Mark Twain's Medieval Romance

by Otto Penzler

But, on the surface, at least, all was serene. Hugh greeted me warmly, Elizabeth was her cheerful self, and we had an amiable lunch and a long talk which never came near the subject of Raymond or the Dane house. I said nothing about Elizabeth’s phone call, but thought of it with a steadily growing sense of outrage until I was alone with her.

  “Now,” I said, “I’d like an explanation of all this mystery. The Lord knows what I expected to find out here, but it certainly wasn’t anything I’ve seen so far. And I’d like some accounting for the bad time you’ve given me since that call.”

  “All right,” she said grimly, “and that’s what you’ll get. Come along.”

  She led the way on a long walk through the gardens and past the stables and outbuildings. Near the private road which lay beyond the last grove of trees she suddenly said, “When the car drove you up to the house didn’t you notice anything strange about this road?”

  “No, I didn’t,”

  “I suppose not. The driveway to the house turns off too far away from here. But now you’ll have a chance to see for yourself.”

  I did see for myself. A chair was set squarely in the middle of the road and on the chair sat a stout man placidly reading a magazine. I recognized the man at once: he was one of Hugh’s stable hands, and he had the patient look of someone who has been sitting for a long time and expects to sit a good deal longer. It took me only a second to realize what he was there for, but Elizabeth wasn’t leaving anything to my deductive powers. When we walked over to him, the man stood up and grinned at us.

  “William,” Elizabeth said, “would you mind telling my brother what instructions Mr. Lozier gave you?”

  “Sure,” the man said cheerfully. “Mr. Lozier told us there was always supposed to be one of us sitting right here, and any truck we saw that might be carrying construction stuff or suchlike for the Dane house was to be stopped and turned back. All we had to do was tell them it’s private property and they were trespassing. If they laid a finger on us we just call in the police. That’s the whole thing.”

  “Have you turned back any trucks?” Elizabeth asked for my benefit.

  The man looked surprised. “Why, you know that, Mrs. Lozier,” he said. “There was a couple of them the first day we were out here, and that was all. There wasn’t any fuss either,” he explained to me. “None of those drivers wants to monkey with trespass.”

  When we were away from the road again I clapped my hand to my forehead, “It’s incredible!” I said. “Hugh must know he can’t get away with this. That road is the only one to the Dane place, and it’s been in public use so long that it isn’t even a private thoroughfare anymore!”

  Elizabeth nodded. “And that’s exactly what Raymond told Hugh a few days back. He came over here in a fury, and they had quite an argument about it. And when Raymond said something about hauling Hugh off to court. Hugh answered that he’d be glad to spend the rest of his life in litigation over this business. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The last thing Raymond said was that Hugh ought to know that force only invites force, and ever since then I’ve been expecting a war to break out here any minute. Don’t you see? That man blocking the road is a constant provocation, and it scares me.”

  I could understand that. And the more I considered the matter, the more dangerous it looked.

  “But I have a plan,” Elizabeth said eagerly, “and that’s why I wanted you here. I’m having a dinner party tonight, a very small, informal dinner party. It’s to be a sort of peace conference. You’ll be there, and Dr. Wynant— Hugh likes you both a great deal—and,” she hesitated, “Raymond.”

  “No!” I said. “You mean he’s actually coming?”

  “I went over to see him yesterday and we had a long talk. I explained everything to him—about neighbors being able to sit down and come to an understanding, and about brotherly love and—oh, it must have sounded dreadfully inspirational and sticky, but it worked. He said he would be there.”

  I had a foreboding. “Does Hugh know about this?”

  “About the dinner? Yes.”

  “I mean, about Raymond’s being here.”

  “No, he doesn’t.” And then when she saw me looking hard at her, she burst out defiantly with, “Well, something had to be done, and I did it, that’s all! Isn’t it better than just sitting and waiting for God knows what?”

  Until we were all seated around the dining room table that evening I might have conceded the point. Hugh had been visibly shocked by Raymond’s arrival, but then, apart from a sidelong glance at Elizabeth which had volumes written in it, he managed to conceal his feelings well enough. He had made the introductions gracefully, kept up his end of the conversation and, all in all, did a creditable job of playing host.

  Ironically, it was the presence of Dr. Wynant which made even this much of a triumph possible for Elizabeth, and which then turned it into disaster. The doctor was an eminent surgeon, stocky and gray-haired, with an abrupt, positive way about him. Despite his own position in the world he seemed pleased as a schoolboy to meet Raymond, and in no time at all they were as thick as thieves.

  It was when Hugh discovered during dinner that nearly all attention was fixed on Raymond and very little on himself that the mantle of good host started to slip, and the fatal flaws in Elizabeth’s plan showed through. There are people who enjoy entertaining lions and who take pleasure in reflected glory, but Hugh was not one of them. Besides, he regarded the doctor as one of his closest friends, and I have noticed that it is the most assured of men who can be the most jealous of their friendships. And when a prized friendship is being impinged on by the man one loathes more than anything else in the world—! All in all, by simply imagining myself in Hugh’s place and looking across the table at Raymond who was gaily and unconcernedly holding forth, I was prepared for the worst.

  The opportunity for it came to Hugh when Raymond was deep in a discussion of the devices used in affecting escapes. They were innumerable, he said. Almost anything one could seize on would serve as such a device. A wire, a scrap of metal, even a bit of paper—at one time or another he had used them all.

  “But of them all,” he said with a sudden solemnity, “there is only one I would stake my life on. Strange, it is one you cannot see cannot hold in your hand—in fact, for many people it does not even exist. Yet it is the one I have used most often and which has never failed me.”

  The doctor leaned forward, his eyes bright with interest. “And it is—?”

  “It is a knowledge of people, my friend. Or, as it may be put, a knowledge of human nature. To me it is as vital an instrument as the scalpel is to you.”

  “Oh?” said Hugh, and his voice was so sharp that all eyes were instantly turned on him. “You make sleight of hand sound like a department of psychology.”

  “Perhaps,” Raymond said, and I saw he was watching Hugh now, gauging him. “You see there is no great mystery in the matter. My profession—my art, as I like to think of it—is no more than the art of misdirection, and I am but one of its many practitioners.”

  “I wouldn’t say there were many escape artists around nowadays,” the doctor remarked.

  “True,” Raymond said, “but you will observe I referred to the art of misdirection. The escape artist, the master of legerdemain, these are a handful who practice the most exotic form of that art. But what of those who engage in the work of politics, of advertising, of salesmanship?” He laid his finger along his nose in the familiar gesture, and winked. “I am afraid they have all made my art their business.”

  The doctor smiled. “Since you haven’t dragged medicine into it I’m willing to go along with you,” he said. “But what I want to know is, exactly how does this knowledge of human nature work in your profession?”

  “In this way,” Raymond said. “One must judge a person carefully. Then, if he finds in that person certain weaknesses he can state a false premise and it will be accepted without question. Once the false premise is swallowed, the rest is easy. The victim will t
hen see only what the magician wants him to see, or will give his vote to that politician, or will buy merchandise because of that advertising.” He shrugged. “And that is all there is to it.”

  “Is it?” Hugh said. “But what happens when you’re with people who have some intelligence and won’t swallow your false premise? How do you do your tricks then? Or do you keep them on the same level as selling beads to the savages?”

  “Now that’s uncalled for, Hugh,” the doctor said. “The man’s expressing his ideas. No reason to make an issue of them.”

  “Maybe there is,” Hugh said, his eyes fixed on Raymond. “I have found he’s full of interesting ideas. I was wondering how far he’d want to go in backing them up.”

  Raymond touched the napkin to his lips with a precise little flick, and then laid it carefully on the table before him. “In short,” he said, addressing himself to Hugh, “you want a small demonstration of my art.”

  “It depends,” Hugh said. “I don’t want any trick cigarette cases or rabbits out of hats or any damn nonsense like that. I’d like to see something good.”

  “Something good,” echoed Raymond reflectively. He looked around the room, studied it, and then turned to Hugh, pointing toward the huge oak door which was closed between the dining room and the living room, where we had gathered before dinner.

  “That door is not locked, is it?”

  “No,” Hugh said, “it isn’t, it hasn’t been locked for years.”

  “But there is a key to it?”

  Hugh pulled out his key chain, and with an effort detached a heavy, old-fashioned key. “Yes, it’s the same one we use for the butler’s pantry.” He was becoming interested despite himself.

  “Good. No, do not give it to me. Give it to the doctor. You have faith in the doctor’s honor, I am sure?”

  “Yes,” said Hugh dryly, “I have.”

  “Very well. Now, doctor, will you please go to that door and lock it.”

  The doctor marched to the door, with his firm, decisive tread, thrust the key into the lock, and turned it. The click of the bolt snapping into place was loud in the silence of the room. The doctor returned to the table holding the key, but Raymond motioned it away. “It must not leave your hand or everything is lost,” he warned.

  “Now,” Raymond said, “for the finale I approach the door, I flick my handkerchief at it”—the handkerchief barely brushed the keyhole—“and presto, the door is unlocked!”

  The doctor went to it. He seized the doorknob, twisted it dubiously, and then watched with genuine astonishment as the door swung silently open.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  “Somehow,” Elizabeth laughed, “a false premise went down easy as an oyster.”

  Only Hugh reflected a sense of personal outrage. “All right,” he demanded, “how was it done? How did you work it?”

  “I?” Raymond said reproachfully, and smiled at all of us with obvious enjoyment. “It was you who did it all. I used only my little knowledge of human nature to help you along the way.”

  I said, “I can guess part of it. That door was set in advance, and when the doctor thought he was locking it, he wasn’t. He was really unlocking it. Isn’t that the answer?”

  Raymond nodded. “Very much the answer. The door was locked in advance. I made sure of that, because with a little forethought I suspected there would be such a challenge during the evening, and this was the simplest way of preparing for it, I merely made certain that I was the last one to enter this room, and when I did I used this.” He held up his hand so that we could see the sliver of metal in it. “An ordinary skeleton key, of course, but sufficient for an old and primitive lock.”

  For a moment Raymond looked grave, then he continued brightly, “It was our host himself who stated the false premise when he said the door was unlocked. He was a man so sure of himself that he would not think to test anything so obvious. The doctor is also a man who is sure, and he fell into the same trap. It is, as you now see, a little dangerous always to be so sure.”

  “I’ll go along with that,” the doctor said ruefully, “even though it’s heresy to admit it in my line of work.” He playfully tossed the key he had been holding across the table to Hugh, who let it fall in front of him and made no gesture toward it. “Well, Hugh, like it or not, you must admit the man has proved his point.”

  “Do I?” said Hugh softly. He sat there smiling a little now, and it was easy to see he was turning some thought over and over in his head.

  “Oh, come on, man,” the doctor said with some impatience. “You were taken in as much as we were. You know that.”

  “Of course you were, darling,” Elizabeth agreed.

  I think that she suddenly saw her opportunity to turn the proceedings into the peace conference she had aimed at, but I could have told her she was choosing her time badly. There was a look in Hugh’s eye I didn’t like—a veiled look which wasn’t natural to him. Ordinarily, when he was really angered, he would blow up a violent storm, and once the thunder and lightning had passed he would be honestly apologetic. But this present mood of his was different. There was a slumbrous quality in it which alarmed me.

  He hooked one arm over the back of his chair and rested the other on the table, sitting halfway around to fix his eyes on Raymond. “I seem to be a minority of one,” he remarked, “but I’m sorry to say I found your little trick disappointing. Not that it wasn’t cleverly done—I’ll grant that, all right—but because it wasn’t any more than you’d expect from a competent locksmith.”

  “Now there’s a large helping of sour grapes,” the doctor jeered. Hugh shook his head. “No, I’m simply saying that where there’s a lock on a door and the key to it in your hand, it’s no great trick to open it. Considering our friend’s reputation, I thought we’d see more from him than that.”

  Raymond grimaced. “Since I had hoped to entertain,” he said “I must apologize for disappointing.”

  “Oh, as far as entertainment goes I have no complaints. But for a real test—”

  “A real test?”

  “Yes, something a little different. Let’s say, a door without any locks or keys to tamper with. A closed door which can be opened with a fingertip, but which is nevertheless impossible to open. How does that sound to you?”

  Raymond narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, as if he were considering the picture being presented to him. “It sounds most interesting,” he said at last. “Tell me more about it.”

  “No,” Hugh said, and from the sudden eagerness in his voice I felt that this was the exact moment he had been looking for. “I’ll do better than that. I’ll show it to you.”

  He stood up brusquely and the rest of us followed suit—except Elizabeth, who remained in her seat. When I asked her if she wanted to come along, she only shook her head and sat there watching us hopelessly as we left the room.

  We were bound for the cellars, I realized, when Hugh picked up a flashlight along the way, but for a part of the cellars I had never seen before. On a few occasions I had gone downstairs to help select a bottle of wine from the racks there, but now we walked past the wine vault and into a long, dimly lit chamber behind it. Our feet scraped loudly on the rough stone, the walls around us showed the stains of seepage, and warm as the night was outside, I could feel the chill of dampness turning my chest to gooseflesh. When the doctor shuddered and said hollowly, “These are the very tombs of Atlantis,” I knew I wasn’t alone in my feeling, and felt some relief at that.

  We stopped at the very end of the chamber, before what I can best describe as a stone closet built from floor to ceiling in the farthest angle of the walls. It was about four feet wide and not quite twice that, in length, and its open doorway showed impenetrable blackness inside, Hugh reached into the blackness and pulled a heavy door into place.

  “That’s it,” he said abruptly. “Plain solid wood, four inches thick, fitted flush into the frame so that it’s almost airtight. It’s a beautiful piece of carpentry, too,
the kind they practiced two hundred years ago. And no locks or bolts. Just a ring set into each side to use as a handle.” He pushed the door gently and it swung open noiselessly at his touch. “See that? The whole thing is balanced so perfectly on the hinges that it moves like a feather.”

  “But what is it for?” I asked. “It must have been made for a reason.”

  Hugh laughed shortly. “It was. Back in the bad old days, when a servant committed a crime—and I don’t suppose it had to be more of a crime than talking back to one of the ancient Loziers—he was put in here to repent. And since the air inside was good for only a few hours at the most, he either repented damn soon or not at all.”

  “And that door?” the doctor said cautiously. “That impressive door of yours which opens at a touch to provide all the air needed—what prevented the servant from opening it?”

  “Look,” Hugh said. He flashed his light inside the cell and we crowded behind him to peer in. The circle of light reached across the cell to its far wall and picked out a short, heavy chain hanging a little above head level with a U-shaped collar dangling from its bottom link.

  “I see,” Raymond said, and they were the first words I had heard him speak since we had left the dining room. “It is truly ingenious. The man stands with his back against the wall, facing the door. The collar is placed around his neck, and then—since it is clearly not made for a lock—it is clamped there, hammered around his neck. The door is closed, and the man spends the next few hours like someone on an invisible rack, reaching out with his feet to catch the ring on the door which is just out of reach. If he is lucky he may not strangle himself in his iron collar, but may live until someone chooses to open the door for him.”

  “My God,” the doctor said. “You make me feel as if I were living through it.”

  Raymond smiled faintly. “I have lived through many such experiences and, believe me, the reality is always a little worse than the worst imaginings. There is always the ultimate moment of terror, of panic, when the heart pounds so madly you think it will burst through your ribs, and the cold sweat soaks clear through you in the space of one breath. That is when you must take yourself in hand, must dispel all weakness, and remember all the lessons you have ever learned. If not—!” He whisked the edge of his hand across his lean throat. “Unfortunately for the usual victim of such a device,” he concluded sadly, “since he lacks the essential courage and knowledge to help himself, he succumbs.”