not the man who stands near me, who is the real Karl. The man I have thought real is only a reflection of that reflection. Do you follow what I say?”
I nodded. “I believe so.”
“I plead again: ‘Do not kill him. Nothing good can come of it. . . .’ My husband nods to the officer, the soldiers raise their rifles, and . . . and . . .”
“You wake. Would you like my handkerchief, Countess? It is of coarse weave, but it is clean, and much larger than your own.”
“Karl is right—I am only a foolish little girl. No, monsieur, I do not wake—not yet. The soldiers fire. The Dream-Master falls forward, though his bonds hold him to the tree. And Karl flies to bloody rags beside me.”
On my way back to my hotel, I purchased a map of the city, and when I reached my room I laid it flat on the table there. There could be no question of the route of the countess’s glass coach—straight down the Hauptstrasse, the only street in the city wide enough to take a carriage surrounded by cavalrymen. The most probable route by which Herr R——might go from his house to his bank coincided with the Hauptstrasse for several blocks. The path Fraulein A——would travel from her flat to the arcade crossed the Hauptstrasse at a point contained by that interval. I needed to know no more.
Very early the next morning I took up my post at the intersection. If my man were still alive after the fusillade Count von V——fired at him each night, it seemed certain that he would appear at this spot within a few days, and I am hardened to waiting. I smoked cigarettes while I watched the citizens of I——walk up and down before me. When an hour had passed, I bought a newspaper from a vendor, and stole a few glances at its pages when foot traffic was light.
Gradually I became aware that I was watched—we boast of reason, but there are senses over which reason holds no authority. I did not know where my watcher was, yet I felt his gaze on me, whichever way I turned. So, I thought,
Without appearing to do so, I looked up and down both streets in search of another lounger like myself. There was no one—not a drowsing grandfather, not a woman or a child, not even a dog. Certainly no tall man with a forked beard and piercing eyes. The windows then—I studied them all, looking for some movement in a dark room behind a seemingly innocent opening. Nothing.
Only the buildings behind me remained. I crossed to the opposite side of the Hauptstrasse and looked once more. Then I laughed.
They must have thought me mad, all those dour burghers, for I fairly doubled over, spitting my cigarette to the sidewalk and clasping my hands to my waist for fear my belt would burst. The presumption, the impudence, the brazen insolence of the fellow! The stupidity, the wonderful stupidity of myself, who had not recognized his old stories! For the remainder of my life now, I could accept any case with pleasure, pursue the most inept criminal with zest, knowing that there was always a chance he might outwit such an idiot as I.
For the Dream-Master had set up His own picture, and full-length and in the most gorgeous colors, in his window. Choking and spluttering, I saluted it, and then, still filled with laughter, I crossed the street once more and went inside, where I knew I would find Him. A man awaited me there—not the one I sought, but one who understood Whom it was I had come for, and knew as well as I that His capture was beyond any thief taker’s power. I knelt, and there, though not to the satisfaction I suppose of Baron H——, Fraulein A——, Herr R——, and the Count and Countess von V——, I destroyed the Dream-Master as He has been sacrificed so often, devouring His white, wheaten flesh that we might all possess life without end.
Dear people, dream on.
G. K. Chesterton wrote that ordinary life “is like ten thousand thrilling detective stories mixed up with a spoon.” If we look at it that way—which is rather fun—we can quickly come up with ten thousand stories.
Some of which will show that the criminal cannot be apprehended. And some of which will show, like this one, that the criminal should not be.
I will not lecture you on Jesus of Nazareth, but I advise you to find Chesterton’s
Kevin Malone
Marcella and I were married in April. I lost my position with Ketterly, Bruce & Drake in June, and by August we were desperate. We kept the apartment—I think we both felt that if we lowered our standards there would be no chance to raise them again—but the rent tore at our small savings. All during July I had tried to get a job at another brokerage firm, and by August I was calling fraternity brothers I had not seen since graduation and expressing an entire willingness to work in whatever businesses their fathers owned. One of them, I think, must have mailed us the advertisement.
There was a telephone number, which I omit for reasons that will become clear.
I showed the clipping to Marcella, who was lying with her cocktail shaker on the chaise longue. She said, “Why not,” and I dialed the number.
The telephone buzzed in my ear, paused, and buzzed again. I allowed myself to go limp in my chair. It seemed absurd to call at all; for the advertisement to have reached us that day, it must have appeared no later than yesterday morning. If the position was worth having—
“The Pines.”
I pulled myself together. “You placed a classified ad. For an attractive couple, well educated and the rest of
