a veteran of some sixty publishing seasons, was seated at his desk
in his charming if a little ricketty office in Willoughby Court, one
placid September afternoon, reflecting drowsily on an aphorism which
an American publisher friend had yapped at him during luncheon. “It’s
a sort of joke amongst authors in America to say, ‘Now Barabbas was a
publisher.’” “Well,” thought Mr. Cheltenham, “if that were so, every
scribe in the Province should have come to howl for his release.
Three-quarters of all the books I have published would never have been
born but for me. By my instinct and initiative they are conceived; I
midwife them and wet-nurse them. I ensure that they are beautiful. In
most cases only too soon I am compelled to recognise they are dead,
and remainder their remains. And my remuneration for carrying out
these versatile functions, genital, obstetric, and cenotaphic, is
microscopic. And the lazy ingrates who pretend to their parentage
compare such philanthropists to a brigand!” Indignation brushed the
poppies from his eyes, and he went back to his proof-reading. A little
later his telephone bell rang. “A gentleman to see you. Yes, sir, a
Mr. Kato, sir, about a manuscript.” “Oh, show him up,” answered Mr.
Cheltenham resignedly. A moment later the door opened and an exotic
and singular personage entered. His tiny feet were embraced by patent
leather boots and white spats. A pair of plus-four knickerbockers
peeped out through a loose dark garment like a priest’s robe. Above
protruded a short, tubby body, above that a sallow expressionless face
with fluttering almond eyes. His right hand was clutching a bowler
hat, his left a package of some kind. This apparition sat down on the
chair pointed out to him by Mr. Cheltenham, and remained silent. “Well,
Mr. Kato,” said the publisher, “and what can I do for you?” Mr. Kato
thereupon raised his left hand and placed on the table a beautifully
bound manuscript on which were painted in a panel some sentences Mr.
Cheltenham supposed were Japanese. “I have this book, which I wish
to bring to notice of poetic public persons,” he said in a clipped,
toneless voice.
Mr. Cheltenham picked up the manuscript. “I take it you wish to have
it published,” he said. He saw it consisted of a number of short
poems. “The usual tripe,” he thought to himself, for he had met these
Orientals before who spend many ingenious days translating into
deliberately naïve English the lesser-known works of their compatriots
and palming them off as their own.
“Well, Mr. Kato,” said he, “it is easier to sell a boot-legger a case
of ginger-pop than for a publisher to support a wife and family on the
publication of verse. If poets are determined to inflict on a patient
public the dreams they dream and the visions they see, it is only fair
that they should foot the bill--that the piper should pay for the paper
and the printing and remunerate the publisher--in this case shall we
say myself--for the time and trouble he gives to the preparation of the
book. Are you willing to contribute towards the cost of production?”
“If it must be so,” replied Mr. Kato. “It is the poetic fame which I
desire.”
“Very well, then,” said the publisher, “but first of all I must satisfy
myself that the work is worthy to bear my imprint. My standard is
high--if I find it reaches that standard I will have an estimate
prepared, and then put my proposals before you. You shall have my
decision within a week. Good afternoon.”
Mr. Kato rose, shook hands, put on his bowler and walked towards the
door. Now Mr. Cheltenham had been very uncharacteristically brusque
and tart during this short interview, for he had not been quite at his
ease. It was no doubt owing to his drowsiness, but it had seemed to him
that Mr. Kato’s outline had been curiously smudgy and wavering, and as
he walked away he had the impression that the little Jap’s shadow was
walking out behind him, as if two little Orientals were passing across
the room to the door. But the sun had long ceased to throw shadows into
Willoughby Court. He took the MS. home with him that night, and after
dinner began to look through it. It was entitled, _And He Shall Sing As
Best He Can_. That pleased Mr. Cheltenham at once, for he recognised
it as a quotation from _The Gates of Damascus_, that masterpiece of
Flecker, a poem he considered of extreme delicacy, subtlety, and
rhythmic and verbal beauty. That Mr. Kato should have chosen such a
title gained the publisher’s sympathy at once.
For the next hour he knew one of those rare moments in a publisher’s
life when he realises that something of genius has been placed in his
care, and that for evermore it will be identified with his name. For
the poems in that lovely MS. were perfection. By some miracle of good
taste the delicate, urbane, autumnal imagery, in which the Oriental
poet clothes his thought as he delicately shrugs his shoulders at life,
had been transmitted into an English idiom at once the poet’s own,
and yet perfectly adapted to it. Its mastery and flawless precision
sent tingles of pleasure through every nerve in Mr. Cheltenham’s body.
Golden visions surged through his brain; “good simile that about poetry
and ginger-pop, but was it always true? Brooke, Housman, Masefield--no,
there _had_ been best sellers in rhyme and metre”; and through Mr.
Cheltenham’s head hummed the princely beat of printing machines, 2,000,
5,000, 30,000, 100,000! He re-read the first ten pieces and his mind
was made up. He had a winner, a philistine-proof, reviewer-proof,
bookseller-proof, inevitable certainty! There on his table was a
masterpiece. He went glowing to bed. Perhaps on that account he slept
fitfully. Four or five times it seemed to him that a tiny Mongolian
face came and stared imploringly into his eyes, and grew and grew till
crack! something snapped in his brain and he awoke. Though all Japs
looked much alike to him, this officious visitor did not remind him of
Mr. Kato.
The next morning he rushed down to his office and dictated the
following comparatively ingenuous document:--
“Dear Sir,
“I have read your verses. They seem to me to be sufficiently
competent and original to have a chance of success. So much so that I
have decided to take a risk with them, and shall not ask you to bear
the whole cost of production.
“I am prepared to suggest a joint venture with you. I propose that we
share the costs, which will amount to £200 for 1,500 copies, and that
we likewise divide between us any profits which may accrue. We will
share advertising expenses, starting with an outlay of £50. If this
scheme appeals to you I will have an agreement drawn up for you to
sign. I shall be glad to hear from you.
“Faithfully yours,
“Charles Cheltenham.”
For the rest of the day he worked steadily, though every now and again
he picked up the poems to reassure himself that he had not been too
generous, and each time his confidence increased.
The next morning Mr. Kato rang up to say that he accepted the proposal,
and would call on the publisher at five o’clock the next day.
Mr. Cheltenham spent the morning preparing a rather subtle agreement,
and it was ready for Mr. Kato when he arrived at 5.15. The publisher
had worked hard and was feeling quite drowsy when the little man
entered the room, so much so that once again he experienced the silly
illusion that Mr. Kato’s shadow had come in with him.
“Well,” he said, rousing himself, “I spent a delightful evening reading
your poems, and I think them admirable, and I am looking forward to
being your partner in their production and publication. I have the
agreement here”--he glanced down at his desk--“which I shall ask you
to--I must overcome this drowsiness,” he thought to himself, for it had
seemed to him that a shape like a small thin hand had fallen across the
page, and he had started to brush it away when he had paused--“which I
shall ask you to examine. But first I will read you the main clauses.”
“Quite pleased,” said Mr. Kato.
Mr. Cheltenham began to mumble rapidly through the first
paragraph--“An agreement between Charles Cheltenham, hereinafter
referred to as the Publisher, and F. Gonesara, hereinafter--Gonesara?”
he repeated puzzled, and then looked up with a smile. “Why I should
have made such a mistake with the name I cannot”--and then he
paused, for Mr. Kato was not looking his best. His eyes were staring
and his hands were working, and he was muttering to himself in a
foreign tongue. “Please excuse,” he murmured, “and read remainder
of contractual document.” Mr. Cheltenham did so perfunctorily and
hurriedly, for he had the impression Mr. Kato was not listening, and
was anxious to be gone. When he had finished the latter took it up and
almost ran from the room. As he got up the publisher saw, or seemed to
see, that shadow rise with him and dart away behind him.
The agreement came back the next day, laconically labelled “O.K. J.
Kato.”
Then did Mr. Cheltenham get exceedingly busy. He decided it should be a
beautiful little book bound in batik, price 7s. 6d.
He had some of the poems typed out and sent to certain influential
literary critics of his acquaintance for their opinion, and there were
many other details to attend to. He had a highly-trained mind, and
by that evening everything concerning the production of the book was
settled.
He worked late, till long after his small staff had gone home.
Shortly before leaving he had occasion to go down to the ground floor
for the estimate book which his manager guarded. On returning to his
room it seemed to him that a small figure was leaning over his desk,
but a second later it was gone.
Hallucinations had not been included in the content of Mr. Cheltenham’s
experience up till then, and he walked home to his flat in Westminster
in rather a thoughtful mood. “Possibly,” he said to himself, “I have
been overworking.”
Several days passed in an eminently satisfactory manner. Mr. Kato
signed his agreement without demur. The influential literary critics
were one and all most enthusiastic, and eager to know all there was to
be known about the author. That suggested a problem to Mr. Cheltenham.
Should he treat Mr. Kato as a mysterious and enigmatic figure, and
rouse interest in him in that way, or should he do the usual thing and
supply full details.
He decided first of all to see what facts concerning his career Mr.
Kato could supply. He wrote him the usual letter strongly urging him to
overcome that loathing for publicity which he probably cherished.
He received a reply by return of post:
“Dear Charles Cheltenham,
“Please excuse. I am, as you would say, middle classes Jap Gentleman,
formally in Rice Affair. Therefore complete void of interesting
publicity dope.
“J. Kato.”
There were some Japanese characters under the signature. When he had
read this missive and decided to treat Mr. Kato as a mystery, Mr.
Cheltenham ruminated, and not for the first time, on the incredible
workings of the creative imagination. How was it possible for a person
who could write “Please excuse”--“Formally in Rice Affair”--to be the
author of the many masterpieces in _And he shall sing as best he can_?
He gave it up.
He wondered what might be the meaning of the delightfully decorative
postscript.
When he went to lunch at his Club, he took the letter with him--Sanders
of the Far Eastern section of the British Museum was usually to be
found there. He was in on this occasion and talking very loudly,
wittily, and provocatively in the smoking-room.
He glanced casually at the letter which the publisher held out to
him. Then it seemed to hold his attention. “A morbid prophet, your
friend,” he said, “but I have always understood that even the shortest
experience of publishers sharply stimulates a suicidal neurosis.”
“Publishers, like saxophones and beards,” replied Mr. Cheltenham,
“should be exempted by a truce of God from being made subjects of the
cheap jokes of inferior humorists for Eternity. And now tell me what
those Jap words mean.”
“Well,” said Sanders, “they follow on the signature, so the whole thing
reads ‘J. Kato who will die on Feb. 13th!’”
Mr. Cheltenham was taken sharply aback.
“Is that what it says?” he replied sharply. “What’s the fool mean?”
As he walked back to his office he felt for the first time a slight
diminution of his enthusiasm for the book, a vague premonition of
coming fear, such as a swimmer far out in a calm and golden sea might
know when he felt the first pull of a strong and hostile current.
His experiences during the next fortnight were not calculated to
reassure him. During that period he found it necessary to stay late
at the office several times, and he felt a growing dislike to doing
so. He was tempted to keep his manager back on some excuse, but he was
a considerate employer who realised what staying late means for the
inhabitants of the outer suburbs. The reason for this lively distaste
was something which after dark kept visiting the corners of his eyes.
He could never see it clearly; it was always on the margin of vision,
but it was uncomfortably suggestive of a small, dark man.
He found himself looking up quickly to try to catch it when he should
have been concentrating on agreements and estimates, but it was always
just too quick for him. He stood it as long as he could, and then went
to see a famous nerve specialist who had written a treatise on Abnormal
Psychology which Mr. Cheltenham had published.
The latter described his solitary symptom and was subjected to a
rigorous examination. “Well,” said the specialist, when he had
finished, “all I can say for a confirmed celibate and ‘sedentary brain
worker’ you are disgustingly fit physically, and, I should judge,
mentally. If you see a small dark man out of the corner of your eye you
can take it from me he’s there. But it is a curious story. Tell me
frankly, do you know any possible explanation?”
The publisher received the verdict with mixed feelings, and he paused
before replying. To say that the appearance of this phenomenon
coincided with his acceptance of a book of poems seemed merely to
darken counsel, so he answered--not quite frankly--that he had no such
explanation to offer.
“Then,” said the doctor, “let me know how things turn out, for honestly
I’m interested and curious--and don’t stay late at the office.” Still
a victim of mixed feelings, Mr. Cheltenham found his zeal for Mr. Kato
and his work steadily diminishing. A genuine lover of good books and
a sincere and single-minded person, he hated to feel this irrational
repulsion for what was after all indisputably a work of genius, and,
from a publisher’s point of view, the book of a lifetime.
The best thing to do was to hurry the book out. It was occupying too
much of his time and his thoughts. That reminded him the proofs were
late. He rang up the printer, whose representative came round to see
him. “Proofs to-morrow, for certain, sir. You’d have had them before,
but--well, there’s been a sort of a little trouble,” and he gave Mr.
Cheltenham a funny, deprecating, dubious glance.
“What sort of trouble--machine trouble?” asked the publisher.
“It sounds a bit of a yarn,” replied the printer, “and it’s only what
I’ve been told, but the men in the setting room, who’ve been working
overtime, say they keep seeing a little dark chap--well, they don’t
exactly see him, but they know he’s there--it fusses them.”
“Do you mean an actual person?” asked Mr. Cheltenham perfunctorily.
“Well,” replied the printer, “the men don’t seem to think so, it sounds
ridiculous and is probably ‘all my eye’--I only mention it to account
for the delay. They get gassing and fussing, and won’t get on with the
job. However, as I say, to-morrow for certain.”
After his departure Mr. Cheltenham sat staring at the wall and drumming
on his table for a while. Then he rang for his typist and dictated a
letter to Mr. Kato, informing him that the proofs of his book would be
ready for him if he would call in the next day. He, Mr. Cheltenham,
would then explain to him, Mr. Kato, what it was necessary for him to
do regarding them. Then, in accordance with doctor’s orders, he went
home early.
Mr. Kato arrived punctually at 3.30, and the publisher was immediately
impressed by his appearance. He looked shrunken and wasted. His face
was drawn and hollowed, and his eyes were those of one from whom sleep
has gone, and to whom fear has come.
Mr. Cheltenham began apologising for the leisurely behaviour of the
proofs, but Mr. Kato obviously took little interest on what he was
saying. “The publication date will be February 13th”--as he said this,
Mr. Cheltenham paused. Till he made the remark he had not considered
the date of publication definitely. Why then had he mentioned February
13th so decisively? The date seemed vaguely familiar, as if he had
heard it recently in some other connection.
“Yes,” said Mr. Kato listlessly.
“You don’t look very fit, if I may say so,” said Mr. Cheltenham. “I
hope you’re not worrying about the book. I can assure you there’s not
the slightest need to. Everything is progressing quite satisfactorily,
and I feel certain that you will have an amazingly favourable Press.”
“I do not worry about it,” said Mr. Kato--and then paused, his haggard
eyes fixed on Mr. Cheltenham’s face. (“As if,” thought the latter, “he
wants sympathy pretty badly, and I’m the first person who has shown him
any.”)
Suddenly Mr. Kato’s expression changed, he looked sharply behind him,
and a hunted look overspread his face. “Please excuse,” he muttered,
“my nerves are not so good, I think,” and he got heavily up and went
out.
“Unless he does something about it,” thought the publisher, “this
will be the last as well as the first book he has his name to. Funny
thing! If I’d written it, I should be thrilling with excitement to see
it published, but he seems bored to death with it. He is the easiest
author I’ve ever had to deal with. Poets are usually the devil--fussing
about perfectly fatuous little details and trying to teach me my
business. But he’s a model.”
The printer was as good as his word, and the proofs arrived the next
morning and were immediately sent off to the author for correction,
and they arrived back the following afternoon. “Pretty quick work,
that,” thought Mr. Cheltenham in astonishment. Having finished his
other work, he took up the proofs and began to look through them. And
then he got one of the greatest surprises of his life. The printers had
warned him that, being a rush job, the proofs would probably be full
of mistakes. There was one Mr. Cheltenham noticed in the title of the
very first poem, “Cherry” being spelt with one “r,” but Mr. Kato had
not altered it. The publisher turned over the galley slips. There was
not one single correction from beginning to end, yet a quick scrutiny
showed him there were many and some ludicrous errors. He put down
the proofs and sat back in his chair. He knew he was in the presence
of a mystery, and many thoughts passed through his mind. Gradually
the several, single, isolated puzzles began to knit themselves into
coherency. “Curse the fellow, whoever he is,” he said to himself, “this
means another late night.” As he took up his pen and began to make the
first correction that strange drowsiness he knew so well seized him
once more....
When he awoke the clock was just striking eight. “Good Lord,” he
thought, “I’ve been to sleep for two hours and a half and not one
stroke of work have I done at these cursed----” and he leapt to his
feet, for there on the first page was an added “r” in the margin
opposite the title of the first poem, and in the poem itself an epithet
had been struck out and another substituted in a delicate, exotic
handwriting, which was certainly not his own. He turned the pages
rapidly, and on nearly every one was some alteration or revision,
which Mr. Cheltenham saw at a glance was invariably completely right.
He turned back to the title page, and there was Mr. Kato’s name
neatly crossed out and “F. Gonesara” substituted. Mr. Cheltenham was
frightened, and he knew it. He reached for his hat and coat and ran
from the room and down the stairs; just as he reached the ground floor
he saw out of the corner of his eye a small, dark figure on the landing
above.
Mr. Cheltenham had a will of his own when he chose to utilise it, and
for the next few weeks he resolutely refused to allow his mind to
wander along forbidden and dangerous paths, even when there was that
curious incident at the binder’s. He never stayed late and kept himself
busy. Contrary to his custom he took several manuscripts home and read
them in bed till his eyes closed. Eventually his plans and preparations
for the publication of _And he shall sing_ were completed, advertising
space was booked, review copies sent out, the trade supplied, and there
was nothing to do but wait for February 13th, the date of publication.
On February 12th he spent a very quiet day. Business was good. The
latest masterpiece of his best-seller, Miss Vera de Vere, _Passionate
Desire_, was selling passionately. He had no worries, he dined lightly
and drank sparingly. It was, therefore, all the more unexplicable that
he should have been afflicted with the most dreadful nightmare of his
life.
At first he seemed to be standing against the wall of a room, a very
silent and dark room, incapable of moving hand and foot, gripped and
held by a malicious power which was quite determined he should do its
bidding. But Mr. Cheltenham wanted to leave that room very, very badly.
He longed with a desperate longing not to have to witness the horror
which he knew was coming. Gradually his eye grew accustomed to the
darkness, and then he could pick out the dim outline of the room, and
then a shaft of moonlight came pouring in its thin radiance. He saw
he was in a bedroom, looking down on a bed in which someone was lying
motionless. He knew something vile was about to happen before his eyes:
he strained at his invisible bonds, but inexorably they held him. By
the light of the moonbeam he could see the room was carpetless, the
worn polish of the floor reflected the moonlight hazily. And then Mr.
Cheltenham saw that a plank was rising slowly. Once again he strained
at his bonds. The plank rose steadily and stealthily, and suddenly
something had moved up from under it, and had climbed out and was
crouching on the floor.
Mr. Cheltenham trembled violently. That something, he knew, was or
had been human. For a moment it stayed motionless, and then it began
crawling stealthily towards the bed. A foul and deadly stench filled
the room, and the publisher swayed reeling to his knees. He saw that
that something was naked, livid, and that blood was streaming jerkily
from its rotting lips. Mr. Cheltenham flung himself on the floor, and
with a terrible effort turned his head away--and he found himself
clawing at the carpet beside his own little iron bed, sweating and
whimpering. Distressed and nauseated, he made no attempt to go to sleep
again, but read _Pickwick_ for the rest of the night.
He had not been at his office long the next morning when his bell rang.
“Chief Inspector Walsh to see you, sir.”
“Show him up,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, who spent the next few moments
puzzling over the possible causes of this visitation. Had the author
of _Passionate Desire_ overstepped the liberal bounds allowed her? He
never read her books himself, but his manager had assured him that her
latest was no more stimulating than usual. A knock on the door, and in
stepped a large, dominating personality, hairy and red-faced. “Good
morning, sir,” said he, “I’ve come about a Mr. Kato. I want to know if
you can give me any information about him.”
“I’ve just published his book this morning,” replied Mr. Cheltenham,
“but I’m afraid I know absolutely nothing personal about him. Why, has
he got into some trouble?”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “I think you can put it that way. He was
found murdered in his bed this morning.”
The publisher started to his feet.
“Murdered! By whom?”
“Well, sir, it’s a funny case, a very funny case, you might say. The
instrument used was a book--his own book, I take it, and whoever did
it was a strong man, for he’d brought it down on his face so that
he’s--not a pretty sight, but that’s not the end of it. One of my
men noticed a board in the floor was loose. It was pulled up, and
underneath was a body, much decomposed, with its throat cut. He was
a Jap, too. Looks like a feud of some kind. Kato killed this chap
and another chap got him. I came to see you, sir, because nothing is
known of this Kato, and except some letters from you we found nothing
suggesting he had any friends or acquaintances in this country. The
Embassy people know nothing about him.”
“As I say,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “I knew him purely in a business
way, but I do think there was some mystery about him, for I had come
to the conclusion that he was not the author of the book which he
pretended to have written.”
“How’s that?” asked the Inspector.
“It is a collection of extremely subtle and beautiful poems,” replied
the publisher, “and from my experience of Kato I am convinced he could
not have written them. He was always very nervous and uneasy, by the
way.”