Натаниель Готорн - The Devil in Manuscript and Other Tales of Forbidden Books

“Look out!” I shouted. “There’s a wall in front of you.”

But the man who ran swiftly past me, his head thrown back, his broken shoes flapping wildly on the cobblestones, could not stop himself in time. Into the wall he went at full speed; and then, rebounding like a rubber ball, toppled over on his back.

“Are you hurt?” I cried, running forward.

He was on his feet again by the time I reached him —on his feet and staring about him wildly. A ribbon of blood ran down his chin, losing itself in his grey, tangled beard; one of his knees had torn its way through the patched cloth and now projected arrogantly, a globule of raw flesh; his long, green coat, many sizes too big for him, flapped idly in the March breeze.

“Are you hurt?” I repeated, touching him on the arm.

He started and turned a pair of bloodshot eyes on me. “Oh!” he said in a husky voice. “I thought you was one of, ’em! I can see you ain’t now. No, mister, there ain’t much wrong with me.”

“But that was quite a fall you took. It must have shaken you up. Look at your knee.”

“To Hell with my knee!” he cried, shaking his head like a restive horse. “I got to get out of here, mister! Ain’t there a gate in this wall? For mercy’s sake, get me out of here before the boss and his gang show up!”

“Who’s the boss and his gang?” I asked, intending to humor him till I ascertained whether he were drunk or mad. “I’m sure everything will be all right.”

“Don’t you hear ’em?” he broke in, cocking his head on one side. “Don’t you hear ’em? They’re comin’ for me now!”

Indeed I did hear a confused, muffled thudding in the distance which gradually grew louder, approaching with the swiftness of hurrying feet. “Probably the police,” I thought to myself. “This fellow has robbed someone and is trying to make a get-a-way.”

Suddenly I felt his hand on my arm. He was shaking me violently. “It’s them!” he cried. “Give me a boost up on the wall, mister! Give me a leg up and I’ll fool ’em yet!”

But I shook his hand from my arm. My suspicions had now become a certainty. I was not the man to help a criminal escape. I respected the laws of my country too much to see them cheated by this villainous scarecrow in his flapping green coat. If he had attempted to climb the wall, I believe I would have detained him till his pursuers arrived.

“You’d better stay here quietly and face the music,” I said sternly. “If you break the laws, you’ve got to answer for it.”

At mat he swung away from me and limped toward one of the dark houses. “Maybe I can get in here,” he muttered.

By now the thudding of a dozen pairs of feet echoed through the alley. They could not be more than a hundred yards away and they were coming fast. I saw the man stop at the bottom step of the shadowy stoop; I saw a dark figure rise slowly to its feet above him—the figure which before I had been unable to make sure of because of the gloom—and then I heard a strange conversation which I shall never be able to forget.

“Let me in your house, mister!” cried the man in the green coat. “Quick! They’re comin’ up the alley now! For God’s sake, open the door and let me in!”

Then I heard a low laugh which rasped on my nerves like sandpaper. “I’m sorry,” said a vaguely familiar voice, “but I don’t happen to have the key.”

What followed then is like the half-remembered figments of a dream. I saw the man in the green coat leap back as though he had come into violent contact with another wall; I heard him scream out like an animal in pain; and the next instant, he was on his knees beside me, clasping me about the waist with emaciated arms.

“Don’t let ’em hurt me, mister!” he muttered. “Don’t let ’em hurt me! The boss thinks I’m going to blab! Tell him”

The rest of his words were swept away by a storm of men dashing towards us—not policemen, as I had thought, but ragged men with caps drawn down over their eyes, men flourishing cudgels with now and then the sickly gleam of a knife flashing through them like lightning in a forest. For an instant they hovered over us like a breaking wave and then we were overwhelmed and dragged apart.

I heard a shrill scream, a dull thudding of blows falling on flesh, and then a cracking sound as though a solid substance had been shattered. At that I struggled and cried out. The next instant a sickening pain closed my eyes—I knew nothing more.

When I regained consciousness it was to find myself stretched out on the pavement at the foot of the wall. Above my head, the antique iron lantern cast its feeble beams at the impenetrable ebony breast of night. I felt instinctively that someone was standing within a few feet of me, but I lacked the strength of will to sit up.

“How do you feel now?” a familiar voice asked.

Turning my head with difficulty, I saw that a man stood near me, leaning up against the wall in an attitude of nonchalant unconcern. There was something in this man’s air of easy indifference which was galling in the extreme. Weak as I was, I managed to sit up and rub my head.

“Oh come now, Smithers,” the voice continued unfeelingly, “you’ve been playing dead long enough. That was the merest tap you got—nothing to make a fuss about. They’re all gone now. It’s quite safe to stage a resurrection.”

And now I knew the voice. Who but Martin could show such an utter lack of human feeling? There he stood, as indifferent as Fate, the lamp light accentuating the dark hollows under his eyes and revealing the cruel catlike curve of his lips. Like a pleased spectator at some farce, he leaned against the wall, smiling and playing absently with a small silver-headed cane.

“So it’s you, Martin,” I said, rising weakly to my feet. “How did you happen to find me?”

“I didn’t,” he answered carelessly. “On the contrary, you found me. I was sitting on the stoop of my house when you and your friend began quarreling.”

“You were the man on the stoop then,” I muttered. “I remember now. But what happened to that poor fellow in the green coat?”

“Tour friend?” he asked.

“He was no friend of mine. I never saw him before. But what happened to him? You must have seen what happened to him?”

“He’s lying over there,” Martin said lightly, jerking his pointed chin over his shoulder. “And he’s not playing dead, Smithers. You and your other friends finished him off to the queen’s taste.”

“My other friends?” I cried, putting my hand to my throbbing head. “Who do you mean?”

“Why, all those impulsive gentlemen who came charging down the street a few minutes ago,” he answered, “those gentlemen armed with clubs. What a devil’s tattoo they did play on that poor fellow’s ribs! He’s nothing but a bag of broken bones now, Smithers.”

“They were no friends of mine!” I cried angrily.

“No?” he said, raising his eyebrows whimsically. “You seemed rather anxious to keep that poor fellow here till they had played their little game with him. If you had boosted him up on the wall, as he wanted, no doubt he’d be alive this minute.”

“Surely he’s not dead, Martin?” I asked with a heavy heart. “Don’t tell me that he’s dead!”

“As dead as a doornail,” he answered laconically. “But look for yourself.”

He stepped to one side and I saw something which a moment before had been hidden by his shadow. The body of the man in the green coat seemed suddenly to spring out of the gloom. There it lay, like a scarecrow which has been blown over on its face—a grotesque, inhuman figure huddled up against the wall. And from it, dark running puddles of blood crawled away, leaving strange, fern-like traceries on the dusty pavement. Yes, he was undoubtedly dead. Only the green coat seemed still alive. One of its tails stirred slightly as the strong March breeze eddied about it.