by Ellery Queen
When we were come again into the parlour, his lordship stood with the silver bottle in one hand already and a fresh glass in the other. “Have you done it?” he asked.
Curnow unwrapped the cloak and tossed it down on the bench. Beneath it he carried in one hand his miner’s pickaxe of iron. The rain had wetted him through, cloak and all, but had not utterly rinsed away the blood and bits of hair from the flat-headed end. Curnow stepped forward to shew it his lordship at closer hand.
His lordship looked closely at the bloody and nodded. “There is your fifteen pounds, safe in the purse,” said he. “But drink you a glass of hippocras before you go, to warm you against the weather.”
“Tom Penhallow told me much about you before he died,” replied Curnow, “and there is one thing which I owe is soul.”
And turning the pickaxe to its sharpened end, he drove it into your father’s skull. The poisoned wine mingled with the blood and streams of filthy water, and the silver bottle took a great dent as it fell and struck the floor.
Curnow let fall his pickaxe with your father’s corpse, and turned to me. He smiled.
“Here is enough of murder for the day, my lady,” he said. “But do not follow me, lest you take a chill in the storm.”
I smiled at him then as a woman smiles at a man. “There will no one come until the morning,” I said. “Time enough to take off your clothes and dry them by the fire.”
Hal, your father never did but one good work in the whole of his life, and that was the begetting of you, and that he undid again the night he let you die for his stubborn heart. Yet he was your father, and my father-in-law, and murdered, and he had at least the bowels to leave me better provided for by his death than he had in his life. Let his slayer go out into the night and the storm, and by morning was it likely they could find so much as his trail?
Forgive me, Hal, my husband, but how else could I keep Ned Curnow until the morning, when he could be taken, save in my bed?
“Q”
Brian W. Aldiss
The Lonely Habit
There are different types of British crime writing—as, of course, there should be. In contrast with the quiet, sedate type of crime story, here is an altogether different kettle of fish—a monstrous story, but so effectively told that you may find it strangely moving; an under-the-surface study that will disturb you, that will even give you the shudders…
People with my sort of interest in life are very isolated—that is, if they’re intelligent enough to feel that kind of thing. My mother always says I’m intelligent. She’s going to be annoyed when she hears I’m arrested for—well, no need to be afraid of the word—for murder.
We’ll have a good laugh about it when I get out of here. That’s one thing I do admire in myself. I may be intelligent, but I still have a sense of humor.
I dress well. Not too modern, to keep me apart from the younger set, but pretty expensive suits and a hat—I always wear a hat. Working for Grant Robinson’s, see. They expect it. I’m one of their star representatives, and popular too, you’d say, but I don’t mix with the others. And I would never—well, never do it to one of them. Or to anyone I know or am in any way connected with.
That’s what I mean about intelligence. Some of these—well, some of these murderers, if you must use the word, they don’t think. They do it to anyone. I do it only to strangers. Complete strangers.
Quite honestly—I say this quite honestly—I would not think of doing to anyone I knew, even if I’d only just been introduced. My way, it’s much safer, and I think I might claim it is more moral too. In the war, you know, they trained you to kill strangers; you got paid for it, and were even given medals. Sometimes I think that if I gave myself up and really told them my point of view—I mean really and sincerely from the heart—they would not, well, they’d give me a medal instead. I mean that. I’m not joking.
The first man I ever did it to, that was in the war. It was like a new life opening up for me. Since then, I suppose I’ve never done more than two a year, but how my life has changed! They talk a lot of nonsense about it, all these criminologists, so called. They don’t know. But the bad habits it’s cured me of!
I used to sleep so badly, I used to be nervous, used to drink too much, and all sorts of bad habits you mustn’t mention. I read somewhere it weakened your eyes. And a funny thing, after I did that first fellow, I never had asthma again, and it used to trouble me a lot. Mother still sometimes says, “Remember how you used to wheeze all night when you was a little chap?” She’s very affectionate, my mother. We make a good pair.
But this first fellow. It was an East Coast port—I forget the name, not that it matters so much, although I sometimes think I wouldn’t mind going back there, you know, just for sentiment. Of course, I suppose your first—well, your first, you know, victim (there’s a daft word!) is very much like your first love affair, if you go in for that sort of thing.
All the others, however many of them have been, have never come up to that first one. It’s never been quite the same. I mean, they’ve been lovely and well worthwhile from my point of view—but not a patch on that first one.
He was a sailor, and he was drunk, and I was in this convenience on the sea front. Terrible night it was, raining like fury, and I was sheltering in there when this chap reels in, quite on his own. I was in my army uniform—rifle, bayonet, and all—and he knocked my rifle over into the muck.
Really I was more scared than annoyed. He was so big, see, well over six foot, and terribly heavy. He asked me if I had a girl friend and of course I said no. So then he came at me—I mean, there wasn’t much room. I thought it was some sort of sexual assault, but afterwards I thought about it over and over, and I came to the conclusion that he was just attacking me. You know these stupid people: they just like to use their fists, given the chance, and I think he was attacking me because he thought I was standing there with a purpose and that I had abnormal ideas. Which of course was not so. Happily I am very very normal.
Obviously I am tremendously brave too, because I was not scared when he came at me, although I had been before. My brain went very clear, and I said to myself, “Vern, you can kill this drunk with your bayonet!”
A great and tremendous thrill ran through me as I said it. And when I stuck the bayonet into him, it was as if I had guidance from Above, because I did not hesitate or miss or strike in the wrong place or not strike hard enough, or anything that anyone else might have done. At that time, I really did think I had received guidance from Above, because I was praying a lot in that period of my life; nowadays, the Almighty and I seem to have lost our old rapport. Well, times change, and we must accept the changes they bring.
He made a loud noise—very much like a sneeze. His arms went up and he fell all over me, pushing me against the door as if he was embracing me. Again that tremendous thrill went through me. Somehow it has never had the same power since.
I hung on to him, and he kicked and struggled to be fully dead. It was a bit alarming, because I wasn’t sure if he was really a goner; but when he was finally still, I stood there grasping him and wishing he had another kick left in him.
The problem of disposing of him came next. When I pulled myself together and thought, that one was easily solved. All I did was drag him out of the place, through the rain, to the sea wall. I gave him a push; over he went, into the sea. It was still pouring with rain.
This is a funny thing. I saw that he had left a trail of blood all the way to the edge, but I did not like to stop and do anything about it because I hate getting wet; I hated it then and I’m still the same.
Perhaps that may sound careless of me. Perhaps I trusted to Providence. The rain poured down and washed all the stains away, and I never heard anything more about the matter.
For a while I forgot about it myself. Then the war was finished, and I went home. Father was dead, no great loss, so Mother and me set up together. We’d always been good friends. She used to buy my vests and pants for me. Sti
ll does.
I got restless. The memory of the sailor kept returning. Somehow, I wanted to do it again. And I wondered who the sailor had been—it seemed funny I didn’t even know his name. In a book I once read it talked about people having “intellectual curiosity.” I suppose that’s what I had, intellectual curiosity. Yet I’ve heard people say that I look rather stupid—meaning it in a complimentary way, of course.
To recapture that first thrill I bought a little bayonet in a junk shop and took to looking into conveniences. I don’t mean the big ones that are so noisy and busy and bright. I like the quaint old Victorian ones, the sleepy ones with drab paint and no attendants and hardly any customers. I am an expert of them. To me, they are beautiful—like old trams. Call me sentimental, but that’s how I feel about them, and a man has a right to express himself. They arouse artistic promptings in me, the real ones do.
It was pure luck I found the one in Seven Dials. Most of the area was demolished, but this fine old convenience has been left, dreaming in a side alley. It is still lit by gas, and the gas-lighter man comes round every evening and lights it. That was the place I chose to—well, to repeat my success in, if you like.
It wasn’t only a question of art, oh, no. In my job you have to be practical. I found that the inspection cover inside this place would come up easily. A ladder led down to another cover, eight feet below the first one. There were also pipes and things. When you opened this second cover, you were looking right into the main sewer.
It was as good as the seaside!
For my purpose this unhygienic arrangement could not have been better. I mean, when you’ve done with the—well, with the man’s body—it must be disposed of. I mean, finally disposed of, or they’ll be round after you, you know, the way they are in the films—like the Gestapo, you know, knocking at your door at midnight. Funny, here I sit in this cell and I don’t feel the least bit scared. I didn’t do it, really I didn’t.
It’s a very lonely habit, mine. When you’re sensitive, you feel it badly at times. Not that I’m asking for pity. I reckon a lot of these chaps—well, a lot of them was lonely.
So I did it again. It was a sturdy little man this time—said he was some sort of a scout for a theatrical agent or something. Very soft-spoken, didn’t seem to worry about what I was going to do. Most of them are really worried—wow! This scout, he just shed a tear as I let him have it, and did not kick at all.
Some hobbies start in a funny way—casually, if you like. I mean, as I got him down to the lower cover—I threw him down, of course—all the stuff came out of his inner pocket. I gathered it up and stuffed it in my own pocket before slipping him into the sewer, where the water was running fast to bear him away.
Frankly, it was a waste of effort. The glow just wasn’t there. No inspiration and no relief. It just didn’t come off. At the time I resolved never to do the trick again, in case—you never can be sure, you know—in case they found out.
Once back home with Mother, I made an excuse to slip up to my bedroom—naturally, we have separate rooms now—and I looked at what I had in my pocket. It was interesting—a letter from his sister, and two bills from his firm, and a clipping from a newspaper (two years old and very tattered) about a general visiting Russia, and a card about a pigeon race, and a little folder showing all the different shades of a shiny paint you could buy, and a union card, and a photograph of a little girl holding a tricycle, and another of the same little girl standing by herself and laughing. I stared at that photograph a lot, wondering what she could be laughing at.
One time I left it lying about and Mother found it and had a good look at it.
“Who’s this then, Vern?”
“It’s the son of a chap I work with—daughter, I mean.”
“Nice, isn’t it? What’s her name?”
“I don’t know her name. Give it here. Mum.”
“Who’s the chap? Her father, I mean, which is he?”
“I told you, I work with him.”
“Is it Walter?” She had never met Walter, but I suppose I had mentioned his name.
“No, it’s not Walter. It’s Bert, if you must know, and I met his little girl when I went round to his place, so he thought I’d like a photo of her, because she took to me.”
“I see. Yet you don’t know her name?”
“I told you Mother, I forgot it. You can’t remember everyone’s name, can you? Now give it here.”
She can be very annoying at times. She and my father used to have terrible rows sometimes, when I was small.
As I said, mine is a lonely way of life. I began to dream of those hidden pockets, warm and safe and concealed, each with their secret bits and pieces of life. Everywhere I went I was haunted by pockets. I wished I had emptied all the pockets of that scout—wished it bitterly. You hear people say, “Oh, if I could have my time over again.” That’s how I felt, and I began wasting my life with regret.
Another man might have turned into a miserable little thief, but that was not my way. I’ve never stolen a thing in my whole life.
The third fellow was a disappointment. His pockets were almost empty, though he had some race-course winnings on him that I was able to use towards some little luxuries for Mother.
And then I suppose my luck was in, for the next three I did gave me something of the relief I found with my first—well, my first partner, you might say, to be polite about it. They were all big men. And what they had on them, hidden in their pockets, was very interesting.
Do you know, one of those men was carrying with him a neatly folded copy of a boys’ magazine printed twenty years earlier, when he must have been a boy himself. You’d wonder what he wanted that for! And another had a nautical almanac and a copy of a catalogue of things for sale in a Berlin store and a sickly love letter from a woman called Janet.
All these things I kept locked up. I used to turn them over and over and think of them, and wonder about them. Sometimes, when the men were found to be missings I could learn a little more about them from the newspapers. That was fun and gave me a great kick. One man was something big in the film world. I think that if life had been different for me, I might have been a—well, a detective. Why not? Of course, I am much happier as I am.
So time went on. I got very careful, more careful after each one. I mean, you never know. Someone may always be watching you. I remember how my dad used to peep round doors at me when I was small, and it gave me a start even when I hadn’t done anything wrong.
Also, I got more curious. It was the intellectual curiosity at work, you see.
Now this brings us up to date, right smack up to date. Today!
See, I mean, it’s been eighteen months since I—well, since I had a partner, as I sometimes think of it. But you get terribly lonely. So I went back to the Seven Dials one, and this time I said to myself, “Vern, my son, you have been very patient, and as a result I’ve got a little treat for you with this one.”
Oh, I was very careful. I watched and watched, and was sure to pick on a type who obviously wasn’t local, just passing through the area, so that there would be nothing to connect him with the Seven Dials.
He was a businessman, quite smart and small, which suited me well. Directly he went in the convenience I was after him, strolling in very slowly and naturally.
This fellow was in the one and only cubicle with the door open—the door hinge was broken, so the door wouldn’t close really. But I don’t change my mind once it is sort of cold and made up, so I went straight over to him and held my little bayonet so that it pricked his throat. He was much smaller than me, so I knew there wouldn’t be a nasty scene; being fastidious, or squeamish you might say, I hate anything nasty like that.
I said to him, “I want to hear about a big secret in your life—something you did that no one knows about! Make it quicks, or I’ll do you in!”
His face was a vile color, and he did not seem to be able to talk, though I could see by his clothes he was a superior man, rather like me i
n a way. I pricked his throat till it bled and told him to hurry up and speak.
Finally he said, “Leave me alone, for God’s sake! I’ve just murdered a man!”
Well, that’s what he said. It made me mad in a freezing sort of a way. Somehow I thought he was being funny, but before I could do anything, he must have seen the look in my eyes, and he grabbed my wrists and started babbling.
Then he stopped and said, “You must be a friend of Fowler’s! You must have followed me from his flat! Why didn’t I think he might be clever enough for that! You’re a friend of Fowler’s, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never heard of him. I’ve nothing to do with your dirty business!”
“But you knew he was blackmailing me? You must know, or why are you here?”
We stood and stared at each other. I mean I was really as taken aback by this turn of events as he was. For me this whole thing was meant to be a—well, I mean it was a sort of relaxation; I mean, it really is necessary for me, else I’d probably be flat on my back with asthmas and goodness knows what else, and quite unable to lead a normal life, and the last thing I wanted to do was get mixed up with—well, with murder and blackmail and all that.
Just as I had reached the conclusion that maybe I ought to let this one go, he started to draw a gun on me. Directly his hand went down, I knew what he was after—just like in those horrible films that they really should ban from showing where they go for their guns and shoot those big chaps kak-kak-kak out of their pockets!
So I let him have it, very cold and quick, a very beautiful stroke that only comes with practice.
This time I could not wait for any sentimental nonsense. I opened the inspection cover and dropped him down, and then climbed down after him. I took his gun because I wished to examine the beastly thing before disposing of it. And then I slipped my hand into his warm inner pocket.