British Mystery Classics - Arthur Morrison Edition (Illustrated). Morrison Arthur

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      He gesticulated wildly, and to me it seemed just possible that the police might be right.

      “They say I’m drunk, sor,” he continued, “but, begob, I b’lieve they think I’m mad. An’ me being thracked an’ folleyed an’ dogged an’ waylaid an’ poisoned an’ blandandhered an’ kidnapped an’ murdhered, an’ for why I do not know!”

      “And who’s doing all this?’

      “Sthrangers, sor—sthrangers. ‘Tis a sthranger here I am mesilf, an’ fwy they do it bates me, onless I do be so like the Prince av Wales or other crowned head they thry to slaughter me. They’re layin’ for me in the sthreet now, I misdoubt not, and fwat they may thry next I can tell no more than the Lord Mayor. An’ the polis won’t listen to me!”

      This, I thought, must be one of the very common cases of mental hallucination which one hears of every day—the belief of the sufferer that he is surrounded by enemies and followed by spies. It is probably the most usual delusion of the harmless lunatic.

      “But what have these people done?” Hewitt asked, looking rather interested, although amused. “What actual assaults have they committed, and when? And who told you to come here?”

      “Who towld me, is ut? Who but the payler outside—in the street below! I explained to ‘um, an’ sez he: ‘Ah, you go an’ take a slape,’ sez he; ‘you go an’ take a good slape, an’ they’ll be all gone whin ye wake up.’ ‘But they’ll murdher me,’ sez I. ‘Oh, no!’ sez he, smilin’ behind av his ugly face. ‘Oh, no, they won’t; you take ut aisy, me frind, an’ go home!’ ‘Take it aisy, is ut, an’ go home!’ sez I; ‘why, that’s just where they’ve been last, a-ruinationin’ an’ a-turnin’ av the place upside down, an’ me strook on the head onsensible a mile away. Take ut aisy, is ut, ye say, whin all the demons in this unholy place is jumpin’ on me every minut in places promiscuous till I can’t tell where to turn, descendin’ an’ vanishin’ marvelious an’ onaccountable? Take ut aisy, is ut?’ sez I. ‘Well, me frind,’ sez he, ‘I can’t help ye; that’s the marvelious an’ onaccountable departmint up the stairs forninst ye. Misther Hewitt ut is,’ sez he, ‘that attinds to the onaccountable departmint, him as wint by a minut ago. You go an’ bother him.’ That’s how I was towld, sor.”

      Hewitt smiled.

      “Very good,” he said; “and now what are these extraordinary troubles of yours? Don’t declaim,” he added, as the Irishman raised his hand and opened his mouth, preparatory to another torrent of complaint; “just say in ten words, if you can, what they’ve done to you.”

      “I will, sor. Wan day had I been in London, sor—wan day only, an’ a low scutt thried to poison me dhrink; next day some udther thief av sin shoved me off av a railway platform undher a train, malicious and purposeful; glory be, he didn’t kill me! but the very docther that felt me bones thried to pick me pockut, I du b’lieve. Sunday night I was grabbed outrageous in a darrk turnin’, rowled on the groun’, half strangled, an’ me pockuts nigh ripped out av me trousies. An’ this very blessed mornin’ av light I was strook onsensible an’ left a livin’ corpse, an’ my lodgin’s penethrated an’ all the thruck mishandled an’ bruk up behind me back. Is that a panjandhery for the polis to laff at, sor?”

      Had Hewitt not been there I think I should have done my best to quiet the poor fellow with a few soothing words and to persuade him to go home to his friends. His excited and rather confused manner, his fantastic story of a sort of general conspiracy to kill him, and the absurd reference to the doctor who tried to pick his pocket seemed to me plainly to confirm my first impression that he was insane. But Hewitt appeared strangely interested.

      “Did they steal anything?” he asked.

      “Divil a shtick but me door-key, an’ that they tuk home an’ lift in the door.”

      Hewitt opened his office door.

      “Come in,” he said, “and tell me all about this. You come, too, Brett.”

      The Irishman and I followed him into the inner office, where, shutting the door, Hewitt suddenly turned on the Irishman and exclaimed sharply: “Then you’ve still got it?”

      He looked keenly in the man’s eyes, but the only expression there was one of surprise.

      “Got ut?” said the Irishman. “Got fwhat, sor? Is ut you’re thinkin’ I’ve got the horrors, as well as the polis?”

      Hewitt’s gaze relaxed. “Sit down, sit down!” he said. “You’ve still got your watch and money, I suppose, since you weren’t robbed?”

      “Oh, that? Glory be, I have ut still! though for how long—or me own head, for that matter—in this state of besiegement, I can not say.”

      “Now,” said Hewitt, “I want a full, true, and particular account of yourself and your doings for the last week. First, your name?”

      “Leamy’s my name, sor—Michael Leamy.”

      “Lately from Ireland?”

      “Over from Dublin this last blessed Wednesday, and a crooil bad poundherin’ tit was in the boat, too—shpakin’av that same.”

      “Looking for work?”

      “That is my purshuit at prisint, sor.”

      “Did anything noticeable happen СКАЧАТЬ