by John Collier
«I suppose not,» said Smollett.
«On the other hand,» said Mr. Princey, «you know about it.»
«Yes,» said Smollett. «I am wondering if I could keep my mouth shut. If I promised you —»
«I am wondering if I could believe you,» said Mr. Princey.
«If I promised,» said Smollett.
«If things went smoothly,» said Mr. Princey. «But not if there was any sort of suspicion, any questioning. You would be afraid of being an accessory.»
«I don't know,» said Smollett.
«I do,» said Mr. Princey. «What are we going to do?»
«I can't see anything else,» said Smollett. «You'd never be fool enough to do me in. You can't get rid of two corpses.»
«I regard it,» said Mr. Princey, «as a better risk than the other. It could be an accident. Or you and Withers could both disappear. There are possibilities in that.»
«Listen,»said Smollett. «You can't —»
«Listen,» said Mr. Princey. «There may be a way out. There is a way out, Smollett. You gave me the idea yourself.»
«Did I?» said Smollett. «What?»
«You said you would kill Withers,» said Mr. Princey. «You have a motive.»
«I was joking,» said Smollett.
«You are always joking,» said Mr. Princey. «People think there must be something behind it. Listen, Smollett, I can't trust you, therefore you must trust me. Or I will kill you now, in the next minute. I mean that. You can choose between dying and living.»
«Go on, »said Smollett.
«There is a sewer here,» said Mr. Princey, speaking fast and forcefully. «That is where I am going to put Withers. No outsider knows he has come up here this afternoon. No one will ever look there for him unless you tell them. You must give me evidence that you have murdered Withers.»
«Why?» said Smollett.
«So that I shall be dead sure that you will never open your lips on the matter,» said Mr. Princey.
«What evidence?» said Smollett.
«George,» said Mr. Princey, «hit him in the face, hard.»
«Good God!» said Smollett.
«Again,» said Mr. Princey. «Don't bruise your knuckles.»
«Oh!» said Smollett.
«I'm sorry,» said Mr. Princey. «There must be traces of a struggle between you and Withers. Then it will not be altogether safe for you to go to the police.»
«Why won't you take my word?» said Smollett.
«I will when we've finished,» said Mr. Princey. «George, get that croquet post. Take your handkerchief to it. As I told you. Smollett, you'll just grasp the end of this croquet post. I shall shoot you if you don't.»
«Oh, hell,» said Smollett. «All right.»
«Pull two hairs out of his head, George,» said Mr. Princey, «and remember what I told you to do with them. Now, Smollett, you take that bar and raise the big flagstone with the ring in it. Withers is in the next stall. You've got to drag him through and dump him in.»
«I won't touch him,» said Smollett.
«Stand back, George,» said Mr. Princey, raising his gun.
«Wait a minute,» cried Smollett. «Wait a minute.» He did as he was told.
Mr. Princey wiped his brow. «Look here,» said he. «Everything is perfectly safe. Remember, no one knows that Withers came here. Everyone thinks he walked over to Bass Hill. That's five miles of country to search. They'll never look in our sewer. Do you see how safe it is?»
«I suppose it is,» said Smollett.
«Now come into the house,» said Mr. Princey. «We shall never get that rat.»
They went into the house. The maid was bringing tea into the drawing-room. «See, my dear,» said Mr. Princey to his wife, «we went to the stable to shoot a rat and we found Captain Smollett. Don't be offended, my dear fellow.»
«You must have walked up the back drive,» said Mrs. Princey.
«Yes. Yes. That was it,» said Smollett in some confusion.
«You've cut your lip,» said George, handing him a cup of tea.
«I … I just knocked it.»
«Shall I tell Bridget to bring some iodine?» said Mrs. Princey. The maid looked up, waiting.
«Don't trouble, please,» said Smollett. «It's nothing.»
«Very well, Bridget,» said Mrs. Princey. «That's all.»
«Smollett is very kind,» said Mr. Princey. «He knows all our trouble. We can rely on him. We have his word.»
«Oh, have we, Captain Smollett?» cried Mrs. Princey. «You are good.»
«Don't worry, old fellow,» Mr. Princey said. «They'll never find anything.»
Pretty soon Smollett took his leave. Mrs. Princey pressed his hand very hard. Tears came into her eyes. All three of them watched him go down the drive. Then Mr. Princey spoke very earnestly to his wife for a few minutes and the two of them went upstairs and spoke still more earnestly to Millicent. Soon after, the rain having ceased, Mr. Princey took a stroll round the stable yard.
He came back and went to the telephone. «Put me through to Bass Hill police station,» said he. «Quickly … Hullo, is that the police station? This is Mr. Princey, of Abbott's Laxton. I'm afraid something rather terrible has happened up here. Can you send someone at once?»
SQUIRRELS HAVE BRIGHT EYES
I had what appeared to be the misfortune to fall in love with a superb creature, an Amazon, a positive Diana. Her penthouse pied-à-terre was a single enormous room, liberally decorated with the heads and skins of the victims of her Lee-Enfield, her Ballard, her light Winchester repeater. Bang — a hearth-rug! Crack — a fur coat! Pop, pop — a pair of cosy mittens!
But, as a matter of fact, clothes suffocated her. Supremely Nordic, she ranged her vast apartment clad only in a sort of kirtle. This displayed four magnificent limbs, sunburned several tones darker than her blonde and huntress hair. So I fell in love. What limbs! What hair! What love!
She only laughed. «Squirrel,» she said — she called me Squirrel —«it's no good. You're a real pet, though; you remind me a little of Bopotiti. He lived in a tree on the Congo. Bogey,» she said to her hateful little female adorer, who was always curled up on some skin or other, «Bogey,» she said, «show him that snap of Bopotiti.»
«Really,» I said, «this is not like me at all. I am more graceful, more bird-like.»
«Yes, but he used to bring me mjna-mjnas. Every morning.»
«I will bring you love, at all hours. Marry me.»
«No.»
«Live with me.»
«No, no. I live with my guns. The world cannot utter its gross libidinous sneers at a girl who lives chastely with her Lee-Enfield, her Ballard, her light Winchester.»
«Love is better.»
«Ha! Ha! Forgive me. I must laugh now.» And she flung herself upon a polar-bear skin in a paroxysm of giant mirth.
Utterly crushed, I went out to do myself in. Racking my brain for the most expressive method, I suddenly remembered a man called Harringay, a taxidermist who was often at her cocktail parties, where he had eyed me with a friendly interest.
I went to his shop. He was there alone. «Harringay! Stuff me!»
«Sure. What shall it be? Steak? Chop suey? Something fancy?»
«No, Harringay, bitumen. Harringay, I want you to employ your art upon me. Send me to Miss Bjornstjorm with my compliments. For her collection. I love her.» Here I broke down.
Harringay, that owl-like man, acted magnificently. He gave me his philosophy, put new heart into me. «Go just as you are,» said he. «Perhaps love will come. Fortunately your eyes are somewhat glassy by nature. You have only to hold the pose.»
«You think love will come?»
«She must at any rate recognize you as an admirably motionless companion for a — it's on the tip of my tongue — one of those things up in a tree to shoot from.»
«It's on the tip of mine, too. I'll gamble on it. Harringay, you are a friend.»
«No, no. It will be an advertisement for me.»
«No, no. You are
a friend. In one moment I shall be ready.»
I was. He carried me to her apartment. «Brynhild, here is something more for your natural history museum.»
«Why, it's Squirrel! Is he stuffed?»
«For love of you, Brynhild.»
«How life-like! Harringay, you are the king of taxidermists.»
«Yes, and I service him every day. It's a new method. It's all arranged for. Shall I put him in that alcove?»
«Yes, and we'll have a cocktail party. Right away. Everybody must come. Bogey, call everybody.»
«Even Captain Fenshawe-Fanshawe?»
«Yes, by all means the Captain.»
She collapsed, roaring with laughter, upon a flamboyant tiger-skin. She was still laughing when the guests poured in. The gigantic Captain Fenshawe-Fanshawe, my rival with the monocle and the Habsburg chin, taller than Brynhild herself, towered among them.
Everybody laughed, chattered, and admired. «Marvellous work, Mr. Harringay! When our dear Pongo dies, I shall send him to you.»
«I hope you will do our Fifi, Mr. Harringay.»
Harringay bowed and smiled.
«He did it for love, they say.»
«Love!» boomed the Captain, filliping me under the nose. I trembled with rage and mortification.
«Be careful! He's very delicately wired,» said Harringay.
«Love!» boomed the Captain. «A squirrel! Ha! Ha! It takes a full-sized man to hold a worth-while amount of love. What sort of heart did you find in him, Harringay?»
«Quite a good sort,» said Harringay. «Broken of course.»
Brynhild's laughter, which had been continuous, stopped.
«A squirrel!» sneered the Captain. «Didn't know you went in for small deer, Brynhild. Send you a stuffed mouse for Christmas.»
He had not observed Brynhild's expression. I had. It looked like one of those bird's-eye views of the world you see before a news-reel, with everything going round and round: clouds, continents, seas, one thing after another. Suddenly, in a single convulsive movement, she was off her flamboyant tiger-skin, and stretched superbly prone on the funeral pelt of a black panther. «Leave me!» she cried chokingly. «Go away, everybody. Go away! Go away!»
The guests felt something was wrong. They edged out.
«Does that mean me?» said the Captain.
«Go away!» she cried.
«Me, too?» said Bogey.
«Everybody,» sobbed Brynhild. Nevertheless a woman must have a friend: she clutched her by the hand.
«Brynhild! What is it? You are crying. I have never seen you cry. Tell me. We are alone.»
«Bogey, he did it for love.»
«Yes.»
«I've just realized what that means, Bogey. I didn't know. I've been all my life hunting things — killing them — having them stuffed. Bogey, that's all done now. He's everything to me. I'll marry him.»
«I don't think you can, if he's stuffed, Brynhild darling.»
«Live with him, then.»
«The world — ?»
«The world's gross libidinous sneers can't touch a girl who lives with a man who's stuffed, Bogey. But I shall seat him at table, and talk to him, just as if he were alive.»
«Brynhild, you're wonderful!»
I agreed. At the same time my position was a difficult one. It is no joke to have to seem stuffed when your beloved adores you, passionately, remorsefully, seats you up at table, talks to you in the firelight, tells you all, weeps even. And yet, if I unbent, if I owned up, I felt her newborn love might wither in the bud.
Sometimes she would stroke my brow, press a burning kiss upon it, dash off, fling herself down on a leopard-skin, and do her exercises, frantically, hopelessly. I needed all my control.
Harringay called every morning, «to service me» as he said. He insisted that Brynhild should go out for an hour, pretending that a professional secret was involved. He gave me my sandwich, my glass of milk, dusted me thoroughly, massaged my joints where they were stiff.
«You can't massage the stiffness out of this absurd situation,» said I.
«Trust me,» he said.
«All right,» I said. «I will.»
Brynhild returned, as usual, five minutes or so too early. She couldn't stay away the full hour. «I miss him so,» she said, «when I'm out. And yet, when I come back, he's stuffed. It's too terrible.»
«Perhaps I can help you,» said Harringay.
«I dare not believe it,» she said, clutching her heart.
«What?» cried he. «And you the little girl who shoots tigers? Pluck up your courage. Would you be too scared to believe in an artificial leg?»
«No,» said she. «I could face that.»
«One of those modern ones,» said he, «that walk, kick, dance even, all by machinery?»
«Yes,» she said. «I believe in it.»
«Now,» said he, «for his sake, believe in two of them.»
«I will. I do.»
«Be brave. Two arms as well.»
«Yes. Yes.»
«And so forth. I can make his jaw work. He'll eat. He'll open and shut his eyes. Everything.»
«Will he speak to me?»
«Well, maybe he'll say 'Mamma.'»
«Science! It's wonderful! But — what will the world say?»
«I don't know. 'Bravo!' Something of that sort.»
«No. Gross libidinous sneers. If I live with him, and he says 'Mamma.' And I can't marry him because he's stuffed. Oh, I knew it would be no good.»
«Don't worry,» said Harringay. «These are just technicalities. I'll straighten it all out. More tomorrow.»
She saw him out, and came back shaking her head. She was in despair. So was I. I knew the Diana element in her. So did she. She spent the afternoon on the skin of an immense grizzly. I longed to be with her. I felt myself as if I were on the skin of a porcupine.
Suddenly, just as the shadows were falling thick in the vast apartment, there was a knock at the door. She opened. It was the abominable Fenshawe-Fanshawe.
«What do you want?» said she.
«Guess,» said he.
«I wouldn't dream of it,» said she.
«No need to,» said he, removing his jacket.
«What are you doing?» said she.
«I have waited long enough,» said he. «Listen, I don't like that kirtle. It doesn't suit you.»
She made a bound, however, and reached the wall. Her guns were there. She pointed the Lee-Enfield. «Stand back!» she cried.
The Captain, sneering, continued to advance.
She pulled the trigger. A hollow click sounded. The Captain smiled and came nearer.
She caught up to the Ballard. Click. The Winchester light repeater. Click! Click! Click!
«I removed the cartridges,» said the Captain, «when you where laughing so heartily at the cocktail party.»
«Oh, Squirrel. If you could help me!»
«He can't. He's stuffed»
«Oh, Squirrel! Help me! Squirrel! Squirre —» At that moment, he seized her. She broke free. «Help me!»
«You're durn tootin' I will,» said I, rising stiffly from my seat. The effect, in the shadowy alcove, was probably uncanny. The Captain gave a throbbing cry. He turned and fled for the door. My blood was up, however, and regardless of the pins and needles I pursued him, snatching a prize elephant's tusk as I ran. While yet he scrabbled at the latch I let him have it. He fell.
I felt Brynhild beside me, a true comrade. «Forgive me,» I said. «I have deceived you.»
«You have saved me. My hero!»
«But I'm not stuffed,» I murmured.
«At least,» said she, «you have more stuffing in you than that great beast.»
«He will need it now, Brynhild. Or the mountainous carcass will become offensive.»
«Yes, We'll call in Harringay.»
«Good old Harringay!»
«A clean kill, Squirrel mine! Great hunting!»
«Thank you.»
I put one foot on the mighty torso, then the oth
er. Our lips were on a level.
«Brynhild! May I?»
«Yes.»
«Really?»
«Yes.»
It was a divine moment. We sank upon the skin of a giant panda. Bogey knocked in vain.
Next day, of course, we were married.
HALFWAY TO HELL
Louis Thurlow, having decided to take his own life, felt that at least he might take his own time also. He consulted his bank-book; there was a little over a hundred pounds left. «Very well,» said he. «I'll get out of this flat, which stinks, and spend a really delightful week at Mutton's. I'll taste all the little pleasures just once more, to say good-bye to them.»
He engaged his suite at Mutton's, where he kept the pageboys on the run. At one moment they had to rush round into Piccadilly to buy him chrysanthemums, in which to smell the oncoming autumn, which he would never see. Next they were sent to Soho to get him some French cigarettes, to put him in mind of a certain charming hotel which overlooked the Seine. He had also a little Manet sent round by the Neuilly Galleries —«To try living with,» he said, with the most whimsical smile. You may be sure he ate and drank the very best; just a bite of this and a glass of that, he had so many farewells to take.
On the last night of all he telephoned Celia, whose voice he felt inclined to hear once more. He did not speak, of course, though he thought of saying, «You should really not keep on repeating 'Hallo,' but say 'Goodbye.'» However, she had said that already, and he had been taught never to sacrifice good taste to a bad mot.
He hung up the receiver, and opened the drawer in which he had stored his various purchases of veronal tablets.
«It seems a great deal to get down,» he thought. «Everything is relative. I prided myself on not being one of those panic-stricken, crack-brained suicides who rush to burn out their guts with gulps of disinfectant; now it seems scarcely less civilized to end this pleasant week with twenty hard swallows and twenty sips of water. Still, life is like that. I'll take it easy.»
Accordingly he arranged his pillows very comfortably, congratulated himself on his pyjamas, and propped up a photograph against his bedside clock. «I have no appetite,» he said. «I force myself to eat as a duty to my friends. There is no bore like a despairing lover.» And with that he began to toy with this last, light, plain little meal.
