The Search Party. George A. Birmingham
right,” said Dr. O’Grady. “But, like a good man, put down that pistol. I dare say it’s not loaded, and I’m sure you don’t mean to pull the trigger; but it makes me feel nervous. If you injure me you will be in a frightful fix. There isn’t another doctor nearer than Ballymoy, and he’s no good of a surgeon. Do be careful.”
Mr. Red took no notice of this remonstrance. He held the revolver at arm’s length, pointed straight at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The doctor turned quickly and walked upstairs. He was ushered into a large empty room, and bidden to stand in a corner of it. Still covered by the threatening revolver he watched various preparations made, first for his security, then for his comfort. There were two windows in the room. The black-bearded foreigner nailed barbed wire across them in such a way as to make an entanglement through which it was impossible to thrust even a hand.
“That’s quite unnecessary,” said Dr. O’Grady. “I’m familiar with this house, have been over it half a dozen times with Lord Manton, and I know that there’s a sheer drop of thirty feet out of those windows on to the paved yard at the back of the house. I shouldn’t dream of trying to jump out.”
Mr. Red stood with the revolver in his hand glaring at Dr. O’Grady. His two assistants left the room.
“I do wish,” said the doctor plaintively, “that you’d put that gun down.”
By way of reply, Mr. Red settled himself in an heroic attitude, something like that usually adopted by the hero on the cover of a sixpenny novel when he is defending his lady from desperate villains. He kept the revolver levelled at Dr. O’Grady’s head. The bearded man, Number 2, returned, dragging a small iron bedstead after him. Number 3 followed him with a mattress, pillows, and some blankets.
“For me?” said Dr. O’Grady. “Thanks. Now fetch a washhand-stand, a jug and basin, a table, a couple of chairs, some food, tobacco, and a few books. Then I’ll be able to manage along all right.”
One thing after another was added to the furniture of the room until it began to look fairly comfortable. Dr. O’Grady observed with satisfaction that a substantial meal was spread on the table, and a box of cigars laid on the washhand-stand.
“Would it be any harm my asking,” he said, “how long you intend to keep me here? I have some rather pressing engagements just at present, and I should like to have an idea when I’ll get home. Of course, I don’t press the question if it inconveniences the Brotherhood to answer it before the plans are matured.”
“You shall be paid at the rate of £4 a day during the time that you are detained,” said Mr. Red.
“Make it £5,” said Dr. O’Grady, “and I’ll stay a year with you and settle my own washing bills.”
“In four weeks,” said Mr. Red, “the plans of the Brotherhood will be matured, and you can be released.”
“I’m sorry it’s no longer,” said Dr. O’Grady. “The arrangement is perfectly satisfactory to me. But look here, Emperor, have you taken into consideration that I shall be missed? Before four weeks are out they’ll be certain to start out looking for me. Search parties will go out with lanterns and bloodhounds. You know the kind of thing I mean. They won’t come straight here, of course; nobody has any reason to suppose that I’m in this house; but sooner or later they certainly will come. I don’t mind telling you that there are a couple of men—Jimmy O’Loughlin for one, and Lorraine Vavasour for another—who will be particularly keen on finding me. What will you do when they turn up?”
“The waters of the bay are deep,” said Mr. Red grimly. “Your body will not be found.”
“I catch your meaning all right,” said Dr. O’Grady, “but I think you’ll make a mistake if you push things to extremes in that way. You’ve got the usual idea into your head that Ireland is a country in which every one kills any one they don’t like, and no questions are ever asked. I don’t in the least blame you for thinking so. Any intelligent man, reading the newspapers, would be forced to that conclusion; but, as a matter of fact, Ireland isn’t that sort of country at all. We have our little differences with each other, of course; all high-spirited people quarrel now and then, but we really hardly ever drown anybody. We don’t want to; but even if we were ever so keen we couldn’t without great risk. The country is overrun with police, and—— I beg your pardon, did you speak?”
Mr. Red had not actually spoken. He had snarled in a curious and vicious way.
“The police——” said Dr. O’Grady.
Mr. Red snarled again.
“If you object to my mentioning them by name,” said Dr. O’Grady, “I won’t do it. All I wanted to say was that in Ireland they live extremely dull lives, and any little excitement—a cattle drive, or an escaped lunatic—is a positive godsend to them. A murder—perhaps I ought to say an informal execution, such as you contemplate—would bring them down to this neighbourhood in thousands. There’d be so many of them that they simply wouldn’t be able to help tripping over my body wherever you hid it. Don’t imagine that I’m saying all this with a view to preventing your cutting my throat. What I’m really thinking about, what you ought to be thinking about, is the Brotherhood. How will its plans ever be matured if you get yourself hanged? And they will hang you, you know.”
“I am prepared to die,” said Mr. Red majestically, “in the cause of the Anti-Militarist Brotherhood of Anarchists.”
“Of course you are. Anybody who knows anything about military anarchists knows that. My point is that your life is too valuable to be thrown away. How would poor Long Beard get on? And the other fair-haired highwayman? Neither of them knows a word of English.”
“If the accursed minions of an effete tyranny seize me——!”
“Quite so. I see your point. Death before dishonour, and all that kind of thing. But why let it come to that? I am perfectly willing to stay here as long as you like at the liberal salary you offer, cash down every evening. I’m quite as anxious as you are to keep the accursed minions of the what-do-you-call-it away from Rosivera. I don’t mind telling you in confidence that I have reasons of my own for avoiding any contact with the law at present. In my particular case it isn’t nearly so effete as you appear to think it ought to be. But I needn’t go into all that. It wouldn’t interest you, and it’s no pleasure to me to talk about that beast Lorraine Vavasour. What I want to suggest is a simple and practicable way of avoiding all fuss, and keeping the accursed minions quiet in their barracks.”
“Speak,” said Mr. Red.
“I am speaking. For a man who hasn’t had any breakfast this morning, I flatter myself I’m speaking pretty fluently. Don’t be captious, Field Marshal. I don’t mind your manner a bit, now that I’m getting used to it. I know that it’s quite the right kind of manner for a military anarchist, but there’s no use over-doing it.”
“Your plan?” said Mr. Red, fingering the revolver.
“I wish you’d lay that weapon down, Emperor. I’ve told you half a dozen times that I haven’t the least intention of trying to escape, and it will be a horrid nuisance if the thing goes off and injures me. My suggestion is simply this. I’ll write a letter blotted all over with tears, saying that driven to desperation by Lorraine Vavasour and Jimmy O’Loughlin I’ve committed suicide, and that all search for my body will be vain. Owing to circumstances which I need not explain, circumstances not unconnected with Lorraine Vavasour, the story will be believed in Clonmore and no further steps will be taken in the matter. All you will have to do is to drop the letter into the pillar-box which is only half a mile from your gate. I happen to know that that box is cleared at eight P.M., so any time to-day will do. I’ll address it to the police sergeant.”
Mr. Red gave an order to one of the two foreigners. The man left the room and returned in a few minutes with a supply of note-paper, a pen, and a bottle of ink. He laid them beside the food on the table in the middle of the room.
“Write,” said Mr. Red.
“I