The Best Short Stories of 1918 Part 10

But I could not hear any more. I cried out that I didn't want any royal memories, I wanted my dear, bad, self-willed little boy. The general got up then and limped away and stood and looked out of the window.

I sat and waited. I kept on waiting-minutes on gray minutes, hours on hours.

Then a nurse grasped my shoulders, and tried to tell me something. I heard her clearly, but I couldn't string her words together to make meaning. Finally, she drew me to my feet and led me back to the operating-room.

There stood Doctor Lake. He was leaning against the wall and wiping his face on a piece of gauze. He came straight to me and put out both big, kind hands.

"Tell me. You needn't try to make it easy-"

"There, there, Miss Edith. There's nothing to tell. Look for yourself."

Gray-lipped, whiter than ashes, straight and moveless as a young knight in marble effigy, lay my boy. But a shadow pulse flickered in that bound temple, the cheek I kissed was warm.

"No," said Doctor Lake very softly. "He won't die. He's steel and whipcord, that youngster. Heaven be praised, you can't kill his sort with a hatchet."

He leaned down, gave Buster a long, searching look. His puffy, f.a.gged face twisted with bewilderment, then broke into chuckles of astonishment and delight.

"Well, on my word and honor! I've just this moment recognized him. This _blesse_ is the imp of Satan who used to steal my car up the North Sh.o.r.e. He's the chap who steered that confounded aeroplane into the garden-party.... I've always sworn that, let me once lay hands on that young scalawag, I'd lick the tar out of him!"

"Well, here's your chance," snivelled I.

He did not hear me. He had stooped again over Buster. Again he was peering into that still face. Over his own face came a strange look, mirthful, then deep with question, profoundly tender; then, flashing through, a gleam of amazing and most piteous jealousy, the bitter, comic jealousy of the most famous of all middle-aged American surgeons for insolent, fool-hardy, glorious youth.

Then he turned and went away, a big, dead-tired, shambling figure. And in that instant my boy's heavy eyes lifted and stared at me. Slowly in them awoke a drowsy sparkle.

"h.e.l.lo, Cousin Edith. When did you blow in?"

I didn't try to speak. I looked past him at Doctor Lake, now plodding from the room. Buster's eyes followed mine. Over his face came a smile of heaven's own light.

"Old stuffed shirt," sighed Buster with exquisite content. He turned his gaunt young head on the pillow; he tucked a brawny fist under his cheek.

Before I could speak he had slipped away, far on a sea of dreams.

THE OPEN WINDOW

_By_ CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE From _Harper's Magazine_ _Copyright, 1918, by Harper and Brothers._ _Copyright, 1919, by Charles Caldwell Dobie._

"It happened just as I have said," Fernet reiterated, tossing the wine-dregs from his gla.s.s.

The company at the table looked instinctively toward the kitchen. Berthe was bringing a fresh pot of coffee. They all followed Fernet's example, lifting their empty gla.s.ses for her to serve them in their turn.

The regular boarders of the Hotel de France, after the fashion of folks who find their meal a duty to be promptly despatched, had departed, but the transients still lingered over their _cafe noir_ and cognac in the hope that something exciting might materialize.

As the sound of Fernet's voice died away, a man who had been sitting in an extreme corner of the room sc.r.a.ped back his chair and rose. Fernet looked up. The man was a hunchback, and, instead of paying for his meal and leaving, he crossed over and said to Fernet, in the most perfect French imaginable:

"I see, my young fellow, that you are discussing something of interest with your friends here. Would it be impertinent for me to inquire into the subject?"

Fernet drew out a chair for the newcomer, who seated himself.

"By no means. We were discussing a murder and suicide. The murdered man was an Italian fisherman who lodged at the Hotel des Alpes Maritimes, the suicide was a musician named Suvaroff."

"Ah," said the hunchback, cracking his fingers. "Why a murder and suicide? Why not two murders?"

"Because," returned Fernet, pompously, "it was abundantly proved to the contrary. This man Suvaroff suffered from neuralgia; the Italian fisherman was given to playing the accordion at all hours of the night.

Suvaroff was, in addition, a musician-a high-strung person. The Italian's playing was abominable-even his landlady says as much. In short, Suvaroff deliberately killed this simple-minded peasant because of his music. Then, in a fit of remorse, he killed himself. I leave it to any one here to dispute the fact. Besides, I was on the coroner's jury. I should know what I am talking about."

"Oh, without doubt," agreed the hunchback, smiling amiably. "But, as I remember, the knives in both cases were plunged hilt-deep into the backs of the victims. One does not usually commit suicide in this fashion."

Fernet coldly eyed the curiously handsome face of his antagonist. "It seems you know more about this thing than a coroner's jury," he sneered.

"It seems I do-granting that such an important item was left out of the evidence."

"Then, my good sir, will you be good enough to tell me who _did_ kill Suvaroff, since you do not admit that he died by his own hand?"

The hunchback cracked his fingers again. "That is simple enough.

Suvaroff was killed by the same person who stabbed the Italian."

"And who might that be, pray?"

The hunchback rose with a malignant smile. "Ah, if I told you that you would know as much as I do, my friend."

And with that he walked calmly over to the proprietor, put down thirty-five cents for his meal upon the counter, and without another word left the room.

A silence fell upon the group. Everybody stared straight ahead, avoiding the eye of his neighbor. It was as if something too terrifying to be remarked had pa.s.sed them.

Finally, a thick-set man at Fernet's right, with a purple wart on his cheek, said, uneasily, "Come, I must be going."

The others rose; only Fernet remained seated.

"What," said another, "haven't you finished?"

"Yes," returned Fernet, gloomily, "but I am in no hurry."

He sat there for an hour, alone, holding his head between his hands.

Berthe cleared off the soiled plates, wiped the oilcloth-covered tables, began noisily to lay the pewter knives and forks for the morning meal.

At this Fernet stirred himself and, looking up at her, said:

"Tell me who was the hunchback who came and sat with us? Does he live here-in San Francisco?"

"His name is Flavio Minetti," she replied, setting the lid back upon an uncovered sugar-bowl. "Beyond that I know nothing. But they tell me that he is quite mad."

"Ah, that accounts for many things," said Fernet, smiling with recovered a.s.surance. "I must say he is strangely fascinating."

Berthe looked at him sharply and shrugged. "For my part, he makes me shiver every time I see him come in the door. When I serve him my hand shakes. And he continually cracks his fingers and says to me: 'Come, Berthe, what can I do to make you smile? Would you laugh if I were to dance for you? I would give half my life only to see you laughing. Why are you so sad?' ... No, I wish he would never come again."

"Nevertheless, I should like to see him once more."