Hibbard: Oh yes. Many of us did. Some of us saw him frequently; one or two associated with him closely. Around that time his latent brilliance seemed to find itself in maturity. He… well… he did things which aroused admiration and interest. Convinced as I was that he was psychopathic, I nevertheless felt less concern for him than I had for a long time, for he appeared to be genuinely involved in satisfactory – at least compensatory – achievement. The awakening came in a startling manner.
There -was a reunion – a gathering – of a group of us, and one of us -was killed – died – obviously, we unanimously thought, by an accident. But he – that is, the man we had injured – was there; and a few days later each of us received through the mail a communication from him saying that he had killed one of us and that the rest would follow; that he had embarked on a ship of vengeance.
Wolfe: Indeed. Psychopathic must have begun to seem almost an euphemism.
Hibbard: Yes. But there was nothing we could do.
Wolfe: Since you were equipped with evidence, it might not have proven hazardous to inform the police.
P Hibbard: We had no evidence.
Wolfe: The communication?
Hibbard: They were typewritten, unsigned, and were expressed in ambiguous terms which rendered them worthless for practical purposes such as evidence. He had even disguised his style, very cleverly; it was not his style at all.
But it was plain enough to us. Each of us got one; not only those who had been present at the gathering, but all of us, all members of the league. Of course -Wolfe: The league?
Hibbard: That was a slip. It doesn't matter. Many years ago, when a few of us were together discussing this, one -maudlin, of course – suggested that we should call ourselves the League of Atonement. The phrase hung on, in a way. Latterly it was never heard except in jest. Now I fancy the jokes are ended. I was going to say, of course all of us do not live in New York, only about half.
One got his warning, just the same, in San Francisco. In New York a few of us got together and discussed it. We made a sort of an investigation, and we saw – him, and had a talk with him. He denied sending the warnings. He seemed amused, in his dark soul, and unconcerned. | Wolfe: Dark soul is an odd phrase for a psychologist? H Hibbard: / read poetry weekends.
Wolfe: Just so. And?
Hibbard: Nothing happened for some time. Three months. Then another of us was killed. Found dead. The police said suicide, and it seemed that all indications pointed in that direction. But two days later a second warning was mailed to each of us, with the same purport and obviously from the same source. It was worded with great cleverness, with brilliance.
Wolfe: This time, naturally, you went to the police. Hibbard: Why naturally? We were still without evidence.; iy Wolfe: Only that you would. One or some of you would. Hibbard: They did. I was against it, but they did go – Wolfe: Why were you against it?
Hibbard: I felt it was useless. Also… well… I could not bring myself to join in a demand for retribution, his life perhaps, from the man we had injured… you understand…
Wolfe: Quite. First, the police could find no proof. Second, they might.
Hibbard: Very well. I was not engaged in an essay on logic. A man may debar nonsense from his library of reason, but not from the arena of his impulses.
Wolfe: Good. Neat. And the police?
Hibbard: They got nowhere. He made total asses of them. He described to me their questioning and his replies – ^ Wolfe: You still saw him? ^ r Hibbard: Of course. We -were friends.
Oh yes. The police went into % it, questioned him, questioned all of us, investigated all they could, and came out empty-handed. Some of them, some of the group, got private detectives. That was two weeks, twelve days ago. The detectives are having the same success as the police.
I'm sure of it.
Wolfe: Indeed. What agency?^. ^'•l•'t Hibbard: That is irrelevant. The point is that something happened. I could speak of apprehensions and precautions and so forth, I know plenty of words of that nature, I could even frame the situation in technical psychological terms, but the plain fact is that I'm too scared to go on.
I want you to save me from death. I want to hire you to protect my life.
Wolfe: Yes. What happened? Hibbard: Nothing. Nothing of ^ significance except to me. He came to i; and said something, that's all. It w^ula^ of no advantage to repeat it. My sham^ admission is that I am at lem completely frightened. I'm afraid t^ g^ bed and I'm afraid to get up. Fm afr to eat. I want whatever measure i security you can sell me. I am accu^tor^ to the arrangement of words, a^ ± necessity of talking intelligently to you ^ enforced a semblance of orde^- ^ urbanity in a section of my brai^ ^ around and beneath that order the^e iss veritable panic. After all my exploratki scientific and pseudo-scientific, of ^ extraordinary phenomenon, the hunss psyche, devil-possessed and h^av^ soaring, I am all reduced to this sim simple primitive concern: I am ferric afraid of being killed. The friend ^ suggested my coming here said thc^f ^ possess a remarkable combination ^ talents andi that you have only ^
[weakness. She did not call it cujJidih
I forget her phrasing. I am i^ot \ millionaire, but I have ample private means besides my salary, and I am in no state of mind for haggling.
Wolfe: / always need money. That is of course my affair. I mil undertake to disembark this gentleman from his ship of vengeance, in advance of any injury to you, for the sum of ten thousand dollars.
Hibbard: Disembark him? You can't.
You don't know him. y
