The Infernal Device & Others: A Professor Moriarty Omnibus (74 page)

             
"That is not my point," Cecily insisted. "It's the inequality of the situation that frustrates and angers me. If a man wants to eat in here alone, and is reasonably well dressed, the manager doesn't ask to see proof of his gentle birth. If a woman, no matter how well dressed, wishes to eat lunch but is not currently in possession of an escort, the manager feels free to assume that she's 'no better than she ought to be.' In the first place, what authority has he to assume any such thing? In the second place, even if it were so, is that any reason to deprive her of the right to eat lunch?"

             
"Now, Cecily," Barnett said. "Women in this society are protected, guarded; all in all, they are treated far better than men."

             
"Protected from whom?" Cecily demanded. "Guarded from what?"

             
"You are an intensely independent person, Cecily, quite determined to have your own way in everything. And I admire you for it," Barnett said. "But most ladies enjoy the protection of their special status."

             
"You think so?" Cecily asked. "Try asking some of them. You might be surprised."

             
Barnett realized that now was not a propitious time to propose marriage. He should probably postpone the question until another day. But he had spent all morning building up the courage and it would probably be even harder another time. He decided to wait until dessert.

             
They spoke of many things during the course of the meal. One of the hallmarks of a good journalist is a wide and searching curiosity. The conversation ranged from the possibility of a new war in Europe to the claims of a Scottish inventor that he was perfecting a machine that could fly. The question of the rights and indignities of women gradually faded into the past, although Barnett was sure that it was not forgotten. He would have to give it some thought.

             
Toward the end of the entrée they reached the subject of the series of murders. Cecily was quite wrapped up in the articles she was doing about the murders. "There must be something that connects these crimes," she insisted to Barnett. "The poor man is obviously in the grip of some overpowering compulsion that causes him to seek out these particular victims."

             
"By 'the poor man,' I assume you are referring to the mysterious individual who has been slitting the throats of perfectly innocuous middle-aged men in their own bedrooms," Barnett said.

             
Cecily poked thoughtfully at the remains of a poached whitefish on her plate. "A man who commits a heinous crime," she said, "has put himself outside the bounds of common human intercourse. This is not an easy thing to do, not an easy decision to make. To choose to be isolated from the rest of humanity, there must be a compelling need. One can feel a revulsion at the deed, and at the same time pity the man who felt compelled to commit it."

             
"I'd rather save my pity for the victims," Barnett said. "The frightening thing about a murderer like this one is that he
isn't
isolated from society. We could breathe easier if he were. He is embedded in our midst, and hidden by the camouflage of assumed innocence. There is nothing about his appearance or manner to proclaim him as a secret slitter of throats. He probably discusses each murder with his friends, and shakes his head in wonder that anyone could commit such a horrible deed."

             
"A man like this has no friends," Cecily said. "That is one of the signs of the type of abnormality that causes a man to feel impelled to commit this sort of crime."

             
"How can you be so sure about that?" Barnett asked. "He may be the most popular man in his club. He may have to employ two social secretaries to respond to all his invitations."

             
Cecily put down her fork and pushed her plate aside. "I don't think so," she said. "I've been doing some reading, you might say research, on the background and antecedents of the killer type, and I would say that almost certainly he is a very lonely man."

             
One waiter returned to hand them dessert menus, while another sneaked in behind the first and removed the fishy remains from in front of Cecily.

             
"Now," Barnett said, after the waiter went off to have vanilla souffles constructed for their desserts, "what have you found in your research that indicates our murderer is such a lonely man? You think he is driven to commit these crimes out of simple boredom?"

             
"No," Cecily told him. "You have it wrong way around. I believe this man is so driven by his need to commit these crimes that he has no time for normal human desires like companionship, or love, or recreation."

             
"What about eating?" Barnett asked.

             
"I would say he eats as an animal eats," Cecily said. "He ingests food to give him the necessary energy to keep going. I doubt if he cares what he eats, or is even aware what the dish in front of him contains."

             
"And upon what do you base this stark image of a man driven by forces stronger than himself?"

             
"On my study of similar crimes committed in the recent past," Cecily said. "The Düsseldorf Slasher of fifteen years ago was a man named Roehm. When the police apprehended him he was living in a bare, unfurnished room with only a couple of blankets on the floor to
sleep on. The only clothing he possessed was several changes of undergarments and one extra shirt. And this was a formerly respectable, middle-class man."

             
"Who was he killing," Barnett asked, "and why?"

             
"He killed three magistrates, two clerks of the court, two bailiffs, and a man that drove the prison wagon before he was captured."

             
"He must have had it in for the courts."

             
"His wife was arrested and convicted of a homicide and sentenced to the mines. Three years later it was discovered that she was innocent, and she was released. It was too late; the hard labor and terrible conditions at the mines had weakened her until she was beyond medical help. The state gave her thirty gold marks for recompense. She died six months later. A year after that the murders began."

             
"I'd say the man had a just grievance," Barnett commented. "Imagine what emotions must have been bottled up inside of him. It's not surprising that they came out as a series of slashings."

             
"He was certainly acting under the influence of a powerful compulsion," Cecily agreed. "As was the Mad Bomber of Paris in 1878, who went around leaving infernal devices in the left-luggage rooms of railway stations. As was Mr. Pinkley of Chicago, who made it his practice to give bonbons laced with arsenic to ladies of the street."

             
The soufflés were delivered at this moment, and Barnett stared down at his. It was very attractive, rising a full three inches off the top of the dish. "Arsenic, eh?" he said.

             
Cecily laughed. "Don't worry," she told him. "I've heard of its being sprinkled into omelets, but never a
soufflé
."

             
Barnett looked up and grinned at her. "You can't be too careful," he said.

             
"So I've been led to believe," Cecily said.

             
They ate their desserts in contemplative silence. The time, Barnett realized, had come. He took a deep breath. "Cecily," he said, "there is something I'd like to ask you."

             
"Yes, Benjamin?"

             
He took another deep breath. "I, ah, would like to ask your father for your hand in marriage."

             
Cecily put her fork down carefully on the side of the plate and nudged it with her finger until it was in the perfect position. The silence stretched on.

             
"Say something, Cecily," Barnett finally blurted out.

             
For another long moment there was no response. Cecily's eyes darted around as though she felt trapped at the table and was looking desperately for a way out. Then she turned to Barnett and pointed a finger at him. "I'm certain you don't realize this," she said, "but that proves my point, what you just said. It's so typical. And you're not even aware of what you did."

             
"What do you mean, 'not aware'?" Barnett demanded, his voice cracking slightly with the effort to suppress both his anger and his bewilderment at this reaction. "I just proposed marriage to you, that's what happened."

             
"No, it isn't," she said. "You just informed me that you were going to ask my father. Is it my father that you wish to marry? If not, then why are you going to ask him?"

             
This, Barnett decided, was not his day. Perhaps there was something to astrology after all. "It is the custom," he said. "What I'm actually doing is asking you, you know that. But your father has to give you away."

             
"Why?" she asked. "Supposing Father says no?"

             
"I, ah, hadn't thought of that," Barnett said. "Frankly, if you say yes, I don't give a damn what your father says."

             
"That is courageous of you," she said.

             
Barnett dropped his fork onto his plate with a little silver clatter. "All right!" he said. "I'm not asking your father, I'm asking you. Cecily, will you marry me?"

             
"I don't know," she said.

             
"What?"

             
Cecily leaned forward and took his hand. "I would like to marry you," she told him. "But I'm not sure you'd really like to be married to the sort of wife I'd be."

             
"Cecily, I love you," Barnett said. "This table's too wide for me to hold you properly, but I love you more than anything and I want you to be my wife. I know that's trite, but there it is. I have loved you for some time. Since the day you first knocked on the door of the American News Service, as a matter of fact."

             
"It took you long enough to get around to declaring it," she said.

             
"I had commitments," Barnett said. "There were reasons."

             
"No, never mind that," she said. "That was unfair of me. I've been aware for some time of how you feel about me. And I'm honored."

             
"Honored," Barnett said. "Which means that you don't love me."

             
"No, it doesn't," Cecily said. "Benjamin, dearest, I do love you. I even wish to marry you, I just don't think you
really
want to marry me."

             
"With all my heart," Barnett said. "You want me to be your wife.
"

             
"
Yes."

             
"You want to set up a home for me.
"

             
"
With
you."

             
"You want me to quit work.
"

             
"
Of course."

             
"Well, I want to marry you, Benjamin, but I have no desire to give up my career. I want to be a reporter. I don't want to just sit home and tend the babies—if we have any babies."