old homestead complete with lost loved ones right down to dead doggie, Rover. But she herself proved somewhat too susceptible to the hypnotic effect—like gazing into deep, deep water, she would dreamily say, moving gently to a cloudy turbulence. An evening came when, after a particularly long, hard day’s work, he found her apparently unconscious, sitting nursing the glittering ball in her hands. ‘Delphine?’
No flicker of response. He was about to bring her round, gently, when she began to speak, to mutter in the high, bird-like voice she affected for her professional sessions. ‘Something moving. In the crystal—moving.’
To be clever at interpreting nonsense was one thing; a genuine rivalry in scrying was quite another. ‘What do you mean?’ he said sharply. ‘Moving?’
She seemed not to hear him. ‘Shadowy … All swirling … A picture of, a picture of …’ And she cried out suddenly: ‘It’s my flat! I can see the clock. The clock says midnight. It’s midnight. It’s tonight. There’s a girl—’ The high voice faltered. ‘There’s blood, there’s blood!’ and she gave a sharp scream and cried out ‘No! No! NO!’ and her hands dropped away from the crystal globe, she fell across the arm of the chair and lay there, still.
Oh, dear God—Delphine! His gentle and loyal Delphine, the only true friend that in all his life he had ever known—butchered to death by a maniac come alive again to his craving for blood! But it’s all right, he thought; there’s masses of time to warn the police, she can stay in the office flat, she needn’t go back home …
On the other hand …
He sat for a long, long time, watching her. Almost certainly what she had seen in the crystal would be obliterated from her mind. Let her go, then; and then inform the police, let them set a trap and—maniac caught red-handed in a murder attempt, and all through his own amazing predictions.
And yet, again …
She had seen in the crystal the spilled blood of a deed accomplished. She had seen into the future. What use, after all, to interfere, to protect, to warn?—only to have the prediction of the crystal come true; to be seen to have failed. Should not one simply ‘foresee’ what inevitably must be?
But foreseeing, why not have warned in advance? I must leave it to the last moment, he thought, pretend to have just come out of trance, rushed to the telephone. Then immediately call the media and … The maniac caught, not in the attempt but actually in commission of the deed: a small man, red-headed, whose name would prove to be F. O. Cane. Just dare the very universe, after that, to question the psychic powers of the great Joseph Hawke!
If in his heart he recognised that here was an infamy beyond the imagination of any decent man—his mind over-rode the thought. Within him the passion to be accepted for what he knew himself indeed to be had grown like a weed, to suffocate all other caring. At five minutes to midnight, call the police, call his contacts; and meanwhile let her, in happy ignorance, go home.
She stirred at last, opened her eyes, looked mildly astonished. ‘Oh, dear—did I pass out? This thing—I fall for it far too easily. Like staring down into a pool, into swirling water.’
He said: ‘Did you see anything in the water?’
‘Well—I seem vaguely to remember something—something rather horrid, like waking up from a nightmare one’s forgotten. I didn’t say anything?’
He dragged out the words. ‘No, you didn’t say anything.’
‘Goodness, how late it is! I must get home. Would you like me to get you something to eat before I go?’
‘No, no,’ he said, almost violently. Even he could not accept kindness from her, could not share with her such a meal as this. The last supper, he thought: she and Judas.
The last supper. He knew, then, didn’t he?—deep in his consciousness he had known all along—that he was sending her out to die.
The waiting was terrible—terrible. He began to be afraid that the tension would bring on one of those ever more frequent black-outs, of not coming to in time to make his ’phone calls. And indeed he did lapse into some sort of uneasy dream, returning fully to awareness only a few minutes before midnight—ill, exhausted, as though instead of lolling there a prey to nightmares, he had been through some tremendous effort …
Coming to full awareness—to a sudden full realisation of what he had done.
Save her, he thought—I must have been mad, I must save her, must save her!
Telephone her flat, then? To the police? But it was almost twelve, wouldn’t that make him too late to catch the television people? On the other hand … With his mind split three ways, he stumbled over to the telephone.
And the telephone was dead.
Panic hit him like a hurricane, whirled him into the familiar darkness, only one thought clear in his mind. Time’s running out. I must ring the press, ring the television people, I must tell them about it before it becomes known, before there is any normal way for me to have found out.
But the telephone was dead. The office, he thought: the office flat! I can use the ’phone there. Not waiting for the lift, he fled down the single flight of stairs. The church clock boomed the hour as with a trembling hand he thrust the key into the lock. He flung open the door and tumbled into the flat.
And she was waiting for him there.
The uplifted arm, the plunge of the keen blade that seemed to flash down and into his heart, as though through a sheet of shining water. He gave one shrill rabbit-scream of pain; and she was down on her knees, bending over him, sniffing at the blood that spurted through the slit nylon, snuffling like a pig after truffles. ‘The smell! The smell! More of it, I must have more!’ But she dropped the raised hand.
‘No, no, I mustn’t!’ She muttered and mumbled. ‘Only one stab. Self-defence …’ His head rolled helplessly as she forced on to it the dark nylon wig. Muttering … Echoes of the gruesome mutterings of the telephone voice. ‘Can’t call them till he dies. So die, can’t you?—die!’ She scrambled up, perched on the edge of a chair, leaning over him, her eyes fixed on his face. Her voice relaxed into something more nearly human. ‘But you’ll die—No Face, the maniac murderer with his nearly human thirst for the smell of death! Oh, you signed your death warrant, didn’t you?—the day you published that first article. Mad am I? Well, helpless lunatic I may be, but I got you into my power from that hour on. Watched you, got on to your tricks in the churches … Didn’t you ever think, poor deluded fool, that it was all a bit too slick and easy? Picking me up there—so naïve and trusting! And the confessional! I suppose that poor wretch still believes he heard the confession of a killer who would kill again. A trap for you—a trap! All laid on by the pitiful lunatic with his terrible childhood experiences. Terrible, it wasn’t terrible, it was wonderful, I hated them, I hated them for doing it all in front of me, their child—fighting each other with knives, fighting to the death. I wanted the smell of it again, the smell of their death in my nostrils. And again and again. But I needed a fall guy—the police were getting close, even if they didn’t yet know it. And who more suitable than you, who had spilt out your lies to the world. Mad, was I?—who was up to all your shifts and contrivances, playing you along, selling you to the police. Watching over me?—they were watching you with your precious scryings and seeings. The murderer’s voice ringing you up!—who knew that?—they knew only that you told them he rang you up. Do you think they believed you? I believed you: after all it was I who rang you. And all the disguises here, right down to the sheets of
