The Crimson Gardenia and Other Tales of Adventure
stream of profanity that surprised his hearer.
"You contemptible, short-bred loafer!" he concluded. "What do you take
me for? What makes you think I'd do such a rotten thing as that?"
Murray smiled. "You'll _have_ to, old man. It isn't pleasant, of course,
but you won't allow Muriel and the children to lose that money. I like
your spirit, but I shall kill myself just the same, and it's up to you
to see that they are not ruined."
Again Herkimer became incoherent.
"Oh, swear as much as you please, I'm going to do it, nevertheless. I've
made a wretched failure of everything else, but I intend to right one of
my wrongs while there is time."
"Right! Wrong!" bellowed the physician. "Damn it, man! You're asking me
to help you steal a million dollars. Does that occur to you?"
"The end justifies the means in this case. You're not rich. That
twenty-five thousand--"
Herkimer flung the paper at the speaker.
"Well, if you won't take my money, you'll have to help me, out
of friendship. At nine o'clock to-morrow morning I shall be dead.
Knowing the truth and all it means, you'll _have_ to come.
You--_can't--stay--away_."
"Oh, is that so?" the doctor mocked, furiously. "I'll show you whether I
can or not." He jerked his watch from his pocket and consulted it.
"There's a train for Boston in twenty minutes and I'm going to take it.
I couldn't get back here in time even if I wanted to. Now, kill yourself
and be damned to you." He seized his hat and rushed out of the room,
slamming the door behind him.
A moment later Murray heard a taxi-cab whir noisily away from the
club-house door.
Manifestly, there were more difficulties in the way of this enterprise
than he had counted upon. Without the co-operation of some reliable
physician the clubman dared not do away with himself in New York;
coroners are curious, medical attention is too prompt, he was too well
known, the very existence of that tremendous amount of life insurance
would lead to investigation. He decided to go hunting, and he knew just
the right place to go, too, he thought.
Several years before he had joined a gunning club which owned a vast
expanse of rice-fields and marsh lands in North Carolina, and, knowing
the place thoroughly, he concluded that it offered perfect facilities
for such an action as he contemplated. Accordingly, he packed his guns,
wired for a guide, and boarded a train for the South that very night. In
his pocket he carried a vial containing twenty-five grains of powdered
cocaine.
The club launch met him at Boonville, the nearest station, and during
the twenty-mile trip down the Sound he learned all he wished to know.
The shooting was well-nigh over; there were no other members at the
club-house; he would have the place all to himself.
For several days he hunted diligently, taking pains to write numerous
letters to his friends, and among others to Muriel. It was his first
letter since their parting, and the strain of holding his pen within
formal bounds was almost too much for him. It was a pity she would never
understand his motives in doing this thing, he reflected. It was a pity
he had never understood his own feelings before it was too late.
Manlike, he had thrown away the only precious thing of his life while
searching for counterfeit joys, and, man-like, he regretted his folly
now that he had lost her.
That evening he informed his guide that he intended to hunt by himself
on the following morning, and in answer to the old negro's warning
assured him that he knew the channels well and was amply able to handle
a canoe.
He rose early, forced himself to eat a substantial breakfast, for the
sake of appearances, then set out in his Peterboro. The morning was
chilly and he had purposely donned a heavy sweater, shell vest, leather
coat, and hip-boots. He paddled down the river for a mile or more, then
let his craft drift with the current. Far away on one horizon was a
dark, low-lying fringe of pines marking the mainland; two miles to
seaward sounded the slow rumble of the restless Atlantic; on every hand
were acres upon acres, miles upon miles of waving marsh-grass interlaced
with creeks and channels; nowhere was there a sign of human life.
He took the little bottle from his pocket, reached over the side and
filled it with water. He replaced the cork and shook the vial until the
white powder it contained was thoroughly dissolved. There were
twenty-five grains of it, eight fatal doses, and he had seen that it was
fresh. This time there could be no question of failure, he reasoned. Nor
was there much chance of discovery, for after that drug had remained in
his body for a few hours it would be exceedingly difficult of
identification, even at the hands of an expert toxicologist. But there
were no experts in this country, no doctors at all, in fact, this side
of Boonville, twenty miles away.
He marveled at his coolness as he flung the cork into the stream and
raised the bottle to his lips. His pulse was even, his mind was
untroubled. He drank the contents, filled the bottle and let it sink;
then rose to his feet, and, bearing his weight upon the gunwale of his
canoe, swamped it.
Burdened as he was with shells and hunting-gear he sank, but the cold
water sent him fighting and gasping to the surface again. The blind
instinct of self-preservation mastered him and, being a powerful
swimmer, he struck out. He had planned too well, however. His boots
filled, his clothing became wet and he went down for a second time. Then
commenced a senseless, terrible struggle, the more terrible because the
man fought against his own determination. He rose slowly to the surface,
but the shore was far away, the canoe, bottom up, was out of reach. He
gasped wildly for breath as his face emerged, but instead of air he
inhaled water into his lungs. He choked, horrible convulsions seized
him, his limbs threshed, his ears roared, his chest was bursting. He
rose and sank, rose and sank, enduring the agony of suffocation, all the
time fighting with a strong man's desperation. After a time he seemed to
hear shouting; something tugged and hauled at him; he discovered he
could breathe again. His senses wavered, left him, returned; he saw
faces bending above him. A moment later he heard his name spoken, then
found himself awash in the bottom of a gamekeeper's batteau.
As in a dream he heard his rescuers explain that they had been out in
search of poachers and had rounded the bend below in time to behold him
struggling for his life. They were hurrying him back to the club-house
now as fast as arms and oars could propel them, and after he had gained
sufficient strength he sat up.
He strove to answer their excited questions, but could not speak. A
strange paralysis numbed his vocal cords; he could not swallow; his
tongue was thick and unmanageable. This silence alarmed the wardens, but
Murray knew it to be nothing more than a local anæsthesia due to the
contact of the cocaine. He became conscious of feeling very wretched.
They helped him up to the club-house, and on the way he caught glimpses
of horrified black faces. He saw the superintendent preparing to send to
Boonville for a doctor, but, knowing that the launch had already left,
calculated the time it would take for a canoe to make the trip, and was
vaguely amused to realize that all this excitement was useless. He
experienced a feeling of triumph at the knowledge that he had succeeded
in spite of all.
A short time later he was in bed, packed in warm blankets and hot-water
bags, but through it all he maintained that distressing dumbness.
Despite the artificial heat his hands and feet tingled, as if asleep,
then became entirely numb, and he reasoned that the cocaine had begun to
affect his circulation. He noted how the chill crept upward slowly,
showing that the drug was working. On the mantel opposite he saw Muriel
smiling at him from the morocco case and realized that she was very
beautiful. After a time her outlines became less distinct, which told
him that his optic nerve was becoming affected. Next the contents of the
room grew hazy. That was quite as it should be.
He was much interested to note his heart action, which by now had become
very erratic. Every pulsation that ran through him sounded as plainly in
his ears as a drum-beat. He noticed that they were regular for a time,
then gradually increased in speed until his heart raced like a runaway
motor, then ceased suddenly, began again slowly, faintly, grew slower
and fainter, until with every flutter he thought, "This is the end!"
When this phenomenon had been repeated time after time the sick man
endeavored to assist the poison's effect. At each feeble recovery of his
heart he held his breath and strained with all his might, striving by
every force of will to stop the systolic action.
As he had often heard that men live again their evil deeds in the hour
of dissolution, and while he had perhaps more than the average number of
sins upon his soul, he determined to die thinking only of pleasant
things, if possible. He recalled his wedding-day, and pictured Muriel as
she had appeared that morning. How sweet and gentle she had been, what a
wonderful time it had proved for him. They had sailed for the
Mediterranean on the following morning, landing at Naples, where they
had spent a week. From there they had gone to Rome for three dreamlike
months and then to Nice and to Cairo, all the time in a lovers'
paradise. From Egypt they had turned back to Morocco. Yes, Morocco, and
how she had loved it there. Thence they had journeyed--where? To Spain,
of course. Murray realized that his mind was working more slowly, which
meant that the circulation to his brain was becoming sluggish. In a few
moments he would be unable to think at all, it would be over--Muriel
would be rich again. She was still young; she might marry some good man.
From Spain they had gone by rail to--Paris? No, the Riviera--It was very
difficult to think. In Germany, he remembered, they had taken an old
castle for the--From Germany they had gone--gone. Yes. Muriel was--gone!
* * * * *
Murray awoke to find a trained nurse at his bedside. He was still in his
room at the club, and after a time reasoned that the cocaine must be
working very slowly. At the first words the nurse laid a hand upon his
lips, saying:
"Don't speak, please. You have been very ill." Stepping to the door, she
called some one, whereupon a man came quickly. Murray recognized him
instantly as the famous Dr. Stormfield. They had met here three years
previous and shot from the same blind.
"Hello, Murray!" the doctor began. "I'm glad you came around finally.
You've given us the devil of a fight."
"How long--have I been ill?" whispered the sick man.
"Two days; unconscious all the time. Lucky for you that I ran down for a
little shooting and happened to be on the launch from Boonville the
morning you upset. We picked up your messenger on his way to town, and I
got here just in time. Now don't talk. You're not out of danger by any
means." That evening the physician explained further: "You must have
suffered a terrible shock in that cold water. I never saw a case quite
like it. Your heart puzzled me; it behaved in the most extraordinary
manner."
"You say I'm not out of danger?"
"Far from it. Your heart is nearly done for, and the slightest exertion
might set you off. If you got up, if you raised yourself off the bed,
you might--go out like that." Stormfield snapped his fingers.
"I suppose my wife has been notified?"
"Yes." The doctor looked at his patient curiously. "Would you like to
have her come--"
"No, no!" A frightened look leaped into Murray's eyes. "That's not
necessary, you know." After a time he said: "Leave me, please. I'm
tired."