The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
it open and slept in the draught. Finding that this had no effect, he
undertook to sleep without covers, but the bitter weather would not
permit, so he purchased drugs and, after returning from his Turkish
bath, swallowed a sleeping-potion. When he could no longer keep his eyes
open he lay down nude and dripping where the frigid wind sucked over
him. Some time, somehow, before morning he must have covered himself,
for he awoke between the sheets as usual. With the exception of a thick
feeling in his head, however, which quickly wore off, he possessed no
ill effects.
Day after day, night after night, he exposed himself with a deliberate
methodical recklessness that seemed fatal; time after time his good
constitution threw off the assault. DeVoe declared querulously that his
friend looked even better than when they had arrived, and the scales
showed he had put on five pounds of weight. The affair assumed an
ironical, grisly sort of humor which amused Murray. But it was maddening
to DeVoe.
One howling, stormy afternoon the former bundled his accessory into warm
clothes and took him for a long walk. Leaving the town behind them, they
plowed up through the snow to the summit of a near-by mountain where the
gale raged past in all its violence. Henry was cursing the cold and
grumbling at his idiocy in coming along, and, when he had regained his
breath, growled:
"Understand, Butler, this ends it for me. I never agreed to kill
_myself_. Hereafter you can make your Alpine trips alone. I've had a
cold now for a week."
Murray laughed good-naturedly. "Remember, if I fail I can't pay you."
"For Heaven's sake, then, get it over with! I need that money and--I
have nerves."
The former speaker opened his coat and DeVoe saw that he had left the
house with no protection whatever beneath it, except trousers and
footgear. His body was wet from the climb, but he exposed it openly to
the storm until he was blue with cold, while the younger man stamped
about, threshing his arms and lamenting his own discomfort.
That night Murray repeated his Turkish bath, swallowed his usual
narcotic, and lay down upon his draughty couch to be awakened some time
after midnight by a cry of "Fire." He noted dully that a vivid glare was
flickering through his open windows, and saw that the roofs adjoining
were silhouetted against a redly glowing sky; he heard a great clamor of
shouting voices, gunshots, bells, running feet, so arose and dressed
himself. Instead of donning his regular clothing, however, he drew on a
pair of trousers, thrust his bare feet into rubber boots, then buttoned
a rubber coat over his naked shoulders.
When he undertook to rouse DeVoe, Henry refused to get up, murmuring
sourly beneath his blankets:
"It's too cold and I've just fallen asleep--been tossing around for
hours."
"Very well. If it should spread in this direction I'll come back and
help get the things out."
The blizzard of the previous day had increased in violence, and as
Murray stepped out into it the cold sank through his thin garb and cut
him to the bone. His rain-coat was almost no protection, the rubber
boots upon his bare feet froze quickly, but he smiled with a grim,
distorted sense of satisfaction as he decided that here perhaps was his
long-awaited opportunity.
A winter fire in a desert mining-camp is a serious calamity. Water is
scarce at all times, and at this particular season Goldfield was even
drier than usual. Volunteers had already joined the insufficient fire
department, but the blaze was gaining headway in spite of all. The wind
played devilish pranks, serving not only to fan the conflagration, but
to deaden human hands and reduce human bodies to helpless, clumsy
things.
Butler Murray plunged into the fight with an abandon that won admiration
even in this chaos. He had no fear, he courted danger, he led where
others shrank from following. In and out of the flames he went, now
blistered by the heat, now numbed by the wintry gale. His body became
drenched with sweat, only to be caked in ice from the spray a moment
later. Icicles clung to his brows, his boots filled with water. It was
he who laid the dynamite, it was he who set it off and razed the
buildings in the path of the conflagration, checking the swift march of
destruction. Although he labored like a giant, taking insane risks at
every opportunity, his life seemed charmed, and dawn found him
uninjured, although staggering from weakness. Women brought him hot
coffee and sandwiches, then when the fire was under control he returned
to his quarters, half naked, as he had set out. It had been one long
battle against the blind god luck and he had emerged unscathed. And yet
he had not lost, for no human body could withstand a strain like this;
his previous exposures had been as nothing compared with what he had
undergone these many hours. If this did not bring pneumonia nothing
could.
As he lurched up the frozen street men cheered him and something warm
awoke in his heart, but when he stumbled into DeVoe's room he found that
young man still in bed, his cheeks flushed and feverish. Henry was
coughing and groaning; he complained of pains in his head and chest.
An hour later a doctor pronounced it pneumonia, and when the patient
grew rapidly worse he was moved to the wretched excuse for a hospital.
Murray snatched a few hours' sleep that night as he sat by his friend's
bedside and the next day found him as fit as ever. But in spite of every
attention DeVoe's fever mounted, his lungs began to fill, and on the
second night he died.
The suddenness of this tragedy stunned Butler Murray and its mockery
enraged him. He had promised DeVoe, toward the last, to take his body
East, and now decided it was just as well to do so, for he had proven,
to his own satisfaction at least, that he could not catch pneumonia, no
matter how hard he tried. A few hours later, therefore, he was on the
overland train bound for New York.
He had wasted a month of valuable time, but as to relinquishing his
purpose, the idea never occurred to him.
II
The physical comfort of his club was most agreeable after his recent
ordeal, but he enjoyed it only a few days, then began to look about for
a suitable place in which to end his grim comedy. He selected the spot
with little delay--a sharp turn in a hillside road that wound down from
the heights near Spuyten Duyvil--he had often passed it in summer and
knew the danger well. If his automobile went over the edge, now that the
roads were icy, who could say it was not accidental?
He did not advise Muriel of his return, fearing to trust himself either
to write or to telephone, but spent much time in front of the morocco
case with its three photographs, longing desperately to see her and the
children.
When he felt that an auspicious time had arrived, he 'phoned his friend,
Dr. Herkimer, and invited himself to dinner. Herkimer was delighted, and
a few evenings later the clubman motored out toward Yonkers, where he
was made welcome and spent an agreeable evening.
"Where's your chauffeur?" the doctor inquired as his guest drew on his
fur coat and driving-gloves, preparatory to leaving.
"I let him go to-night. I thought I'd enjoy running the machine, for a
change."
"The roads are bad; be careful you don't skid on the hills. I nearly
went over to-day."
Murray promised to heed the warning, and a few moments later was gliding
toward the city.
The beauty of this cold, sharp night was inspiriting; the moon was
brilliant; the air was charged with life and vigor. It gave him a thrill
to realize that he was sweeping to probable death; that nothing now
could intervene to thwart him, and while, of course, there was the
unpleasant possibility that a plunge over the declivity might do no more
than maim him, he had studied the place carefully and intended to reduce
that chance to a minimum by driving his car down the hill with
sufficient velocity to hurl it far out over the edge. There were
railroad tracks beneath; anything short of instant death would be
miraculous.
As he came out upon the heights at last it occurred to him that he was
behaving very well for a man about to die. His hand was steady, his
heart was not greatly quickened, he was absolutely sane and healthy and
full of the desire to live. A short distance from the crest he stopped
his machine, then sat motionless for a few moments drinking in the
beauty of the night and taking his farewell of Muriel. When he had
arrived at peace with himself he fixed his wife's image in his mind,
then, thrusting down the accelerator, let in the clutch. There was a
jar, a jerk, a spasmodic shudder of the machinery; the motor went dead.
This unexpected interruption affected Murray oddly, until he realized
that after stopping the car he had neglected to shift his gears to
neutral. With an imprecation at his stupidity he clambered out and
cranked the motor. When it failed to start he primed his carbureter and
cranked again. It was an expensive, foreign-built machine, and one turn
should have served to set it going, but, strangely enough, there was no
explosion. For fifteen minutes he did everything his limited knowledge
permitted, but the car remained stationary upon the crest of the hill, a
stubborn, lifeless mass of metal.
Evidently that jerk had wrought havoc with some delicate adjustment, he
reasoned, perhaps the wiring, but it was too dark to diagnose just where
the trouble lay. It was cold, also, and his numb fingers refused to be
of much assistance. He gave over his efforts finally, and stared about
with a troubled look in his eyes. This was childish, utterly idiotic. He
wanted to laugh, but instead he cursed, then cranked the motor viciously
until the sweat stood out upon his forehead.
An hour later he was towed into town behind a rescue-car summoned by
telephone from the nearest garage. As he left his machine to board a
Subway train, the mechanic announced:
"Maybe it was a good thing you broke down before you hit that hill,
boss. There was a bad accident at the turn, to-day; the police are going
to close the street till spring."
Murray was not superstitious, but, recalling his many failures at
Goldfield, he decided he would make no further attempt to do away with
himself by means of his motor-car. Now that this particular road was
closed to traffic, he knew of no other place so favorable to his
project, and, inasmuch as the time was growing short, to be only
partially successful in his attempt would mean utter ruin. With no
little regret, therefore, he made up his mind to fall back upon poison,
which at least was certain, even though possessed of obvious drawbacks.
His experience with DeVoe had rendered him a bit cynical regarding the
value of friendship, hence it was with no fear of a checkmate that he
telephoned to Dr. Herkimer and made an appointment for that afternoon.
When the doctor arrived at the club, Murray laid the matter before him
in a concise, cold-blooded manner, and was relieved to hear him voice
exactly the words DeVoe had used.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to call here for me to-morrow morning. You will find me dead
in my bed. I want you to examine me and call it heart failure or
whatever you think best. Your word will be sufficient; there will be no
suspicion, no further examination, at least, until the poison I intend
to use will have had time to disappear or change its form."
"And why should I do this?" The doctor looked his friend over oddly.
"Here is one reason which I hope is sufficient." Murray held out a
promissory note for the same amount as the one he had executed for
DeVoe.
Herkimer took it, then, as he read the figures, his face paled. Crushing
it in his palm, he rose, and in a voice harsh with fury unloosed a