"C Q", or, In the Wireless House/Chapter 9
IX
In which Micky hears a confession and is forced to deliver an unfortunate message.
UP in the wireless house that night Micky was kept on the jump until a late hour. There were more than a dozen commercials of all sorts. The situation diplomatique continued to get graver and graver; there were detailed accounts of the temporary disposition of Brother John’s remains and his proposed formal interment, and conflicting items of information as to the stock market, owing to the Moroccan crisis. He dutifully jotted it all down with ears hungry for English new waited for the “ZZ—ZZ—ZZ” from Poldhu. At last it came and Micky grasped his pencil firmly and began to write as the man in shirt sleeves in Cornwall threw the leaping current at him through the ether.
“Press - for - transmission - only - stop - consols - off - one-half - per - centum - stop - Lloyd - George - down - with - severe - cold - interferes with - speaking - stop - Germany - replies - France’s - ultimatum - by - counter - proposition - generally - regarded - as - substantial - compliance - stop - Tony - Burke - known - as - The - Southdown - Slugger - knocks - out - Jimmy - Devereux - at - Birmingham - in - fourteen - rounds - stop - Bombardier - says - he - will - certainly - defeat - Johnson - if - allowed - to - fight - in - England - stop - Lord - Northcote - injured - by - fall - while -hunting - stop - Mrs. - Roberta - Menges - Corwin - Hill - sent - to - Tombs - prison - in - New - York - City - for - attempting - to - smuggle - jewelry - through - customs - stop - vigorous - effort - on - part - of - United - States - Government - to - prevent - violations - of - tariff - law - stop - defalcation - in - London - branch - of - Royal - Bank - of - Edinburgh - amounting - to - over - five - thousand - pounds - confidential - clerk - who - mysteriously - disappeared - last - week - now - known - to - be - embezzler - thought - to - be - on - liner - to - America - description - tall - clean - shaven - blue - eyes - brown - hair - hollow - cheeks - aquiline - nose - last - seen - Paris - in - company - young - woman - stop - no - trace - of - whereabouts - of - Cosmo - Graeme fourth - son - of - Lord - Varricks - Marquis - of - Conyngfort - still - believed - to - be - mid-ocean - stop - funeral - today - Castle - Ruyn - Waterford - Hants - Scotland - Yard - requests - thorough - search - all - Atlantic - steamships - and - report - at - governments - expense - stop . Lord - Varicks - prostrated - stop,—”
There was a knock on the door of the wireless house.
“Come in!” shouted Micky, and went on taking as Cloud entered hesitatingly and stopped just inside the door.
“—Greatest - excitement - prevails - in - England - where - alleged - murderer - was - popular - in - high - society - stop.”
“Hearing all about you,” remarked Micky shortly, as he waved his visitor towards the bunk with his disengaged hand.
Cloud nodded. He looked more gaunt and hopeless than ever. Micky pushed a box of cigarettes in his direction and Cloud lighted one while the Marconi man continued to take down a miscellaneous assortment of information which, with its repetition, occupied another twenty-five minutes. During this period both sat mute.
“Stop,” said Poldhu suddenly, and sent no more.
The man on the cliff, Micky knew, was knocking the ashes out of his pipe and snapping off the green electric light preparatory to turning in. The, air was quiet, except for the Hohenlohe, which was trying to flash a belated commercial over the Pavonia to the Berlin.
“MPA de DKV”—“MPA de DKV”—“MPA de DKV”—“Warum antwortest du nicht?” (“Why do you not answer?”) insisted the Hohenlohe.
Then he tried the Pavonia, but Micky shut off his coherer, threw his receiver on the desk, and took one of the cigarettes from the box with a grunt of disgust.
“Let him holler!” he mumbled.
“Who?” asked Cloud.
“That chap on the Hohenlohe!” answered Micky. “He ’s one of those conscientious fellers that never sleep. Well, how do you feel?”
Cloud puffed nervously at his cigarette, tried to answer, and looked helplessly at Micky. Ut-ter despair was written in the lines of his mouth and forehead. Finally he said in dead tones:
“I might just as well have done for myself last night. That ’s better than—being caught and—” (he hesitated), "brought back.”
“Oh, Tommy rot!” retorted Micky. “A live dog ’s better than a dead lion! You ’re a long way from Bow Street yet. Lots of things can happen before we reach New York.”
Cloud shook his head.
“Nothing can happen,” he replied. “No matter what comes, I ’m done for! You say you heard my talk with Mrs. Trevelyan and so of course you must know I ’m Cosmo Graeme, a fugitive from justice, a man charged with murder!”
He dropped his cigarette on the floor and crunched it out with his heel.
“Why, yest—of course I know that,” answered Micky in a conversational tone. “You can't conceal yourself on the Atlantic Ocean, my friend! It ’s worse than Broadway or Regent Street. Now I should never think of trying to hide on a ship—if they spot you, there you are. You should have thought of that before you got on board.”
The man on the bunk pressed his temples with the palms of his hands.
“Look here,” he said. “You did a damn decent thing last night. I may be sorry now you did n’t let me fling myself in, but that ’s over and done with. I ’ve given you my word not to try it again and I won’t. I understand you ’ve got the news I ’m wanted for Roakby’s murder and Mrs. Trevelyan says you ’re going to hold it back. I don’t know why. I don’t ask. I can’t think. All I know is that just as I was going to do a cowardly act you stopped me. And, now, when I might be chucked into irons and held up as a murderer to the whole ship’s company—you come along and rescue me again!”
“Rather interesting, isn't it?” said Micky easily.
“You ’ve saved my life,” continued Cloud, “and—I wanted you to know I was n’t the ordinary sort of criminal.”
“I did n’t suppose you were,” remarked Micky. “Considering what I—what common report said about—the other fellow.”
“The beast!”
Cloud shook both his fists.
“Was he?” asked Micky. “Tell me about it.”
Cloud took another cigarette and the match with which he lit it cast great shadows in the hollows of his cheeks. He rose and paced up and down the little room as if trying to find the right beginning. Outside, the night was opaquely dark and a strong breeze made it impossible for him to be overheard by any stray loiterer on the deck.
“Begin with me—and then how it happened, later,” he jerked out. “Cosmo Graeme, of Harrow and Oxford. My father is Lord Varricks—I ’m the fourth son—our place is down in Hampshire—Parsley Croft, they call it.” It seemed hard for him to force the words from his lips. “We ’re a hunting lot. Keep our own hounds. Always a crowd of people at the house. You know the kind of people—Mrs. Trevelyan used to be one of them. What they call the best people in England!” His lips curled.
“Well, this beast Roakby used to be one of them too. He was a friend of my father. There weeks at a time. Came when he pleased and had the run of the house. One of those ingratiating scoundrels that simply hypnotize the women. He lived all over—had a shooting in Hungary and an apartment in Paris, and a villa at Monte Carlo. You know the type. A married man that did n’t live with his wife, and had n’t any children.”
Cloud ran his hands through his hair and his voice rose in higher key.
“You know what some country houses are. You ’ve read about ’em in the magazines and weeklies, I suppose. Well, ours was n’t very different from the ones you read about. But Roakby made a point of what he called being a gentleman—a gentleman!”
Cloud turned suddenly upon Micky and grabbed him by the shoulders and his words came grating forth in a hoarse series of cries. “What would have you have done—if this beast—this cur—O God!” He gave a dry sob. “Our sister—our little sister—fifteen—Man! Think of it!— The degradation of it! The foul swine! My brother Basil came running into the billiard-room, looking like a ghost. ‘Cosmo, come here,’ he said in a queer voice, and dragged me into the corner by the observatory. Then he told me. It made me actually sick. Oh, the swine! The swine!”
He was wailing, this full-grown man.
“Harold and Frank were somewhere about, smoking. It was a week ago Sunday. Harold all but fainted. Frank wanted to kill him at once. He was quite insane, I think. But Basil said he must die quietly—there could be no explanation. We could see him from where we stood, walking around on the lawn with my father! Basil told us to go into the billiard-room and sent for some brandy. Then he locked both doors and took down from over the mantelpiece the sword of old Roland de Pleinpalais—a founder of our house. It has a cross for a handle, and the sun was shining on it through the window. Basil stood it up on its point between us and we all laid our hands on it and swore to kill Roakby. Then he took the helmet that goes with the sword and put four slips of paper in it with a cross on one of them—I drew it. Then we talked it all over calmly enough. I was to go to him and give him his choice of either doing it himself or being executed—that was all. That night after all the guests had gone to bed, I found him smoking in his room and drinking whisky and soda.”
“‘Hello, Cosmo, old chap,’ he said, smirking at me. Then he saw something was up and turned white.
“I told him he must kill himself or the matter would be taken out of his hands. He turned yellow—yellow—and knocked the glass of whisky on to the floor. He could n’t speak.
“‘No,’ he said. ‘No!—It ’s a joke, isn’t it, Cosmo?’
“‘Joke, you swine!’ I cried. ‘Have you a pistol?’
“‘Yes,’ he said. But he lied. He had n’t one.
“‘Give me twenty-four hours to settle my affairs,’ he whined.
“‘We ’ll give you till to-morrow noon,’ I answered. ‘If it is n’t done then—we ’ll do it for you.’
“I waited near his door all night, but nothing happened. There was a mt next day and everybody was in the field. We mounted Roakby on an old broken-winded roan that dropped behind inside the first three fields. I clung to him. He saw it and could hardly sit his horse.
“‘Well,’ I said, riding alongside of him.
“He was shaking like a leaf.
“‘Cosmo!’ he stammered. ‘You don’t mean it, man?’ “I put my hand in my pocket and handed him my own pistol—a fool thing.
“‘You see that copse?’ I said to him. ‘Get off your horse and go in there.’
“He got off and almost fell, but he took the pistol and went staggering into the trees.
I waited but again nothing happened. I must have stood there ten minutes. Then I tied the horse and went in after him. The cur was leaning against a tree and the pistol was on the ground beside him. He simply could n’t do it. When he saw me he began to swear just to keep his courage up.
“‘Well?' I said. ‘Will you or shall I?’
“Then all of a sudden he made a dive for the pistol, and rushed at me with a kind of scream, and m the struggle it went off and killed him I did n’t fire it; but that was a mere accident, for I would have. Only, as it happened, he shot himself—without intending to. I led the roan into the trees and rode after the hunt and told Basil what had occurred. He said that on no account must I stay in England because any defense would involve our sister. So I ’m here. Hunted like a real murderer. I can never tell my side of the case and if they get me—as they’re bound to—they’ll hang me —just as they would Jack the Ripper. It ’s a pretty story, is n’t it. A fine story for England! Now is it better for Cosmo Graeme to disappear quietly?
“That ’s how it happened. There ’s nothing more to tell. We even agreed not to let my father know. After all, the swine was dead! So I went to Paris and from there to Madrid and so on down to Gibraltar where I came aboard. There is a man who followed me all the way from Paris—with a woman. They sit at your table—Bennett is the name they go under. I have a horrible feeling they ’re trailing me. But they did n’t have me arrested—. I don’t know! But when you stumbled over me yesterday I began to think I was making myself too conspicuous by my absence." (He gave a flicker of a smile.) “That’s why I turned up. But then I saw that man there and—then I saw that man there and—then Lily Trevelyan saw me—and well—I just could n’t stand it—that ’s all! I ’m done for. I can never go back to England! Dear, rotten old England! My life ’s over!”
He stopped and wiped his eyes which had filled with tears, and Micky could see what it had cost him to tell the story.
“Not over yet!” answered Micky, laying his hand on Cloud’s shoulder. “You may be done as Cosmo Graeme, but there's many a good man who ’s gone on living and done useful work under some other name than his own. You give me a chance to think it over. Maybe I can think something up before we reach New York. . . . And thank you for telling me.”
“Good night,” he said, opening the door.
“Good night,” answered Cloud. He could say no more.
Micky returned to his seat at the desk and sat there for a long time in what is commonly described as a brown study, but in his case it was, or would have been by daylight, rather a study in red, for his face and forehead were burning, and now that Cloud had gone he gave way to the indignation that the story had inspired in him. The calm despair in which Cloud had finished it filled his eyes with tears. It was true—the man’s life was done—save in some other country under some other name—(the talk of the Algerian from Sai-bel-Abbas came into his mind)—in Oran perhaps as one of the legion of dare-devils made famous by their reckless bravery against the Moslems. Why not? Only men who had nothing to lose by death could cope with men who believed that they could not die unless Fate has so ordained.
He looked out into the night, but its thick blackness gave him no consolation. There was no way of escape—Cloud was caught like a rat in a pit. Once the ship reached quarantine the officers would swarm over the side and go through her as with a finetooth comb, and they would find Cloud and recognize him, as easily and certainly as they would find Mrs. Trevelyan should they want her. There was no mistaking him. And his conduct—his prolonged absence from the dining-room at first—his solitary habits—his unresponsiveness had already made him the subject of discussion and criticism on the part of the other second-cabin passengers. It would have needed very little to make him the object of suspicion as well.
Micky lit his pipe and shook his head. No matter how he projected his mind forward he could see no way out of it for Cloud. He would be under arrest before the Pavonia was off Fire Island, and safe on a steamer bound for England inside twenty-four hours. And then what? A quick trial in which there would be no defense, but where the court room would be crowded like a royal levee with peeresses in their own right and all the importunate distinguished women in London society—come to see Cosmo Graeme caught and killed, like a cotton-tail dragged out of a hole with a ferret clinging to his throat—and cracked on the back of the neck with a gamekeeper’s stick! Oh, they'd be there, and all the pompous panoply of the law would be invoked to impress the jury and the public that English justice struck swiftly and with an iron hand—peer, peer’s son and commoner alike—that in fact it took a peculiar pleasure in being able to don the black cap and sentence the son of a marquis to be hanged—particularly one who had been so foolish as to try to escape from its grasp.
Micky had sat through two days of it once and now it all came back to him in the night. He saw the jury whispering to one another in the box—carefully dressed men from the city in braided cutaways and “dickies.” He saw Graeme sitting by the rail with his counsel, the center of attraction and comment, and the bevy of powdered women in picture hats with their escorts, most of whom had played tennis and croquet with the prisoner and whose hearts were torn with excruciating pity for poor dear Cosmo, but who would n’t have missed his trial for anything in the world. He heard the usher tap on the jury box and cry "Oyez! Oyez!" and the crisp rustle of black gowns as the three judges came swinging in with long noses a bit in air followed by the King’s Counsel, a lean barrister with a wig slightly askew who strode after them like a thoroughbred led out for a warm-up. It angered him, the affected unconcern of these officers of the Crown,—as if they did n’t know it was the most screamingly sensa-tional thing in England, this trial of Cosmo Graeme for the murder of the Earl of Roakby, That cursed K. C. acting as though he were going in to bat for his house at some school cricket game Then he was aware of a momentary flutter and of the clerk conferring with the presiding judge.
“Is the jury satisfactory?” Micky seemed to hear the latter asking.
“Perfectly, me lud.”
“Yes, me lud.”
Then through the haze of his pipe smoke he had a dim visica of the end of this human hunt. He heard the Chief Justice blow his nose saw him throw back the hood of his gown and listened while he proceeded to expound to the impressed and awe-stricken jury the law of England, which was that Cosmo Graeme, the prisoner at the bar, had not a leg to stand on and that on the evidence they were obliged to return a verdict of guilty of murder, and that he so charged,—and that they might retire to deliberate.
He saw the usher open the gate, and the jury looking very much frightened, file slowly out leaving the prisoner in his place, his head in his hands. He saw the judges chatting among themselves and the K. C. stroll up to the bench and compliment the Chief Justice upon his masterly summing up.
“Not at all! Not at all, Mr. Willets!” he heard the Chief Justice say in a loud voice. Then he heard the usher pound again on the rail and saw the jury come filing in with averted heads. He noticed that some of them stumbled as they walked and the foreman’s mouth quivered as he faced the judges.
“We find the defendant—” the foreman paused and swallowed—“guilty—of murder.”
“Record the verdict,” he heard the Chief Justice say approvingly. “The jury find the defendant, Cosmo Graeme, guilty of murder. The jury may take their seats.”
Then Micky heard the Chief Justice blow his nose again and the room was hushed into expectant silence as the jury sank shakily into their seats. He saw the judge wait until the stillness was absolute and then place a ridiculous small black cap upon the top of his wig, and the usher motion to Graeme to arise.
“Cosmo Graeme—you have been lawfully convicted by a jury of your peers of the crime of murder. Have you anything to say why judgment should not be pronounced against you?”
“No, my lord,” he heard Graeme reply in a low voice.
“Cosmo Graeme,” he heard the judge continue, “the sentence of the Court is that you be carried from hence to the place from whence you came and from thence to the place of execution, and that the sheriff shall do execution upon you sometime between sunrise and sunset and that you shall be hung by the neck until you are dead—”
There was a knock at Micky’s door and the picture conjured up by his reverie was rudely shattered. By some trick of telepathy, perhaps, this unnerved man had been drawn back again to the wireless house.
“I saw your light still burning and I came back,” he said. “I can’t sleep. You don’t know what torture it is to lie in one of those state-rooms, staring at the ceiling hour after hour. I thought maybe if you had any work to do you 'd let me stay here with you.”
“Sure thing,” answered Micky. “Sit down and have a pipe, while I see what that Dutch idiot on the Hohenlohe was after."
Cloud took a pipe from his pocket and filled it while Micky connected up his detector and put the receiver to his ears. Sure enough the German was still at it—signaling frantically.
“MPA de DKV—MPA de DKV—CQ—CQ—CQ—CQ—CQ—CQ—”
“DSN de MPA,” answered Micky, “K—K—K—”
“MPA de DKV,” shouted the German, "TR” (time rush)—"MSG” (Commercial message)—"Time now 1.15, one message.”
"DKV de MPA,” replied Micky. "Time O.K. G.A.” (send when ready).
“MPA de DKV,” retorted the Hohenlohe. “O.K. - thanks - radio - via - Hohenlohe - Umberto - Primo - Casa - Blanca - message - No. - 1 - thirty-five - words - Ponsonby - Captain - Pavonia - you - are - herewith - ordered - in - compliance -request - Scotland - Yard - to - search - your - ship - for - escaped - criminal - described - press - despatches - Poldhu - and - report - direct - to - company's - office - Liverpool - via - Casablanca - for - the - company - Hammersley.”
The man on the Hohenlohe stopped sending and Micky threw him a "Thanks. Good night," but he felt no thanks. On the contrary a great and horrible fear stole over him and turned his forehead cold. So the game was up! There would be no lapse of time in which to devise a way of escape for the man who sat there so helplessly, clinging to him like a child without a mother.
“I ’ve got to deliver it!” muttered Micky. “I ’ve got to deliver it, and when I do the jig will be up!”
He looked stupidly at Cloud. Could this be the end? Had he hauled him back for this? Saved his life to have it snatched away again?
“What is it?” asked the other. “Anything important?”
“So—so," answered Micky. “The Cunard Company have ordered the Captain to search the ship for you,—and I ’ve got to deliver the message to-morrow morning.”