They return at evening A book of ghost stories
coming fear, such as a swimmer far out in a calm and golden sea might
know when he felt the first pull of a strong and hostile current.
His experiences during the next fortnight were not calculated to
reassure him. During that period he found it necessary to stay late
at the office several times, and he felt a growing dislike to doing
so. He was tempted to keep his manager back on some excuse, but he was
a considerate employer who realised what staying late means for the
inhabitants of the outer suburbs. The reason for this lively distaste
was something which after dark kept visiting the corners of his eyes.
He could never see it clearly; it was always on the margin of vision,
but it was uncomfortably suggestive of a small, dark man.
He found himself looking up quickly to try to catch it when he should
have been concentrating on agreements and estimates, but it was always
just too quick for him. He stood it as long as he could, and then went
to see a famous nerve specialist who had written a treatise on Abnormal
Psychology which Mr. Cheltenham had published.
The latter described his solitary symptom and was subjected to a
rigorous examination. “Well,” said the specialist, when he had
finished, “all I can say for a confirmed celibate and ‘sedentary brain
worker’ you are disgustingly fit physically, and, I should judge,
mentally. If you see a small dark man out of the corner of your eye you
can take it from me he’s there. But it is a curious story. Tell me
frankly, do you know any possible explanation?”
The publisher received the verdict with mixed feelings, and he paused
before replying. To say that the appearance of this phenomenon
coincided with his acceptance of a book of poems seemed merely to
darken counsel, so he answered--not quite frankly--that he had no such
explanation to offer.
“Then,” said the doctor, “let me know how things turn out, for honestly
I’m interested and curious--and don’t stay late at the office.” Still
a victim of mixed feelings, Mr. Cheltenham found his zeal for Mr. Kato
and his work steadily diminishing. A genuine lover of good books and
a sincere and single-minded person, he hated to feel this irrational
repulsion for what was after all indisputably a work of genius, and,
from a publisher’s point of view, the book of a lifetime.
The best thing to do was to hurry the book out. It was occupying too
much of his time and his thoughts. That reminded him the proofs were
late. He rang up the printer, whose representative came round to see
him. “Proofs to-morrow, for certain, sir. You’d have had them before,
but--well, there’s been a sort of a little trouble,” and he gave Mr.
Cheltenham a funny, deprecating, dubious glance.
“What sort of trouble--machine trouble?” asked the publisher.
“It sounds a bit of a yarn,” replied the printer, “and it’s only what
I’ve been told, but the men in the setting room, who’ve been working
overtime, say they keep seeing a little dark chap--well, they don’t
exactly see him, but they know he’s there--it fusses them.”
“Do you mean an actual person?” asked Mr. Cheltenham perfunctorily.
“Well,” replied the printer, “the men don’t seem to think so, it sounds
ridiculous and is probably ‘all my eye’--I only mention it to account
for the delay. They get gassing and fussing, and won’t get on with the
job. However, as I say, to-morrow for certain.”
After his departure Mr. Cheltenham sat staring at the wall and drumming
on his table for a while. Then he rang for his typist and dictated a
letter to Mr. Kato, informing him that the proofs of his book would be
ready for him if he would call in the next day. He, Mr. Cheltenham,
would then explain to him, Mr. Kato, what it was necessary for him to
do regarding them. Then, in accordance with doctor’s orders, he went
home early.
Mr. Kato arrived punctually at 3.30, and the publisher was immediately
impressed by his appearance. He looked shrunken and wasted. His face
was drawn and hollowed, and his eyes were those of one from whom sleep
has gone, and to whom fear has come.
Mr. Cheltenham began apologising for the leisurely behaviour of the
proofs, but Mr. Kato obviously took little interest on what he was
saying. “The publication date will be February 13th”--as he said this,
Mr. Cheltenham paused. Till he made the remark he had not considered
the date of publication definitely. Why then had he mentioned February
13th so decisively? The date seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had
heard it recently in some other connection.
“Yes,” said Mr. Kato listlessly.
“You don’t look very fit, if I may say so,” said Mr. Cheltenham. “I
hope you’re not worrying about the book. I can assure you there’s not
the slightest need to. Everything is progressing quite satisfactorily,
and I feel certain that you will have an amazingly favourable Press.”
“I do not worry about it,” said Mr. Kato--and then paused, his haggard
eyes fixed on Mr. Cheltenham’s face. (“As if,” thought the latter, “he
wants sympathy pretty badly, and I’m the first person who has shown him
any.”)
Suddenly Mr. Kato’s expression changed, he looked sharply behind him,
and a hunted look overspread his face. “Please excuse,” he muttered,
“my nerves are not so good, I think,” and he got heavily up and went
out.
“Unless he does something about it,” thought the publisher, “this
will be the last as well as the first book he has his name to. Funny
thing! If I’d written it, I should be thrilling with excitement to see
it published, but he seems bored to death with it. He is the easiest
author I’ve ever had to deal with. Poets are usually the devil--fussing
about perfectly fatuous little details and trying to teach me my
business. But he’s a model.”
The printer was as good as his word, and the proofs arrived the next
morning and were immediately sent off to the author for correction,
and they arrived back the following afternoon. “Pretty quick work,
that,” thought Mr. Cheltenham in astonishment. Having finished his
other work, he took up the proofs and began to look through them. And
then he got one of the greatest surprises of his life. The printers had
warned him that, being a rush job, the proofs would probably be full
of mistakes. There was one Mr. Cheltenham noticed in the title of the
very first poem, “Cherry” being spelt with one “r,” but Mr. Kato had
not altered it. The publisher turned over the galley slips. There was
not one single correction from beginning to end, yet a quick scrutiny
showed him there were many and some ludicrous errors. He put down
the proofs and sat back in his chair. He knew he was in the presence
of a mystery, and many thoughts passed through his mind. Gradually
the several, single, isolated puzzles began to knit themselves into
coherency. “Curse the fellow, whoever he is,” he said to himself, “this
means another late night.” As he took up his pen and began to make the
first correction that strange drowsiness he knew so well seized him
once more....
When he awoke the clock was just striking eight. “Good Lord,” he
thought, “I’ve been to sleep for two hours and a half and not one
stroke of work have I done at these cursed----” and he leapt to his
feet, for there on the first page was an added “r” in the margin
opposite the title of the first poem, and in the poem itself an epithet
had been struck out and another substituted in a delicate, exotic
handwriting, which was certainly not his own. He turned the pages
rapidly, and on nearly every one was some alteration or revision,
which Mr. Cheltenham saw at a glance was invariably completely right.
He turned back to the title page, and there was Mr. Kato’s name
neatly crossed out and “F. Gonesara” substituted. Mr. Cheltenham was
frightened, and he knew it. He reached for his hat and coat and ran
from the room and down the stairs; just as he reached the ground floor
he saw out of the corner of his eye a small, dark figure on the landing
above.
Mr. Cheltenham had a will of his own when he chose to utilise it, and
for the next few weeks he resolutely refused to allow his mind to
wander along forbidden and dangerous paths, even when there was that
curious incident at the binder’s. He never stayed late and kept himself
busy. Contrary to his custom he took several manuscripts home and read
them in bed till his eyes closed. Eventually his plans and preparations
for the publication of _And he shall sing_ were completed, advertising
space was booked, review copies sent out, the trade supplied, and there
was nothing to do but wait for February 13th, the date of publication.
On February 12th he spent a very quiet day. Business was good. The
latest masterpiece of his best-seller, Miss Vera de Vere, _Passionate
Desire_, was selling passionately. He had no worries, he dined lightly
and drank sparingly. It was, therefore, all the more unexplicable that
he should have been afflicted with the most dreadful nightmare of his
life.
At first he seemed to be standing against the wall of a room, a very
silent and dark room, incapable of moving hand and foot, gripped and
held by a malicious power which was quite determined he should do its
bidding. But Mr. Cheltenham wanted to leave that room very, very badly.
He longed with a desperate longing not to have to witness the horror
which he knew was coming. Gradually his eye grew accustomed to the
darkness, and then he could pick out the dim outline of the room, and
then a shaft of moonlight came pouring in its thin radiance. He saw
he was in a bedroom, looking down on a bed in which someone was lying
motionless. He knew something vile was about to happen before his eyes:
he strained at his invisible bonds, but inexorably they held him. By
the light of the moonbeam he could see the room was carpetless, the
worn polish of the floor reflected the moonlight hazily. And then Mr.
Cheltenham saw that a plank was rising slowly. Once again he strained
at his bonds. The plank rose steadily and stealthily, and suddenly
something had moved up from under it, and had climbed out and was
crouching on the floor.
Mr. Cheltenham trembled violently. That something, he knew, was or
had been human. For a moment it stayed motionless, and then it began
crawling stealthily towards the bed. A foul and deadly stench filled
the room, and the publisher swayed reeling to his knees. He saw that
that something was naked, livid, and that blood was streaming jerkily
from its rotting lips. Mr. Cheltenham flung himself on the floor, and
with a terrible effort turned his head away--and he found himself
clawing at the carpet beside his own little iron bed, sweating and
whimpering. Distressed and nauseated, he made no attempt to go to sleep
again, but read _Pickwick_ for the rest of the night.
He had not been at his office long the next morning when his bell rang.
“Chief Inspector Walsh to see you, sir.”
“Show him up,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, who spent the next few moments
puzzling over the possible causes of this visitation. Had the author
of _Passionate Desire_ overstepped the liberal bounds allowed her? He
never read her books himself, but his manager had assured him that her
latest was no more stimulating than usual. A knock on the door, and in
stepped a large, dominating personality, hairy and red-faced. “Good
morning, sir,” said he, “I’ve come about a Mr. Kato. I want to know if
you can give me any information about him.”
“I’ve just published his book this morning,” replied Mr. Cheltenham,
“but I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing personal about him. Why, has
he got into some trouble?”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “I think you can put it that way. He was
found murdered in his bed this morning.”
The publisher started to his feet.
“Murdered! By whom?”
“Well, sir, it’s a funny case, a very funny case, you might say. The