Samedi the Deafness

day the third

Shall we say, James did not arrive at his appointment at the doctor's office? He was at the door, at the door to the building, upon the stroke of three, having decided he would not bother to come early, when two men in large overcoats forced him into a waiting car.

An Item in the News

THIRD “SAMEDI” SUICIDE BAFFLES AUTHORITIES

Washington, September 29: The suicide of an unidentified man outside the White House yesterday, the third such death in as many days, has resulted in increased concern on the part of federal authorities, while yielding no further leads into the identity of “Samedi,” the author of the cryptic notes found with all three bodies.

The suicide of the man, whose face was mostly destroyed by the blast of the forty-four-caliber pistol that ended his life, differs slightly from the first two suicides, in which William Goshen and Albrecht Moran slashed their own throats. Nonetheless, the note found with the latest man has been confirmed through handwriting analysis as the work of the same author, signed “Samedi”:

TO GROW GOLD ON TREES FOR MEN WHO OWN ALREADY ALL THE ORCHARDS? HOW FAR HAVE OUR IDEALS, OUR PRINCIPLES FALLEN? AN EXAMPLE SHALL BE MADE, FOR THE LIVES OF MEN ARE LONGER THAN THE LIVES OF NATIONS.

SAMEDI

In a White House press conference today, the president decried the incidents. “We must not give in to fear, or the threat of violence,” he said. “Democracy is and always has been our right. Individuals cannot control the mechanisms of popular government.”

No further details into the nature of the investigation had been given as of press time.

The man in the front seat set the newspaper down.

— Quite a note, ain't it? he said to the one next to him.

— That it is, that it is. What does our new friend think? said the man, looking over his shoulder.

James sat in the backseat. Beside him, the third man.

— What do you think, sweetheart? asked the third man. It's written so nicely. So short. How could you not like it?

— I like it plenty, said James. Where are you taking me?

— He wants to know where we're taking him, said the third man to the second. Sweetheart wants to know.

— Of course he does, said the second man. Isn't it just like sweetheart to ask, and so nicely, where his new friends are taking him? Isn't it nice?

— Enough out of the two of you, said the first man. Everything worth saying already got said.

He seemed to be in charge. He put the car into gear and pulled out into traffic. The car had only traveled a few blocks after picking James up, for they'd stopped almost immediately thereafter to get the newspaper. Now they were heading in a northwest direction, out of the city center. That would be. . James closed his eyes and saw in his head a map of the city, clear as though he were looking at it set on a table before him; that would be. . towards the wealthy section, large houses, estates, and so forth. James had gone there before on the company dime. Of course, nothing was definite; the car could be going anywhere until it stopped.

James had thought about struggling against the men, but it had happened quickly, and something in their manner suggested that there would be no violence unless he began it. Such men were practiced at conveying such subtleties. Or perhaps it was a lie. Perhaps they would take him to an empty sump and bury him there, where he would never be found. In his head, James had memorized the faces of the men, the license plate, make, and model of the car. He knew their voices, each, by heart. But it was useless to even bother. The men hadn't frisked him; that much James knew. His hands were tied, but in his coat pocket he could feel the weight of the pistol he'd taken from 2 Verit Street.

Of course, he couldn't be sure that it was loaded. Mayne had gone for it as if it were, but that was no assurance. He should have checked last night. If he drew it now and it was empty, it would be his own fault. That and everything else.

It was a fine autumn day, really, and the air through the open windows smelled like life. James could feel on the backs of his hands and his face the crispness of the day. The car wound on pretty roads through hedged estates. They had indeed come where James thought they would. After many turns, all of which James marked in his head, they pulled up to a gate. The second man got out and walked up to an intercom where he spoke for a moment, presumably with a guard on the interior. The gate swung back, the man got back in, and the car drove on up a curving drive. The hedge ceased along the sides of the road; an immense lawn and a large mansion could be seen. There were several cars pulled up in front of it.

I wonder, thought James, am I being brought before Samedi? The weight of the pistol in his coat reassured him. Since they'd tied his hands in front of him, he could still reach it if he had to. Not that James had had much practice firing a pistol. But he felt he could, if he had to.

The car stopped. The men got out and pulled James upright.

— Into the house with you, said the first man.

He led James up the walk towards the house. Through the windows, James could see the vague outlines of people watching. Have they, he wondered, made up their minds about me? Then he thought of the letter in the paper. Perhaps it's not me at all they're looking at. After all, the future is always outside of the room one is in, beyond the windows, beyond the doors. If this is Samedi's house, who could live here and not think constantly of the seventh day?

James was taken to a sort of sitting room. His hands were unbound, and his coat was taken from him. It was hung over the back of a chair on the far side of the room. Too far, really, for James to jump for it. Anyway, this gun wasn't lucky for jumping at. Mayne had learned that lesson.

The room was done up in a sort of eighteenth-century style. Engravings on the wall, were they Hogarth?

The first man was standing behind James's chair. It was an awful habit, very rude, thought James.

Five minutes passed.

— Where are we? said James to his captor.

The man said nothing.

Five minutes more went by. The door creaked, and opened. Thomas McHale entered, dressed neatly in an expensive-looking suit.

James could not hide his shock.

— I see, said Thomas McHale. You have met my brother, haven't you?

He laughed. The man behind James laughed also.

— Torquin, said Thomas, you can go now. I'll keep an eye on him.

Torquin, thought James. The other Thomas McHale had said that name. Could they really be brothers? Twin brothers? The odds were against it. But certainly it was the only solution. A man could not die so convincingly and then stand again before one in such a bold and shameless way.

Thomas McHale shut the door after Torquin, and then turned to face James.

— You've met my brother, then, he repeated. Did you like him? No, no, I guess there wasn't time for you to meet properly, was there? Very sad, what happened. Do you know the story? I'm sure he told you something.

— If you're going to do to me what you did to him, you might as well do it now. I don't like waiting around for nothing.

— Hmmm, said Thomas McHale. What we did? What I did? Hmmm. I wonder what he did tell you. . Do you know, do you know my brother had gone quite insane? Thought he was in the middle of a spy novel, really. The strangest thing. Nothing could convince him otherwise. I didn't want him in an institution, of course, frightful places, so I kept him here. But then he escaped. Persecution mania. He told everyone we were against him. Then before I can find him again, he gets mugged, assaulted, and dies. We had his funeral just yesterday up at Mount Auburn.

James tried to follow this line of thought. Had the first Thomas McHale been mad? He had been right about where Estrainger lived. Or, at least, he had known that a man named Estrainger did indeed live near the Chinese district, and was indeed a playwright.

Suddenly, McHale's information seemed less and less sure.

— Then why the mask? burst out James. Why send me the mask?

— The mask, yes, said McHale, tapping a letter against his sleeved arm. The mask, yes. . well, that was a sort of mistake, really. You know, Grieve, she's an odd one. Her father likes to give her little jobs to do. She's quite a case. Lies about everything. Can't help it.

— What? said James. She said her name was Lily Violet.

— Of course she did, said McHale. Yes, well, it was said that someone had spoken to my brother before he died. The police said someone had been there, but they couldn't figure out who. We managed to speak to someone who'd seen you there, and Grieve's father sent her to ask you what it was Thomas said. All of us here, of course, are very interested to know what his last words were. My dear brother. .

McHale said this with real feeling.

James desperately tried to clear his head.

— None of this makes any sense. Why did Lily Violet—

— Grieve, interposed McHale.

— Grieve, continued James. Why did Grieve steal my wallet, why did she send me a strange mask, and why did she come to my house to spy on me?

— She came to your house? said McHale. Interesting. We didn't know that. She did slip her minder yesterday and go off into the city. We weren't sure where she went. Well, he said, that's one mystery solved.

He examined James closely, pulled another chair over, and sat beside him.

— The truth is, she took your wallet because she is a very good pickpocket, and we were interested to know about who you were. She had been instructed to simply ask you, but that's not her way.

James nodded, following along.

— As for the mask, well, she must have taken photographs of you, and then taken them to a mask factory. I can't imagine how that sort of thing could be done so fast, but evidently it was. . What can I say, she's an odd sort of girl. If not for the watch her father keeps on her, she'd have gotten into a lot of trouble a long time ago. I can tell you that much.

There was a knock at the door. McHale rose.

— Yes, he said peremptorily. Come in.

The door opened. A young woman dressed as a maid stood there, holding a tray.

— Bring that over here, said James.

She did so, setting the tray upon a table close by James's elbow.

— Of course, said McHale, we became even more interested in you after the death in Estrainger's building. You were there looking for Estrainger, were you not?

He took something out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was the napkin James had had at the diner.

What should be done?

nothing

tell someone, the police.

— Were you thinking of telling the police the story McHale told you? You wouldn't be the first to go to them. Before he ran into those muggers, my brother spoke to at least four people, and convinced them all to go to the police. They all did, every one, each with the same story. He was away from this house for four days. Don't you think it's strange that he didn't go to the police?

— I don't know what to think, said James. It's all rather strange to me.

— Yes, well, think through what he said. We know your profession. Of course, you can tell us exactly how his last minutes passed. We would very much like to have that information, as all of us here miss him deeply.

James nodded.

— Should I write it out?

— Yes, that would be preferable.

McHale pointed to the tray. On it there was a metal bell, the sort for concealing cakes and such.

— That's the key to your room, said McHale. We'd like to extend an invitation to you to stay here a few days. There are many of us who live here, many who knew my brother intimately. Some of us would like, I'm sure, the chance to speak to you personally, as you were the last one to see him alive. We have here a very fine chef, and a staff that is quite accommodating. Anything you want can be seen to. There are, however, a great many rules that govern our life in this house. When you get up to your room there is a little book where they're written. We ask that you observe them while you're here. You see, there are patients, many of them, and staff as well, and then there are those of us who live here on a rather different basis. Everyone here observes the rules, save Grieve, of course. She can be difficult, as you've learned.

McHale noticed James's puzzled expression.

— This is a verisylum. There was only ever one before this, built in 1847. We believe it is the only real treatment for dramatic cases of chronic lying, cases where the lying ends up compromising the identity of the individual. Instead of giving medications, or applying truth-rubrics, Margret Selm came up with her own method. She established the parameters for the creation of a country house in which all behavior would be governed by a set of arbitrary rules. There would be no prohibition against lying, but the individuals present in the house, the chronic liars, would find in the arbitrary rules, which, as you'll come to see, are many, a sort of structure that allowed them, as time passed, to construct an identity for themselves. The idea is that when many lies are told, unfettered by immediate comparison to fact, they end up comprising a kind of truth. On that truth too lies can be based.

This was all a bit too much for James, who after all had just been abducted for the first time in his life, abducted and carried away in a car.

— Then I can go up to my room now? he said. I can go where I like? And leave when I like?

— We ask that you stay here for the next few days, just so you're around to speak to our little circle of intimates. It would mean so much to us. .

— I just want to be clear, said James. I'm not a prisoner?

— A prisoner? said McHale, laughing. You were never a prisoner. I'm sorry if Torquin gave you that impression. He and the others were just a bit worried after the business on Verit Street. You did, after all, throw a man out a window.

— I did not! said James. Who do you think I am? That man jumped! I didn't even know him. He jumped!

— Yes, yes, said McHale, laughing. They always do, don't they?

He went to the door, opened it, and went out into the passage. After a minute, he stepped back in.

— Oh, another thing: we ask that you leave the pistol in your room. If you want, of course, we can dispose of it for you. Better certainly that you not keep on your person anything linking you to Mayne's murder, don't you think? Yes, well, think about it. It's yours, after all.

And with that, he went away.

Beneath the Bell

there was indeed a finely wrought key. The metal of the key handle curved in a circle, in the midst of which had been formed the number 17.

— Number seventeen is this way, sir, said the maid, who stood now in the door, holding across her arm his coat.

Up James stood and crossed the room, taking not a moment to look back as perhaps he ought to have at the relative position of the two chairs. McHale's was pointing at the chair in which James had sat, while James's chair looked meekly off towards the empty fireplace.

With a curt nod, the maid closed the room and locked it so that no one thereafter could get in.

Room no. 17

was upon the fourth floor. As houses in London, so rooms in this mansion, their numbers and assignments varying not to suit their neighbors. Beside 17 was 3, beside 3 was 22. How many rooms there were, James could not say for sure.

His room was quite nice, however, and neatly set up. A large bed before a bay window, easy chairs by a fireplace, a broad reading table with stationery stamped upon with a peculiar sigil. All bore his look well.

To his great surprise, the wardrobe set against one wall contained his own clothing. How it had come to be there was a question he could not answer; nor did he feel capable even of asking it. So totally was he overcome by doubt as to that which he could be certain of, that he needed some time to reassemble in his mind certain tenets that he could rely upon, the others to dismiss.

Upon the reading table, the newspapers of the last three days. Also, the book of the house.

The Book of the House

Beside the book of the house was an envelope addressed to James Sim. He opened it. Inside was a letter.

Father,

Here is my report on the man James Sim who was with McHale when he died.

James Sim

a. 6' 1” tall, weight approximately 180 lbs., clean shaven, 32 years old.

c. curiously enough did not go to get an ambulance when McHale was dying.

d. appears to have killed a man in Estrainger's apartment building by throwing him bodily from a window (defenestration).

e. 's reasons for doing the above are unclear. d, e. has a clean criminal record.

f. is a mnemonist by trade. Might therefore be useful to us.

h. has a nondriver ID that says his eyes are gray. Therefore, cannot operate an automobile?

i. has no debts, no friends, acquaintances, wife, children.

k. is okay to look at, but certainly not handsome.

l. has never voted, for instance.

m. can act rashly if forced to it. Witness: d.

p. rarely writes things down. You are the recipient of one specimen of his writing (sample a.: napkin). Strangely enough, a search of his house yielded no other samples of writing.

I took his wallet and gave it back to him. Should I not have? Given it back, I mean.

Grieve

The Book of the House

James folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. Why give such a letter to him? Why send the girl to follow him anyway if she was prone to lying? She hadn't lied in her report. Maybe she never lied to her father. That could be true.

And they had searched his house? When had they had time to do that?

He sat down at the reading table. His thoughts ran back over his conversation with McHale number two. What was wrong with it? He tried to think over McHale's logic.

There were several holes.

The book of the house was on the table in front of him. James picked it up and opened it at random.

rule 37

It is necessary when proceeding from hall to hall and along the stairways never to speak with anyone you see, aside from servants. Should you wish to speak to someone, ring the bell that has been provided to you. Everyone in the vicinity will stop his or her movements. Count then to fifteen and approach the other person, giving them time to gather their thoughts. Then you may pose your question or voice your concern.

Also, a better method of interaction is afforded by the system of note-sending. All the rooms of the house are provided with a small mail shelf on the near wall beside the door. Simply place your note on the shelf, and it will be received and responded to at the person's leisure. If you suspect that the person is within the room, and you are leaving a note when time is of the essence, you may knock once upon the door knocker.

See rule 14 for the particularities of the use of the door knocker.

The light coming through the window was quite pleasant. He wondered if the glass had anything to do with it. Often he had wondered about the effect of glass on a room. He had even thought of writing a monograph on it, for he had been a reclusive young boy, given to long hours of study, and seldom, if ever, playing with others. Such a monograph, though he did not in fact write it, would have been typical of his occupation during those countless solitary hours. In fact, from the monograph, which, I grant you, does not exist, we could extrapolate much that would be useful in considering James's psychology. What are his feelings for thin glass? For thick? In what ways does he characterize light? Into how many categories? A monograph, in fact, might be written to interpret the first monograph. However, as we have said, neither has been written.

James turned to rule 14.

rule 14

The door knockers, in relation to private rooms.

no. of knocks; function.

1: announcement of note.

2: announcement of prearranged visit. 1 + 2: maid service.

3: announcement of sudden visit (discouraged).

2 + 2: emergency, fire, etc.

There was a knock then at the door. Just one.

James went to the door and opened it. No one was there. Upon the shelf outside the door, however, there was a note.

It said:

I will visit you in what might be considered the seventh hour of afternoon, or the first hour of evening. G.

James looked at his watch. It was six thirty.

Nearly Three and One Half Hours

since he had been abducted. He had never imagined, when he had thought of how his life would be, that kidnapping would be part of it. Certainly, as a mnemonist, he had entertained the idea. If he would undertake to commit some state secret to memory, surely there would be dangers. But he had been put forward for no such detail.

In any case, they had not abducted him. Supposedly, he had been invited to come to the house.

Also, they thought he had pushed Mayne out the window. Furthermore, they thought that, and had not gone to the police.

This, James realized, was a pretty piece of reasoning, and might go a long way towards puncturing McHale the second and his rationalizations. Yes, the first McHale must be correct, must have been correct about everything. Only criminals would fail to turn in a man they thought to be a criminal.

But what, thought James then, if there was actually only one McHale? What if the whole thing is an elaborate psychological experiment? What if they have been changing the newspapers on the newsstands that I pass?

This made a great deal of sense to him. However, the implications were too frightening to bear.

A bird that sits in a cage is likewise endowed with the fortune of domesticity and the failure of civilization. That is to say, he shall be provided for against all but death and jealousy, and one will always come before the other.

But it was impossible, thought James. The first McHale had not been acting. Also, the newspapers were not rigged. They couldn't be. The threat was real and, James felt sure, would be carried out unless he, James, could stop it.

He stood up, circled his chair, and sat again. He took off his coat, removed the pistol from his pocket, and whistled a little tune.

It was a fine tune, a few notes he himself had strung together one night in a dream. He often whistled it, but was never aware of this whistling. If he had had a wife or friend, someone by now would have pointed it out to him, and the small beauty of this unconsciousness, and this invisibly pleasurable whistling, would have passed out of the world.

The gun has a real weight, thought James. It was a revolver. He found the release mechanism and checked to see if the gun was loaded. It was. Eight bullets neatly in a circle.

Well, then, he thought. If I have to leave immediately, they won't be able to stop me.

Just then another knock came at the door.

James went out into the hall. There was another note on his shelf. He picked it up and went inside.

This note read:

Please read the entire manual before stirring from your room. As you will find out, there are reasons for our rules, and consequences for the breaking of rules. While you are with us, we trust you will abide by our habits.

The Visit of Grieve

Grieve stood by the window. She was NOT as expected. The reason was this: James had never seen the girl before.

She was young and rather plain with a fine figure. She wore a short dress and her hair was pulled back in a yellow scarf.

— They're just dreadful, dreadful, she said.

and

— I overheard them talking, and you sounded so nice, and it was

so unfortunate what was being done to you.

and also

— I just thought, I will see if I can help him. And so I came here.

— Well, said James. Thank you.

It soon came out that she was a maid in the house itself.

— But, he said, I thought that Grieve was—

— No, no, she said. That's Grieve whose father is the owner. I am named after her. Before I came here, I had a different name, but we are encouraged in this house to take the names of others whom we admire, and so, after several years, I became Grieve. Of course, I'm not the only one. There are other maids named Grieve. We all adore her so.

The Visit of Grieve, Part 2

James sat down on the bed.

— So they intend to keep me here until after something has happened?

— I'm not sure, said Grieve. I just heard him say, I won't have Sim putting them onto our scent.

Grieve laughed as she said this.

— It's kind of silly, isn't it? Onto our scent!?! I'm sure that's what he said, though.

Again there was a knock at the door.

Grieve looked over her shoulder.

— Just a note, I think, said James.

— So, you're getting used to the rules, eh?

— A bit, said James.

— I have to go, said Grieve. I'm not supposed to be here when I'm off work.

She looked at the floor and then looked at him.

— Truth be told, she said, I lied to you. I saw you coming in all tied up, and I thought, how dreadful, and also, how nice you looked, and so I dodged around where McHale was with the others, and listened on purpose to see if I could hear something useful. I have been useful, haven't I?

— Very, said James.

He went to the door.

— I'm going to get the note, he said. Thank you. If you hear anything else. .

— I'll leave a note, said Grieve, but not outside your door. It isn't safe. I'll put the note in your pillowcase, where no one but you or I would look.

The note read:

Expect more of your belongings when you return from supper.

— D. Graham, H.S.

He looked at his watch. Supper, had he missed it? He went for the book.

It read:

The appropriate attire for dinner is this: wear something you will not embarrass yourself in. Certainly, the qualifications for wearing one garment are different from those for another. One man may look good in a smock, another in an evening gown, while a third cannot go about save in full evening dress. To each one, then, his fate.

Supper will be had alone or in arranged company, in one of the various chambers near the kitchen. In summer, or when weather permits, food may be eaten upon the veranda or on the lawn, or even, depending on the individual involved, upon the roof, as has been done at least once in my own experience. The hour for supper is nine. A nightcap will follow at either eleven or one, depending upon your habits.

James wandered about aimlessly for a while, his bell dampened by a flat cloth. Surely he could find the dining room.

In the vicinity of the kitchen there were many small rooms, and other larger rooms. He wandered through. Some of them were occupied.

A man was standing leaning against a window. His eyes met James's. They looked at each other carefully. The man's face clouded over. He stood up straight and was at least a foot taller than he had been before. He had only one leg, and it was made of curved ivory. No, that wasn't true. But he was very tall, and holding some kind of stick.

The man was glaring at him. Maybe he did have one leg. One or three? Did he?

James averted his eyes and hurried away, not looking where he was going. He passed through first one room, then another. He looked over his shoulder. The man was still there, following after. James ducked into a hall and crossed over an enclosed bridge. Certainly he had lost the man.

He was in another series of dining rooms. One of these would do.

James sat at a table by himself. Several others entered immediately. A girl in a hospital gown, an orderly, a well-dressed man, perhaps her husband.

They sat at the next table.

— I won't dispute it, she said quietly.

— There's nothing to dispute, said the man.

The orderly looked apprehensive.

— And what if I was in love with someone else? asked the girl. Suddenly, I mean. Suddenly in love with someone else. You there, she cried out to James.

James looked behind him. There was no one else.

He looked back.

The girl stood up. The orderly stood up too. The wealthy man

had a pained expression on his face.

— Grieve, he said, don't.

This Grieve untied the back of her hospital gown and slid it off. She winked at James.

— What do you think?

James coughed and looked away.

The orderly pulled her gown back up and forced her to a sitting position. She began to cry and hid her face in her hands.

The wealthy man stood.

— I'm going, he said.

— Same time tomorrow? asked the orderly.

— Same time, he said. God damn it. She isn't any better, is she? It's a damned trick.

The orderly began to explain very patiently how she was very much improved, in fact, and this was a setback but he needn't worry himself because all that could be done was being done.

The man left.

No one had come to James's table. He saw that there were waiters serving the other tables in the room. He thought of the manual. Had there been a section on ordering supper?

When he looked back at the near table, the girl was looking at him.

— They won't come serve you, you know, she said. That's not your table.

James looked at her sharply.

— It's not your table at all, she repeated.

The orderly nodded in a very professional manner.

— It's their table, he said, and pointed to a group of men, some of whom were wearing hospital gowns, some of whom were wearing moustaches and three-piece suits, smoking cigars. All stood at the entrance to the room. They were scowling and looking over at him.

How long have they been standing there? he thought. He got up and started towards the door. As he did, the men moved past him towards their table. One bumped him rather rudely with his shoulder as they passed.

James turned to look. The man spat on the floor. James blushed and looked away.

— You'd better go, said the orderly, who had come over.

He put his hand on James's arm.

— Don't you know where your table is?

A woman dressed up like a nurse came over.

— Is there a problem? she asked the orderly.

— Yes, he said. This man doesn't know where his table is.

— I just arrived, explained James. I'm only staying a few days.

The nurse and orderly exchanged a look.

— Why don't we take you over here, said the nurse, and find out where you should be.

— I don't have anywhere I should be, said James. I can be anywhere I want to be. Nobody tells me where I can be.

— Of course not, said the nurse.

The orderly hesitated.

— Do you want me to stay? he asked the nurse.

— No, she said, it will be quite all right.

— Come with me, she said to James.

— Where are we going? James asked.

— This way, she said, and bobbed neatly away across the floor. James stood a moment, and then followed after.

The room opened into a series of other dining rooms. Each opened into the next. She proceeded through two, and then took a right through a small door. James caught the door as it was closing and went through.

They were in a narrow passage. A dog was running along it. It seemed to be trying to bark, but no sound came.

— All the dogs, said the nurse in explanation, have their vocal cords removed. You have no idea how much trouble they were before, but now they can't complain and they're just darlings. Aren't you a little darling! she said to the dog. It dodged her hand and ran on.

There was a desk in the middle of the hall at the end of the hall. Another nurse, very large, sat looking through some kind of ledger.

— Margret, called out the first nurse.

This second nurse looked up as they approached.

— I've got a man here; what's your name? she asked James.

— James Sim, said James.

— James Sim, repeated the first nurse. I found him roaming around in the fourth dining room. He didn't know what he was doing there.

— That's not true, said James. That's not true at all.

The second nurse stood up.

— None of that out of you! she said loudly.

She gave the pages of the book a cursory examination.

To the other nurse she said,

— He's not in the ledger. Never came in, leastways not through here.

The two nurses looked at James. He tried to look as indignant as possible and gathered himself to say something really definitive.

At that moment, a man came around the corner. He wore a simple gray suit. The two nurses ducked their heads.

— No, no! he said, as he came up. No, no!

James looked at him.

— There's been a mistake, said James.

— Of course there has, James, he said, touching James's wrist lightly. No, no! he said to the nurses. James is not a patient. You're not a patient, he said to James. Come with me.

The nurses looked at James resentfully.

— Not a patient? said the second nurse.

— But Mr. Graham, said the first nurse.

— No, no! said the man.

and also

— Come along, now.

He took James by the shoulder and led him away.

(D. Graham)

— You really, said the man, shouldn't be wandering about until you know where you are and who you're speaking to.

and

— I'm David, by the way.

James said that he was James but that David knew that. David agreed that he knew that.

— There is, after all, said David, a rather serious business going on here. Did you know?

— No, said James.

— Yes, rather, said David. We treat an illness, an illness peculiar to our times. The cure was first assembled by a nineteenth-century theorist, Margret Selm. All the nurses are named after her.

— Of course they are, said James.

David smiled.

— Ah, then you're getting it, are you?

— I think so, said James.

— That's good. But anyway, you'll only be staying a few days, no?

— Yes, said James. I'm just here to be available to those who knew Thomas McHale. I was there when he died.

— I know that, said David. It's ever so nice of you to come. I for one should like so much to hear what it was like.

— Anytime, said James. I'm staying upstairs, in room seventeen.

— Of course, of course, said David somewhat dismissively. We shall see if I can find the time. I am very busy. But as for you and your roaming about, yes, I was listening behind the corridor.

James had narrowed his eyes at the words roaming about, which the nurse had uttered prior to David's arrival.

— Yes, continued David, I was listening. I can't help but enjoy such situations when they occur. Mistaken identity.

He rubbed his hands together.

— Until we can get you a proper badge, you will eat supper either with someone, or alone in your room. Tonight I'll have it sent up. I'll send someone to find out what you want, and that person will have it sent up. Yes, yes, that's it. Your supper will be sent up. Almost immediately.

He seemed pleased to have settled the matter.

The whole time they had been talking they walked at a furious pace. David had made many turns here and there down halls and through rooms. James could no longer say what part of the house they were in.

David stopped at the door to a room.

— Well, he said. I have to go in here. See you.

He slipped through the door and shut it.

James looked up and down the hall. Where exactly was he now? The halls all looked the same. All the walls were neatly painted, all the rooms were neatly numbered, but none of the numbers were consecutive.

Should he knock and ask David the way back?

A woman appeared behind him out of another door.

— Sim? she asked.

— Yes, he said.

— Don't know your way around, do you? Don't you? Do you?

— No, he said.

— Well, she said. It's no crime. You won't be punished, no, no. Have no fear of that. Come along with me. She led James up a set of stairs, and through a bridge back into the main building. Apparently he had passed into some sort of exterior set of buildings. When that had happened, he could not say. Had he been underground? He tried to remember if the rooms they had passed through had had windows. He closed his eyes and thought back. No, they hadn't.

— Here we are, said the woman.

James recognized up ahead the stairwell at the top of which was his bedroom.

— Someone else will be coming along shortly, said the woman, and left him to the kind attentions of the stairwell.

And so it turned out that the house was nothing like James had supposed. It was perhaps some kind of hospital, a sort of asylum, but the particulars had so far escaped him. Also, there was a clear-cut distinction between the House Proper and the Hospital, although their rooms mingled. Evidently James had crossed from the one into the other, and had thus gone foul.

— Tonight, said James in the quiet of his room, I will read this manual from beginning to end. I will have no such troubles again.

And also he thought that perhaps it was true that McHale had been mad. Perhaps the Samedi threat had nothing to do with these people.

There was the newspaper on James's side table. The note, of course, was there, which James had had read to him in the car. There were other articles, however, that were of interest.

James picked it up and began to read. It seemed that the government had stepped up their attempts to catch this Samedi. They had caught three men and two women, all having some connection. Of these, they had managed to make none speak, three having committed suicide in jail, one escaping from a closed cell, and the fifth, a woman, not responding verbally to any address whatsoever. There had been many others they had caught who, after questioning it was soon realized, had nothing whatever to do with the threat.

The suicides and arrests had made the police even more apprehensive, and had cemented the threat as a real possibility. Cameras had been set up to watch possible mail drops. The government was, the newspaper assured James, doing all that it could to protect its populace.

Meanwhile there were many theories on what the reprisal would be. Some thought a dirty atomic device. Others supposed anthrax or some kind of manufactured virus.

There was a knock. A moment later, two knocks.

Maid service, thought James.

— Come in, he said.

The Visit of Grieve, Part 3

It was not the maid. Instead, Grieve. That is to say, Lily Violet.

— Hey, you! she said, and kissed him on the cheek. So you finally got here!

She had two suitcases. They were James's suitcases.

— I stopped by your house, she said, and got the rest of your

things.

— You what? said James.

— Got your things, said Grieve. I thought you would need them.

She put the suitcases by the wardrobe, and then sat heavily in the cushioned chair. She looked rather nice.

— Well, I'm tired out. So, what do you think?

— What do I think? asked James.

— Of the place. What do you think? Isn't it nice?

James said that the place was indeed nice but a bit strange, and he wasn't sure he really understood why he had been brought and also that it seemed to him it was her fault, but maybe not, and what had been the reason for the rubber mask, and also perhaps it would be possible for her to arrange that he speak with her father.

Grieve laughed when he said this last.

— You can't just speak with him, you know. It doesn't work like that.

— No? he asked.

— No, she said. He's very busy, but busy in a different way than you might think. He's not to be approached, not to be asked questions. If he has something to say to you, he will. Certainly he will ask you about McHale, and maybe about your work. He is intrigued by mnemonists, so you have that in your favor.

Grieve stood up, walked over to the bed, and jumped onto it.

— Not bad, she said. I've never been in this room.

She stood up again.

— I'm going to go and have supper. But perhaps I'll stop by again later on.

— I never got my supper, said James. I tried to, but it didn't work out.

— Hmmm, said Grieve. Well, you can have something sent up, I suppose. I would invite you to come with me, but it just wouldn't do.

She thought about it a moment.

— No, it just wouldn't do. You'll have to work something else out. She smiled.

— Anyway, I'll drop in unannounced. I always do.

James was leaning against the wall with his arms drawn up in front of him. She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

— Isn't it nice being here? she asked, and was gone.

A Visit from Grandfather

— James, he said. Come out of there.

— No, said James, I won't.

— You'll have to come out sooner or later.

— No.

— If you don't come out, I swear I'll send you to a work camp. James laughed.

— Grandpa, I know there aren't any work camps. Not for boys like me.

James's grandfather laughed too.

— Oh, I think I can find one. They'll have you peeling potatoes and making zippers. Did you know that all zippers are made by people? Machines can't make them; it's too difficult. But making zippers will eventually cripple your hands. Yes, in the countryside somewhere there are zipper factories full of children with crippled hands. Perhaps I will send you there.

— Grandpa. . said James, laughing.

He came out from his hiding spot. His grandfather lifted him up and gave him a great big hug.

— What is it you like, young sir? asked James's grandfather.

— Gladiators, said James. And tigers. And falcons.

James's grandmother could be heard then, calling from the house.

— I think supper's ready, said James's grandfather. Shall we go in?