by John Collier
«Everyone to his taste,» said the analyst with a contemptuous shrug. «Did you see any little appendages of that description in Atlantic City?»
«Well, no, as a matter of fact I didn't,» replied the crestfallen fiend. The truth is, devils, who suggest so very much to the rest of us, are themselves extremely suggestible. That is how they got that way.
«In my opinion that tail is purely psychic in origin,» said the analyst. «And I believe it could be cured without much difficulty.»
«Who said I want it cured?» retorted the devil angrily.
«No one said so,» replied the man of science in a tranquil tone. «But you have thought so, and tried to suppress the thought. By your own admission you are very pronouncedly a voyeur — I'll touch on the disadvantages of that later. At least you have seen what is considered normal and pleasing in a well-formed male, and no doubt you would like to be in the mode.»
«I have a good time,» said the devil, now very much on the defensive.
The analyst allowed a pitying and incredulous smile to overspread his features. He turned to his wife. «My dear,» said he, «I must ask you to leave us alone. The confidences of these twisted and unhappy creatures are sacred.»
The angel at once withdrew, closing the door very quietly behind her. The analyst took a seat near the head of the chaise-longue on which the unfortunate devil was lying. «So you think you have a good time?» said he in the gentlest tone imaginable.
«I do,» responded the fiend defiantly. «And what's more, very soon I expect to have a better one.»
«It is a mere hypothesis, of course,» said the analyst «It can be nothing more at this early stage of analysis. But I suggest that what you claim as a good time is just a mask for a very profound maladjustment. The physical symptoms are noticeable. You are appallingly overweight, and I suspect that this in turn has produced a heart condition.»
«It's true I breathe a little hard now and then,» said the devil uneasily.
«Do you mind telling me how old you are?» said the analyst
«Three thousand four hundred and forty,» replied the devil.
«I should have thought you at least a thousand years older than that,» said the analyst. «However, I don't claim to be infallible. But one thing is quite certain: you were very much a misfit in your original surroundings, otherwise you would not have run away. And now you are trying to run away from analysis. It is a threat to that tail of yours. Consciously, yon know it's a terrible disfigurement, but you are unwilling to give it up.»
«Oh, I don't know about that,» said the fiend uncertainly.
«Oh, yes, you cling to it as a mark of your devilishness,» said the analyst sternly. «And what does this devilishness amount to? I think we shall find it is a protest, arising out of a sense of rejection which may very well date to the actual moment of your becoming a devil. Even human birth is a traumatic experience. How much worse must it be, to be born a poor, rejected devil!»
The wretched fiend shifted his shoulders, pulled at his dewlaps, and showed other signs of distress. Thereupon the analyst drove home the attack, referring to fits of depression, vague fears, a sense of guilt, an inferiority complex, spells of insomnia, a compulsion to eat and drink too much, and psychosomatic aches and pains. In the end the poor devil positively begged to be analyzed; all he asked was that be might be given extra sessions so that the cure could be accomplished more quickly.
The analyst was willing to oblige. He sent his wife and children away for a long summer holiday, and worked day and night upon his difficult patient Before the angel returned, this transformed devil had left the house clad in a pearly grey suit, tailless, comparatively slim, and mentally alert. He shortly afterwards became engaged to a Mrs. Schlager, a widow who had also been a troublesome patient in her time.
He visited his benefactor's home, bounced the children on his knee, and apologized to his hostess for all the inconvenience he had caused her. She eagerly forgave him, for after all his misbehaviour had been the effect of unconscious impulses, and had resulted in her marriage, so that she felt he was a friend of the family. He was a little wearisome in recounting the history of his case, but this is very usual in those who have benefited from analysis. In the end, he went on to Wall Street, where he did so extremely well that he was soon able to endow a superb clinic for the young psychoanalyst.
THE TOUCH OF NUTMEG MAKES IT
A dozen big firms subsidize our mineralogical institute, and most of them keep at least one man permanently on research there. The library has the intimate and smoky atmosphere of a club. Logan and I had been there longest and had the two tables in the big window bay. Against the wall, just at the edge of the bay, where the light was bad, was a small table which was left for newcomers or transients.
One morning a new man was sitting at this table. It was not necessary to look at the books he had taken from the shelves to know that he was on statistics rather than formulae. He had one of those skull-like faces on which the skin seems stretched painfully tight. These are almost a hallmark of the statistician. His mouth was intensely disciplined but became convulsive at the least relaxation. His hands were the focal point of a minor morbidity. When he had occasion to stretch them both out together — to shift an open book, for example — he would stare at them for a full minute at a time. At such times the convulsive action of his mouth muscles was particularly marked.
The newcomer crouched low over his table when anyone passed behind his chair, as if trying to decrease the likelihood of contact. Presently he took out a cigarette, but his eye fell on the «No smoking» sign, which was universally disregarded, and he returned the cigarette to its pack. At mid-morning he dissolved a tablet in a glass of water. I guessed at a long-standing anxiety neurosis.
I mentioned this to Logan at lunchtime. He said, «The poor guy certainly looks as miserable as a wet cat.»
I am never repelled or chilled, as many people are, by the cheerless self-centredness of the nervous or the unhappy. Logan, who has less curiosity, has a superabundance of good nature. We watched this man sitting in his solitary cell of depression for several days while the pleasant camaraderie of the library flowed all around him. Then, without further discussion, we asked him to lunch with us.
He took the invitation in the typical neurotic fashion, seeming to weigh half-a-dozen shadowy objections before he accepted it. However, he came along, and before the meal was over he confirmed my suspicion that he had been starving for company but was too tied-up to make any move toward it. We had already found out his name, of course — J. Chapman Reid — and that he worked for the Walls Tyman Corporation. He named a string of towns he had lived in at one time or another, and told us that he came originally from Georgia. That was all the information he offered. He opened up very noticeably when the talk turned on general matters, and occasionally showed signs of having an intense and painful wit, which is the sort I like best. He was pathetically grateful for the casual invitation. He thanked us when we got up from the table, again as we emerged from the restaurant, and yet again on the threshold of the library. This made it all the more natural to suggest a quiet evening together sometime soon.
During the next few weeks we saw a good deal of J. Chapman Reid and found him a very agreeable companion. I have a great weakness for these dry, reserved characters who once or twice an evening come out with a vivid, penetrating remark that shows there is a volcanic core smouldering away at high pressure underneath. We might even have become friends if Reid himself hadn't prevented this final step, less by his reserve, which I took to be part of his nature, than by his unnecessary gratitude. He made no effusive speeches — he was not that type — but a lost dog has no need of words to show his dependence and his appreciation. It was clear our company was everything to J. Chapman Reid.
One day Nathan Trimble, a friend of Logan's, looked in at the library. He was a newspaperman and was killing an hour while waiting for a train connection. He sat on Logan's table facing the window, with his
back to the rest of the room. I went round and talked to him and Logan. It was just about time for Trimble to leave when Reid came in and sat down at his table. Trimble happened to look around, and he and Reid saw each other.
I was watching Reid. After the first startled stare, he did not even glance at the visitor. He sat quite still for a minute or so, his head dropping lower and lower in little jerks, as if someone was pushing it down. Then he got up and walked out of the library.
«By God!» said Trimble. «Do you know who that is? Do you know who you've got there?»
«No,» said we. «Who?»
«Jason C. Reid.»
«Jason C.?» I said. «No, it's J. Chapman. Oh, yes, I see. So what?»
«Why, for God's sake, don't you read the news? Don't you remember the Pittsburgh cleaver murder?»
«No,» said I.
«Wait a minute,» said Logan. «About a year or so ago, was it? I read something.»
«Damn it!» said Trimble. «It was a front-page sensation. This guy was tried for it. They said he hacked a pal of his pretty nearly to pieces. I saw the body. Never seen such a mess in my life. Fantastic! Horrible!»
«However,» said I, «it would appear this fellow didn't do it. Presumably he wasn't convicted.»
«They tried to pin it on him,» said Trimble, «but they couldn't. It looked hellish bad, I must say. Alone together. No trace of any outsider. But no motive. I don't know. I just don't know. I covered the trial. I was in court every day, but I couldn't make up my mind about the guy. Don't leave any meat cleavers round this library, that's all.»
With that, he bade us goodbye. I looked at Logan. Logan looked at me. «I don't believe it,» said Logan. «I don't believe he did it.»
«I don't wonder his nerves are eating him,» said I.
«No,» said Logan. «It must be damnable. And now it's followed him here, and he knows it.»
«We'll let him know, somehow,» said I, «that we're not even interested enough to look up the newspaper files.»
«Good idea,» said Logan.
A little later Reid came in again, his movements showing signs of intense control. He came over to where we were sitting. «Would you prefer to cancel our arrangement for tonight?» said he. «I think it would be better if we cancelled it. I shall ask my firm to transfer me again. I —»
«Hold on,» said Logan. «Who said so? Not us.»
«Didn't he tell you?» said Reid. «Of course he did.»
«He said you were tried,» said I. «And he said you were acquitted. That's good enough for us.»
«You're still acquitted,» said Logan. «And the date's on, and we won't talk.»
«Oh!» said Reid. «Oh!»
«Forget it,» said Logan, returning to his papers.
I took Reid by the shoulder and gave him a friendly shove in the direction of his table. We avoided looking at him for the rest of the afternoon.
That night, when we met for dinner, we were naturally a little self-conscious. Reid probably felt it. «Look here,» he said when we had finished eating, «would either of you mind if we skipped the movie tonight?»
«It's O.K. by me,» said Logan. «Shall we go to Chancey's?»
«No,» said Reid, «I want you to come somewhere where we can talk. Come up to my place.»
«Just as you like,» said I. «It's not necessary.»
«Yes it is,» said Reid. «We may as well get it over.»
He was in a painfully nervous state, so we consented and went up to his apartment, where we had never been before. It was a single room with a pull-down bed and a bathroom and kitchenette opening off it. Though Reid had now been in town over two months, there was absolutely no sign that he was living there at all. It might have been a room hired for the uncomfortable conversation of this one night.
We sat down, but Reid immediately got up again and stood between us, in front of the imitation fireplace.
«I should like to say nothing about what happened today,» he began. «I should like to ignore it and let it be forgotten. But it can't be forgotten.»
«It's no use telling me you won't think about it,» said he. "Of course you'll think about it. Everyone did back there. The firm sent me to Cleveland. It became known there, too. Everyone was thinking about it, whispering about it, wondering.
«You see, it would be rather more exciting if the fellow was guilty after all, wouldn't it?»
«In a way, I'm glad this has come out. With you two, I mean. Most people — I don't want them to know anything. You two — you've been decent to me — I want you to know all about it. All.»
«I came up from Georgia to Pittsburgh, was there for ten years with the Walls Tyman people. While there I met — I met Earle Wilson. He came from Georgia, too, and we became very great friends. I've never been one to go about much. Earle was not only my best friend: he was almost my only friend.»
«Very well. Earle's job with our company was a better paid one than mine. He was able to afford a small house just beyond the fringe of the town. I used to drive out there two or three evenings a week. We spent the evenings very quietly. I want you to understand that I was quite at home in the house. There was no host-and-guest atmosphere about it. If I felt sleepy, I'd make no bones about going upstairs and stretching out on a bed and taking a nap for half an hour. There's nothing so extraordinary about that, is there?»
«No, nothing extraordinary about that,» said Logan.
«Some people seemed to think there was,» said Reid. «Well, one night I went out there after work. We ate, we sat about a bit, we played a game of checkers. He mixed a couple of drinks, then I mixed a couple. Normal enough, isn't it?»
«It certainly is,» said Logan.
«I was tired,» said Reid. «I felt heavy. I said I'd go upstairs and stretch out for half an hour. That always puts me right. So I went up.»
«I sleep heavily, very heavily, for half an hour, then I'm all right. This time I seemed to be dreaming, a sort of nightmare. I thought I was in an air raid somewhere, and heard Earle's voice calling me, but I didn't wake, not until the usual half-hour was up anyway.»
«I went downstairs. The room below was dark. I called out to Earle and started across from the stairs toward the light switch. Halfway across, I tripped over something — it turned out to be the floor lamp, which had fallen over. And I went down, and I fell flat on him.»
«I knew he was dead. I got up and found the light. He was lying there. He looked as if he had been attacked by a madman. He was cut to pieces, almost. God!»
«I got hold of the phone at once and called the police. Naturally, while they were coming, I looked round. But first of all I just walked about, dazed. It seems I must have gone up into the bedroom again. I've got no recollection of that, but they found a smear of blood on the pillow. Of course, I was covered with it. Absolutely covered; I'd fallen on him. You can understand a man being dazed, can't you? You can understand him going upstairs, even, and not remembering it? Can't you?»
«I certainly can,» said Logan.
«It seems very natural,» said I.
«They thought they had trapped me over that,» said Reid. "They said so to my face. The idiots! Well, I remember looking around, and I saw what it had been done with. Earle had a great equipment of cutlery in his kitchen. One of our firm's subsidiaries was in that line. One of the things was a meat cleaver, the sort of thing you see usually in a butcher's shop. It was there on the carpet.
«Well, the police came. I told them all I could. Earle was a quiet fellow. He had no enemies. Does anyone have that sort of enemy? I thought it must be some maniac. Nothing was missing. It wasn't robbery, unless some half-crazy tramp had got in and been too scared in the end to take anything.»
«Whoever it was had made a very clean getaway. Too clean for the police. And too clean for me. They looked for fingerprints, and they couldn't find any.
«They have an endless routine in this sort of thing. I won't bore you with every single detail. It seemed their routine wasn't good enough — the fell
ow was too clever for them. But of course they wanted an arrest. So they indicted me.»
«Their case was nothing but a negative one. God knows how they thought it could succeed. Perhaps they didn't think so. But, you see, if they could build up a strong presumptive case, and I only got off because of a hung jury — well, that's different from having to admit they couldn't find hair or hide of the real murderer».
«What was the evidence against me? That they couldn't find traces of anyone else! That's evidence of their own damned inefficiency, that's all. Does a man murder his best friend for nothing? Could they find any reason, any motive? They were trying to find some woman first of all. They have the mentality of a ten-cent magazine. They combed our money affairs. They even tried to smell out some subversive tieup. God, if you knew what it was to be confronted with faces out of a comic strip and with minds that match the faces! If ever you are charged with murder, hang yourself in your cell the first night.»
«In the end they settled on our game of checkers. Our poor, harmless game of checkers! We talked all the while we were playing, you know, and sometimes even forgot whose turn it was to move next. I suppose there are people who can go berserk in a dispute over a childish game, but to me that's something utterly incomprehensible. Can you understand a man murdering his friend over a game? I can't. As a matter of fact, I remember we had to start this game over again, not once but twice — first when Earle mixed the drinks, and then when I mixed them. Each time we forgot who was to move. However, they fixed on that.»
They had to find some shadow of a motive, and that was the best they could do.
«Of course, my lawyer tore it to shreds. By the mercy of God there'd been quite a craze at the works for playing checkers at lunchtime. So he soon found half-a-dozen men to swear that neither Earle nor I ever played the game seriously enough to get het up about it.»
«They had no other motive to put forward. Absolutely none. Both our lives were simple, ordinary, humdrum, and open as a book. What was their case? They couldn't find what they were paid to find. For that, they proposed to send a man to the death cell. Can you beat that?»
