“Oh, yes. But these will do. Pyogenes was found in poor little Weber: accountin’ for the virulence of the diphtheria. Very efficient and scientific murder.”
“And the others?”, Dubois thundered. “The other children who went home for their holidays and died. Two, three, four, is it, David?”
David laughed. “What does it matter? Yes, there are others who have gone to the isles of the blessed. But, also, there are many who have been made well and strong. I mock at you.”
“You have cause, Herod,” Dubois cried. “You have grown rich on the murder of children. But it is we who laugh last. We deliver you to justice now.”
“Justice! Ah, yes, you believe that.” David laughed again. “You are primitive, you are barbarous. Me, I am rational, I am a man of science. I sacrifice one life that a dozen may live well and happy. These who stand in the way of the rich, their deaths are paid for, and with the money I heal many. What, if life is valuable, is not this wisdom and justice? Let one die to save many, it is in all the religions, that. But no one believes his religions now. I - I believe in man. Well, I am before my time. But some day the world will be all Davids. With me it is finished.”
“Not yet, name of God!” Dubois growled. “Oh yes, my friend. I am sick to death already. I have made sure of that.” He waved his hand at Reggie. “You will not save me - no, not even you, my clever confrere. Good night! Go chase the Weber and the Bernal and the rest. David, he is gone into the infinite.” He fell back, a hand to his head.
Reggie went to him, and looked close and felt at him. “Better take him away,” he pronounced. “Hospital, under observation.”
Dubois gave the orders. “Play - acting, my friend,” he shrugged.
“Oh, no. No. That kind of man. Logical and drastic. He’s ill all right. There was the diplococcus of meningitis in his collection. Might be that.” And it was… .
Ten days afterwards Dubois came to London with Reggie and gave Lomas a lecture on the case. “I am desolated that I cannot offer you anyone to hang, my friend. But what can one do? The wretched Farquhar - I have no doubt he was murdered between David and Bernal. But there is no evidence. And, after all, David, he is dead, and we have Bernal for conspiracy to murder his stepson. That will do. It was, in fact, a case profoundly simple, like all the great crimes. To make a trade of arranging the deaths of unwanted children, that is very old. The distinction of David was to organise it scientifically, that is all. The child who was an heir to fortune, with a greedy one waiting to succeed, that was the child for him. Weber’s nephew stood in the way of the beautiful Clotilde to Weber’s fortune. Mrs. Bernal’s little boy was in the way of her second husband to the fortune other father, the old millionaire. And the others! Well here is a beautiful modern school for delicate children, nine out of ten of them thrive marvellously. But, for the tenth, there is David’s bacteriological laboratory, and a killing disease to take home with him when he goes for his holidays. Always at home, they die; always a disease of infection they could pick up anywhere. Bigre! It was a work of genius. And it would have gone on for ever but that this worthless Farquhar blunders into Brittany upon it, and begins to blackmail the beautiful Clotilde, the Bernal. Clotilde pays with her jewels, and has to pretend a robbery. Bernal will not pay - cannot, perhaps. Farquhar approaches the old grandfather, and Bernal calls in David, and the blackmailer is killed. The oldest story in the world. Rascals fall out, justice comes in. There is your angel of justice.” He bowed to Reggie. “Dear master. You have shown me the way. Well, I am content to serve. Does he serve badly, poor old Dubois?”
“Oh, no. No. Brilliant,” Reggie murmured. “Queer case, though. I believe David myself. He wanted to be a god. Make lives to his desire. And he did. Cured more than he killed. Far more. Then this fellow, who never wanted to be anything but a beast, blows in and beats him. Queer world. And David might have been a kindly, human fellow, if he hadn’t had power. Dangerous stuff, science. Lots of us not fit for it.”
SIXTH OBJECTION
THE YELLOW SLUGS
THE BIG CAR closed up behind a florid funeral procession which held the middle of the road. On either side was a noisy congestion of lorries. Mr. Fortune sighed and closed his eyes.
When he looked out again he was passing the first carriage of another funeral, and saw beneath the driver’s seat the white coffin of a baby. For the road served the popular cemetery of Blaney.
Two slow miles of dingy tall houses and cheap shops slid by, with vistas of meaner streets opening on either side. The car gathered speed across Blaney Common, an expanse of yellow turf and bare sand, turbid pond and scrubwood, and stopped at the brown pile of an old poor law hospital.
Entering its carbolic odour, Mr. Fortune was met by Superintendent Bell. “Here I am,” he moaned. “Why am I?”
“Well, she’s still alive, sir,” said Bell. “They both are.”
Mr. Fortune was taken to a ward in which, secluded by a screen, a little girl lay asleep. Her face had a babyish fatness, but in its pallor looked bloated and unhealthy. Though the close July air was oppressive and she was covered with heavy bed - clothes, her skin showed no sign of heat and she slept still as death.
Reggie sat down beside her. His hands moved gently within the bed…. He listened … he looked. A nurse followed him to the door. “How old, do you think?” he murmured.
“That was puzzling me, sir. She’s big enough for seven or eight, but all flabby. And when she came to she was talking almost baby talk. I suppose she may be only about five.”
Reggie nodded. “Quite good, yes. All right. Carry on.”
From the ward he passed to a small room where a nurse and a doctor stood together watching the one bed. A boy lay in it, restless and making noises - inarticulate words mixed with moaning and whimpering.
The doctor lifted his eyebrows at Reggie. “Get that?” he whispered. “Still talking about hell. He came absolutely unstuck. I had to risk a shot of morphia. I - -” He broke off in apprehension as Reggie’s round face hardened to a cold severity. But Reggie nodded and moved to the bed… .
The boy tossed into stertorous sleep, one thin arm flung up above a tousled head. His sunken cheeks were flushed, and drips of sweat stood on the upper lip and the brow. Not a bad brow - not an uncomely face but for its look of hungry misery - not the face of a child - a face which had been the prey of emotions and thwarted desires… .
Reggie’s careful hands worked over him … bits of the frail body were laid bare… . Reggie stood up, and still his face was set in ruthless, passionless determination.
Outside the door the doctor spoke nervously. “I hope you don’t - -”
“Morphia’s all right,” Reggie interrupted. “What do you make of him?”
“Well Mr. Fortune, I wish you’d seen him at first.” The doctor was uncomfortable beneath the cold insistence of a questioning stare. “He was right out of hand - a sort of hysterical fury. I should say he’s quite abnormal. Neurotic lad, badly nourished - you can’t tell what they won’t do, that type.”
“I can’t. No. What age do you give him?”
