Part 12

Mr. Cheltenham began apologising for the leisurely behaviour of the proofs, but Mr. Kato obviously took little interest on what he was saying. “The publication date will be February 13th”--as he said this, Mr. Cheltenham paused. Till he made the remark he had not considered the date of publication definitely. Why then had he mentioned February 13th so decisively? The date seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had heard it recently in some other connection.

“Yes,” said Mr. Kato listlessly.

“You don’t look very fit, if I may say so,” said Mr. Cheltenham. “I hope you’re not worrying about the book. I can assure you there’s not the slightest need to. Everything is progressing quite satisfactorily, and I feel certain that you will have an amazingly favourable Press.”

“I do not worry about it,” said Mr. Kato--and then paused, his haggard eyes fixed on Mr. Cheltenham’s face. (“As if,” thought the latter, “he wants sympathy pretty badly, and I’m the first person who has shown him any.”)

Suddenly Mr. Kato’s expression changed, he looked sharply behind him, and a hunted look overspread his face. “Please excuse,” he muttered, “my nerves are not so good, I think,” and he got heavily up and went out.

“Unless he does something about it,” thought the publisher, “this will be the last as well as the first book he has his name to. Funny thing! If I’d written it, I should be thrilling with excitement to see it published, but he seems bored to death with it. He is the easiest author I’ve ever had to deal with. Poets are usually the devil--fussing about perfectly fatuous little details and trying to teach me my business. But he’s a model.”

The printer was as good as his word, and the proofs arrived the next morning and were immediately sent off to the author for correction, and they arrived back the following afternoon. “Pretty quick work, that,” thought Mr. Cheltenham in astonishment. Having finished his other work, he took up the proofs and began to look through them. And then he got one of the greatest surprises of his life. The printers had warned him that, being a rush job, the proofs would probably be full of mistakes. There was one Mr. Cheltenham noticed in the title of the very first poem, “Cherry” being spelt with one “r,” but Mr. Kato had not altered it. The publisher turned over the galley slips. There was not one single correction from beginning to end, yet a quick scrutiny showed him there were many and some ludicrous errors. He put down the proofs and sat back in his chair. He knew he was in the presence of a mystery, and many thoughts passed through his mind. Gradually the several, single, isolated puzzles began to knit themselves into coherency. “Curse the fellow, whoever he is,” he said to himself, “this means another late night.” As he took up his pen and began to make the first correction that strange drowsiness he knew so well seized him once more....

When he awoke the clock was just striking eight. “Good Lord,” he thought, “I’ve been to sleep for two hours and a half and not one stroke of work have I done at these cursed----” and he leapt to his feet, for there on the first page was an added “r” in the margin opposite the title of the first poem, and in the poem itself an epithet had been struck out and another substituted in a delicate, exotic handwriting, which was certainly not his own. He turned the pages rapidly, and on nearly every one was some alteration or revision, which Mr. Cheltenham saw at a glance was invariably completely right. He turned back to the title page, and there was Mr. Kato’s name neatly crossed out and “F. Gonesara” substituted. Mr. Cheltenham was frightened, and he knew it. He reached for his hat and coat and ran from the room and down the stairs; just as he reached the ground floor he saw out of the corner of his eye a small, dark figure on the landing above.

Mr. Cheltenham had a will of his own when he chose to utilise it, and for the next few weeks he resolutely refused to allow his mind to wander along forbidden and dangerous paths, even when there was that curious incident at the binder’s. He never stayed late and kept himself busy. Contrary to his custom he took several manuscripts home and read them in bed till his eyes closed. Eventually his plans and preparations for the publication of _And he shall sing_ were completed, advertising space was booked, review copies sent out, the trade supplied, and there was nothing to do but wait for February 13th, the date of publication. On February 12th he spent a very quiet day. Business was good. The latest masterpiece of his best-seller, Miss Vera de Vere, _Passionate Desire_, was selling passionately. He had no worries, he dined lightly and drank sparingly. It was, therefore, all the more unexplicable that he should have been afflicted with the most dreadful nightmare of his life.

At first he seemed to be standing against the wall of a room, a very silent and dark room, incapable of moving hand and foot, gripped and held by a malicious power which was quite determined he should do its bidding. But Mr. Cheltenham wanted to leave that room very, very badly. He longed with a desperate longing not to have to witness the horror which he knew was coming. Gradually his eye grew accustomed to the darkness, and then he could pick out the dim outline of the room, and then a shaft of moonlight came pouring in its thin radiance. He saw he was in a bedroom, looking down on a bed in which someone was lying motionless. He knew something vile was about to happen before his eyes: he strained at his invisible bonds, but inexorably they held him. By the light of the moonbeam he could see the room was carpetless, the worn polish of the floor reflected the moonlight hazily. And then Mr. Cheltenham saw that a plank was rising slowly. Once again he strained at his bonds. The plank rose steadily and stealthily, and suddenly something had moved up from under it, and had climbed out and was crouching on the floor.

Mr. Cheltenham trembled violently. That something, he knew, was or had been human. For a moment it stayed motionless, and then it began crawling stealthily towards the bed. A foul and deadly stench filled the room, and the publisher swayed reeling to his knees. He saw that that something was naked, livid, and that blood was streaming jerkily from its rotting lips. Mr. Cheltenham flung himself on the floor, and with a terrible effort turned his head away--and he found himself clawing at the carpet beside his own little iron bed, sweating and whimpering. Distressed and nauseated, he made no attempt to go to sleep again, but read _Pickwick_ for the rest of the night.

He had not been at his office long the next morning when his bell rang.

“Chief Inspector Walsh to see you, sir.”

“Show him up,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, who spent the next few moments puzzling over the possible causes of this visitation. Had the author of _Passionate Desire_ overstepped the liberal bounds allowed her? He never read her books himself, but his manager had assured him that her latest was no more stimulating than usual. A knock on the door, and in stepped a large, dominating personality, hairy and red-faced. “Good morning, sir,” said he, “I’ve come about a Mr. Kato. I want to know if you can give me any information about him.”

“I’ve just published his book this morning,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “but I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing personal about him. Why, has he got into some trouble?”

“Well,” said the Inspector, “I think you can put it that way. He was found murdered in his bed this morning.”

The publisher started to his feet.

“Murdered! By whom?”

“Well, sir, it’s a funny case, a very funny case, you might say. The instrument used was a book--his own book, I take it, and whoever did it was a strong man, for he’d brought it down on his face so that he’s--not a pretty sight, but that’s not the end of it. One of my men noticed a board in the floor was loose. It was pulled up, and underneath was a body, much decomposed, with its throat cut. He was a Jap, too. Looks like a feud of some kind. Kato killed this chap and another chap got him. I came to see you, sir, because nothing is known of this Kato, and except some letters from you we found nothing suggesting he had any friends or acquaintances in this country. The Embassy people know nothing about him.”

“As I say,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “I knew him purely in a business way, but I do think there was some mystery about him, for I had come to the conclusion that he was not the author of the book which he pretended to have written.”

“How’s that?” asked the Inspector.

“It is a collection of extremely subtle and beautiful poems,” replied the publisher, “and from my experience of Kato I am convinced he could not have written them. He was always very nervous and uneasy, by the way.”

“Don’t you be too sure he didn’t write ’em, sir,” said Mr. Walsh. “Besides your letters, the only papers we found in his rooms were poems, stacks of them. I’ve brought some of them along, and in view of what you say I’d like you to look through them and see if they shed any light on the business, and then I’m afraid I must ask you to come along and identify the body.”

“Must I really do that?” said Mr. Cheltenham.

“I’m afraid so, sir; you’re the only person who seems to know anything about him, and you’ll be wanted at the inquest.”

“Very well,” replied the publisher, “I’ll ring you up when I have looked through these papers.”

“Much obliged, sir,” said the Inspector, and left the room.

The first thing Mr. Cheltenham did was to send for his manager.

“Dixon, I have decided to withdraw _And he shall sing_.”

“But, sir----”

“I’m afraid there are no ‘but’s’ about it. I’ll explain to the Trade and the reviewers, you hustle up and get the books back; there aren’t many out yet, and reviewers don’t hurry over poetry.”

* * * * *

Some people may remember a curious little mystery about a book of poems--it had another title--which was reviewed enthusiastically in one or two papers, but apparently never published. A few copies are in existence, and sell for good sums when a collector consents to part.

Mr. Cheltenham destroyed every copy he could get hold of. Perhaps an impulsive and unnecessary performance, but he felt he could do no other. Having completed his plans for the withdrawal of the book he turned to the inspector’s bag and its contents. They were “poems,” as he had said, the feeblest, most bathetic, utterly commonplace rubbish on which Mr. Cheltenham in a long and bitter experience had ever cast his eyes. “It is the poetic fame which I desire,” these words came back to his mind as he thrust the heap back into the bag. Perhaps he understood; and “F. Gonesara”? He shrugged his shoulders and took a taxi to Mr. Kato’s flat in a typical Bloomsbury street.

The Inspector was waiting for him.

“Well?” he said.

“Mr. Walsh,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “when you have time I have a story to tell you, one you may not believe, but I think if you _could_ believe it you would be saved a lot of useless work on this case. And now let’s get the beastly ordeal over.”

“Any time you like, sir. Come with me.” He led the publisher along a passage and opened a door, and they entered a room. Mr. Cheltenham recognised it, as he had expected, and when he saw the bed and a red-stained sheet upon it, he trembled again--and then the Inspector went forward and drew back the sheet.

THE SEVENTEENTH HOLE AT DUNCASTER

THE SEVENTEENTH HOLE AT DUNCASTER

Mr. Baxter sauntered out of his office in the Dormy House at Duncaster Golf Club, just as the sun was setting one perfect evening late in September, 192-, his meagre labours finished for the day. He gazed idly around him over one of the finest stretches of golfing country in the world. Duncaster is a remote hamlet on the Norfolk coast and, being twelve miles from a railway station, would have remained delicately secluded if some roaming enthusiast in the late 90’s had not felt his heart seized by so fair, so promising, so Royal and Ancient a prospect, and rallied his golfing acquaintance to found the Duncaster Golf Club, with a small and select membership, and small and select it had remained. Almost deserted for most of the year, it was thickly sprinkled in August, and there was always a pleasant gathering of old friends at the Spring and Autumn meetings. Mr. Baxter, the popular and efficient secretary, was a portly little person, kindly, considerate, but not very happy. He let his eye roam placidly just over the superb sand-dune country bordering the North Sea, where gleaming alley-ways of perfect turf burrowed their way through the golden ramparts above them, sweet isolated pathways ending in the World’s Finest Greens--so the members considered--where little red flags gleamed, waving gently in a dying evening breeze; then his eyes wandered inland and became for a moment sharply intent as they reached the 17th green, the new 17th placed on a plateau in the big wood, the long shadows cast by the sleepy sun peeping through the trees, playing across it.

Mr. Baxter was in a slightly depressed and introspective mood. Golf secretaries, he decided, were born and not made, and born under no felicitous star. There was he, a student and a philosopher by taste and temperament, condemned to oversee for a slender remuneration the tiny activities of a blasted Golf Club. He had drifted into this blind alley as he had always drifted; it was all due, he supposed, to the fact that one of his glands functioned inadequately. Yes, golf secretaries were only explicable on some such derogatory hypothesis. This 17th green, for example, because it was the only alteration made since the opening of the links, what a “Yes and No,” what a discordant clamour of debate, what a fuss about almost nothing! Of course it was an improvement; by hacking a fairway through the wood and making the green on that ideal little plateau a bad 270-yarder had been changed into a very fine two-shotter--the best, though not the most pleasing hole, for the dunes made the real charm of the course. And yet--the student and philosopher rebelled.

He strolled across to the Pro.’s shop, whose tenant was standing in the doorway smoking a pipe, and gazing reflectively in front of him.

“Evening, Dakers,” said Mr. Baxter, “I thought I saw someone on the 17th a little while ago. Is anyone still out?”

The Pro. took his pipe out of his mouth. His face did not command a wide range of expression, but for a moment a look of a certain sharpness and subtlety flitted across it.

“No, sir, everyone’s in. Mr. and Mrs. Stannard finished a quarter of an hour ago; they were the last.”

“That’s funny,” said Mr. Baxter, “I could have sworn I saw someone.”

The Pro. paused a moment, as if carefully choosing his reply. “I think, sir, it’s the shadows. I’ve fancied the same thing.”

“Well, what do you think of it?” asked the Secretary.

“I’m sure it’s a very fine hole, sir, but it’s too good for me. I’ve played it seven times now, and done five fives and two sixes. It’s funny, too, because it’s just my length--a drive and push iron with the ground as hard as this, yet I haven’t found the green with my second shot once. The ball seems to leave the club all right, and then--well, it’s something I’ve never known happen before.”

“I hope it’s going to be a success, for it’s been enough bother and expense,” said Mr. Baxter.

The Pro. did not answer for a moment. He put his pipe back in his mouth and looked away over to the subject of discussion. At length he asked, “Did they ever discover what the contractor’s men died of, sir?”

“Not for certain,” replied the secretary, “blood-poisoning of some kind--a very unfortunate affair.”

“The other chaps thought it had something to do with those skulls and bones they dug up. They got talking to the villagers, who put the wind up them a bit, I’m thinking.”

“How was that?” asked Mr. Baxter.

“It’s some sort of talk about the wood, it seems,” replied Dakers.

Mr. Baxter was interested. “I should like to hear more about this,” he said, “but I have no time now. I’ll see you to-morrow.”

The next day, the Saturday before the opening of the Autumn meeting, Mr. Baxter played an afternoon round with Colonel Senlis. It was for both of them their first introduction to the new 17th. The Colonel had taken up the game after he retired, and he served it with an even more fanatical devotion than he had served his King. He was a jolly old maniac with a handicap of 16 and a style of his own. Mr. Baxter might have been a very fine player; he had balance, rhythm, and a beautiful pair of hands, but his heart had never been in it, and he was content to be a perfectly reliable 2.

No incident of any moment occurred during the first 16 holes. The Colonel collected much fine sand in various portions of his attire; Mr. Baxter played sound but listless golf. When they reached the seventeenth tee the wind, which had been wandering vaguely and gustily round the compass, suddenly settled down to blow half a gale from due east, and the seventeenth became a tiger indeed. Mr. Baxter, after a couple of nice blows dead into the wind, lay some twenty yards short of the wood, which was beginning to shout wildly in the gale. The Colonel was in the rough on the right, an alliterative position he usually occupied. He played his fourth--one of the few properly struck golf shots of his existence--dead on the pin. The secretary took his number three iron, and knew from the moment the ball left the club that he didn’t want it back. It was ruled on the flag.

As the Colonel came up, a look of swelling pride on his rubicund visage, he remarked, “Did you see mine, Baxter? Never say again I can’t play a spoon shot! You hit yours, too, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” answered the secretary, smiling. “I’m inside you by a yard or two, I fancy.”

“I don’t,” said the Colonel. “You’ll be playing the odd, stroke gone, all right.”

They walked together along the avenue of lurching Scotch firs and larches, and climbed the bank of the plateau.

“My God!” cried the Colonel. “We’re neither of us on! Where the Hades are they?”

An exasperating search followed, which ended when the Colonel found his Dunlop No. 1 dozing behind a tree, and Mr. Baxter detected his No. 2 in a rabbit hole. The Colonel made robust use of an expletive much favoured by the gallant men he had once had the honour of commanding. Mr. Baxter quietly picked up his errant globe and walked off to the last tee.

“Damn it, Baxter!” cried the Colonel, “that hole meant to fight me, I felt it all the time.”

The secretary had played many holes with the Colonel on many different courses, but had never noticed any of them displaying any Locarno spirit towards or desire to fraternise with him, but all the same he had voiced his own thoughts. It _had_ been a ludicrous incident, but its humour did not appeal to him particularly. Both those shots should have been by the pin. Just what the Pro. had said. It was very curious. “I’m going to hate that hole,” he thought.

“There’s a damned funny mark on my ball,” grumbled the Colonel. “I suppose it hit a tree, though I could swear it didn’t. Looks more like a burn. Why, there’s the same thing on yours!”

Mr. Baxter examined them. They were funny symmetrical little marks, and they were remarkably like burns. “The wind must have caught them and blown them into the trees,” he said, unconvincingly. “It’s rather a gloomy spot in there, and it’s hard to follow the flight exactly.”

After tea the secretary went round to see Dakers.

“Well,” he said, “I’ve tried the new hole.”

“I saw you out, sir,” said the Pro., smiling. “Did you get your four?”

“I almost deserved it,” said Mr. Baxter. “My third was played like a golfer, and lined on the pin. I found it in a rabbit hole underneath the left bank.”

“That’s what I told you, sir. It’s that sort of hole. I shall be interested to see how the members like it next week. In this wind it’s certainly _some_ hole.”

“You mentioned last night something about talk in the village,” insinuated Mr. Baxter. “What kind of talk?”

“Well, sir, there’s been quite a clack, still is, for that matter; they’re a funny, old-fashioned lot, with funny ideas. Do you know, sir, they won’t go into that wood after dusk!”

“Why on earth not?”

“They don’t seem to think it’s healthy somehow; they call it ‘Blood Wood,’ some old superstition or other. I think some of them were a bit ashamed of feeling that way till the contractor’s men died; but that started them off again.”

“It’s a pretty vague sort of yarn,” said the secretary musingly. “Do they go into detail at all?”

“No, sir, it’s a village tradition of very old standing, I should say. They are scared of the wood. Old Jim the Cobbler’s father was found dead, apparently murdered, in it, and there are other tales of the old times like that.”

* * * * *

Sunday was a busy day for Mr. Baxter. The Dormy House filled up steadily, and by the evening the highly satisfactory total of forty-four, mostly hale and slightly too hearty, elderly gentlemen had assembled.

The Autumn meeting opened in a full easterly gale, and it was a battered and weary collection of competitors who arrived back at the club house.

Mr. Baxter, greeting them as they came in, found them on one subject unanimously eloquent. They one and all cherished loathing mingled with respect for the new seventeenth. The secretary examined their cards with curiosity. Only one five was recorded, the average was eight. When young Cyril Ward, the only scratch player in the club, came in, the secretary asked him how he had fared. “My ancient friend,” he replied, “I accomplished seventeen holes in seventy-two strokes; good going in this wind; my total is eighty. I give you one guess as to the other hole.”

“Oh, the seventeenth, I suppose.”

“You’ve said it. Baxter, there’s something funny about it. I hit two perfect shots and then took six more to hole out.”

“I’m sure of it,” said the Secretary, “but I’m getting most remarkably sick of hearing about it.”