The Second Shot by Anthony Berkeley Read Free Book Online

mental powers. The female form, shaped like a minute-glass for boiling eggs, has never struck me as a beautiful object. A minute-glass holds small aesthetic appeal to my mind, and so does a diabolo reel; so also does the feminine figure, with its misplaced bulges, its artistically incorrect centre of gravity, and its general top-heaviness. Girls in bathing costumes, which to judge from the pages of the popular press exercise a universal appeal, excite in me nothing but pity.
    It will be seen, therefore, that if I have a prejudice (which I do not admit), it is rather against the female form than in favour of it. Yet as Miss Verity and I walked together down to the pool and, it being night-time, she forgot the natural modesty of a young girl to the extent of omitting to hold her wrap quite so closely together, so that I was able to catch glimpses from time to time of a white arm or leg, a trim waist, or other feminine peculiarities, unwonted sensations invaded me to such an extent that I found myself able actually to admire those very curves which I normally so despised, and even to see beauty in a nubbly knee. A strange experience. I set it down here, though it really has no bearing on what followed.
    I was therefore disappointed to notice, when we arrived at the pool, that Miss Verity’s discarding of her wrap was almost simultaneous with her plunge into the pool, in a beautiful dive that caused her slim body to flash in a dim curve against the dark background like the bending of a giant bow – a simile which occurred to me on the spot, surprising me by its poetical aptness; the intellectual honesty on which I always insist has taught me to recognize such limitations as I have, and hitherto poetry has certainly been one of them. Could it be, I wondered, that under the influence of Miss Verity’s pure innocence something was calling from the unknown poetical depths of my own soul to similar inarticulate deeps in hers? A not unbeautiful thought in itself.
    What followed was, I regret to say, singularly unpoetical. I am determined to set it down exactly as it occurred, neither exaggerating nor minimizing.
    Eric Scott-Davies climbed out of the pool and came towards me. ‘Hullo, Pinkie,’ he called. ‘Aren’t you bathing?’
    I had been on my way to join the solitary figure of Mrs de Ravel on a seat the other side of the pool, and merely threw back to him over my shoulder a short negative.
    ‘Aren’t you though, Pinkie? Aren’t you?’ exclaimed the grinning ape, and without more ado grasped me in his great wet hands and swung me up above his head (I think I mentioned that I am not a man of large physique; I stand, actually, five foot six and three quarter inches in my socks), and walked towards the edge of the pool. Still I could not believe that the oaf would really proceed to extreme measures.
    ‘Steady on, Eric,’ called his cousin from the middle of the pool. ‘Don’t be a damned fool.’ It was the first time I had ever found myself in sympathy with Armorel.
    That little ass De Ravel, however, simply encouraged him. I have always disliked De Ravel. ‘Come on, Eric,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll catch him.’
    In spite of my struggles (I was doing my best to kick him sharply with my patent-leather evening shoes) Eric held me easily above his head on the very margin of the pool. ‘I promised our Pinkie a swim just after dinner,’ he boomed, ‘and I always keep my promises.’
    ‘Eric, stop that!’ I heard John Hillyard call peremptorily and come splashing towards us. But it was too late. I felt Eric’s arms give way under me and then suddenly shoot up, and I was precipitated through the air. With a terrific splash I reached the water and sank beneath the surface. I am not a swimmer.
    Somebody got me up and helped me to the bank (I think it was John) and I rather fancy there was a dead silence as I half scrambled and was half pushed onto dry land. Without a word I began to walk up the hill back to the house. If