Pity Him Afterwards

But Daniels, now, Daniels. Daniels was eating with gusto, swilling cup after cup of coffee, eating his pancakes even faster than the madman himself, and all the while talking to Mary Ann McKendrick, sitting next to him on the right. Daniels waved his knife and fork around as he talked, and Mary Ann McKendrick laughed sometimes at the things he was saying, and once she looked over at the madman, laughing the while, and all at once the madman understood.

She was laughing at him!

Daniels was telling her about him! About the “experiment,” the “research,” and all about his fascinating “reactions.”

The madman clutched his knife and fork, and the food in his mouth turned to wet gray cardboard. He controlled himself with effort, forced himself to remain in his seat, kept himself from lunging across the table at them to slit both their throats. But that would be stupid, that would be the sort of stupid thing he had allowed himself to do before he’d been sent to the asylum. It was because he had followed his impulses regardless of the consequences that he had wound up in the asylum in the first place. He had learned since then, and he was determined to profit by his learning.

Do not follow your impulses regardless of the consequences.

Wait.

Follow your impulses only when you can be sure there will be no consequences.

Plan.

Act.

Always follow your impulses; do not let them make you be untrue to yourself.

But be clever.

So this was not the time. He couldn’t take care of them now, no matter how much he felt the need, no matter how harshly the girl’s idiot laughter grated on his ears, no matter how vicious were Mel Daniels’ whispered comments about him.

And to think that once he had wanted to befriend that girl!

His attention was distracted from Daniels/Chax and the girl by a conversation that had begun at the other end of the table. Arnie Kapow had asked Sondgard something — whether the killer had to necessarily be one of the people present — and Sondgard was answering, “There isn’t any doubt any more, Arnie. Not after last night. The house was locked up tight. That message on the table had to be left by somebody living here.”

Tom Burns said, “I thought you said maybe somebody else did it, not the killer. Somebody who knows something.”

“That’s possible,” Sondgard admitted. “But I don’t think it’s probable.”

I could tell you, the madman thought to himself. You’d be surprised. Daniels/Chax wrote it. The madman felt the urge strong within himself to blurt that out, to see the expressions on all their faces when he told them what he knew and why he could know it, but he held the urge in check, recognizing it for what it was. It was the destructive urge, the same urge that makes a man looking out a high window or over the railing of a tall bridge suddenly want to jump off. The urge was his enemy, not a part of his true self, and so could be and should be ignored.

Still, he had to say something. The urge was that strong in him. He searched for something safe to say, and finally said, “But wouldn’t he have run away by now?”

Sondgard turned his head and looked at him. He turns his head, thought the madman, like a snake going to strike. His eyes are cold, blue flecked with gray. His face is bony. I think he is Death.

Sondgard said, “I don’t think he would. He thinks he’s safe, because we haven’t caught up with him yet.”

Ralph Schoen took over the conversation. “He’ll try now, won’t he? He’s got to get away before that fingerprint gets here.”

Sondgard’s death’s-head turned again. “He may try,” he said. “On the other hand, I said there was a small chance the print won’t be any good, and he may decide to take the gamble, and stick around. I hope he does. I wouldn’t want him running around loose. But if he does take the chance, if he does stay, I’m pretty sure we’ll have this whole thing wrapped up this afternoon.”

Sondgard’s voice was deep, but with faint treble overtones in it, like some announcers on the radio. Some of the Doctors Chax had had voices like that, and faces like that.

Breakfast was ending. They were still asking Sondgard questions, and he was still answering each in the same slow careful manner, his thin bony head turning to face each new questioner, his gray-flecked eyes studying each face with solemn care.

He is dangerous, thought the madman. I must deal with him, too. First, Daniels/Chax and his bitch. Second, Sondgard.

Then all at once Daniels spoke up. He said, “Captain Sondgard, is it all right for Mary Ann and I to take off for a while?”

Sondgard didn’t like the question, the madman could tell. He hesitated, and finally he nodded and said, “All right. Where are you going, into town?”

“No, for a boat ride.”

“All right. But—” His head moved, and he gazed generally at the others. “But,” he said, “if anyone else wants permission to leave the house for a while, please don’t ask me here. I’ll stay here awhile; you can come ask me privately.”