* * * * *
'It will have to be soon,' said Mr Solan. 'I heard today that he will be given notice to quit any day now. Are you prepared to go through with it?'
'He's the Devil incarnate,' said Bellamy. 'If you knew what I'd been through in the last month!'
'I have a shrewd idea of it,' replied Mr Solan. 'You think he trusts you completely?'
'I don't think he has any opinion of me at all, except that I lend him money whenever he wants it. Of course, I'll go through with it. Let it be Friday night. What must I do? Tell me exactly. I know that but for you I should have chucked my hand in long ago.'
'My dear Bellamy, you have done marvellously well, and you will finish the business as resolutely as you have carried it through so far. Well, this is what you must do. Memorise it flawlessly.'
* * * * *
'I will arrange it that we arrive at his rooms just about eleven o'clock. I will ring up five minutes before we leave.'
'I shall be doing my part,' said Mr Solan.
Clinton was in high spirits at the Café Royal on Friday evening.
'I like you, my dear Bellamy,' he observed, 'not merely because you have a refined taste in pornography and have lent me a good deal of money, but for a more subtle reason. You remember when we first met I was puzzled by you. Well, I still am. There is some psychic power surrounding you. I don't mean that you are conscious of it, but there is some very powerful influence working for you. Great friends though we are, I sometimes feel that this power is hostile to myself Anyhow, we have had many pleasant times together.'
'And,' replied Bellamy, 'I hope we shall have many more. It has certainly been a tremendous privilege to have been permitted to enjoy so much of your company. As for that mysterious power you refer to, I am entirely unconscious of it, and as for hostility — well, I hope I've convinced you during the last month that I'm not exactly your enemy.'
'You have, my dear fellow,' replied Clinton. 'You have been a charming and generous companion. All the same, there is an enigmatic side to you. What shall we do tonight?'
'Whatever you please,' said Bellamy.
'I suggest we go round to my rooms,' said Clinton, 'bearing a bottle of whisky, and that I show you another little experiment. You are now sufficiently trained to make it a success.'
'Just what I should have hoped for,' replied Bellamy enthusiastically. 'I will order the whisky now.' He went out of the grill-room for a moment and had a few words with Mr Solan over the telephone. And then he returned, paid the bill, and they drove off together.
Clinton's rooms were in a dingy street about a hundred yards from the British Museum. They were drab and melancholy, and contained nothing but the barest necessities and some books.
It was exactly eleven o'clock as Clinton took out his latchkey, and it was just exactly then that Mr Solan unlocked the door of a curious little room leading off from his study.
Then he opened a bureau and took from it a large book bound in plain white vellum. He sat down at a table and began a bizarre procedure. He took from a folder at the end of the book a piece of what looked like crumpled tracing paper, and, every now and again consulting the quarto, drew certain symbols upon the paper, while repeating a series of short sentences in a strange tongue. The ink into which he dipped his pen for this exercise was a smoky sullen scarlet.
Presently the atmosphere of the room became intense, and charged with suspense and crisis. The symbols completed, Mr Solan became rigid and taut, and his eyes were those of one passing into trance.
* * * * *
'First of all a drink, my dear Bellamy,' said Clinton.
Bellamy pulled the cork and poured out two stiff pegs. Clinton drank his off. He gave the impression of being not quite at his ease.
'Some enemy of mine is working against me tonight,' he said. 'I feel an influence strongly. However, let us try the little experiment. Draw up your chair to the window, and do not look round till I speak.'
Bellamy did as he was ordered, and peered at a dark façade across the street. Suddenly it was as if wall after wall rolled up before his eyes and passed into the sky, and he found himself gazing into a long faintly-lit room. As his eyes grew more used to the dimness he could pick out a number of recumbent figures, apparently resting on couches. And then from the middle of the room a flame seemed to leap and then another and another until there was a fiery circle playing round one of these figures, which slowly rose to its feet and turned and stared at Bellamy; and its haughty, evil face grew vast, till it was thrust dazzling and fiery right into his own. He put up his hands to thrust back its scorching menace — and there was the wall of the house opposite, and Clinton was saying, 'Well?'
'Your power terrifies me!' said Bellamy. 'Who was that One I saw?'
'The one you saw was myself,' said Clinton smiling, 'during my third reincarnation, about 1750 BC. I am the only man in the world who can perform that quite considerable feat. Give me another drink.'
Bellamy got up (it was time!). Suddenly he felt invaded by a mighty reassurance. His ghostly terror left him. Something irresistible was sinking into his soul, and he knew that at the destined hour the promised succour had come to sustain him. He felt thrilled, resolute, exalted.
He had his back to Clinton as he filled the glasses, and with a lightning motion he dropped a pellet into Clinton's which fizzled like a tiny comet down through the bubbles and was gone.
'Here's to many more pleasant evenings,' said Clinton. 'You're a brave man, Bellamy,' he exclaimed, putting the glass to his lips. 'For what you have seen might well appal the devil!'
'I'm not afraid because I trust you,' replied Bellamy.
'By Eblis, this is a strong one,' said Clinton, peering into his glass.
'Same as usual,' said Bellamy, laughing. 'Tell me something. A man I knew who'd been many years in the East told me about some race out there who cut out paper patterns and paint them and send them to their enemies. Have you ever heard of anything of the sort?'
Clinton dropped his glass on the table sharply. He did not answer for a moment, but shifted uneasily in his chair.
'Who was this friend of yours?' he asked, in a voice already slightly thick.
'A chap called Bond,' said Bellamy.
'Yes, I've heard of that charming practice. In fact, I can cut them myself.'
'Really, how's it done? I should be fascinated to see it.'
Clinton's eyes blinked and his head nodded.
'I'll show you one,' he said, 'but it's dangerous and you must be very careful. Go to the bottom drawer of that bureau and bring me the piece of straw paper you'll find there. And there are some scissors on the writing table and two crayons in the tray.' Bellamy brought them to him.
'Now,' said Clinton, 'this thing, as I say, is dangerous. If I wasn't drunk I wouldn't do it. And why am I drunk?' He leaned back in his chair and put his hand over his eyes. And then he sat up and, taking the scissors, began running them with extreme dexterity round the paper. And then he made some marks with the coloured pencils.
The final result of these actions was not unfamiliar in appearance to Bellamy.
'There you are,' said Clinton. 'That, my dear Bellamy, is potentially the most deadly little piece of paper in the world. Would you please take it to the fireplace and burn it to ashes?'
Bellamy burnt a piece of paper to ashes.
Clinton's head had dropped into his hands,
'Another drink?' asked Bellamy.
'My God, no,' said Clinton, yawning and reeling in his chair. And then his head went down again. Bellamy went up to him and shook him. His right hand hovered a second over Clinton's coat pocket.
'Wake up, he said, 'I want to know what would make that piece of paper actually deadly?'
Clinton looked up blearily at him and then rallied slightly.
'You'd like to know, wouldn't you?'
'Yes,' said Bellamy. 'Tell me.'
'Just repeating six words,' said Clinton, 'but I shall not repeat them.' Suddenly his ey
es became intent and fixed on a corner of the room.
'What's that?' he asked sharply. 'There! there! there! in the corner.' Bellamy felt again the presence of a power. The air of the room seemed rent and sparking.
'That, Clinton,' he said, 'is the spirit of Philip Franton, whom you murdered.' And then he sprang at Clinton, who was staggering from his chair. He seized him and pressed a little piece of paper fiercely to his forehead.
'Now, Clinton,' he cried, 'say those words!'
And then Clinton rose to his feet, and his face was working hideously. His eyes seemed bursting from his head, their pupils stretched and curved, foam streamed from his lips. He flung his hands above his head and cried in a voice of agony:
'He cometh and he passeth by!'
And then he crashed to the floor.
As Bellamy moved towards the door the lights went dim, in from the window poured a burning wind, and then from the wall in the corner a shadow began to grow. When he saw it, swift icy ripples poured through him. It grew and grew, and began to lean down towards the figure on the floor. As Bellamy took a last look back it was just touching it. He shuddered, opened the door, closed it quickly, and ran down the stairs and out into the night.
Professor Pownall's Oversight
A NOTE BY J.C. Cary, M.D.:
About sixteen years ago I received one morning by post a parcel, which, when I opened, I found to contain a letter and a packet. The latter was inscribed, 'To be opened and published fifteen years from this date.' The letter read as follows:
Dear Sir,
Forgive me for troubling you, but I have decided to entrust the enclosed narrative to your keeping. As I state, I wish it to be opened by you, and that you should arrange for it to be published. I enclose five ten-pound notes, which sum is to be used, partly to remunerate you, and partly to cover the cost of publication, if such expenditure should be found necessary. About the time you receive this, I shall disappear. The contents of the enclosed packet, though to some extent revealing the cause of my disappearance, give no index as to its method.—E.P.
The receipt of this eccentric document occasioned me considerable surprise. I attended Professor Pownall (I have altered all names, for obvious reasons) in my professional capacity four or five times for minor ailments. He struck me as a man of extreme intellectual brilliance, but his personality was repulsive to me. He had a virulent and brutal wit which he made no scruple of exercising at my and everyone else's expense. He apparently possessed not one single friend in the world, and I can only conclude that I came nearer to fulfilling this rôle than anyone else.
I kept this packet by me for safe keeping for the fifteen years, and then I opened it, about a year ago. The contents ran as follows.
* * * * *
The date of my birth is of complete unimportance, for my life began when I first met Hubert Morisson at the age of twelve and a half at Flamborough College. It will end tomorrow at 6.45 p.m.
I doubt if ever in the history of the human intellect there has been so continuous, so close, so exhausting a rivalry as that between Morisson and myself. I will chronicle its bare outline. We joined the same form at Flamborough — two forms higher, I may say, than that in which even the most promising new boys are usually placed. We were promoted every term till we reached the Upper Sixth at the age of 16. Morisson was always top, I was always second, a few hundred marks behind him. We both got scholarships at Oxford, Morisson just beating me for Balliol. Before I left Flamborough, the Head Master sent for me and told me that he considered I had the best brain of any boy who had passed through his hands. I thought of asking him, if that were so, why I had been so consistently second to Morisson all through my school career; but even then I thought I knew the answer to that question.
He beat me, by a few marks, for all the great University prizes for which we entered. I remember one of the examiners, impressed by my papers, asking me to lunch with him. 'Pownall,' he said, 'Morisson and you are the most brilliant under-graduates who have been at Oxford in my time. I am not quite sure why, but I am convinced of two things; firstly, that he will always finish above you, and secondly, that you have the better brain.'
By the time we left Oxford, both with the highest degrees, I had had remorselessly impressed upon me the fact that my superiority of intelligence had been and always would be neutralised by some constituent in Morisson's mind which defied and dominated that superiority — save in one respect: we both took avidly to chess, and very soon there was no one in the University in our class, but I became, and remained, his master.
Chess has been the one great love of my life. Mankind I detest and despise. Far from growing wiser, men seem to me, decade by decade, to grow more inane as the means for revealing their ineptitude become more numerous, more varied, and more complex. Women do not exist for me — they are merely variants from a bad model: but for chess, that superb, cold, infinitely satisfying anodyne to life, I feel the ardour of a lover, the humility of a disciple. Chess, that greatest of all games, greater than any game! It is, in my opinion, one of the few supreme products of the human intellect, if, as I often doubt, it is of human origin.
Morisson's success, I realise, was partly due to his social gifts; he possessed that shameless flair for making people do what he wanted, which is summed up in the word 'charm', a gift from the gods, no doubt, but one of which I have never had the least wish to be the recipient.
Did I like Morisson? More to the point, perhaps, did I hate him? Neither, I believe. I simply grew profoundly and terribly used to him. His success fascinated me. I had sometimes short and violent paroxysms of jealousy, but these I fought, and on the whole conquered.
He became a Moral Philosophy Don at Oxford: I obtained a similar but inevitably inferior appointment in a Midland University. We used to meet during vacations and play chess at the City of London Club. We both improved rapidly, but still I kept ahead of him. After ten years of drudgery, I inherited a considerable sum, more than enough to satisfy all my wants. If one avoids all contact with women one can live marvellously cheaply: I am continuously astounded at men's inability to grasp this great and simple truth.
I have had few moments of elation in my life, but when I got into the train for London on leaving that cesspool in Warwickshire, I had a fierce feeling of release. No more should I have to ram useless and rudimentary speculation into the heads of oafs, who hated me as much as I despised them.
Directly I arrived in London I experienced one of those irresistible impulses which I could never control, and I went down to Oxford. Morisson was married by then, so I refused to stay in his house, but I spent hours every day with him. The louts into whom he attempted to force elementary ethics seemed rather less dingy but even more mentally costive than my Midland half-wits, and, so far as that went, I envied him not at all. I had meant to stay one week; I was in Oxford for six, for I rapidly came to the conclusion that I ranked first and Morisson second among the chess players of Great Britain. I can say that because I have no vanity: vanity cannot breathe and live in rarefied intellectual altitudes. In chess the master surveys his skill impersonally, he criticises it impartially. He is great; he knows it; he can prove it; that is all.
I persuaded Morisson to enter for the British Championship six months later, and I returned to my rooms in Bloomsbury to perfect my game. Day after day I spent in the most intensive study, and succeeded in curing my one weakness. I just mention this point briefly for the benefit of chess players. I had a certain lethargy when forced to analyse intricate end-game positions. This, as I say, I overcame. A few games at the City Club convinced me that I was, at last, worthy to be called Master. Except for these occasional visits I spent those six months entirely alone: it was the happiest period of my life. I had complete freedom from human contacts, excellent health, and unlimited time to move thirty-two pieces of the finest ivory over a charming checkered board.
I took a house at Bournemouth for the fortnight of the Championship, and I asked Morisson to stay with
me. I felt I had to have him near me. He arrived the night before play began. When he came into my study I had one of those agonising paroxysms of jealousy to which I have alluded. I conquered it, but the reaction, as ever, took the form of a loathsome feeling of inferiority, almost servility.
Morisson was six foot two in height; I am five foot one. He had, as I impartially recognise, a face of great dignity and beauty, a mind at once of the greatest profundity and the most exquisite flippancy. My face is a perfect index to my character; it is angular, sallow, and its expression is one of seething distaste. As I say, I know my mind to be the greater of the two, but I express myself with an inevitable and blasting brutality, which disgusts and repels all who sample it. Nevertheless, it is that brutality which attracted Morisson, at times it fascinated him. I believe he realised, as I do, how implacably our destinies were interwoven.
Arriving next morning at the hall in which the Championship was to be held, I learned two things which affected me profoundly. The first, that by the accident of the pairing I should not meet Morisson until the last round, secondly, that the winner of the Championship would be selected to play in the forthcoming Masters' Tournament at Budapesth.
I will pass quickly over the story of this Championship. It fully justified my conviction. When I sat down opposite Morisson in the last round we were precisely level, both of us having defeated all our opponents, though I had shown the greater mastery and certainty. I began this game with the greatest confidence. I outplayed him from the start, and by the fifteenth move I felt convinced I had a won game. I was just about to make my sixteenth move when Morisson looked across at me with that curious smile on his face, half superior, half admiring, which he had given me so often before, when after a terrific struggle he had proved his superiority in every other test but chess. The smile that I was to see again. At once I hesitated. I felt again that sense of almost cringing subservience. No doubt I was tired, the strain of that fortnight had told, but it was, as it always had been, something deeper, something more virulent, than anything fatigue could produce. My brain simply refused to concentrate. The long and subtle combination which I had analysed so certainly seemed suddenly full of flaws. My time was passing dangerously quickly. I made one last effort to force my brain to work, and then desperately moved a piece. How clearly I remember the look of amazement on Morisson's face. For a moment he scented a trap, and then, seeing none, for there was none, he moved and I was myself again. I saw I must lose a piece and the game. After losing a Knight, I fought with a concentrated brilliance I had never attained before, with the result that I kept the game alive till the adjournment and indeed recovered some ground, but I knew when I left the hall with Morisson that on the next morning only a miracle could save me, and that once again, in the test of all tests in which I longed to beat him, he would, as ever at great crises, be revealed as my master. As I trotted back to my house beside him the words 'only a miracle' throbbed in my brain insinuatingly. Was there no other possibility? Of a sudden I came to the definite, unalterable decision that I would kill Morisson that night, and my brain began, like the perfectly trained machine it is, to plan the means by which I could kill him certainly and safely. The speed of this decision may sound incredible, but here I must be allowed a short digression. It has long been a theory of mine that there are two distinct if remotely connected processes operating in the human mind. I term these the 'surface' and the 'sub-surface' processes. I am not entirely satisfied with these terms, and I have thought of substituting for them the terms 'conscious' and 'subconscious'. However, that is a somewhat academic distinction. I believe that my sub-surface mind had considered this destruction of Morisson many times before, and that these paroxysms of jealousy, the outcome as they were of consistent and unjust frustration, were the minatory symptoms that the content of my sub-surface would one day become the impulse of my surface mind, forcing me to plan and execute the death of Morisson.
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