Clock Without Hands

by Gerald Kersh

  “It isn’t that, Mr. Jacket. It’s——”

  “The credit?” asked Jacket, twitching an ironic lip.

  “Who is she to be made a heroine out of?” asked Waine­wright, looking at his finger-tips.

  “What exactly are you trying to get at, George?” asked Jacket.

  “Get at? Who, me? Nothing, Mr. Jacket.”

  “Then what do you want? What do you want me to do?”

  Mr. Waine­wright looked at the ball of his right thumb and shook his head. “There was nothing about me at all in the papers,” he said. “I’ve got a story, too.”

  “Be a pal,” said Jacket, “and go away. I’ve got work to do, George, old man, work. So be a pal.”

  “Right.” Mr. Waine­wright got up.

  “Don’t be angry with me. Things come and things go,” said Jacket, “and a story is a nine-days’ wonder. Wash this murder out of your head.”

  Mr. Waine­wright said: “Well, you know best. But I’ve also got a story——”

  A telephone bell rang. “See you some other time,” said John Jacket, lifting the receiver. “So long for now, George.”

  Waine­wright went out without saying good day. Shortly after he had gone, John Jacket, hanging up the telephone, found him­self wondering about something. There had been something wrong with Waine­wright. What?

  Jacket gnawed a fat black pencil.

  He had eaten his way to the last letter of the pencil-maker’s name before he knew what he was trying to remember. He laughed, and said to himself: That silly little man has gone and got himself up in a furry green hat and a tweed suit. What on earth for?

  Jacket felt that he was on the verge of a discovery – not a Sunday Special story, but something interesting all the same.

  Then his telephone rang. By the time he had stopped listening new things were in his head, and Mr. Waine­wright, being gone, was forgotten.

  * * * * *

  Three weeks later, as Jacket was leaving the office at lunch­time, he heard Mr. Waine­wright’s voice again. The little man came breathlessly out of the cover of a doorway and said: “Mr. Jacket, sir. Please. One moment. Just one moment.”

  “Well, what is it?” said Jacket, looking down at him with an ex­pression of something like loathing. “What is it now, Waine­wright?”

  “It’s something important, sir. Something very important. I give you my word, my word of honour, you’ll never forgive your­self if you don’t listen to me.”

  “I’m in a hurry.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you here in the street for an hour and a half,” said Mr. Waine­wright.

  “You should have telephoned.”

  “If I had, you wouldn’t have spoken to me.”

  “True,” said Jacket. Then he blinked, and said: “What the devil have you been doing to yourself?”

  Mr. Waine­wright was dressed in a tight-fitting, half-belted jacket of white stuff like tweed, an orange-coloured shirt and a black satin tie with a diamond horseshoe pin, blue flannel trou­sers, a panama hat, and brown-and-white buckskin shoes. He had trimmed his moustache to a fine straight line, above and below which Jacket could see a considerable area of tremulous white lip, beaded with perspiration. And he could smell lavender-water and whisky.

  “Doing to myself? Nothing, sir,” said Mr. Waine­wright.

  “I like your hat.”

  “It’s real panama.”

  “Um-um!” Jacket considered him for a second or two, and then said: “Come on, then. Tell me all about it. Come and have a drink.”

  “It’s very private,” said Mr. Waine­wright. “It’s not something I could talk about if there was anybody around. Look, Mr. Jacket, it’ll be worth your while. Come home with me, just for a few minutes.”

  “Home with you?”

  “To Bishop’s Square – ten minutes in a taxi, no more. I’ve got plenty of drinks at home. Have a drink there. Ten minutes. I’ll show you something. . . . I’ll tell you something. Please do! Please do, Mr. Jacket.”

  “All right, then. But I haven’t long,” said Jacket.

  They got into a taxi. Neither of them spoke until Mr. Waine­wright said: “After you,” as he unlocked the street door of Num­ber 77, Bishop’s Square. “Lead the way,” said Jacket. The little man bobbed in a shopwalker’s obeisance. They passed through a clean, dim passage hung with framed caricatures out of Vanity Fair, and climbed sixteen darkly-carpeted stairs to the first floor. Mr. Waine­wright opened another door. “This used to be my auntie’s room,” he said, rather breathlessly.

  “Charming,” said Jacket, without enthusiasm.

  “It was Tooth’s room, too.”

  “Oh I see. The room in which Tooth was murdered, eh?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s my bedroom now.”

  “And is this what you brought me here to see?” asked Jacket.

  “No, no,” cried Mr. Waine­wright, splashing a quarter of a pint of whisky into a large tumbler, and pressing the nozzle instead of the lever of a soda-water syphon. “Please sit down.”

  “That’s a massive drink you’ve given me,” said Jacket. He observed that his host’s drink was not much smaller.

  “No, not at all.”

  “Cheers.” Jacket emptied his glass in two gulps. Mr. Waine­wright tried to do the same, but choked; recovered with a brave effort, and forced the rest of his drink into his mouth and down his throat. Jacket could hear his heavy breathing. “Now, tell us all about it,” he said.

  “There was,” said Mr. Waine­wright, swaying a little in his chair, “there was a . . . an astounding miscarriage of justice.”

  “In what way, Waine­wright?”

  “In every way, Mr. Jacket, sir. In every way. What I have to say will shock you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Sid Tooth died just about on the spot where you are sitting, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “The rug, of course, is a new one. They couldn’t clean the old one. . . . But your glass is empty.”

  “I’ll pour drinks. You go on,” said Jacket, rising.

  “Listen,” said Mr. Waine­wright. . . .

  * * * * *

  Mr. Waine­wright said, dreamily:

  “What I want to know is this: where’s your justice? Where’s your law? If justice is made a mockery of, and law is tricked – what do I pay rates and taxes for? The world’s going mad, sir. A woman is accused, sir, of killing her hubby with a pair of scissors. It’s proved that she did it, proved beyond doubt, Mr. Jacket! And what happens? This woman, a nobody mind you; this woman does not pay the penalty of her crime, sir. No. She is made a heroine of. She is cheered to the echo. She has her picture in all the papers. She has her life-story published. She marries again, lives happy ever after. Is that fair? Is that right?”

  “What’s on your mind, Waine­wright? It was pretty well estab­lished as a clean-cut case of self-defence.”

  Mr. Waine­wright, with extraordinary passion, said: “She was lying! Tooth was still alive when she left this house! He was hale and hearty as you or me, after the street door closed behind Martha Tooth. Alive and laughing, I tell you. She’s a perjurer . . . a perjuress. She’s a liar. She got what she got under false pre­ten­ces: all that money, all that sympathy. ‘Ill-Used Woman’, as you called her! She never killed Tooth. The world must be going mad.”

  “What about your evidence?” asked Jacket, skilfully pouring half his drink into his host’s glass.

  Mr. Waine­wright snapped: “Evidence! Don’t talk to me about evidence!”

  “You drink up your nice drink,” said Jacket, “and go over it all again.”

  “I hated that man,” said Mr. Waine­wright. “Who did he think he was, that Sid Tooth? He was no good. And all the women were in love with him. He was a bully, a dirty bully. A drunkard, a bad ’un – bad to the backbone. He practically forced his way into this house. A laugh, a joke, a drink, a bang on the back – and before I knew where I was, there was Tooth, in auntie’s old room. I’m not use
d to that sort of thing, Mr. Jacket, sir. I’m not used to it. He borrowed money in cash, and ran up bills. He told me he’d done a deal with a new department store, for weighing machines – over a thousand pounds in commission he had to collect. So he said. All lies, sir, all lies, but I swallowed ’em. I swallowed every­thing Tooth said. Bad, sir, bad! He was bad to the backbone.”

  Jacket asked: “Why didn’t you tell him to get out?”

  “I meant to,” said Mr. Waine­wright, “but he always saw it coming. Then it was a laugh, and a joke, and a drink, and a bang on the back. . . . To-morrow: he’d pay me to-morrow. And to-morrow, he said, to-morrow. And then he had to go to Leeds, or Bristol. It was drinks and women with him, sir, all the time. He used to bring women into this very room, Mr. Jacket, sir, into this very room. And I was next door. No woman ever looked twice at me, sir. What’s the matter with me? Have I got a hump on my back, or something? Eh? Have I?”

  Jacket said: “Far from it, old friend.”

  “And I sat in my room, next door, with nothing to do but get my scrap-book up to date.”

  “What scrap-book?” asked Jacket, refilling the little man’s glass.

  Mr. Waine­wright giggled, pointing to a neatly-arranged pile of red-backed volumes on a shelf by the bed. Jacket opened one, and riffled the pages. Mr. Waine­wright had meticulously cut out of cinematic and physical-culture magazines the likenesses of young women in swimming suits. He had gummed them in and smoothed them down. Here, between the eight covers of four scrap-books, lay his seraglio. His favourite wife, it appeared, was Ann Sheridan.

  “You think I’m pretty terrible,” he said, rising uncertainly and taking the book out of Jacket’s hands.

  “Go on,” said Jacket.

  “No, but I don’t want you to think . . .”

  “I’m not thinking anything. Go on, pal, go on.”

  “I think there’s something artistic in the human form, sir. So for a hobby, you see, I collect it in my scrap-books.”

  “I understand, I understand,” said Jacket. “You were sitting in your room next door to this, with nothing to do but get your scrap-books up to date, when – go on, go on, George.”

  “I asked you here to tell you this,” said Mr. Waine­wright. “You don’t need to . . . to draw me out. I’m telling you something. A story – worth a fortune. No need to screw your face up. No need to pretend to treat me with respect. I know what you think. You think I’m nothing. You think I’m nobody. Let me tell you.”

  “You were sitting in your room——”

  “I was cutting out the picture of the young lady called Pump­kins Whitaker, sir – an artistic figure – when Mrs. Tooth came to visit him.”

  He pointed to the floor under Jacket’s chair.

  “Go on.”

  “Yes, Mr. Jacket. I listened. What happened was as I said in court. They quarrelled. She cried. He laughed. There was a scuffle. In the end Mrs. Tooth ran out. Just like I said, sir.”

  “Well?”

  Mr. Waine­wright leaned forward, and Jacket had to support him with an unobtrusive hand.

  “Then, sir, I went into Tooth’s room, this very room, sir. I knocked first, of course.”

  “And there was no answer?”

  “There was an answer. Tooth said ‘Come in’. And I came in, Mr. Jacket.”

  “You mean to say Tooth was alive when you came in here, after his wife had left?”

  “Exactly, sir. I was curious to know what had been going on. I made up an excuse for coming to see him just then. I’d borrowed his scissors, you see, the ones she is supposed to have killed him with. I’d been using them – they were very sharp – for cutting things out. They were part of a set – scissors and paper-knife in a shagreen case. I came to give them back – it was an excuse. Actually, I wanted to know what had been going on.”

  “Go on, George,” said Jacket, quietly.

  Mr. Waine­wright said: “He was sitting on the bed, just about where you are now, in his shirt-sleeves, laughing and playing with the paper-knife. He started telling me all about his wife, Mr. Jacket, sir – how much she loved him, how much the barmaid at the ‘Duchess of Douro’ loved him, how much every woman he met loved him. His collar was undone.” Mr. Waine­wright paused and moistened his lips. “His collar was undone. He had one of those great big thick white necks. I had that pair of scissors in my hand. He threw his head back while he was laughing. I said: ‘Here’s your scissors.’ He went on laughing, and coughing – he was a cigarette-smoker – at the same time. ‘Here’s your scissors,’ I said. I think he’d been drinking. He roared with laughter. And then, all of a sudden, something got hold of me. I hit him with my right hand. I couldn’t pull my hand away. It was holding on to the scissors, and they were stuck in his neck, where his collar was open. He made a sort of noise like Gug – as if you’d pushed an empty glass into a basin of water, sir, and simply went down. I hadn’t intended to do it. I hadn’t even shut the door of this room when I came in. But as soon as I saw what I’d done I wiped the scissors with my handkerchief, in case of fingerprints, and I slipped out, shutting the door from the outside, and went back to my room. Do you see?

  “Martha Tooth never killed anybody. It was me. I killed Sid Tooth, Mr. Jacket, in this very room.

  “And so you see, sir. There was a miscarriage of justice. Martha Tooth hasn’t got any right to be made a heroine out of. She never killed that beast, sir. I killed Tooth. But she,” said Mr. Waine­wright, with bitterness, “she gets acquitted. She is made a fuss of. Her life-story is all over your paper. Her picture and her name is all over the place. And the honest truth of it is, that I did it!”

  John Jacket said: “Prove it.”

  * * * * *

  Mr. Waine­wright drew a deep breath and said: “I beg pardon, sir?”

  “Prove it,” said Jacket. “Prove you did it.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” asked Mr. Waine­wright.

  “Of course you’re crazy,” said Jacket.

  “I swear before the Almighty,” said Mr. Waine­wright, with pas­sionate sincerity, “I swear, so help me God, that I killed Tooth!”

  Jacket, who had been watching his face, said: “I believe you, Waine­wright. I believe you did kill Tooth.”

  “Then there’s your story,” Mr. Waine­wright said. “Eh?”

  “No,” said Jacket. “No story. It’s proved that Martha Tooth killed her husband and was justified in killing him. It’s all weighed and paid. It’s all over. You can’t prove a thing. I believe you when you say you killed Tooth. But if you weren’t a lunatic, why should you go out of your way to tell me so after everything has been resolved and poor Martha Tooth has been comfortably pro­vided for?”

  Mr. Waine­wright sat still and white. He was silent.

  Jacket rose, stretched himself, and said: “You see, George old man, nobody in the world is ever going to believe you now.” He reached for his hat.

  “Still, I did it,” said Mr. Waine­wright.

  “I begin,” said Jacket, “to understand the way you work. Tooth was a swine, a strong and active swine. I see how you envied Tooth’s beastly strength, and shamelessness. I think I get it. You wanted to ill-treat Tooth’s wife and betray his girl friends. You were jealous of his power to be wicked. You wanted what he had. You wanted to be Tooth. No? So you killed Tooth. But all the while, George, in your soul, you were Tooth! And so you’ve gone and killed yourself, you poor little man. You tick unheard, George; you move unseen – you are a clock without hands. You are in hell, George!”

  John Jacket put on his hat and left the house.

  He did no work that afternoon. At five o’clock he telephoned Chief Inspector Dark, at Scotland Yard, and said: “. . . Just in case. That little man Waine­wright has just been telling me he killed Tooth in Bishop’s Square.”

  Chief Inspector Dark replied: “I know. He’s been telling the same story around here. He was in yesterday. The man’s mad. Damned nuisances. Happens every time. Dozens of ’em always
confess to what they haven’t done every time somebody kills somebody. Have to make a routine investigation, as you know. But this Tooth business is nothing but a lot of Sweet Fanny Adams. Pay no attention to it. Waine­wright’s stone crackers, plain crazy. Forget it.”

  “Just thought I’d tell you,” said Jacket.

  “Right you are,” said the chief inspector, and rang off.

  * * * * *

  So Jacket forgot it. Great things were happening. Everyone knew that England was about to go to war against Germany. The nights were full of menace, for the lights were out in the cities. London after dark was like something tied up in a damp flannel bag. Jacket, who preferred to work a little ahead of time, was preparing certain articles which, he was certain, were going to be topical. He wrote a thousand words about a gas attack, under the title They Thought This Was Funny, and had it set up, illustrated with a cartoon from a 1915 issue of Simplicissimus. He wrote an impassioned obituary on the first baby that was to be killed in London, for immediate use if and when the war broke out. He compiled and elaborated monstrously scurrilous bio­graph­ical articles about Hitler, Goebbels, Goering, etcetera.

  But one evening, as he sat refreshing himself with a glass of beer and a sandwich in the “Duchess of Douro”, he saw Mr. Waine­­wright again. Mr. Waine­wright could not see him: a twelve-inch-square artificial mahogany pillar stood between them, and the hot, smoky bar was crowded. Mr. Waine­wright, dressed in a tight-fitting black suit with red chalk-stripes, was con­vers­ing with a thick-set sweaty man in a light tweed sports coat.

  The conversation had touched the perils and the dangers of the coming night. The thick-set man was saying:

  “Buy torches! Buy bulbs, buy bulbs and batteries! At any price – any price at all, wherever you can lay your hands on them. Buy torches, bulbs, and batteries. Prices are going up by leaps and bounds. A good torch is going to be worth its weight in gold. Every­body is stumbling about in the dark. There’s going to be ac­ci­­dents in the black-out. Mark my words. Accidents. And crime. Look out for crime.”

  “Crime?” said Mr. Waine­wright.

  “Crime. Forgive me if I can’t offer you a drink,” said the thick-set man.