Mark Twain's Medieval Romance (13 page)

“But why will
I
be there?”

“Herod could scarcely accuse the Greek of seducing
me
, his stepdaughter! He has shifted the whole scandal to you. So I shall have to sit there and watch the man I love being married to my rival—to you!”

“But suppose there isn’t any marriage?” I could scarcely pronounce the words. “Suppose Jason chooses the door that frees the tiger? There is that terrible chance!”

Salome’s smile was sly and determined. “That’s why I have come here. Chance is going to be eliminated. You and I are going to cheat Herod. We will save Jason.”

“Oh, Salome, how?”

“We will save him because we both love him. I am going to give him to you.”

My voice was choking. “Oh, Salome, I have been so wrong about you!”

She brushed my embrace aside. “I’m not doing this for you. I’ve thought of a way to save him—because I can’t see him die.”

It was three nights ago that we had this conversation. We talked far into the morning. Before she left, I had forgiven Salome all her former slights and cruelties. For she had shown me how to save Jason. I wonder if I could be as self-sacrificing as she. Her love for him is so great that she is willing that he shall marry me—since she says she knows he loves me and that we will be happy together. I kissed her as we parted. Since then I have spent my time writing this long letter to you. I know that it contains many things that ordinarily a daughter would not write to a father. But I have tried to be absolutely truthful, because I want you to know, dearest Father, that in spite of all the doubts and troubles I have gone through, I have done nothing that was wrong.

It is growing late and I am tired. Soon it will be morning. They will come and dress me in a bridal gown. My draperies will be arranged with many golden brooches. They will place flowers in my arms and the flame-colored veil of a Roman bride over my hair. And they will leave me in that little room, next to the room where they will have placed the tiger. As soon as I am alone, I will take one of the golden brooches from my garment. I will open one of my veins with it and let my blood run from beneath the crack in the door, out onto the stone pavements of the dark corridor beneath the seats of the arena.

Before Salome takes her seat beside her stepfather, she will slip down into this corridor. She will see the blood and she will know in which room I am waiting. And she will signal to Jason to open my door.

I am happy, Father, despite my dreadful weariness. I hope that you will forgive me everything that has been reckless and foolish. I am a woman now, but still a little girl. How I wish that I could curl up in your lap and go to sleep! I am tired, but so contented and joyful—I must rest and be beautiful for my beloved. All my dreams will come true tomorrow.

T
HUS ENDED THE LETTER
of Miriam to her father. As I labored over its translation, this Jewish girl of twenty centuries ago became very real to me. I gave all my time to researches concerning Miriam. I had to learn what had happened to her.

The answer was found in the long-sought-for letter of Pontius Pilate to Tiberius. The first paragraph made it obvious that this originally had been dispatched to the Emperor as an explanation of Miriam’s manuscript. But during the centuries they had become separated. Pilate’s supplement was written in Latin upon two sheets of parchment. The first page read:

“To His Imperial Majesty, Tiberius Caesar, from Pontius Pilate, Procurator of Judea:

“May the Gods preserve Your Majesty! I forward the enclosed document to the Imperial Archives because it has some bearing upon Imperial policy in the Near East.

“As stated in previous reports, the High Priest (to whom the enclosed letter is addressed) has shown great stubbornness in refusing to cooperate in the matter of disposing of a certain Galilean preacher regarded by Your Majesty’s Government as a dangerous malcontent. The High Priest was impervious to bribes, and even threats failed to coerce him into making the desired accusations which would enable Rome to crucify the Galilean and still place responsibility for the deed on the Jews.

“But now I am happy to inform Your Majesty that the whole matter has been satisfactorily resolved. Caiphas is a broken man. His will has been completely shattered (indeed, I doubt if he can any longer be considered sane) and is quite incapable of offering any further resistance.

“His transformation was brought about, quite unexpectedly, yesterday, when the Greek, Jason, was forced to choose between the lady and the tiger in Herod’s Arena. I watched Caiphas very closely when he made his appearance, as Herod had ordered, in the royal box. His bearing was dignified and aloof. I almost found myself wishing that this well-controlled man was a Roman.

“One of our secret agents had intercepted a letter which the girl, Miriam, had written to her father; so that Caiphas had no way of knowing that his daughter was guiltless of Herod’s implications. His trust in her evidently was based upon blind faith.

“Herod looked a trifle embarrassed as he turned to me and asked if I wanted to double my bet on the Greek’s chances for survival. Of course, I did. Since I had read Miriam’s letter, I felt I was betting on a sure thing. I even smiled to myself as, from the corner of my eye, I saw the Princess make her signal to the Greek to open the right-hand door.

“But I was a fool to trust Salome. The Greek, with his sense of the dramatic, started to pull back the portal very slowly. When it was open about a foot, we saw the sunlight fall on the striped hide and the blinking eyes of the tiger. The Greek seemed doomed. An automatic device made it impossible to push those doors shut, once either of them had started to open. “But the Greek acted with the speed of lightning. As soon as he glimpsed the tiger, he stepped back and pulled open
both
doors. Now he was protected—wedged in the small space between the two open portals—as secure as if he had a big oak shield on each arm.

“The tiger, a finer specimen than any you’d see in Rome, advanced through the doorway on the right.

“And almost simultaneously, the girl, Miriam, looking pale but smiling beneath her bridal veil, came through the doorway on the left.

“For a few seconds the beast and the woman looked at each other. There was no sound in the amphitheater, except her father’s sobbing.

“It was the fastest thinking I had ever seen. I did well to bet on the Greek.”

T
HE PAPER FELL
from my hand. All the injustice and cruelty of the world seemed summed up in Jason’s contemptible stratagem.

I read the second page. Pilate had added the following postscript to his message.

“Despite the Greek’s adroitness I’m sure Your Majesty will agree that this Jason was too clever to be permitted to survive. His plot to marry Salome and seize the throne was a definite menace to Roman policy in Palestine and to Your Majesty’s security. Since the man was the son of a slave and was not a Roman citizen, it was not difficult to charge him with the theft of the White Syndicate’s horses and to condemn him, along with another thief and the Galilean preacher, to be crucified. He admitted under the torture that he had adopted the name of ‘Jason’ because of its romantic connotations. His real name was Gestos. He was the last of the three to die, and though his sufferings were excruciating, he did not ask for forgiveness.”

THE BLIND SPOT

B
AHHY
P
EKOWNE

The greatest criminal character in literature is, of course, A. J. Raffles, the gentleman jewel thief created by E. W. Hornung at the end of the Victorian era, his first book appearance being in
The Amateur Cracksman
(1899). A few years after the author’s death in 1921, the popularity of the character remained at such a high level that the British magazine
The Thriller
asked Barry Perowne, already a regular contributor, to continue the rogue’s adventures. After making arrangements with the estate of Hornung, Perowne produced many more stories about Raffles than his creator had, as well as several novels.

Perowne, the pseudonym of Philip Atkey (1908–1985) wrote hundreds of stories and more than 20 novels, many featuring the suave safecracker and his sidekick, Bunny Manders, including
The Return of Raffles
(1933),
Raffles in Pursuit
(1934),
Raffles Under Sentence
(1936), and
Raffles Revisited
(1974), a short story collection.

The exceptionally versatile and prolific Perowne also produced numerous thirty-thousand-word paperback original novellas about Dick Turpin, the notorious highwayman, and Red Jim, the first air detective.

“The Blind Spot,” one of the most ingenious stories ever written, was first published in the November 1945 issue of
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
.

THE BLIND SPOT

BY
B
ARRY
P
EROWNE

A
NNIXTER LOVED
the little man like a brother. He put an arm around the little man’s shoulders, partly from affection and partly to prevent himself from falling. He had been drinking earnestly since seven o’clock the previous evening. It was now nudging midnight, and things were a bit hazy. The lobby was full of the thump of hot music; down two steps, there were a lot of tables, a lot of people, a lot of noise. Annixter had no idea what this place was called, or how he had got there, or when. He had been in so many places since seven o’clock the previous evening.

‘In a nutshell,’ confided Annixter, leaning heavily on the little man, ‘a woman fetched you a kick in the face, or fate fetches you a kick in the face. Same thing, really—a woman and fate. So what? So you think it’s the finish, an’ you go out and get plastered. You get good an’ plastered,’ said Annixter, ‘an’ you brood.

‘You sit there an’ you drink an’ you brood—an’ in the end you find you’ve brooded up just about the best idea you ever had in your life! ’At’s the way it goes,’ said Annixter, ‘an’ ’at’s my philosophy—the harder you kick a playwright, the better he works.’

He gestured with such vehemence that he would have collapsed if the little man hadn’t steadied him. The little man was poker-backed, his grip was firm. His mouth was firm, too—a straight line, almost colourless. He wore hexagonal rimless spectacles, a black hard-felt hat, a neat pepper-and-salt suit. He looked pale and prim beside the flushed, rumpled Annixter.

From her counter, the hat-check girl watched them indifferently.

‘Don’t you think,’ the little man said to Annixter, ‘you ought to go home now? I’ve been honoured you should tell me the scenario of your play, but—’

‘I had to tell someone,’ said Annixter, ‘or blow my top! Oh, boy, what a play, what a play! What a murder, eh? That climax—’

The full, dazzling perfection of it struck him again. He stood frowning, considering, swaying a little—then nodded abruptly, groped for the little man’s hand, warmly pumphandled it.

‘Sorry I can’t stick around,’ said Annixter, ‘I got work to do.’

He crammed his hat on shapelessly, headed on a slightly elliptical course across the lobby, thrust the double doors open with both hands, lurched out into the night.

It was, to his inflamed imagination, full of lights, winking and tilting across the dark.
Sealed Room
by James Annixter. No.
Room Reserved
by James—No, no
Blue Room. Room Blue
by James Annixter—

He stepped, oblivious, off the curb, and a taxi, swinging in toward the place he had just left, skidded with suddenly locked, squealing wheels on the wet road.

Something hit Annixter violently in the chest, and all the lights he had been seeing exploded in his face.

Then there weren’t any lights.

Mr. James Annixter, the playwright, was knocked down by a taxi late last night when leaving the Casa Havana. After hospital treatment for shock and superficial injuries, he returned to his home
.

T
HE LOBBY OF
the Casa Havana was full of the thump of music; down two steps there were a lot of tables, a lot of people, a lot of noise. The hat-check girl looked wonderingly at Annixter—at the plaster on his forehead, the black sling which supported his left arm.

‘My,’ said the hat-check girl, ‘I certainly didn’t expect to see
you
again so soon!’

‘You remember me, then?’ said Annixter, smiling.

‘I ought to,’ said the hat-check girl. ‘You cost me a night’s sleep! I heard those brakes squeal after you went out the door that night—and there was a sort of thud!’ She shuddered. ‘I kept hearing it all night long. I can still hear it now—a week after! Horrible!’

‘You’re sensitive,’ said Annixter.

‘I got too much imagination,’ the hat-check girl admitted. ‘F’instance, I just
knew
it was you even before I run to the door and see you lying there. That man you was with was standing just outside. “My heavens,” I say to him, “it’s your friend!”’

‘What did he say?’ Annixter asked.

‘He says, “He’s not my friend. He’s just someone I met.” Funny, eh?’

Annixter moistened his lips.

‘How d’you mean,’ he said carefully, ‘funny? I
was
just someone he’d met.’

‘Yes, but—man you been drinking with,’ said the hat-check girl, ‘killed before your eyes. Because he must have seen it; he went out right after you. You’d think he’d ’a’ been interested, at least. But when the taxi driver starts shouting for witnesses, it wasn’t his fault, I looks around for that man—an’ he’s gone!’

Annixter exchanged a glance with Ransome, his producer, who was with him. It was a slightly puzzled, slightly anxious glance. But he smiled, then, at the hat-check girl.

‘Not quite “killed before his eyes”,’ said Annixter. ‘Just shaken up a bit, that’s all.’

There was no need to explain to her how curious, how eccentric, had been the effect of that ‘shaking up’ upon his mind.

‘If you could ’a’ seen yourself lying there with the taxi’s lights shining on you—”

‘Ah, there’s that imagination of yours!’ said Annixter.

He hesitated for just an instant, then asked the question he had come to ask—the question which had assumed so profound an importance for him.