The Devil in Manuscript And Other Tales of Forbidden Books

by Osie Turner

  Then I heard a low laugh which rasped on my nerves like sandpaper. "I'm sorry," said a vaguely familiar voice, "but I don't happen to have the key."

  What followed then is like the half-remembered figments of a dream. I saw the man in the green coat leap back as though he had come into violent contact with another wall; I heard him scream out like an animal in pain; and the next instant, he was on his knees beside me, clasping me about the waist with emaciated arms.

  "Don't let 'em hurt me, mister!" he muttered. "Don't let 'em hurt me! The boss thinks I'm going to blab! Tell him"

  The rest of his words were swept away by a storm of men dashing towards us—not policemen, as I had thought, but ragged men with caps drawn down over their eyes, men flourishing cudgels with now and then the sickly gleam of a knife flashing through them like lightning in a forest. For an instant they hovered over us like a breaking wave and then we were overwhelmed and dragged apart.

  I heard a shrill scream, a dull thudding of blows falling on flesh, and then a cracking sound as though a solid substance had been shattered. At that I struggled and cried out. The next instant a sickening pain closed my eyes—I knew nothing more.

  VI

  When I regained consciousness it was to find myself stretched out on the pavement at the foot of the wall. Above my head, the antique iron lantern cast its feeble beams at the impenetrable ebony breast of night. I felt instinctively that someone was standing within a few feet of me, but I lacked the strength of will to sit up.

  "How do you feel now?" a familiar voice asked.

  Turning my head with difficulty, I saw that a man stood near me, leaning up against the wall in an attitude of nonchalant unconcern. There was something in this man's air of easy indifference which was galling in the extreme. Weak as I was, I managed to sit up and rub my head.

  "Oh come now, Smithers," the voice continued unfeelingly, "you've been playing dead long enough. That was the merest tap you got—nothing to make a fuss about. They're all gone now. It's quite safe to stage a resurrection."

  And now I knew the voice. Who but Martin could show such an utter lack of human feeling? There he stood, as indifferent as Fate, the lamp light accentuating the dark hollows under his eyes and revealing the cruel catlike curve of his lips. Like a pleased spectator at some farce, he leaned against the wall, smiling and playing absently with a small silver-headed cane.

  "So it's you, Martin," I said, rising weakly to my feet. "How did you happen to find me?"

  "I didn't," he answered carelessly. "On the contrary, you found me. I was sitting on the stoop of my house when you and your friend began quarreling."

  "You were the man on the stoop then," I muttered. "I remember now. But what happened to that poor fellow in the green coat?"

  "Tour friend?" he asked.

  "He was no friend of mine. I never saw him before. But what happened to him? You must have seen what happened to him?"

  "He's lying over there," Martin said lightly, jerking his pointed chin over his shoulder. "And he's not playing dead, Smithers. You and your other friends finished him off to the queen's taste."

  "My other friends?" I cried, putting my hand to my throbbing head. "Who do you mean?"

  "Why, all those impulsive gentlemen who came charging down the street a few minutes ago," he answered, "those gentlemen armed with clubs. What a devil's tattoo they did play on that poor fellow's ribs! He's nothing but a bag of broken bones now, Smithers."

  "They were no friends of mine!" I cried angrily.

  "No?" he said, raising his eyebrows whimsically. "You seemed rather anxious to keep that poor fellow here till they had played their little game with him. If you had boosted him up on the wall, as he wanted, no doubt he'd be alive this minute."

  "Surely he's not dead, Martin?" I asked with a heavy heart. "Don't tell me that he's dead!"

  "As dead as a doornail," he answered laconically. "But look for yourself."

  He stepped to one side and I saw something which a moment before had been hidden by his shadow. The body of the man in the green coat seemed suddenly to spring out of the gloom. There it lay, like a scarecrow which has been blown over on its face—a grotesque, inhuman figure huddled up against the wall. And from it, dark running puddles of blood crawled away, leaving strange, fern-like traceries on the dusty pavement. Yes, he was undoubtedly dead. Only the green coat seemed still alive. One of its tails stirred slightly as the strong March breeze eddied about it.

  And as I looked at this pitiful broken thing which a few minutes before had been so shaken by fear, horror and remorse made me forget my aching head. Martin was right; I had held his life in my two hands and I had let it fall! Why had I not helped him to climb the wall? Why had I been so sure that the police were his pursuers? What a fool I had been! And now I could never forgive myself—never!

  "Are you satisfied?" Martin asked. "Personally I should call it a rather thorough job. Look at the back of his head. Tour friends, Smithers, seem to be as workmanlike as they are impulsive."

  Shuddering, I turned my back on the corpse. "Please don't joke about a thing like that!" I cried. "Haven't you any mercy? I'm too sick to listen to you! I feel as though I were responsible for this!"

  "You are, Smithers. Don't let your natural modesty blind you to the truth. Fully two-thirds of the credit belongs to you. But you'll allow me the privilege of writing it up, won't you? I need just one more story to complete my book and this seems excellent material."

  "Did you recognize any of the murderers?" I asked.

  "Only you, Smithers."

  "Don't joke, Martin! I mean would you recognize any of them if you should see them again?"

  "No doubt," he answered carelessly. "I never forget faces. As I told you once before, my memory makes up for my lack of imagination. But I would advise you to get away before the police come. You'll be mixed up in an unpleasant affair if you don't."

  "How so?"

  "Well, you carried a heavy cane. Now it is broken in half. This man has been beaten to death. You are found near the body with a wound on your head."

  "And you?"

  "Why, I live on this street, Smithers. There is some reason why I should be here, while there is no reason under the sun why a society portrait painter should be found up a miserable, blind alley at midnight. If nothing more, it would cause considerable newspaper notoriety which I don't think would do you any good with your wealthy patrons."

  "But I can't sneak out of it like this," I said weakly. "I feel that I'm too much to blame. That poor fellow might have got away if I hadn't been such a suspicious fool."

  "Don't take all this so much to heart, Smithers," Martin murmured with one of his enigmatic smiles. "After all, what is one human life more or less? They are like ants, such men—only not so industrious. This fellow perished tonight in a good cause—for art's sake, indeed, for I intend to make the description of his murder a masterpiece."

  "You're not human, Martin," I said, turning away. "However, I think I'll accept your advice and be off before the police come."

  "I knew you would," he said triumphantly. "One can always depend on you, Smithers."

  "And what are you going to do?"

  "Why, I have modeled myself after the moon," he cried, raising his cane and pointing fantastically at the heavens. "She and I will keep watch over the dead. My cold sister, I call her. She is wise, Smithers, horribly wise—so wise, indeed, that nothing can change the sad serenity of her face. Think of what she has seen, while looking down; think of the plains dotted with the slain and the purple rivers of blood that she has seen, and then wonder at the calmness of that white face in the sky! Leave the dead to Martin and the moon, Smithers—leave them to Martin and the moon!"

  I did not answer him—dizziness and nausea were stealing over me. My only thought was to escape from this dark alley before the police came. Martin's wild words seemed a fitting climax to such a ghastly business.

  At the first bend m the alley I cast a hurried glance over my shou
lder. Martin still stood where I had left him, his cane pointing fantastically at the moon, his eyes on the corpse which huddled close to the wall as though seeking an outlet. And the antique, iron lantern dropped its petals of pale, yellow light, like a dying sunflower, on the glistening pavement where tiny, fernlike patterns of crimson were stealing noiselessly away.

  VII

  For several days following my adventure in the alley, I was confined to my bed. The blow that I received had inflicted a severe scalp wound which called for medical attention; while, added to this, the unnatural excitement had brought me to the verge of a breakdown. At night I was subjected to horrible dreams from which I awoke bathed in a copious sweat.

  On the day after the murder I scanned the papers eagerly. My curiosity was finally rewarded by the following paragraph:

  BEATEN TO DEATH

  Early this morning the body of a man was found at the foot of the wall which terminates Tyndall Place. His death was caused by the heavy blows of some blunt instrument. As yet the body has not been identified.

  I laid the paper down with a sigh. So this was all the publicity the Evening Star thought such a ghastly business to be worth! What had shaken me to the depths of my soul, the Evening Star could dismiss in a few lines. I had expected to see the affair written up on the first page with perhaps a full-length picture of the man in the green coat. And I had found it only with difficulty, hidden away among the advertisements. How different it would have been had the victim possessed social prominence or even a moderate income! Then he would have come into his own on the front page in big, glaring type; a host of detectives would by now be hot on the trail of his assassins and the wheels of justice would soon be humming merrily, grinding into chaff those impulsive gentlemen, as Martin called them, who had broken simultaneously the skull of the green coated man and the Fifth Commandment.

  Martin! Evidently he had disappeared from the scene before the police arrived. Otherwise some allusion to him would have appeared in that article. No doubt he, like myself, had avoided getting himself mixed up in the affair on account of the unpleasant newspaper notoriety which was sure to follow. But why could he not have said as much to me? That was like the man—to hide his own frailties undermine; to make it appear that he was going to face the music, while in reality he was only waiting till my back was turned before he beat a hasty retreat. Well, hereafter, I would take what he said with a grain of salt. In spite of his insufferable air of egotism, he evidently had human weaknesses like the rest of us.

  For the duration of that week I rested till I regained my mental and physical equilibrium. I had several callers, including Huntington, to whom I told in confidence what had befallen me in the alley. Wilbur listened with more than his customary attention, his eyes half closed and his blunt, shapeless nose twitching slightly. It was at times like these that one appreciated thoroughly the aptness of his sobriquet. Never have I seen a man who so closely resembled a guinea pig.

  "Martin must be an unfeeling sort of chap," he muttered when I had finished. "You say he didn't seem to be at all disturbed by what had happened?"

  "Not the least bit in the world," I assured him. "Why, he began joking about it! You'd think he was used to seeing murders every night."

  "Used to seeing murders every night!" Huntington repeated thoughtfully. "What an idea!"

  "That's the impression he'd give any one. There's something not quite human about the man."

  "You must bring us together, Charley," Wilbur said abruptly. "I've taken an interest in him. Psychology is my hobby, you know. Burgess Martin seems worth studying. If I weren't so infernally lazy, I'd look him up in that slum where he lives. Why was I born so lazy, Charley?"

  "I don't know. Possibly you'd be a menace to society if you weren't. Your pleasing plumpness and hibernating habits are the bars of your hutch. Within, you nibble contentedly at your lettuce leaves; but, once out, you might turn carnivorous."

  "A guinea pig turn carnivorous?" he said, rising. "It isn't done. But I imagine I could have much more fun with my hobby if I weren't so lazy. If crimes were committed in my back yard, I feel that I would be a famous detective. Why is it that I have a kind honest man for a valet when I long for one who has all the subtle instincts of those famous poisoners of the Renaissance?"

  "Personally I should prefer the kind, honest valet, Wilbur. You can eat your lettuce leaves without the fear that they may be colored with Paris green."

  "Well, at any rate, introduce me to Martin, Charley. I'm very anxious to meet him."

  But Huntington was not the only one of my acquaintances who wished to meet Martin. His story, "The Murder of Mary Mortimer," had excited the interest and the admiration of a young writer who lived in the same apartment house as myself. During the last few months we had become friends; and when he learned that I had roomed with Martin in Paris, he was eager to know him.

  Rupert Farrington was one of those young visionaries to be found in the bohemian quarter of any large city. Tall and slender, with large melancholy blue eyes and a girlish coloring, one had but to glance at him to realize that here was a dreamer who was incapable of crystallizing his dreams into a concrete form. There was something disconcertingly vague about his personality; one could forget his presence in the room as though he had no more mental or physical substance than a shadow. And yet, in spite of his apparent weakness, there were fiery depths in his nature capable of being roused into a storm. He loved his art passionately. Although he had never had anything accepted, he still worked on grimly with a firm belief that the editors were at fault. In fact he visualized these magazine monarchs, as he called them, as a kind of unscrupulous aristocracy which should be torn down. He spent his time writing, receiving rejection slips, and railing at the man in the editorial chair. His voice, even when raised, impressed no one—it was like the droning of a harmless fly.

  "The Murder of Mary Mortimer" still held this young man's fancy in an iron grip. He had a copy of the magazine in which it had appeared, now torn and smudged by countless readings, and I often found him poring over it when he thought he was unnoticed. He could quote whole paragraphs of it from memory; and often, when we had a studio soiree, he would be called upon for a ghastly recitation from those well-thumbed pages.

  On the day following my nocturnal adventure, he dropped in to see me. As usual, he began to praise Martin to the skies. The unpleasant experience through which I had passed, coupled with the hearty detestation I entertained for my former roommate, made any allusion to the man almost unendurable. It was all I could do to keep a civil tongue in my cheek while the young fool raved.

  "You seem to have Martin on the brain," I said when I could get a, word in edgewise. "A man can't be called a genius just because he has written one fairly decent magazine story."

  "Fairly decent!" Farrington cried, his large eyes flashing dangerously. "Why, it's a masterpiece, Smithers! It stands alone in literature! It is a picture painted with words, remorseless, vivid"

  "And extremely morbid," I broke in. "That's probably the reason he's never been able to land any of his other work. The magazine editors know that the public doesn't want to be fed up on horrors. Martin's writings, like his paintings, aren't healthy. They shouldn't be printed."

  Farrington glared at me for a moment in speechless anger. In the same breath, I had committed two unpardonable offenses—I had criticized Martin's work unfavorably, and I had spoken well of magazine editors. He could not have been more thoroughly aroused if I had slapped him in the face.

  "I didn't expect to hear anything like this from you" he said at length in a voice which he attempted to make calm. "You had the rare privilege of living with him in Paris, and yet you seem to have absorbed nothing of his Spartan philosophy. Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who said: 'There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.'"

  "If I were an editor, I wouldn't publish any of his stories," I said stubbornly. "I'll make you a little bet right here and
now—I bet you'll never see any more of his work in print."

  "I'll take that," Farrington said, rising. "You're forgetting, Smithers, that there's another road to the public besides the magazine route. Martin's next thing may be a novel or a book of short stories."

  "Perhaps," I answered, "but I'll not retract. On the contrary, I'll make another bet with you. I'll bet you that if he does publish anything, someday you'll wish that you hadn't wasted your time reading it."

  "What do you want to bet?"

  "I'll lay a hundred on both."

  "All right; I'll take both," he said with a contemptuous laugh. "Martin couldn't write anything that wasn't worth reading. Good night, Smithers."

  "You're young yet," I called after him. "Someday you may outgrow this silly hero-worship."

  "I might live to be a thousand," he said over his shoulder, "but I'll never regret reading Martin."