The Devil To Pay

Sir Swithin Montross arrived at the door of his house in a mood of ultimate frustration. He had lost at cards and at the races, he had failed at love and he was about to fail at business if he didn't watch his step. His golf was shot to hell. He went in and walked heavily to his study and, approaching the decanter tray, resolutely picked up a bottle of whiskey.

"I shouldn't do that if I were you," a voice behind him said.

Sir Swithin put the bottle down automatically and, turning around, saw, sitting in his winged leather chair, a stranger with rather noticeable eyebrows set at different levels.

"Who the devil are you, sir?" he inquired, "and how did you get in?"

"Forgive me for not rising," said the stranger, "I am ... tired beyond all comprehension. I came to see you, Sir Swithin."

"Well, you see me, and now get out!" said Sir Swithin Montross, "or I shall call the police!"

The stranger continued to look at him – not smiling, not frowning, but almost as though he were weighing him. The confounded blackguard had a little goatee. Some kind of foreigner? Evening clothes, though. Goodish cut. "Did Soames let you in?" said Sir Swithin. "Because if he did —"

"No one let me in," the stranger said. "However, I am here and you and I might talk business. You have something I want."

"The silver?" sneered Sir Swithin, "or

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Devil To Pay (continued from page 21)

are you here to blackmail me?"

"Now please don't think anything so vulgar," said the stranger, "and please don't drink any more whiskey," he added as Sir Swithin reached for a glass and picked up the whiskey again. "It's very bad for you. Not that it's your body I'm interested in...."

Sir Swithin poured himself an enormous amount of straight whiskey, and sat down. "Then, sir," he said, "what is it of mine you are interested in?"

The stranger smiled for the first time. "I really don't know how to answer you," he said. "Some things defy accurate definition." He let his voice stop and it echoed in the distant spheres.

"Sounds like a touch," Sir Swithin said, and drained his glass.

"No, I am not asking you to lend me money," said the stranger. "I am talking about something far less mundane – something you don't even know you have."

"Hah," said Sir Swithin, refilling his glass, "then I probably shan't miss it, eh?" He stood up, taking another glass. "Will you join me?"

"A little brandy, if you please," said the stranger, "neat."

Sir Swithin filled a glass and handed it to him. It went down the stranger's throat as though it had been poured onto a cinder pathway. "I think," said Sir Swithin, "that I know who you are."

The stranger nodded but this time he did not smile – his face was as bleak and cold as the surface of the moon.

"But you see," went on Sir Swithin, "you've come to the wrong shop. I have no soul." It was a pleasing thought and Sir Swithin forgot his troubles. "But supposing I had – what have you to offer me for it?"

"The usual things," said the stranger. "Not what you want, but what you think you want, Three things."

"Quite," said Sir Swithin, and refilled their glasses. "But tell me," he asked, "why is it always three wishes?"

"You have three things that trouble you, haven't you?"

"Well ... Hm." Sir Swithin thought this over. The horses – yes, no one could be as good a judge of horseflesh as he and have such bad luck; and the same with cards – bad hands and worse partners. And his golf – it really came under the same heading, play, but here the trouble was different. He was the second best player in his club, and no effort on his part or variation in luck had ever caused him to beat Pillsbury. When the club champion was off his game so was Sir Swithin, and if Sir Swithin, owing to some vagary of the wind, achieved a three for the seventh hole, Pillsbury did an incredible two. Then Millicent, with her damned, beseeching come-on look that meant nothing. And business – that was worst of all.

"I make this offer to you, Sir Swithin: free and with no strings I will give you your first wish. Will that convince you?"

Montross looked at him narrowly. "Very handsome of you, I'm sure," he said. "Have to think it over for a bit." The first wish... which would that be? The race track, or golf? No – ridiculous. Millicent? Again no – anyway, she must do the wishing.

"Business," said the stranger.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Sir Swithin. "You read my mind!"

"Absurd; cupidity was written all over your face. Make your wish."

Sir Swithin's mind spiraled amidst the unpromising possibilities of the stock exchange. He didn't need a wish – he needed information.

"Sell your mining shares," the stranger said. "All of them. Tomorrow morning, the moment the exchange opens."

"Then what do I do?"

"Get it in cash and be ready for the afternoon."

"What do I do in the afternoon?"

"Tomorrow is Derby Day – or had you forgotten? Put the money on Fox Fire – to win," said the stranger, and his eyes seemed to glow.

"But – but Fox Fire is a rank outsider!"

"Precisely," said the stranger, "17 to one. If you're careful and spread it around you shouldn't hurt the odds too much. And now I really must be going. I shall see you tomorrow evening." The stranger disappeared through the French windows into Sir Swithin's garden, and the sound of some exotic night bird came in from the darkness with the petrol fumes. Sir Swithin went upstairs to bed.

• • •

When he awoke the next morning he looked at his watch and jumped out of bed. Where was Soames? Why had he not wakened him? Where was his early-morning cup of tea? The answer – pinned to the door of the valet's empty bedroom – was quite explicit. "I cannot work for a man like you, Sir Swithin Montross," it said in cold type, "if you call yourself a man. You are not a person of whom I should care to have a reference from."

"The man's mad," Sir Swithin muttered, and went down to cope with the kitchen. Cook was on her day off and he would have to make his own breakfast, but he gave it up when he found that every egg in the larder was addled. After a cup of black coffee – the cream had soured – he started for the city in his little Bentley, but his heart pounded like a triphammer and he went instead to Harley Street. Here he was examined and frowned over.

"Remember what I told you about the whiskey?" said the specialist.

"Shchah!" said Sir Swithin, and took the pill he was given. He drove to the city and his heart was calmer now – no doubt the pill. Selling his mining shares was rather fun, and so was getting the cash: everyone looked shocked. He was feeling pretty well and decided to ring up Millicent, the dear girl. He went to a telephone booth in Cornhill and called her number. She answered, herself – immediately.

"Hello, Millicent," he said to her, "this is Wuggy...."

"Oh!" she replied, "ugh!"

"Why, what's the matter?"

"How dare you call me!" she said. "You're the most heartless man I ever knew! You're...you're soulless!"

"But, Millicent!" Sir Swithin said anxiously, "I only wanted to —"

"I won't talk to you!" she said. "I never want to see you again, ever! Don't call me – ever!" The phone went dead, and so did Sir Swithin's spirit. He staggered out of the phone booth and drove unsteadily to the golf links. When he got to the clubhouse he looked around for Pillsbury and saw a tall, thin figure standing at the bar. He went to him and slapped him on the shoulder.

"How about a game, old bean?" he said.

"Why," said the other, turning around, "I should be simply delighted!" It wasn't Pillsbury, though. It was the club dud. They looked rather alike from behind, actually.

It was too late to draw back and Sir Swithin got his clubs from the locker room and followed him out to the first tee. Well, if he couldn't have a game with Pillsbury at least he could give this fool a lesson. But from the first to the 18th hole every shot he made went wrong. In driving he sliced, in his approach shots he hooked – nothing went right except the putting, but by then it was too late and the club dud beat him.

Back in the clubhouse he had a whiskey and soda, and made one more try at calling Millicent, but as soon as she heard his voice she hung up.

Then it was time for the Derby.

He got into his Bentley and drove to the track. Within half an hour he had placed his bets and the odds had dropped to eight to one. Within another half hour the favorite had run out and Fox Fire had won by three lengths. Sir Swithin collected his unseemly winnings and drove back to London, but what good to him now was all this money? Without Millicent to share his good fortune? And what had happened to his golf?

He drove to the garage to park the car, and the owner on seeing him came out

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Devil To Pay

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with a piece of paper in his hand. "Your bill, Sir Swithin," he said with repugnance.

"But it's not the first of the month yet!" said Sir Swithin.

"No, sir. But I want no more of your trade," replied the owner, turning away. "Keep your car elsewhere," he added over his shoulder and slammed the door. Sir Swithin blinked and drove to a parking lot. Then he went to his club on foot – perhaps a game of bridge would soothe him.

As he walked into the noble Georgian hallway the porter looked at him with dismay and disappeared into the office. In a moment he reappeared, accompanied by the club secretary who glared at Sir Swithin as though he were a filterable virus.

"Why have you come here, Montross?" he said coldly.

"Why have I ... But ..." Sir Swithin felt dizzy.

"Since you are no longer a member of the club, I think you had better go," said the secretary, and turned away.

Sir Swithin found himself on the pavement outside. He felt crushed and abandoned and his heart was pounding again. Too unsure of himself to hail a cab, he walked miserably home. The cook was not yet back – instead he found a note for him on the kitchen table when he went in search of her, but he could not bring himself to read it. When he got to his study he made directly for the whiskey decanter.

"Only a short one," said a voice behind him.

He turned and saw the stranger, who looked at him with the compassion of a vivisectionist. "I see Fox Fire won," said the stranger. "Did you get your bets down all right?"

"Yes," said Sir Swithin Montross, "Fox Fire won – and so have you." He sat down and covered his face with his hands. "I won't go through with it," he said between his fingers. "You must let me off."

"My dear sir," said the stranger, "your first wish was granted, was it not? So let us proceed to business."

"No, no!" cried Sir Swithin, "I won't. You ... you must cancel it! I don't want any more wishes, I want to go back to the way things were!"

"I think things have gone a little too far for that, don't you?" said the stranger. "Play the man, Master Montross; at least now you must be convinced you have a soul."

"I tell you I don't care whether I have or not!" Sir Swithin said. "You said there'd be no strings attached – take back the first wish, and set me free."

"The strings applied to your soul, you know," said the stranger, "and I shan't take that; but I can't very well cancel the past."

"You can, you must!" said Sir Swithin desperately, and, getting up, he drew his swollen wallet from his pocket and threw it on the table between them. "Take it– take back the money and give me back my life as it was! It was bad – it had its little defects, I grant you, but it wasn't as bad as this!"

"Well," the stranger said with reluctance.

"Take it, I beseech you!" Sir Swithin pushed the wallet toward him. The stranger stood up and shrugged, and his shoulders seemed like those of a bat. He took the wallet and shook his head, then without another word he walked out of the room. Sir Swithin heard the front door open and close, but there was no sound of footsteps from outside.

"Well, here's the cash," the stranger was saying a few minutes later to two friends. "If I'd only had the capital I'd have done it myself – but I hadn't. Anyway, this was safer: no risk. All right now – one share for you," he handed a packet of currency to one of the men. "That takes care of fixing his golf clubs. Have any trouble?"

"Nah. I opened the locker with a hairpin. Tilted the heads a little – that's all there was to it. Thanks."

"And one share for you, Joe. I must congratulate you on your ingenuity with the, er, servant problem."

"Thanks, boss. The cook's visiting her married sister in Brixton who's going to turn out to not be sick, and his valet's sleeping it off at a friend's."

"Poor fellow," said the stranger approvingly, "he'll be all right tomorrow morning. And the remaining three shares I will take. Now, gentlemen," he said, as the others looked up with resentment, "take it easy! Who thought up this scheme? Who wrote the notes from Soames and the cook? Who wrote the letter of insulting resignation to his club? Who had the idea of the indecent phone call to the garageman's wife – and in Sir Swithin's voice? Could either of you have imitated him well enough?" He looked at his friends, and it was plain they could not have.

"Could either of you have written so convincingly caddish a letter to his girl? Absurd! And the rotten eggs and the spoiled cream? Clever little touches, those. No, my friends, I am not grasping, but I think I have earned my three shares." He got up and looked at himself in the mirror appraisingly.

"When are you going to shave off that lousy beard?" one of his friends said.

"You look like hell in it."

"D'you know, I think I'll keep it," the stranger said, turning this way and that. "I've rather grown to like it."