The Complete Simon Iff

by Aleister Crowley

  She was decidedly reassured to find him making the tea in a very fantastic and elaborate, but very practical manner, with one hand, and toasting muffins over a silver spirit lamp with the other.

  "Welcome, my child!" he cried. "It may be you can lift the burden from my soul!"

  She offered her utmost: what was the trouble?

  "I despair of humanity," cried he. "I can trust no living creature either to make tea or to toast muffins, save myself. Yet they must be accomplished simultaneously, or all is lost!" He comically resigned the task to her. "You finish it! I must lament alone. I am getting old. The appalling castastrophe in the Pasquaney Puzzle has ruined my last hope for Man!"

  "Why, haven't you heard?" she said, aglow. "The real Dolores has come back this morning."

  "I was there," said Simon. "Pour out the tea, and I will declare to you this mystery. But I will declare it decently and in order: the castastrophe whereof I speak will therefore come last."

  "I love being teased."

  "It was evident from the first that the family was not lying. A joke might have been well enough for a day or a week, though a highbred Baastan clan is the last place on earth - if Baaston can be said to be on earth - to look for it. It is unthinkable that they should keep it up for six months and more. One might have explained the mere disappearance of Dolores by supposing that the two girls were lying for some strong motive, but that would involve a Second Girl, with all the difficulties attached to that theory. It was pretty clear to me that the Casses were absolutely honest, and absolutely bewildered.

  "It followed that Dolores herself was the mainspring of the mechanism. She could not have been drowned in the shallow water of a calm lake within a few yards of her sisters; she could not have been kidnapped. No; she was the creator of the plot.

  "Now then, we have to find a motive for her action. Here is a high-minded and noble girl, without a care in the world, loved and loving. We must exclude any idea of scandal or even of escapade. She was a jolly happy girl. But she had more in her than that; and that was not any secret passion or vice. It was an intense ambition to follow her father to an equal fame. She put in every spare moment on the higher mathematics or on the problems of psychical research.

  "I said to myself that a very strong motive must be attached to this - er - I believe the Baaston for it is Urge.

  "And then I saw instantly a quite inexplicable coincidence. You told me of her 'profound study of spirit return'. The crux of that problem is proof of identity. And the Pasquaney Puzzle is just such a problem. It was impossible to doubt that Dolores had deliberately invented a test case, and challenged all the wise men of the world to solve it. She knew well enough that the notoriety would attract every intelligence on the planet, if she only gave them time enough. It would not do to give the game away in a week or a month.

  "No scandal would be attached to the family, once her motive was made clear by the publication of a thesis analysing the evidence in the case.

  "Her action would cause extreme pain to those she loved; but science first! She would atone by the distinction of her achievement. At twenty-two one has such ideas.

  "So far, so good; but how did such an idea arise in her mind? Possibly long ago, as an A. B. case; but if so, she must have seen immediately that it was perfectly impracticable. In what conceivable set of circumstances could she get her mother and sisters and brother and lover and friends to disown her? By some change of manner? Some assumed forgetfulness of her identity? They would merely have supposed her ill or insane; no public controversy could ever have arisen. No: the only plan would be to have a Second Girl; and my idea is that she found the Second Girl first, and that the likeness put the scheme into her head.

  "Just then a flash of memory came to assist me. I met Professor Cass several times in Europe. He was just such a man as I imagine Dolores to be a woman. He would go to any lengths in the interest of his work. He once nearly killed himself in an experiment with digitalis and hyoscine - he wanted to map out the conflicting curves in the record of his heart action produced by those drugs. And as for some reason or other he couldn't bring Mrs. Cass on his travels, and as he 'couldn't work without her inspiration', he simply contracted a liaison with a woman as much like her as possible! It occurred to me that some such union had been fruitful, and that Dolores, by accident or design, had met a half-sister on the trip to Europe, two years ago, of which you told me.

  "Now suppose that this half-sister, or some other girl equally well qualified, agrees to the suggestion of Dolores. They must first put in a great deal of work, prompting the Second Girl in family knowledge, teaching her to imitate Dolores' handwriting, and so on; and they must then invent a dramatic quick change scene, if possible one so extraordinary as to exclude all trickery - except The Trick. Dolores had made a special study of this with her 'mediums'. She thought of the summer cottage, and an excellent idea came to her. She would learn to swim like a fish, and keep up the pretence of being a duffer. I suspected something of that sort from the first minute - the statement of her incompetence was as weak as negatives usually are - especially in spiritualistic circles. When a man begins to argue that a medium couldn't know this or couldn't do that, he's either an expert or an ignoramus; and he's rarely an expert.

  "She would need one further essential, and co-operation of somebody powerful, somebody who could hide the Second Girl until the right moment, and arrange for her own getaway and concealment while the play was playing. Probably she knew already of some people of wealth, deeply interested in the spirit problem, who would join the merry throng.

  "I could not see any other solution that was not barred either by the psychology or by the physics of the known facts."

  Miss Mollie Madison had got it all down in her note book. As Simon Iff was now politely offering her a cigarette, she decided to ask what she wanted to know. Analysis and deduction were nothing in her young life; but how did 'that uncanny old man' prophesy the engagement of Geoffry Travis, whose name he had just heard for the first time?

  "I'm a vain old person, my dear; I ought to have let well alone. But I'm still young enough to be annoyed that a chit of a girl should think to puzzle me, even if she merely includes me in Carlyle's 'mostly fools'. So I determined to twist my knuckles in the golden locks of Miss Dolores and drag her to my wigwam. Therefore I arranged with you - as a last resort - to publish that I would deal with the matter from the point of view of Psychical Research. She would see the point at once, of course. Her Press-Cutting people must be keeping her supplied with all possible material for her book. She would know my name, I hoped, and know from that notice that I knew the whole story, and meant to take the wind out of her sails by publishing my own analysis of the identity problem before she had got hers ready. In which case, good-bye to her fame, to the whole purpose of her plot.

  "But alas for humanity! I bethought me also of a simple plan, a plan which would humiliate her even more before me. I would tell Travis my conclusions, and end: 'If you want her back, you've only got to advertise that you've got a new girl now.' So, as I said before - and Shakespeare even earlier! - that bait of falsehood took that carp of truth. She came round in a rage the next morning, and delivered the goods. To think that one whose aspiration soared so high should fall so low! 'Tis vaulting ambition which o'erleaps itself, and falls on the other! To aim at mathematics and to hit mere man!"

  "Oh how wonderful you are, Mr. Iff! How you know the Heart of a Pure Woman!"

  "Oh no, my dear, it's not original at all; it's just a modern adaptation of Solomon and the Baby. And now I have to run away and dress for dinner; you may publish all I've said, except the bit about the half-sister. Just invent a marvellous coincidence, won't you? It's the crucial difficulty of the whole business, but nobody will know that. So run away, little girl, run away and play with your nice toy, the Public!"

  The Monkey and the Buzz-Saw

  "Desperate Bear Raid on Coal, sir," announced Simon Iff's Japanese servant, cheerfully, as he br
ought in the morning chocolate, and pulled back the curtains to let in the lovely sunlight. The mystic had instructed him carefully in this manner of announcing the weather; for he had observed that Americans, informed of any event, from a railroad accident or a strike or a war to a change in the fashion of hair cutting, would invariably consult an internal monitor, asking, "Cui profuerit?" - Americanice: "Who's the grafter?" - accompanied by a rapid calculation of "Where do I come in?" Thus they would attribute an epidemic to financial distress in medical circles, the ravages of the boll weevil to a conspiracy to put up the price of cotton, or a shortage of sugar to a plan to discredit some particular set of politicians.

  Simon Iff had merely extended this theory to cover natural events; rain, according to him, was caused by the united praying-power of the umbrella manufacturerers combined with such farmers as needed it for their crops. The San Francisco Earthquake had been engineered as an advertisement by those builders whose edifices had been found to stand the strain.

  "Bring me a cigarette and the newspaper!" he called. The servant appeared immediately, with an enamelled box, and a Chinese manuscript, in vermillion and gold upon palm leaves, dating from the sixteenth century, of the Tao Teh Ching. Simple Simon would perhapse have explained to a questioner that he had read it every morning for forty years without once failing to find something new in it, while the exact contrary had proved true of the Times or the Telegraph.

  He was still engaged in this occupation when the telephone rang. "Mr. Philipps speaking," said the voice. "I hope you remember meeting me at dinner at Fleming's last month. I hope I haven't awaken you too early. The fact is I've had a most mysterious and threatening communication this morning, and I want to trespass on your kindness by consulting you."

  "Come right round!" said Simon genially. "You won't mind a dressing-gown, will you?" Philipps replied that he would be at the house in ten minutes, and Simon, laying down the 'newspaper', rushed through his bath, and was found sitting, clothed, and in his right mind, by his visitor.

  Philip P. Philipps junior had just succeeded to an important wholesale jewellery business on the death of his father, which had taken place a fortnight before his visit to Simple Simon. He was a prosperous citizen of 45 years of age, with a wife and family; a typical burgess, but attractive to Simon Iff on account of his extraordinary knowledge of the history of famous gems. On this he had expatiated eloquently at the dinner referred to in his telephone conversation, and Iff, delighted, had expressed the hope that one day he might be of some service.

  This opportunity had now come. Philipps drew a letter from his pocket, and handed it silently to the old man.

  Iff contemplated it at length.

  The message was short and simple.

  "Don't monky with the buz-saw."

  "No idea of origin or purport?" asked Simon.

  "None."

  "Then let me think."

  The mystic examined the letter with fresh care. He even smelt it carefully, and tested it in one or two spots with the tip of his tongue. Then he wrapped himself anew in the voluminous folds of his grey silk robe with its dull gold embroidery. Even his head disappeared. It was five minutes before he emerged.

  "This," said he slowly, "appears to be from Jonathan Spratt."

  Philipps sat staggered for a few moments. Then the one possible conclusion forced itself into his mind, and thence through his speech. "You're in with this gang!" he exclaimed.

  "Oh no!" said Simon, laughing. "I'm only telling you what the letter tells me."

  "I beg your pardon. But it's perfectly impossible that you should get the name of the writer."

  "Not a bit. Please follow the thought. A common paper - common man. Letters formed clumsily - learnt to write late in life.

  "Shaky lettering - elderly man, or a sick one.

  "Hasty lettering - not a sick man, therefore elderly.

  "Post mark Hoboken - suggests a sailor.

  "Paper smells of fo'o'sle - unmistakeable - letter written on ship, or soon after landing.

  "Characters printed - man wants to conceal identity.

  "Letters perfectly aligned - what uneducated man would do that - but a carpenter?

  "It is sealed with shellac - just what a carpenter would have handy, and it's written with what looks to me like a carpenter's pencil. Letter bears special delivery stamp - evidence of urgent haste. Why not telegram, telephone, or special messenger? Easier to trace sender. Why haste? Result of previous delay. Afraid he'll be too late. Otherwise, he has only just got the information on which his letter is based. Or both.

  "These conditions will all be fulfilled if we suppose an elderly ship's carpenter to have landed at Hoboken this morning from some distant port. Does the letter tell us anything about the ship?

  "There is a smear of oil - a kind of oil that is only used for big engines. And I think there is only one big ship that docked in Hoboken this morning; the Hyrcania; and she was three days late.

  "Now just before I left for America I travelled on the Hyrcania from Naples to Marseilles; and I got to know the carpenter, whose name was Jonathan Spratt. Is that clear?"

  "It all corresponds, of course," said Philipps rather doubtfully.

  "Obviously, my friend the carpenter may have been superseded. But, as it happens, I have reasons for thinking that it is the same man - I'll tell you in a minute.

  "Rather unworthy to spring the name on you as I did, of course: but I never resist temptation when miracles are on the carpet...."

  "A most strikingly fortunate coincidence, at least." replied the Jeweller seriously.

  "Not very. We have the man and his job, and could find his name, did we lack it, in an hour. After all, the name matters little...."

  Simon Iff pulled himself up short with a snarl, the blood flooded his cheeks. He ground his teeth. His eyes were suddenly misty with a film of tears, as, casting out the shame of his precipitate judgement, there came the vision of a pale sad frightened girl... "Claudine," he muttered. "Too extraordinary - if a name could be of virtue here as well..."

  He sank into deep thought. "Jonathan," he murmured. "David...? A little honey on a rod...? Bah! I'm an old fool. The name is common enough, and the man no such unusual type. I mustn't lose my grip, and look for light and leading in every Will o' the Wisp."

  Philipps had picked up the letter and examined it carefully. "Yes, I dare say you're right. But..." He did not know how to conclude his sentence. Iff's identification had merely replaced a superficial puzzle by a genuine problem.

  The magician looked up, gleefully at the thought he read in the other man's mind.

  "But, as you are about to say, it doesn't in the least explain why a perfect stranger should send you a threatening message in such a deuce of a hurry. You weren't intending to monkey with a buzz-saw, were you?"

  "My relations with the whole world are absolutely peaceful."

  "No big business pending?"

  "The season's over; nothing doing for three months to come."

  "I remember Jonathan Spratt as a singularly shrewd, sane, cautious man. The precautions in this letter agree there too. Whence the excitement, and the perfectly pointless threat or warning?"

  "It's inexplicable."

  "I think not. The man has been abroad for some time. He may not know of your bereavement."

  "It might be intended for my father?" cried Philipps.

  Iff nodded. But the jeweller's face fell again.

  "The poor old gentleman had taken no active part in the business for five years. He had practically no communication with the outside world. He would sit in the house all day and play with his collection of gems. He hardly ever went out. Sometimes he would play chess with a crony. He was the one man in the world unlikely to monkey with a buzz-saw!"

  "Yes, I'll tell you one other thing. Jonathan Spratt, though a self-educated man, was a very thoroughly educated man, within his limits. The nature of the letter confirms that. A man must have read widely, and thought deeply, to invent so c
ryptic a plan. He would certainly not have spelt monkey without an 'e' or buzz with only one 'z', unless he had a particular reason for it. In short, I think it's some kind of a cipher. Spratt knew a little about the subject, by the way. The occasion of my employing him was the making of some fretwork stencils which I designed to offer to the Government for a particular object which we had in view. So we got to chatting over the subject; he knew several capital methods. Your father would probably have understood the purport of this paper."

  "I can't imagine what my father would be doing with this Spratt!"

  "Used him to catch whales, perhaps! The old man was a very keen collector, wasn't he? Suppose he employed Spratt to smuggle precious stones? A clever tool; trustworthy, prudent, ingenious, silent; all one could desire! Then suppose the letter was meant to convey exactly what it did not say: the letters omitted instead of those expressed: in plain American, E. Z. 'Easy' would have told your father that he had had no trouble with the Custom House people, and perhaps advised him to take certain prearranged steps for the transference of the smuggled stuff. The haste is now fully accounted for; he must have feared that your father would be anxious, as the ship was so late. Or, possibly, he had promised to make good on a definite day."

  "It's all in the air, of course."

  "I've caught many a ten-pound trout on single gut. We can test it by having Jonathan arrested. He wouldn't risk the Bhopur Emerald anywhere but on his person."

  "The Bhopur Emerald?"

  "That is the only recently stolen stone which I can think of as likely to interest your father. The thieves were traced to Alexandria, you know. So likely enough Jonathan got his little job through at Naples while the Hyrcania was in harbour."

  "But why have him arrested?"

  "He's broken the law, hasn't he? Or do you want the stone?"

  "I suppose my father paid for it. I don't mind paying the duty."

  "A stolen stone?"

  "Oh, the Rajah of Bhopur's a nigger."

  "In India, my dear sir, the people enjoy the advantages of religion, morals, art, literature and good manners. When I notice these, my second glance will embrace telephones and tall buildings. Incidentally, his complexion is considerably fairer than either yours or mine."