(From _The Manchester Guardian_)
1922
Patrick Deasey described himself as a "philosopher, psychologist, and
humorist." It was partly because Patrick delighted in long words, and
partly to excuse himself for being full of the sour cream of an inhuman
curiosity. His curiosity, however, did not extend itself to science and
_belles lettres_; it concerned itself wholly with the affairs of other
people. At first, when Deasey retired from the police force with a
pension and an heiress with three hundred pounds, and time hung heavy
on his hands, he would try to satisfy this craving through the medium
of a host of small flirtations with everybody's maid. In this way he
could inform himself exactly how many loaves were taken by the Sweeneys
for a week's consumption, as compared with those which were devoured by
all the Cassidys; for whom the bottles at the Presbytery went in by the
back door; and what was the real cause of the quarrel between the twin
Miss McInerneys.
But these were but blackbird-scratchings, as it were, upon the deep
soil of the human heart. What Deasey cared about was what he called
"the secrets of the soul."
"Never met a man," he was wont to say, "with no backstairs to his mind!
And the quieter, decenter, respectabler, innocenter a man looked--like
enough!--the darker those backstairs!"
It was up these stairs he craved to go. To ring at the front door of
ordinary intercourse was not enough for him. When Deasey invested his
wife's money in a public-house he developed a better plan. It was the
plan which made him ultimately describe himself as a humorist. He would
wait until the bar was deserted by all but the one lingering victim
whom his trained eye had picked out. Then, rolling that same eye about
him, as though to make quite sure no other living creature was in
sight, he would gently close the door of the bar-parlour, pick up a
tumbler, breathe on it, polish the breath, lean one elbow on the bar,
look round him once again, and, setting the whisky-bottle betwixt his
customer and himself, with a nod which said "Help yourself," he would
lean forward, with the soft indulgent grin of the human
man-of-the-world, and begin:
"Now, don't distress yourself, me dear man, but as between frien's,
certain delicate little--facts--in your past life have come
inadvertently to me hearing."
Sometimes he would allude to a "certain document," or "incriminating
facts," or "certain letters"--he would ring the changes on these three,
according to the sex and temperament with which he had to deal. But
always, whatever the words, whatever the nature or sex, the shot would
tell. First came the little start, the straightened figure, the pallor
or flush, the shamed and suddenly-lit eyes, and then--
"Who told you, Mr. Deasey, sir?" Or "Where did you get the letter?"
"Ah, now, that would be telling!" Deasey would make reply. "But 'twas
from a _certain person_ whom, perhaps, we need not name!" Then the
whiskey-bottle would move forward, like a pawn in chess, and the next
soothing words would be, "Help yourself now--don't be shy, me dear man!
And--your secret is safe with me!"
Forthwith the little skeleton in that man's cupboard would lean forward
and press upon the door, until at last the door flew open and a bone or
two, and sometimes the whole skeleton, would rattle out upon the floor.
He had played this game so often, that, almost at first sight he could
classify his dupes under the three heads into which he had divided
them: Those who demanded with violent threats--(which melted like snow
before the sunshine of John Jamieson) the letter, or the name of the
informant; those who asked, after a gentle sip or two how the letter
had come into his hands, and those who asked immediately if the letter
hadn't been destroyed. As a rule, from the type that demanded the
letter back, he only caught sight of the tip of the secret's ears. From
those--they were nearly always the women--who swiftly asked if he
hadn't destroyed the letters, he caught shame-faced gleams of the
truth.
But those who asked between pensive sips, how the facts or the letter
had come his way, these were the ones who yielded Deasey the richest
harvest of rattling skeleton bones.
Indeed, it was curiously instructive how John Jamieson laid down a
causeway of gleaming stepping-stones, so that Deasey might cross
lightly over the turgid waters of his victims' souls. At the words,
accompanied by John Jamieson--"A certain dark page of your past
history--help yourself, me boy!--has been inadvertently revealed to me,
but is for ever sacred in me breast!"--it was strange to see how, from
the underworld of the man's mind, there would trip out the company of
misshapen hobgoblins and gnomes which had been locked away in darkness,
maybe, this many a year.
"Well--how would I get the time to clane the childer and to wash their
heads, and I working all the day at curing stinkin' hides! 'Twas
Herself should have got it, and Herself alone!"...