the man was not English. One could not sayfrom what race he came. Among the races of Southern Europe hecould hardly have been distinguished. There was a chameleonquality strongly dominant in the creature.The woman looked up quickly, as in a strong aversion."What shall you do?" she said."I?"The man glanced about the room. There was a certain displaywithin the sweep of his vision. Some rugs of great value, vasesand bronzes; genuine and of extreme age. He made a carelessgesture with his hands."I shall explore some ruins in Syria, and perhaps the aqueductwhich the French think carried a water supply to the Carthage ofHanno. It will be convenient to be beyond British inquiry forsome years to come; and after all, I am an antiquarian, likeProsper Merimee."Lady Muriel continued to finger her gloves. They had beencleaned and the cryptic marks of the shopkeeper were visiblealong the inner side of the wrist hem. This was, to the woman,the first subterfuge of decaying smartness. When a woman beganto send her gloves to the laundry she was on her way down. Otherevidences were not entirely lacking in the woman's dress, butthey were not patent to the casual eye. Lady Muriel was still,to the observer, of the gay top current in the London world.The woman followed the man's glance about the room."You must be rich, Hecklemeir," she said. "Lend me a hundredpounds."The man laughed again in his queer chuckle."Ah, no, my Lady," he replied, "I do not lend." Then he added."If you have anything of value, bring it to me . . . . notinformation from the ministry, and not war plans; the trade insuch commodities is ended."It was the woman's turn to laugh."The shopkeepers in Oxford Street have been before you, Baron . .. . I've nothing to sell."Hecklemeir smiled, kneading his pudgy hands."It will be hard to borrow," he said. "Money is very dear to theBritisher just now - right against his heart . . . . Still. . . .perhaps one's family could be thumb screwed. . . . . .An elderlyrelative with no children would be the most favorable, I think.Have you got such a relative concealed somewhere in a nook ofLondon? Think about it. If you could recall one, he would belike a buried nut."The man paused; then he added, with the offensive chucklinglaugh:"Go to such an one, Lady Muriel. Who shall turn aside fromvirtue in distress? Perhaps, in the whole of London, I alonehave the brutality - shall we call it - to resist thatspectacle."The woman rose. Her face was now flushed and angry."I do not know of any form of brutality in which you do notexcel, Hecklemeir," she said. "I have a notion to, go toScotland Yard with the whole story of your secret traffic."The man continued to smile."Alas, my Lady," he replied, "we are coupled together. ScotlandYard would hardly separate us . . . . you could scarcely manageto drown me and, keep afloat yourself. Dismiss the notion; it isfrom the pit."There was no virtue in her threat as the woman knew. Already hermind was on the way that Hecklemeir had ironically suggested - anelderly relative, with no children, from whom one might borrow, -she valued the ramifications of her family, running out to theremote, withered branches of that noble tree. She appraised theindividuals and rejected them.Finally her searching paused.There was her father's brother who had gone in for science -deciding against the army and the church - Professor BramwellWinton, the biologist. He lived somewhere toward Covent Garden.She had not thought of him for years. Occasionally his nameappeared in some note issued by the museum, or a college atOxford.For almost four years she had been relieved of this thought aboutone's family. The one "over the water" for whom Hecklemeir hadstolen the Scottish toast to designate, had paid lavishly forwhat she could find out.She had been richly, for these four years, in funds.The habit was established of dipping her hand into the dish. Andnow to find the dish empty appalled her. She could not believethat it was empty. She had come again, and again to thisapartment above the shops in Regent Street, selected for itssafety of ingress; a modiste and a hairdresser on either side ofa narrow flight of steps.A carriage could stop here; one could be seen here.Even on the right, above, at the landing of the flight of stepsNance Coleen altered evening gowns with the skill of one alteringthe plumage of the angels. It must have cost the one "over thewater" a pretty penny to keep this whole establishment runningthrough four years of war.She spoke finally."Have you a directory of London, Hecklemeir?"The man had been watching her closely."If it is Scotland Yard, my Lady," he said, "you will not requirea direction. I can give you the address. It is on theEmbankment, near . . . ""Don't be a fool, Hecklemeir," she interrupted, and taking thebook from his hands, she whipped through the pages, got theaddress she sought, and went out onto the narrow landing and downthe steps into Regent Street:She took a hansom.With some concern she examined the contents of her purse. Therewas a guinea, a half crown and some shillings in it - the dust ofthe bin. And her profession, as Hecklemeir had said, was ended.She leaned over, like a man, resting her arms on the closeddoors.The future looked troublous. Money was the blood current in thelife she knew. It was the vital element. It must be got.And thus far she had been lucky.Even in this necessity Bramwell Winton had emerged, when shecould not think of any one. He would not have much. Thesescientific creatures never accumulated money, but he would have ahundred pounds. He had no wife or children to scatter theshillings of his income.True these creatures spent a good deal on the absurd rubbish oftheir hobbies. But they got money sometimes, not by thrift butby a sort of chance. Had not one of them, Sir Isaac Martin,found the lost mines from which the ancient civilization of Syriadrew its supply of copper. And Hector Bartlett, little more thana mummy in the Museum, had gone one fine day into Asia and dug upthe gold plates that had roofed a temple of the Sun.He had been shown in the drawing rooms, on his return, and shehad stopped a moment to look him over - he was a sort of mummy.She was not hoping to find Bramwell Winton one of these elect.But he was a hive that had not been plundered.She reflected, sitting bent forward in the hansom, her facedetermined and unchanging. She did not undertake to go forwardbeyond the hundred pounds. Something would turn up. She waslucky . . . others had gone to the tower; gone before the firingsquad for lesser activities in what Hecklemeir called herprofession, but she had floated through . . . carrying what shegleaned to the paymaster. Was it skill, or was she a "child ofFortune?And like every gambler, like every adventurer in a life ofhazard, she determined for the favorite of some immense Fatality.It was an old house she came to, built in the prehistoric age ofLondon, with thick, heavy walls, one of a row, deadly in itsmonotony. The row was only partly tenanted.She dismissed the hansom and got out.It was a moment before she found the number. The housesadjoining on either side were empty, the windows were shuttered.One might have considered the middle house with the two, for itsstep was unscrubbed, and it presented unwashed windows.It was a heavy, deep-walled structure like a monument. Even thestreet in the vicinity was empty. If the biologist had beenseeking an undisturbed quarter of London, he had, beyond doubt,found it here.There was a bridged-over court before the house. Lady Murielcrossed. She paused before the door. There had been a bell pullin the wall, but the brass handle was broken and only the wireremained.She was uncertain whether one was supposed to pull this wire, andin the hesitation she took hold of the door latch. To hersurprise the door yielded, and following the impulse of herextended hand, she went in.The hall was empty. There was no servant to be seen. Andimmediately the domestic arrangement of the biologist were clearto her. They would be that of one who had a cleaning woman in oncertain days, and so lived alone. She was not encouraged by thiseconomy, and yet such a custom in a man like Bramwell Wintonmight be habit.The scientist, in the popular conception, was not concerned withthe luxury of life - they were a rum lot.But the house was not empty. A smart hat and stick were in therack and from what should be a drawing room, above, theredescended faintly the sound of voices.It seemed ridiculous to Lady Muriel to go out and struggle withthe broken bell wire. She would go up, now that she had entered,and announce herself, since, in any event, it must come to that.The heavy oak door closed without a sound, as -it had opened.Lady Muriel went up the stairway. She had nothing to put down.The only thing she carried was a purse, and lest it should appearsuggestive - as of one coming with his empty wallet in his hand -she tucked the gold mesh into the bosom of her jacket.The door to the drawing room was partly open, and as Lady Murielapproached the top of the stair she heard the voices of two menin an eager colloquy; a smart English accent from the world thatshe was so desperately endeavoring to remain in, and a voice thatpaused and was unhurried. But they were both eager, as I havewritten, as though commonly impulsed by an unusual concern.And now that she was near, Lady Muriel realized that theconversation was not low or under uttered. The smart voice was,in fact, loud and incisive. It was the heavy house that reducedthe sounds. In fact, the conversation was keyed up. The two menwere excited about something.A sentence arrested the woman's advancing feet."My word! Bramwell, if some one should go there and bring thethings out, he would make a fortune, and would be famous. Nobodyever believed these stories.""There was Le Petit, Sir Godfrey," replied the deliberate voice."He declared over his signature that he had seen them.""But who believed Le Petit," continued the other. "The worldtook him to be a French imaginist like Chateaubriand . . . whothe devil, Bramwell, supposed there was any truth in this oldstory? But by gad, sir, it's true! The water color shows it,and if you turn it over you will see that the map on the back ofit gives the exact location of the spot. It's all exact work,even the fine lines of the map have the bearings indicated. Theman who made that water color, and the drawing on the back of it,had been on the spot."Of course, we don't know conclusively who made it. Tony hadgone in from the West coast after big, game, and he found thething put up as a sort of fetish in a devil house. It was one ofthe tribes near the Karamajo range. As I told you, we have onlyTony's diary for it. I found the thing among his effects afterhe was killed in Flanders. It's pretty certain Tony did notunderstand the water color. There was only this single entry inthe diary about how he found it, and a query in pencil."My word! if he had understood the water color, he would havebeaten over every foot of Africa to Lake Leopold. And it wouldhave been the biggest find of his time. Gad! what a splash he'dhave made! But he never had any luck, the beggar . . . stopped aGerman bullet in the first week out."Now, how the devil, Bramwell, do you suppose that water colorgot into a native medicine house?"The reflective voice replied slowly."I've thought about the thing, Sir Godfrey. It must have beenthe work of the Holland explorer, Maartin. He was all about inAfrica, and he died in there somewhere, at least he never cameout . . . that was ten years ago. I've looked him up, and I findthat he could do a water color-in fact there's a collection ofhis water colors in, the Dutch museum. They're very fine work,like this one; exquisite, I'd say. The fellow was born anartist."How it got into the hands of a native devil doctor is notdifficult to imagine. The sleeping sickness may have wipedMaartin out, or the natives may have rushed his camp somemorning, or he may have been mauled by a beast. Any article of awhite man is medicine stuff you know. When you first showed methe thing I was puzzled. I knew what it was because I had readLe Petit's pretension . . . I can't call it a pretension now; thethings are there whether he saw them or not."I think he did not see them. But it is certain from this watercolor that some one did; and Maartin is the only explorer thatcould have done such a color. As soon as I thought of Maartin Iknew the thing could have been done by no other."Lady Muriel had remained motionless on the stair. The door tothe drawing room, before her, was partly open. She stepped in tothe angle of the wall and drew the door slowly back until itcovered this angle in which she stood.She was rich in such experiences, for her success had depended,not a little, on overhearing what was being said. Through thecrack of the door the whole interior of the room was visible.Sir Godfrey Halleck, a little dapper man, was sitting across thetable from Bramwell Winton. His elbows were on the table, and hewas looking eagerly at the biologist. Bramwell Winton had in hishands the thing under discussion.It seemed to be a piece of cardboard or heavy paper about sixinches in length by, perhaps, four in width. Lady Muriel couldnot see what was drawn or painted on this paper. But the heartin her bosom quickened. She had chanced on the spoor ofsomething worth while.The little dapper man flung his head up."Oh, it's certain, Bramwell; it's beyond any question now. Myword! If Tony were only alive, or I twenty years younger! It'sno great undertaking, to go in to the Karamajo Mountains. Onecould start from the West Coast, unship any place and pick up abunch of natives. The map on the back of the water color isaccurate. The man who made that knew how to travel in an unknowncountry. He must have had a theodolite and the very bestequipment. Anybody could follow that map."There was a battered old dispatch box on the table beside SirGodfrey's arm - one that had seen rough service."Of course," he went on, "we don't know when Tony picked up thisdrawing. It was in this box here with his diary, an automaticpistol and some quinine. The date of the diary entry is the onlyclue. That would indicate that he was near the Karamajo range atthe time, not far from the spot."He snapped his fingers."What damned luck!"He clinched his hands and brought them down on the table."I'm nearly seventy, Bramwell, but you're ten years under that.You could go in. No one need know the object of your expedition.Hector Bartlett didn't tell the whole of England when he went outto Syria for the gold plates. A scientist can go anywhere. Noone wonders what he is about. It wouldn't take three months.And the climate isn't poisonous. I think it's mostly highground. Tony didn't complain about it."The biologist answered without looking up."I haven't got the money, Sir Godfrey."The dapper little man jerked his head as over a triviality."I'll stake you. It wouldn't cost above five hundred pounds."The biologist sat back in his chair, at the words, and lookedover the table at his guest."That's awfully decent of you, Godfrey," he said, "and I'd go ifI saw a way to get your money to you if anything happened.""Damn the money!" cried the other.The biologist smiled."Well," he said, "let me think about it. I could probably fix upsome sort of insurance. Lloyd's will bet nearly any sane manthat he won't die for three months. And besides I should wish tolook things up a little."Sir Godfrey rose."Oh, to be sure," he said, "you want to make certain about thething. We might be wrong. I hadn't an idea what it was until Ibrought it to you, and of course Tony hadn't an idea. Makecertain of it by all means."The biologist extended his long legs under the table. Heindicated the water color in his hand."This thing's certain," he said. "I know what this thing is."He rapped the water color with the fingers of his free hand."This thing was painted on the spot. Maartin was looking at thisthing when he painted it. You can see the big shadowsunderneath. No living creature could have imagined this orpainted it from hearsay. He had to see it. And he did see it.I wasn't thinking about this, Godfrey. I was thinking the Dutchgovernment might help a bit in the hope of finding some trace ofMaartin and I should wish to examine any information they mighthave about him.""Damn the Dutch government!" cried the little man. "And damnLloyd's. We will go it on our own hook."The biologist smiled."Let me think about it, a little," he said.The dapper man flipped a big watch out of his waistcoat pocket."Surely!" he cried, "I must get the next train up. Have you gota place to lock the stuff? I had to cut this lid open with achisel."He indicated the tin dispatch box."Better keep it all. You'll want to run through the diary, Iimagine. Tony's got down the things explorer chaps are alwayskeen about; temperature, water supply, food and all that. . . . .Now, I'm off.See you Thursday afternoon at the United Service Club. Betterlunch with me."Then he pushed the dispatch box across the table. The biologistrose and turned back the lid of the box. The contents remainedas Sir Godfrey's dead son had left them; a limp leather diary, anautomatic pistol of some American make, a few glass tubes ofquinine, packed in cotton wool.He put the water color on the bottom of the box and replacedthem.Then he took the dispatch box over to an old iron safe at thefarther end of the room, opened it, set the box within, lockedthe door, and, returning, thrust the key under a pile of journalson the corner of the table. Then he went out, and down thestairway with his guest to the door.They passed within a finger touch of Lady Muriel.The woman was quick to act. There would be no borrowing fromBramwell Winton. He would now, with this expedition on the way,have no penny for another. But here before her, as thougharranged by favor of Fatality, was something evidently ofenormous value that she could cash in to Hecklemeir.There was fame and fortune on the bottom of that dispatch box.Something that would have been the greatest find of the age toTony Halleck . . . something that the biologist, clearly from hiswords and manner, valued beyond the gold plates of Sir HectorBartlett.It was a thing that Hecklemeir would buy with money . . . thevery thing which he would be at this opportune moment interestedto purchase. She saw it in the very first comprehensive glance.Her luck was holding Fortune was more than favorable, merely. Itexercised itself actively, with evident concern, in her behalf.Lady Muriel went swiftly into the room. She slipped the key fromunder the pile of journals and crossed to the safe sittingagainst the wall.It was an old safe of some antediluvian manufacture and the lockwas worn. The stem of the key was smooth and it slipped in hergloved hands. She could not hold it firm enough to turn thelock. Finally with her bare fingers and with one hand to aid theother she was able to move the lock and so open the safe.She heard the door to the street close below, and the faint soundof Bramwell Winton's footsteps as though he went along the hallinto the service portion of the house. She was nervous andhurried, but this reassured her.The battered dispatch box sat within on the empty bottom of the asafe.She lifted the lid; an automatic pistol lay on a limpleather-backed journal, stained, discolored and worn. LadyMuriel slipped her hand under these articles and lifted out thething she sought.Even in the pressing haste of her adventure, the woman could notforbear to look at the thing upon which these two men set sogreat a value. She stopped then a moment on her knees beside thesafe, the prized article in her hands.A map, evidently drawn with extreme care, was before her. Sheglanced at it hastily and turned the thing quickly over. Whatshe saw amazed and puzzled her. Even in this moment of tenseemotions she was astonished: She saw a pool of water, - not apool of water in the ordinary sense - but a segment of water, asone would take a certain limited area of the surface of the seaor a lake or river. It was amber-colored and as smooth as glass,and on the surface of this water, as though they floated, werewhat appeared to be three, reddish-purple colored flowers, andbeneath them on the bottom of the water were huge indistinctshadows.The water was not clear to make out the shadows. But theappearing flowers were delicately painted. They stood outconspicuously on the glassy surface of the water as though theywere raised above it.Amazement held the woman longer than she thought, over thisextraordinary thing. Then she thrust it into the bosom of herjacket, fastening the button securely over it.The act kept her head down. When she lifted it Bramwell Wintonwas standing in the door.In terror her hand caught up the automatic pistol out of the tinbox. She acted with no clear, no determined intent. It was agesture of fear and of indecision; escape through menace wasperhaps the subconscious motive; the most primitive, the mostcommon motive of all creatures in the corner. It extendsdownward from the human mind through all life.To spring up, to drag the veil over her face with her free hand,and to thrust the weapon at the figure in the doorway was allsimultaneous and instinctive acts in the expression of thisprimordial impulse of escape through menace.Then a thing happened.There was a sharp report and the figure standing in the doorwayswayed a moment and fell forward into the room. The unconsciousgripping of the woman's fingers had fired the pistol.For a moment Lady Muriel stood unmoving, arrested in every muscleby this accident. But her steady wits - skilled in herprofession - did not wholly desert her. She saw that the man wasdead. There was peril in that - immense, uncalculated peril, butthe prior and immediate peril, the peril of discovery in the veryaccomplishment of theft, was by this act averted.She stooped over, her eyes fixed on the sprawling body and withher free hand closed the door of the safe. Then she crossed theroom, put the pistol down on the floor near the dead man's handand went out.She went swiftly down the stairway and paused a moment at thedoor to look out. The street was empty. She hurried away.She met no one. A cab in the distance was appearing. She hailedit as from a cross street and returned to Regent. It wascharacteristic of the woman that her mind dwelt upon the spoilshe carried rather than upon the act she had done.She puzzled at the water color. How could these things beflowers?Bramwell Winton was a biologist; he would not be concerned withflowers. And Sir Godfrey Halleck and his son Tony, the big gamehunter, were not men to bother themselves with blossoms. SirGodfrey, as she now remembered vaguely, had, like his dead son,been a keen sportsman in his youth; his country house was full oftrophies.She carried buttoned in the bosom of her jacket something thatthese men valued. But, what was it? Well, at any rate it wassomething that would mean fame and fortune to the one who shouldbring it out of Africa. That one would now be Hecklemeir, andshe should have her share of the spoil.Lady Muriel found the drawing-room of her former employer in someconfusion; rugs were rolled up, bronzes were being packed. Butin the disorder of it the proprietor was imperturbable. Hemerely elevated his eyebrows at her reappearance. She wentinstantly to the point."Hecklemeir," she said, "how would you like to have a definiteobjective in your explorations?"The man looked at her keenly."What do you mean precisely?" he replied:"I mean," she continued, "something that would bring one fame andfortune if one found it." And she added, as a bit of lure, "Youremember the gold plates Hector Bartlett dug up in Syria?"He came over closer to her; his little eyes narrowed."What have you got?" he said.His facetious manner - a that vulgar persons imagine to bedistinguished - was gone out of him. He was direct and simple.She replied with no attempt at subterfuge."I've got a map of a route to some sort of treasure - I don'tknow what - It's in the Karamajo Mountains in the French Congo;a map to it and a water color of the thing."Hecklemeir did not ask how Lady Muriel came by the thing sheclaimed; his profession always avoided such detail. But he knewthat she had gone to Bramwell Winton; and what she had must havecome from some scientific source. The mention of Hector Bartlettwas not without its virtue.Lady Muriel marked the man's changed manner, and pushed hertrade."I want a check for a hundred pounds and a third of the thingwhen you bring it out."Hecklemeir stood for a moment with the tips of his fingerspressed against his lips; then replied."If you have anything like the thing you describe, I'll give youa hundred pounds . . . let me see it."She took the water color out of the bosom of her jacket and gaveit to him.He carried it over to the window and studied it a moment. Thenhe turned with a sneering oath."The devil take your treasure," he said, "these things arewater-elephants. I don't care a farthing if they stand on thebottom of every lake in Africa!"And he flung the water color toward her. Mechanically thestunned woman picked it up and smoothed it out in her fingers.With the key to the picture she saw it clearly, the shadowybodies of the beasts and the tips of their trunks distended onthe surface like a purple flower. And vaguely, as though it werea memory from a distant life, she recalled hearing the FrenchAmbassador and Baron Rudd discussing the report of an explorerwho pretended to have seen these supposed fabulous elephants comeout of an African forest and go down under the waters of LakeLeopold.She stood there a moment, breaking the thing into pieces with herbare hands. Then she went out. At the door on the landing shevery nearly stepped against a little cockney."My Lidy," he whined, "I was bringing your, gloves; you droppedthem on your way up."She took them mechanically and began to draw them on . . . thecryptic sign of the cleaner on the wrist hem was now to herindicatory of her submerged estate. The little cockney hungabout a moment as for a gratuity delayed, then he disappeareddown the stair before her.She went slowly down, fitting the gloves to her fingers.Midway of the flight she paused. The voice of the littlecockney, but without the accent, speaking to a Bobby standingbeside the entrance reached her."It was Sir Henry Marquis who set the Yard to register alllaundry marks in London. Great C. I. D. Chief, Sir Henry!"And Lady Muriel remembered that she had removed these gloves inorder to turn the slipping key in Bramwell Winton's safe lock.
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