PALE HANDS

Originally published in The Magic Carpet Magazine, October 1933.

As Davis Lawton glanced up from the tall glass before him to gaze across the plaza just outside the gray-walled city of Bayonne, he saw that his friend Georges Joubert was approaching the table. Joubert was now a member of the Sûreté Générale; but instead of avoiding him, Lawton cultivated their wartime friendship. A subtle and audacious touch, that, maintaining cordial relations with a member of the French Secret Service!

“Sit down and have a drink,” invited Lawton.

Although he declined the drink, as he usually did, Joubert accepted a place at Lawton’s table.

“My friend,” he began abruptly, after a marked and awkward silence, “there has been very much surmise about your connections, here in Bayonne, and elsewhere—in Morocco, for instance—”

Joubert paused again, groping for words. But further speech was not necessary to tell Lawton that his connections in Morocco were about to lead him to a stone wall in a courtyard, and a firing-squad primed with a stiff drink of cognac and grumbling with forced gruffness at small-arms practice at sunrise. Lawton knew that the Sûreté never made an open move until it had enough evidence to condemn a man. The trial would be only a matter of form. But Lawton eyed Joubert very calmly: for in the beginning. Lawton had been a soldier and he would be one again, in the end.

“Very well, Georges,” he replied. “Read me the papers.”

“Mon ami,” came the answer, “I have no papers. That is, not yet. But I know that in twenty-four hours I shall have them. Maybe tomorrow morning. Some one has babbled. Not much, but more than enough. As for your being an agent of Abd el Krim, that is nothing to me, for personally, I don’t think France has any right in Morocco. But once the information reaches me officially I shall be compelled to forget that day on the front, when you carried me safety through that hell of machine-gun fire.

“So get out of Bayonne and across the border as soon after sunrise as you can. There is an early express to Spain.

“Yesterday’s paper,” he continued, “told all about Abd el Krim’s successful advance all along the front. So if I have to arrest you it will be either a firing-squad, or Devil’s Island, which is much worse. Au revoir, mon ami!”

Then Joubert released Lawton’s hand, turned, and abruptly strode across the plaza toward the Bridge of Saint Esprit.

* * * *

“Someone has babbled…”

Joubert’s words still burned into Lawton’s brain like hot irons. But before making his escape, he would have to find out what or who had betrayed him. Perhaps Madeleine had said too much in a careless moment. At the very most, she knew very little; but that would suffice. Perhaps, in a flare of jealousy—but that simply couldn’t be the case! Of all lovers, Lawton had been the most devoted. Madeleine wouldn’t have betrayed him, though she might have been indiscreet. And even though he escaped the Sûreté, thanks to Joubert, he would have to face the unforgiving wrath of Abd el Krim for blundering and wasting time. The problem of the moment was to find out who had betrayed him. Only the evening remained: but the Gray Goddess would tell him. She knew everything.

The law in France prohibited the sale of absinthe; but the Gray Goddess was subtle, so that she now materialized when the contents of two separate and distinct bottles, each in itself legal, were suitably blended. First a pony of anis del oso, then one of cordiale gentiane; and then the tall glass was filled with seltzer, which clouded, becoming gray and pearly. The result was insipid to taste, but when one had an abundance of time in which to court the lady of fancies, the innocuous flavor was worth enduring for the glamour that came stealing over one’s senses.

Lawton paid for the afternoon’s drinking, and then crossed the street to go up rue Port Neuf. He halted at a store near the corner, and after regarding its window display for a moment, stepped in. In a few minutes he emerged with a basket laden with all manner of exotic delicacies; and, among the several bottles of Oporto and Malaga, whose necks projected from their nest of parcels, there were as many more whose contents would insure the presence of the Gray Goddess during his last night in Bayonne.

Through continued evocation of the Gray Goddess, Davis Lawton had shaken off the fetters that bound him to earth and its restricting three dimensions. She had at last become a Presence, not visible, but none the less a distinct personality whose inspiration whipped Lawton’s brain to uncanny agility, so that the most profound riddles became lucid as water. No reasoning was too intricate for his acuteness; and tonight she would tell him very certainly how he had been betrayed.

As he reached the head of rue Port Neuf, where the old cathedral lifts its tall spires like great, slim lance-heads, he wondered how much Madeleine had lost at Biarritz that day, and what new systems he would have to devise for her.

Madeleine lived in an apartment rue Lachepaillet, a street that ran along the walls of the city, and overlooked the park whose broad, tree-clustered green rolled away from the moat, far below. The door opened before Lawton could pick the key from its companions on his ring.

“I’ve had the most thrilling day,” said Madeleine between kisses. “I do wish you could have been along—but what’s in the basket? Oh, aren’t those grapes just wonderful! Why, you’ve brought everything! Tinned duck, and confiture d’abricots, and—you know, I’ve got a new way to fix that caviar, with little tomatoes—and even my favorite pastries. Looks like one of your large evenings! Do tell me, have you had some good luck, too?”

Lawton smiled cryptically at that last. And as Madeleine, all enthusiastic about the indicated celebration, began her preparations for the feast, Lawton found a tall glass and mixed his libation to the Gray Goddess. To invoke her the more swiftly, he doubled the portions of liqueurs and diminished the quantity of selzer.

“You know, the pelota matches were wonderful today!” chattered Madeline. “And I won a bet of five louis from a charming old fellow. Terribly old, you understand, but he had the keenest eyes! Every once in a while he made a funny little gesture as if he were going to stroke his beard, then suddenly remembered that he was clean-shaven. He must have a history, that one, with the sudden shave he’s not yet accustomed to!

“Oh, yes, and do you remember that bracelet we saw at Mornier Frères?” she continued as she set out an array of glasses. “That fascinating thing of green gold and platinum filigree, all set with diamonds and little sapphires—you didn’t even notice I’m wearing it! You never notice anything, you with your pious meditations.”

“It really is beautiful, sweetheart,” admitted Lawton as he inspected the bracelet that glittered on her extended wrist. “You must have had a lucky day.”

“You’d be surprised,” replied Madeleine as she went on with her work. “But I’ll tell you later. You’d never guess!”

And then the Gray Goddess, who had returned to Lawton’s side, began whispering in his ear.

“Probably,” she interposed, “she had it charged, so she can go back tomorrow with all her winnings and play them on double zero. You’ll get the bill for the bracelet—”

“I know it was terribly expensive,” continued Madeleine, pausing long enough to run her slim white fingers through his hair. “But—no, I won’t tell you, yet. That’s going to be a surprise.” Lawton stared for a moment at her slender, exquisite hands. They had all had pale hands, that succession of ruinous adored ones of which Madeleine was the last. And each time that he rose from the wreckage of his duty they daintily plucked the foundation from beneath his feet again. Lawton sighed wearily, and felt very old at the recollection: but only for a moment. The Gray Goddess was weaving her web of sorcery and the Power was returning to Lawton. It pulsed and throbbed in his veins, and streaked in tiny flashes of fire down his spine, and tingled in his toes. The patterns of the Bokhara rug became exceedingly clean-cut, and then they clouded, islands of old ivory and deep blue in a sea of red that shimmered in the sultry glow of the tall floor lamp at his side. His head reeled ever so slightly with exaltation and all-knowingness. “Tomorrow,” Madeleine was saying, “we’ll drive to Saint Jean de Luz. Do you remember that day—”

“That first day?” interpolated Lawton, ignoring for a moment the silver-clear syllables of the Goddess whispering in his ear.

“Our first day,” said Madeleine, “when we paused on that crest and saw the gulf sparkling, far off, through a cleft in the Pyrenees?”

“Little stupid!” chided Lawton fondly; “do you suppose that I could ever forget? There was never such a day before—”

There was a moment’s silence, in which both she and Lawton half smiled to themselves at the memory.

“Do you know,” she finally resumed, “I’ve often feared that some day you might leave. You’re such a nomad. And I’m so glad that you remember. It might make you return, that memory.”

“But suppose,” suggested Lawton, “that I did return and didn’t find you? Then what of remembrance?”

“Don’t be absurd, darling,” she reproved. “You know I’m perfectly foolish about you, and I’ll always love you. But let’s not even think of parting!”

To which Lawton nodded and smiled; for the Goddess at his side had taken form from the mist which always heralded her presence. She was tall when he stood, and she was tiny when he sat: always at a height just right for her to whisper in his ear, so close that no one else could overhear. And of course, no one else ever saw her.

Madeleine was chattering merrily. Lawton hated to cloud her gaiety by telling her of his departure in the morning. The evening was too lovely to mar with bad news. Later, he would tell her; but now, he would respond to her high spirits. It was easy to smile, and have his lips reply for him. And this would be agreeable to the Goddess, for Lawton now spoke to her in the language of the little gray gods, some of whom were standing respectfully in the corners of the room. He could not see them, yet, but he could feel their presence.

Madeleine was eating now, picking dainty bits of tropical palm hearts from their garniture of mayonnaise. Her great, smoldering eyes regarded him amorously. Then she would smile, and murmur affectionate fanciful things as she offered him morsels of cold fowl, and jelly, and curiously adorned pastries and sips of Malaga.

The enchantment was complete. He paid more and more attention to Madeleine, and yet was not distracted from the crystal-clear, thin voice of the Goddess. Lawton knew that she was not offended because Madeleine did not offer her a bit of pastry or a sip of wine, or even one of those honey-sweet and honey-colored grapes from Spain. Goddesses did not eat; and neither did gods, but Lawton tactfully ignored his divinity long enough to accept the tidbits that Madeleine offered him; for that was their last night, and he wished to make it so memorable and perfect that she would never forget him, no matter who sought her during his absence.

“You’ve been so patient all evening,” Madeleine was saying, “I’m going to tell you the secret I’ve been saving. I know you couldn’t even guess—”

“Do tell me and end the suspense,” Lawton replied with surprising animation, in view of his speaking at the same time to the shadow presence at his side.

“I broke the bank today, really and truly! Can you believe it?”

As she spoke, Madeleine drew a great roll of Bank of France notes from her handbag, and then another, and still another roll, until the fine gold mesh, emptied, clung caressingly to her knee.

“Now, silly aren’t you sorry you growled so much about my playing roulette?” demanded Madeleine triumphantly.

“Sweetheart, that’s perfectly wonderful, and I’m repentant already,” replied Layton. “Won’t ever growl again.”

The Goddess was still at Lawton’s side, silent and smiling at her own thoughts. He could see her, without even turning his head, or lifting his glance from Madeleine’s exquisite, slim hands and their rosy nails that glowed warmly in the rose-hued light. And then he saw that her eyes were amorous with heavy wine from Lisbon and the thin, ethereal vintage of France. In due course she would become very sleepy, and then Lawton could continue his conversation with the Goddess: but in the meanwhile—the girl beside him was exceedingly lovely and desirable.

Lawton dismissed the riddles of the early evening. They would keep. Nothing in the world, either this one or the next, could compare with his love for this girl and her supreme beauty that was enriching their farewell. Then he remembered that his voice was deep and resonant; and so he sang:

“Pale hands I loved, beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now…”

As the last word passed his inspired lips, he leaned back against his cloud-bank of cushions and accepted Madeleine’s ecstasy of approval, and her wine-perfumed kiss.

“Oh, but that was lovely! And now, do tell me what it means, that song in English.”

He should have remembered that Madeleine did not understand English. He could compose long speeches in Tamil and Gujarati when he tired of Arabic; but he should not expect her to have his gift of language. So he translated.

“The words are lovely, too,” said Madeleine. “And you really do love me that much?”

“Ever so much, and your pale hands also,” replied Lawton, as he kissed her fingers one by one.

“And you won’t ever leave me, you incurable wanderer?”

Lawton smiled, and his eyes spoke the lie that his lips could not achieve. Then a somber fancy possessed him, and he recited:

“When I am dead, open my grave and see

The smoke that curles about thy feet;

In my dead heart the fire still burns for thee:

Yea, the smoke rises from my winding-sheet.”

“That is beautiful,” observed Madeleine. “Only, just a bit ghastly. You have the strangest fancies, my dear.”

“Nothing strange about that,” murmured the Gray Goddess to Lawton. “Very appropriate. You love her to distraction. And she’s sold you to the enemy, and then showed you the price of your head. Only you won’t be in your grave when she opens it. But she did get a good price for digging it, didn’t she? One of those rolls would have been enough…”

Lawton watched Madeleine stuffing the notes back into the handbag, and saw her smile at his audible words.

“That was clever,” whispered the Goddess at Lawton’s side, “getting all that money as the price of your head. They couldn’t possibly have known how much your head is worth…that’s our secret.

“Maybe,” continued that fine, thin voice, “maybe they just wanted to make an example of you.”

“The chances are,” suggested Lawton, “that they suspected I’d completed a rather brilliant plan to lead Abd el Krim’s troops all the way to the sea, and drive the French out of Morocco. They must have known I had perfected my plan while I was pretending to be working on the Communists to collect funds for Abd el Krim. Shrewd fellows, to know that I was squandering all that money as a blind, and pretending to sit around the cafes, everlastingly drunk…”

“But you shouldn’t blame her too much,” murmured the fountain of wisdom. “Think of the temptation! All those thousands of francs! Anyway, she knew you were clever enough to escape.”

“But I object to the principle of it!” protested Lawton.

Through the swirling hazes before him, Lawton saw the sparkle of a bracelet.

“She’s sold me out, and I’m not ready to leave. Abd el Krim won’t understand that I spent all that money as a subterfuge…”

Madeleine was clinging closely to him, now, and her eyes were very dark and lustrous. She was so near that he feared she might after all sense the presence of the Goddess, and be annoyed; so he cut short the conversation, caressed Madeleine’s hair, and kissed her full on the lips. But he couldn’t take too much time from the oracle that murmured in his ear.

No, it was Madeleine who murmured amorously as she caressed him.

“I’m not the least bit sleepy, sweetheart,” he replied. “Well, then…but I’ll have another drink first…”

With exquisitely precise gestures Lawton blended the final potion. That last one would give him the power to cross the Border and peer through ethereal vistas deep beyond reckoning. He would see with a keenness he had never before achieved. Then She would reveal the final secret.

Madeleine stood there between the parted draperies, all shimmering in an apricot-colored negligee. She paused for a moment to smile at him as she drew the drapes together. And then the Gray Goddess resumed her speech in a voice somewhat louder, now that they were alone.

“Lawton, you are still terribly stupid! In just another moment she’d have charmed you out of your senses, this fascinating girl who sold you to the Sûreté. Think, Lawton, you will face a firing-squad unless you leave by sunrise.

“But go into the next room,” taunted that thin, clear voice, bitter and vibrant. “You love her to distraction. Wake her and sing once more of the pale hands you loved…

“Of all the pale hands,” concluded the Gray Goddess with venomous emphasis.

“No, by God! I’ll not sing. I’ll choke her!” retorted Lawton, stung by the memory of all his follies. “They’ve been my damnation all these past dozen years.”

“But you can’t change,” murmured the Gray Goddess with a softness more enraging than the previous sardonic piping. “So leave quietly. Don’t wake her, or her arms will hold you until Joubert comes in the morning to arrest you.”

“No, Gray Goddess,” replied Lawton solemnly. “For once you are wrong. This is the first one to take the price of my head. And this time I shall redeem myself.”

His glance roved up and down the wall, and in the ruddy glow of the floor lamp he saw the picture he had once hung for Madeleine. Lacking wire at the time, he had used a cord of hard-spun silk, a relic of old days in Asia. Madeleine had shuddered as he told its history, and showed her the swift gesture used by Indian dacoits in their stranglings.

“Look, Gray Goddess, how simple it will be.”

But she mocked him for a braggart as the drapes closed about him. Then she followed him, lest his courage fade before the loveliness asleep in the moonlight that streamed in through the drawn curtains and caressed the curved throat.

As Lawton knelt beside her, Madeleine stirred slightly and her shapely arms twined about his neck to draw him to her.

“Pale hands,” mocked the Goddess at his side. “They will hold you for Joubert in the morning…”

A whiteness of searing flame swept through his brain as the hard-spun cord cut short the kiss that sought his lips.

“You have proved yourself, Lawton,” exulted the Gray Goddess as they emerged again into the sultry glow of the floor lamp. “And there in that mesh bag is the price of your head. It will redeem you and your broken faith in the eyes of Abd el Krim. Now hurry, Lawton, hurry!”

The Goddess led him into a gray world. Lawton strode triumphantly down rue Port Neuf and past the deserted plaza, and across the bridge of Saint Esprit. Dawn was almost at hand. In the distance he heard the whistle of the express that would take him across the border of Spain.

Lawton heard footsteps behind him. Perhaps it was Joubert coming to the station to assure himself that Lawton was leaving on time. He turned; but it was not Joubert who faced him. He stared for a moment, perplexed by the familiarity of the man who confronted him. Then he saw that it was Mahjoub, the right-hand man of Abd el Krim. No wonder that for a moment he had not recognized Mahjoub attired in European clothing, and without his long beard.

“Joubert didn’t fail me,” said Mahjoub. “By Allah! But I had to do it! You made such an ass of yourself. Abd el Krim gave me full authority; so I solved it my own way.

“Too bad it took that girl so long to learn to win,” continued Mahjoub, ignoring Lawton’s puzzled frown. “My heart stood still when I saw her take the winnings of the first play and stake them all on single zero. But she won!”

“What was that?” said Lawton, enunciating very slowly, like a mechanical toy that has just achieved speech.

“She won enough thousand-franc notes to stuff a saddle-bag. But…”

Mahjoub paused, and made a gesture of stroking his beard, then remembered he was clean-shaven.

“But I guess it was just as well that I did tell the Sûreté…”

“You told the Sûreté?” demanded Lawton.

His voice rang in his own ears as from a great distance.

“By Allah! Of course I did. Then I told your friend Joubert to scare you out of town. But Abd el Krim loves a good soldier, so he’ll forgive a worthless secret agent.”

“Then she didn’t sell me?” Lawton’s voice was husky and trembling. Exultation fought with despair, so that he could barely pronounce his question.

“No, she didn’t,” replied Mahjoub. “Nor did I. That was just the only way to get you out of town before Abd el Krim’s wrath overcame him. If he had told the Sûreté…

“Mafeesh!” concluded the old man with a gesture of finality. “Finish for you.”

The express was pulling into the station. But Lawton had turned, and was walking toward the bridge.

“Forgotten of Allah!” cried Mahjoub. “Where are you going?”

Lawton halted, faced about, but made no move to retrace his steps.

“I’m going back to town,” he replied. His voice was strong and steady now, as though he commanded troops. “And my salaam to Abd el Krim!”

Then he turned and strode toward the bridge of Saint Esprit.

“Gray Goddess,” he said bitterly, “you have mocked me. Her life is on my hands.”

“Repentance is vain,” murmured that sweet thin voice of the enchantress. “And you acted in good faith. So swallow your misery and your regrets. Be a man. Catch that express. Abd el Krim will give you a high command when he sees that money. You had reason to believe she betrayed you.”

“Gray Goddess,” replied Lawton, “I refuse to betray what little good there is left in me.”

As he passed the second span of the bridge, his right hand swept out in a wide arc. A thick bundle of thousand-franc notes soared high into the morning light, fell into the river, and was sucked out of sight by an eddy. Then, as with lengthening stride he marched across the bridge, he sang in his rich, deep voice:

“Pale hands I loved, beside the Shalimar,

Where are you now…”

It was but a short walk to Joubert’s house.

“Georges,” said Lawton to his astonished friend, “place me under arrest. And tell the Prefect of Police to call at 34 rue Lachepaillet. He will find her with a cord about her throat. I thought that she sold me. But I met an old man at the station, who told me…”

“I understand,” replied Joubert, as he heard the final whistle of the express clearing the yards for Spain.