Mr. X

    Would that tale had never laid its hand upon my breast and whispered—take me in—

 •   I need a moment to collect myself.

 •   The inspiration descended during a weary, late-night return from Mountry Township in the summer of my last year as a Lord of Crime. A fool named Theodore Bright had attempted to eliminate me from my position in the criminal hierarchy. The necessary payback had been devoid of pleasure. I wanted out. My thoughts turned to the consolations of art, and a pleasing notion came to me, that of adumbrating the plight of Godfrey Demmiman, a half-human creature granted the freedom of a god. My alter ego was to re-enact my struggles toward the Sacred Purpose. But as I wrote, my intentions surrendered to what rose up within me.

    I PROTEST!

    Every other tale went where it was supposed to go. Why should onlythis seem inhabited by art? Let me say this, let me spell it out loud and clear—

    I HATE ART. ART NEVER DID ANYONE A BIT OF GOOD. IT NEVER WON A WAR, PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE, SWEPT

    THE FLOOR, TOOK OUT THE GARBAGE OR SLIPPED YOU A TWENTY WHEN YOU WERE DOWN AND OUT. ART DOESN'T ACT THAT WAY.

    The beginning went as anticipated. Through the medium of Godfrey Demmiman's childhood and youth, I revisited my own. We had mystical experiences in a deep wood and the descent of godlike gifts. My tears brimmed over at the discovery of the Sacred Book. Then hoodlum Imagination brushed aside intention and destroyed my peace. In place of conviction—doubt; in place of clarity—confusion; of design—chaos; in place of triumph—who knows, but certainly not triumph.

    Demmiman moves to Markham, the New England village beloved of his Master, and through its winding lanes and passages imagines himself led by misshapen beings to a long-abandoned house of evil repute. He breaks in and finds it to have been the residence of his ancestors. Within, a Presence stalks him—he stalks the Presence— they confront each other—horribly—of the blasphemous ending I decline to speak. For the sake of Coming Generations, I enter the following into the Record:

    I Hereby Recant the concluding passages of the story entitled 'Blue Fire,' those beginning with the words,'Slowly, with dragging step, an indistinct figure emerged from the shadows,' and place these conditions upon their distribution. They are to be banned from the Reading Lists of Your Secondary Schools and Institutes of Higher Education. Where available, access must be restricted to Historians and Other Scholars, and this Statement is to be printed in its entirety upon the facing page.

 •What follows is an account of recent actions on Behalf of the Stupendous Cause.

 •I had nearly forgotten my vow to protect Frenchy La Chapelle from the cowardice of his partner in crime, but when it came back to me, I repaired to the intensive care unit of St. Ann's Community Hospital.

    At the center of a network of wires and tubes, a Hatchtown weasel I knew of old sipped the steady doses of oxygen provided by a mechanical ventilator. Like all Hatchtown weasels, including Frenchy La Chapelle, Clyde Prentiss had dared speak of me only in whispers during his urchin-hood. (None of them have ever known my name —any of my names and for decades have referred to me by a delightfully sinister sobriquet.) On a balmy evening twenty-live years in the past, happening to overbear the prepubescent Clyde Prentiss amusing his peers by a show of irreverence, I exploded into their clubhouse, grasped the little fellow by his ankles, carried the gibbering boy down the lanes to a little-noted structure, and suspended him head-down over the Knacker.

    At a time when popular opinion dismisses every sort of nastiness as unacceptable, this eternal source of Hatchtown nightmares has not only been forgotten, its very existence has been denied. Accidentally or no, the Knacker's location has slipped from public record, conveniently assisting its ascent into mythical status.

    I held the wriggling boy above the pit until a fragrant evacuation stained his dungarees. Having made my point, I lowered him to the floor. From that day forth, neither the boy nor his fellows offered ought but obedience. The comatose husk of that child's adult self lay before me.

    I drew my knife to slice through the accordion folds of the ventilator tube. His spindly chest elevated and deflated. I threw back the sheet, punched the blade into his navel, and dragged it to his throat, which I laid open with a single lateral stroke. The guardian machines trilled, and Prentiss flopped up and down in lively consternation. I wiped the blade on the bottom of the coverlet and swept unseen around the nurse who had appeared at the front of the compartment.

    I once again put the fear of God into Frenchy La Chapelle by seeming to materialize out of the refuse of a Word Street corner. 'Good morning, Frenchy,' I said. He levitated an inch or two off the pavement. 'Time for your marching orders.'

    Frenchy emitted a moan, about what I had expected. “I tried to find Dunstan, but if he ain't here, it ain't my fault.'

    “I want to know where he's staying.'

    'How'm I supposed to dothat?' Frenchy whined.

    'Look for him. When you see him, follow him home. After that, return to this corner and wait for me.'

    'Wait for you?'

    'Pretend it's a train station, and I'm the train.'

    His mouth curved downward in a Frenchy-smile. 'Lots of guys tryin' to find Dunstan.'

    He risked a peek beneath the brim of my hat. 'The cops brought him in After that friend of Joe Staggers got his head hashed open, only they let him go. Staggers and his pals aren't loo happy.'

    'You'd better find him before they do,' I said.

    He rocked back and forth, gathering his courage. 'Didn't you say something about a favor?'

    'You could always call the hospital.'

    Frenchy stopped jittering, and a pulse beat in his temples.

    'Step into Horsehair. I'll explain what you are going to do Monday night.'

     He held his breath as I moved in and blocked the opening. Frenchy had been one of the boys who had seen little Clyde's brush with the Knacker.

 •55

 •Laurie, who had listened with only half an ear as I described Rinehart's book and my conversation with Suki Teeter, came to life as we neared the expressway. 'You solved everything in one day! Yesterday you didn't know anything, and now you know more than you want to! You're done! We have to celebrate.'

    I asked if Cobbie had come home all right.

     'Yes.' Her tone was dry and ironic. 'Stewart brought him home and then favored us with his company for several hours. That's why I was late.' She swerved onto the westbound ramp. 'He helped himself to gallons of Scotch and repeated the same things over and over.' Laurie glanced over her left shoulder and flattened the accelerator. We hit sixty before we shot out onto the expressway, and when we settled into the fast lane, the speedometer was climbing past seventy. 'Most of them were about you.'

    I blurted, 'Me?'

    Grenville Milton had called Le Madrigal to complain about a man of my description who had insulted him outside the restaurant, then gone in—on Milton's recommendation! Vincent, the headwaiter, had identified me and informed Milton that I had joined Mrs. Hatch and Mrs. Ashton. Milton had reported to Stewart, who already knew, because his private detective had told him.

    Laurie said, 'This morning, some guy tailed me into town and watched us go to City Hall. After that, he followed us to the V.A. Hospital. When I got homo, he hightailed it around the corner for a little chat with Stewart. Who of course shoved Cobbie into his car and burned rubber all the way to my house.'

    I looked through the Mountaineer's big rear window. “If Stewart thinks I'm working for Ashleigh, he must be going batty trying to figure out what we were doing at the V.A. Hospital.'

    'Everything's driving Stewart batty. Stewart is especially batty when it comes to you.' Her eyes flashed at me. 'Going places with a Dunstan is like associating with Charles Manson. After destroying the Hanging Gardens of