Ngaio Marsh - Death At The Bar

“Nobody can call me a careless man,” he said. “I’m all for looking after myself. Thurr’s my first-aid box in thurr, ready to hand, and if any of the chaps cuts themselves with a mucky fish-knife or any other infectious trifle of that sort, they gets a swill of iodine in scratch. Make ’em squirm a bit and none the worse for that. I learnt that in the war, my sonnies. I was a surgeon’s orderly and I know the mighty powers thurr be in drugs.”

He stared at the glass door. The label POISON still showed, slightly distorted, in the darkness of the little cupboard.

“Safe enough thurr,” said Abel, and went over to the bar.

With the arrival of the Pomeroys the private bar took on its customary aspect for a summer’s evening. They both went behind the counters. Abel sat facing the Private and on Cubitt’s order drew pints of draught beer for the company. A game of darts was started in the Public.

The man in the settle had not moved, but now Watchman saw his hand reach out for his pint. He saw the calluses, the chipped nails, the coarsened joints of the fingers. Watchman got up, stretched himself, grimaced at Parish, and crossed the room to the settle.

The light shone full in the face of the stranger. The skin of his face was brown but Watchman thought it had only recently acquired this colour. His hair stood up in white bristles, his forehead was garnished with bumps that shone in the lamplight. The eyes under the bleached lashes seemed almost without color. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth ran grooves that lent emphasis to the fall of the lips. Without raising his head the man looked up at Watchman and the shadow of a smile seemed to visit his face. He got up and made as if to go to the door, but Watchman stopped him.

“May I introduce myself?” asked Watchman.

The man smiled broadly. “They are teeth,” thought Watchman and he added: “We have met already this evening but we didn’t exchange names. Mine is Luke Watchman.”

“I gathered as much from your conversation,” said the man. He paused a moment and then said: “Mine is Legge.”

“I’m afraid I sounded uncivil,” said Watchman. “I hope you’ll allow me a little motorists’ license. One always abuses the other man, doesn’t one?”

“You’d every excuse,” mumbled Legge, “every excuse.” He scarcely moved his lips. His teeth seemed too large for his mouth. He looked sideways at Watchman, picked up a magazine from the settle, and flipped it open, holding it before his face.

Watchman felt vaguely irritated. He had struck no sort of response from the man and he was not accustomed to falling flat. Obviously, Legge merely wished to be rid of him and this state of affairs piqued Watchman’s vanity. He sat on the edge of the table, and, for the second time that evening, offered his cigarette case to Legge.

“No, thanks;—pipe.”

“I’d no idea I should find you here,” said Watchman and noticed uncomfortably that his own voice sounded disproportionately cordial, “although you did tell me you were bound for Otttercombe. It’s a good pub, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes,” said Legge hurriedly. “Very good.”

“Are you making a long visit?”

He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it. His fingers moved clumsily and he had an air of rather ridiculous concentration. Watchman felt marooned on the edge of the table. He saw that Parish was listening with a maddening grin, and he fancied that Cubitt’s ears were cocked. “Damn it,” he thought, “I will not be put out of countenance by the brute. He shall like me.” But he could think of nothing to say and Mr. Legge had begun to read his magazine.

From beyond the bar came the sound of raucous applause. Someone yelled: “Double seventeen and we’m beat the Bakery.”

Norman Cubitt pulled out his darts and paused for a moment. He looked from Watchman to Parish. It struck him that there was a strong family resemblance between these cousins, a resemblance of character rather than physique. Each in his way, thought Cubitt, was a vain man. In Parish one recognized the ingenuous vanity of the actor. Off the stage he wooed applause with only less assiduity than he commanded it when he faced an audience. Watchman was more subtle. Watchman must have the attention and respect of every new acquaintance, but he played for it without seeming to do so. He would take endless trouble with a complete stranger when he seemed to take none. “But he’s getting no change out of Legge,” thought Cubitt maliciously. And with a faint smile he turned back to the dart board.

Watchman saw the smile. He took a pull at his tankard and tried again.

“Are you one of the dart experts?” he asked. Legge looked up vaguely and Watchman had to repeat the question.

“I play a little,” said Legge.

Cubitt hurled his last dart at the board and joined the others.

“He plays like the Devil himself,” he said. “Last night I took him on, 101 down. I never even started. He threw fifty, one, and the fifty again.”

“I was fortunate that time,” said Mr. Legge with rather more animation.

“Not a bit of it,” said Cubitt. “You’re merely odiously accurate.”

“Well,” said Watchman, “I’ll lay you ten bob you can’t do it again, Mr. Legge.”

“You’ve lost,” said Cubitt.

“Aye, he’s a proper masterpiece, is Mr. Legge,” said old Abel.

Sebastian Parish came across from the inglenook. He looked down good-humouredly at Legge.

“Nobody,” thought Cubitt, “has any right to be as good-looking as Seb.”

“What’s all this?” asked Parish.

“I’ve offered to bet Mr. Legge ten bob he can’t throw fifty, one, and fifty.”

“You’ve lost,” said Parish.

“This is monstrous,” cried Watchman. “Do you take me, Mr. Legge?”

Legge shot a glance at him. The voices of the players beyond the partition had quieted for the moment. Will Pomeroy had joined his father at the private bar. Cubitt and Parish and the two Pomeroys waited in silence for Legge’s reply. He made a curious grimace, pursing his lips and screwing up his eyes. As if in reply Watchman used the K.C.’s trick of his and took the tip of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cubitt, who watched them curiously, was visited by the fantastic notion that some sort of signal had passed between them.

Legge rose slowly to his feet.

“Oh yes,” he said. “Certainly, Mr. Watchman, I take you on.”

ii

Legge moved, with a slovenly dragging of his boots, into a position in front of the board. He pulled out the three darts and looked at them.

“Getting a bit worn, Mr. Pomeroy,” said Legge. “The rings are loose.”

“I’ve sent for a new set,” said Abel. “They’ll be here tomorrow. Old lot go into Public.”

Will Pomeroy left the public bar and joined his father. “Showing ’em how to do it, Bob?” he asked.

“There’s a bet on, sonny,” said old Pomeroy.

“Don’t make me nervous, Will,” said Legge with a grin.

He looked at the board, poised his first dart and, with a crisp movement of his hand, flung it into the Bull’s-eye.

“Fifty,” said Will. “There you are, gentlemen! Fifty!”

“Three-and-fourpence in pawn,” said Watchman.

“We’ll put it into the C.L.M. if it comes off, Will,” said Legge.

“What’s the C.L.M.?” demanded Watchman.

Will stared straight in front of him and said: “The Coombe Left Movement, Mr. Watchman. We’ve a branch of the South Devon Left, now.”

“Oh Lord!” said Watchman.

Legge threw his second dart. It seemed almost to drop from his hand but he must have used a certain amount of force since it sent home solidly into the top right-hand division.