Death At The Bar

“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, so

“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.

“And the one. Six-and-eightpence looking a bit off-colour, Mr. Watchman,” said Abel Pomeroy.

“He’s stymied himself for the other double twenty-five, though,” said Watchman. “The first dart’s lying right across it.”

Legge raised his hand and this time took more deliberate aim. He threw from a greater height. For a fraction of a second the dart seemed to hang in his fingers before it sped downwards athwart the first, into the narrow strip round the centre.

“And fifty it is!” said Will. “There you are. Fifty. Good for you, comrade.”

A little chorus went up from Parish, Cubitt and old Abel.

“The man’s a wizard.”

“Shouldn’t be allowed!”

“You’m a proper masterpiece.”

“Well done, Bob,” added Will, as if determined to give the last word of praise.

Watchman laid a ten-shilling note on the table.

“I congratulate you,” he said.

Legge looked at the note.

“Thank you, Mr. Watchman,” he said. “Another ten bob for the fighting fund, Will.”

“Good enough, but it’s straight-out generous to give it.”

Watchman sat down again on the table-edge.

“All very nice,” he said. “Does you credit, Mr. Legge. I rather think another drink’s indicated. With me, if you please. Loser’s privilege.”

Will Pomeroy glanced uncomfortably at Legge. By Feather’s etiquette, the wi

“We’ll all play like Mr. Legge with this inside us,” said Parish.

“Yes,” agreed Watchman, looking into his tankard, “it’s a fighting fund in itself. A very pretty tipple indeed.” He looked up at Legge.

“Do you know any other tricks like that one, Mr. Legge?”

“I know a prettier one than that,” said Legge quietly, “if you’ll assist me.”

“I assist you?”

“Yes. If you’ll stretch your hand out flat on the board I’ll outline it with darts.”