A Large Anthology of Science Fiction

by Jerry

  “Well—what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know, Murtha. Of course you must be insane——”

  “No, I’m not,” he interrupted angrily, “I should have gone crazy if I hadn’t told you—but now I have it is all right. I understand what that means—it is a familiar enough psychological phenomenon. No one can forgive himself—we have to have help, even the strongest. But now I am better. I am as sane as you are.” He was in fact marvelously recovered.

  “But Murtha—why in God’s name did you keep him so long? Why did you wait for me?”

  “I wanted a witness to science—a man who knew my work and would vouch for my notes. I wanted you to back my word. Everyone knows you, but I am too young a man to have any statements accepted.”

  “Why didn’t you call in some of the others?”

  He looked at me coldly. Then, “Harvey, I’m not crazy. When I did this thing I realized that I was risking my life, putting myself on the wrong side of the law. When I spoke to you just now I was frantic, but I understood none-the-less that I was gambling again with the revenge the herd takes on those who offend its prejudices.”

  “But if you were afraid to tell the others, or to tell me, how could I be your witness to science? How could it ever be told? Sooner or later you must suffer for it.”

  “I hoped you would wait until I die. I hoped you would put your name to documents. I may outlive you—I may grow greater than you are—but I am one man alone.”

  “You think I will keep still, while you know the rest would bring the law on you?” I reached across the table and opened his Shakespeare to “King John.”

  “You demonstrated scientifically once, Murtha, that I am very responsive to appeals. Where do you suppose my sympathy is in this case?”

  “But Harvey, haven’t I suffered too?” Haven’t I been tormented?”

  “You deserve it—Vinton doesn’t, and his mother doesn’t. Have you suffered more than those two together. You are paying her for the boy you killed. I wonder if she is pleased with her bargain? You don’t know what they mean—you have no children——”

  “But he was hopelessly hurt. Can’t you understand?”

  I sat in silence. What was the use of talk? I might better go. He was crouching over the fire, wringing his hands rather horribly. Was it fear, or some worthier anguish? Who can tell? He spoke again.

  “Is it nothing to you, a scientist, that I have proved once for all the nature of the neural current? Men a thousand years from now will look back to this work as the final word on the subject. Harvey——?”

  I rose and moved toward the door. He was after me, half kneeling, clawing at me. “Harvey—you won’t take—any—action——”

  I shook him off, and went out. The last I saw of him was a wild figure, his whole body quivering in silhouette against the light of the open door.

  The papers told how he was found next morning.

  THE END.

  [*] Famous monument to Louis XVI’s Swiss Guards.—Ed.

  THE LAST SÉANCE

  Agatha Christie

  Raoul Daubreuil crossed the Seine humming a little tune to himself. He was a good-looking young Frenchman of about thirty-two, with a fresh-colored face and a little black mustache. By profession he was an engineer. In due course he reached the Cardonet and turned in at the door of No. 17. The concierge looked out from her lair and gave him a grudging “Good morning,” to which he replied cheerfully. Then he mounted the stairs to the apartment on the third floor. As he stood there waiting for his ring at the bell to be answered he hummed once more his little tune. Raoul Daubreuil was feeling particularly cheerful this morning. The door was opened by an elderly Frenchwoman, whose wrinkled face broke into smiles when she saw who the visitor was.

  “Good morning. Monsieur.”

  “Good morning, Elise,” said Raoul.

  He passed into the vestibule, pulling off his gloves as he did so.

  “Madame expects me, does she not?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Ah, yes, indeed, Monsieur.

  Elise shut the front door and turned towards him.

  “If Monsieur will pass into the little salon, Madame will be with him in a few minutes. At the moment she reposes herself.”

  Raoul looked up sharply.

  “Is she not well?”

  “Well!”

  Elise gave a snort. She passed in front of Raoul and opened the door of the little salon for him. He went in and she followed him.

  “Well!” she continued. “How should she be well, poor lamb? Séances, séances, and always séances. It is not right—not natural, not what the good God intended for us. For me, I say straight out, it is trafficking with the devil.”

  Raoul patted her on the shoulder reassuringly.

  “There, there, Elise,” he said soothingly, “do not excite yourself, and do not be too ready to see the devil in everything you do not understand.”

  Elise shook her head doubtingly.

  “Ah, well,” she grumbled under her breath. “Monsieur may say what he pleases, I don’t like it. Look at Madame, every day she gets whiter and thinner, and the headaches!”

  She held up her hands.

  “Ah, no, it is not good, all this spirit business. Spirits indeed! All the good spirits are in Paradise, and the others are in Purgatory or . . .”

  “Your view of the life after death is refreshingly simple, Elise,” said Raoul as he dropped into a chair.

  The old woman drew herself up.

  “I am a good Catholic, Monsieur.”

  She crossed herself, went towards the door, then paused, her hand on the handle.

  “Afterwards when you are married, Monsieur,” she said pleadingly, “it will not continue—all this?”

  Raoul smiled at her affectionately.

  “You are a good faithful creature, Elise,” he said, “and devoted to your mistress. Have no fear, once she is my wife, all this ‘spirit business’ as you call it, will cease. For Madame Daubreuil there will be no more séances.”

  Elise’s face broke into smiles.

  “Is it true what you say?” she asked eagerly.

  The other nodded gravely.

  “Yes,” he said, speaking almost more to himself than to her. “Yes, all this must end. Simone has a wonderful gift and she has used it freely, but now she has done her part. As you have justly observed, Elise, day by day she gets whiter and thinner. The life of a medium is a particularly trying and arduous one, involving a terrible nervous strain. All the same, Elise, your mistress is the most wonderful medium in Paris—more, in France. People from all over the world come to her because they know that with her there is no trickery, no deceit.”

  Elise gave a snort of contempt.

  “Deceit! Madame could not deceive a newborn babe if she tried.”

  “She is an angel,” said the young Frenchman with fervor. “And I—I shall do everything a man can to make her happy. You believe that?”

  Elise drew herself up, and spoke with a certain simple dignity.

  “I have served Madame for many years, Monsieur. With all respect I may say that I love her. If I did not believe that you adored her as she deserves to be adored—eh bien, Monsieur! I should be willing to tear you limb from limb.”

  Raoul laughed.

  “Bravo, Elise! You are a faithful friend, and you must approve of me now that I have told you Madame is going to give up the spirits.”

  He expected the old woman to receive this pleasantry with a laugh, but somewhat to his surprise she remained grave.

  “Supposing, Monsieur,” she said hesitatingly, “the spirits wall not give her up?”

  Raoul stared at her.

  “Eh! What do you mean?”

  “I said,” repeated Elise, “supposing the spirits will not give her up?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in the spirits, Elise?”

  “No more I do,” said Elise stubbornly. “It is foolish to believe in them. All the same—”

>   “Well?”

  “It is difficult for me to explain, Monsieur. You see, me, I always thought that these mediums, as they call themselves, were just clever cheats who imposed on the poor souls who had lost their dear ones. But Madame is not like that. Madame is good. Madame is honest, and—” She lowered her voice and spoke in a tone of awe.

  “Things happen. It is not trickery, things happen, and that is why I am afraid. For I am sure of this, Monsieur, it is not right. It is against nature and le bon Dieu, and somebody will have to pay.”

  Raoul got up from his chair and came and patted her on the shoulder. “Calm yourself, my good Elise,” he said, smiling. See, I will give you some good news. Today is the last of these séances; after today there will be no more.

  “There is one today then?” asked the old woman suspiciously.

  The last, Elise, the last.”

  Elise shook her head disconsolately.

  “Madame is not fit—” she began.

  But her words were interrupted, the door opened and a tall, fair woman came in. She was slender and graceful, with the face of a Botticelli Madonna. Raoul’s face lighted up, and Elise withdrew quickly and discreetly.

  “Simone!”

  He took both her long, white hands in his and kissed each in turn. She murmured his name very softly.

  “Raoul, my dear one.”

  Again he kissed her hands and then looked intently into her face. “Simone, how pale you are! Elise told me you were resting; you are not ill, my well-beloved?”

  “No, not ill—” she hesitated.

  He led her over to the sofa and sat down on it beside her.

  “But tell me then.”

  The medium smiled faintly.

  “You will think me foolish,” she murmured.

  “I? Think you foolish? Never.”

  Simone withdrew her hand from his grasp. She sat perfectly still for a moment or two gazing down at the carpet. Then she spoke in a low, hurried voice.

  “I am afraid, Raoul.”

  He waited for a minute or two expecting her to go on, but as she did not he said encouragingly:

  “Yes, afraid of what?”

  “Just afraid—that is all.”

  “But—”

  He looked at her in perplexity, and she answered the look quickly.

  “Yes, it is absurd, isn’t it, and yet I feel just that. Afraid, nothing more. I don’t know what of, or why, but all the time I am possessed with the idea that something terrible—terrible—is going to happen to me . . .” She stared out in front of her. Raoul put an arm gently round her. “My dearest,” he said, “come, you must not give way. I know what it is, the strain, Simone, the strain of a medium’s life. All you need is rest—rest and quiet.”

  She looked at him gratefully.

  “Yes, Raoul, you are right. That is what I need, rest and quiet.”

  She closed her eyes and leant back a little against his arm.

  “And happiness,” murmured Raoul in her ear.

  His arm drew her closer. Simone, her eyes still closed, drew a deep breath.

  “Yes,” she murmured, “yes. When your arms are round me I feel safe.

  I forget my life—the terrible life—of a medium. You know much, Raoul, but even you do not know all it means.”

  He felt her body grow rigid in his embrace. Her eyes opened again, staring in front of her.

  “One sits in the cabinet in the darkness, waiting, and the darkness is terrible, Raoul, for it is the darkness of emptiness, of nothingness. Deliberately one gives oneself up to be lost in it. After that one knows nothing, one feels nothing, but at last there comes the slow, painful return, the awakening out of sleep, but so tired—so terribly tired.

  “I know,” murmured Raoul, “I know.”

  “So tired,” murmured Simone again.

  Her whole body seemed to droop as she repeated the words.

  “But you are wonderful, Simone.”

  He took her hands in his, trying to rouse her to share his enthusiasm. “You are unique—the greatest medium the world has ever known.” She shook her head, smiling a little at that.

  “Yes, yes,” Raoul insisted.

  He drew two letters from his pocket.

  “See here, from Professor Roche of the Salpetriere, and this one from Dr. Genir at Nancy, both imploring that you will continue to sit for them occasionally.”

  “Ah, no!”

  Simone sprang suddenly to her feet.

  “I will not, I will not. It is to be all finished—all done with. You promised me, Raoul.”

  Raoul stared at her in astonishment as she stood wavering, facing him almost like a creature at bay. He got up and took her hand.

  “Yes, yes,” he said. “Certainly it is finished, that is understood. But I am so proud of you, Simone, that is why I mentioned those letters.”

  She threw him a swift sideways glance of suspicion.

  “It is not that you will ever want me to sit again?”

  “No, no,” said Raoul, “unless perhaps you yourself would care to, just occasionally for these old friends—”

  But she interrupted him, speaking excitedly.

  “No, no, never again. There is danger, I tell you. I can feel it, great danger.”

  She clasped her hands on her forehead a minute, then walked across to the window.

  Promise me never again,” she said in a quieter voice over her shoulder. Raoul followed her and put his arms round her shoulders.

  “My dear one,” he said tenderly, “I promise you after today you shall never sit again.”

  He felt the sudden start she gave.

  “Today,” she murmured. “Ah, yes—I had forgotten Madame Exe.”

  Raoul looked at his watch.

  “She is due any minute now; but perhaps, if you do not feel well—”

  Simone hardly seemed to be listening to him; she was following out her own train of thought.

  “She is—a strange woman, Raoul, a very strange woman. Do you know I—I have almost a horror of her.”

  “Simone!”

  There was reproach in his voice, and she was quick to feel it.

  “Yes, yes, I know, you are like all Frenchmen, Raoul. To you a mother is sacred and it is unkind of me to feel like that about her when she grieves so for her lost child. But—I cannot explain it, she is so big and black, and her hands—have you ever noticed her hands, Raoul? Great big strong hands, as strong as a man’s. Ah!”

  She gave a little shiver and closed her eyes. Raoul withdrew his arm and spoke almost coldly.

  “I really cannot understand you, Simone. Surely you, a woman, should have nothing but sympathy for a mother bereft of her only child.”

  Simone made a gesture of impatience.

  “Ah, it is you who do not understand, my friend! One cannot help these things. The first moment I saw her I felt—”

  She flung her hands out.

  “Fear. You remember, it was a long time before I would consent to sit for her? I felt sure in some way she would bring me misfortune.”

  Raoul shrugged his shoulders.

  “Whereas, in actual fact, she brought you the exact opposite,” he said drily. “All the sittings have been attended with marked success. The spirit of the little Amelie was able to control you at once, and the materializations have really been striking. Professor Roche ought really to have been present at the last one.”

  “Materializations,” said Simone in a low voice. “Tell me, Raoul (you know that I know nothing of what takes place while I am in the trance), are the materializations really so wonderful?”

  He nodded enthusiastically.

  “At the first few sittings the figure of the child was visible in a kind of nebulous haze,” he explained, “but at the last séance—”

  “Yes?”

  He spoke very softly.

  “Simone, the child that stood there was an actual living child of flesh and blood. I even touched her—but seeing that the touch was acutely painful to you,
I would not permit Madame Exe to do the same. I. was afraid that her self-control might break down, and that some harm to you might result.”

  Simone turned away again towards the window.

  “I was terribly exhausted when I woke,” she murmured. “Raoul, are you sure—are you really sure that all this is right? You know what dear old Elise thinks, that I am trafficking with the devil?”

  She laughed rather uncertainly.

  “You know what I believe,” said Raoul gravely. “In the handling of the unknown there must always be danger, but the cause is a noble one, for it is the cause of science. All over the world there have been martyrs of science, pioneers who have paid the price so that others may follow safely in their footsteps. For ten years now you have worked for science at the cost of a terrific nervous strain. Now your part is done, from today onward you are free to be happy.”

  She smiled at him affectionately, her calm restored. Then she glanced quickly up at the clock.

  “Madame Exe is late,” she murmured. “She may not come.”

  “I think she will,” said Raoul. “Your clock is a little fast, Simone.” Simone moved about the room, rearranging an ornament here and there.

  “I wonder who she is, this Madame Exe?” she observed. “Where she comes from, who her people are? It is strange that we know nothing about her.”

  Raoul shrugged his shoulders.

  “Most people remain incognito if possible when they come to a medium,” he observed. “It is an elementary precaution.”

  “I suppose so,” agreed Simone listlessly.

  A little china vase she was holding slipped from her fingers and broke to pieces on the tiles of the fireplace. She turned sharply on Raoul.

  “You see,” she murmured, “I am not myself. Raoul, would you think me very—very cowardly if I told Madame Exe I could not sit today?” His look of pained astonishment made her redden.

  “You promised, Simone—” he began gently.

  She backed against the wall.

  “I won’t do it, Raoul. I won’t do it.”

  And again that glance of his, tenderly reproachful, made her wince. “It is not of the money I am thinking, Simone, though you must realize that the money this woman has offered you for a last sitting is enormous—simply enormous.”