The Complete Simon Iff (16 page)

“I want you to come to my house,” he said, “I have something particular to discuss.” The other fell in with his mood; they walked in silence across the park to Carlton House Terrace. The footman must have been trained to expect his master, for the door opened as the old magician and his friend reached it. Simon Iff led the way up the old marble staircase, with its satyrs and fauns at every corner, until they came to a small door of brass, on which was a relief, a curious pattern of geometry, with Greek capitals. This door opened at the touch of a secret spring. The room within was draped in black; it was lighted by a plain lamp of silver, such as one sees in churches in Italy, with a red glass and a wick floating in olive oil. At one end was a great chair of carved ebony, above which was a single blue ostrich feather. Below the lamp stood a small square altar, painted white, on which were a golden cross and a rose of scarlet enamel. On a small desk before the chair was a great book, on one side of it a naked sword, on the other a pair of balances.

“I want you to sit in that chair,” said the magician to Flynn. “This is my House of Judgement. But I want to ask you to judge in this case; I am not qualified to judge the matter that I am about to put before you; for I have already recorded my opinion.” Flynn, a little awed, obeyed with a certain diffidence.

Simon Iff stood before the altar, drew the letter from his pocket, and began to read:

“My dear sir:

“This letter is due to you, for you understand the nature of Truth.

“In your article upon the recent murder, that of my wife Sybil, you had no knowledge of what happened, for you had no facts on which to base your judgement; nor indeed was the discovery of the murderer the object of your inquiry; you confined yourself to proving not what did happen, but what could not have happened. In this limited investigation you were extraordinarily accurate.

“I have adored my wife since the day I met her; more, I have revered her with a passionate devotion as of a man to a goddess. For this exaggeration of proper feeling I am punished.

“I have always believed in her purity and fidelity, despite numerous rumors which reached my ears. But in July last I allowed myself to be tempted by an old friend, who was importunate, and justifiably so, since the honor of his own wife was involved in a way to which I need not refer more precisely.

“I therefore purchased a disguise and presented myself at the Costume Ball at Covent Garden on the 3d of July last. I soon recognized my wife, and observed her conduct closely. She danced several times with Dr. Haramzada Swamy, and they left the ball together. I followed them; I still hoped that no serious wrong was contemplated. They went up in the lift; I took the opportunity to slip upstairs, unobserved. I was just able to distinguish into which door they went. At this door I waited and listened. In ten minutes I had heard enough. The blow was crippling; I must have fainted; for the next thing I remember is that I was sitting on the floor, but alert and intent upon the dialogue. I heard first the whimpering voice of the Eurasian, punctuated with a nauseating giggle. ‘It is a most unfortunate necessity, dear lady,’ were his first words. She replied with a torrent of oaths and curses. She was apparently defying him, but I could not tell why. ‘You see, I put the dainty little thing away,’ he said, ‘where you can’t find it, dear lady; you surely wouldn’t deprive your adorer of such an intimate souvenir. And you mustn’t make a noise in the flat, must you, dear? We’re so respectable here.’ Again she cursed him, but in a lower voice. I had no idea she knew such words; some of them I did not know myself. ‘Your husband will certainly kill you outright, or divorce you at the very least, if he finds you out; personally, I’m inclined to think he’ll kill you, you know. He’s such a severe type of man, not at all a ladies’ man, dear, I’m afraid. So you’ll give me all those pretty little toys, and you can make up a story about a robbery; I’m sure he’ll believe you, you’re so clever, rather like my wife in some ways.’

“I cannot describe the impression made by his little whining voice, but it made me screw up my face like one who has bitten into a sour apple. I heard the noise of clattering; evidently Sybil had thrown her jewels on the floor. ‘I’ll take the rings, too,’ he went on. ‘It will be better for the story you’ll tell him. I’m advising you in your own interests, you know.’ Again the horrible little giggle. ‘Such a sensible little lady!’ he added, ‘and now I’ll get my hat and coat and leave you for an hour, so that you can dress and go home. I’m so sorry I haven’t got a maid to help you.’

“By instinct, I suppose, I withdrew from the door and concealed myself beyond the elevator. Let him go out, jewels and all; my business was with my wife.

“He slipped hurriedly and stealthily out, as I could see through the gilded palings of the elevator shaft, ran down one flight of stairs and rang for the lift. The moment the machine started he began to run down the stairs again. At the same moment I strode across the landing and struck my fist upon the door. It yielded; he had left it unlatched.

“You, Mr. Iff, are probably the one person in England who can imagine — that is, in the proper sense of the word, make an image of — my state of mind. Coincident were, firstly, a blaze of wrath at her treachery of a life time; and, secondly, a habit of protection. She was an infamous woman who had destroyed the life of a good man; and she was also a helpless woman who had been blackmailed and robbed by a man more wretched and infamous than she.

“I honestly believe that my brain had become dull to the former of these impressions; that my main conscious idea was to comfort. But I had not counted on the effect of the scene itself. Some people, as you know better than anybody, visualize everything; some don’t. Tell one man to shut his eyes; then whisper ‘church’; he will see twenty familiar churches in a moment just as if they were in front of him. I am not one of these men. When my eyes are closed I see nothing. So, though I had the fact of adultery in my mind, I had nowise staged the act in the theatre of my mind. Therefore the opening of the door was a new shock. Sybil was standing, clad only in a light garment, and that torn across; her hair disheveled, her eyes bloodshot; the paint and powder on her face — that was itself a revelation of infamy to me.

“The divan was in a state of disorder; everything testified with open mouth to the atrocity perpetrated against me. I believe that doctors would prove — I believe that you yourself would agree — that I became totally insane for the moment. This is probably then true; yet what I know of it is this, that I lost all sense of anger or distress. She said one word, a word of extreme filth, at seeing me. I simply stooped, picked up the poker, and struck her down. I had no idea that I was killing a woman; so far I will agree with you; my act was entirely reflex, like a knee-jerk, or as one brushes a fly from one’s head without consciousness of its presence.

“Still without true volition, I went out and closed the door. The interview was at an end. I walked down the stairs; Daniels, preoccupied with predatory ideas, apparently failed to see me at all.

“Why did I not explain this a week or two ago? Sir, I was desirous that a certain half-breed cur should meet with his desert.

“This done, I am at your service. I shall not kill myself; you may hand my letter to the Public Prosecutor; I hope at least to go to the gallows like a man.

“REGINALD-BROOKE HUNTER.”

Jack Flynn broke the long silence which followed the reading of the letter. But his voice, in that dim hall, sounded like the echo of some god’s voice — some god who was speaking elsewhere, a great way off.

“I take this letter as true.”

“I also.”

“What am I to say?”

“What I am to do?”

There was a long pause. Finally Flynn’s voice boomed, fainter and hollower than before.

“Nothing.”

The mystic held the letter in the flame of the lamp. He blew the last ash lightly into the air, and led the way out of the House of Judgement.

In the study they found Lord Juventius Mellor, a young disciple of Simple Simon, who acted as his secretary. “Little Brother,” said the magician, “I want you to ring up Sir Reginald Brooke-Hunter and ask him to spare me an evening as soon as he can to dine at the Hemlock Club. I want to persuade him to stand for Parliament. I think we can promise him the Presidency of the Board of Education; Willett-Smith is resigning, you know. Tell him, of course, that the Prime Minister has asked me to see him about it.”

The young man went off, while Jack Flynn stared. “So that’s how you do things?” he said. “Yes,” said the old man, “we do things by the simple process of doing them. You remember the butcher in the Tao Teh Ching — no! in the writings of Chwantze! — who cut up oxen until he did it without knowing that he did it, so that his knife never needed sharpening, and his arm never tired? Which muscle of our body never tires? The heart, though it works all the time. Why? Because our silly muddled brains don’t meddle with it. That is the art of government. So, having found the perfect man to educate our youth, we slip him in!”

“Good,” said Flynn, laughing. “A double murderer! If I rob a bank will you make me Chancellor of the Exchequer?”

“Oh, no,” said the magician with a sigh. “I must have a perfect robber. Our best thief is Lord Chief Justice, as you know; but for the Exchequer, we ought really to look on the other side of the Atlantic. Oh, dear! What a pity they threw that tea into Boston Harbor!”

“By the way,” said Flynn, “to return. I still don’t see why Haramzada confessed to a murder he knew he didn’t do.”

“As I said before — and you had ears, and heard not — it was all of a piece with the rest of his life. He did not know the truth about the murder, though in one of his numerous confessions he probably told all he did know. He wasn’t believed; he knew there was no chance to cheat the gallows; so he thought he would cheat God. Splendid idea! to die for a crime one has not committed. One goes to heaven with colors flying, one of the noble army of martyrs. It’s a cowardly idea, a liar’s idea ——”

“An Eurasian’s idea?”

“Yes; and that’s the ghastly thing about it. His nature is not his own fault, any more than a toad’s. But this I want you to understand, that as sex is the most sacred thing in life, so the sins of the fathers are visited on the children most of all in violations of eugenics.

“Whether it’s tubercle, or alcoholism, or marriage between kin too close, or sub-race to distant, the penalty is fulminating and disastrous. Generation becomes degeneration.”

“What’s the remedy?”

“Oh, we might restore the worship of Dionysus and Priapus and Mithras, perhaps, for a beginning. Then there’s the question of polygamy, we shall have that; and harems; and groves, with sacred men and women. You can read it up in Fraser if you’re rusty.”

But that was the worst of Simple Simon. He would constantly change the key of his discourse without warning; and unless you knew him as well as Jack Flynn, you could never be sure when he was joking.

Simon Iff, the mystic, was the most delightfully unclubbable man in the Hemlock Club. But all was forgiven to a man of his powers — and of the extraordinary charm which he radiated, even when sitting silent in his favorite window. It was a genuine triumph for any one to get him to talk. One Christmas evening after dinner, the editor of the “Emerald Tablet” informed him that the Committee had made a new rule to the effect that the eldest member of the Club who happened to be present must tell a story under penalty. It was a genial lie, and appealed to Simple Simon’s sense of humor. “What sort of a story?” he grunted.

“Tell us of the first occasion on which you used your powers of reading men.”

The mystic’s face darkened. “It’s poetic justice. You shall be well paid out for your impudence in inventing new rules. The story is hideous and horrible; the gleams of heroism that shine in it only serve to make the darkness more detestable. But you shall hear it: for one reason, because the result of my interference was to save this Club, and therefore the Universe (which revolves about it) from irreparable disaster.

I

His Majesty’s Sloop “Greyhound” was wrecked in the Bay of Biscay in the month of April, 1804, of the vulgar era. She was carrying dispatches to Sir Arthur Wellesley. Captain Fortescue, who was in charge of them, escaped the wreck, in company with a sergeant of marines named Glass. They found themselves cast ashore on the north coast of Spain. Many days’ journey lay between them and their destination. However, they fell in with friendly guerrillas, who aided them in every way. But the luck changed when they were within sight, almost, of their goal. A battle had taken place; and Massena, retreating, had chosen a line which cut them off completely from Sir Arthur’s positions.

Becoming aware of these facts, they broke away at right angles towards some mountainous country, intending to traverse it, and, descending the opposite slopes, to fetch a compass round about the flank of the French army. Unluckily for them, they were perceived as they crossed the first range of hills, and a detachment of light infantry was sent in pursuit.

Immediately on seeing this, their Spanish guide took to his heels. They were thus not only hunted but lost. They knew the general direction of the British lines; they had about two hours’ start; otherwise they were hopeless.

They gained the crest of the second range just as their pursuers, spread out in a long line, swarmed over the first; but in beginning their descent, which was excessively steep, with only a narrow mule-path among the enormous tangle of rocks, they came upon a cottage; and the path ended. Fortescue recognized the place, for the guide had spoken of it on the previous day; it was the home of a desperate brigand, a heavy price upon his head from French and English alike. They had no choice, however, but to go on. Chance favored them; the brigand was away, leaving but one drowsy sentinel. Fortescue ran the man through with his sword before he had time to seize his gun.

The two Englishmen found themselves alone in the cottage. Could it be defended? Possibly, but only for an hour or two; reinforcements would arrive in case of a prolonged resistance. The vital question was to find the way to the valley.