CHAPTER II

TROUSERS

'Well Professor! The noble steed must have his oats. He's a thoroughbred and kicks. At the zoo the lion devours red juicy meat. Whye Because the king of beasts roan like thunder. The grinning gorilla gets his fresh women from the savages. Why? Because the gorilla bursts with muscles of iron. There's justice for you! Look at me, the house pays me nothing. But I'm invaluable. Professor, you were the only man in the world who understood gratitude. Serious undernourishment was relieved by your honorarium, as they say. To conclude, may I humbly ask what you have been doing with yourself, Professor, and remain your humble servant?'

On reaching his closet these were the first words addressed by Benedikt Pfafff to the Professor who was removing the handkerchief tied over his eyes. He excused himself and paid what he had omitted, namely the honorarium for two months.

'As to the conditions obtaining on the upper floor, we know where we stand,' he said.

'I should think so!' winked Pfaff, partly because of Thérèse, but chiefly on account of his own rights which, though much crumpled, he had now secured.

'While you attend to the thorough cleaning of my flat, I will collect myself here in quiet. Work is urgent.'

'The whole closet is at your disposal! Make yourself at home here, Professor ! A woman may come between the best of men. But between such friends as us there is no such person as a certain Thérèse.'

'I know, I know,' interrupted Kien hastily.

'Let me have my say out, Professor! Women are muck! My daughter now, she was different!'

He pointed to the chest as though she were inside it. Then he formulated his terms. He was only numan and would take over the cleaning of the flat above. There was a lot to clean. He would have to engage several charwomen and take command of them. He couldn't stand for desertion, desertion and perjury were one and the same crime. During his absence the Professor must take his place at the vital spot of the house.

Less from a sense of duty than from a desire for power he was determined to force Kien on to his knees for a little time. His daughter was going round and round in his head to-day. Since she was dead the Professor must take her place. He was bursting with arguments. He declared to him how honourably and truly they loved each other. He made him a present of the whole closet with all its movables. Only a minute or two back he had merely placed it at his disposal. As for a daily payment, since his friend was living with him, he indignantly refused it. In the shortest possible time he had fitted up a bell which connected the closet with the library on the .fourth floor. In suspicious cases the Professor had only to press the button. The suspect, all unknowing, would climb the stairs. Down towards him would come his punishment and meet him half-way. Every eventuality was arranged for him.

Already on the late afternoon of the same day, Kien took over his new office. He crouched on his knees and watched through the peep hole the comings and goings of a thickly populated house. His eyes yearned for work. Long idleness had demoralized them. So as to employ both of them and to give neither a preference, he changed over from time to time. His sense of accuracy was reawakened. Five minutes for each eye seemed to him reasonable. He placed his watch before him on the floor and kept to it strictly. His right eye showed a tendency to take advantage at the expense of his left. He held it under stern control. As soon as the precise timing had become second nature to him, he put his watch back in his pocket. The commonplace objects out there which came into his line of vision seemed to him slightly unworthy. The truth was they were all alike. Between one pair of trousers and another there were but minor differences. Since he had never taken any notice of the inhabitants of the house at an earlier time, he couldn't imagine their shapes complete. Trousers were to him simply trousers and he felt himself at a loss. But they had one pleasing quality which he held to their credit: he could look at them. Far more often skirts passed by, and these annoyed him. Both their size and their number usurped for them more space than they deserved. He decided to ignore them. His hands involuntarily turned pages as if he were holding a picture book in them and sharing out the work for his eyes. The pages turned more slowly or more fast according to the speed with which the trousers went by. When skirts came his hands were infected with the distaste of their master; they turned over two pages at a time of what he did not want to read. In this way he very often lost several pages at once, but he did not regret it, for who could tell what might be lurking behind them?

Gradually the monotony of the world soothed him. The great excitement of the past day paled. Among the striding legs coming and going, that particular hallucination was rarely to be seen. There was no sign of that blue colour. The forbidden skirts which he ignored attempted varying colours. That special and unmistakable blue, shrill, insulting and vulgar, was worn by no one. The reason for this fact, which, looked upon statistically, seemed miraculous, was simple. An hallucination continues for as long as it is not contested. It is only necessary to have the strength to face the danger. It is only necessary to fill the consciousness with the image one fears. It is only necessary to make out the warrant against the hallucination and keep it ready always. Then reality must be faced and searched for the hallucination. If the hallucination is to be found anywhere in the physical world, it is then evident that you have gone mad and must undergo proper treatment. But if the blue skirt is nowhere to be found then it has been vanquished. He who is still able to distinguish between reality and imagination is sure of his mental balance. A certainty achieved in circumstances of such difficulty is a certainty for all time.

In the evening the caretaker brought in a meal, which Thérèse had cooked, and charged for it what it would have cost at a restaurant; Kien paid immediately and ate with pleasure. 'How good it tastes!' he said: 'I am satisfied with my work.' They sat next to each other on the bed. 'No one came again, what a day!' sighed Pfaff and ate more than half of the meal, although he had really had enough already. Kien was pleased to see the dish disappearing so fast. Soon he left the remains to the attention of his companion and full of zeal dropped once more on to his knees.

'What's that?' bellowed Pfaff. 'You're getting a taste for it! That's my hole's doing. You've fallen in love. He was beaming, and at every sentence he slapped his thighs. Then he put his plate away, pushed aside the Professor, who was trying to penetrate the darkness, and asked: 'Is everything in order? I'll have a look.' Gloating, he intoned aloud: 'Aha! The Mushroom's up to her old tricks. Come home at eight o'clock. Her husband waits for her. What's she cooked for him? A bit of muck. For years I've been on the look-out for murder. The other one waits outside. Got no guts, that man. I'd choke the life out of her, three times a day. The bitch! There she is waiting for him. Raving mad about her, he is. Her old man hasn't an idea. That's what comes of having no guts! I see everything!'

'But it's dark already,' interjected Kien, at once envious and critical.

The caretaker was overcome by one of his gusts of laughter, and fell full-strength, flat on the floor. One part of him reached under the bed, the other shook the wall. For a long time he stayed in this position. Kien shrank apprehensively into a corner. The closet was full to bursting with imprisoned waves of laughter; he avoided them, he was in their way. In spite of everything he did not feel quite at home here. His solitary afternoon had been far more satisfactory. He needed quiet. This barbarian landsknecht could flourish only among noise. True to type, he got up suddenly, cumbrous as a hippopotamus, and blustered:

'D'you know what my late lamented nickname was when I was in the police? Professor' — he laid his fists on the two thin shoulders — 'you see before you Ginger the Cat! First of all because of my distinguishing colour, and then because I unmask the darkness. I've got eyes! That's the rule with tigers.'

He called on Kien to take the whole bed for himself, and said good night, he would be sleeping upstairs. Last of all, in the doorway, he commended the peep-hole to his special care. People like hitting out in their sleep; even he had once broken the corner of the peep-hole and to his horror had only woken up in the morning. He begged him to be cautious, and to bear the valuable apparatus in mind.

Very tired, irritated at the interruption of his quiet thoughts — he had been alone for three hours before supper — Kien lay down on the bed and yearned for the library, his library which he would soon possess again: four lofty halls, the walls from floor to ceiling robed in books, the communicating doors always wide open, no unjust windows, an even illumination from above, a desk full of manuscripts, work, work, thought, thought, China, learned controversies, opinion versus opinion, in quarterlies, spoken without the aid of material lips, Kien victorious, not in a boxing match, but in a match of the wits, peace, peace, the rustle of books, exquisite, no living creature, no shrill-coloured monster, no ramping woman, no skirt. This house purified of the carcase. Her remains removed from near the desk. Modern ventilation to purge any insistent smell out of the books. Even after months, some of them still smelt. Into the incubator with them! The nose, the most dangerous of all organs. Gas masks ease breathing. A dozen of them high above the writing desk. Higher or the dwarf will steal them. Feels for his ridiculous nose. Slip on a gas mask. Two huge, sad eyes. A single penetrating opening. A pity. Change over. Look at the card of instructions. Boxing match between his eyes. Both want to read. Who is in charge here? Someone is snapping his fingers against my eyelids. As a punishment I will shut you both. Pitch dark. Tigers in the night. Beasts dream too. Aristotle knew everything. The first library in the world. A zoological collection. Zoroaster's passion for fire. He was honoured at home. A bad prophet. Prometheus, a devil. The Eagle only eats his liver. Eat his fire too ! Theresianum — sixth floor—flames — books — flight — down the steep stairs — quicker, quicker!— damnation!— congestion — fire! fire! —one for all and all for one —united, united, united — books, books, we are all books — red, red — who has barred the staircase? —I ask. I demand an answer! —Let me through!—I'll blaze the trail for you! — I will throw myself on the foemen's spears — damnation — blue — the skirt — stiff and stark a rock against the sky — across the Milky way — Sirius — dogs bloodhounds — let's bite the granite! Teeth broken jaws blood blood —

Kien woke up. In spite of his fatigue, he clenched his fists. He gnashed his teeth. No need for fear, they are still there. He must come to conclusions with them. Even the blood was a dream. The closet presses on him. It is narrow, sleeping here. He got up, threw up the peep-hole cover and calmed himself by looking at the great monotony outside. For it is only an idea that nothing is happening. If you can get used to the darkness, you can see all the trousers of the afternoon, an interminable parade; the intervening skirts have faded out. At night everyone wears trousers. A decree for the abolition of the female sex is in preparation. To-morrow the proclamation will be made public. The caretaker will proclaim it. That voice will be heard through the whole town, the whole country, every country, as far as the earth's atmosphere reaches; other planets will have to look after themselves, we are overburdened with women, evasion is punished by death, ignorance of the law is no protection. All Christian names to have masculine suffixes, history to be rewritten for schools. The select historical commission has an easy task: its chairman, Professor Kien. What have women produced in history? Children and intrigues!

Kien lies down again in bed. Wandering, he falls asleep. Wandering, he reaches the blue rock which he thought had been shattered. If the rock will not move, the dream can't go on, so he wakes immediately and leans down to the peep-hole. It is close at his side. This happens a dozen times in the night. Towards morning he transfers the peephole, his eye of monotony, his requiem, his joy, into his dream ibrary. He places several peepholes in each wall. Thus he would never have to look long for one. Wherever books are missing he builds little peep-holes, the Benedikt Pfaff system. He skilfully guides the course of his dreams; wherever he may have got to, he brings himself back on a lead to the library. Numberless peep-holes invite him to linger. He serves them, as he had learnt during the day, on bended knee; and he proves that without a doubt there are only trousers in the world, especially in the darkness. Differendy coloured skirts disappear. Starched blue rocks crumble. He must not get up. His dreams can be automatically regulated. Towards morning he sleeps, unconditionally, without aberrations. His head rests, deep in serious thought, on his writing desk.

The first pale light found him at work. At six, on his knees, he contemplated the twilight creeping slowly over the entrance hall. The stain on the opposite wall acquired its true character. Shadows, whose origin was dubious — of things, not of people, but of what things? — cast themselves on the tiles, developed into a grey of a dangerous and tacdess tinge, approaching a colour by the naming of which he had no intention of spoiling the young day. Without admitting its name, he requested the shadows, at first courteously, to disappear, or to assume another colour. They hesitated. He became insistent. Their hesitation had not escaped him. He decided on an ultimatum and threatened, if they disregarded it, to break ofFrelations. He had other means of pressure, he warned them, he was not defenceless, he would suddenly take them in the rear, and shatter at a single blow their pride and their haughtiness, their arrogance and insolence. How contemptible and absurd they were in any case; their existence depended on tiles. Tiles can be utterly shattered. A blow here, a blow there and their miserable little splinters would be left to sorrow and think — what about? — about whether it was just to torment an innocent creature who never did them an injury, but who, rising refreshed from sleep, was making ready to meet a day of decisive conflict? For to-day the disaster of yesterday was to be wiped out, annihilated, buried and forgotten.

The shadows quavered: those bright streaks which separated each from the other, grew broader and shone brightly. There was no doubt that Kien would have himself defeated his enemies. But at that moment a mighty pair of trousers came to his rescue and robbed him of the honour of victory. Two heavy legs walked across the tiles, and stood still. A powerful boot raised itself and lovingly sketched the outer opening of the peep-hole, so as not to hurt it, but simply to be reassured of its old familiar shape. The first boot withdrew, and a second permitted itself the same tenderness, in the opposite direction. Then the legs marched further, there was a noise, a jingling like that of a key, a screeching and creaking. The shadows moaned and vanished. Now it could be frankly admitted: they had been blue, literally blue. The clumsy creature walked back again. Thanks were owing to him. All the same, he could have managed without him. Shadows are shadows. They are thrown by an object. Move the object and the shadows moan and die. What object had been moved? The answer to that could only be given by the perpetrator. In came Benedikt Pfaff.

'What's that! Up already! A juicy good morning, Professor! You're the picture of industry. I've come for my oil can. Did you hear the street door groaning. On that bed, you sleep like a bear. A dormouse is nothing to it. We used to sleep three at a time in it, when my old woman was alive and my daughter, bless her. I'll give you a tip, as a friend and the father of this house, you stay here, where you are now! Then you'll see one of the marvels of nature as the saying is. A house getting up. All of them off to work. In a hurry they are, they sleep too late, all of them women and sluggards. If you're lucky, you'll see three pairs of legs at a time. An interesting spectacle! You can't know them all. Aha! you think to yourself, and all the time it's someone quite different. A great show! Save your laugh, I say, or you'll laugh yourself to death.'

Panting and red as a turkey with delight at his joke, he left Kien alone. That repulsive shadow with its many ugly streaks had originated then in the grille across the street door. You have but to know an object by its proper name for it to lose its dangerous magic. Primitive man called each and all by the wrong name. One single and terrible web of magic surrounded him; where and when did he not feel threatened? Knowledge has freed us from superstitions and beliefs. Knowledge makes use always of the same names, preferably Graeco-Latin, and indicates by these names actual things. Misunderstandings are impossible. Who for instance could imagine anything else in a door than the door itself, and, at the uttermost, its shadow?

But the caretaker was right. Numerous trousers were leaving the house; at first plain ones, blunt, tended with very moderate care, revealing a minimum of trouser consciousness and maybe, as Kien hoped, some intelligence. The later it grew, the sharper the creases of the appearing trousers; and the haste with which they moved grew less. When one knife-edge came too close to another, he was afraid they might cut each other and called: 'Look out!' All kinds of distinguishing marks struck him; he did not shrink from naming the colours, the material, the value, the height from the ground, prospective holes, the breadth, the relation of trouser leg to boot, stains and their probable origin; in spite of the richness of the material he came to one or two conclusions. About ten o'clock as the house grew quiet, he attempted to form an estimate as to the age, character and profession of the wearers of what he saw. A systematic study of the classification of men by trousers seemed to him abundandy possible. He promised himself a small thesis on the subject; it would be completed easily in three days. Half joking he uttered a reproach against a certain scholar who was pursuing researches in the tailor's department. But the time he spent down there was lost; it was of no consequence what he did with it. He knew well why he had become so devoted to the peep-hole. Yesterday was over, yesterday had to be over. And this scholarly concentration was doing him infinite good.

But Kien does not admire them. He could ignore them, God knows it would be easy — a mere matter of will-power. Ignoring is in the blood of a learned man. Learning is the art of ignoring. But for a reason, near to his heart, he makes no use of his art. Women are illiterates, unendurable and stupid, a perpetual disturbance. How rich would the world be without them, a vast laboratory, an overfilled library, a heaven of intensive study, night and day! Yet justice compels him to admit one saving grace in all these women; they wear skirts, but not one is blue; as long and as far as Kien looks not one of the women of the house awakens in him the recollection of one who erstwhile would glide over diis very threshold and who, in the end and far too late, died by hunger the most wretched of deaths.

Towards one o'clock Benedikt Pfaff appeared and asked for money for dinner. He must fetch it from the café and had not a penny on him. The State paid him his pension regularly on the first of the month, not on the last. Kien asked for quiet. His days down here would be few and numbered. Soon he would be going back to his flat. Before then he wished to complete his researches at the peep-hole. A 'Charac-terology of Trousers' was in prospect together with an 'Appendix on Shoes'. He had no time to eat, to-morrow perhaps.

'What's that!' bellowed the caretaker. 'I won't have it! Professor, I'm asking you for your own good, hand over the money! In that interesting position a fellow can starve to death. I'm taking care of you.'

Kien rose and cast an exploratory glance at the trousers of the peacebreaker. 'If you please, will you kindly leave my — study at once!' He emphasized the 'my', made a short pause after it and threw out the 'study' as though it were an insult.

Pfaff's eyes started from his head. His fists itched. So as not to use them at once he rubbed his nose hard. Had the Professor gone mad? His study. Now what was he to do? Break his legs, smash in his skull, spatter his brains, or begin with one in the belly? Drag him up to that woman? That'd be a good one! She'd lock the murderer into the Uvatory, that's what she said. Chuck him out into the street? Smash down the wall and shut him in the back room where the heart of his late-lamented daughter was lost?

None of these things happened. At Pfaff's command Thérèse had cooked lunch; it was waiting upstairs; cost what it would — even the sweetest revenge — he must earn his share of it. He wouldn't have minded keeping a pub, it would have suited him as well as being in a circus. He drew a small shutter-lock out of his pocket, pushed Kien aside with one finger, bent down and locked the lid over his peep-hole.

'My hole's my own!' he bellowed. His fists were swelling again. 'Shurrup!' he told them, furious. Sulkily they withdrew into his pockets. There they lay, ready to pounce. They were hurt. They rubbed their hairs on the lining of his pockets and growled.

'What trousers!' Kien was thinking, 'what trousers!' One profession, an important one, he had missed in his morning's observations; the killer. Here was one — the very one who had this moment coldbloodedly obstructed his instrument of observation — who wore trousers typical of those which would be seen on such a criminal: crumpled, glimmering reddish with faded blood, kept in ugly motion from within, threadbare and greasy, clumsy, dark, repulsive. If beasts wore trousers, they would wear them like that.

'Dinner is ordered!' foamed the beast. 'What's ordered must be paid for!' Pfaffwhipped out a fist, opened it much against its will, and held out his flat hand. 'I'm not going to lose money, Professor, you don't know me! I won't stand any nonsense: I ask you for the last time! Think of your health! What'U become of you?'

Kien made no move.

'Then I shall have to search you!' He arrested him, said, "What a scarecrow!' threw the scarecrow on the bed, and looked through all its pockets, carefully counted the money he found, took out a reasonable sum for a meal, not a penny more, called himself, for his honesty, a good fellow and ended menacingly: 'I'll send you your dinner. You don't deserve my company. The ingratitude of the man. I'll shave that off. I warn you! My hole'll stay shut. That's justice. All those trousers have made a crook of you. I must watch out. If you behave proper I'll open it again to-morrow, out of pure consideration and kind-heartedness. That's how I am. Be good now! At four you'll get your coffee. At seven you'll have a light supper. You'll pay when it comes! Or would you rather pay now?'

Kien had just replaced himself on his feet, but he was laid down flat once more. So as to settle the matter once for afl, Pfaff worked out the Professor's keep for a week; for a policeman his arithmetic was not bad, at the third attempt the sum seemed correct, as it was a large one, he took charge of it, wrote under the calculation: 'Received with thanks, Benedikt Pfaff, Retired police constable,' slipped the piece of paper, because it was his own, carefully under the pillow, only then cleared his throat and spat (pardy to show his disappointment in the Professor, partly at the disappointment of his fists, so long idle), and went out. The door remained whole. But he locked it on the outside.

Another lock interested Kien more. He wrenched at the lid of the peep-hole; he loosened it a little but it didn't come off. He turned out the closet for keys. Perhaps one would fit. Under the bed there was nothing, he broke open the cupboard. Inside were old uniforms, a bugle, unused boxing gloves, a tightly tied parcel of clean, freshly ironed women's underclothes (all white), a service revolver, ammunition and photographs, which he looked through out of loathing rather than curiosity. A father was seated with legs astraddle, his right hand held a small woman prisoner; with his left he pressed a three-year-old child to him; she floated shyly about his knee. On the back he read in fat, noisy letters: 'Ginger the Cat with wife and daughter.' At that moment it struck Kien that the caretaker had been married a very long time before his wife died. The picture showed him in the midst of his married life. Filled with cruel pleasure, he crossed out the words 'Ginger the Cat' and wrote 'Murderer' above, put back the photograph on top, on the same side as the uniforms, which, to judge by their condition, were often used, and closed the cupboard.

A key! A key! A key! My kingdom for a key! He felt as if he had a halter through every pore of his skin, as if someone had twisted all the halters into one rope and the strong, bulky, awkward thing was stretched through the peep-hole into the corridor, where a whole regiment of trousers were tugging at it. 'I come, I come,' gasped Kien, 'but I'm being stopped!' In despair he threw himself on the bed. He recalled what he had seen. Man after man passed before him. He called them all back; he would not forgive them their submission to the women and hurled a full complement of reproaches at their heads. He had enough to study and to think over. He must keep his mind occupied! He placed four Japanese Genii before the portals of his mind, formidable monsters, devouring, terrible. They knew what must not cross the threshold. Only what advanced the safety of the mind might pass.

The logical argument against the existence of blue is further strengthened by the empirical. With closed eyes, Kien sought some image which in the general opinion would be described as blue. He saw the sea. A pleasing light rises from it, tree-tops with the wind passing over them. Not in vain do poets, standing upon a summit, compare the woods below them to the sea. They do it again and again. They cannot avoid certain similes. There is a deeper reason for this. Poets are men of the senses. They see the wood. It is green. In their recollection another image wakens, no less vast, no less green: the sea. So the sea is green. Over it is the vault of the sky. It is full of clouds — they are black and heavy. A storm is rising. But it cannot break. Nowhere is the sky blue. The day passes. How the hours hasten! Why? Who is chasing them? May not a man see the skies before nightfall, see their accursed colour? It is a lie. Towards evening the clouds part. A sharp red breaks through. Where is the blue? Everywhere it burns, red, red, red! Then night comes. One more successful revelation. No one doubted the red.

Kien laughs. Whatever he sets his hand to succeeds, submits to his proofs. A benevolent wisdom is given to him even in sleep. True, he is not asleep. He is only pretending! If he opens lus eyes, they fall on the locked peep-hole. He will spare himself a purposeless annoyance. He despises the murderer. As soon as he permits him his rightful place again, that is as soon as he takes the lock off the peep-hole and apologizes for his impertinence, Kien will open his eyes. Not a moment before.

'I ask you, murderer!' a certain voice interrupts him.

'Quiet!' he commanded. Reflecting on the colour blue, he had neglected a certain voice. He must extinguish it, like the irrevocable skirt. He closed his eyes even tighter and commanded again: 'Quiet.'

'I ask you, here's your dinner.'

'Nonsense! The caretaker is sending in my dinner.' Contemptuously, he pursed his lips.

'That's why, he sent me. I had to. Did I want to come?'

The voice appeared indignant. A small trick would enforce its silence. 'I want no dinner!' He rubbed his fingers. He did that well. He entered into her stupidity. A formidable debater, he would drive her step by step into a corner.

'I don't care. I'll drop it! A shame for the beautiful dinner. I ask you, whose money is it? Someone else's.'

The voice permitted itself flippant intonations. It seemed to feel at home here. It behaved itself as if it had been resuscitated from the common pit. An artist had put the pieces together, a great artist, a genius. He knew how to inform corpses with their own old tones of voice.

'By all means, drop the non-existent dinner! For there is one thing, my dear corpse, which I must tell you. I am not afraid. Those times are past. I will tear every shred off the body of a ghost! I still hear no dinner falling. Perhaps I have failed to apprehend the noise. Nor do I see any fragments. I am aware that eating is done from plates. China, they say, is britde. Or am I under a misapprehension? Let me advise you now to invent some story of unbreakable china. Corpses are full of invention. I am waiting! I am waiting!' Kien grinned. His cruel irony delighted him.

'I ask you, there's nothing in that! Eyes are for seeing. Anyone can be blind!'

'I shall open my eyes, and when I do not see you, you can sink into the ground with shame. I have played fair until now. I have indeed partly taken you seriously. But when I see, what, out of consideration for you, I have not wanted to see, namely that you speak without being here, then it is all over with you. I will open my eyes wide enough to astonish you. I will put my fingers through where your face would be if you had a face. My eyes do not open easily: they are tired of seeing nothing, but when once they are open, woe to you! The look I am preparing knows no mercy. Patience a little longer! I will wait a little for I am sorry for you. Vanish, rather, of your own accord! I will allow you an honourable retreat. I will count ten and my head will be empty. Must we have more blood? We are civilized beings. Better for you to go of your own accord, believe me! Moreover, this closet belongs to a murderer. I give you fair warning. If he comes he will strike you dead!'

'You don't do me in!' screamed the voice. 'Your first wife, yes; not me!'

Heavy objects began to fall on Kien. If anyone were there he would have thought that eating utensils had been thrown at him. He knew better. He saw nothing, although he kept his eyes closed, a condition highly favourable to hallucinations. He smelt food. His sense of smell had turned traitor. Once again his ears vibrated with wild abuse. He did not listen carefully. But in every sentence the word 'Murderer!' was reiterated. His lids valiantly stood their ground. About his eyes his muscles contracted sharply. Poor, sick ears! Something liquid trickled down his chest. 'I'm off!' shrieked the voice, and again someone was listening to every word, 'that's all the dinner you'll get. Murderers can starve. Then respectable people can stay alive. Locked up, you are, anyway. Like a wild beast! The whole bed's in a mess. The tenants'U be wanting to know about it. The house says he's mad. I say: murderer. I'm off now. A shame for all my trouble! The closet stinks. What can I do about it? It was a good dinner. There's another room behind this. Murderers ought to be walled up! I'm off.'