Part 6

“It is characteristic of him that you know so little about him,” replied Mr. Solan, “for although he is one of the most dangerous and intellectually powerful men in the world he gets very little publicity nowadays. Most of the much-advertised Naughty Boys of the Nineties harmed no one but themselves--they merely canonised their own and each other’s dirty linen, but Clinton was in a class by himself. He was--and no doubt still is--an accomplished corrupter, and he took, and no doubt still takes, a jocund delight in his hobby. Eventually he left England--by request--and went out East. He spent some years in a Tibetan Monastery, and then some other years in less reputable places--his career is detailed very fully in a file in my study--and then he applied his truly mighty mind to what I may loosely call magic--for what I loosely call magic, my dear Bellamy, most certainly exists. Clinton is highly psychic, with great natural hypnotic power. He then joined an esoteric and little-known sect--Satanists--of which he eventually became High Priest. And then he returned to what we call civilisation, and has since been ‘moved on’ by the Civil Powers of many countries, for his forte is the extraction of money from credulous and timid individuals--usually female--by methods highly ingenious and peculiarly his own. It is a boast of his that he has never yet missed his revenge. He ought to be stamped out with the brusque ruthlessness meted out to a spreading fire in a Californian forest.

“Well, there is a short inadequate sketch of Oscar Clinton, and now about these paper patterns.”

* * * * *

Two hours later Bellamy got up to leave. “I can lend you a good many of his books,” said Mr. Solan, “and you can get the rest at Lilley’s. Come to me from four till six on Wednesdays and Fridays, and I’ll teach you all I think essential. Meanwhile, I will have a watch kept upon him, but I want you, my dear Bellamy, to do nothing decisive till you are qualified. It would be a pity if the Bar were to be deprived of your great gifts prematurely.”

“Many thanks,” said Bellamy. “I have now placed myself in your hands, and I’m in this thing till the end--some end or other.”

Mr. Plank, Bellamy’s clerk, had no superior in his profession, one which is the most searching test of character and adaptability. Not one of the devious and manifold tricks of his trade was unpractised by him, and his income was £1,250 per annum, a fact which the Inland Revenue Authorities strongly suspected but were quite unable to establish. He liked Mr. Bellamy, personally well enough, financially very much indeed. It was not surprising, therefore, that many seismic recording instruments registered sharp shocks at four p.m. on June 12th, 192-, a disturbance caused by the precipitous descent of Mr. Plank’s jaw when Mr. Bellamy instructed him to accept no more briefs for him for the next three months. “But,” continued that gentleman, “here is a cheque which will, I trust, reconcile you to the fact.”

Mr. Plank scrutinised the numerals and was reconciled.

“Taking a holiday, sir?” he asked.

“I rather doubt it,” replied Bellamy. “But you might suggest to any inquisitive enquirers that that is the explanation.”

“I understand, sir.”

From then till midnight, with one short pause, Bellamy was occupied with a pile of exotically bound volumes. Occasionally he made a note on his writing pad. When his clock struck twelve he went to bed and read _The Wallet of Kai-Lung_ till he felt sleepy enough to turn out the light.

At eight o’clock the next morning he was busy once more with an exotically bound book, and making an occasional note on his writing pad.

Three weeks later he was bidding a temporary farewell to Mr. Solan, who remarked, “I think you’ll do now. You are an apt pupil; pleading has given you a command of convincing bluff, and you have sufficient psychic insight to make it possible for you to succeed. Go forth and prosper! At all times I shall be fighting for you. He will be there at nine to-night.”

At a quarter past that hour Bellamy was asking the door-keeper of the Chorazin Club to tell Mr. Clinton that a Mr. Bellamy wished to see him.

Two minutes later the official reappeared and led him downstairs into an ornate and gaudy cellar decorated with violence and indiscretion--the work, he discovered later, of a neglected genius who had died of neglected cirrhosis of the liver. He was led up to a table in the corner, where someone was sitting alone.

Bellamy’s first impression of Oscar Clinton remained vividly with him till his death. As he got up to greet him he could see that he was physically gigantic--six foot five at least, with a massive torso--the build of a champion wrestler. Topping it was a huge, square, domed head. He had a white yet mottled face, thick, tense lips, the lower one protruding fantastically. His hair was clipped close, save for one twisted and oiled lock which curved down to meet his eyebrows. But what impressed Bellamy most was a pair of the hardest, most penetrating and merciless eyes--one of which seemed soaking wet and dripping slowly.

Bellamy “braced his belt about him”--he was in the presence of a power.

“Well, sir,” said Clinton in a beautifully musical voice with a slight drawl, “I presume you are connected with Scotland Yard. What can I do for you?”

“No,” replied Bellamy, forcing a smile, “I’m in no way connected with that valuable institution.”

“Forgive the suggestion,” said Clinton, “but during a somewhat adventurous career I have received so many unheralded visits from more or less polite police officials. What, then, is your business?”

“I haven’t any, really,” said Bellamy. “It’s simply that I have long been a devoted admirer of your work, the greatest imaginative work of our time in my opinion. A friend of mine mentioned casually that he had seen you going into this Club, and I could not resist taking the liberty of forcing, just for a moment, my company upon you.”

Clinton stared at him, and seemed not quite at his ease.

“You interest me,” he said at length. “I’ll tell you why. Usually I know decisively by certain methods of my own whether a person I meet comes as an enemy or a friend. These tests have failed in your case, and this, as I say, interests me. It suggests things to me. Have you been in the East?”

“No,” said Bellamy.

“And made no study of its mysteries?”

“None whatever, but I can assure you I come merely as a most humble admirer. Of course, I realise you have enemies--all great men have; it is the privilege and penalty of their pre-eminence, and I know you to be a great man.”

“I fancy,” said Clinton, “that you are perplexed by the obstinate humidity of my left eye. It is caused by the rather heavy injection of heroin I took this afternoon. I may as well tell you I use all drugs, but am the slave of none. I take heroin when I desire to contemplate. But tell me--since you profess such an admiration for my books--which of them most meets with your approval?”

“That’s a hard question,” replied Bellamy, “but _A Damsel with a Dulcimer_ seems to me exquisite.”

Clinton smiled patronisingly.

“It has merits,” he said, “but is immature. I wrote it when I was living with a Bedouin woman aged fourteen in Tunis. Bedouin women have certain natural gifts”--and here he became remarkably obscene, before returning to the subject of his works; “my own opinion is that I reached my zenith in _The Songs of Hamdonna_. Hamdonna was a delightful companion, the fruit of the raptures of an Italian gentleman and a Persian lady. She had the most naturally--the most brilliantly vicious mind of any woman I ever met. She required hardly any training. But she was unfaithful to me, and died soon after.”

“The Songs are marvellous,” said Bellamy, and he began quoting from them fluently.

Clinton listened intently. “You have a considerable gift for reciting poetry,” he said. “May I offer you a drink? I was about to order one for myself.”

“I’ll join you on one condition--that I may be allowed to pay for both of them--to celebrate the occasion.”

“Just as you like,” said Clinton, tapping the table with his thumb, which was adorned with a massive jade ring curiously carved. “I always drink brandy after heroin, but you order what you please.”

It may have been the whisky, it may have been the pressing nervous strain or a combination of both, which caused Bellamy now to regard the mural decorations with a much modified sang-froid. Those distorted and tortured patches of flat colour, how subtly suggestive they were of something sniggeringly evil!

“I gave Valin the subject for those panels,” said Clinton. “They are meant to represent an impression of the stages in the Black Mass, but he drank away his original inspiration, and they fail to do that majestic ceremony justice.”

Bellamy flinched at having his thoughts so easily read.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he replied; “that unfortunate cat they’re slaughtering deserved a less ludicrous memorial to its fate.”

Clinton looked at him sharply and sponged his oozing eye.

“I have made these rather flamboyant references to my habits purposely. Not to impress you, but to see _how_ they impressed you. Had you appeared disgusted, I should have known it was useless to pursue our acquaintanceship. All my life I have been a law unto myself, and that is probably why the Law has always shown so much interest in me. I know myself to be a being apart, one to whom the codes and conventions of the herd can never be applied. I have sampled every so-called ‘vice,’ including every known drug. Always, however, with an object in view. Mere purposeless debauchery is not in my character. My Art, to which you have so kindly referred, must always come first. Sometimes it demands that I sleep with a negress, that I take opium or hashish; sometimes it dictates rigid asceticism, and I tell you, my friend, that if such an instruction came again to-morrow, as it has often come in the past, I could, without the slightest effort, lead a life of complete abstinence from drink, drugs and women for an indefinite period. In other words, I have gained absolute control over my senses after the most exhaustive experiments with them. How many can say the same? Yet one does not know what life can teach till that control is established. The man of superior power--there are no such women--should not flinch from such experiments, he should seek to learn every lesson evil as well as good has to teach. So will he be able to extend and multiply his personality, but always he must remain absolute master of himself. And then he will have many strange rewards, and many secrets will be revealed to him. Some day, perhaps, I will show you some which have been revealed to me.”

“Have you absolutely no regard for what is called ‘morality’?” asked Bellamy.

“None whatever. If I wanted money I should pick your pocket. If I desired your wife--if you have one--I should seduce her. If someone obstructs me--something happens to him. You must understand this clearly--for I am not bragging--I do nothing purposelessly nor from what I consider a bad motive. To me ‘bad’ is synonymous with ‘unnecessary.’ I do nothing unnecessary.”

“Why is revenge necessary?” asked Bellamy.

“A plausible question. Well, for one thing I like cruelty--one of my unpublished works is a defence of Super-Sadism. Then it is a warning to others, and lastly it is a vindication of my personality. All excellent reasons. Do you like my _Thus spake Eblis_?”

“Masterly,” replied Bellamy. “The perfection of prose, but, of course, its magical significance is far beyond my meagre understanding.”

“My dear friend, there is only one man in Europe about whom that would not be equally true.”

“Who is that?” asked Bellamy.

Clinton’s eyes narrowed venomously.

“His name is Solan,” he said. “One of these days, perhaps----” and he paused. “Well, now, if you like I will tell you of some of my experiences.”

* * * * *

An hour later a monologue drew to its close. “And now, Mr. Bellamy, what is your rôle in life?”

“I’m a barrister.”

“Oh, so you _are_ connected with the Law?”

“I hope,” said Bellamy smiling, “you’ll find it possible to forget it.”

“It would help me to do so,” replied Clinton, “if you would lend me ten pounds. I have forgotten my note-case--a frequent piece of negligence on my part--and a lady awaits me. Thanks very much. We shall meet again, I trust.”

“I was just about to suggest that you dined with me one day this week?”

“This is Tuesday,” said Clinton. “What about Thursday?”

“Excellent, will you meet me at the Gridiron about eight?”

“I will be there,” said Clinton, mopping his eye. “Good-night.”

* * * * *

“I can understand now what happened to Franton,” said Bellamy to Mr. Solan the next evening. “He is the most fascinating and catholic talker I have met. He has a wicked charm. If half to which he lays claim is true, he has packed ten lives into sixty years.”

“In a sense,” said Mr. Solan, “he has the best brain of any man living. He has also a marvellous histrionic sense and he is _deadly_. But he is vulnerable. On Thursday encourage him to talk of other things. He will consider you an easy victim. You must make the most of the evening--it may rather revolt you--he is sure to be suspicious at first.”

* * * * *

“It amuses and reassures me,” said Clinton at ten fifteen on Thursday evening in Bellamy’s room, “to find you have a lively appreciation of obscenity.”

He brought out a snuff box, an exquisite little masterpiece with an inexpressibly vile design enamelled on the lid, from which he took a pinch of white powder which he sniffed up from the palm of his hand.

“I suppose,” said Bellamy, “that all your magical lore would be quite beyond me.”

“Oh yes, quite,” replied Clinton, “but I can show you what sort of power a study of that lore has given me, by a little experiment. Turn round, look out of the window, and keep quite quiet till I speak to you.”

It was a brooding night. In the south-west the clouds made restless, quickly shifting patterns--the heralds of coming storm. The scattered sound of the traffic in Kingsway rose and fell with the gusts of the rising wind. Bellamy found a curious picture forming in his brain. A wide lonely waste of snow and a hill with a copse of fir trees, out from which someone came running. Presently this person halted and looked back, and then out from the wood appeared another figure (of a shape he had seen before). And then the one it seemed to be pursuing began to run on, staggering through the snow, over which the Shape seemed to skim lightly and rapidly, and to gain on its quarry. Then it appeared as if the one in front could go no further. He fell and rose again, and faced his pursuer. The Shape came swiftly on and flung itself hideously on the one in front, who fell to his knees. The two seemed intermingled for a moment....

“Well,” said Clinton, “and what did you think of that?”

Bellamy poured out a whisky and soda and drained it.

“Extremely impressive,” he replied. “It gave me a feeling of great horror.”

“The individual whose rather painful end you have just witnessed once did me a dis-service. He was found in a remote part of Norway. Why he chose to hide himself there is rather difficult to understand.”

“Cause and effect?” asked Bellamy, forcing a smile.

Clinton took another pinch of the white powder.

“Possibly a mere coincidence,” he replied. “And now I must go, for I have a ‘date,’ as they say in America, with a rather charming and profligate young woman. Could you possibly lend me a little money?”

When he had gone Bellamy washed his person very thoroughly in a hot bath, brushed his teeth with zeal, and felt a little cleaner. He tried to read in bed, but between him and Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Night-Watchman’ a bestial and persistent phantasmagoria forced its way. He dressed again, went out, and walked the streets till dawn.

Some time later Mr. Solan happened to overhear a conversation in the club smoking-room.

“I can’t think what’s happened to Bellamy,” said one. “He does no work and is always about with that incredible swine Clinton.”

“A kink somewhere, I suppose,” said another, yawning. “Dirty streak probably.”

“Were you referring to Mr. Edward Bellamy, a friend of mine?” asked Mr. Solan.

“We were,” said one.

“Have you ever known him do a discreditable thing?”

“Not till now,” said another.

“Or a stupid thing?”

“I’ll give you that,” said one.

“Well,” said Mr. Solan, “you have my word for it that he has not changed,” and he passed on.

“Funny old devil that,” said one.

“Rather shoves the breeze up me,” said another. “He seems to know something. I like Bellamy, and I’ll apologise to him for taking his name in vain when I see him next. But that bastard Clinton!----”

* * * * *

“It will have to be soon,” said Mr. Solan. “I heard to-day that he will be given notice to quit any day now. Are you prepared to go through with it?”

“He’s the Devil incarnate,” said Bellamy. “If you knew what I’d been through in the last month!”

“I have a shrewd idea of it,” replied Mr. Solan. “You think he trusts you completely?”

“I don’t think he has any opinion of me at all, except that I lend him money whenever he wants it. Of course, I’ll go through with it. Let it be Friday night. What must I do? Tell me exactly. I know that but for you I should have chucked my hand in long ago.”

“My dear Bellamy, you have done marvellously well, and you will finish the business as resolutely as you have carried it through so far. Well, this is what you must do. Memorise it flawlessly.”

* * * * *

“I will arrange it that we arrive at his rooms just about eleven o’clock. I will ring up five minutes before we leave.”

“I shall be doing my part,” said Mr. Solan.

Clinton was in high spirits at the Café Royal on Friday evening.

“I like you, my dear Bellamy,” he observed, “not merely because you have a refined taste in pornography and have lent me a good deal of money, but for a more subtle reason. You remember when we first met I was puzzled by you. Well, I still am. There is some psychic power surrounding you. I don’t mean that you are conscious of it, but there is some very powerful influence working for you. Great friends though we are, I sometimes feel that this power is hostile to myself. Anyhow, we have had many pleasant times together.”

“And,” replied Bellamy, “I hope we shall have many more. It has certainly been a tremendous privilege to have been permitted to enjoy so much of your company. As for that mysterious power you refer to, I am entirely unconscious of it, and as for hostility--well, I hope I’ve convinced you during the last month that I’m not exactly your enemy.”

“You have, my dear fellow,” replied Clinton. “You have been a charming and generous companion. All the same, there is an enigmatic side to you. What shall we do to-night?”

“Whatever you please,” said Bellamy.

“I suggest we go round to my rooms,” said Clinton, “bearing a bottle of whisky, and that I show you another little experiment. You are now sufficiently trained to make it a success.”

“Just what I should have hoped for,” replied Bellamy enthusiastically. “I will order the whisky now.” He went out of the grill-room for a moment and had a few words with Mr. Solan over the telephone. And then he returned, paid the bill, and they drove off together.

Clinton’s rooms were in a dingy street about a hundred yards from the British Museum. They were drab and melancholy, and contained nothing but the barest necessities and some books.

It was exactly eleven o’clock as Clinton took out his latchkey, and it was just exactly then that Mr. Solan unlocked the door of a curious little room leading off from his study.

Then he opened a bureau and took from it a large book bound in plain white vellum. He sat down at a table and began a bizarre procedure. He took from a folder at the end of the book a piece of what looked like crumpled tracing paper, and, every now and again consulting the quarto, drew certain symbols upon the paper, while repeating a series of short sentences in a strange tongue. The ink into which he dipped his pen for this exercise was a smoky sullen scarlet.

Presently the atmosphere of the room became intense, and charged with suspense and crisis. The symbols completed, Mr. Solan became rigid and taut, and his eyes were those of one passing into trance.

* * * * *

“First of all a drink, my dear Bellamy,” said Clinton.

Bellamy pulled the cork and poured out two stiff pegs. Clinton drank his off. He gave the impression of being not quite at his ease.

“Some enemy of mine is working against me to-night,” he said. “I feel an influence strongly. However, let us try the little experiment. Draw up your chair to the window, and do not look round till I speak.”

Bellamy did as he was ordered, and peered at a dark façade across the street. Suddenly it was as if wall after wall rolled up before his eyes and passed into the sky, and he found himself gazing into a long faintly-lit room. As his eyes grew more used to the dimness he could pick out a number of recumbent figures, apparently resting on couches. And then from the middle of the room a flame seemed to leap and then another and another until there was a fiery circle playing round one of these figures, which slowly rose to its feet and turned and stared at Bellamy; and its haughty, evil face grew vast, till it was thrust, dazzling and fiery right into his own. He put up his hands to thrust back its scorching menace--and there was the wall of the house opposite, and Clinton was saying, “Well?”

“Your power terrifies me!” said Bellamy. “Who was that One I saw?”

“The one you saw was myself,” said Clinton smiling, “during my third reincarnation, about 1750 B.C. I am the only man in the world who can perform that quite considerable feat. Give me another drink.”

Bellamy got up (it was time!). Suddenly he felt invaded by a mighty reassurance. His ghostly terror left him. Something irresistible was sinking into his soul, and he knew that at the destined hour the promised succour had come to sustain him. He felt thrilled, resolute, exalted.

He had his back to Clinton as he filled the glasses, and with a lightning motion he dropped a pellet into Clinton’s which fizzled like a tiny comet down through the bubbles and was gone.

“Here’s to many more pleasant evenings,” said Clinton. “You’re a brave man, Bellamy,” he exclaimed, putting the glass to his lips. “For what you have seen might well appal the devil!”