by James Carnac
Of my fellow-boarder I need say but little. He is, I believe, a retired civil-servant addicted to the collection of stamps; this hobby he pursues with such unnatural zest that he frequently absents himself for days at a time in order to attend sales. Sales, at least, are the ostensible reason for his absences.
As for myself, you may picture an elderly and comfortable bachelor, hampered, it is true, by the loss of a leg and inclined at times to testiness and irritability. But so far as my testiness is concerned, my helots, like my associates at the club, “make allowances”; they derive, I think, a certain spiritual satisfaction from “making allowances.” I wish I were a sufficiently “nice” person to appreciate this, but I am not. Accustomed, as I have been, for many years to my affliction, sympathy, expressed or implied, still mildly irritates me.
And now, after this brief introductory chapter, let me begin the relation of those events which are to be, I think, the “last lap” of a not uneventful career.
Chapter 26
I admitted, earlier in this chronicle, an interest in the cinema, but at the time of writing I had, of course, no inkling that I might be personally affected by this popular invention. I find it strange and rather uncanny that my peace and security may be affected, after forty years, by “the pictures.” Yet so it is.
I am a frequent visitor to the cinema and for this there are several reasons. In spite of my recent literary activities and a certain amount of bridge-playing at the club, time hangs heavily upon me; the cinema is a convenient form of amusement and, for a man of my age, an innocent one; and my experience in drawing has led me to take an interest in the technical side of the film.
This is neither the time nor the place for a dissertation on my part on the cinema, but it is desirable that the following be mentioned:
My technical interest was developed almost entirely by the study of German and Norwegian films in those halcyon days, all too brief, which now appear to have passed. The false and childish sentiment and the blatancy of the average American film used to distress me until I found the cure; I disliked the distorted impressions, conveyed by these films, of the American people. I happen to have visited America, I have met many educated Americans, and I can state quite definitely that good-class citizens of the United States are grossly libelled by the American film. I disliked, also, the grotesque ethical values exhibited in these films, I was distressed by their lack of accuracy in historical detail and, above all, I resented the American film-producers’ distortion of English masterpieces of fiction in order to bring such works within the boundaries of what they doggedly and ignorantly assume to be popular taste; the most glaring offence in this connection being, of course, the introduction of an alien or wholly unsuitable “love interest.”
As I say, I disliked all this until I found the cure; and as, doubtless, I am not alone in my prejudices I will do a good deed and pass the cure on. It is simply to cease to regard an American film of the baser sort as a drama, but to view it as a satire or a farce. Once this attitude of mind has been acquired it is surprising what a lot of pleasure can be derived from an American film; for myself I have experienced the greatest enjoyment from certain films whose alleged pathos has induced unrestrained weeping in the less enlightened female portion of the audience.
Nevertheless my serious interest in the cinema has been centred mainly in the German films, and it was only by an oversight that I missed the first showing in this country of a particularly effective production called Waxworks. But, quite recently, this was revived and I was able to see it.
“Waxworks” was divided into three distinct episodes dealing, respectively, with three notorious characters: Ivan the Terrible of Russia, the Khaleefeh Haroon Er-Rasheed and Jack the Ripper. As to the historical treatment meted out to the first two worthies I am incompetent to judge; I can only testify to the artistic interest of the two parts of the film concerned. But as regards the episode of J.R., I am able to state, from definite knowledge, that it bore not the slightest resemblance either in person, scene or action to the reality; of course I should have marvelled had it been otherwise. But I was extremely interested; technically it was perfect; as a glimpse of the macabre it left nothing to be desired even by the most unwholesome intelligence.
It will be appreciated, of course, that I do not refer to this film simply for the personal satisfaction of expressing my views; I mention it because of what it led to. For, knowing my landlady to be a film-addict, I recommended her to see “Waxworks,” but without giving her any description. She took my advice.
A few evenings later I was reading in my sitting-room when Mrs. Hamlett entered with a glass of hot milk, which I am accustomed to take before going to bed. I looked up and perceived that her eyes were red with weeping.
“Why, Mrs. Hamlett, has something upset you?” I asked.
“Oh, Mr. Carnac; that horrid film you sent me to see!” she said. “If I’d known what it was about I wouldn’t have gone near it!”
“Well, perhaps it was a trifle gruesome,” I admitted. “But I had no idea it would upset you, Mrs. Hamlett, or I would not have advised you to see it.”
“Gruesome isn’t the word, Mr. Carnac. But it wasn’t that quite; I’ve seen films as bad. It was that horrible part about Jack the Ripper. You see, sir, it set me thinking. There are some things I thought I’d forgotten; or at least left off thinking about, if you understand what I mean. But when I saw that horrible thing on the pictures to-night it brought it all back to me as if it was yesterday.”
“But I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mrs. Hamlett,” I said. “Why should a recollection of Jack the Ripper worry you? Those affairs have been forgotten years ago; and you could have been no more than a young girl at the time. I should hardly have thought you would have remembered them.”
“My poor sister,” she said. “It set me thinking of her.” And she drew out a sodden morsel of handkerchief and began to dab her eyes.
“What about your sister, Mrs. Hamlett?” I asked. I was conscious of a sudden rush of eager curiosity, for I had more than an inkling of what was coming.
“She was murdered by that horrible wretch, Mr. Carnac,” she continued. “They said she was cut about in a shocking manner. Of course I was only young at the time, but they couldn’t keep it from me, what with the police in the house, and the papers and everything. And then my poor mother never got over it. She wasn’t strong, for we had a hard life when I was a child, sir. She died soon after, and everyone said it was the dreadful shock.”
I stared at my landlady as she dabbed at her eyes, and my mind was mainly concerned with the extraordinary coincidence. It seemed to me, at the time, remarkable that I should have been on familiar terms for several years with this good woman without suspecting, for a moment, that she was related to one of my “subjects.” And yet I do not see why I need have been surprised; after all, some of the women I had disposed of must have had living relatives. Rather remarkable, perhaps, that I had not before encountered one during the past forty years.
“Do sit down, Mrs. Hamlett,” I said. “Perhaps you’d care to tell me about it, if it’s not too painful a subject. I need not say how sorry I am that I suggested you should see that film; of course I had no idea.”
“I don’t mind telling you about it, sir,” she replied. “I shall probably be awake all night thinking about it, as it is. The harm’s done now—not, of course, that I mean I blame you, Mr. Carnac. You were not to know, of course. And I don’t suppose you can understand me carrying on like this for something that happened so long ago. We all have to bear the death of someone we’re fond of, sooner or later, and try to forget it. But when it’s a natural death it’s somehow different. It’s knowing that the person ought never to have died, Mr. Carnac; what I mean: not died young. That they might still be alive if it were not for a horrible brute. I know I can’t explain properly, sir, but perhaps you’ll understand what I mean. And then there’s t
he feeling that the beast who murdered her has never been caught, and the thought of what you’d like to do to him if you only could. It’s all very well to talk about ‘Vengeance is mine, said the Lord,’ but most people don’t know what it is to want revenge as I’ve wanted it; to lie awake at night thinking about it. And never getting it. I don’t suppose you’ve ever felt like that, sir.”
“Well, no, I haven’t, Mrs. Hamlett. But perhaps I can understand it.”
And, in fact, I was just beginning to envisage a point of view which had hardly occurred to me before. The degradation of the women with whom I had dealt so many years ago had been such as to preclude the thought that they might possess decent relatives; and I, who rather prided myself upon my imagination, had taken the women entirely at their face value as though they had evolved from the slime. Even the appearance of respectable witnesses at the various inquests and their identification of the bodies had not held for me a definite significance; I had ignored that universal phenomenon, the inter-relation of individuals, as of events; I had regarded those women as separate and disconnected unities. And now, for the first time, I was face to face with one of those repercussions which I had not had the wit to imagine.
“I was brought up in a Christian home, Mr. Carnac,” Mrs. Hamlett went on, “and before that thing happened to my sister I never thought to set myself against the ways of Providence. But when months and years went by and still the wretch was not caught I couldn’t see the justice of it. It seemed to me that it must be all lies about everything being for the best, and God’s goodness, and all that. For how was it that He allowed such things to happen; how was it that he allowed that wretch to go on living? It’s not as if my poor sister was a thoroughly bad girl like some of the other victims; I wouldn’t have you think that. She was a good, respectable girl; if she hadn’t been, one might have understood it. Or, at any rate, it wouldn’t have seemed quite so dreadful.”
Here was news; I tried to keep the interest from my voice as I asked: “What was your sister’s name, Mrs. Hamlett?”
She mentioned a name, and, as I did not catch it, repeated it. And it was not the name of one of my “subjects.” I was conscious of a feeling of relief; after all, I had not been responsible for this good woman’s distress. This had doubtless been one of those cases wrongfully and unwarrantably connected with my exploits by popular excitement. There had been several such, as I have already mentioned.
“Well, I don’t want to upset you with my troubles, Mr. Carnac,” said my landlady, rising. “But when I saw that film this evening it not only brought it all back to me, but I had another feeling as well. It came into my mind that I may still live to see the wretch caught, even after all these years. And if I could have just one wish, before I go, it would be that. The wish that the murderer of my poor sister should be caught and hanged.”
“But he’s probably dead long ago, Mrs. Hamlett,” I suggested. “I don’t think you ought to let your mind dwell on it like that.”
“No, Mr. Carnac, he’s not dead. I know he’s not dead. You can call it woman’s intuition, or whatever you like; but as sure as I’m standing here I’m certain that the wretch is still alive. And it’s knowing that that makes me still hope.”
After Mrs. Hamlett had left me I sat for some time and pondered her revelation. I found something a trifle grotesque in her “woman’s intuition.” It told her that J.R. was still living; and it was perfectly right. And yet J.R. was not responsible for her sister’s death; unless, of course, the girl’s name had been wrongly given at the inquest. I resolved to look this up immediately.
I possess a number of scrap-books in which I have pasted innumerable “press notices” of J.R.’s exploits: reports of inquests, letters to newspapers composed by amateur criminologists and, in fact, all those press references to the “Whitechapel atrocities” which had come under my notice. The majority of these cuttings date back to the time of the affairs, and are yellow with age, but some—mainly consisting of “popular” journalistic articles—have been published more recently. In order that these cuttings might not attract unwelcome attention if seen, they are liberally interspersed with cuttings referring to other crimes. So that in the event of a curious person examining my scrap-books—and I have never attempted to conceal them—the contents would suggest not that I am a student of J.R. in particular, but a student of general criminology.
I now took from the book-case one or two of these volumes, and applied myself to a diligent study of their contents.
In a short time I found what I sought. The name given me by my landlady was that of a girl who had been murdered some months after my last exploit; an official view had been expressed that this murder had not been committed “by the same hand” as the previous affairs, but in spite of this it had been associated, by journalists and the public at large, with the J.R. campaign.
As I replaced the volumes I reflected that since Mrs. Hamlett so definitely shared the popular view, my innocence—in that particular connection—would be of no help to me in the event of her suspicions being aroused. Not that her suspicions were likely to be aroused; nevertheless I felt slightly uncomfortable. Here was I, living in the same house with a woman who would leave no stone unturned to bring me to the gallows if, in some unforeseen manner, she obtained the slightest inkling of my unconventional past. And in the small safe in my sitting-room reposed a potential bomb in the shape of this manuscript.
I must confess that for a few moments I actually contemplated the destruction of the manuscript; but, after reflection, calmer counsels prevailed. Though I will admit that it is, possibly, a mere indulgence to my egotism, it represents many hours of labour; and anyone who has devoted some months of spare time to the painful composition of a work of literature will appreciate my unwillingness to destroy this manuscript. After all, it was, I felt, as inaccessible as it would be in the Bank of England, for the key of the safe never leaves my person. Its presence, also, lends a satirical—and even a dramatic—touch to my situation; the fact that Mrs. Hamlett daily perceives, and possibly dusts, the repository of the secret she would give so much to learn rather appeals to my peculiar sense of humour.
No, I decided; I would leave things as they were and trust to Fate. Of course I should have known, after years of experience, that Fate is not to be trusted; she has a vindictive habit of letting one down at crucial moments.
Chapter 27
When a man reaches the age of sixty his internal machinery usually begins to show signs of wear; and so it is with me. During the past year or so my heart has developed a slight weakness; normally it does not trouble me, but on rare occasions I have had attacks of syncope. Quite recently such an attack occurred to me in a cinema, causing some inconvenience to my neighbours in the audience and to the management; I was brought back to consciousness, in fact, in the manager’s office.
But I have never been finicky over my health and, like many other people, I obstinately ignored the possibility of really serious trouble developing. True, I consulted a doctor and listened blandly to his advice on “taking things quietly”; but my occasional fainting-fits seemed to me so trivial that I left them out of my calculations when reviewing my position in the house of Mrs. Hamlett.
This negligence on my part afforded an opportunity which Fate eagerly embraced. I had an attack one evening in my sitting-room. In the ordinary way this would have been unimportant, but it occurred while I was revising this manuscript.
I regained consciousness to find myself in my bed-room, whither I had been carried. I was lying on my bed fully clothed but with my collar and waistcoat loosened, and my doctor stood by the bed-side with the rubber tubes of a stethoscope hanging from his ears. Mrs. Hamlett was near him, looking anxious, and the girl Minnie hovered in the doorway.
I was hazy, with that slight feeling of nausea and “emptiness” which oppresses me after these attacks, and I did not immediately realize what had happened. In fact,
quite an appreciable interval elapsed before I recollected the circumstances of my seizure; when I did I was hard put to it to conceal my apprehension. For I knew that this manuscript lay open upon my sitting-room table.
My doctor’s professional attitude is of the genial and chatty variety, and on some occasions I have found him not unamusing; but now I wished him to the devil. All I wanted was to be left alone in order that I might descend to the sitting-room and lock away my manuscript. I assured him that I felt all right, and so great is the influence of mind over body that I actually believed it; but he did not believe it, and he showed no signs of departure. His conscientious attentions irritated me, and when I had again told him I was feeling quite well, and suggested that I might be keeping him from more necessitous patients, he insisted upon remaining to help me undress, while Mrs. Hamlett and Minnie left the room to make me a “nice cup of tea.” Finally, after what seemed hours of fussing, the doctor left with a promise to call on the following morning; I had consumed the tea, and Mrs. Hamlett had withdrawn, leaving me alone for the night.