Nightmare

by Lynn Brock

  As he wandered towards the kitchen in search of another candle, his eyes fell on the gramophone standing in its old place with its lid open and a dusty record resting on its table. A little tune would liven things up a bit and get into all those dark corners. He set it going and stood listening, wondering if old what-was-his-name was still in the flat underneath, and whether he would have another swig before he looked for candles. After all, he didn’t think he was going to be ill just yet.

  4

  Downstairs Mr Knayle paced to and fro fitfully, pursuing the irritation from which he fled. Sometimes the grinding smash of glass beneath his feet turned him aside in search of a new course for his restlessness. But the furniture baulked him and drove him back to the imprisonment of one short path. There was no escape from it; his buzzing, trembling mind must go, and turn and come back along it, always checked, always beginning again. When he stood still the swirling waters roared threateningly and the clamps tightened on his temples. He had become uneasy about his headache. the solid part of it had swollen and was pressing outwards against the clamps. It was safer to keep moving—safer not to let that roar become too loud. Blood-pressure, probably; something would have to be done about it tomorrow if it wasn’t better. Tomorrow—today. Mr Knayle saw that it was nearly one o’clock and knew that far the wisest thing would have been to go to bed. The room had settled into grey aloofness and watched him with impatience. But he was determined not to be driven from it—determined that this—this—

  He stopped, rubbed his forehead impatiently, then went on again, clicking his fingers impatiently. Strange this feeling that thoughts were solid, bursting heavinesses which it was exasperated weariness to move. But they must be moved—urged on before their weight became too heavy and too hated. Determined that this—this—

  Turn again—begin again. Determined to what? Something about Mrs Prossip … Determined to—to understand quite clearly about Mrs Prossip.

  The old, weary, sick business beginning again—the infernal Prossips—Whalley—the lane—the hammer—Chidgey—Agatha Judd. The old exhausted, hated questions sliding by. No answers to them—only futility and nausea. What did it matter about that fellow Whalley? Let him pace. Why think of him or trouble about him? Why not leave him up there—escape from him tomorrow—today?

  But no. Mr Knayle had done with escaping and shirking. This thing of Whalley must be faced and dealt with. He saw that he must face it and deal with it—that no one else could gather it together and piece it into certainty. Only he knew all about Whalley. For who knew—who knew that—that?

  He turned and began again. The whole thing was there, tremblingly clear, buzzing with clearness. But the chain slid by too quickly; he couldn’t select a piece and make it a beginning. Whalley in the lane … but a week before the murder. That proved nothing unless—unless one began with the hammer. But before one could begin with the hammer one had to begin with Chidgey. Had Chidgey really missed a hammer? Turn again. Begin with Whalley saying that he hadn’t been in Guildford. But that began nothing unless one began with the lane, and the lane slid away until Chidgey slid up again. Agatha Judd—begin with her. But there was no beginning with her unless one began first with the Prossip girl—Whalley in the lane—Chidgey sliding up again.

  Turn again. Face it and deal with it—gather up that fellow Whalley up there, drag him out of his hiding-place and finish him. Begin again. This about Mrs Prossip and her bicycle. A two-seater—a driver with a bandaged head—fog. But when—what foggy morning? What had killed her—her heart or the car? No beginning there—no proof unless those pieces fitted. Even then—even then—As he turned once more, Mr Knayle paused abruptly, looking upwards. A faint, new overtone had added itself to the mournful wailing of the wind—a sound whose improbability startled him, yet seemed to him expected—a dream-like, half-heard answer to his baulking thoughts. His nerves tightened as he listened to it. It was a prelude—a warning that filled the room with urgent danger. It came and went—swirled—died away in sickened weariness—shattered itself in an explosion which stunned the wind to silence. A splinter of glass dislodged itself from the broken window-pane and tinkled softly to the floor before a second report hurled him into furious action. Three more followed in rapid succession while he scuttled to the hall-door, snatching up a riding-crop as he went. Madness up there—murder broken loose. But he would deal with them. It was avenging justice that scuttled up the outside staircase and hammered savagely at a door that dared not open.

  The wind was very loud up there and Mr Knayle had run up the steps so quickly that his ears roared like thunder. He heard a hiccup and knew that Prossip had come down and was standing beside him in the darkness, saying something about firing. But he didn’t want to hear what Prossip was saying—Prossip who had brought back all this madness—who knew nothing—who was too drunk to understand anything. He turned a little, pushed him away with a thrust of his elbow and resumed his hammering until, at last, the door opened.

  Ridgeway stood looking at him in an acrid mist that drifted sluggishly. His eyes were sly; Mr Knayle hated their narrow furtiveness and stormed in, twitching his crop.

  ‘What’s this?’ he demanded. ‘Who fired those—those—? Who fired?’

  ‘Don’t make a fuss,’ Ridgeway replied hurriedly. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘All right? All right?’ repeated Mr Knayle. ‘All right?’

  He hurried up the little staircase and stood looking about him in the narrow passage. It was blocked with chairs and tables, untidy heaps of crockery stood everywhere, mirrors and pictures lay smothered in the dust from an overturned coal-box. Its confusion confused him. For a moment he couldn’t think why he was standing there looking at it.

  ‘All right?’ he said again, angrily. ‘Who—who fired those shots?’

  Ridgeway came up and passed him slowly, watching the twitching of the crop.

  ‘Whalley.’

  ‘Did he, by God?’ said Prossip, coming up a step. ‘Did he, by God?’

  But Ridgeway was moving on slyly, creeping towards a door at the end of the passage, without seeming to move his feet.

  ‘Wait—wait now,’ commanded Mr Knayle. ‘Stand still, you old fool. Why did he fire?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was asleep. It’s all right. Don’t shout.’

  ‘Shout?’

  Mr Knayle’s voice slid up to shrillness and cracked so sharply that Ridgeway stopped to look back at him curiously. His eyes had risen to the ceiling and suddenly seen certainty. There it was, looking down at him, the answer to all his questions. The crudest of physical facts—a square of painted boardwork scarred by a ring of splintered gashes. Its crudity amazed him. It was merely a piece of splintered wood let into the plaster of the ceiling, altogether separated from significance. And yet he knew that it explained everything—that now he knew all about Whalley. The gramophone—that was it—that was the truth of it all. The gramophone—blaring—blaring—never stopping—torture like pacing footsteps. That was the beginning—the first piece—there, just within his grasp if he could stop its sliding and trembling.

  He turned towards Prossip.

  ‘The gramophone—’ he said. ‘He fired at the gramophone.’

  But Prossip’s face was white and trembling with fright—dribbling at the lips—going to be sick. Mr Knayle turned away from it in loathing. Who could explain to it?

  ‘It was an accident,’ said Ridgeway. ‘He didn’t know what he was doing. It’s all right. Don’t make a fuss.’

  ‘Accident?’ Mr Knayle repeated shrilly. ‘Accident? It was murder—murder, do you hear? I warn you, Ridgeway. I know all about him. I know—’

  Strange—he was standing there, opening and shutting his mouth and making no sound whatever. Ridgeway had slid through a door and shut it behind him. Whalley was in there, then—caught—cornered at last—the mad pacer—the evil, hiding thing that must be finished.

  Strange though that there was no sound.

  It was clear to Mr Knay
le what he must do next. He must fling open that door, stride in, point his crop at Whalley and tell him all he knew about him. He must tell it all perfectly clearly, adding piece to piece, building it up to certainty, while Whalley listened in shame and fear. It was a fine, avenging entry and Mr Knayle’s anger trembled on the point of making it—hung on the verge of movement. One more exhausted lifting—one more effort of torment—and then done with madness for ever.

  The gramophone. Begin again. Torture—nausea—impotence. But begin again at Whalley—tear him out of it. Begin again. The gramophone—red scars—five of them in a circle—deliberate—

  Suddenly Prossip was abominably ill. He had seated himself on the stairs and was leaning on his hands, vomiting with the gloomy abandonment of a disgorging ghoul. Mr Knayle stared at his heaving blackness for a moment in furious disgust, then rushed to the door at the end of the passage and hurled himself against it.

  Another strange thing happened to him then—so suddenly that his perception of it clouded itself in acrid darkness. He knew that he was trying to open a door—that he desired to open it—that he had hurled himself against it in his desire to open it. But it refused to open—he had no power whatever to begin to open it. His body was a mere wisp of thistledown fluttering impotently against the battlements of a fortress—battlements of a weight and thickness for which there was no measurement. They towered above his feebleness—beat it back—scattered it in dizziness. Nothing would make them yield or surrender their secret. His fingers fumbled, lost the handle, found it again—could not begin the thought of turning it.

  Strange. Dizzy as whirling thistledown. But it must be dealt with—finished.

  The darkness cleared a little and Mr Knayle’s determination at last opened the door and carried him slowly into the room. Inside was silence and a confusion which bewildered him and deprived him of all sense of direction. At first he could see nothing except a barrier of furniture which occupied the central portion of the floor, collected, yet scattered as if some purpose had died in aimlessness. He edged along it, pushed a chair aside, stumbled over a rolled-up carpet, came to a pause before a bed which stood wedged between a wardrobe and a dressing-table. Its position stupefied him. It was a bed all ready for use—unruffled—immaculate in its crisp neatness and cleanness; and yet it stood there in the centre of the room, abandoned to the disorder which enclosed it. For a moment he stared at it vaguely, then moved on slowly until, rounding the side of the wardrobe, he saw another bed, standing awry in the angle of two walls.

  But for Mr Knayle it was not a bed. It was a swirling torment of defeat which crushed his mind to nothingness. On it lay two figures interlocked in a frantic embrace which had the fixity of paralysis yet still struggled in delirious ferocity. But they had no significance—no thought. He knew that their struggling had ended. His questions would remain for ever unanswered. They were utter frustration.

  His mind strove with them for an instant feebly, trying to disentangle them, trying to reach the thing which had baffled and eluded him and now lay hidden beneath a dingy dressing-gown. But Mr Ridgeway held his company fast; there was nothing that was Whalley except a twisted leg escaping from a rumpled eiderdown. Mr Knayle felt very weary of it suddenly and couldn’t understand it. His ears roared painfully because its trembling deadness would never give an answer. It seemed to him safer to sit down until the pain had passed.

  He made his way back to the other bed and seated himself on it with a little sigh of relief. It was very soft, very clean—without torment or question. After some moments his attention was attracted to a little case which rested on the pillows—a dainty thing of jade-coloured silk on which the name ‘Elsa’ was embroidered in a darker green. The letters trembled so violently that he bent his head to see them clearly. A faint perfume of roses assailed him dizzily—smiling—sunlit—dancing. Very slowly his head dropped to the pillows and lay quite still.

  5

  After a little while Mr Prossip felt much better. He was still badly frightened and he didn’t think he’d bother to find out what was going on in that room at the end of the passage. The whole business struck him as damn queer. But everything was damn queer, when you thought about it. He ascended to his own flat in offended dignity, cheered himself up with another swig at his bottle, and then thought that he’d find out whether the gramophone had been damaged or had just stopped of its own accord.

  To his satisfaction it was quite uninjured—much louder and jollier now that he had been ill.

  THE END

  THE DETECTIVE STORY CLUB

  E. C. BENTLEY • TRENT’S LAST CASE

  E. C. BENTLEY • TRENT INTERVENES

  E. C. BENTLEY & H. WARNER ALLEN • TRENT’S OWN CASE

  ANTHONY BERKELEY • THE WYCHFORD POISONING CASE

  ANTHONY BERKELEY • THE SILK STOCKING MURDER

  BERNARD CAPES • THE MYSTERY OF THE SKELETON KEY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE • THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD

  AGATHA CHRISTIE THE BIG FOUR

  HUGH CONWAY • CALLED BACK

  HUGH CONWAY • DARK DAYS

  EDMUND CRISPIN • THE CASE OF THE GILDED FLY

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE CASK

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE PONSON CASE

  FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS • THE GROOTE PARK MURDER

  MAURICE DRAKE • THE MYSTERY OF THE MUD FLATS

  FRANCIS DURBRIDGE • BEWARE OF JOHNNY WASHINGTON

  J. JEFFERSON FARJEON • THE HOUSE OPPOSITE

  RUDOLPH FISHER • THE CONJURE-MAN DIES

  FRANK FROËST • THE GRELL MYSTERY

  FRANK FROËST & GEORGE DILNOT • THE CRIME CLUB

  ÉMILE GABORIAU • THE BLACKMAILERS

  ANNA K. GREEN • THE LEAVENWORTH CASE

  VERNON LODER • THE MYSTERY AT STOWE

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE RASP

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE NOOSE

  PHILIP MACDONALD • MURDER GONE MAD

  PHILIP MACDONALD • THE MAZE

  NGAIO MARSH • THE NURSING HOME MURDER

  G. ROY MCRAE • THE PASSING OF MR QUINN

  R. A. V. MORRIS • THE LYTTLETON CASE

  ARTHUR B. REEVE • THE ADVENTURESS

  FRANK RICHARDSON • THE MAYFAIR MYSTERY

  R. L. STEVENSON • DR JEKYLL AND MR HYDE

  EDGAR WALLACE • THE TERROR

  ISRAEL ZANGWILL • THE PERFECT CRIME

  FURTHER TITLES IN PREPARATION

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