He sat there, his soup getting cold, a wild scientific lustre to his eyes, investigatory heat churning up his system. Yes, by Heaven, yes, yes,
But he must make sure.
He finished his lunch, ignoring smoke and chattering and unpalatable food. He slunk back to his counter. He spent a joyous afternoon scribbling down entries in his journal of convulsions.
The system held.
It stood firm before unbiased test. One irritation per five minutes. Some of them, naturally, were so subtle that only a man with Mr Jasper’s intuitive grasp, a man with a quest, could notice them. These aggravations were underplayed.
And cleverly so! — realised Mr Jasper. Underplayed and intended to dupe.
Well, he would not be duped.
These were typical entries for the afternoon.
They were jotted down with a bellicose satisfaction by a shaking Mr Jasper. A Mr Jasper whose incredible theory was being vindicated.
About three o’clock he decided to eliminate those numbers from one to five since no provocations were mild enough to be judged so leniently.
By four he had discarded every grading but nine and ten.
By five he was seriously considering a new system which began at ten and ranged up to twenty-five.
Mr Jasper had planned to compile at least a week’s annotations before preparing his case. But, somehow, the shocks of the day weakened him. His entries grew more heated, his penmanship less legible.
And, at eleven that night, as the people next door got their second wind and resumed their party with a great shout of laughter, Mr Jasper hurled his pad against the wall with a choking oath and stood there trembling violently. It was definite.
They were out to get him.
Suppose, he thought, there was a secret legion in the world. And that their prime devotion was to drive him from his senses.
Wouldn’t it be possible for them to do this insidious thing without another soul knowing it? Couldn’t they arrange their maddening little intrusions on his sanity so cleverly that it might always seem as if
It was conceivable, feasible, possible and, by heaven, he believed it!
Why not? Couldn’t there be a great sinister legion of people who met in secret cellars by guttering candlelight? And sat there, beady eyes shining with nasty intent, as their leader spoke of more plans for driving Mr Jasper straight to hell?
Sure! Agent X assigned to the row behind Mr Jasper at a movie, there to talk during parts of the picture in which Mr Jasper was most absorbed, there to rattle paper bags at regular intervals, there to masticate popcorn deafeningly until Mr Jasper hunched up, blind-raging, into the aisle and stomped back to another seat.
And here, Agent Y would take over with candy and crinkly wrappers and extra moist sneezes.
Possible. More than possible. It could have been going on for years without his ever acquiring the slightest inkling of its existence. A subtle, diabolical intrigue, near impossible to detect. But now, at last, stripped of its concealing robes, shown in all its naked, awful reality.
Mr Jasper lay abed, cogitating.
No, he thought with a scant remainder of rationality, it is silly. It is a point outlandishly taken.
Why should these people do these things? That was all one had to ask. What was their motive?
Wasn’t it absurd to think that all these people were out to get him? Dead, Mr Jasper was worth nothing. Certainly his two thousand dollar policy subdivided among a vast hidden legion would not amount to more than three or four cents a plotter. Even if he were to be coerced into naming them all as his beneficiaries.
Why, then, did Mr Jasper find himself drifting helplessly into the kitchenette? Why, then, did he stand there so long, balancing the long carving knife in his hand? And why did he shake when he thought of his idea?
Unless it was true.
Before he retired Mr Jasper put the carving blade into its cardboard sheath. Then, almost automatically, he found himself sliding the knife into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
And, horizontal in the blackness, eyes open, his flat chest rising and falling with unsteady beat, he sent out his bleak ultimatum to the legion that might be: ‘If you are there, I will take no more.’
Then there was Albert Radenhausen, Junior, again at four in the morning. Jolting Mr Jasper into waking state, touching one more match to his inflammable system. There were the footsteps, the car horns, the dogs barking, the blinds rattling, the faucet dripping, the blankets bunching, the pillow flattening, the pyjamas twisting. And morning with its burning toast and bad coffee and broken cup and loud radio upstairs and broken shoelace.
And Mr Jasper’s body grew rigid with unspeakable fury and he whined and hissed and his muscles petrified and his hands shook and he almost wept. Forgotten was his pad and list, lost in violent temper. Only one thing remained. And that… was self-defence.
For Mr Jasper knew then there
He fled the apartment and hurried down the street, his mind tormented. He must get control, he
He stood, white-jawed and quivering, at the bus stop, trying with utmost vigour to resist. Never mind that exploding exhaust! Forget that strident giggle of passing female agent. Ignore the rising, mounting crescendo of split nerves. They would not win! His mind a rigid, waiting spring, Mr Jasper vowed victory.
On the bus, the man’s nostrils drew mightily and people bumped into Mr Jasper and he gasped and knew that any moment he was going to scream and it would happen.
Mr Jasper moved away tensely. The man had never sniffed that loudly before. It was in the plan. Mr Jasper’s hand fluttered up to touch the hard length of knife beneath his coat.
