Michael Kurland - Professor Moriarty Omnibus

Cecily looked up from the menu. "What's that?" she asked. "Switch what?"

"The violets. I didn't know you disliked violets. Very few people have a natural antipathy to them. It's just my misfortune that you are one of them. Well, live and learn, I always say. Now that I've learned, I shall never offend your delicate nostrils with the scent of violets again."

"Benjamin, my dear, I like violets," Cicely said, looking over her menu at him. "I assure you I am very pleased that you have brought me violets. I shall put them in water as soon as I can, and carry the vase about with me everywhere until the poor things wilt and the petals fall off. I love violets."

"The way you treated the poor things when I handed them to you, I had formed quite a contrary opinion," Barnett told her.

"I am sorry," Cecily said. "I was distracted. I was angry. I still am, if it comes to that. But I do apologize for taking it out on you."

"Angry?" Barnett asked. "Why are you angry? Listen, Cecily, if someone has offended you, tell me about it and let me be angry too."

"Circumstances conspire to offend me, Benjamin," Cecily said. "This most recent circumstance has, I fear, provoked a reaction quite out of relation to its cause. The fault, I believe, lies in the fact that I was raised by my father. And my father is a man most intolerant of the stifling stupidity of convention and the rigid imbecility of custom."

"I see," said Barnett, who didn't at all. "Some custom has angered you? What sort of custom?"

"Have you ever stopped to realize how unequal is the relationship between men and women in our society?" Cecily asked, staring intently across the table at Barnett. "Have you ever considered how much freedom men have in everyday discourse and commerce, and how stifling it is to be a woman?"

"I am not sure what you mean," Barnett said, taken slightly aback by the intensity with which his loved one was speaking on a subject to which he had never given much thought.

"I arrived at this restaurant fifteen minutes before you did," Cecily said.

"I told you I'm sorry—"

Cecily raised a hand to stop him. "Not you," she said. "I asked to be seated when I arrived. The manager informed me that unescorted women are not seated in his establishment. The way he said 'unescorted' was, of itself, an insult. I told him my escort would be along shortly. He replied that when my escort arrived he would be pleased to seat us both."

Barnett thought about this for a moment, and then his face turned red, and he started to rise, but Cecily reached across and put her hand on his shoulder. "Please don't make a scene," she said. "That would accomplish nothing except to make me feel worse."

"Someone should teach a boor like that to have proper respect for a lady!" Barnett exclaimed.

"Perhaps," Cecily said, "but an altercation in a public place will not accomplish that end. If I thought it would, I would have started one myself."

Barnett relaxed on his seat. "Yes," he said, "I guess you would have."

"This is merely a symptom of the condition of women in our society today," Cecily said. "That's what makes me angry!"

"Now, I don't think that's fair," Barnett said. "This boob, this scoundrel, is obviously non compos mentis. Anyone who is capable of confusing a lady like you with a, ah, woman should not be in a position where he has to make such fine discernments."

"That is not my point," Cecily insisted. "It's the inequality of the situation that frustrates and angers me. If a man wants to eat in here alone, and is reasonably well dressed, the manager doesn't ask to see proof of his gentle birth. If a woman, no matter how well dressed, wishes to eat lunch but is not currently in possession of an escort, the manager feels free to assume that she's 'no better than she ought to be.' In the first place, what authority has he to assume any such thing? In the second place, even if it were so, is that any reason to deprive her of the right to eat lunch?"

"Now, Cecily," Barnett said. "Women in this society are protected, guarded; all in all, they are treated far better than men."

"Protected from whom?" Cecily demanded. "Guarded from what?"

"You are an intensely independent person, Cecily, quite determined to have your own way in everything. And I admire you for it," Barnett said. "But most ladies enjoy the protection of their special status."

"You think so?" Cecily asked. "Try asking some of them. You might be surprised."

Barnett realized that now was not a propitious time to propose marriage. He should probably postpone the question until another day. But he had spent all morning building up the courage and it would probably be even harder another time. He decided to wait until dessert.

They spoke of many things during the course of the meal. One of the hallmarks of a good journalist is a wide and searching curiosity. The conversation ranged from the possibility of a new war in Europe to the claims of a Scottish inventor that he was perfecting a machine that could fly. The question of the rights and indignities of women gradually faded into the past, although Barnett was sure that it was not forgotten. He would have to give it some thought.

Toward the end of the entrée they reached the subject of the series of murders. Cecily was quite wrapped up in the articles she was doing about the murders. "There must be something that connects these crimes," she insisted to Barnett. "The poor man is obviously in the grip of some overpowering compulsion that causes him to seek out these particular victims."

"By 'the poor man,' I assume you are referring to the mysterious individual who has been slitting the throats of perfectly innocuous middle-aged men in their own bedrooms," Barnett said.

Cecily poked thoughtfully at the remains of a poached whitefish on her plate. "A man who commits a heinous crime," she said, "has put himself outside the bounds of common human intercourse. This is not an easy thing to do, not an easy decision to make. To choose to be isolated from the rest of humanity, there must be a compelling need. One can feel a revulsion at the deed, and at the same time pity the man who felt compelled to commit it."

"I'd rather save my pity for the victims," Barnett said. "The frightening thing about a murderer like this one is that he isn't isolated from society. We could breathe easier if he were. He is embedded in our midst, and hidden by the camouflage of assumed innocence. There is nothing about his appearance or manner to proclaim him as a secret slitter of throats. He probably discusses each murder with his friends, and shakes his head in wonder that anyone could commit such a horrible deed."

"A man like this has no friends," Cecily said. "That is one of the signs of the type of abnormality that causes a man to feel impelled to commit this sort of crime."

"How can you be so sure about that?" Barnett asked. "He may be the most popular man in his club. He may have to employ two social secretaries to respond to all his invitations."

Cecily put down her fork and pushed her plate aside. "I don't think so," she said. "I've been doing some reading, you might say research, on the background and antecedents of the killer type, and I would say that almost certainly he is a very lonely man."

One waiter returned to hand them dessert menus, while another sneaked in behind the first and removed the fishy remains from in front of Cecily.

"Now," Barnett said, after the waiter went off to have vanilla souffles constructed for their desserts, "what have you found in your research that indicates our murderer is such a lonely man? You think he is driven to commit these crimes out of simple boredom?"

"No," Cecily told him. "You have it wrong way around. I believe this man is so driven by his need to commit these crimes that he has no time for normal human desires like companionship, or love, or recreation."