“Why Gilda, what a revelation!” said Parry.
“About my age?”
“No.”
A slow, furious blush mounted to Gilda’s face. Parry laughed, and the others joined in uncertainly.
“Well, if you’re going to make a joke of it—” she said.
“No, no! Go ahead! I’ll be quiet.”
As Gilda continued, Parry’s lips moved imperceptibly.
“Anyway,” she said stubbornly, “I think I understand Belknap pretty thoroughly. He’s always been awkward and shy, but he’s not weak. He is strongly attracted by women, but he regards his impulses as weakness, and he hates weakness, so he has suppressed them violently. Women are aware of that contained strength, and feel it and are drawn by it. And that is his secret pride.
“I imagine that he had a bad adolescence. To cover his shyness, he posed as a woman-hater, and he has never been able, or willing, to get rid of the pose. Usually young women-haters have their pose broken down for them when they are young men, by some determined girl. Or else they enter the Church, or become explorers or something. But Belknap went to one of the small monastic New England colleges in the mountains, and when he was a graduate student he buried himself in the library, and in time his habits, or his character, became so fixed that he was nearly secure against feminine wiles. By way of compensation he has consecrated himself to scholarship. As he stalks up and down the campus, he enjoys seeing the girls whisper to one another in awe. When he is attracted by some woman in particular, all he can do, when it comes to the point, is to humiliate her. Thus he humiliates the whole female sex for its lewd and sexy behavior. And he conceals the fact that he doesn’t know what else to do. If he should try to make love he would reveal that he is ignorant, awkward, and pitiable. But in his chastity he is magnificent.”
“Remy de Gourmont classes chastity as a sexual perversion,” said Casti. “I suppose your idea is that as a sexual perversion it can lead to crime. Like the funny fellows who—”
“Here, Casti,” broke in Parry. “Keep this on a high plane, will you?”
“I think you are right, Gilda,” said Sandys. “But I don’t see how it would be in Belknap’s character to go as far as murder.”
“I think he had come to some sort of crisis in his development. You remember that recently someone attacked with a stick a boy and girl sitting on a bench in the moonlight? I suspect it was Belknap, suddenly overcome by his hatred of sex, of youthful wooing. And, anyway, I don’t think he had any intention of murdering Lucie.
“But this is the most difficult part of what I am trying to say. I think he was very strongly attracted by Lucie, or he wouldn’t have met her in the stacks on Monday night. If she had been a little more astute, a little gentler, she might have broken down all his barriers and converted him into a great lover. But she was too impetuous; she went too fast. She put her hands on him, and her touch roused in him all his accumulated horror of sex. It was a virgin’s horror. I think men have it, just like women. I don’t think men are very different from women. Except that they are stronger, and they strike, when a woman screams and runs away.”
“I understand thoroughly. It seems to me very reasonable,” said Sandys. “The history of the Church is full of such examples. Many of the early saints were terrible woman-haters, and were obviously men of great power and strength. Saint Martin boasted that he had only once been touched by a woman, and that was a queen, who flung herself at his feet. Took him off his guard. I remember a story Saint Jerome tells of a young Christian who was tempted by his friends to sin. He was wrapped in a net of silk among lilies and roses, and was cajoled by a most beautiful—ah—courtesan. And the young man bit off his tongue and spat it in her face. As the phrase went, ‘so by the smart of his wound he extinguished the rebellion of the flesh.’ He probably had the virginal horror you speak of.”
“Applesauce,” murmured Casti. “Or, I beg your pardon. I mean, I don’t entirely accept your analysis.”
“I think I proved it in the stacks,” said Gilda, primly. “When I touched Belknap he went crazy. He tried to murder me. But I still think he just gave Lucie a frenzied sort of push, and she went over the gallery rail. He murdered Hyett deliberately, to protect himself. And he did it without remorse, because he thought Hyett a wicked, lewd old man. And he tried to murder me, in part because he wanted to eliminate someone who knew too much, but in part also because he had found the right treatment for nasty, seducing women. He had established a kind of reflex action. He had found that murder is easy. And probably he had found it kind of enjoyable. It’s the ever-widening stain.”
There was a silence.
“I think,” said Sandys, “maybe we had better have another little drink.”
All had another little drink.
“You know,” mused Gilda, “all this fits with some reflections of mine about motives for murder. I tried out the seven deadly sins. The first and deadliest of the seven deadlies is Pride. I struck out Pride because I didn’t understand how it could be a cause for murder. But Belknap committed murder as a result of the sin of Pride, by refusing to accept the rules laid down by Nature, or God if you like, for the conduct of human affairs. Dante was right, after all.”
Parry came out of a long trance. He was smiling happily. “A cad with designs on a virgin—” he announced.
“What?”
“A cad with designs on a virgin
Made her swallow champagne by his urgin’;
But he went much too far
When he bought caviar,
For it made her reflect on the sturgeon.”
The laughter was a trifle forced.
“You know,” said Sandys, “I thought all the time it was Cameron.”
Gilda’s lips set grimly.
“You will have to do something about that Cameron, William. He knew that Hyett was entering the locked press, and he took money to keep silent. He let Hyett go out at night by the ventilating grille. And he is threatening you with blackmail.”
“On what grounds?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. But I think perhaps I know.”
Dr. Sandys looked long at Gilda. His manner was sad rather than defiant.
“What do you think is the reason?”
“Do you really want me to say?”
“Yes.”
Gilda took a long breath.
“I think you were the messenger who was questioned about the theft of the Paris Donatus from the Hopkinson Library in 1916.”
“And you think I stole the book?”
Gilda made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. You were just a kid then, and you didn’t understand those things—”
“You think I did. Well, I must tell you the truth. I can’t pledge you all to secrecy; I haven’t the right. But I will ask you not to repeat what I am going to say, unless by doing so you will serve the cause of justice. Do you agree?”
All agreed.
“Well, I didn’t steal the Paris Donatus. But my father did.”
“Oh!”
“My father was a great booklover. And I am afraid that great lovers, even of books, are not always moral. Every now and then he would be overwhelmed by a lust for a book which was too strong for him to resist. I first discovered it when I was messenger in the Hopkinson Library. Father came to visit me, and I showed him some of the treasures I happened to have access to. He carried out the Donatus wrapped up in his raincoat. He wasn’t suspected. Several days afterwards I found the book in his bureau drawer, when I was borrowing one of his shirts. I sent it back anonymously, and as soon as it looked right I gave up my job.
“Well then, after the war I went back into library work. And every once in a while Father would have one of his seizures. He would take a valuable book from a library or bookstore. Usually I would be able to find it and send it back. But Father wasn’t really normal during those spells, and sometimes he didn’t know himself what he had done with the book. So I had to replace it, or pay its value, and to do so t
ook all the money I could raise or borrow. And once some private investigators caught him, and held him up for blackmail. And that has kept me penniless ever since. It would have broken his heart to be carried off to jail. He wasn’t really responsible.”
“You speak of him in the past tense,” said Gilda.
“Yes. He died this summer. In July. Just after I had paid my last shake-down. I had to borrow the money from a cheap money-lending outfit here. Poor Father! No one could have been a better man, if it weren’t for that disease, for in fact it was a disease.”
Gilda reached over and patted Dr. Sandys’s hand. He remained sunk heavily in his chair.
“It’s late,” said Gilda. “My, how late it is. I must go.”
“I’ll take you home,” said Parry.
“I’ll be going back to the Club,” said Casti.
Dr. Sandys said nothing.
“Well, good night, Dr. Sandys,” said Casti.
“Good night, Sandys,” said Parry.
“Good night, William,” said Gilda.
Dr. Sandys smiled and bade them farewell. He sat down again before his desk.
In the lobby Francis and Gilda met Cameron.
“Good evening,” said the janitor. “Been having a nice talk?”
“In a way,” said Gilda.
“Talk about me?”
“Yes.”
“And the idea is that I’m to be fired?”
“Exactly.”
Cameron showed no sign of emotion.
“Well, I couldn’t stay on much longer anyhow. And I’m tired of the long hours. You know, my ambition is to start a little café and restaurant downtown. I used to be a cook, and I know how restaurants are run. My idea is to start a place with really good food, and some good wines, and I hope good conversation.”
“That’s a most noble aim, Cameron,” said Parry, heartily.
“I can put up half the capital. But I need a little more. My idea is to make it a company and sell shares to a few of my friends on the faculty. I may say that this is strictly on the up-and-up. A chance to make a nice piece of jack.”
Gilda and Francis looked at each other.
“I think,” said Gilda, “that if it’s all as you say, you will find several of us who will be glad to come in. But it will have to be a good restaurant. Good night, Cameron.”
Smiling, Cameron bade them good-night.
Francis showed Gilda into his convertible.
“Speaking of restaurants,” he said, “will you have dinner with me?”
“No, Francis. I don’t feel like it tonight.”
There was silence for three blocks. Stopped by a red light, Francis turned to Gilda.
“Gilda, will you marry me?”
“No, Francis.”
“Why not?”
“I am very fond of you, Francis. We have a beautiful time together. I like you better than almost anyone, but—”
“But not better than anyone. Whom do you like better?”
“I like William Sandys better.”
“Sandys! You prefer big, burly Sandys, with his beard?”
“Maybe he’ll shave it off for me.”
“Does he know about this?”
“Not yet. But maybe he suspects. There was a strange moment in the locked press yesterday. I thought he was yielding to an attack of homicidal mania, but I’m inclined to think now that it was the first shy stirring of love.”
“Very natural mistake. Of course.”
“He will learn all the truth soon. I’ve made one proposal today, and I don’t find it so hard. To be sure, I nearly got murdered—”
The wild honking of automobile horns reminded Francis that the lights had already changed to green. He drove forward just as the red lights came on again. The car behind him stopped short, rocking with fury.
Francis drove the rest of the way in silence. At Gilda’s door she give him a comforting little consoling pat.
“Gilda,” he said, “did you ever live in Bermuda?”
“No. Why?”
“It’s too bad. But anyhow:
There was a young miss of Bermuda
Who said of her fiancé: ‘Who’d a
Thought he would look
Like a god in a book!’
She must have been thinking of Buddha.”
Gilda laughed and said good-night.
In the Librarian’s office Dr. Sandys sat somberly at his desk. He took from a drawer a photograph of his father, a distinguished, benignant gentleman. He looked at it for a long time, and then replaced it. He found a pocket mirror in the drawer; for some minutes he gazed critically at his goatee. Picking up a pencil, he traced on a pad before him, hesitatingly, the word “Gilda.” He paused a long minute, and added the word “Sandys.” He then tore off the sheet, ribboned it small, and dropped the pieces in the waste-basket. He hid the brandy bottle and replaced three of the glasses. The fourth he left on his desk. He wrote on his engagement pad for Monday: “9 a.m. Have G. G. return glass to W. R. R.” He then threw up the windows and fanned away the last of the cigarette smoke. He emptied the butts and ashes into a Library envelope, which he sealed and put in his pocket. He then set off for the O. K. Diner, for a late and solitary supper.
THE END
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
• Were you able to predict any part of the solution to the case?
• Aside from the solution, did anything about the book surprise you? If so, what?
• Did any aspects of the plot date the story? If so, which ones?
• Would the story be different if it were set in the present day? If so, how?
• What role did the setting play in the narrative?
• If you were one of the main characters, would you have acted differently at any point in the story?
• Did you identify with any of the characters? If so, who?
• Did this novel remind you of anything else you've read? If so, what?
• Which of the limericks was your favorite?
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Charlotte Armstrong
The Unsuspected
Introduction by Otto Penzler
To catch a murderous theater impresario, a young woman takes a deadly new role . . .
The note discovered beside Rosaleen Wright’s hanged body is full of reasons justifying her suicide—but it lacks her trademark vitality and wit, and, most importantly, her signature. So the note alone is far from enough to convince her best friend Jane that Rosaleen was her own murderer, even if the police quickly accept the possibility as fact. Instead, Jane suspects Rosaleen’s boss, Luther Grandison. To the world at large, he’s a powerful and charismatic figure, directing for stage and screen, but Rosaleen’s letters to Jane described a duplicitous, greedy man who would no doubt kill to protect his secrets. Jane and her friend Francis set out to infiltrate Grandy’s world and collect evidence, employing manipulation, impersonation, and even gaslighting to break into his inner circle. But will they recognize what dangers lie therein before it’s too late?
CHARLOTTE ARMSTRONG (1905-1969) was an American author of mystery short stories and novels. Having started her writing career as a poet and dramatist, she wrote a few novels before The Unsuspected, which was her first to achieve outstanding success, going on to be adapted for film by Michael Curtiz.
“Psychologically rich, intricately plotted and full of dark surprises, Charlotte Armstrong’s suspense tales feel as vivid and fresh today as a half century ago.”—Megan Abbott
Paperback, $15.95 / ISBN 978-1-61316-123-4
Hardcover, $25.95 / ISBN 978-1-61316-122-7
Anthony Boucher
Rocket to the Morgue
Introduction by F. Paul Wilson
A Golden Age mystery set in the world of science fiction in its early days
The Widening Stain Page 20