by Whit Burnett
twist, and not a story about real foul murder? Well, just as you
like.
In came Inspector Ulton, and Linley shook hands in silence,
and pointed the way to his bedroom; and they went in there
and talked in low voices, and I never heard a word.
Tba Two Bottles of Relish • 31
A fairly hearty-looking man was the inspector when they
went into that room.
They walked through our sitting room in silence when they
came out, and together they went into the hall, and there I
beard the only words they said to each other. It was the Inspector that first broke that silence.
"But why," he said, "did he cut down the trees?"
"Solely," said Linley, "in order to get an appetite."
MARY NORTON
PAU L'S TALE
" 'HOI HOI' said the king, slapping his fat
thighs. 'Methinks this youth shows promise.' But, at that moment, the court magician stepped forward . . • What is the matter, Paul? Don't you like this story?"
"Yes, I like it."
"Then lie quiet, dear, and listen."
"It was just a sort of stalk of a feather pushing itself through
the eiderdown."
"Well, you needn't help it, dear. It's destructive. Where
were we?" Aunt Isabel's short-sighted eyes searched down the
page of the book. She looked comfortable and pink and plump,
rocking there in the firelight. ". . . stepped forward . you see
the court magician knew that the witch had taken the magic
music box, and that Colin-Paul, you aren't listening!"
"Yes, I am. I can hear."
"Of course you can't hear-right under the bed clothes!
What are you doing, dear?"
"I'm seeing what a hot water bottle feels like."
"Don't you know what a hot water bottles feels like?"
"I know what it feels like to me. I don't know what it feels
like to itself."
"Well, shall I go on or not?"
"Yes, go on," said Paul. He emerged from the bed clothes.
his hair ruffled.
Aunt Isobel looked at him curiously. He was her godsotl; he
had a bad feverish cold; and his mother had gone to London.
"Does it tire you, dear, to be read to?" she said at last.
"No. But I like told stories better than read stories."
Aunt Isobel got up and put some more coal on the fire. Then
she looked at the clock. She sighed. "Well, dear," she said
brightly, as she sat down once more on the rocking chair,
38
Paul's Tala
38
•
"What sort of story would you like?" She unfolded her knitting.
"I'd like a real story."
"How do you mean, dear?" Aunt Isobel began to cast on.
The cord of her pince-nez, anchored to her bosom, rose and
fell in gentle undulations.
Paul flung round on his back, staring at the ceiling. "You
know," he said, "quite real--so you know it must have happened."
"Shall I tell you about Grace Darling?"
"No. Tell me about a little man."
"What sort of a little man?"
"A little man just as high-" Paul's eyes searched the room
-"as that candlestick on the mantelshelf, but without the
candle."
"But that's a very small candlestick. It's only about six
inches."
"Well, about that big."
Aunt Isobel began knitting a few stitches. She was disappointed about the fairy story. She had been reading with so much expression, making a deep voice for the king, and a
wicked, oily voice for the court magician, and a fine, cheerful,
boyish voice for Colin, the swineherd. A little man-what
could she say about a little man? Ah
she exclaimed suddenly,
"
, "
and laid down her knitting, smiling at Paul. Little men . . of
•
course . . •
'"Well," said Aunt Isobel, drawing in her breath. "Once upon
a time, there was a little, tiny man, and he was no bigger than
that candlestick-there on the mantelshelf."
Paul settled down, his cheek on his crook'd arm, his eyes on
Aunt IsobeJ's.face. The firelight flickered softly on the walls and
ceiling.
"He was the sweetest little man you ever saw, and he wore a
little red jerkin. and a dear little cap made out of a foxglove.
His boots .
. "
.
"He didn't have any," said Paul.
Aunt Isobel looked startled. "Yes," she exclaimed. "He had
boots-little, pointed-"
"He didn't have any clothes," contradicted Paul. "He was
quite bare."
Aunt Isobel looked perturbed. "But he would have been
cold," she pointed out.
"He had thick skin," explained Paul. "Like a twig."
"Like a twig?"
"Yes. You know that sort of wrinkly, nubbly skin on a
twig."
Aunt Isobel knitted in silence for a second or two. She didn't
4D
Nineteen Tales ol Tarrar
•
like the little naked man nearly as much as the little dressed
man; she was trying to get used to him. After a while she
went on.
"He lived in a bluebell wood, among the roots of a dear old
tree. He had a dear little house, tunneled out of the soft, loamy
earth, with a bright blue front door."
"Why didn't he live in it?" asked Paul.
"He did live in it, dear," exclaimed Aunt Isobel patiently.
"I thought he lived in the potting shed."
"In the potting shed?"
"Well, perhaps he had two houses. Some people do. I wish
I'd seen the one with the blue front door."
"Did you see the one in the potting shed?" asked Aunt Isobel,
after a second's bewildered silence.
"Not inside. Right inside. I'm too big. I just sort of saw into it
with a flashlight."
"And what was it like?" asked Aunt Isobel; in spite of herself.
"Well, it was clean-in a potting-shed sort of way. He'd
made the furniture himself. The floor was just earth but he'd
trodden it down so that it was hard. It took him years."
"Well, dear, you seem to know more about this little man
than I do."
Paul snuggled his head more comfortably against his elbow.
He half-closed his eyes. "Go on," he said dreamily.
Aunt lsobel glanced at him hesitatingly. How beautiful he
looked, she thought, lying there in the firelight with one curled
hand lying lightly on the counterpane. "Well," she went on,
"this little man had a little pipe made of a straw." She paused,
rather pleased with this idea. "A little hollow straw, through
which he played jiggity little tunes. And to which he danced."
She hesitated. "Among the bluebells," she added. Really, this
was quite a pretty story. She knitted hard for a few seconds,
breathing heavily, before the next bit would come. "Now," she
continued brightly, in a changed, higher, and more conversational voice, "up in the tree, there lived a fairy."
"In the tree?" asked Paul incredulously.
"Yes," said Aunt Isobel, "in the tree."
Paul raised his head. "Do you know that for certain?"
"Well, Paul," began AuQt Isobel. Then she added playfully,
"Well, I suppose I do."
"Go on," said Paul.
"Well, this fairy-"
Paul raised his head again. ••Couldn't you go on about the
little man?"
"But, dear, we've done the little man-how he lived in the
tree roots, and played a pipe, and all that."
"You didn't say about his hands and feet."
Pall's Tala • 41
"His hands and feet?"
"How sort of big his hands and feet lo6ked, and how he
could scuttle along. Like a rat," Paul added.
"Like a rat!" exclaimed Aunt Isobel.
"And his voice. You didn't say anything about his voice."
"What sort of a voice," Aunt lsobel looked almost scared,
"did he have?"
"A croaky sort of voice. Like a frog. And he says 'Will 'ee'
and 'Do 'ee' "
"Willy and Dooey . . . " repeated Aunt Isobel, as if fascinated.
"Instead of 'Will you' and 'Do you.' You know."
"Has he-got a Sussex accent?"
"Sort of. He isn't used to talking. He's the last one. He's been
all alone, for ye�rs and years."
,
"Did he-" Aunt Isobel swallowed. "Did he tell you that?"
"Yes. He had an aunt and she died about fifteen years ago.
But even when she was alive, he never spoke to her."
"Why?" asked Aunt Isobel.
"He didn't like her," said Paul.
There was silence. Paul stared dreamily into the fire. Aunt
Isobel sat as if turned to stone, her hands idle in her lap. After
a while, she cleared her throat. "When did you first see this
little mao, Paul?"
"Oh, ages and ages ago. When did you?"
"I-Where did you find him?"
"Under the chicken house."
"Did you--did you speak to him?"
Paul made a little snort. "No. I just popped a tin over him."
"You caught him !"
"Yes. There was an old rusty chicken-food tin near. I just
popped it over him." Paul laughed. "He scrabbled away inside.
Then I popped an old kitchen plate that was there on top of the
t. "
ID.
Aunt Isobel sat staring at Paul. "What--did you do with
him then?"
"I put him in a cake tin, and made holes in the lid. I gave
him a bit of bread and milk."
·
"Didn't he-say anything?"
"Well, he was sort of croaking."
"And then?"
"Well, I sort of forgot I had him."
"You forgot !"
"I went fishing, you see. Then it was bedtime. And next day
I didn't remember him. Then when I went to look for him, he
was lying curled up at the bottom of the tin. He'd gone all soft.
He just hung over my finger. All soft."
Aunt Isobel's eyes protruded dully. "What did you do then?"
42 • Nineteen Tales ol Terror
"I gave him some cherry corjil in a fountain-pen filler."
"That revived him?"
"Yes, that's when he began to talk. And told me about his
aunt and everything. I harnessed him up, then, with a bit of
string."
"Oh, Paul," exclaimed Aunt Isobel. "how cruel!"
"Well, he'd have got away. It didn't hurt him. Then I tamed
him."
"How did you tame him?"
"Oh, how you tame anything. With food mostly. Chips of
gelatine and raw sago he liked best. Cheese, he liked. I'd take
him out and let him go down rabbit holes and things, on the
string. Then he would come back and tell me what was going
on. I put him down all kinds of holes in trees and things."
"Whatever for?''
"Just to know what was going on. I have all kinds of uses
for him."
"Why," stammered Aunt Isobel, half rising from her chair,
"you haven't still got him, have you?"
Paul sat up on his elbow. "Yes. I've got him. I'm going to
keep him till I go to school. I'll need him at school like anything."
"But it isn't-You wouldn't be allowed-" Aunt Isobel be-
came suddenly extremely grave. "Where is he now?"
"In the cake tin."
"Where is the cake tin?"
"Over there. In the toy cupboard."
Aunt Isobel looked fearfully across the shadowed room. She
stood up. "I am going to put the light on, and I shall take that
cake tin out into the garden."
"It's raining," Paul reminded her.
"I can't help that," said Aunt Isobel. "It is wrong and wicked
to keep a little thing like that shut up in a cake tin. I shall take
it out on to the back porch and open the lid."
"He can hear you," said Paul.
"I don't care if he can hear me." Aunt Isobel walked toward
the door. ''I'm thinking of his good, as much as of anyone
else's." She switched on the light. "Now, which was the cupboard?"
"That one, near the fireplace."
The door was ajar. Timidly Aunt Isobel pulled it open with
one finger. There stood the cake tin amid a medley of tom
cardboard, playing cards, pieces of jigsaw puzzle, and an open
paint box.
"What a mess, Paul!"
Nervously Aunt Isobel stared at the cake tin and, falsely
innocent, the British Royal Family stared back at her, painted
Paul's Tale • •3
brightly on a background of Allied flags. The holes in the lid
were narrow and wedge-shaped; made, no doubt, by the big
blade of the best cutting-out scissors.
Aunt Isabel drew in her breath sharply. "If you weren't ill,
I'd make you do this. I'd make you carry the tin out and watch
you open the lid-" She hesitated as if unnerved by the stillness
of the rain-darkened room and the sinister quiet within the
cake tin.
Then bravely she put out her hand. Paul watched her, absorbed, as she stretched forward the other band and, very gingerly, picked up the cake tin. His eyes were dark and deep. He saw the lid was not quite on. He saw the corner, in contact with
that ample bosom, rise. He saw the sharp edge catch the cord
of Aunt Isabel's pince-nez and, fearing for her rimless glasses,
he sat up in bed.
Aunt Isobel felt the tension, the pressure of the pince-uez on
the bridge of her nose. A pull, it was, a little steady pull as if a
small dark claw, as wrinkled as a twig, had caught the hanging
cord . . • .
"Look out!" cried Paul.
Loudly she shrieked and dropped the box. It bounced away
and then lay still, gaping emptily upon its side. In the horrid
hush, they heard the measured planking of the lid as it trundled
off beneath the bed.
Paul broke the silence with a croupy cough. "Did you see
him?" he asked, hoarse but interested.
"No," stammered Aunt Isobel, almost with a sob. "I didn't.
I didn't see him."
"But you nearly did."
Aunt Isobel sat down limply in the upholstered chair. Her
hand wavered vaguely round her brow and her cheeks looked
white and pendulous, as if deflated. "Yes," she muttered, shivering slightly, "Heaven help me-l nearly did."
Paul gazed at her a moment longer. "That's what I mean,"
he said.
"What?" asked Aunt Isobel weakly, but as if she did not
really care.
"About stories. Being real."
W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM
LO R D M O U NTDRAGO
DR. AU
DLIN looked at the clock on his desk.
It was twenty minutes to six. He was surprised that his patient
was late, for Lord Mountdrago prided himself on his punctuality; he had a sententious way of expressing himself which gave the air of an epigram to a commonplace. remark, and he
was in the habit of saying that punctuality is a compliment you
pay to the intelligent and a rebuke you administer to the stupid.
Lord Mountdrago's appointment was for five-thirty.
There was in Dr. Audlin's appearance nothing to attract attention. He was tall and spare, with narrow shoulders and something of a stoop; his hair was grey and thin; his long, sallow face deeply lined. He was not more than fifty, but he looked older. His eyes, pale blue and rather large, were weary. When
you had been with him for a while you noticed that they moved
very little; they remained fixed on your face, but so empty of
expression were they that it was no discomfort. They seldom
lit up. They gave no clue to his thoughts nor changed with the
words he spoke. If you were of an observant turn it might have
struck you that he blinked much less often than .most of us. His
hands were on the large side, with long, tapering fingers; they
were soft but firm, cool put not clammy. You could never have
said what Dr. Audlin wore unless you had made a point of
looking. His clothes were dark. His tie was black. His dress
made his sallow lined face paler and his pale eyes more wan.
He gave you the impression of a very sick man.
Dr. Audlin was a psychoanalyst. He had adopted the profession by accident and practised it with misgiving. When the war broke out he had not been long qualified and was getting
experience at various hospitals; he offered his services to the
authorities, and after a time was sent out to France. It was then
that he discovered his singular gift. He could allay certain
44
Lord Mou11tdraro • C5
pains by the touch of his cool, firm hands, and by talking to
them often induce sleep in men who were suffering from sleeplessness. He spoke slowly. His voice had no particular colour, and its tone did not alter with the words he uttered, but it was
musical, soft and lulling. He told the men that they must rest,
that they mustn't worry, that they must sleep; and rest stole
into their jaded bones, tranquillity pushed their anxieties away,
like a man finding a place for himself on a crowded bench, and
slumber fell on their tired eyelids like the light rain of spring
