The Devil in Manuscript And Other Tales of Forbidden Books

by Osie Turner

  Both Farrington and I were to remember those parting words of his on a certain dramatic occasion several years later. But at the time, they seemed of no more importance than the crackling of dry shells underfoot.

  VIII

  Although I religiously scanned the papers for the next month or so, I found no further reference to the murder of the man in the green coat. No doubt the police considered the solution of such an insignificant mystery scarcely worth their best efforts; and the press, siding with them and quite indifferent as to the fate of the victim, very obligingly let the matter drop. The old saying, "Murder will out," like many another old saying, has little or no foundation of truth. It is a matter for speculation as to how many unsolved murder mysteries, like submerged derelicts, are buried deep under the waters of time.

  After my week's vacation I returned to work, refreshed in body and mind. There were several portraits which had to be finished before I received the generous checks that they were thought to be worth. For the next month I was so busy that T had no time to brood over the tragedy. However, I was not yet done with the man in the green coat, as future events proved.

  One night, fully two months after my adventure, Paul dropped in to see me. He had come to find out why I had not visited him since our last altercation. I had left his house in such a rage on that never-to-be-forgotten evening that he feared an estrangement in our relations might grow out of this silly quarrel. He came to straighten matters out.

  "I can't help liking the man, Charley," he said, regarding me with his steady blue eyes. "Of course, if you'd rather not have me talk about him when we are together, I won't. He seems to be an inflammatory topic of conversation between us."

  "I think it just as well if we don't argue about him," I agreed. "He rubs me the wrong way, Paul."

  "Then we will say nothing more about him."

  "Very well."

  But Paul and I were soon to realize that such a compact was impossible to keep. Hardly had we agreed to it, before the studio door was pushed violently open and Rupert Farrington strode in. His face was flushed, his hair stood on end, his eyes were shining with excitement. He flourished a volume bound in red morocco under my nose as though it were some kind of new and deadly weapon.

  "I win, Smithers!" he cried excitedly. "I win!"

  My first thought was that the young poet had gone mad. There he stood, coatless, collarless, hatless—a pair of pink worsted slippers adorning his flat feet, his flannel shirt open at his bony throat—waving the book about his head as though it were a tomahawk. No doubt Paul would think that such an apparition was quite a customary sight in Washington Square. I glanced at him and saw that his lips were twitching in their attempt to restrain a smile.

  "You're not much of a prophet, Smithers," Farrington continued excitedly. "I told you there were more ways than one of finding recognition."

  I haven't the slightest idea what you're driving at, Rupert," I said reprovingly. "Your words and your gestures convey nothing to my mind. If you will kindly refrain from dashing my brains out with that crimson tome, I'll introduce you to my brother."

  "Oh, I beg your pardon!" Farrington muttered, evidently seeing Paul for the first time. "Glad to meet you, I'm sure. This book got me so worked up that I'm not quite myself."

  "I'm very pleased to meet you," Paul murmured in the tone of a man saying: "Oh, don't mind me! I know this is bohemia—so be just as wild as you want."

  "Now sit down, Rupert," I continued, "and explain what you mean. You say that you win. What do you win? You say that I am a poor prophet. When did I ever prophesy to you?"

  Farrington seated himself and smiled triumphantly. "I win a hundred dollars from you," said he. "And I win it, because you made a false prophecy about Burgess Martin."

  Paul and I started and interchanged glances. We had just agreed to drop the man's name from our conversation.; yet here it was, popping up again with the obstinacy of a cork submerged for an instant under water! Evidently we could not so easily dismiss him from our intercourse as we had imagined.

  "What has Burgess Martin to do with it?" I asked sharply.

  "Everything," Farrington replied. "His book, 'Many Murders,' is being brought out by the Brainsworth Publishing Company next week. I have an advance copy which Williamson of the Evening Star loaned me. I believe you made a little bet, Smithers, that Martin wouldn't get any more of his work into print. I brought this book along as proof."

  As he finished, he handed me the volume bound in red morocco. I had a feeling of extreme irritation as I examined it—an irritation which did not spring solely from the fact that I had just lost a bet. Any allusion to Martin was like the lash of a whip falling on my sensitive self-pride.

  "So he has succeeded in having his work published at last," I muttered.

  "And I feel that it will be a classic!" Paul cried enthusiastically.

  "Don't be too sure of that," I replied. "It's more likely to be highly sensational melodrama. 'Many Murders!' Why, the thing bears the hallmark of the dime novel!"

  Farrington flushed angrily. "You're wrong, Smithers," said he. "The Brainsworth Publishing Company doesn't bring out dime novels."

  "But I presume you'll acknowledge that even the Brainsworth Publishing Company can make mistakes. We'll see what the critics have to say about it."

  Farrington burst out into a laugh. "That's like yon, Smithers. You'd never acknowledge anything was good till a band of learned asses told you so. Have you ever heard of Sir Vivian Gerard?"

  "The famous London critic? Of course! Who hasn't?"

  "Well, the Brainsworth Publishing Company sent the manuscript of 'Many Murders' to him for his opinion. He wrote a glowing review of it which they are now using for advertising purposes. Here's a selection from it which they enclosed with each review copy."

  Farrington fumbled in his pocket and drew out a small wrinkled sheet of printed matter. Adjusting his spectacles on his bony nose, he began to read the review. It ran as follows:

  A MASTER OF HORROR.

  "It gives me great pleasure to introduce to the world an undoubted master of the horror tale. Not since the days of Poe has America produced such a consummate craftsman. I do not hesitate to say that even the immortal creator of 'The Gold Bug' had not the power of description which makes Burgess Martin's work unforgettable.

  "Many Murders'—Mr. Martin's first book—is a masterpiece of the terrible. Simple, direct, quite free from any attempt to mystify the reader, each one of these weird sketches stands out like a finely carved cameo. While reading them, one thrills to a sensation of the actual. It is almost as though the reader were an eyewitness of those scenes which have flowed so vividly from their creator's fertile imagination. Morbid they may be; but, for all that, they deserve a lasting place in modern fiction.

  "What have you got to say to that, Charley?" Paul cried.

  "Not a thing," I answered a trifle shamefacedly. "When Sir Vivian Gerard makes such a statement, it is not for me to contradict. Have you read the book, Rupert?"

  "Yes," said Farrington enthusiastically. "I read it last night and I couldn't get to sleep till morning. There's one sketch in it which I think is even better than 'The Murder of Mary Mortimer."'

  "What's that?" Paul asked. '"He calls it 'In a Blind Alley.' It's the last sketch in the book."

  "What's the theme?" I inquired with a sudden suspicion of the truth.

  "It hasn't a plot or any conventional theme," Farrington replied rather contemptuously. "The narrator sees a man beaten to death by a band of thugs. There's a kind of bitter irony running through it. The victim pleads with the narrator to help him over the high brick wall which terminates the street—his pursuers are right on his heels, you understand—but the narrator is a conventional fool who, because the victim wears rags, thinks that he must be a crook trying to escape from the police. He refuses to help; a crowd of thugs dash up; and it's all over with the poor devil. By the way, Smithers, that chap who wouldn't help the other reminds me of you."r />
  "Thanks," I murmured with a wildly beating heart. "Perhaps I would have acted so under the same circumstances. But I don't see anything remarkable about that story."

  "It isn't the theme!" cried Farrington impatiently. "It's the way it's treated. Why, you can see the whole thing;—the obstinate stone wall partly illumined by an antique lantern; the poor, cowering wretch, on his hands and knees, begging for mercy; and then the mob, with their cudgels, approaching like a many-headed monster. But the death of the man in the green coat! How vivid that is! You can see him squirming beneath a forest of clubs, you can hear the dull thudding blows! And when it's all over, when the many-headed monster crawls back into its lair, you have a vivid impression of the scene—the body crumpled up against the wall, the moon peering down with her enigmatic smile, and the conventional fool striding off before the police come, to avoid unpleasant notoriety."

  "And what happened to Martin?" I cried out incautiously. "Didn't he sneak away, too?"

  "Martin?" said Paul. "Why, what do you mean, Charley? This is only a story!"

  "To be sure," I said with a forced laugh. "Rupert told it so vividly that it made me forget. Lead me the book, will you?"

  "Certainly, Smithers," Farrington answered, eyeing me curiously. "I'll be very glad to have you read it. At last you seem to be interested in Martin. You'd better read it tonight while you're in the right mood."

  I acted on his suggestion. After he and Paul had gone, I took up "Many Murders" and turned to the last story. There it was, my adventure in the alley, so vivid, so remorseless, that it was as though I were living once again those terrible moments. And as I read on, great drops of sweat gathered on my forehead—gathered there and trickled down into my smarting eyes. Martin had indeed succeeded in painting a picture with words.

  IX

  "Many Murders" set the whole literary world agog for several months. Critical articles concerning it appeared in all the leading newspapers and magazines. It is to be noted that none of these referred to it as an average work of fiction. No, this volume of sketches was called a masterpiece or else the sensational nightmare of a disordered brain.

  Soon the public became excited and bought the book by the thousands, thereby proving that Martin had been right when he had said that his stories would prove popular. Sir Vivian Gerard wrote an article for one of the periodicals in which he claimed that it was the first classic to become a bestseller immediately after publication.

  Farrington kept me well posted as to the success of Martin's book. Not contented with winning his bet, he had an irritating way of gloating over my discomfiture. If "Many Murders" had been his own work, he could not have taken a greater pride in its reception by the world.

  He would drop into the studio of an evening with a laudatory criticism of the book. "Well, when will you acknowledge that you have lo3t the other bet too, Smithers?" he would ask.

  "What other bet?"

  "Why, the bet you made the other day that at some future date I would regret having read Martin's work."

  "Oh, I'd forgotten about it. But I won't have to pay that bet for a long time. You might regret having read Martin's work when you were on your deathbed."

  "Don't be a piker, Smithers. Name some definite date."

  "Oh, very well. Let's say about twenty years from now."

  "You are a piker, Smithers. But have it your own way."

  I saw very little of Martin during the months which followed the publication of his book. Sometimes I met him at Paul's apartment where, in spite of the fact that he was now one of the shining literary lights of the world, he was a frequent visitor. Naturally I avoided him whenever I could. Beside my inherent repulsion for the man which had grown since our adventure in the alley, I felt instinctively that he was laughing inwardly to see his prophecy about my career turning out to be so true.

  One bright October afternoon, Paul and Martin paid me a visit. As chance would have it, the studio door stood ajar and they entered without the formality of a knock. At the moment I was retouching a portrait of Mrs. Vanderveer, a prominent figure in the society world, and was so intent on my work that I did not notice their presence till Martin spoke.

  "And who is that supposed to be?" he asked in his odd impersonal way.

  At the sound of his voice I started like a guilty schoolboy. "Mrs. Vanderveer," I muttered. "But it isn't finished yet."

  "Really?" said he. "I've known her for some time. My sight must be failing."

  "No, it's not that!" I cried bitterly. "I know it looks no more like her than her own daughter! But a man must live!"

  Martin eyed me ironically and his lips curled up at the corners. "That's what people think down on my street," he murmured. "It's a fine old saying, and many a brave man has adorned the end of a rope because of it."

  "Cut out the shop talk!" Paul broke in, seeing the embarrassment and hot anger written on my face. "Burgess and I are going on a little trip to the Maine Woods. We've both got a vacation coming to us."

  "When do you leave?" I asked, turning my back on Martin.

  "Saturday morning. It will be corking in the woods now. We should get some good shooting. Why don't you join us, Charley?"

  "No, I've a lot of work on hand. I've got to finish five portraits by Christmas. Remember me, Paul, if you get a buck and smuggle a few nice steaks back with you. You know how I like venison."

  Although I was not looking at Martin when I refused Paul's invitation, I felt instinctively that he was pleased to know that I would not accompany them. And so what was my surprise when he seconded by brother's proposal. There was a genuine ring in his voice which I had never heard before.

  "You'd better come, Smithers," he said. "An artist should find delight in the woods at this time of year. The foliage will be ablaze with color. You'll regret it if you don't come, Smithers."

  I stared at him in amazement. There was a propitiatory air about the man, quite foreign to his usual manner. It was almost as though he were pleading with me to go.

  What possible reason could he have for applying balm to my wounded sensibilities at this late date? Well, I would give him a taste of his own medicine— I would show him, once and for all, that I was not the sort of man one could take liberties with and then expect to jog along behind at a kind word like a whipped dog. He might have won the fawning flattery of the world, but he could not win my esteem if he were the most masterful writer of all time. What was a genius, after all, but a mental abnormality—a creature bordering on insanity and tolerated only because it could amuse? Was not a keen, capable man of affairs on a far higher plane? Healthy thought, irrespective of its originality, to my mind, at least, was preferable to those brilliant poisonous inspirations which sprout from the oozing mire without apparent source and are called the fruits of genius.

  "No, Martin," I said coldly, "your blazing, autumnal foliage does not tempt me. As you have often said, I am preeminently a society portrait painter who takes more pleasure in rustling bank-notes than in rustling leaves. I've got to stay here and stick to business."

  His long, lean face which had worn a strange, almost wistful expression, suddenly stiffened into its habitual sneering aloofness. "Very well, Smithers," he said quietly. "Have it your own way. Stay home and stick to business. Let's be going, Paul."

  "I'm sorry you won't come with us, Charley," Paul said, gripping my hand in leave taking. "I'll not forget what you said about venison. We'll be back in two months, Charley."

  X

  After they had left the studio, I strode to one of the windows and looked out. A moment later I saw them on the street. They were walking side by side. As never before, the contrast between the two men caused me a sensation of amazement. Paul was so flushed with health, so alive, so virile; Martin, gliding beside him with a catlike tread, his sallow face turned toward me, was so ethereal by comparison, so ghostlike, so unwholesome! It was as though Life and Death were walking in the bright October sunshine.

  "That man is like an evil shadow," I mu
ttered. "What can Paul see in him? Surely they won't stay up in the woods for two months. Paul will grow tired of it before then and come home."

  Several days after Paul and Martin had left the city, I went out of town for a week-end with Wilbur Huntington. He had a country place on Long Island; and we spent Saturday, Sunday, and the better part of Monday, sauntering about a nearby golf course and sipping cool drinks afterward in the shade of the veranda.

  On Monday afternoon Wilbur insisted on driving me into town in his racing car. I arrived at the studio in due course, wind-swept and dusty, with the dazed feeling of one who has been shot through space with the velocity of a falling star. Huntington's laziness did not extend to his motor. He had entered it in the Vanderbilt Cup and I was confident that afternoon that it had every chance of winning.

  I was attempting to get some of the Long Island dust out of my eyes, when I heard a loud knocking on the studio door. "Come in," I shouted. "I'm washing up. I'll be there in a moment."