Good, he says, he'll dismiss his harem. When he's really in love, there's nothing he won't do for a woman. She ought to repay it as it's only right and fair, and ask her husband for the money. He'd take it from her — he wouldn't take it from any other woman — because to-night he's expecting the bliss of utter happiness, one night of love.
She puts truth above all, she'd like to remind him, and must inform him at once: her husband is stingy and grudges every penny. Never lets a thing out of his hands, not even a book. If she had money, now, she'd invest it at once in his business. Anyone would trust him on his word alone, anyone would have confidence in a man like him. Let him come along to-night. She's looking forward to it already. In her time there used to be a very good saying, it went: Time will tell. We all have to die some day. Such is life. Come round every night at twelve-fifteen and all of a sudden the money will be there. She didn't marry the old man for love. But a girl has got to think of her future.
Then under the table he moves away one of his feet and says: It's all very well, my good woman, but how old is your husband?
Past forty, she's sure of that.
Then he moves the second foot away under the table, gets up and says: 'Allow me, madam, this is beyond endurance.'
Please go on eating, she tells him. She can do nothing about it, but her husband looks like a skeleton and certainly isn't strong. Every morning when she gets up she thinks: To-day he'll be dead. But when she comes in with the breakfast, he's still alive. Her mother, God rest her, was just the same. Ill at thirty and not dead till she was seventy-four. And then she died of hunger. No one would have believed it, the dirty old hag.
At this the superior young man lays down his knife and fork for the second time and says: He can eat no more, he is afraid.
At first he wouldn't say why, then, when he did open his mouth he said: How easily a man can be poisoned! Here we two sit happily together savouring the sweetness of the coming night over our little dinner. The proprietor — or a waiter — out of sheer envy sprinkles a secret powder on our food and behold us both in the cold grave. There's an end of the love dream, before we've got into the very centre of bliss. But still he doesn't think they're going to do it; it's always found out in a public place. If he were a married man, he would live in terror, A woman stops at nothing. He knows women better than he knows himself, inside and outside, not only hips and legs, although those are the best in a woman if you understand a thing about it. Women are reliable. First they wait until the will is signed and sealed, then they make away with the husband and join hands in wedlock with the faithful lover across the fresh corpse. Naturally the lover keeps to his bargain and nothing ever comes out.
She had her answer ready at once. She wouldn't do it. A respectable woman like her. Sometimes things do come out, and then you go to gaol. A respectable woman doesn t go to gaol. Things would be much better, if you didn't have to go to gaol at once. The least little thing gets about and round come the police and you go to gaol in a minute. They don't care whether a woman can bear it. They poke their noses into every mortal thing. What business is it of theirs now a wife gets on with her husband ? A wife has to put up with everything. A wife isn't human. And her man's no use for anything. Is it a man? It's no man at all. Nobody'll miss such a man. The best thing would be if her friend took an axe and hit him on the head in his sleep. But he locks his door every night because he's afraid. Her friend must think out how to do it himself. He says, nothing will come out. She won't do such a thing. A respectable woman like her.
At this the young man interrupts her. She mustn't shout so loud. He deeply regrets this unfortunate misunderstanding. Does she mean to say that he wants her to commit murder by poisoning? He's a kind-hearted soul and he wouldn't hurt a fly. That's why all the women want to eat him up.
'They know a good thing when they see it!' she says.
'So do I,' says he. All at once he gets up, takes her coat off the stand and pretends she's cold. Really he only does it to press a kiss on her neck. The man's got lips like his voice. And what does he say as he docs it: 'I like kissing a beautiful neck — think the matter over.'
When he sits down again he starts laughing: 'That's the way to do it! How did it taste? We shall have to pay now!'
Then she pays for both. Why was she such a fool? Everything has been lovely. But out in the street the trouble begins. First of all he says nothing for a long time. She doesn't know what to answer to that. When they get to the furniture shop, he asks:
'Yes or no?'
'Yes, if you don't mind! On the stroke of 12.15.'
'I meant the capital!' he says.
Quite innocently she makes him a pretty answer: 'Time will tell!'
Then they both go into the shop. He disappears at the back. The chief suddenly pops out and says:
'I trust you enjoyed your lunch. The bedroom suite will be delivered to-morrow morning. Or have you any other directions?'
'No!' she says, 'I'd just as soon pay for it now.'
He takes the money and gives her the receipt. Then out comes the superior young man and says to her face, quite loud, in front of everyone:
'You'll have to choose another gentleman for the post of boy friend, dear lady. I have offers from younger ladies than you. And prettier, oh very much prettier too, dear lady !'
Then she ran out of the shop, banged the door and in the open street in front of all the people, began to cry.
She didn't want anything of him, did she? She paid for his lunch and then he was impertinent. A married woman like her. There was no need for her to run after every man she saw. She wasn't a servant girl to pick up just anyone. She could have ten at every finger end. In the streets all the men stared at her. Whose fault was it anyway? It was all her husband's fault! She had to go running around buying furniture for him. And what did she get in return? Nothing but insults. He might at least do his own dirty work. He was no use for anything. It was his flat after all. It couldn't be all the same to him what sort of furniture he'd got among his books. The patience of a saint, she had. That kind of man thinks he can simply trample on you. First you do every mortal thing for him, and then he leaves you to be insulted in front of all the people. Suppose it happened to the superior young man's wife! But then he hasn't a wife. Why hasn't he a wife? Because he's a real man. A real man has no wife. A real man doesn't marry until he has something to show for it. That old stick at home has nothing to show at all ! What has he got to show for himself? Nothing but skin and bone! People would take him for dead already. What's a thing like that got to go on living for? But it does go on living. A creature like that is no good for anything. Simply taking other people's beautiful money.
She entered the house. The caretaker appeared on the threshold of his little room and bellowed:
'They're up to something to-day, Mrs. Professor.'
'We shall see!' she replied and contemptuously turned her back on him.
On the top floor she unlocked the door of the flat. Not a soul was moving. In the hall the furniture was all piled up anyhow. Noiselessly she opened the door to the dining-room. Then she started back in horror. The walls suddenly looked quite different. They used to be brown, now they are white. They'd been up to something. What had they beçn up to? In the next room the same change. In the third, the one she had planned to turn into a bedroom, a light dawned on her. Her husband had turned all the books round!
Books belong with their faces to the wall so you can get a hold on their spines. That's how it has to be for dusting. How are you to take them out if not? Well, he can have it his own way. She was sick and tired of all this dusting. For dusting, people keep a char. He's got money and to spare. On furniture he simply throws money away. He'd do far better to save a little. The lady of the house has a heart too.
She began to look for him, to hurl this heart at his head. She found him in his study. He lay, stretched out full length on the floor, the ladder on top of him, overlapping his head by a tew inches. The beautiful carpet
underneath him was soiled with bloodstains.
Bloodstains are very difficult to clean off. What would be the best thing to try? He never thinks for a moment of all the work he makes! He must have rushed up the ladder in too much of a hurry and fallen off the top. Just as she said, he's not at all strong. If the superior young man could see this now. Not that she was gloating over it at all, she wasn't like that. Is this a way to die, now? The creature almost makes her sorry for him. She wouldn't care at all to climb up a ladder and fall off it dead. Who ever heard of such a thing, not looking what you're doing? Everyone to his taste. Eight years and more she d been up and down that ladder every day, flicking off the dust, and had anything like that happened to her? A respectable person holds on tight. Why was he such a fool? Now all the books belonged tpjier. In this room only half of them had been turned round. They were worth a fortune, so he always said. He ought to know what he was talking about, he bought them. She wouldn't lay a finger on the corpse. She might hurt herself struggling with that heavy ladder and the next thing you know you're in hot water with the police. She'd better leave it all just as it was. Not on account of the blood. She wasn't afraid of blood. It wasn't real blood, anyway. How would a man like that have real blood? Good enough to make stains with and that's about all. A pity about the carpet. All the same, it all belonged to her now; the beautiful flat was worth something too. She'd sell the books at once. Who'd have thought of such a thing yesterday? But that's die way things happen. First of all you take liberties with your wife and next thing you're dead. She always knew it would come to no good, but it wasn't for her to say so. A man like that thinks there's no one else in the world. Going to bed at midnight and never leaving his wife a moment's peace, who ever heard of such things? A respectable person goes to bed at nine and leaves his wife alone.
Taking pity on the disorder which reigned on the writing desk, Thérèse glided up to it. She switched on the table-lamp and searched about among the papers for a will. She took it for granted that before he fell down he would have put it out ready. She didn't doubt that she would be his only heir, for she had never heard of any other relations. But among all the scholarly notes which she read through from top to bottom, there was no mention of money. Sheets covered with writing in strange characters she laid conscientiously on one side. They must be specially valuable and could be sold. Once at table he had said to her that the things he wrote were worth their weight in gold, but he did not write for the sake of gold.
After an hour's careful tidying and reading, she was sure, to her indignation, that there was no will. He had made no preparations. Up to his very last minute he had been the same, a man without a care for anyone but himself and not a thought for his wife. Sighing, she decided to go through the interior of the desk as well, taking each drawer in turn, until she lighted on the will. But her first attempt brought bitter disappointment. The desk was locked. He carried his keys in his trouser pocket. A nice mess she'd got herself into now. She couldn't well take anything out of his pockets. If she were to get blood on her by accident, there was no saying what the police might think. She came close up to the body, bent down, and could make nothing of the geography of his pockets. She was afraid of simply kneeling down. At critical times such as these she was in the habit of taking off her skirt first. She faithfully folded it up and entrusted it to a remote corner of the carpet. Then she knelt down a step away from the corpse, pressed her head for better support on to the ladder and drilled the index finger of her left hand slowly into his right pocket. She could not make much headway. He lay so inconveniently. Deep in the recesses of his pocket she thought she could feel something hard. Then to her horror it occurred to her that there might be blood on the ladder. Quickly she stood up and put her hand to her forehead, where it had lain against the ladder. She found no blood. But the vain quest for the will and the key had disheartened her. 'Something's got to be done,' she said aloud, he can't be left lying about here!' She put on her skirt again and fetched the caretaker.
'What is it?' he asked threateningly. He did not lightly allow himself to be disturbed at his work by a common person. Moreover he had not rightly understood her, because she spoke very low, as was seemly with a corpse about.
'Excuse me, please, he's dead.'
Now he understood. Old memories stirred within him. He had been on the retired list too long to yield to them at once. Only by degrees did his doubts give place to belief in so wonderful a crime. In the same measure, his behaviour altered. He became innocuous and mild, as in his mighty days of action, when he had had a wily bird to ensnare. He seemed almost thin. His bellowing stuck in his throat. His eyes, usually fixed straight enough to outstare his opponent, seemed to withdraw timidly into the corner as if laying an ambush. His mouth attempted to smile. But his stiff, waxed, close-thatched moustache prevented him from completing this. Two faithful stumpy fingers came to his help, and pushed up the corners of his mouth into a smile.
The murderess has been knocked out and has no fight left; in full uniform he stands out before the judge and explains how such things can be done. He is the witness for the crown in a sensational trial. The public prosecutor would have been lost without him. As soon as the murderess falls into other hands she'll deny everything.
'Gentlemen!' he cries in a ringing voice, while reporters take down every word he says. 'People need handling. Criminals are only people. I have been a long time on the retired list. In my leisure I study the goings and comings, the soul, as one might say, of the suspect. Handle her properly, and a murderess will confess her guilt. But I warn you, gentlemen, mismanage a person of this class, and your murderess will impudently deny everything and the prosecution can whistle for its evidence. In this sensational murder trial you can rely on me. Gentlemen I am witness for the prosecution. I ask you, gentlemen, how many witnesses like me will you find? I'm the only one! Now take careful note. These things are not as easy as you imagine. First, you have your suspicions. Next you say nothing but closely observe the culprit. Only half way up the stairs you begin to talk:
'A brute of a man?'
Ever since the caretaker had begun to look at her with such kindliness, Thérèse felt an indescribable terror. She could not explain this change. She would have done anything to start him bellowing again. He did not pound up the stairs in front of her as usual, he walked up submissively by her side, and when he asked for a second time 'A brute of a man?' she had still not understood whom he meant. At other times he was easy to understand. In order to put him back in the humour which she trusted, she said: 'Yes.'
He nudged her and while he kept his eyes humbly and slyly fixed upon her, he challenged her with his whole body to defend herself against the brutality of her husband. 'You've got to defend yourself
'Yes.'
'Accidents may happen.'
'Yes.'
'A man can be done in in no time.'
'Done in, yes.'
'Some extenuating circumstances.'
'Circumstances.'
'The fault was on his side.'
'His.'
'He forgot to make a will. '
'Impossible.'
'One needs a little something to live on.'
'To live on.'
'Why poison him?'
Thérèse had thought the same thing at the same minute. Not another word would she say. She wanted to tell him that the superior young man had tried to talk her into it, but she had refused. That's the sort ofthing that gets you into hot water with the police. But she suddenly remembered that the caretaker had once been a policeman. He would know everything. He would say at once: Poisoning is against the law. Why did you do it? She wasn't going to put up with that. The superior young man was to blame. His name was Mr. Brute and he was nothing but an employee at the firm of Gross and Mother. First of all he wanted to be let into the house on the stroke of 12.15 to disturb her night's rest. Then he said he would take an axe and hit him on the head while he was asleep. She didn't agree to any of it, not even t
o the poisoning, and now she was in hot water just the same. What had it got to do with her, if her husband went and died.? She had a right to the will. Everything belonged to her. Day and night she kept house for him and worked her fingers to the bone like a servant. He couldn't be trusted alone for a minute. She went out just one day to choose him a bedroom suite — he knew nothing about furniture. He went climbing up his ladder and got his death of a fall. Excuse me please, it made you almost feel sorry for him, perhaps it wasn't moral for a wife to inherit anything?
Floor by floor, she began to regain her courage. She convinced herself that she was innocent. The police could come as often as they liked. As the mistress of all within, she unlocked the door of the flat. The caretaker closely observed the light-hearted manner which she had now assumed. As far as he was concerned it did her no good. She had already confessed. He rejoiced at the coming confrontation of murderess and victim. She made way for him to go first. He thanked her with a sly wink and did not let her out of his sight.