Great mischief (20 page)

The same tranced expression had come over the other faces about him; the dance was developing into an orgy.

He edged along the wall, both relieved and disconsolate at Sinkinda's flat abandonment of him; it left him in the forlorn situation of being at a large party where he did not know anyone. His fat friend was shouldering toward the majestic portieres of an archway at the right of the stairs; he looked back and beckoned, and for want of other company Timothy shouldered after him.

He found himself in a handsomely appointed room walled around with bookshelves. It was a dream library, for the velours hangings at the doors and windows shut out all sounds; deeply upholstered chairs stood about, and the thick fringed table covers muffled even the laying down of a book. A fire burned low in the great chimney-place before which his guide stood with his gold robe tucked up, cosily warming his plump rear. Near him a great book entitled The Damned Art lay on a table. There was a Biblical unction about it, about the stiff age-blackened binding, the small table all its own.

As Timothy joined him at the fire the little man spoke. "Have you enjoyed your excursion here?"

"Well, yes—in a way. Certainly there is nothing more to be desired in such an apartment as this one." Timothy looked greedily about at the gleaming books, the bronze statuary, the ubiquitous fringed hangings. "But there is so much in Hell to confuse a simple apothecary . . . you have been most courteous, sir; I wonder if I may impose on you for a little information?"

"Knowledge is riches," said his guide, smiling; "never forget that. But ask away—I'll see what I can do for you."

"In particular, Mr.— May I first make so bold as to inquire your name, sir?"

The man's fat cheeks dimpled. He said almost coyly, "My Christian name is Mammon; it's the one I like best, though I get called many names—all rich men do. Happy to see you here, sir."

They bowed courteously to each other and Timothy went on. "In particular I've been hoping to find someone of whom I might ask a rather delicate question. Do you ever in your wanderings through Hell ... I suppose you get about a good deal . . . see a lady . . . perhaps she isn't here at all . . . but I just thought I'd ask . . ."

"For the love of damnation, man, come to the point! We've dispensed with those pale hesitancies of speech down here. Who is this female?"

"My sister. Miss Penelope Partridge."

Mammon gave Timothy a cheerful leer. "Miss Penny Partridge, eh? Yes, I know her; though she seldom comes here, not having much taste for our revels. She's in a Hell of her own—with a few like-minded—next door there."

He nodded toward the bay window at the far end of the room. The half-drawn curtains showed a narrow strip of beautiful moonlit park where Avillow trees drooped over pale statues glimmering down a vista.

"Go and take a look."

Timothy slogged across the thick-piled carpet. When he parted the curtains he saw that the park was only painted on a backdrop of canvas. The hollow eyes of the nearest statue shone unnaturally brilliant, like Sin-kinda's, from an external source; then he perceived that they were peepholes, lighted from beyond. He stepped hesitantly up to the naiad and applied his eyes to hers.

The apartment into which he looked was large and of an unparalleled richness; indeed, sofas, draperies, whatnots, so cluttered it that little space remained for human occupancy. It was empty at the moment, but on a near-by chair Penelope's coat lay folded with her bonnet on top as he had often seen them at home, put aside for some immediate household task. And there beside them were the badges of her servitude—a dustpan, pail, mop, and a little pile of dust and cobwebs. Hell, Timothy could only suppose, had failed to provide an adequate staff for this fme mansion of Penelope's imagining, or, more politic punishment, she lived there in slavery to her rich possessions. Other little piles of dust dotted the carpet, and now he perceived that beside each one lay a figure, a sort of clay statue minus an arm, a leg, a head, and some were ground to dust again by a heel shod with impotent fury.

At this moment Timothy felt himself elbowed aside. "Give me a peep," said Mammon, pushing his bold face into the naiad's. He stared for a few minutes while deep soundless laughter shook the muscles of his belly. "It must be Thursday. She spends all her evenings off  trying to recreate the victims of her kindness; and actually the woman has become very adept, her likenesses grow better and better—she might have made a sculptress on earth. But"—he spun around cackling to share with Timothy the cream of the jest—"no matter how like they are, when she fills that deep bosom of hers and tries to breathe the breath of life into them, they crumble and fall back to dust. A refined chastisement that does credit to the Archfiend's imagination."

Timothy turned away, grieving for the lost sculptress, feeling that her fate was unduly hard—but why look for mercy here? As he walked back to the fireplace with Mammon he said pensively, "I've never quite understood about Sister and Mr. Dombie. If she had learned to bring people back from the dead, how is it that she lives here as a sinner and doesn't belong to Satan's flock—or perhaps pack is a better word for it?"

Mammon shrugged and refilled his curly-stemmed pipe. "She never took advantage of her opportunities. She was too refined and too stubborn—vices which often go in pairs, you will notice—to traffic with the Devil, so she worked out her myths and fantasies on the psychological plane. If she had come out for good, honest witchcraft, now—"

Timothy looked for a long time into the rosy embers. He sighed sentimentally. "At least she's not below in the furnace. I suppose that's something."

"That, Doctor, is for the cruder sorts of sinners. Under our social system: for the lower orders, the furnaces; for the higher organisms—and she did have a fine frenzy about her—the smokeless burning of the mind. Which reminds me—the fire wants mending." He turned and shouted toward the portieres, "Hoppo! Huckle! Bring more fuel directly! The way the fires are allowed to burn low in this place is a cosmic scandal."

Two imps came in, bringing some queerly shaped lumps and bundles, and threw them on the coals. The glow sank for a few minutes, then, seizing its fresh fodder, the fire sprang up. An unpleasant smell began to creep through the apartment, Timothy did not look into the flames, because he had a nasty suspicion about the lumps. Instead he plunged headlong into conversation to choke back a slight nausea. "I must say, this is the most magnificent library. Such books! My little weakness, you know."

Mammon nodded. "All the books of mischief ever written. Like the Bodleian Library, only better. Immensely valuable, of course; many of them with the names of famous personages on their flyleaves. I could get. . . let's see ..." His thin lips, the only straight line in his profusion of curves, narrowed as he frowned over the exact computation: ". . . about twenty-five million for them at the present rate of exchange." His little slant eyes seemed to turn red as they went over the crammed shelves, almost as if he were stripping the books to their naked silver value.

This licentiousness shocked Timothy more than anything he had seen in Hell. "I can't think of them in terms of money," he said after a pause.

Mammon's face relaxed. He laughed, all curves again.

"Never fear; no use for me to sell them. Once I had the money, I'd covet the books. I just like to go over our assets—there's a lot more satisfaction in thinking about money than in spending it, if people only knew. I see you love books genuinely. You'd find this collection unique."

"No doubt of it. I used to be a collector myself in a modest way. I had several curiosities of the literature of magic and even a few firsts."

Suavely Mammon picked up The Damned Art from the table where it lay. "My dear Doctor, why don't you decide now to join us and come back here in a state of grace? Then you would share our privileges, which you've hardly begun to hear about. But the choice has to be made in life, you understand; no shabby deathbed repentances, such as the Adversary accepts, will be counted here. No dissipating your life in Christian virtues and then escaping the frugalities of Heaven at the end."

Timothy said, "I could spend an eternity blissfully here, just browsing through these books." His eyes on the beckoning shelves bulged a little in a startled acceptance like the eyes of a hooked fish.

Mammon dropped his voice; he became intimate, confidential. The fat little salesman, Timothy thought, dressed up in a gold robe. "Open this book. Doctor, and read the secret of Evil. Acquire the wisdom of Hell, and whatever you may desire will be added—gratis."

Timothy looked at the book Mammon held out. Between its pages hung bookmarks of rich purple satin; the cabalistic ornaments in silver that dangled from their ends winked in the uneasy light. The fire-tending imps drew near and watched him with piercing curiosity.

Did ever a man sell his soul for a plush-hung library? he wondered—for the heady pleasures of reading? But there was Lucy; he wanted to be with her, he remembered. It would be rather creditable, a fine romantic gesture, to embrace Evil in order to be with his love. And the solace it would bring his gnawing curiosity to have this matter of Good and Evil settled! For if he opened this book he would know Good also by simple elimination. He ran his tongue over his dry lips,

"Give it to me."

The heavy goatskin binding had a slickness, an unctuous texture, in his hands. He closed his eyes and inserted his thumbnail between the pages while he tried to conjure up against his dark lids the passage his eyes would fall on. And all at once he caught a glimpse, beyond the thick paper and the Gothic script crowding it, of the Evil recorded there, lying in blackness under all life, a water-table from which fountains rose and collected in foul pools in human brains. He could smell the senseless brutality, the blood; treacheries and corrupt lusts, cowardices like wharf-rats, all that was finally unacceptable, swam in those dissolute waters. He stood so engrossed, his eyes screwed tight in his long seeker's face, that Mammon cried, "What! Lost your nerve, man?" Hoppo and Huckle slapped their thighs, they ran between Timothy's legs and nipped his calves with their sharp nails.

Timothy opened his eyes and looked at the book with a repugnance that gushed unimpeded now. Like Gideon tearing down the altar of Baal, he stalked between the imps and threw it into the fireplace.

An explosion shook the room, fire and black smoke belched from the chimney, they all fell back choking. Mammon began to bellow, the imps screamed like a thousand devils. The flames seized the hearth rug, the table cover, in their teeth; in a moment the near-by hangings were ablaze. With a wild backward look at the holocaust, Timothy sprang through the portieres and ran into the hall. It was empty except for some sleepy attendants, the revelers having gone on to more private enjoyments. In unashamed panic, he dashed through the great doorway and out of the building.

The darkness outside was stunning after the incandescence indoors. Half blinded, he floundered about; he flapped his arms, but the secret of flying had escaped him; he couldn't think how to rise from the ground. Vaguely he distinguished a pale streak of driveway and ran crouching along it for a little, feeling for abysses at his feet.

He had gone some distance when he heard a sound so familiar that it brought him immediate comfort, the sound of a horse cropping the grass beside the road. He quickly came upon it, a noble black animal, hitched to a light, black vehicle—or perhaps they merely looked dark against the pallor of the roadway. Groping and fumbling, he found the iron weight to which the tether was fastened, threw it into the gig, and sprang up after it. "Giddap!" he shouted, and slapped the reins on the horse's gleaming back.

With a spring that almost snapped Timothy out backward, the horse started and sped along the drive. High gateposts flashed by, the gig rushed down a dark road going somewhere very rapidly. Timothy tried to steady his thoughts against the rocking of their passage. Darkness hung overhead and on either hand and let through no clue as to their whereabouts. What sort of beast was this? A conjecture lit up his mind with the stab of a match flame: this was Satan's own gig-horse, harnessed and ready for a sudden visit to the upper world. He hung on to the reins and hoped for the best.

The first familiar sight to his eyes were some stars overhead. He seemed to have come on the outskirts of a town, but they sped too fast for him to recognize the dim houses. Timothy wondered if this beast were as sapient as he should be for such a profession, and decided to chance it. "We're going after Dr. Timothy Partridge!" he shouted. "To Dr. Partridge's house!"

Again the horse sprang forward. The streets rushed by, familiar now in flashes. Dirt, cobblestones, then more dirt; the lampposts ran up to them like link boys, and in a twinkling they came to a dead stop before Timothy's gate.

He clambered out and sat for a moment on the horse block, his legs too slack-twisted to hold him. The death like stillness before the dawn lay on the street. The moon had long sunk, the roof from which he had started ages ago was shrouded in leaves of darkness. Tottering to his feet, Timothy wondered what he should do with his undomesticated charger. The livery stable? But it was closed. He waved his hand weakly toward the horse's head. "Good-by, old fellow—I expect you're sharp enough to get home by yourself." He wobbled along the path and up to his bed.

Part FOUR

TIMOTHY woke the next day and thought—Dear God! Did I really go to Hell and burn it up? He drew a deep breath, a Messianic complacency stirred in him. The adventure had, to be sure, the wild improbability of a dream, but that didn't concern him much; the wall between dream and reality had worn as thin for him as the surrounding mosquito net. From his bolster he could see the fireplace, the slop-jar, the rosewood sofa, clearly yet pearled in the gauze; when he rose and moved among them, the figures of his fantastic world would be as pearly-clear to him as the slop-jar was now. And he was content that each world should have its own validity. So thinking, he sat up, released the patent frame; the canopy sprang back to the head of the bed and the net folded above him like a king's baldequin.