III
Next day, and for several weeks thereafter, the business of the officewent on as usual, and Jones did his work well and behaved outwardly withperfect propriety. No more visions troubled him, and his relations withthe Manager became, if anything, somewhat smoother and easier.
True, the man _looked_ a little different, because the clerk kept seeinghim with his inner and outer eye promiscuously, so that one moment hewas broad and red-faced, and the next he was tall, thin, and dark,enveloped, as it were, in a sort of black atmosphere tinged with red.While at times a confusion of the two sights took place, and Jones sawthe two faces mingled in a composite countenance that was very horribleindeed to contemplate. But, beyond this occasional change in the outwardappearance of the Manager, there was nothing that the secretary noticedas the result of his vision, and business went on more or less asbefore, and perhaps even with a little less friction.
But in the rooms under the roof in Bloomsbury it was different, forthere it was perfectly clear to Jones that Thorpe had come to take uphis abode with him. He never saw him, but he knew all the time he wasthere. Every night on returning from his work he was greeted by thewell-known whisper, "Be ready when I give the sign!" and often in thenight he woke up suddenly out of deep sleep and was aware that Thorpehad that minute moved away from his bed and was standing waiting andwatching somewhere in the darkness of the room. Often he followed himdown the stairs, though the dim gas jet on the landings never revealedhis outline; and sometimes he did not come into the room at all, buthovered outside the window, peering through the dirty panes, or sendinghis whisper into the chamber in the whistling of the wind.
For Thorpe had come to stay, and Jones knew that he would not get rid ofhim until he had fulfilled the ends of justice and accomplished thepurpose for which he was waiting.
Meanwhile, as the days passed, he went through a tremendous strugglewith himself, and came to the perfectly honest decision that the "levelof a great forgiveness" was impossible for him, and that he musttherefore accept the alternative and use the secret knowledge placedin his hands--and execute justice. And once this decision was arrivedat, he noticed that Thorpe no longer left him alone during the day asbefore, but now accompanied him to the office and stayed more or less athis side all through business hours as well. His whisper made itselfheard in the streets and in the train, and even in the Manager's roomwhere he worked; sometimes warning, sometimes urging, but never for amoment suggesting the abandonment of the main purpose, and more thanonce so plainly audible that the clerk felt certain others must haveheard it as well as himself.
The obsession was complete. He felt he was always under Thorpe's eye dayand night, and he knew he must acquit himself like a man when the momentcame, or prove a failure in his own sight as well in the sight of theother.
And now that his mind was made up, nothing could prevent the carryingout of the sentence. He bought a pistol, and spent his Saturdayafternoons practising at a target in lonely places along the Essexshore, marking out in the sand the exact measurements of the Manager'sroom. Sundays he occupied in like fashion, putting up at an innovernight for the purpose, spending the money that usually went into thesavings bank on travelling expenses and cartridges. Everything was donevery thoroughly, for there must be no possibility of failure; and at theend of several weeks he had become so expert with his six-shooter thatat a distance of 25 feet, which was the greatest length of the Manager'sroom, he could pick the inside out of a halfpenny nine times out of adozen, and leave a clean, unbroken rim.
There was not the slightest desire to delay. He had thought the matterover from every point of view his mind could reach, and his purpose wasinflexible. Indeed, he felt proud to think that he had been chosen asthe instrument of justice in the infliction of so well-deserved and soterrible a punishment. Vengeance may have had some part in his decision,but he could not help that, for he still felt at times the hot chainsburning his wrists and ankles with fierce agony through to the bone.He remembered the hideous pain of his slowly roasting back, and thepoint when he thought death _must_ intervene to end his suffering, butinstead new powers of endurance had surged up in him, and awful furtherstretches of pain had opened up, and unconsciousness seemed farther offthan ever. Then at last the hot irons in his eyes.... It all came backto him, and caused him to break out in icy perspiration at the merethought of it ... the vile face at the panel ... the expression of thedark face.... His fingers worked. His blood boiled. It was utterlyimpossible to keep the idea of vengeance altogether out of his mind.
Several times he was temporarily baulked of his prey. Odd thingshappened to stop him when he was on the point of action. The first day,for instance, the Manager fainted from the heat. Another time when hehad decided to do the deed, the Manager did not come down to the officeat all. And a third time, when his hand was actually in his hip pocket,he suddenly heard Thorpe's horrid whisper telling him to wait, andturning, he saw that the head cashier had entered the room noiselesslywithout his noticing it. Thorpe evidently knew what he was about, anddid not intend to let the clerk bungle the matter.
He fancied, moreover, that the head cashier was watching him. He wasalways meeting him in unexpected corners and places, and the cashiernever seemed to have an adequate excuse for being there. His movementsseemed suddenly of particular interest to others in the office as well,for clerks were always being sent to ask him unnecessary questions,and there was apparently a general design to keep him under a sort ofsurveillance, so that he was never much alone with the Manager in theprivate room where they worked. And once the cashier had even gone sofar as to suggest that he could take his holiday earlier than usual ifhe liked, as the work had been very arduous of late and the heatexceedingly trying.
He noticed, too, that he was sometimes followed by a certain individualin the streets, a careless-looking sort of man, who never came face toface with him, or actually ran into him, but who was always in his trainor omnibus, and whose eye he often caught observing him over the top ofhis newspaper, and who on one occasion was even waiting at the door ofhis lodgings when he came out to dine.
There were other indications too, of various sorts, that led him tothink something was at work to defeat his purpose, and that he must actat once before these hostile forces could prevent.
And so the end came very swiftly, and was thoroughly approved by Thorpe.
It was towards the close of July, and one of the hottest days London hadever known, for the City was like an oven, and the particles of dustseemed to burn the throats of the unfortunate toilers in street andoffice. The portly Manager, who suffered cruelly owing to his size, camedown perspiring and gasping with the heat. He carried a light-colouredumbrella to protect his head.
"He'll want something more than that, though!" Jones laughed quietly tohimself when he saw him enter.
The pistol was safely in his hip pocket, every one of its six chambersloaded.
The Manager saw the smile on his face, and gave him a long steady lookas he sat down to his desk in the corner. A few minutes later he touchedthe bell for the head cashier--a single ring--and then asked Jones tofetch some papers from another safe in the room upstairs.
A deep inner trembling seized the secretary as he noticed theseprecautions, for he saw that the hostile forces were at work againsthim, and yet he felt he could delay no longer and must act that verymorning, interference or no interference. However, he went obediently upin the lift to the next floor, and while fumbling with the combinationof the safe, known only to himself, the cashier, and the Manager, heagain heard Thorpe's horrid whisper just behind him:
"You must do it to-day! You must do it to-day!"
He came down again with the papers, and found the Manager alone. Theroom was like a furnace, and a wave of dead heated air met him in theface as he went in. The moment he passed the doorway he realised that hehad been the subject of conversation between the head cashier and hisenemy. They had been discussing him. Perhaps an inkling of his secrethad somehow got into their
minds. They had been watching him for dayspast. They had become suspicious.
Clearly, he must act now, or let the opportunity slip by perhaps forever. He heard Thorpe's voice in his ear, but this time it was no merewhisper, but a plain human voice, speaking out loud.
"Now!" it said. "Do it now!"
The room was empty. Only the Manager and himself were in it.
Jones turned from his desk where he had been standing, and locked thedoor leading into the main office. He saw the army of clerks scribblingin their shirt-sleeves, for the upper half of the door was of glass. Hehad perfect control of himself, and his heart was beating steadily.
The Manager, hearing the key turn in the lock, looked up sharply.
"What's that you're doing?" he asked quickly.
"Only locking the door, sir," replied the secretary in a quite evenvoice.
"Why? Who told you to--?"
"The voice of Justice, sir," replied Jones, looking steadily into thehated face.
The Manager looked black for a moment, and stared angrily across theroom at him. Then suddenly his expression changed as he stared, and hetried to smile. It was meant to be a kind smile evidently, but it onlysucceeded in being frightened.
"That _is_ a good idea in this weather," he said lightly, "but it wouldbe much better to lock it on the _outside_, wouldn't it, Mr. Jones?"
"I think not, sir. You might escape me then. Now you can't."
Jones took his pistol out and pointed it at the other's face. Down thebarrel he saw the features of the tall dark man, evil and sinister. Thenthe outline trembled a little and the face of the Manager slipped backinto its place. It was white as death, and shining with perspiration.
"You tortured me to death four hundred years ago," said the clerk in thesame steady voice, "and now the dispensers of justice have chosen me topunish you."
The Manager's face turned to flame, and then back to chalk again. Hemade a quick movement towards the telephone bell, stretching out a handto reach it, but at the same moment Jones pulled the trigger and thewrist was shattered, splashing the wall behind with blood.
"That's _one_ place where the chains burnt," he said quietly to himself.His hand was absolutely steady, and he felt that he was a hero.
The Manager was on his feet, with a scream of pain, supporting himselfwith his right hand on the desk in front of him, but Jones pressed thetrigger again, and a bullet flew into the other wrist, so that the bigman, deprived of support, fell forward with a crash on to the desk.
"You damned madman!" shrieked the Manager. "Drop that pistol!"
"That's _another_ place," was all Jones said, still taking careful aimfor another shot.
The big man, screaming and blundering, scrambled beneath the desk,making frantic efforts to hide, but the secretary took a step forwardand fired two shots in quick succession into his projecting legs,hitting first one ankle and then the other, and smashing them horribly.
"Two more places where the chains burnt," he said, going a littlenearer.
The Manager, still shrieking, tried desperately to squeeze his bulkbehind the shelter of the opening beneath the desk, but he was far toolarge, and his bald head protruded through on the other side. Jonescaught him by the scruff of his great neck and dragged him yelping outon to the carpet. He was covered with blood, and flopped helplessly uponhis broken wrists.
"Be quick now!" cried the voice of Thorpe.
There was a tremendous commotion and banging at the door, and Jonesgripped his pistol tightly. Something seemed to crash through his brain,clearing it for a second, so that he thought he saw beside him a greatveiled figure, with drawn sword and flaming eyes, and sternly approvingattitude.
"Remember the eyes! Remember the eyes!" hissed Thorpe in the air abovehim.
Jones felt like a god, with a god's power. Vengeance disappeared fromhis mind. He was acting impersonally as an instrument in the hands ofthe Invisibles who dispense justice and balance accounts. He bent downand put the barrel close into the other's face, smiling a little as hesaw the childish efforts of the arms to cover his head. Then he pulledthe trigger, and a bullet went straight into the right eye, blackeningthe skin. Moving the pistol two inches the other way, he sent anotherbullet crashing into the left eye. Then he stood upright over his victimwith a deep sigh of satisfaction.
The Manager wriggled convulsively for the space of a single second, andthen lay still in death.
There was not a moment to lose, for the door was already broken in andviolent hands were at his neck. Jones put the pistol to his temple andonce more pressed the trigger with his finger.
But this time there was no report. Only a little dead click answered thepressure, for the secretary had forgotten that the pistol had only sixchambers, and that he had used them all. He threw the useless weaponon to the floor, laughing a little out loud, and turned, without astruggle, to give himself up.
"I _had_ to do it," he said quietly, while they tied him. "It was simplymy duty! And now I am ready to face the consequences, and Thorpe will beproud of me. For justice has been done and the gods are satisfied."
He made not the slightest resistance, and when the two policemen marchedhim off through the crowd of shuddering little clerks in the office, heagain saw the veiled figure moving majestically in front of him, makingslow sweeping circles with the flaming sword, to keep back the host offaces that were thronging in upon him from the Other Region.
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Four Weird Tales Page 3
