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

Very sincerely,

Burgess Martin.”

“You evidently have him worried,” I said. “Are you going?”

Huntington paused for a moment before he answered. Finally he raised his eyes to my face and I saw that they were flashing like slits in a furnace door.

“Yes, I’m going!” he cried. “This time I see my way clear. I’ll strike him down, Charley; I’ll put my foot on his neck! Perhaps I can suggest a new idea for his book—something that even he has never thought of. He has described crime from the standpoint of the spectator, from the standpoint of the criminal; but are there not other lengths to which he could go? Martin’s mind must be like an over laden camel. One more straw, and then But we’ll see, Charley; we’ll see.”

Huntington rose to his feet with the intention of leaving the apartment. I was in a bewildered state as.. I followed him to the door. My friend’s incomprehensible words made me fear for his reason. Was it possible that “The Confessions of Constantine” was conquering his mind as it had conquered Rupert Farrington’s?

“When will you be back?” I asked as he slipped on his coat

“Not for two days. I promised my mother to visit her for a while.” He took my hand in leave taking and pressed it warmly. “We’ve been good friends, you and I,” he said with one of his rare smiles. “We’ve had lots of fun together. That’s pleasant to think over, isn’t it? Goodnight, Charley.”

What could have come over Huntington, I wondered as the door closed behind him. Something had changed him utterly He, the most undemonstrative of men, had actually held my hand like a lovesick schoolgirl. He had said goodbye to me as though we were parting for years instead of for days. What could it all mean?

A week passed and I saw nothing of Huntington. This was strange, to say the least, as he had promised to look me up in a day or so and let me know how his interview with Martin had turned out. Vague misgivings began to torment me as I remembered his rather bewildering statements in regard to “The Confessions of Constantine.” Had the book thrown him off his mental balance as it had Rupert Farrington, Professor Brent, and so many others?

On the following Tuesday Mrs. Huntington phoned me. No sooner did I hear her high, fretful voice than I had a premonition of disaster.

“Yes, Mrs. Huntington,” I answered. “This is Mr. Smithers. What can I do for you this morning?”

“You might send Wilbur home. I haven’t seen him in months.”

“Send Wilbur home?” I repeated dazedly. “Why, he left here last week, Mrs. Huntington! He told me then that he intended staying with you the rest of the time he was in New York.”

There came a long-drawn silence and then a deafening volley of words. “Why, he never came! I haven’t seen him for over two months. Do you suppose anything could have happened to the poor boy? Oh, I’m so frightened! He was such a reckless driver! He might have driven his car out into the country and had a smash-up on some lonely road. What shall I do, Mr. Smithers?”

“Please be calm,” I told her. “No doubt Wilbur is all right. Probably he’s gone out to Long Island. Have you called up his bungalow?”

“No, of course not! I thought he was with you.”

“Well, phone there and I’m pretty sure you’ll find him. If not, call me up. I’ll find him for you.”

“Thank you so much! Probably you’re right. But he should have let me know. Goodbye, Mr. Smithers.”

“Goodbye,” I answered and hung up the receiver with a feeling of uncertainty.

For the rest of that morning I attempted to paint, but made a miserable failure of it. Try as I would, I could not fix my attention on the work at hand. Huntington’s incomprehensible words about Martin kept ringing through my head. At last I tossed the brush aside and left the studio with the intention of inquiring for Wilbur at the Cap and Gown Club.

I was descending the stairs and had reached the first landing when I came face to face with a small man who was coming up. I was about to stand aside Bo as to give him room to pass, when he addressed me.

“Are you Mr. Smithers?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said in surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“I want to ask you a few questions about a friend of yours. You know Wilbur Huntington, I presume f”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well, I think we’d better have our talk in your apartment, if you don’t mind.”

I led the way back to the studio with the feeling that something quite unexpected was about to happen. In fact, my brain was in a whirl. Who could this rather common-looking little man be? And what could he possibly want to know about Huntington?

But my visitor gave me no time to compose myself. No sooner had the door closed behind us than he spoke.

“I understand that Mr. Huntington was here on the afternoon of the twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, he was.”

“I’m Greene from police headquarters,” the little man continued, opening his coat and displaying a metal badge. “As I believe you know, Mr. Huntington has been missing now for several days. His mother has just put the case in our hands.”

“He wasn’t at his bungalow, then?”

“No, he hasn’t been there in over a month. Mrs. Huntington thought you might’ be able to give us valuable information. Where was he going when he left your apartment, Mr. Smithers?”

“He was going to the house of Mr. Burgess Martin on Tyndall Place.”

“Burgess Martin, eh? That’s interesting! Was there anything unusual about Mr. Huntington’s manner—anything which would lead you to suspect that he wasn’t in a normal state of mind.”

Then I did a very foolish thing—a thing which I have regretted ever since. I revealed everything to the detective, answering his questions with the candor of a child. I told him of the letter Huntington had received, of his wild words about Martin, and of his final threat. And when I had finished, my visitor thanked me heartily.

“If other people were as willing to give evidence as you, Mr. Smithers,” said he, “the work of a detective would soon dwindle down to nothing. What you say about Burgess Martin is especially interesting. Word has just come to us that he, too, is missing.”

“What?”

“Yes, his landlady hasn’t seen him in days.” The detective turned toward the door. “I’ve got to be off on this new clew you’ve given me, Mr. Smithers,” he called back over his shoulder. “It’s just possible, if we can lay our hands on Mr. Huntington, that he’ll be able to tell us something about Burgess Martin.”

When the detective had gone, I realized fully what I had done. I had branded my best friend as a murderer. I had slipped the halter about his neck. Then, for the first time, I saw clearly the significance of Wilbur’s threatening words when coupled with the disappearance of Martin. Yes, I had made an ass of myself. But there was no helping that now. The damage was done I could do nothing more—only wait as patiently as possible for the results.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, but the two men still remained missing. Meanwhile the newspapers made much of the mystery and soon it became the sensation of the year. It was remembered that it was through Wilbur Huntington’s efforts that Martin’s last book had been condemned by the government. From that fact, they argued that there was bad blood between the two men, and this gave rise to all manner of wild conjectures. Possibly they had fought a duel to the death; or perhaps it had been a suicide pact. The yellow journals knew how to make hay while the sun shone.

Nearly two months after the detective visited me, a body was found floating in the East River. The face had been beaten into an unrecognizable condition by some heavy weapon and the corpse generally was so disfigured by its long submersion in the water, that, had it not been for a ring on the second finger of the left hand, identification would have proved impossible. This ring was engraved with the initials B. M.