The Night Listener and Others

by Chet Williamson

  “Quite right, Jeaves. I leave the straight razors to your surgeon’s hands. Afraid I’d make that little nick you just gave me look like, well…a little nick,” I finished, failing to have produced le mot juste I was searching for.

  But after Jeaves had left, bag in hand, to catch the bus for whatever seaside town he was gracing with his august presence, I discovered that my dear old safety razor was nowhere to be found. So I sighed, cursed fate, and stuck the straight razor into my toilet kit, hoping that Uncle Tim had a spare safety job he might lend me during my tenancy. If Jeaves had had trouble taming that reluctant blade, I feared that I might divide my jugular like Gaul should I attempt to wield it.

  I motored down to Binkley Court, arriving just in time for dinner with the other guests, who consisted of all the parties mentioned in the lengthy third paragraph of this account, and within the space of a single evening and night, I had plunged myself irrevocably into the morass of confusion, consternation, and plot complexities also previously described, just the type of machinations you’d expect B. Worster to become involved in, no fault of his own, dash it all.

  To fully describe what went on during those brief dozen hours to land me in the aforementioned predicaments would probably account for several hefty chapters in a novel, and since I have neither the time nor the patience to turn this incident into a longer work available for seven and six at your local stationer’s, let me simply reiterate the facts:

  Marjorie and Hortense both expected to become Mrs Bernard Worster, Gustie and Spade both wished to do grievous bodily harm to Mr Bernard Worster, I had the choice of either allowing Uncle Tim’s prized cow-creamer to be pilfered by two miscreants or being revealed as a horse-dung hurler where the police are concerned, and I had to keep Aunt Delia’s prize chef from being chefnapped were I ever to desire to darken the doorstep of Binkley Court after this visit. The only bright spot was the fact that Uncle Tim did indeed have an extra Gillette safety razor to loan to his put-upon nephew.

  Ergo, that morning I was standing at the mirror of my en suite bathroom, having just finished badgering up the puffier than usual Worster cheeks prior to having a good go at them with the borrowed razor, when something came over me all of a sudden. As soon as I lifted the razor to my face, I had the goofiest sensation that there was another cove looking back at me from out the mirror, someone with extremely dark skin, like a bloody Kaffir or Wooly-head or someone else with more than a touch of tar in the old bloodline.

  The image, if that’s what one might call it, was there for only a moment, but it was just time enough to get a few more of the details down, as every observant writer worth his nib and ink should. What was in this chappie’s eye sockets weren’t so much eyeballs as they were what the right headlight of Bungo Liddell’s sedan looked like after I potted it with a brass paperweight in the shape of an elephant, all crackly and spiderwebby. And the teeth didn’t look like teeth as much as they did an assortment of my Aunt Amanda’s hatpins, sans, natch, the pearly and ivory bits at the ends, and being too that they were a good deal thicker than the e.g.’d hatpins, though just as sharp.

  And that was all that your faithful historian had time to see before the picture faded like one of those film director’s ins and outs where Jean Harlow turns into Clark Gable or vice versa, and there was young Bernard Worster again, eyes a bit bloodshot, but still the same man, for better or worse, though by the time I’m done with this little chronicle, most readers might be suspecting the latter.

  Funny how a little thing like glimpsing a bushman with broken glassy eyeballs looking back at you from your bathroom mirror sends one into somewhat barbaric fancies. I suppose the thought went through me as to what old Umgawa the Cannibal might have done confronted with the usual aggregation of Worster dilemmas, and the thought came to me like a flash. This savage-type would resort to none of the usual clever and behind-the-scenes machinations to which Jeaves resorted to calm the choppy surfaces of the Worster lake o’ life. Instead he would try the direct route, with spear or battle-axe or whatever it is these Woolies use to pluck out each other’s bowels by the roots, or whatever bowels are held in place with.

  Calmly I thought about my situation with the two young ladies, both of whom expected me to place a ring on their fingers and make honest women out of them, and I quickly concluded that neither one was a valid option in continuing the Worster line. To call Marjorie Bucket a hard egg was an understatement of massive props. If a five-minute egg was hard, then Marjorie was a several-hour egg. And the idea of being exposed to the poetically wispy phrases and mental meanderings of Hortense Crayne for more than a few minutes, let alone a lifetime, was anathema of anathemas to your humble narrator. The woman lived in the hope, not only that there were faeries in her garden, but in her chamberpot as well. A week of married life with her, and Bernie Worster would be darting doilies and making daisy chains in the hope of catching pixies.

  No, as Jeaves often put it, relations had deteriorated between these two expectant blossoms and myself. One course that presented itself seemed to be to go to each lady in turn and try the little-used gambit of telling the truth, that our afficancement was due primarily to a simple misunderstanding on their parts, and that only the Worster reluctance to contradict a woman, along with, shall I say, a lack of forthrightness on my part when it came to affairs of the heart, and that…but there, I seem to have lost the subject of this labyrinthine sentence completely, and have no idea of how to conclude the bally thing.

  Let me just say that the option of honesty was totally unacceptable. I had no doubt that Marjorie Bucket would have bunged me a good one on the side of the head with whatever Ming vase was within arm’s reach, and Hortense Crayne would have produced in me a greater psychic pain by letting her violet eyes fill with tears, and falling prostrate to the old Turkoman, weeping for all she was worth, inconsolable and ne’er to be dammed.

  So, instead I chose the option that, up until a few hours ago, never would have leapt across the Worster synapses. I got fully dressed (wearing that yellow weskit which Jeaves so frowns upon, but which I had surreptitiously salted away), and from my Gladstone I took the straight razor which I had packed in case of emergency, the same one that Jeaves had nicked me with, and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  Since I’d arisen a bit late, I found that the usual band of freeloaders had already breakfasted and the dining room was empty, a fact which was cheering, as I wouldn’t have to be palsy-walsy with those who wanted to wed, wallop, or betray me. There were still a few sausages and dried pieces of toast with which to replenish my strength, as well as some strong black coffee, several cups of which I soaked up as thankfully as a south seas sponge that had just taken a brisk jaunt through the Sahara at noon on the summer solstice.

  Thus fortified, I searched for either Marjorie or Hortense, and first found the former stretched out resplendent upon a lounge chair on the east terrace, reading one of the works of Mr Maugham, looking for all the world like Cleopatra barging down the Nile. That is to say, Marjorie Bucket, not Mr Maugham, looked like Cleopatra. I doubt if Mr Maugham, even at his most resplendent, has ever resembled the Queen of Egypt.

  I made certain that I was within the Bucket line of sight, so as not to startle the old girl, and greeted her with a cheery, “Good morning, old thing!”

  She looked at me over the top of her sunglasses as though I were a particularly nasty genus of slug that she wasn’t exactly looking forward to squashing with her good shoes, but would do so anyway should the need arise. “Hullo, Bernie,” she said in that low voice of hers that I had once thought quite sensual, but which now recalled to me the less than dulcet tones of Wallace Beery. “I was reading,” she said, quite unnecessarily, thought I, and turned her attention back to her book. Should this be her attitude toward her betrothed, what more chilly demeanor might she display to her dis betrothed, or un betrothed, whichever word might be correct.

  Fortunately I would not have to find out. I simply walked behind her lounge
chair, taking out the razor as I went, and touched her long brown hair. “Stop it, Bernie,” she said, but instead of releasing those locks, I wound the fingers of my left hand around them, pulled back on her head, and with my right hand I drew the blade of the razor across her throat in a single and I must say rather elegant motion. For a moment I felt like that Pablo Casals egg playing the final note of some violincello sonata by Antonio Spumoni or one of those chaps.

  You would have thought someone had put an icicle down Marjorie’s back. She got all overly twitchy, like a boogie-woogie dancer on St Vitus’s Day, hands jerking so that Mr Maugham flapped its way to the flagstones, and her footwork could have taught those Harlem babies a thing or too, make no mistake.

  As for the blood, well, although I’ve been to America, I’ve never actually seen Old Faithful, but have watched it erupt in newsreels, and Marjorie could have given that paragon of geysers a run for its money. I haven’t seen anything spew as redly as that since Oofty Thwistleton-Fulbright woofed up seventeen helpings of raspberry tart that he’d gobbled down on a bet after half a dozen whiskey and sodas. Had it not been for the whiskey and sodas, I doubt he’d have taken the bet.

  I had most wisely stepped back after making my stroke, and a good thing for the Worster weskit that I had done so, as the area directly in front of Marjorie was looking like the proverbial Canadian sunset, while I, standing behind, was unblemished. True, the razor was dripping a bit, but the drops fell harmlessly on the flagstones next to but not touching my pristine spats.

  Now this is where things start to seem a bit odd, strange even, one might say. That just mentioned “one,” including myself, might have thought that B. Worster, gentle and harmless as he has always been, would never even have imagined, in his wildest, most gin-soaked dreams, of taking a human life, and that if subject B.W. would have done such a thing, for whatever obscure reason, he would have been wracked with guilt and horror, not to mention a twinge of nausea in the face of so much blood and internal tissue, as well as the disquieting gurgling sound that Marjorie was making as she slumped ever further downward in her lounge chair.

  That chair was now, I feared, blemished beyond even the remarkable resourcefulness of Seepings, Uncle Tim’s butler, who was considered a master at stain removal, and had once saved my hash by causing to vanish from one of Aunt Delia’s favorite velvet pillows a rather embarrassing exudation of mine which one of her maids had been instrumental in producing. I paid him generously for his skill, both then and since, alas.

  But back to the subject at hand, I felt none of the above opts., much to my surprise. Instead I was elated, as though the year was at the spring, the lark was at the snail, and all was right with the world, as the poet puts it. I was as full of joy, I suppose, as that lucky lark that just gobbled up the snail. My Bucket worries were over once and for all, and now it was time to end my Hortense Crayne concerns with equivalent finality.

  But before I attended to my sole surviving fiancée, there was something else I had to do. With the same uncontrollable impulse with which I had chucked that horse-patty at that policeman’s helmet, I rolled Marjorie onto the flagstones, being careful not to get any blood on my vestments, and proceeded to saw off her head with my makeshift snickersnee. I thought it would take much longer than it did, but, amazingly enough, the razor went through the Bucket bone and flesh as though through sun-softened oleomargarine, and in another few seconds I was holding Marjorie’s detached noggin by the hair and examining it closely. Her expression was one of dazed bemusement, and I nearly expected her to say, “Bernie, what awful thing are you up to now?” but she stayed mum.

  There I stood, looking about the terrace for some bag or sack or something into which I could place the Bucket cranium, when up the steps from the lawn came (the as yet unnamed to my readers) Slick Spattery and his wife-cum-moll, Gold-Tooth Gertrude, the two rascals whose beady eyes were on Uncle Tim’s rara avis of a cow-creamer, with the intent of pilfering it and selling it on the West End’s cutthroat ceramic creamer market. I suppose one could call them the Moriarty & Mate of the ceramic creamer game.

  “What ho, lovely morning,” I said, before I realized that the expansion of their individual eyeballs to the size of soup saucers might conceivably be due to the fact that I was standing there with Marjorie’s dripping head in one hand and the razor in the other. Realizing further what conclusions they might logically be drawing from said portrait of young Worster, I decided to put them at their ease. “I say, look what I found lying about…”

  My attempted assurance of innocence was in vain, for the hairs upon their heads stood out like quills upon the fretful porpentine, which, as Jeaves has informed me, is the same thing as a porcupine, which makes a great deal of sense, since the occurrence of two quilled mammals having such similar names is rather unlikely. With such deviant criminal types, to think was to act, and the Spattery couple beat a fast retreat down the stairs up which they had come.

  Naturally I followed, toting Marjorie’s head as though I were about to bowl at ninepins. You see, it had occurred to me that here was a perfect opportunity to cadge two birds in one bush, as it were. Though this fleeing couple were but a minor annoyance next to my two supposed inamorata and their jealous suitors, the Spatterys would eventually have to be dealt with, and when given a winning hand, one must play it to the hilt or the limit, whichever comes first.

  The Worster legs are not considered the speediest, even among the somnolent limbs of my fellow Sluggards, but I outshone myself that day. It was as though I was running on someone else’s legs entirely, which sounds quite awkward when you come to think of it. What one imagines is trying to get someone else’s feet and ankles and calves and knees and thighs and hips (moving from bottom to top, as it were) to work under you, which seems frightfully complex. Perhaps to simplify matters I should say it was as though I’d suddenly become Eric Liddell or that Jew Harold Abrahams at their Olympic peak, or even that fleet-footed Negro, Jesse Owens. I was literally flying so that I didn’t even feel my toes on the ground, and in less than ten seconds I had caught up with Slick and Gertrude and forever closed their mouths by the bold stratagem of opening their necks.

  My skill with the razor was increasing, I’m proud to admit. Two quick motions, and both of them were pumping their lives’ blood out on the close-cropped grass, a hybrid, Uncle Tim once told me, of imported Kentucky bluegrass and some English stuff named arrenatherium avunciam, though I may not have the spelling quite spot-on.

  Aha, thought I, now I no longer had to worry about Aunt Delia discovering my expertise with horse dung, nor did I need to be concerned with Uncle Tim’s cow-creamer being stolen. Then the thought crept into the Worster mind that it might be a very good thing indeed if I didn’t have to worry about Aunt Delia and Uncle Tim at all in the future, to avoid permanently the thought of falling into disfavor with my dear but at times demanding auntie and her softspoken spouse.

  I removed the late Mrs Spattery’s long, full skirt, belted it tight at the waist, and used it as a rucksack, into which I dropped the heads of Marjorie Bucket and both Spatterys, the expressions on whose faces were far more alarmed than was Marjorie’s. I tried to give them a bit of a smile, but to no avail, since the grins kept drooping into gloomy-Gus style frowns. Throwing the bag over my shoulder, I labored on.

  Hortense Crayne was where I thought I should find her, in the garden, reciting Tennyson to a horde of butterflies who seemed to be ignoring her, but who might really have been enjoying the dickens out of The Lady of Shallot, for all I knew of butterflies’ literary tastes. “Oh, hullo, Bernie!” she cried in her piping little voice, her eyes all aglow. “Would you like to join me and the little multi-colored laborers of the pistils and stamens for a bit of verse?” I swear to you that I am not concocting this language from whole cloth. Actually, for Hortense, that passage was closer to Hemingwayesque than usual. “Oooo! “ she squealed, “what’s in your sack? Are you gathering mushrooms, those night-blooming sentinels of the woods
that serve as the faeries’ parasols?”

  “Right ho. In a nutshell,” answered I.

  “Ah, and is that a mushroom-cutter you bear, a device to wickedly part them from their wee little stems, and deprive the faery folk of their brollies, Bernie dear?”

  “It is indeed, my sweet, musty little mushroom,” I said, ensuring instantly that no further sugar-soaked morsels of verbiage would come again from that thin throat, its arteries so close to its pale skin. Plop, into the bag went her head. The butterflies seemed vastly relieved.

  To chronicle the rest of the day would be superfluous, unnecessary, and repetitive, though not necessarily in that order. One was much like another, and I’ll spare the details, touching merely on the broader strokes. Uncle Tim I found in his study, and Aunt Delia in the drawing room. I was able to dispatch both rather easily, adding their heads to my makeshift sack, which was by now beginning to get a bit soggy. I went into the kitchen in search of something else I might use as a bag for my collection, and if it were waterproofed so much the better.

  Monsieur André was up to his usual chefly activities in the kitchen, and from the looks of the prep area he was making his famous crepes de la Boulogne or something akin. He peered at me, raising his furry Provençal eyebrows at the sight of the dripping rucksack. I’d learned enough by now to keep the razor in my pocket, since most of my victims had found the sight of it somewhat disturbing.

  It was then the thought unexpectedly sprung upon me of giving André extreme severance, to coin a phrase, from my late Aunt Delia’s employ. Now understand, there was no good reason why I should be forcing André into that abyss of uncertainty already entered by Bucket et al. His demise would do Bernard Worster no earthly good. The motive was lacking, if you see what I mean. Still, I just felt it was something I simply had to do. It was the same kind of obsession that a small boy feels when in possession of a catapult and Brazil nut and in close proximity to a toff in a topper.