“A key, perhaps,” Holmes said. “Or a medallion or signet of some sort.”
“Key to what?” Lord Arundale asked.
Holmes smiled. “I would welcome ideas as to that, my lord. The only thing I would suggest is that whatever the object is, it was an identical object for each of the victims.”
Count d’Hiver stared silently at Holmes, his thoughts clearly somewhere else. Lord Arundale tapped his fingernails on the polished surface of his desk thoughtfully. “Some small object,” he said, “taken from each of the victims, and identical in each case. Why do you feel that it’s the same object in each case?”
“The murderer was certainly looking for some specific object,” Holmes said. “Such insistence would indicate that the object, whatever it was, must be in some way part of the motive for the crime. Surely it would be stretching the bounds of credulity to suggest that it was a different object in each case.”
“I don’t know about that,” Count d’Hiver said. “Perhaps our killer is some sort of fetishist. Perhaps he merely wants some small memento from each of his victims. Something to wear on his watch chain.”
“Perhaps.” Holmes stood up. “Is there any further way in which I can assist or enlighten either of you gentlemen at the moment? No? Then I shall get back to my investigations. It may be that with luck I can prevent another killing. But I am not sanguine, my lords. I am afraid that there will be more blood shed before we reach the bottom of this.”
“Keep us informed,” Lord Arundale said.
“I shall, my lord,” Holmes assured him.
FIFTEEN
A MODEST PROPOSAL
When Chloris to the temple comes,
Adoring crowds before her fall:
She can restore the dead from tombs,
And every life but mine recall.
I only am by love designed
To be the victim for mankind.
JOHN DRYDEN
When one is in the grip of a powerful emotion, small events can hold magnified significance. Benjamin Barnett paused at a flower stall on his way to lunch with Cecily Perrine and purchased a bunch of violets. Then, as he walked the last few blocks to the restaurant, he found himself staring at the flowers and thinking what a paltry, inappropriate gift they were for the woman one intended to marry. This thought grew into a conviction, and so he paused at a confectioner’s and selected a pound of mixed chocolates, which were wrapped in fancy paper and tied with a bow. But then, after he had paid for the chocolates, the indecision returned, and he found himself unable to choose between the flowers and the chocolates.
The problem, Barnett realized, was not with the gifts. He would have liked to have given her something major, something important—a ring, a pendant, a brooch speckled with precious gems—but he couldn’t very well do that. It would be in very bad taste until after he had asked her father formally for her hand. But under the circumstances, limited to a token gift, flowers were nice. Chocolates were acceptable. It was the imminent proposal itself that was making his hands go clammy and his heart beat triple-time against his chest. He certainly wanted to ask her—more than anything in the world he wanted Cecily Perrine to be his wife. He fully intended to ask her. But he wasn’t sure that he actually could. He felt his heartbeat increase in speed and pressure as he just walked along with a bunch of flowers under one arm, a pound of chocolates under the other elbow, and thought about proposing to Cecily.
What if she turns me down? he thought. What if she smiles at me gently and says, “Benjamin, you know that I do love you—but it is like a brother. I’ve never thought of you the other way!” After all, it could happen. He knew she was fond of him, but he had no assurance that it went beyond that. What if she laughed at him?
On the whole, Barnett decided, women had it much better in this society than men did. Men had to do the asking. Everything from “May I have this dance?” to “Will you marry me?” If a woman was rejected it was indirect, by not being asked; and if no one knew that she expected to be asked, then it remained a private, personal grief. Romantic traces of such past opportunity lost could be seen as a secret anguish in love-haunted eyes. A man was rejected as a public act, a direct holding up of one’s innermost desires and most private feelings to the jeers of the crowd, a humiliation that could be felt as a physical wrenching, like a knife in the pit of the stomach.
When Barnett reached the front door of Hempelmayer’s, he still had to choose between the chocolates and the flowers. Walking in with both, he was convinced, would make him look ridiculous. And if there’s anything a man in love cannot stand, it is to look ridiculous. Especially since he realizes that in word and deed, he is already sufficiently ridiculous with no external aid. Or so Mr. Wilde, the American News Service’s favorite epigrammatist, would maintain. But then, Mr. Wilde didn’t seem to like women very much.
Barnett looked at his two purchases and realized that he would have to make an arbitrary decision.
“Are you married?” he asked the elderly doorman who pulled open the ornate brass-on-glass door for him.
“For these past twenty-eight years, sir,” the doorman told him. “Nine little ones. Some of ’em nary so little anymore.”
“Well then, here,” Barnett said, handing the man the elaborately wrapped box of chocolates. “A present for your wife.”
“Thank ye, sir.” The doorman touched the brim of his uniform cap with his knuckle. “Thank ye very much.”
Cecily was perched like a princess on an overstuffed plush couch in the anteroom, waiting for Barnett. “About time you arrived,” she said. “You are a quarter of an hour late.”
“I’m sorry,” Barnett said. “I didn’t realize the time. My watch must be slow. I stopped to get you some flowers. Violets. Here.” He thrust the bunch at her.
“Well, that’s very nice,” Cecily said in an insincere voice. “Quite thoughtful of you.” She rose and took the tissue-paper-wrapped bunch, holding them at arm’s length, as though they had a bad odor. “I’ll just leave them in the cloakroom until after our meal.”
“I’ll do it,” Barnett said, retrieving the vegetation. “I have to hang up my topcoat anyhow.” He disposed of his coat and the flowers in the cloakroom and returned. A short, fussy man with a prim mustache showed them to their table, presented them with their menus, and pranced off. Barnett looked across the table at Cecily. “Would you have preferred chocolates?” he asked. “It will just take me a second to switch with the doorman.”
Cecily looked up from the menu. “What’s that?” she asked. “Switch what?”
“The violets. I didn’t know you disliked violets. Very few people have a natural antipathy to them. It’s just my misfortune that you are one of them. Well, live and learn, I always say. Now that I’ve learned, I shall never offend your delicate nostrils with the scent of violets again.”
“Benjamin, my dear, I like violets,” Cecily said, looking over her menu at him. “I assure you I am very pleased that you have brought me violets. I shall put them in water as soon as I can, and carry the vase about with me everywhere until the poor things wilt and the petals fall off. I love violets.”
“The way you treated the poor things when I handed them to you, I had formed quite a contrary opinion,” Barnett told her.
“I am sorry,” Cecily said. “I was distracted. I was angry. I still am, if it comes to that. But I do apologize for taking it out on you.”
“Angry?” Barnett asked. “Why are you angry? Listen, Cecily, if someone has offended you, tell me about it and let me be angry too.”
“Circumstances conspire to offend me, Benjamin,” Cecily said. “This most recent circumstance has, I fear, provoked a reaction quite out of relation to its cause. The fault, I believe, lies in the fact that I was raised by my father. And my father is a man most intolerant of the stifling stupidity of convention and the rigid imbecility of custom.”
“I see,” said Barnett, who didn’t at all. “Some custom has angered you? What sort of custom?”
“Have you ever stopped to realize how unequal is the relationship between men and women in our society?” Cecily asked, staring intently across the table at Barnett. “Have you ever considered how much freedom men have in everyday discourse and commerce, and how stifling it is to be a woman?”
“I am not sure what you mean,” Barnett said, taken slightly aback by the intensity with which his loved one was speaking on a subject to which he had never given much thought.
“I arrived at this restaurant fifteen minutes before you did,” Cecily said.
“I told you I’m sorry—”
Cecily raised a hand to stop him. “Not you,” she said. “I asked to be seated when I arrived. The manager informed me that unescorted women are not seated in his establishment. The way he said ‘unescorted’ was, of itself, an insult. I told him my escort would be along shortly. He replied that when my escort arrived he would be pleased to seat us both.”
Barnett thought about this for a moment, and then his face turned red and he started to rise, but Cecily reached across and put her hand on his shoulder. “Please don’t make a scene,” she said. “That would accomplish nothing except to make me feel worse.”
“Someone should teach a boor like that to have proper respect for a lady!” Barnett exclaimed.
“Perhaps,” Cecily said, “but an altercation in a public place will not accomplish that end. If I thought it would, I would have started one myself.”
Barnett relaxed on his seat. “Yes,” he said, “I guess you would have.”
“This is merely a symptom of the condition of women in our society today,” Cecily said. “That’s what makes me angry!”
“Now, I don’t think that’s fair,” Barnett said. “This boob, this scoundrel, is obviously non compos mentis. Anyone who is capable of confusing a lady like you with a, ah, woman should not be in a position where he has to make such fine discernments.”
“That is not my point,” Cecily insisted. “It’s the inequality of the situation that frustrates and angers me. If a man wants to eat in here alone, and is reasonably well dressed, the manager doesn’t ask to see proof of his gentle birth. If a woman, no matter how well dressed, wishes to eat lunch but is not currently in possession of an escort, the manager feels free to assume that she’s ‘no better than she ought to be.’ In the first place, what authority has he to assume any such thing? In the second place, even if it were so, is that any reason to deprive her of the right to eat lunch?”
“Now, Cecily,” Barnett said. “Women in this society are protected, guarded; all in all, they are treated far better than men.”
“Protected from whom?” Cecily demanded. “Guarded from what?”
“You are an intensely independent person, Cecily, quite determined to have your own way in everything. And I admire you for it,” Barnett said. “But most ladies enjoy the protection of their special status.”
“You think so?” Cecily asked. “Try asking some of them. You might be surprised.”
Barnett realized that now was not a propitious time to propose marriage. He should probably postpone the question until another day. But he had spent all morning building up the courage and it would probably be even harder another time. He decided to wait until dessert.
They spoke of many things during the course of the meal. One of the hallmarks of a good journalist is a wide and searching curiosity. The conversation ranged from the possibility of a new war in Europe to the claims of a Scottish inventor that he was perfecting a machine that could fly. The question of the rights and indignities of women gradually faded into the past, although Barnett was sure that it was not forgotten. He would have to give it some thought.
Toward the end of the entrée they reached the subject of the series of murders. Cecily was quite wrapped up in the articles she was doing about the murders. “There must be something that connects these crimes,” she insisted to Barnett. “The poor man is obviously in the grip of some overpowering compulsion that causes him to seek out these particular victims.”
“By ‘the poor man,’ I assume you are referring to the mysterious individual who has been slitting the throats of perfectly innocuous middle-aged men in their own bedrooms,” Barnett said.
Cecily poked thoughtfully at the remains of a poached whitefish on her plate. “A man who commits a heinous crime,” she said, “has put himself outside the bounds of common human intercourse. This is not an easy thing to do, not an easy decision to make. To choose to be isolated from the rest of humanity, there must be a compelling need. One can feel a revulsion at the deed, and at the same time pity the man who felt compelled to commit it.”
“I’d rather save my pity for the victims,” Barnett said. “The frightening thing about a murderer like this one is that he isn’t isolated from society. We could breathe easier if he were. He is embedded in our midst, and hidden by the camouflage of assumed innocence. There is nothing about his appearance or manner to proclaim him as a secret slitter of throats. He probably discusses each murder with his friends, and shakes his head in wonder that anyone could commit such a horrible deed.”
“A man like this has no friends,” Cecily said. “That is one of the signs of the type of abnormality that causes a man to feel impelled to commit this sort of crime.”
“How can you be so sure about that?” Barnett asked. “He may be the most popular man in his club. He may have to employ two social secretaries to respond to all his invitations.”
Cecily put down her fork and pushed her plate aside. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve been doing some reading, you might say research, on the background and antecedents of the killer type, and I would say that almost certainly he is a very lonely man.”
One waiter returned to hand them dessert menus, while another sneaked in behind the first and removed the fishy remains from in front of Cecily.
“Now,” Barnett said, after the waiter went off to have vanilla soufflés constructed for their desserts, “what have you found in your research that indicates our murderer is such a lonely man? You think he is driven to commit these crimes out of simple boredom?”
“No,” Cecily told him. “You have it the wrong way around. I believe this man is so driven by his need to commit these crimes that he has no time for normal human desires like companionship, or love, or recreation.”
“What about eating?” Barnett asked.
“I would say he eats as an animal eats,” Cecily said. “He ingests food to give him the necessary energy to keep going. I doubt if he cares what he eats, or is even aware what the dish in front of him contains.”
“And upon what do you base this stark image of a man driven by forces stronger than himself?”
“On my study of similar crimes committed in the recent past,” Cecily said. “The Düsseldorf Slasher of fifteen years ago was a man named Roehm. When the police apprehended him he was living in a bare, unfurnished room with only a couple of blankets on the floor to sleep on. The only clothing he possessed was several changes of undergarments and one extra shirt. And this was a formerly respectable, middle-class man.”
“Who was he killing,” Barnett asked, “and why?”
“He killed three magistrates, two clerks of the court, two bailiffs, and a man that drove the prison wagon before he was captured.”
“He must have had it in for the courts.”
“His wife was arrested and convicted of a homicide and sentenced to the mines. Three years later it was discovered that she was innocent, and she was released. It was too late; the hard labor and terrible conditions at the mines had weakened her until she was beyond medical help. The state gave her thirty gold marks for recompense. She died six months later. A year after that the murders began.”
“I’d say the man had a just grievance,” Barnett commented. “Imagine what emotions must have been bottled up inside of him. It’s not surprising that they came out as a series of slashings.”
“He was certainly acting under the influence of a powerful
compulsion,” Cecily agreed. “As was the Mad Bomber of Paris in 1878, who went around leaving infernal devices in the left-luggage rooms of railway stations. As was Mr. Pinkley of Chicago, who made it his practice to give bonbons laced with arsenic to ladies of the street.”
The soufflés were delivered at this moment, and Barnett stared down at his. It was very attractive, rising a full three inches off the top of the dish. “Arsenic, eh?” he said.
Cecily laughed. “Don’t worry,” she told him. “I’ve heard of its being sprinkled into omelets, but never a soufflé.”
Barnett looked up and grinned at her. “You can’t be too careful,” he said.
“So I’ve been led to believe,” Cecily said.
They ate their desserts in contemplative silence. The time, Barnett realized, had come. He took a deep breath. “Cecily,” he said, “there is something I’d like to ask you.”
“Yes, Benjamin?”
He took another deep breath. “I, ah, would like to ask your father for your hand in marriage.”
Cecily put her fork down carefully on the side of the plate and nudged it with her finger until it was in the perfect position. The silence stretched on.
“Say something, Cecily,” Barnett finally blurted out.
For another long moment there was no response. Cecily’s eyes darted around as though she felt trapped at the table and was looking desperately for a way out. Then she turned to Barnett and pointed a finger at him. “I’m certain you don’t realize this,” she said, “but that proves my point, what you just said. It’s so typical. And you’re not even aware of what you did.”
“What do you mean, ‘not aware’?” Barnett demanded, his voice cracking slightly with the effort to suppress both his anger and his bewilderment at this reaction. “I just proposed marriage to you, that’s what happened.”
“No, it isn’t,” she said. “You just informed me that you were going to ask my father. Is it my father that you wish to marry? If not, then why are you going to ask him?”
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