The Devil in Manuscript And Other Tales of Forbidden Books

by Osie Turner

  But again Wilbur broke in upon him with scant ceremony. "I know you think I'm a crank!" he cried. "But I'm going to prove that I'm not. Will you give me five minutes of your time?"

  The chief glanced at his office clock and nodded. "Fire away," said he. "Five minutes and no more."

  "Students of crime know that a diseased brain often prompts murder," Huntington began quickly. "Yesterday I visited the homes of the fifty murderers who were apprehended in this city last week and in forty-five of them I found the book which I have just placed on your desk. Are you familiar with it? It is called 'The Confessions of Constantine.'"

  "No," the chief answered, becoming interested in spite of himself. "But how can a book have anything to do with crime? It was merely coincidence that you found it in their homes."

  "Perhaps," Huntington agreed. "But a book such as this can incite crime and I'm going to prove it. You, yourself, must have noticed that if an unusual murder is committed, is given publicity by the press, other murders of almost identically the same nature are sure to follow. What causes these other crimes? The answer seems obvious—mental suggestion; or, in other words, a printed description of the ghastly details which appeals to the brutal instinct in man."

  "Very well put," the chief said approvingly, a note of respect creeping into his voice. "I had never thought of such a thing, but it sounds quite plausible. And you think this book could possibly"

  "I know it!" Wilbur broke in. "Just think, chief. If the description of a murder crudely written by some inartistic cub reporter can excite crime, what could not a book like 'The Confessions of Constantine' accomplish? It is a work of undoubted genius and gives one a vivid portrayal of both the murder and the sensations of bloodlust in the brain of the murderer. Why, this book can overmaster the sensitive dreamer; can hypnotize him into crime as though by the beckoning of a bloodstained finger! And here is another clue which should not be overlooked: All of these assassins are inveterate readers who live their real lives between the covers of countless books. Such people can be ruled by the printed words of a genius. A sensitive bookworm is easily excited to laughter or tears by a well-written story, so why can he not be excited to brute rage as well?"

  "There is a great deal in what you say," the chief admitted. "I read quite a bit myself. Do you think this book would have any effect on me?"

  "No doubt," Huntington replied. He picked up "The Confessions of Constantino" and opened it at random. "Read this short chapter," he said, handing the book to the official. "See how it affects you."

  The chief, impressed in spite of himself by his guest's bizarre theory, glanced at the page Huntington indicated. Then, as Wilbur told me afterward, his attention became riveted on the book, the veins on his forehead bulged out, and a strangely sinister look crept into his eyes. Breathing heavily like a man running a race, he read page after page. At last Huntington touched him on the shoulder. Then he looked up dazedly, the whites of his eyes threaded with crimson veins.

  "What is it?" he asked thickly.

  But before Wilbur could answer him, the chief shook off the insidious atmosphere of the book and was himself once more. "By Heaven, you're right!" he cried, springing to his feet. "I felt like a murderer myself just now!"

  "If it could affect you that way," Huntington said, "imagine how it would affect a nervous, high-strung man who has an enemy or a dull, brutish man who has a wrong to avenge! It seems to me that it would overthrow the brain of the one and feed the roaring beast in the other, till both would one day break through the bars of civilization!"

  "You're right!" the chief repeated. "You're undoubtedly right! I can still feel the brute in me licking its lips. But what can we do? This murder propaganda is scattered all over the world by now."

  "That is your problem," Huntington said, rising. "No doubt 'The Confessions of Constantine' can be traced through the Brainsworth Company and the various stores. Have the book condemned by the government, secure every copy printed, apply some kerosene and a lighted match—that's my advice. You'll soon find that, after 'The Confessions of Constantine' is done away with, this murder microbe will no longer be a menace to society. Good afternoon."

  It is needless to say that his advice was taken and acted upon. Before six months had passed there were only two copies of "The Confessions of Constantine" in existence—one in Wilbur Huntington's possession, the other at police headquarters—and manslaughter had once more become a comparatively rare crime.

  Indirectly Huntington's discovery saved Rupert Farrington's life. It led to a very thorough examination of the prisoners on trial for murder and a suspension of sentence when it was found that they had been mentally unbalanced by Martin's book. Rupert was transferred to Matteawan for several months where he was under the personal supervision of several eminent brain specialists. Finally he was liberated. He returned home, thoroughly cured of his literary aspirations.

  The chief of police got all the glory when the crime wave was broken, but Wilbur Huntington was allowed to keep "The Confessions of Constantine" as a souvenir. The book soon became his evil genius.

  XIV

  "I tell you the man is a menace to society and should be exterminated!"

  It was Huntington who spoke. He had been, living with me at the studio for over two weeks while his bungalow on Long Island was being renovated. Wilbur had brought "The Confessions of Constantine" with him. In spite of my protests, he had been reading portions of the condemned book aloud during the last hour and railing at the author between breaths. I did not like his air of unusual excitement and sought to calm him.

  "Martin could hardly have guessed that his work would cause so much suffering and crime," I ventured.

  "He couldn't, eh?" Huntington cried. "Well, I think he could. In fact, I'm sure of it. A genius never underestimates his work. I believe he knew exactly what effect 'The Confessions of Constantine' would have on the reading public."

  "Oh, come now, Wilbur! That's a little bit too much!"

  "I believe he planned it!" Huntington continued stubbornly. "Any man who could formulate in his brain such terrible thoughts and who had such a brutally vivid imagination, would delight in the results. Each murder would seem like a new leaf in his crown of victory; they would whisper in his ear that he, alone, was master of his art. I can fairly see him chuckling over the gruesome headlines of the papers, I can fairly hear him saying to himself, 'This—all this—is my work'!"

  He paused for breath. His heightened color and flashing eyes once more indicated an unhealthy excitement entirely foreign to the man. Again I sought to calm him.

  "I don't like Martin any better than you do, Wilbur. But I think you do him an injustice in this. You just alluded to his brutally vivid imagination. Well, the truth is that he has no imagination at all. He clearly told me as much when we were in Paris together. No doubt he gets his themes secondhand, from the riffraff he associates with."

  "No imagination?" Huntington muttered. "No imagination?"

  "No, not a grain of it—or so he says. He told me that he had a remarkable memory which served him as well."

  "That's strange! Then how does he describe so vividly what is taking place in the murderer's brain? 'The Confessions of Constantine' is brimming over with the psychological sensations of the assassin."

  "No doubt he knows many murderers," I answered. "Possibly they confide in him."

  Huntington threw back his head and laughed. "The sensations of an assassin must be difficult to describe," he said at length. "The ordinary criminal could not express them. Have you ever been in love, Charley?"

  "In a very mild way, perhaps."

  "Well, let me hear you describe the sensations of love."

  I hesitated for a minute. "I don't believe I can do it," I said. "At least, not clearly. I felt very happy and that sort of thing."

  "Of course, you can't describe them. It takes genius to portray vividly any of the great passions. Hate is just as difficult as love. Martin can portray hate. You say he does it with
out imagination—that means without the knack of climbing into anyone else's skin. Are you sure that he told you he had no imagination, Charley?"

  "Quite sure. I remember distinctly everything he said."

  Wilbur closed his eyes, and, interlacing his pudgy fingers over his paunch, sank back on the lounge. Such an attitude of abandon meant that he was thinking deeply. It was quite characteristic of the man to sink into a kind of coma and then come to the surface again grasping an illusive fact. As I sat watching his recumbent figure, I was prepared for some startling manifestation of uncanny insight.

  At last Huntington sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Have you got Martin's first book about the premises?" he asked.

  "'Many Murders'? Yes. Do you want to see it?" "Yes, indeed, Charley," he murmured. "Perhaps we can read between the lines."

  I took "Many Murders" out of the bookcase and handed it to him. He opened it at random and read a portion of "In a Blind Alley" aloud. At length he closed the book and picked up "The Confessions of Constantine."

  "He didn't have to have imagination to write that story, Charley," he said. "You shared the adventure with him, I believe?"

  "Yes, it was that murder in the alley I told you about. Ho saw it all."

  Huntington nodded and opened "The Confessions of Constantine." For some time he read silently, moving his lips. He seemed to be weighing each word. Finally he spoke again.

  "'Many Murders' came out before your brother's death, didn't it?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "And 'The Confessions of Constantine' about two years after his death?"

  "I believe so."

  "Then I have a little theory which, if it stands the acid test of truth, will put Martin liors de combat for good and all. Perhaps the world has little more to fear from him."

  "I'm sure I don't know what you're driving at, Wilbur."

  "Have patience, Charley. Listen! I think I hear someone tapping on your door."

  When I flung the door open, I found a freckled messenger boy in the corridor. He had a registered letter for Wilbur, addressed in very small but legible writing—writing which, for some unaccountable reason, seemed familiar. Signing for the letter, I returned to Huntington.

  "Here's a letter for you," I said, handing him the note. "Whoever addressed this envelope has a confoundedly steady hand. It's like engraving."

  "You're an inquisitive cuss!" Huntington murmured. "Perhaps it's from a lady friend."

  He tore open the envelope and glanced at its contents. The next moment, his eyebrows crawled up his forehead in surprise. "Speaking about the devil!" he cried. "Well, what do you know about this!"

  "Nothing. But I'd like to. That handwriting interests me. There's something familiar about it. Is it from your mother?"

  "Not exactly!" Huntington replied. "Just listen to this." Holding the letter on a level with his eyes, he began to read as follows:

  "My Dear Me. Huntington: I understand that you have recently become a literary critic. Allow me to congratulate you on your judgment in regard to my book, 'The Confessions of Constantine.' No doubt, as you so wisely pointed out to the police, it was a work which proved rather detrimental to the morals of the reading public. By condemning it, the government paid me the highest tribute which can fall to the lot of any artist—the tribute of taking my mental creations seriously.

  I have just finished another book of short stories, and I should like your opinion of it before it goes to press. As you have constituted yourself a moral censor, a Mother Grundy of literature, I feel obliged to be guided by your advice. Will you do me the honor of calling at eight o'clock tonight?

  Very sincerely,

  Burgess Martin."

  "You evidently have him worried," I said. "Are you going?"

  Huntington paused for a moment before he answered. Finally he raised his eyes to my face and I saw that they were flashing like slits in a furnace door.

  "Yes, I'm going!" he cried. "This time I see my way clear. I'll strike him down, Charley; I'll put my foot on his neck! Perhaps I can suggest a new idea for his book—something that even he has never thought of. He has described crime from the standpoint of the spectator, from the standpoint of the criminal; but are there not other lengths to which he could go? Martin's mind must be like an over laden camel. One more straw, and then But we'll see, Charley; we'll see."

  Huntington rose to his feet with the intention of leaving the apartment. I was in a bewildered state as.. I followed him to the door. My friend's incomprehensible words made me fear for his reason. Was it possible that "The Confessions of Constantine" was conquering his mind as it had conquered Rupert Farrington's?

  "When will you be back?" I asked as he slipped on his coat

  "Not for two days. I promised my mother to visit her for a while." He took my hand in leave taking and pressed it warmly. "We've been good friends, you and I," he said with one of his rare smiles. "We've had lots of fun together. That's pleasant to think over, isn't it? Goodnight, Charley."

  What could have come over Huntington, I wondered as the door closed behind him. Something had changed him utterly He, the most undemonstrative of men, had actually held my hand like a lovesick schoolgirl. He had said goodbye to me as though we were parting for years instead of for days. What could it all mean?

  XV

  A week passed and I saw nothing of Huntington. This was strange, to say the least, as he had promised to look me up in a day or so and let me know how his interview with Martin had turned out. Vague misgivings began to torment me as I remembered his rather bewildering statements in regard to "The Confessions of Constantine." Had the book thrown him off his mental balance as it had Rupert Farrington, Professor Brent, and so many others?

  On the following Tuesday Mrs. Huntington phoned me. No sooner did I hear her high, fretful voice than I had a premonition of disaster.

  "Yes, Mrs. Huntington," I answered. "This is Mr. Smithers. What can I do for you this morning?"

  "You might send Wilbur home. I haven't seen him in months."

  "Send Wilbur home?" I repeated dazedly. "Why, he left here last week, Mrs. Huntington! He told me then that he intended staying with you the rest of the time he was in New York."

  There came a long-drawn silence and then a deafening volley of words. "Why, he never came! I haven't seen him for over two months. Do you suppose anything could have happened to the poor boy? Oh, I'm so frightened! He was such a reckless driver! He might have driven his car out into the country and had a smash-up on some lonely road. What shall I do, Mr. Smithers?"

  "Please be calm," I told her. "No doubt Wilbur is all right. Probably he's gone out to Long Island. Have you called up his bungalow?"

  "No, of course not! I thought he was with you."

  "Well, phone there and I'm pretty sure you'll find him. If not, call me up. I'll find him for you."

  "Thank you so much! Probably you're right. But he should have let me know. Goodbye, Mr. Smithers."

  "Goodbye," I answered and hung up the receiver with a feeling of uncertainty.

  For the rest of that morning I attempted to paint, but made a miserable failure of it. Try as I would, I could not fix my attention on the work at hand. Huntington's incomprehensible words about Martin kept ringing through my head. At last I tossed the brush aside and left the studio with the intention of inquiring for Wilbur at the Cap and Gown Club.

  I was descending the stairs and had reached the first landing when I came face to face with a small man who was coming up. I was about to stand aside Bo as to give him room to pass, when he addressed me.

  "Are you Mr. Smithers?" he asked.

  "Yes," I said in surprise. "What can I do for you?"

  "I want to ask you a few questions about a friend of yours. You know Wilbur Huntington, I presume f"

  "Yes, indeed."

  "Well, I think we'd better have our talk in your apartment, if you don't mind."

  I led the way back to the studio with the feeling that something quite unexpected was about to
happen. In fact, my brain was in a whirl. Who could this rather common-looking little man be? And what could he possibly want to know about Huntington?

  But my visitor gave me no time to compose myself. No sooner had the door closed behind us than he spoke.

  "I understand that Mr. Huntington was here on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth?"

  "Yes, he was."

  "I'm Greene from police headquarters," the little man continued, opening his coat and displaying a metal badge. "As I believe you know, Mr. Huntington has been missing now for several days. His mother has just put the case in our hands."

  "He wasn't at his bungalow, then?"

  "No, he hasn't been there in over a month. Mrs. Huntington thought you might' be able to give us valuable information. Where was he going when he left your apartment, Mr. Smithers?"