Twisted Clay, page 8
“A thousand times.”
“Then, who is the more credible witness: a lifelong friend who has always proved faithful and reliable, or a neurotic youngster with a possible mental taint, who makes a practice of deceiving you?”
Father sighed. “I ask your pardon, Murray. I know you will forgive an old friend labouring under a load which often threatens to become unbearable.”
“Let us forget it,” advised the doctor, and they shook hands.
“Go to bed, Jean,” ordered father quietly.
I listened outside the door for a few minutes. “Humour her, Deslines,” said the doctor. “Don’t believe a word she tells you, however circumstantial her story; and for God’s’ sake get her across to Vienna with the least possible delay. In the meanwhile, humour her, and keep her out of mischief to the best of your ability.”
“Good night, Murray, and many thanks, old chap.”
“Good night, old man — and God help you!”
I slipped away in time, and was up the stairs before they entered the hall.
An hour later I stole back to the study. Father was huddled in his easy chair, gazing despondently into the fire. Without speaking, I crept round behind him and sat on his knee, throwing my arms about his neck and hiding my face in his breast. He stroked my hair gently.
“Jean,” he said softly, at length, “why did you lie to me about Dr. Murray?”
“Because I hate him.”
“Why should you hate him?”
“Because he desires to murder my identity with his horrid grafts.”
“It is for your own good, child.”
“Maybe, but it will destroy me. I shall be different. My personality will have vanished.”
“Are you so anxious to retain your present personality?”
“I am, daddy. It is myself. If I change it, I shall cease to exist as I am; I shall be someone else. How would you like to submerge your identity, particularly if you did not know just what you were to be transformed into?”
He smiled sadly. “I know it is a frightful problem, Jean; but it is almost certain that your new personality will be a tremendous improvement on that which you possess at present. Have you considered that aspect?”
“I have, daddy, and I don’t want to change. I want to be myself, to retain my ego. Need we go to Europe?”
“I’m afraid we must.”
“Even if I am opposed to it?”
“Yes, dear, even if you are opposed to it.”
“You are determined?”
“Quite determined, Jean. We shall leave early next month.”
I sprang from his lap, and stood before him with outstretched arms. “Daddy!”
“Yes, Jean.”
“Dr. Murray said, if he owned me, he would thrash me. Why don’t you thrash me, to see if it would do any good?”
“Don’t be stupid. You’re too old to thrash.”
“I’m not, I’m not! See, here’s your walking-stick. Beat me with it; beat me hard!”
“Go to bed, child, and don’t talk nonsense.”
With a quick jerk I stripped off my pyjama trousers, standing before him nude to mid-thighs, clad only in my dangling pyjama coat. “Beat me, daddy; beat me hard; beat-me till the blood flows! I want you to!”
“Put your clothes on at once!”
“Not till you thrash me.”
“Put your clothes on immediately, and stop this nonsense, or I’ll come and dress you, myself. How dare you carry on like that?”
With, a sigh of resignation I drew the trousers on again, and meekly kissed him good night. But I lay awake long, wondering why he would not thrash me. I had longed for him to strike me on my bare legs; ardently I had longed for it. I knew that I would have found pleasure in the strokes, particularly if the blood had come. How different it all might have been, had he but taken me at my word, and trounced me soundly with the cane I proffered!
I cried myself to sleep, for now I was certain that I would need to kill daddy to preserve my identity.
CHAPTER IX
I spent the following week at the library, reading all I could unearth on poisons. My chief discovery was the disconcerting fact that they all left traces for an analyst to find. With some a finger-nail or a single hair was all that was needed for detection. It became obvious that poisons must be eliminated from my plans. There also was the fact that most of them caused agonising deaths. I had no desire to make poor daddy suffer; it was bad enough to have to eliminate him. Still, one’s identity must be preserved at any cost.
More violent methods complicated the problem by necessitating disposal of the corpse. In vain I racked my brain through sleepless nights. I could devise no method of death that would appear to have resulted from natural or accidental causes; nor could I formulate a feasible plan of disposing of a body. I was in despair. The days were going, and only a bare fortnight remained before we were to sail. Had I been religious, I would have prayed for some escape from my dilemma. I must have grown morbid through continually brooding on death and the disposal of a body; for, one day, thinking intently as I walked, I turned unconsciously down the road beside the Memorial Hospital, and found myself at the gates of the cemetery. Why I had taken that particular road is not clear; it must have been due to subconscious guidance.
Finding myself at the gate, it was but natural that I should enter the grounds. There I stumbled across a mound of freshly turned earth, and found inspiration. All became clear in a twinkling; my problem was solved!
In an obscure portion of the cemetery I found a rough shed, in which were stored gravedigger’s tools. Picks, mattocks, spades, and shovels were racked neatly along the walls, their handles stained a pale yellow by the decomposed sandstone which comprised the soil of the cemetery. It only remained to develop the details of my plan, and I would be safe — safe, with my father out of the way and my ego secure from annihilation. For the first time for many days I slept soundly, but I dreamed. Again I sat on the bale of merchandise, watching the Roman sentry. Silently, round the corner of the shed, came the fur-clad barbarians. I saw one drive his glistening knife into the soldier’s back. I recognised him at once. Save for his diminutive stature, he was Dr. Murray in person. As the Roman plunged forward to his knees, as always, he drove his pilum backward over his shoulder, impaling not his assassin but the man immediately behind him. The wretch shrieked as the triangular blade bit into his vitals, and turned his face in my direction. It was my father! Rushing to the scene, I watched him expire, my agony equal to his own. Then I turned my eyes to the dead soldier, and forgot everything else as I marvelled at her clear skin and magnificent form. I awoke sweating, to wonder why Dr. Murray had stabbed Minerva, and why Minerva had slain my father. What strange trick of fate was it, which bound us all so irrevocably to the dead woman who masqueraded as a man and was but the figment of a dream?
Next morning I scanned the death column of the Herald eagerly, but without success. It was three days before my patience was rewarded by discovery of a notice that an old man had died at Leura on the previous day. Turning to the burial notices, I ascertained that he was to be buried in the local cemetery that afternoon.
The time had come; that night I must put my plan into operation. There was much to do; but the initial step was to canvass the details thoroughly. Nothing must be left to chance, nothing omitted. A single false move would place me in the hands of the law, and the best I might anticipate was imprisonment for the term of my natural life. Every detail must be dovetailed into a perfect whole.
I thought it out, step by step; and it all interlocked. The sole difficulty lay in cajoling my father to drive me to the cemetery by night in the light car. It must be the light car, because I could not drive the big Rolls Royce. How was I to persuade him?
Dr. Murray, father, myself, and Minerva, why were we associated in that distressing dream? Dr. Murray. . . . Dr. Murray. . . . What was it that Dr. Murray had said, when he left the house after that ridiculous inquisition in father’s study? “Humour her, Deslines . . . humour her!”
Ah! the answer was supplied. Father would humour me! It was the irony of Fate that the humouring was to result in his own death; but necessity knows no law, and a personality was at stake. Self-preservation was Nature’s primal rule.
“You are not enjoying your dinner, Jean,” commented my father, as he noted the manner in which I was hacking my food to shreds. I glanced at my plate, to find it a confused mass of chopped meat and mashed vegetables.
I pushed it from me petulantly. “I’m not hungry. How can I enjoy my food, when poor old Mr. Cummings is lying out there in the cold?”
Father stared. “Who is Mr. Cummings, and where is he lying?”
“Out there, in the cemetery. He died yesterday, and they buried him to-day.”
“You mustn’t let such things trouble you, Jean. Death comes to us all in time. It is but a little thing, when all is said.”
“Would you be afraid to die, daddy?”
He laughed. “I’m not particularly anxious to die; but I don’t think it would trouble me unduly when my time came.”
“Is that honest?”
“Perfectly honest, child. Now let us talk of something a little more pleasant. Your grandmother is horrified.”
“Are you really horrified, grandmother?”
She scowled. “Naturally I am. Why must you prate of such things at the dinner table?”
“I won’t any more, grannie.”’
“Don’t call me ‘grannie.’”
“Very well, grandmother.”
It was after ten when grandmother retired to bed; but I dared not attempt to put my plan into operation while she was downstairs. I had to wait with such patience as I could muster. The suspense was dreadful. Committing a murder is not easy when one lacks practice. In common with most things, a technique has to be evolved. Facility rarely attends an initial venture in any demesne.
After having allowed ample time for grandmother to complete her simple toilet and fall asleep, I entered the study. There was nothing to fear from Jenny, who habitually retired to rest at nine, and would sleep through the crack of doom.
Father glanced up as I entered. “I thought you had gone to bed, Jean,” he remarked.
“I could not sleep to-night, daddy, with poor old Mr. Cummings out there in the cold. He must be so lonely. Take me to see him.”
His mouth gaped. “Take you to see him?”
“Yes. Take me out in the car. I want to lay a flower on his grave.”
This is sheer nonsense, child. We can’t go there tonight. After breakfast to-morrow, if you still wish to go, we’ll drive out. Run along to bed now, like daddy’s good little girl.”
“It’s no use, daddy. I must go to-night. Fancy him, all alone, out there in the cold ground. I must go!”
He glanced at his watch. “It’s nearly eleven o’clock. We’d be mad to drive there now. Why not leave it till the morning, in the daylight?”
“Because I must go to-night. It almost seems that he expects me.”
He gazed at me swiftly. “Very well, Jean, if you’re determined. I’ll get the car.”
“Thank you, daddy. Don’t take the Rolls; let us use the little Singer.”
“The big car would be far more comfortable. Why not use it?”
“It’s too big, and . . . and it has a spare seat! He might ride home with us. We don’t want him roaming about the house to-night, do we? Please use the small car.”
“All right,” he said gruffly. “Get a warm coat on, while I run it out in front.”
Five minutes later we were seated in the car, purring smoothly along the Bathurst Road in the direction of the cemetery. I passed my hand under the cushion, and felt the handle of the hatchet which I had concealed there during the afternoon. Everything was proceeding according to schedule!
We pulled up at the gate of the cemetery, and went inside on foot. The headstones gleamed eerily in the wan light of the stars, and I could hear my heart hammering against my ribs. It was an unpleasant duty which confronted me!
We experienced a little difficulty in discovering the grave; but eventually we stood beside it. The loose, sandy soil was heaped into a sizeable mound, and two bedraggled wreaths rested on its crest.
As my father stooped idly forward to finger the withered flowers, I drove the hatchet into his skull. He fell without a groan and lay motionless, his head resting on the wreath with which he had been toying. Soon it grew crimson.
Stifling a sob, I hastened to the tool-shed and returned with a long-handled shovel. In half an hour I had excavated a hole some four feet in depth. Another half-hour, and the mound was restored to its original shape; but it seemed to stand higher. Beneath it lay the mortal remains of my father, with the two wreaths — one white and one red — resting on his breast, and the bloody hatchet by his side.
My task concluded, panic overcame me. I raced to the gate; there to remember that I had left the shovel beside the doubly tenanted grave. Summoning the last reserve of my courage, I crept back to the scene, secured the implement, restored it to its place in the shed, and again ran at top speed to the car. For possibly fifteen minutes I crouched on the seat, appalled at the enormity of the crime which I had committed.
Slowly my self-control returned, fortified by the knowledge that the deed had been necessary. Was I not justified in defending my personality against its intending murderer? It was merely that I had struck first. One of us had to perish. I was vindicated by the natural law of self-preservation.
I reached home safely, and restored the car to the garage without being disturbed. But I did not feel safe until I was in bed. Secure in the embrace of the blankets, I reviewed the night’s happenings, and realised that I had accomplished my horrible task well. Father had vanished. There would be a nine days’ wonder, a more or less protracted search by the police, and a gradual acceptance of the status quo. Who would think to dig up one dead man in the search for another? The problem of disposing of the body had been solved beyond peradventure!
Above all, I was saved. I would be permitted to retain my identity. My ego was secure. I had overcome my intending assassins.
Nevertheless, I did not sleep soundly that night. I think I loved daddy.
CHAPTER X
Toward morning I sank into a sound sleep, from which I was awakened by Jenny. “Lor’! there’s a terrible fuss about your father, Jean,” she said. “His bed ain’t been slept in, and they can’t find no trace of him anywhere.”
“That’s strange,” I commented. “I never knew daddy to do a thing like that before. I wonder where he is?”
“We’re all wondering,” she replied, and went out to aid in the search.
My next visitor was my grandmother. “Where’s your father?” she inquired.
“How can I say? Jenny tells me his bed was not slept in, and that he can’t be found.”
“Did you see him last night, after I went to bed?”
“Just for a moment, while I said good night. He was reading in the study.”
Thinking it over, after she had departed, I questioned the wisdom of concealing the motor ride. More serious investigation would result when the police were called in; and it was possible that father and I had been seen in the little Singer. It was scarcely eleven when we passed through the railway crossing, and curious eyes must have been abroad at that comparatively early hour. Thank goodness, it was only grandmother! When the police came I would volunteer information about the car.
I had not long to wait. Grandmother, after having fussed about the house and telephoned all father’s friends, rang up the police station and notified the constable in charge. Within half an hour a sergeant and a plain-clothes officer arrived at the front door, and Jenny and grandmother were subjected to a searching cross-examination. They had to cool their heels while I had my bath and dressed.
When I entered the drawing-room, grandmother and Jenny were seated on a settee, side by side. The latter evidently had been crying, for her lids were red and she was nibbling nervously at a handkerchief. Grandmother wore her grimmest countenance, and scowled at everybody in turn.
“Where have you been?” she snapped.
“Having a bath, grannie.”
“Don’t call me grannie, you impudent child!”
I sighed resignedly for the benefit of the police. “I beg your pardon, grandmother,” I said meekly, and felt that I had won the first move in the game. If grandmother remarked on my omission to mention the motor drive to her, my assertion would be strengthened by her querulous hostility.
“Miss Deslines,” said the sergeant, who was standing by the mantel, “you know your rather is missing?”
“So the maid informed me.”
“I suppose you have no idea where he might be?” I shook my head. “Not the slightest.”
“To your knowledge, he has never spent a night away from home without first having announced his intention”
“Never.”
“I understand you were the last to see him last night.”
“I think I was.”
“Just tell me what happened.”
“I went into his study to kiss him good night.”
“What was he doing?”
“Reading.”
“Did he speak?”
“Yes. He asked me if I was tired. I replied ‘No.’ He then asked if I would care for a drive with him in one of the cars.”
“Ah! And you replied . . . ?”
“I said I was not anxious to go; but, if he desired it, I would.”
“You did not tell me that,” interposed grandmother angrily.
“Oh! grannie, how can you say such a thing? Don’t you remember how you were surprised that we used the little Singer; you said it was strange we did not take the big sedan on such a cold night.”
