The Second Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

NIGHTMARE JACK John Metcalfe

It’s curious how things are forgotten, on the river. Has it ever struck you? People live and die upon its banks, ships come and go upon its muddy waters, and of them all hardly the names survive the morrow. Love and crime, despair and death, make the city with every flood and pass out with every ebb, but they scarcely leave a ripple on the secret river; it flows on and forgets them all.

A bare ten years have slipped by since Nightmare Jack was last seen about the docks, yet I would lay you long odds that, save for his deformity, he might walk to-day from Poplar to the Isle of Dogs and pass unrecognised. Even he, whom we thought unforgettable, the little, hare-lipped man with the hoarse voice of clutching terror, victim of the strange, incessant dream.

It is as well that he cannot come back. He dreams no longer. We who gave him to the keeping of the river can sleep the sounder knowing that the brown waters hold him fast . . .

I shall give you the story as at last he told it to us those ten years back in the upper room of the little, black inn at Shale, whilst the sweat broke and glistened on his face and the horror gathered in his eyes.

The four of us had dropped down in Cohen’s boat with the ebbing tide and made Roaring Middle by early afternoon. All day long the river had shone in a hard, dull light like a great, brown muscle, but as we turned out of the stream and crept up the creek and alongside the tiny stone causeway back of the deserted inn the sky began to darken, and a wind stirred the surface of the water into little, choppy waves.

We made fast the boat and stepped ashore, and I gave the three low raps upon the door that Jack, and Jack’s Eliza, understood. As we waited I looked at my three companions, and saw that over two of them as over me there hung the shadow of that black business we had afoot.

There were Crabbe, Cohen, myself, and that other—Gilchrist. Heaven knows why he was there, that shameful, silent man with his white, pasty cheeks and his dull, averted eyes! Even to his face we had called him “Dead Fish,” and he had never raised a hand to strike or given us the lie. Yet he was safe enough, we thought, and had the uses of all evil things . . .

No answer came to my knocking, so having tried in vain to turn the handle, we climbed in through a low window which had been left half-closed, and then marched upstairs, Cohen leading. He threw open the door of the room we knew for Jack’s, entered, and signed to us to follow. We filed in, bending our heads under the low doorway. Gilchrist, who was the last, turned the key.

Never have I seen a man more sick than he who lay half-dressed upon the bed. The scanty hair lay dank upon his forehead, and the face was gone a dead grey colour like the belly of a slug. One look at him was enough to tell us that we had been anticipated in our errand. He could hardly last more than a few hours at the longest. Only in his little, wicked eyes did the old, evil light yet creep and flicker, and the succulent sin seem still to well and ooze.

He turned his head to the door as it closed behind us, and when his gaze rested upon Gilchrist he managed to raise his voice in a hoarse whisper and a slow and dwelling rage.

“You!” he said. “You beeg, white scum. Why have you come? You of all men, you Nurse, you mother’s plague, you man-stealer!”

The venomous words did not sting Gilchrist to retort, but the blood mounted sluggishly about his neck and ears, and a dull hate smouldered in his eyes.

Suddenly, as he was turning inwards from the locked door, he uttered a cry of fear, and raised an arm to protect his face from something which, at a motion of Jack’s elbow, leapt at him from the bed-end like a flying, furry shadow. When he put down his hand we saw the crimson drops starting from a long scratch across one cheek. Below him a great, neuter cat rubbed, purring noisily, against his shins.

Crabbe laughed grimly. “Pongo has learnt that trick well,” he said, “and after all we could hardly expect a better welcome.”

The man on the bed stirred and cleared his throat.

“Leesten,” he said, in that curious, lisping, almost cultured voice of his in which the occasional French accent sorted so strangely with the foul idiom of the river, “Leesten, you coves! You needn’t tell me why you’ve come, but you’re too late—too late. The las’ trip’s been run. I been expectin’ you, though, ever since Eliza leave me two days back. She knew Rory’d tol’ you where I was. She was afraid and ran. Two days I been lyin’ ’ere, Sirs, waitin’ for the scrape o’ your boat against the stage an’ the soun’ o’ your boots up the stairs. And in me dreams——”

“Curse your dreams!” snarled Cohen. “You’ve them to thank for our visit. The man who dreams aloud about us and our concerns must sleep where he won’t be heard . . .”

The little, stretched-out man looked up at him, and his shoulders began to shake in a wheezy, mirthless laugh that set the nerves acrawl. “Four o’ you,” he chuckled, “four o’ you, be gosh, to put a dyin’ man to ’is sleep. Why, gents, I take it as a ruddy honour, I do an’ all, he, he!”

There was something extraordinarily shocking in his merriment at such a time, and that he should be so game, was going to make our business none the easier. Yet it was not all bravery on his part. His eyes were bright with the fear of something from which he might welcome even death itself as an escape.

“Say, Mr. Morgan, sir,” said he to me after a pause, “seet down one moment, and let me tell you what I ’ave to tell. It won’t take long. I’d take it as a favour. Seems like I must get it off me chest. You’ll think less ’ard o’ Nightmare Jack per’aps, when once you’ve ’aird. What’s the time now?”

I told him it was half past three.

“Gimme till four, gents,” he whispered thickly; “ ’alf an hour, like good blokes.”

I looked at the others, Cohen and Crabbe, and then, hesitating and half-ashamed, nodded to Nightmare Jack. Was there, I wondered, some ruse behind the urgency of this request, or was it merely a pathetic staving-off of doom, perhaps an attempt to raise our pity? Anyhow, we had him safe and sure, and the man might well be dead by four o’clock. It would save trouble . . .

So, whilst the uneasy wind without began to question and to rattle at the panes, Nightmare Jack narrated, brokenly and painfully, with a sob of terror often rising in his throat and catching at his breath, the story, vain and tumultuous, of the Pointing Hand.

At times, and under strong emotion, the whispering voice would tend again towards the lingua franca of Quebec; yet in the main held steady to the slightly tinctured English which is all that I can try to reproduce.

We had taken chairs near the door, but in the grip of what we heard the three of us drew closer and closer to the bed. Only Gilchrist remained seated in a darkening corner, nursing with a handkerchief his wounded cheek.

On a pillow and close to the head of Nightmare Jack, Pongo, the huge cat that I had given him, slowly preened itself and purred.

“Eight year ago to-day, near as may be, three men sailed out o’ Rangoon with jewels fit for ’eaven in their ’ands and the fear of ’ell in their ’earts.

“All the way from Sinbo, far up country, they’d come, and on the journey down to the ship things ’ad not gone well with them. Leetle ’itches, more or less, that might ’ave been explained easily enough if their nerves ’adn’t been on edge with knowin’ what they carried an’ ’ow they’d come by it.

“T’ree times or four they’d given that shinin’ sinful stuff its last look afore chuckin’ it into the river, and t’ree times they’d changed their minds an’ ’urried on again.

“But when once they’d got it an’ themselves aboard an’ couldn’ see that funny, one-eyed fellow who’d followed them down from Mandalay no more their minds were easier, au’ they spends all their time plannin’ what they was goin’ to do with the money they would make when they got ’ome.

“Only ole Fatty Simpson began to lie awake in his bunk at night rememberin’ all o’ them leetle things that ’ad ’appen on the journey down, an’ in the mornin’ ’e would say to them other two, Cutler an’ Langrish, ‘Thinks I’ll chuck me ’and in, mate, an’ if you takes my advice you’ll ’eave the lot over the side, stones an’ all. I tells you I know what rubies ought to look like, but these are just the colour o’ stale blood. Leastways, they are now. I tell you, they’re rum ’uns. Anyway, you can ’ave my share o’ the pizenous stuff, an’ much good may it do you.’

“But some’ow ’e never told them what partly explained ’is nervousness—that in lookin’ over into the well deck for’ard ’e’d spotted that berry-brown, one-eyed cove tailin’ on to a rope with a bunch o’ lascars, an’ so Langrish an’ Cutler only laughs at ’is fidgets—else I would never a’ come into the story later on . . .

“When they reach London there were seven others waitin’ for them to share out the pretties. Ten of ’em all told there was, an’ Dr. Gill the ’ead o’ the crowd. It was ’e an’ Mr. Cuthbert an’ Langrish ’ad got wind o’ the stuff first of all in some old temple up Mogaung way an’ formed what they called a syndicate to get it. They’d drawn lots to fix who should go for it, an’ Langrish ’e always swore that the free red balls ’e an’ ’is mates pulled from the box ’ad been doctored some’ow by Gill an’ the rest.

“But they thought no more o’ that once they was ’ome, an’ when they met to talk things over in the little doss-’ouse out at Rother’ithe they all toasted themselves and their great ‘Luck’ till they was all too tipsy to stand. Even Fatty ’ad got over ’is fright an’ took back what ’e’d said about givin’ up ’is claim.

“All the same, when ’e an’ a couple more were rowin’ downstream after the meetin’ to Jellicoe’s Wharf, ’e notice another boat edgin’ after them in the shadow of the bank, an’ though ’e couldn’ see the face o’ the fellow that pulled at the oars, ’is back reminded ’im again of that squint-faced chap as ’ad come across with them in the fo’c’sle of the Burmah Queen . . .

“It ’ad been agreed after a good deal o’ talkin’ and quarrellin’ that the stones themselves should be divided out, an’ then that each man should sell ’is lot as ’e liked, provided ’e did it slow an’ careful. Ah, you know, even then there was a reason for this way of arrangin’ things that none of ’em liked to own to. They wanted, some’ow, to get right clear away from what they’d done so they’d never ’ave to see each other again and be reminded. . . . The rubies, since they’d come aboard at Rangoon, ’ad be’aved well enough for the matter o’ that, but Fatty Simpson ’ad got talkin’—an’ you know what being frighten’ is—it spreads, spreads . . . !”

Suddenly Nightmare Jack set up a wild, high, echoing laugh, and the cat for a moment stopped its purring and its preening to lick his hand. Cohen had started forward with an exclamation, but Crabbe pushed him back. “It’s all right,” he said. “That’s how it always takes him, when he has his dreams . . .”

Presently the laughing ceased abruptly, and the hoarse and stealthy voice went on.

“For three years or more those men lived ’idden from each other. They was all round about London as it chance, but for all the times they ever met after the share-out they might ’ave been thousands of miles apart. The stones went very, very slowly, an’ each man ’ad ’ardly got rid of a quarter of ’is lot when the things began to ’appen . . .

“It wasn’t with Fatty Simpson that they started altogether, but it was from ’im I ’eard it first, Sirs, an’ I’ll tell you ’ow it was.

“Fatty ’ad bought ’imself an ’ouse down the river near Grays, an’ ’ad come to the end of his first three stones, so one day ’e come up to London to try an’ sell the fourth.

“In the train, about half a dozen stations before Fenchurch Street, ’e began to dream . . .

“Of course I know of what ’e dream. It’s always the same dream. Never to this day do I or any of the others tell a ’uman, soul about those dreams. Not that I ’aven’t been asked often enough. But it would ’ave done no good. . . . What would people ’ave said if I ’ad tell them of the thing that follow me night and day, the thing that flash before me now the moment I close my eyes, this long, brown, lower arm of a man, with the ’and stiffen from the wrist, an’ the fingers pointin’, always pointin’!

“It was that that Fatty saw out of the carriage window as ’e looked north over Stratford marsh, an’ ’e open ’is bag in a ’urry, an’ take a quick pull at the flask ’e ’ad inside. That stiffen ’im up a lot, an’ when ’e look out again ’e couldn’ see what ’e seen afore. Presently the train ran into Fenchurch Street, an’ ’e got out an’ made for the nearest bar. ’E swallowed a few smart ones to complete the cure, an’ by the time ’e set off east an’ towards the river with the ruby in a wallet in ’is pocket ’e was laughin’ to ’imself about ’is funny dream. Yet even then somethin’ cold at the bottom of ’is ’eart seemed to tell ’im that ’is laughin’ days were over an’ the game was up.

“The ruby ’e’d brought with ’im, Sirs, was a rare big one, with two circles cut on it, one inside the other, an’ the fence ’e was sellin’ it to looked at ’im a bit curious as ’e turned it over in ’is little room upstairs.

“ ‘Funny,’ ’e says, ‘a bloke was in ’air ’bout six months ago with a ruby just like this—cut in the same way. I couldn’t give ’im much for it either because o’ that. Marked stones are too dam’ risky.’

“ ‘E went on lookin’, first at the pretty an’ then at Fatty, till presently ’e says:

“ ‘By the way, boss, you don’t ’appen to ’ave bin in ’air before wi’ that other ruby, eh?’

“ ‘What?’ says Fatty. ‘I bin in ’air before? Not I, nor I won’t ever come in again neither if you ’ands me out any more o’ that macaroni. What yer mean?’

“ ‘Well now, that’s quair,’ said the fence. ‘It’s true you didn’ remind me of ’im at first, but what with ’avin’ the same kind of stone, an’ the same funny mark on yer cheek, it did look a bit odd.’

“ ‘Mark on me cheek!’ said ole Fatty. ‘By gum! I’ll make you a present of it!’ An’ he did too, leavin’ a bruise the size of ’is fist on the other fellow’s face. Then ’e put the ruby back into its wallet an’ walked out of the shop.

“Bein’ so full o’ whisky as ’e was, ’e didn’ think much more o’ what the fence ’ad said beyond ’is bein’ anxious to get quit o’ the stone, till ’e ’appened to drop into a barber’s, an’ the man ’oo shaved ’im said the same thing about ’is face.

“ ‘Where?’ asked Fatty, lookin’ in the mirror, ‘I can’t see no mark on me cheek. What’s it like?’

“The man told ’im it was a leetle, lop-sided patch of yellow, like a stain or a burn, just under the bone on the left side.

“ ‘Oh, yes,’ said Fatty, pretendin’ to see it. ‘That’s acid. I spilt some there this mornin’, but I didn’ notice it ’ad made a stain.’

“The same afternoon three other people told ’im about ’is cheek, yet when ’e got ’ome an’ looked in the glass ’e could see nothin’. ’E didn’ sleep one wink that night, but it was only by the early mornin’ of the next day that ’e began to catch the meanin’ of what ’ad come to ’im.

“Then ’e began to sweat with terror, same as I’ve sweated now for many a long year, an’ two days after that the dreams came on again . . .”

Nightmare Jack stopped, and though his lips continued to move, it was only after some seconds that I caught the words they uttered. “Brandy,” he whispered. “There’s a bottle in the cupboard.”

He took a long, difficult drink from the half-pannikin I poured out for him, and after a little while continued.

“It was one day in the nex’ week, Fatty tell me, that, as ’e was walkin’ along the road towards Tilbury, ’e ran against Cutler—one of the three to bring the jewels ’ome from Burmah.

“Cutler didn’ seem as surprise’ to meet ’im as ’e might ’ave been some’ow, an’ for a minute or two ’e was talkin’ about ’is aunt’s ’ealth, an’ the bad drains, an’ the marrows ’e was growin’ at ’ome. ’E was lookin’ downright seedy, an’ presen’ly, when ’e turned ’is face round from the way ’e’d been ’oldin’ it all that time, Fatty saw a great patch of plaster on ’is left cheek-bone.

“Then, of course, ’e knew, an’ the two o’ them compare notes . . .

“It turned out that what ’ad ’appen to Fatty, ’ad come to Cutler months before, an’ seemin’ly to most o’ the others too. Leetle, by leetle, as ’is dreams got worse an’ the terror grew, each of the gang ’ad made up ’is mind to cast about an’ find the rest, so that by the time Cutler came upon Fatty on the Tilbury road there was only three of the ten the others couldn’ trace.

“Nex’ day, Sirs, Cutler took Fatty to meet the rest at the same ole doss-’ouse down at Rotherhithe. When they got there they found that two o’ the missin’ three ’ad jus’ been foun’ an’ brought in by Dr. Gill, so there was only one they couldn’ track, an’ e’ might well be dead. Of the nine fellows that sat shiverin’ an’ cursin’ roun’ their liquor in that leetle room upstairs every man-jack carried a face the colour o’ bad dough, an’ every sweatin’ mother’s-son ’ad grown as much ’air on ’is cheeks as ’e could raise, except Fatty, ’oo ’adn’ thought of it, an’ Cutler, ’oose whiskers ’ad come out white an’ didn’ ’ide the stain.

“They were all in such a stew about what ’ad come to them an’ what might ’appen nex’ that it ’ardly took more than a bad five minutes an’ a couple o’ pints o’ good brandy to make up their minds to a plan. ‘Does anyone know a likely man to skipper us out to Burmah with what’s left o’ the stones, an’ to ’old ’is tongue when we’re back again?’ ask Dr. Gill. ‘I take it we’re all goin’, else those ’oo stop be’ind’ll suspect the others.’

“ ‘Yes,’ said Fatty. ‘I do. If you like I can sound ’im this very afternoon, knowin’ ’im to be ashore till Sunday.’

“There was a leetle discussion then about whether they couldn’ take out a ship themselves, an’ ’ow they was to restore the stones an’ account for those they’d sold already, an’ what they could do about the missin’ man, but the upshot of it all was that within a quarter of an hour Fatty was walkin’ out an’ down the street to get ’old o’ that chap ’e’d tell of.

“Now, it so ’appen that almost as soon as Fatty ’ad gone out of the room some o’ the others suddenly thought o’ somethin’ important that mus’ be told ’im before ’e spoke to me—for of course, as you’ve guessed, gents, it was me Fatty ’ad in ’is mind—an’ so Dr. Gill sent a fellow called Toby Charteris ’urryin’ out after Fatty to try an’ catch ’im up with a message before ’e got to the docks where ’e was bound.

“The road which Charteris took was by way of bein’ a short cut, an’ as ’e was comin’ down a narrow alley ’e saw Fatty passin’ at a great pace across the end of it along the riverside. ’E saw too that Fatty ’ad seen ’im, for e’ turn ’is ’ead jus’ at that moment, but although Toby waved to ’im ’e wouldn’ stop, ’an nex’ minute was ’idden by a corner of the street.

“Charteris say afterwards, poor brute, that direc’ly ’e caught sight of Fatty scuttlin’ along like that, ’e felt some’ow as though cold water was tricklin’ down ’is back. There was somethin’ quair about Fatty’s look that ’e couldn’t understan’ an’ didn’ like, an’ by the time ’e’d started into a run so as to reach the end of the alley an’ get a clear view up the road that ran along the river, ’e caught an idea that made ’im like the look o’ things still less. For it come to ’im suddenly that Fatty was scared—you see, scared—an’ was hurryin’ away from somebody or somethin’ . . .

“ ’E ’ad ’alf a mind then to turn back, but ’e was at the corner o’ the road by this, an’ made out Fatty about two ’undred yards ahead.

“ ’E ’adn’t run more than a minute after Fatty before ’e saw ’im doin’ a cur’us thing. ’E bent down quickly, picked up a bit of paper from the gutter, wrote somethin’ on it against a post, an’ left it under a stone dead in Toby’s path.

“There was nobody else jus’ then along the road, and Charteris was sure the paper was a message left for ’im.

“A second or two later, ’e come up to it, picked it out from under the stone, an’ ran ’is eye over the words upon it. This is what ’e saw:

“ ‘For God’s sake don’t look be’ind you!’

“There was a strong wind blowing out the ebb tide, an’ in the fright of what ’e’d read e’ let the paper go. The breeze caught it, an’ ’e made a silly grab to stop it. Then, while ’e was watchin’ it carairin’ down the road, an’ while ’e ’ad ’is back turned to the way ’e ’ad been runnin’, ’e saw what Fatty must ’ave seen, an’ ’e fell down sittin’ on ’is ’ams, same as a leetle dog might do, an’ began to laugh . . .

“Upon ’im first of all the ten it ’ad come—the beeg, dirty ’Orror of ’is dreams, an’ whilst ’is bones turn to rottenness inside ’im, an’ ’is stomach crawl an’ swim, ’e squatted an’ scrabbled in the dust an’ giggled like a girl . . .

“Mon Dieu, ’ow ’e laugh! ’E was laughin’ still when ’e got back to the rest at Rother’ithe, an’ they cuffed ’im ’an kicked ’im an’ stuffed a gag in ’is mouth to make ’im stop, ’e was so ’orrible to ’ear.

“Then, all of a sudden, ’e quieted down, an’ shiverin’ in ’is fear, ’e told them ’ow, when ’e was lookin’ after the scrap of paper blowin’ in the wind, ’e saw the long, nut-coloured arm an’ the pointin’ ’and, an’ be’ind it, right away in the distance, the Face belongin’ to it, lookin’ down the arm at ’im with its single eye like a man sightin’ along the barrel of a rifle. . . . ’E said it was the look of the face that ’ad work the mischief in ’im. It was such a leetle, clean sort of dry, brown face with never a smile, an’ it ’ung so far away, right down the river, lookin’ through the masts an’ funnels of the shippin’. It would ’ave been better, ’e said, if it ’ad been nearer an’ bigger. . . . ’E began to whimper then, an’ it was jus’ when they were pumpin’ stiff brandies into ’im one after the other that Fatty an’ I came up the stairs an’ into the room.

“Fatty, you see, ’ad escape what ’appen to Toby Charteris. After leavin’ the doss-’ouse ’e ’ad chance to look be’ind ’im as ’e walked along the river-side, an’ what ’e saw followin’ ’im a long way back was not the pointin’ ’and or the face, but jus’ that one-eyed fellow that ’ad shadow ’im an’ the other two all those years back as they dropped below Mandalay. . . . It was enough to scare ’im though, an’ ’e felt that what ’ad come to Toby would ’ave come to ’im instead if ’e ’adn’ turn ’is ’ead in time an’ run. After leavin’ the note under the stone ’e came straight on to me, an’ mad as I thought ’im when ’e broach ’is business, I thought ’is chums a good deal madder when we pushed open the door an’ found them sittin’, swearin’ an’ ’iccuppin’ in a circle with poor Charteris cryin’ in the middle.

“They were all shoutin’ something that I couldn’ rightly catch, but when I saw them pointin’ at ’is face I got the ’ang of it. They were all callin’ out an’ sayin’ that the yellow mark’ ad leave ’is cheek.”

It was here that Nightmare Jack, in a curious extremity of horror, which for some moments I thought forced and insincere, spoke to us of those hidden things which he supposed to underlie the happenings he narrated.

He told us in a cowering breath of fear of the old, still temple near Bogaung, and of the foul god that tottered there upon its stool. Whilst the wind without raced up against the yellow tide and his face within went grey upon the pillow, that little, whispering man spoke to us—by his frantic hands and eyes as much as by his dying mouth—of the mythos of the Web and Loaf, and the faded terror of the Triple Scum.

I can still remember and record—though it is impossible to convey the slow and loathing horror with which he uttered them—the phrases he employed to make his meaning clear.

The god distributed himself among a “lousy crew” of priests or hierophants, who shared his power and desires and in a sense composed him. Once every year the ruddy-coloured stones that were his essence were taken from him, and two men selected who should sleep for seven nights with the rubies next their skin.

Then they would pass through the sick terms of a novitiate, would bear upon their cheeks the yellow stain, and finally would enter in upon the god and be added to the number of his priests.

Something else at which Nightmare Jack’s tongue halted and his soul revolted, something confused and abominable which even his lips refused to utter, must to his mind have lain within the very nature of that cult, but I know he meant that what had come to Toby Charteris as he watched the scrap of paper whirling down the wind was but the sign and token of reception and approval by the god . . .

I can hear to-day the laugh, shy, almost apologetic, yet still shaken with that stark and horrid fear, with which the man we four had come to kill went on to build up and complete the explanation of his tale. At times, through all his terror, he might seem to speak with a curious reasonableness and detachment. He wanted us, and especially me, I think, to appreciate his position in the matter. He needed somehow to justify his soul, and his eyes sought mine with an odd, pathetic hunger. . . . As he whispered on I turned to watch the race of muddy water down the river. The wind was risen higher, and the windows drummed like blood against the brain.

He said that the rubies had been stolen just about the time when they should have been removed to make new priests. Fatty had been used to sleep with them in the wallet under his pillow on the journey back. Whether in doing so he hadn’t absorbed all the power there was in them Nightmare Jack didn’t know, but anyhow there was enough devil left in them to affect the rest. In the ordinary way the god’s seed was replaced after it had “made men,” and whatever juice was left was saved up to next year. He rather fancied that Toby Charteris used to keep his share of the jewels in a skin purse around his loins, and that was why the power worked so strong with him. It was something like vaccination, and “took” better with some than others.

He rather thought that the old god had been trying to “receive” one of them for a long time, but had been hindered and delayed by some technical flaw in the procedure. Ordinarily there would be a manifestation or materialisation in some human or semi-human form, and it was Nightmare Jack’s idea that the one-eyed man from Mandalay was an imperfect attempt in this direction.

Then he went on to hint that those who had been once accepted by the god could themselves “make priests” and pass along the rottenness with a pointing hand. It was a thing that might spread like the pox till all the world was vile.

And here the man upon the bed began to cringe and huddle on himself. I had to bend my head to his to catch his words. It seemed that, now the evil had “got loose,” and he had touched the rubies as he would tell us presently, he knew he too was wanted by the god. He repudiated the honour with dismay, for he didn’t want to become a bloody priest, now did he, did he?

Outside the slowly darkening room, as Nightmare Jack resumed his tale, the wind still crept and drummed upon the panes.

“Fatty an’ ’is mates stayed talkin’ in that room till after midnight, afraid to stir from the ’ouse, an’ I, like a fool, stayed with them till the sight o’ the crimson pebbles they showed me as proof o’ their tale ’ad got burn into my eyes an’ yellow patch be ’ang, I’d agreed to skipper the precious outfit back to Burmah. As you know well enough, gents, I ’appen to be a fair judge o’ stones, an’ I was ready to sell my soul rather’n leave those beauties in the ’ands o’ ravin’ lunatics.”

Nightmare Jack’s eyes glistened, and for a moment he stopped whilst his fingers, long and delicate and brown, slid tip over tip as if caressing imaginary gems. His voice was growing slowly weaker, and it was with a painful effort that he took another drink from the pannikin and again took up his tale.

“Well, they mus’ ’ave been pretty well mad ever to dream of settin’ out to Burmah in a crowd like that, an’ I see plainly enough that I was goin’ to ’ave ’ell’s own trouble to find a ship an’ crew an’ then to clear ’er from port without suspicion, but I’d got a wad of Dr. Gill’s bank notes warm against my ’eart with more to come—an’, besides, I’d seen the rubies . . .

“After an ’eap o’ worry an’ delay I got a brig an’ crew to work er’ not ’oldin’ by smokestacks, which were newfangled in those days.

“In the evenin’ before the mornin’ we were to sail a strange thing ’appen. Toby Charteris, ’oo’d been fit to die for the last week or more, rushed past Dr. Gill when ’e unlocked ’is cabin to ’ave a look at ’im, tore up the companion on to the deck, an’ ran shriekin’ over the gangway on to the wharf. Two of the others followed quick to collar him, but ’e managed to slip them, an’ it was near nightfall before ’e came back.

“Then ’e ’ad a quair tale to tell. ’E said that ’e’d been taken by a sort of frenzy, an’ ’ad run wild, not knowing where ’e went, till suddenly ’e woke up an’ found ’imself standin’ stiff an’ straight an’ pointin’ at a man. It was somewhere in the docks quite near the ship, an’ in the evenin’ light ’e see the man fall down laughin’ upon ’is ’ams an’ curl an’ shrivel before ’is eyes like a leetle, sun-dried worm . . .

“The others were so scared when Toby crawled on board an’ told them this that they clapped ’im in irons straight away, fearin’ that ’e should start an’ point at them. They asked ’im then ’oo it was ’e seen fall down an’ laugh like that, but either ’e couldn’ or ’e wouldn’ say. When we were three days out ’e died—a leetle more’n a month after ’e seen the Face.

“Of course you’ve guess by this what I’d made up my mind to do almost as soon as I saw the first of the rubies in the doss-’ouse. A couple of nights after Toby died, when we were close-’auled off the coast o’ Spain, I took the stones from Dr. Gill’s cabin locker, put off with them an’ two tough lads in the twenty-three-foot sloop I’d been careful to ship before we sailed, an’ left the brig with the water pourin’ into ’er through a dozen ’oles in ’er bottom.

“We been through dirty weather in the Bay, an’ it was a risky thing to do, but I ’ad to act before we passed through the Straits, an’ run close in to land under cover o’ dark. I’d ’ave got away alone if I could, but I was force to ’ave Tiny an’ Craddock to ’elp me put the rest o’ the watch to their long sleep an’ then lower away the sloop.

“All that night the three of us ran before a northerly gale under ’alf a jib an’ a reefed mainsail, an’ at daybreak we made out the landfall to our south-east an’ ourselves bearin’ away from it a good three points to westward with the wind on our starboard quarter. ‘Put ’er about,’ said Tiny to me, ‘an’ inside o’ two hours we’ll make the coast.’

“Then I put the tiller over sharp, but I never ’auled in on the main sheet as we payed off on the other tack, an’ the big boom came swingin’ over with a rush. It caught Tiny full in the stomach an’ ’e was overboard before ’e could open ’is mouth to yell.

“ ‘You done that a’ purpose,’ shouted Craddock, an’ the nex’ minute ’e an’ I were at it ’ammer an’ tongs . . . ’E was a big man, too, an’ it might ’ave gone ’ard with me if I ’adn’t managed to unship the tiller an’ crack ’im with it over the ’ead. That finish ’im, an’ ’e went over the side as sweet an’ gentle as a bag o’ flour. I made land alone an hour or two later, an’ worked back to London in a cork boat from Bilbao.”

The man before us was sinking fast. His long recital had drained his energy, but his little twinkling eyes showed relief at the telling of his tale. Mad he must surely be, yet the story of his crimes at least was likely to be true. . . . Cohen spoke from the growing shadow with a sneer.

“And the rubies; what of them?” he gibed.

Nightmare Jack nodded, and over his face there spread a little, twisted smile that was at the same time a snarl of hate.

“Aye,” he muttered, “the rubies, by Gar, what of them? Reckon they lost all their juice time they come to me. Reckon they must ’ave done. . . . But anyway I was to keep ’em shorter than I figured. Leetle did I think when I scuttled the brig and when I put first Tiny an’ then Craddock over the side of the sloop that there was one waitin’ for me at ’ome to rob me o’ the stones I’d bought so dear. Like some beeg, dirty ghost’ ’e stood smilin’ upon the quay, an’ when I stepped ashore ’e put ’is arm through mine, an’ speakin’ so smooth an’ soft. ‘Hello, Jack,’ ’e says. ‘You’re back quick. Where’s all your mates? . . .’

“At first I only give ’im a stone or two to keep ’im quiet, an’ then, not satisfied with that, ‘Let’s go shares, Jack,’ ’e says, ‘an’ I promise you no ’arm’ll come to you.’ ’E looked into my eyes as I gave ’im ’alf the rubies, an’ I knew ’im then for ’oo ’e was, an’ that I should ’ave to give ’im all whenever ’e might nod ’is ’ead.

“Five year ’an more ’e followed me easy, ’oldin’ me in play like a fish at a line’s end, an’ all that time ’e never breathed ’is name or dropped an ’int about ’is past, for ’e knew I ’ad no need to ask. An’ when ’e smiled an’ tapped ’is cheek where the stain ’ad been an’ talked so slick an’ sweet I would call to mind the man that ’ad been missin’ from the ten, an’ the fellow that Toby ’ad seen squirmin’ in the evenin’ light upon the docks, an’ I knew that ’e ’ad but to lift ’is arm an’ point to turn me too into the crawlin’, dirty thing ’e was ’imself.

“For you see, Sirs, that was the way it worked with ’im, the devil in the rubies, an’ on what ’ad run like poison into Toby Charteris ’e could only thrive an’ batten as if it were ’is natural food. . . . An’ then, when all the stones ’ad gone, five years or more ago, ’e went as well, but till this night the look of ’is eyes, an’ the sound of ’is voice, an’ the very smell of ’is body ’ave never left me, an’ every time I stare at myself in the leetle glass upon the nail I wonder if there isn’t a yellow stain that only other men can see . . .”

His voice for some time had been growing weaker, but beyond this I had noted the gradual onset and the slow completion of another change. As his story passed from a fantastic pouring-out of crime and terror and turned more and more upon that sinister Companion who seemed to dominate its later stages, it was easy to see where his horror truly lay. For at first, despite the violence and the power of his telling, there had been something almost borrowed and unreal about his tale, reminding one of the precision of some well-drilled schoolboy who recites his horrors second-hand. Latterly, however, as his eyes had stared out into that dim corner where Gilchrist sat and listened, the slow clenching and unclenching of his hands and the alternate race and falter of his words had half prepared us all for what was still to come.

Crabbe, too, had marked the growing nervousness of the dying man, and he spoke now with a curious, eager tenseness apparent in his tones.

“And since that time you dream?” said he.

“Aye,” whispered Nightmare Jack. “Since then I dream. Ah, ’ow I dream! . . . Got ’em bad I ’ave. . . . But as for that, by Gar, so ’as ’e! Sometimes, when ’e’s told me things, I’ve seen the fear spread in ’is face, an’ it’s been meat an’ drink to me, an’ to-night, Sirs, we finish quits, though ’e thought to be the one to put me to my sleep . . .”

His voice, from which but a moment ago the growing weakness seemed to have stolen all the strength, suddenly rang out in a harsh and triumphant yell which tailed off horribly into a sickening choke of terror. With a display of strength nothing short of marvellous in his exhaustion and his pain he had lifted himself to a sitting posture in the bed and now stared with staring eyeballs at the shadowy form of Gilchrist. Nightmare Jack had raised one hand before his face in a curious, despairing, warding motion, and from behind it, in such an access of mingled hate and dread as I pray heaven I may never hear again, his last words crept out upon an appalling, strangled cry, half whisper and half shriek:

“Save me; save me from their bloody Nark. . . . The man ’oo speaks like a girl an’ smells like a goat. . . . The cat ’as . . .”

All at once he stopped and fell back against the pillow. Then, as he mouthed and swallowed in a vain effort to continue, our gaze turned to the pallid, lurching figure that had risen from the corner’s gloom.

Gilchrist, he whom men called the Nurse, that indecent thing of whose employ the very vilest were ashamed even while they ate his meat, was staggering and swaying in the centre of the room, and whilst with one hand he still pressed the handkerchief against his wound, with the other he pointed at the writhing form upon the bed.

For a silent moment the two faced each other. Then, with his glazing eyes still fixed on his tormentor, Nightmare Jack dragged from its station at its pillow the huge, complacent body of the cat. With a last flicker of strength he tore at his shirt downwards from the neck and drew one of the animal’s front paws in a cruel, jagged line across his heart. After about a second the blood started from his chest in a zigzag, crimson track, and, with a grin of triumph on his face, his head fell back against the wall, and he slid down dead into the bed.

A little later Gilchrist collapsed in a faint upon the floor.

Never a word did the three of us speak as we bore the body of Nightmare Jack out into the dusk where our boat lay waiting, and it was some minutes after we had let it drop over the stem into the seethe and huddle of the flowing tide that Crabbe, looking up slowly from his oar, said:

“What’s happened to the other one? Why did he give us the slip do you think after he’d come out of his faint? He followed us down the stairs all right, and we waited for him long enough.”

“Too long,” said Cohen. “We wait for him no more. His game’s been played with us too long. To-morrow night he sleeps with the man he’s driven mad . . .”

It was only a little later, however, as we were passing above Notman’s Wharf, that Crabbe drove his oar into something soft and uttered a startled cry. The light from the lantern which I held out over his shoulder flickered for an instant on a whitish object that bobbed and dipped grotesquely in the suck of water at our stern and then faded back along our wake into the blackness of the night. It was a body floating up stream with the making tide, and one glance had been enough for us to recognise the face.

“Gilchrist—as I live!” whispered Cohen. “Now how, in heaven’s name——”

Just then the cat Pongo, which had jumped with us into the boat as we put off, uttered a faint miaou, and Cohen swore.

“Of course!” cried he. “The cat! I see it now. Gilchrist must have fainted again and fallen into the river and been carried ahead of us by the tide before we managed to get clear. That was a clever trick of Jack’s. I was thinking it must have been more than an ordinary scratch . . .”

“Why,” said Crabbe. “What do you mean?”

“Mean?” repeated Cohen with a little laugh. “Why, that Jack had seen us coming and him with us. He made his preparations, that was all. I saw the cat’s feet leave blue marks upon the bed. Its claws were poisoned.”

Ten years ago to-day; Crabbe and Cohen gone their ways, and I alone left who can remember the doings of that night to wonder what might be the darker matters that lay behind a madman’s ravings. Time passes quickly. . . . And it is strange how soon things are forgotten on the river.