IV
THE DEAD HAND

CHUBBY, cherubic, and cheerful, with the pure, wholesome blood of his native Provence yet glowing in his cheeks, Extreme Youth was the only trouble really — and there are many worse diseases — of Lieutenant Archambaut Thibaut d'Amienville of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, of the glorious XIXth Army Corps of La République Française.

   As he sat back from the table, fingering his glass, he looked exceedingly handsome, dashing, and romantic in his beautiful pale blue uniform. But he had not found his level, and he was making some bad breaks. It does not always conduce to modesty and diffidence in a young man that his papa is a very prominent and powerful politician, and his mother a leader of Paris Society. As the deft native waiters, arrayed in spotless white, moved the table-cloth and set forth fresh glasses, ash-trays, shapely bottles and cigarette-boxes on the shining mahogany that reflected the electric lights like a mirror, he rushed in once again. There was no squashing him.

   One has heard of people being young enough to know better — young enough, that is, to have high ideals, generosity, and purity of motive — but Lieutenant Archambaut Thibaut d'Amienville was young enough to know best. He was so young, so wise, and so well informed that he was known as Général and not Lieutenant d'Amienville among his intimates. And he was at the moment giving generously and freely to his seniors of the stores of his wisdom and knowledge.

   Captain Gautier d'Armentières, of the First Battalion of La Légion Étrangère, scarred and war-worn hero of Tonquin, Dahomey, and Madagascar, beloved as few officers are beloved by the wild and desperate men he led, fine soldier and fine gentleman remarked to the officer on his left — a gorgeous Major of Spahis, resplendent in scarlet cloak (huddled in which he shivered with fever), ceinturon, and full baggy trousers:

   "So you are going to have another try for a lion?" But the Major had no time to reply for "Général" d'Amienville had caught the ultimate word. (He had promised his mamma a select consignment of lion-skins of his own procuring when he left for the wilds of Algiers and the Soudan, and she had helped in the purchase of the battery of sporting weapons that he had bought at the gun-shop in the Rue de la Paix, guiding his taste to the choice of "pretty ones with nice water-marking on the barrels," and dainty ornament in the way of engraving, chasing, damascening and mounting.)

   "Lion?" said he quickly. "What you want for lion, d'Armentières, is impact, concussion, force — er — weight, a-ah-stunning blow . . . . It is absolutely useless, you know, for you to go and drill him through and through with neat little holes of which he is unaware, and which trouble him not at all . . . . None of your Mausers or Lebels, you know." . . .

   Eight pairs of eyes regarded the young gentleman without enthusiasm or affection; nay, with positive coldness.

   The strong and clever face of one of the party, a Captain of Zouaves, looked somewhat Machiavellian, as, with a cold smile, he encouragingly murmured "Yes?"

   Colonel Leon Lebrun, famous chief of Tirailleurs and old enough to have been the young gentleman's grandfather, assumed a Paul-at-the-feet-of-Gamaliel air, and with humility also said "Yes?"

   "Yes," continued d'Amienville, "never take one of these small-bore toys, no matter what the muzzle-velocity. Get something with a good fat bore and a good fistful of cordite. Then you know where you are and what you are doing . . . . I'd as soon go with my automatic pistol as with a small-bore . . . . And never go on foot — especially in those reedy places. And never touch a tablier — what the English call a machan when they put them up for tiger in their Indian colonies . . . . No good. . . . Suicide in fact . . . . What you want to do is to have a platform — like a sentry's vue — strongly lashed in the branches of a convenient high tree, near the 'kill,' put a mattress on it, and make yourself comfortable."

   "And if, in effect, there be no tree?" respectfully inquired Médecin-Major Parme, twirling his huge moustache without revealing the expression on his thin lips.

   "Oh-er-well, then, of course, you might — er — well, perhaps dig a pit and fence yourself round. You might, in fact, have a sort of cage . . . . Just as good for keeping wild beasts out as for keeping them in."

   "Excellent!" murmured the Colonel. "Now I should never have thought of going lion-hunting in a cage. But original! Original! Of a cleverness! . . . How many lions have you shot?"

   The flush of embarrassment deepened that of youth and juiciness in the plump cheek of the young officer.

   "Oh — er — well, I have never actually shot any, you know," he replied, in some confusion, but still with a suggestion of having done something very similar — of having ridden them down with a hog-spear, or caught them on a rod and line.

   "Haven't you?" asked Captain d'Armentières in apparent surprise. From the discomfort of his confession the youth quickly recovered with the attempted tu quoque —

   "Have you?"

   "Yes," admitted the Captain, hesitatingly.

   "Oh? — and when did you shoot one, pray?" inquired d'Amienville, with a sceptical note, sufficiently impertinent to be irritating.

   The Captain's uniform of dark blue and red was a very modest affair beside that of the young Chasseur — and, nom de Dieu! who was he to attempt a sneer at the son of Madame d'Amienville not to mention of Monsieur d'Amienville, politician of international fame and importance?

   The young officer raised his absinthe to the light, crossed a leg, admired a neat boot, and glanced a trifle disdainfully at the grizzled, unfashionable old barbare of whom the elegant salons of Paris had never heard. (A mere St. Maizent man snubbing an alumnus of St. Cyr!)

   "My last, about this time last year," was the reply.

   "Your last? And how many, pray, have you shot?" asked d'Amienville languidly.

   "Eighty-three," replied the officer of the Legion, fixing a bleak and piercing grey eye upon the youth.

   Wry smiles wreathed the faces of the audience, and the "Général" changed the subject forthwith. As the fresh and verdant one was their fellow-guest (of d'Armentières), the others forebore to laugh aloud.

   Drawing a bow at a venture, the Lieutenant had a shot at the horse, he having just purchased his very first pony.

   "Excellent riding country, this," he observed patronizingly to his neighbour, a hard-bitten, saturnine officer; hawk-eyed, hawk-nosed, and leathern-cheeked. "I shall do a lot of it. . . . Very keen on riding and awfully fond of horses. I love the chasse au renard. . . . Ah! Horses! I know something about them too. . . . A thing most useful — to understand horses. It is not given to all . . . . Incredible lot to learn though . . . . A difficult subject. . . . Difficult." . . .

   "Very," acquiesced the neighbour, finding himself the more immediate recipient of the information.

   "But yes — very. Any time you may be thinking of buying, let me know, and I shall be charmed to place my knowledge and experience at your disposal. Charmed. Yes, I will look the beast over . . . . Always best to take advice when buying a horse. Terrible rogues these Arabs. You are certain to be swindled if you rely on your own judgment. Cunning fellows these native piqueurs. Hide any defect from inexperienced eyes — bad hoofs, sand-crack, ring-bone, splint, wind-galls, souffle, sight, teeth, age, vice — anything. Charmed to give you my opinion at any time . . . . Try him for you too." . . .

   "Most extremely amiable of you, I'm sure. Most kind. A thousand thanks. I realize I have a terrible lot to learn about horses yet," replied the favoured one.

   "Yes, they take a lot of knowing," replied the "Général," and, as the man rose, bade farewell to his host, saluted the company, and departed to catch the ten-fifteen to Oran, that young but knowing gentleman observed generously:

   "An agreeable fellow that — a most amiable person. Who is he?"

   "Vétérinaire-Colonel Blois!" replied d'Armentières. "Probably the cleverest veterinary-surgeon in the army . . . . You may know his standard work." . . . But Lieutenant d'Amienville again changed the subject hastily, and then scolded a servant for not bringing him what he had not ordered. Thereafter he was silent for nearly five minutes.

   Some one mentioned Adjudant-Major Gallais and his curious end. (He dreamed that he saw his wife murdered by burglars in their little flat at Marseilles, was distraught until news came that such a tragedy had actually happened at the very time of the dream, and at once shot himself.)

   "A very remarkable case of coincidence, to say the least of it," observed Captain d'Armentières. "Personally I should be inclined to call it something more."

   But Lieutenant d'Amienville was a modern of the moderns, an agnostic, a sceptic.

   "All bosh and rubbish," quoth he. "Sottise. . . . There is no such thing as this occultism, spiritualism, telepathy, and twaddle. To the devil with supraliminal, transliminal, subliminal, astral, and supernatural. There is no supernatural." . . .

   "So?" murmured a dapper little man in scarlet breeches and a black tunic which had the five-galoned sleeve of a Colonel.

   "All nonsense," continued the young gentleman. "All this that one hears about mysterious and inexplicable occurrences is always second-hand. Second-hand and third person . . . . Third person singular — very singular. Ha! Ha! . . . Yes, all rot and rubbish. Now, has anyone of us here ever had an experience of the supernatural sort? Not one, I'll be bound. Not one. . . . But we all know somebody who has. It's always the way." . . .

   "Well," remarked Captain d'Armentières,

   "I was once throttled by a Dead Hand — if you would call that an experience."

   "I was speaking seriously," replied the Lieutenant loftily.

   "So was I," answered the Captain coldly.

   "What do you mean?" queried the youth, fearing the, to him, worst thing on earth — ridicule.

   "Precisely what I say," was the quiet reply. "I was once seized by the throat, and all but killed, by a Dead Hand, in the middle of the night as I lay in bed. . . . I give you my word of honour — and I request — and advise — you not to cast any doubt on my statement."

   The pointed jaw of Lieutenant d'Amienville dropped, and he stared round-eyed and open-mouthed at the officer of the Legion, apparently sane and obviously sober, who could say such things seriously . . . . Could it be a case of this cafard of which he had heard so much? No — le cafard is practically confined to the rank and file — and this man was, moreover, as cool as a cucumber and as normal as the night. He glanced round the table at his fellow-guests. They looked expectant and interested. This vieux moustache was evidently a man of standing and consideration among them.

   "Tell us the story, mon gars," said the Major of Spahis, pouring cognac into his coffee.

   "Do," added the Captain of Zouaves.

   "Let's go out into the garden and have it," proposed the Colonel of Tirailleurs Algériens, half rising. "May we, d'Armentières?"

   "Yes — I must hear this," acquiesced the young Lieutenant with an air of open-mindedness, but reserved judgment.

   "Come on, by all means," answered d'Armentières. "I should have thought of it before, Colonel"; and the party rose and strolled across the veranda out into the garden of the Cercle Militaire.

   Légionnaire Jean Boule, or John Bull, standing at the gate leading into the high-road, and awaiting his officer as patiently as a good orderly should, thought the scene extraordinarily stage-like and theatrical, albeit he had seen it many times before.

   The brilliant moonlight on the tall and beautiful plane-trees, the cypress and the myrtle, the orange, magnolia, wistaria, bougainvillea, the ivy-draped building of the Cercle with its hundreds of lights, the gorgeous scarlet of the Spahi, the pale blue of the Chasseur, the yellow and blue of the Tirailleur, the scarlet and black of the Legionary, and the other gay uniforms made up a picture as unreal as beautiful.

   Gazing upon it, he thought of days when he; too, sat in such groups in such club-gardens when Life went very well.

   In the distance, the famous band of the Legion was playing Gounod's Serenade — probably in the Public Gardens outside the Porte de Tlemçen . . . .

   "En avant, mon choux," said the Médecin-Major, as the party settled into wicker chairs, and the bare-footed, silent servants ministered to its needs with cigarettes, cheroots, and weird liqueurs.

   "And forthwith," added the Colonel, puffing a vast cloud as he lay back and gazed sentimentally at the moon.

   "Well — as you like, gentlemen — but it was nothing. Just a queer little experience. It won't interest you much, I'm afraid," said d'Armentières.

   Then Lieutenant d'Amienville commenced a dissertation upon auto-suggestion, illusion, and self-deception, but the remainder of Captain d'Armentières' guests intimated clearly to their host that they wanted his story, and wanted it at once.

   "Have it for what it is worth, then," said that officer. "But I request Lieutenant d'Amienville clearly to understand that what I am about to tell you is the absolute truth — the plain and simple tale of what actually occurred to me personally. Moreover, should he, while believing in the honesty of my belief, doubt the trustworthiness of my observations and conclusions, I may mention that my ordonnance will be found waiting near the gate — and may be called and questioned. For he was concerned in the matter, and not only saw the marks upon my throat, but actually touched the Dead Hand which all but choked the life out of me." The voice of the "Général" was stilled within him, but his face was very eloquent indeed.

   "It happened in Haiphong," continued the quiet, cultured voice of the weary-looking man, "when the Legion sent big drafts out to Tonkin in '83. I was commanding a detachment then, with the rank of Lieutenant. We had disembarked at the mouth of the Red River into two old three-decker river-gunboats, and I had had an infernally busy day — what with the debarkation from the ship and then again at Haiphong, after the six-hour journey up the river. On top of all I had high fever.

   "Now, before getting into bed that night, I turned out the lamp that hung on a nail on the wall, and then lay down, finished my cigarette, and turned out the tiny hand-lamp which I had brought in from the bathroom and placed on the little petit-déjeuner table beside my bed, noting, as I did so, that the matches were beside it. I always lock my door at night and sleep without a light, but with the means of getting a light easily accessible. Funny things are apt to occur at night in some parts of the shiny East . . . . I expect they've got electric light in Haiphong by now . . . . Well, in two minutes I was sound asleep — sleeping the sleep of the just and enjoying the reward of my good conscience, virtuous life, and hard work." . . .

   "Va t'en, blagueur," murmured Colonel Lebrun with a smile.

   "An hour or two later, I awoke suddenly — awoke to the knowledge that I was being murdered, was dying, and, in effect, very nearly dead. Some one had me by the throat and was choking my life out with as deadly and scientific a grip as ever fastened upon a man's neck . . . . The human mind is curiously constituted, and, even in that moment, I tried to remember the name of a book about the garotters of India, the 'Thugs' — a book I had read many years before, when studying English — written by a Colonel of the Army of India. . . 'Chinese garotters,' thinks I to myself, and realized that I was in for it, for I could no more yell for assistance than I could fly. There was my orderly sleeping on a rug in a little ante-chamber a few feet from me, and I could not call to him. I must face my fate alone and live or die without help from outside. I was terrified." . . . .

   One or two of his audience glanced at the medals and decorations on the speaker's breast (they included the Croix de Guerre and the Médaille Militaire) and smiled.

   "I should have felt for his eyes and blinded him!" announced Lieutenant d'Amienville.

   . . . "Simultaneously with the awakening to the knowledge that I was being throttled by some silent, motionless, invisible assailant, came my attempt to strike him, of course — to spring up, and to grapple with him; but, simultaneously again with the attempt, came the knowledge that my right arm was absolutely useless beneath his weight, and that I was pinned to the pillow, like a butterfly to a cork, by the weight and power of the hand that had me in its grip. Finding my right immovable, I naturally struck out with my left and hit again and again with all my strength — to find that I struck nothing — until, being at my last gasp, I grabbed at the hand that was choking me and strove to tear it from my throat.

   "Even at that terrible moment I was startled at the extraordinary coldness of the hand I grasped. It was as deadly cold as it was horribly strong, and as brain reeled and senses failed, I seemed to visualize a terrible marble statue endowed with life and superhuman strength, leaning its cruel weight upon the frozen hand that clutched my throat. And I could not seize or even touch any part of this horrible assailant but the Hand. . . . And I tell you the thing was dead — dead and cold . . . . I was dying — throttled by a Dead Hand, and that is the simple truth." . . .

   None of the party moved or spoke — not even d'Amienville. That, and the fact that scarcely a cigar or cigarette remained alight, were remarkable tributes to d'Armentières' dramatic and convincing way of speech. And those of the party who knew him well, also knew him to be incapable of telling a lie, when he had given his word that what he said was the truth.

   "Well, I have never believed in taking things lying down, so I tried once again to get up, and, putting all my heart and soul and strength into a mighty heave, I strove to throw my assailant off before I lost consciousness completely . . . . In vain. . . .

   "All this takes time in the telling, but it must have taken mighty little time in the doing, for I was almost dead from suffocation when I first awoke.

   "As I strained and tore at the hand, I struggled to rise. My body writhed, but my right arm budged not a fraction of an inch, and the grip on my throat perceptibly tightened, though I thought the limit had surely been reached . . . . I must get one breath, or ears and eyes and brain must burst. . . . Surely I was black in the face and my eyeballs were on my cheekbones? . . . I lived a lifetime in a second. . . . So this was the end and the finish of Gautier d'Armentières, was it? Here were to end all dreams of military glory and distinction, all visions of fine, quick death in action against the foes of La France? . . . A dog's death! To be slowly suffocated in my bed — choked to death by a cold Dead Hand, a Hand without a tangible body . . . .

   "As my frame was convulsed and my senses finally reeled in unconsciousness or death, I made my last wild attempt, and probably put forth such a violent concentration of co-ordinated effort as never before in my life — and, with a gasp and sob of thankfulness, I flung my assailant off!

   "And, as he fell, he stabbed me in the arm.

   "Yes — with the last vestige of my strength I flung it off, and the crash of falling lamp and table was the sweetest sound I ever heard, and the pain of the stab in my arm was absolutely welcome . . . . For I don't mind confessing that I prefer human, or rather real, antagonists when I have to fight — and when lamp and table smashed to the ground under its weight, and I felt myself knifed, I knew that this cold, dead hand belonged to something actual and tangible — something alive, something human . . . .

   "But I have never touched anything that seemed more dead and cold, for all that.

   "Well, my assailant was hardly on the ground before I was there too, for, although my right arm was absolutely useless from the stab, I meant to have him somehow. I hate being choked at night when I am getting my due and necessary sleep, and I wanted him badly. I was really annoyed about it all. . . .

   "But he wasn't there, and, as I sprang to my feet and struck and grabbed and clutched, I clutched and grabbed and struck precisely nothing!

   "My terror returned tenfold. Was the Thing supernatural after all? I had fallen practically on top of it and actually holding it — and it was not . . . . But — nonsense! The most violent and virulent Oriental djinn, spirit, ghost, devil, afrit, esprit malin, or demon, does not stab one, even if it throttles — as some of them are said to do . . . .

   "I crouched still and silent with restrained breathing, hoping to hear other breathing or some movement.

   "Perfect silence and stillness!

   "I burst into a cold perspiration — as I imagined the thing to be behind me, and about to seize my neck again in its frozen, vice-like grip.

   "I whirled around with extended arms, and then, rising to my feet, struck out in every direction, dealing coups de savate when my arms tired. And then again I crouched and listened and waited — with my hands at my throat.

   "Perfect silence and stillness!

   "And, do you know, my, friends, it positively never occurred to me to cry out for help! . . . I suppose my faculties were all so engrossed in this strange struggle that no corner of my brain was free to think, 'One shout and Jean Boule will burst in your door, sword-bayonet in hand.'" . . .

   "More likely you wanted to see it out all by your little self, mon ancien," smiled Colonel Lebrun.

   "But no, I assure you. I never thought to shout for help . . . And then, as I put a hand to the floor, I touched the matches that had fallen with the table. And I thanked le bon Dieu . . .. . With trembling fingers I struck a light wondering what would be revealed to my staring eyes, and whether the light would be the signal for my death-blow. Should I get it in the back — or across the neck? Was it a common Chinese 'pirate'? I hoped so, . . . but they do not have dead hands and intangible bodies . . . .

   "The match flared . . . .

   "The room was empty . . . .

   "Absolutely empty. And, look you, my friends, the door was still locked on the inside; there was no fireplace and chimney, and not so much as a cat could have escaped by the window without knocking down the articles which stood on the inner ledge of it — some little brass ornaments, a crude vase, and one or two framed photographs or pictures. I went cold all over. What had throttled me? What had stabbed me? Where was the cold Dead Hand which I had grasped? . . .

   "I lit the wall-lamp.

   "There lay the table, overturned in the struggle. There lay the little lamp which I had carried in from the neighbouring bathroom. Its glass chimney was shattered and oil was running from its brass reservoir. And there, in my right arm, was the great, gaping stab.

   "Going to the mirror, I saw at a glance that there were marks of fingers on my throat . . . . And I knew that nothing bigger than a rat could have left the room!

   "I felt that I had had enough of mystery in solitude, and remembered my orderly. I was weak and faint from the awful struggle, and a little sick from the stab. . . . Also, my friends, I was frightened . . . . A murderous foe who can throttle and stab, does not lock the door on the inside as he leaves the room, look you, and neither does he climb through a small window in silence without disturbing bric-à-brac upon the sill. . . .

   "I unlocked the door, and shouted to my Jean Bou1e. He replied on the instant, and came running.

   "He must have thought me mad when he heard my tale — until I directed his attention to the stab in my arm and the finger-marks on my neck . . . .

   "He stared at the débris on the floor, at the undisturbed ornaments on the window-ledge, at the door, and finally at the marks on my person.

   "'Why does not Monsieur le Capitaine bleed?' said he suddenly. 'Has he used anything to stop the hæmorrhage so successfully?' and he took my arm in his hands.

   "Sure enough no drop of blood had flowed from the deep stab in my forearm.

   "'Why, the arm is dead,' cried Jean Boule, as he felt it. 'What have you been doing to it, mon Capitaine? . . . Excuse me' . . . and he placed a thumb on each side of the stab, opened it, and peered. Then he laughed in his quiet gentlemanly way, and glanced at the smashed lamp.

   "'I thought so,' he said. 'Glass. No circulation. The hand dead,' and he laughed again.

   "'What do you mean, Légionnaire?' I asked, nettled by his amusement.

   "'Why — Monsieur le Capitaine has had a great and terrible fight with himself — and won. He went to sleep on his right side with his right arm raised and bent over his neck — and the arm also went to sleep as the circulation ceased, owing to the position — and Monsieur le Capitaine got hold of his throat and choked himself. Then he had nightmare, cauchemar, turned on his back, and woke up choking, and it was some time before he could budge the cold, stiff arm . . . . When he did, he flung it straight on to the lamp, broke the thing, and cut himself to the bone.' . .

   "And so it was! . . .

   "But I contend that I have been throttled by a Dead Hand, d'Amienville." . . .

   Lieutenant d'Amienville made a strange noise in his throat and then rose and escaped from the circle of mocking eyes.

   It was felt that Captain d'Armentières had not only moved an immovable arm, but had, as the droll English say, "pulled" an unpullable leg.