Prelude To A Certain Midnight

Kill the blow-fly and have done.

Find pleasure in tearing off the wings or the legs of that fly, and the time will come when you will have graduated from fly to mouse, mouse to rat, rat to cat, cat to dog, dog to child —

Enough, enough is enough! (Asta shuddered). Pull a fly’s wings off, and you rip off the wings of a bird.

Pluck off the fly’s legs and you tear a man between four wild horses.

Kill if you must, but kill clean! That which you must kill so that you may live is your adversary. Then kill it quickly, and have done: the longer it lives in pain, the greater its power in the end.

The tormented beetle takes a terrible revenge at last … the imprisoned gold-fish rounds up its jailers in hundreds and thousands … the game-cock or the terrier dying in the pit sets man against man in vaster pits at long last: the tortured beast is master of the world when all is said and done.

All cruelty is one.

‘Down with it!’ cried the spirit of Asta Thundersley, as she plunged into the day’s correspondence, most of which referred to the case of a woman in Buckinghamshire who kept underfed ducks in a basement. Eagles, chickens, ducks … aviators, in fantrymen, sailors … heavens above, earth beneath, and waters under the earth — all cruelty and oppression were one. There was only one calloused heart in the Universe, and only one good heart. There was only the Devil on one hand and God on the other.

‘_Ha!_’ said Asta. The hairs at the nape of her neck bristled and grew damp. She was about to make a fool of herself again — this time about ducks.

At four o’clock Thea Olivia, who had eaten three-quarters of a pound of meat, some vegetables, and a bit of cheese as big as your fist off a tray in her room, came down in lavender-andgrey for tea.

‘My inky-fingers?’ she said to Asta, who was licking an envelope. ‘How is my little inky-fingers?’

‘Hello, Duck,’ said Asta.

28

The man who had murdered Sonia Sabbatani dressed himself with care. He was an extremely sensitive man, dainty in his habits, sensitive to harsh words, and given to misinterpreting sidelong glances. His nostrils, also, were uncomfortably sensitive. If he had not been smoking too much — ten cigarettes in a day were too much, for he smoked only to defend himself against other people’s breath — he could shut his eyes and recognize people he had met by their smell. He was, therefore, considerate of other people’s nostrils. Anxious not to give offence, he scoured his body, especially his feet, as thoroughly as a surgeon scours his hands, twice a day. He detested above all things the odour of breath. It offended him profoundly. He had the nose of a tobacco-blender or a tea-taster, and could tell with reasonable accuracy at half a yard what anyone had eaten since breakfast time. Radishes disgusted him; cheese turned his stomach; beer caused him to retch. At the same time this man liked to meet people. He was a young man with his way to make in the world — a man with ambition — and it was necessary for him to make contacts, as the saying goes. So he had developed a remarkable knack of controlling his breathing. He never in any circumstances inhaled through his nose while anyone in his immediate vicinity was breathing out through the mouth. His sensitivity cut both ways: it seemed to him that he must offend others as others offended him. So he had cultivated a trick of holding his breath. He had been holding his breath, off and on, for nearly twenty years. Thus, his shoulders were drawn back and his chest thrust forward: he had acquired the lungs of a pearl-fisher. His trepidation in relation to bad smells had given birth to highly individual ways of standing, looking, and holding his head. He was of normal height. In talking to a short man he held his head high with the chin thrust out. And if he happened to be in intimate conversation with a tall man he kept his nose down, tucking in his chin and still contriving to look the other straight in the eye. So he had what might have been mistaken for a military carriage: only he leaned backwards. His distinct erectness contrasted oddly with the expression of his face. The nostrils appeared to be struggling between a tendency to expand in an interested sniff, and snap shut in a spasm of distaste. He kept most of his mouth closed when he talked, using only one side of it — the side farthest from whoever he was talking to. He knew that this habit might lead people to believe that he was trying to make himself look tough; so he made his expression affable by means of his eyes and eyebrows. The Murderer’s eyes were singularly unexpressive; but he could force his eyebrows into a whimsical, almost apologetic expression. He had one devouring fear — that somebody with bad teeth or bronchitis (he could diagnose a bronchial halitosis at three-and- a-half feet) might come up to him and talk right into his face. So, when anyone came near him he put out an anxious hand. If the person speaking to him was a man, the murderer took him by the lapel; if a woman, by the elbow. In any case, he kept people at a distance. And still he wanted to be with people.

He had bathed fastidiously. Now he knotted his tie. He was pleased with himself, and smiled at his reflection in the mirror. The reflection smiled back at him slyly and knowingly, and nodded as if to say: We two have something on each other, but we are in accord. You keep my secret and I’ll keep yours.

The Murderer looked at his little clock. It was twenty-seven minutes past six; too early, much too early. He did not want to hurry. He would sit, perfectly calmly, and then — say in an hour — go out and walk slowly to Asta’s place. And there he would sit very quietly in one of those deep cool chairs with the linen covers… the cool, clean linen covers that did not in any circumstances provoke perspiration… sit, and be nice to people, and let people be nice to him, and eat canapes and drink one or two drinks, and make a gentlemanly evening of it. A party was always useful: one never knew whom one might meet. Asta Thundersley was a lady; eccentric, but unquestionably a lady. It all helped: in any case, the cost of an evening meal was saved.

The Murderer was in a pleasant humour, in love with the world. He shook open the evening paper. EMERALD — INSURANCE CO. FIGHTS WIDOW’S CLAIM. The unhappy burglar had paid up his premiums, but the Comet Fire and Life maintained that Emerald had committed suicide.

Too bad, too bad….

Near the centre of the third column smaller type said: Girl Sonia. Killer Still Free. The Police had a clue.

He laughed: at least, his face remained unchanged, and his stomach laughed.

Who could swear to me? he asked himself. Who, could swear on the Book? Clue! What clue? There is no clue, and they know it. Otherwise, why do they squeeze the story down and away? Their argument is, of course, that they have more in their minds than they want to say. But in our case, exactly what have they got? There was a black fog. if ten witnesses saw me pick the child up outside the School — what would their oaths be worth? In that fog, nothing. It happened to Sonia Sabbatani. So what? She might have been any of two or three hundred children. Clues? Hah! What clues?

I am standing on the corner of the street, and the girl happens to come by. ‘See you safely home.?’ I ask her, and she says: ‘Thanks very much, Mister So-and-So.’ She knew my voice. Face, figure, walk, anything at all — I didn’t reccgnize her myself in that fog, until she spoke! if I didn’t even know it was her until I heard her