— God, no, said Carlyle. But one gets a sense of what one ought and ought not to do. After a while it becomes instinctive. Of course, every now and then there is a transgression, and when one is excited, one often doesn't count to fifteen, et cetera, but mostly, yes, the rules work just fine. It is very difficult, of course, to train the maids. But they like it very much here, I think. Certainly they get paid well. Everyone who comes into contact with this place is rewarded for it in some way.
Carlyle said this with a real belief.
I wonder if that's true, thought James.
— How did Stark make his money? he asked.
— I believe he inherited it. He's always had it, and there's never been an explanation, as long as I've known. Where he lived as a boy, these sorts of things are a mystery. He doesn't talk about himself very often. He's the kind of man who obsessively controls the work that he is upon, and thinks of it and only it.
— What is his work?
— Well, psychology, to start. But his writings are complicated and verge into social theory and other realms. He is the acting head of this hospital, the one that we are on the edge of here. It runs partly into the house, as Graham tells me you discovered in an unfortunate way.
Carlyle laughed when he said this.
— I was just trying to get some supper, said James. I didn't know where to go.
— The few of us who live here and are not patients generally eat in our rooms, or in the private dining rooms. But you know that if you've finished the manual.
James nodded.
Carlyle looked at his watch.
— I have to go. I have to meet someone.
He looked quickly at James, quickly away, and stood.
— Sorry to run off, he said.
— No worries, said James. He stood too.
Carlyle put his arm on James's shoulder.
— I like you, he said. I think we could be friends.
— I think so, said James.
— If you like, said Carlyle, I'm having supper with McHale and Grieve tonight in my room. You can come. I'll send a note.
— That would be fine, said James.
Next to the chair where Carlyle had been sitting was a pile of newspapers.
I should have a look, thought James.
Both yesterday's and today's were there. The Samedi matter was front-page news on both. There had been two more suicides and two more notes. The area of the White House was now sealed off for ten blocks in every direction.
The two men who had died were American citizens. The first, an Alfred Mitchell, had also shot himself in the face. The second name James recognized, and a chill ran up his spine.
Good God, he thought. I have been right all along.
The second man, who had poisoned himself, then staggered three blocks to die on the White House lawn, was Marvin Estrainger.
James went to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He downed it, poured himself another, and downed that. Then he began to cough. He looked around the room. He had taken the curtains off the windows and laid them all across the section of wall he knew to be the observation panel.
Let them try to look now, he thought.
and also
Why are they doing it? Why are they sending these men to die?
The two notes had been more of the same, a strange sort of puzzling rhetoric. Martin Stark, thought James. Martin Stark is Samedi.
What good was the information?
He walked to the door, opened it, shut it, walked back to the bed. The information was only useful to him if he could use it, and he realized how well they had trapped him. They knew that he would never go to the police now that he was implicated in Mayne's death.
Then a thought occurred to him. Had Mayne been ordered by Samedi to suicide just as the others had been?
But this thought passed quickly. It would have been just as easy for them to take him, James Sim, away, as to arrange the suicide of a random man. No, he had just happened to play into their hands. What a fool he'd been.
Of course, he thought, even if I decide now to go to the police, they'll never let me leave the house. I'm sure of that.
There was a knock at the door. James stepped towards it. But it was not followed by another. He reached the door, opened it. On the shelf was a note.
Supper, 9: rm. 73.
Now, thought James to himself, the only question is, who here knows what's going on, and who doesn't? Grieve seems to know. But does she know because they've told her, or because she's found out on her own? With Estrainger dead, the cat must be out of the bag for more people than just Sim. It must be obvious to everyone.
And if they know Stark's handwriting, they'll have seen the facsimiles in the papers, with the posted notice: Have You Seen This Handwriting Before, and a number to call. They'd know it was him.
Everyone, thought James. Everyone here must know that Stark is Samedi.
What day is today? he thought to himself absently. Thursday. Then there're only two days left.
I have to find out, he thought. Even if I can do nothing about it, I have to find out what's going to happen.
He Opened the Window and Saw a Woman Below With Her Hat Just So
and it reminded him irresistibly of a day in April when he had just left home. April all through the day, like a skein of cloth. Warmth upon the hands, the feet. The first day of spring is like the first principle. Life ought always to be like that. Perhaps it could be. He wondered if that was what life was like at all times for someone who'd been enlightened, a saint, someone with perfect equanimity. To be called out of yourself so entirely, it required the orchestration of every living thing. For half the world to have died in winter and be reborn at the saying of spring's name.
Another knock brought James out of his reverie. It was followed by two, and then by two, and then by one.
What does that mean? thought James. That's not on the chart.
The door opened before he could say anything. Grieve came in, carrying a cat.
— It's broken its leg, she said. We have to fix it.
The cat looked perfectly fine.
He said so.
— No, no, she said. Something has to be done.
She deposited the cat in his hands, kissed him on the cheek, took off her coat, and threw it on the bed.
— Let's have a look, she said.
James turned the cat onto its back and cradled it like a child. Three of its legs were fine, but the third did look a bit odd. The cat was quite friendly, and licked James's nose when it came in range. It was purring softly.
Hmmm, he thought. Is this Cavendish, Xerxes, Mephisto, or Benvolio? Not Cavendish. Not Benvolio.