Fingers of Fear Read online

  CONTENTS

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  FINGERS OF FEAR

  J. U. NICOLSON

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  Fingers of Fear by J. U. Nicolson

  First published by Covici Friede Publishers, New York, in 1937

  First Valancourt Books edition 2015

  This edition © 2015 by Valancourt Books

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  isbn 978-1-943910-01-4 (trade paperback)

  Also available as an electronic book.

  All Valancourt Books publications are printed on acid free paper that meets all ANSI standards for archival quality paper.

  Set in Dante MT

  I

  By June of 1933 my finances had fallen to so low an ebb that only sixty-eight cents stood between my pride and beggary on the streets. I had been hoping against hope that the professionally optimistic predictions of the country’s financial and political wizards would prove to have been well founded. Like millions of others caught in the trap, I had waited from autumn till spring and then from spring till autumn. Always the return of prosperity was to be but six months hence, or it was “just around the corner.” I knew, at last, that it was not coming at all—that is, it was not coming in any manner which would permit me to resume my old life of indolent preparation for the great work in creative writing that I was to do—some day. It had become plain, even to myself, that I must go to work.

  Work? But at what? For weeks, since the break with Muriel, I had sought work, at first in the more sniffish and high-toned fields of endeavor, then sinking swiftly through brokers’ and insurance offices to application at department stores, at corner grocers’, and to foremen of gangs repairing the streets under political patronage. But nowhere had I succeeded in persuading anyone to put my name on a payroll. Bread lines were lengthening. Factories everywhere were closing down, or they were operating on reduced time and paying starvation wages. Men, women and children were streaming in ever-increasing multitudes from city to country, so that there was no demand for labor on the farms—if the farmers could have sold anything! Seized at last by a kind of fatalism, I sold for a few dollars a great sheaf of securities which had once been worth many thousands, pawned my few remaining trinkets and heirlooms, and sat down to wait indifferently for better times. If they refused to return, I fancied that I could starve as gracefully as another man. If they did. . . . But better times had not returned in June of 1933.

  Nursing the sixty-eight cents in one fist tightly clenched and thrust deep into a pocket of my baggy trousers, I stood on a curb, rocking idly back and forth in a pair of worn shoes, wondering whether I should ever again dine at the M—— Club, the gray façade of which rose before me across the street. Men I knew entered its doors and men I knew came out. But always they sauntered along that opposite side of the street, intent upon their own affairs, oblivious of my near presence and unaware of my increasing need. I was an outcast. No doubt I had already begun to look the part. I am certain that the fear within me had stamped the name of Ishmael upon my soul, though, as yet, my indifference had not allowed the turning of my hand against my fellow men. I remember thinking that it could not be long before——

  “Hello, Seaverns! Come over and have lunch with me.”

  I turned to find myself confronting Ormond Ormes, head of a small importing concern, a business he had inherited shortly after leaving college. We had been casual friends since our freshman year together. But now I smiled swiftly and grasped him by the hand. I had thought he would wince from the contact, but he did not. I told myself that I had never given this tall, pallid, shapeless, rather coarse fellow the affection he unquestionably deserved. Indeed I knew next to nothing about him. But I was hungry, with the terrible hunger of those who have only dreaded want and have never known what real hunger is; and I was not a little frightened, besides; and here was a friend. Here was an old friend. I could have hugged him to my breast. He was, moreover, already leading me across that busy street to the doors of the Club. I was no longer a member, but I fancied that it would be good to see some of the fellows again, and to lie at my ease in their comfortable chairs, imagining that, God being once more in His Heaven, all must, of necessity, have come right with the world.

  I had not foreseen the poisonous courtesy I was to encounter. Everyone spoke to me. I rather fancied that several men were particularly careful to greet me—from a distance—as if they were afraid it might be said they were snobbish. Everyone inquired how matters were with me. Everyone was formally sympathetic. Everyone assured me that I was not alone in misfortune and had no reason to feel peculiarly discouraged. Everyone was certain that in the fall. . . . Or else everyone was sure that prosperity was just around the corner. But not one of the men who paused at our table or exchanged remarks from tables nearby failed to note that my clothes were rapidly verging on shabbiness, that they were out-dated, that my hair needed cutting, and that my face had already acquired something of the hangdog look of failure. Seeing all this, they were prepared to forestall any tale of need with another of even more shocking distress. They kept up appearances, those chaps. Oh, yes! Yet not one of them but was ready to declare that he knew nothing of where his next meal was coming from, in the event of my asking the accommodation of a loan.

  I was more than a little glad when that most dreary luncheon of my life was ended. My friend Ormes led the way into the library, which was deserted then, as it usually was. We chose comfortable chairs in a far corner, lighted cigars and awaited upon digestion. I had nothing to say. After all I knew this Ormes only slightly. I could scarcely attempt an intimate conversation, and everything of a chatty or general nature that I could think of saying had been said at the table. So I was content to smoke and await that glance at the watch and that abrupt discovery that he must leave the club immediately, which would be notice enough that I must also leave. But after a few moments Ormes sank even deeper into his chair, blew a long stream of smoke from his lungs, and began to speak.

  “Seaverns, I gather that you’re pretty hard up. Been hearing about you, now and then. And that got me thinking that perhaps I can offer you something. Of course you may not want it. Quite up to you. But in fact, I was wondering where to find you when I ran across you downstairs. Want a job?”

  “And how!” I replied, fervently.

  “What,” he asked, most surprisingly, “do you know about early American literature?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t. Still, that’s no insuperable barrier. There’s plenty of time to pick up everything you’ll have to know. I’ve a notion that your taste runs to such things. Briefly, then, I need a librarian.”

  “A what? When did you take to buying books?”

  “I didn’t. I haven’t. I never did. Books are all right, of course. Culture and all that. Personally, I prefer the movies and magazines. But there’s always been a library at Ormesby, you know, and I’ve recently inherited forty thousand volumes and the Lord only knows how many pamphlets and old newspapers and forgotten periodicals. Got ’em from an aunt, who got ’em from her father, who died before he ever got ’round to writing his Outline of the Elizabethan Influ
ence in Colonial Literature. Well, if he had to write a thing like that, I don’t blame the old boy for dying. But Aunt Matty left all that stuff to me, along with a hundred th— with a nice little bit of money. However, she provided that unless and until I completed the work her father set out to do, the money’s to go to a historical society. I forget which one. That’s the sweet little job the dear little old lady wished on me. And that’s why I’ve got to have a librarian, or, rather, a historian.”

  “What you really want, then, is a ghost,” I said.

  “A what? Ghost? Eh? Well—hardly.”

  He had started upright in his chair; now he sank slowly back, exhaling at length as he did so.

  “It’s a word,” I explained, “used for a chap who writes what another chap signs.”

  “Eh? Oh, I see. Well, yes, something of the sort. What in the world do I know of early American literature? I know little enough about early American furniture, and that’s worth while, if you ask me. I read a book, once, by Hawthorne, and I used to read Cooper, and in school they made me dig into Washington Irving. It seems, however, that there were a lot of writers before those fellows.”

  “Who,” I asked, “is to judge of this monumental work when it’s completed? Who’s to say when and whether you’ve complied with the terms of your Aunt Matty’s will?”

  “Oh! Well, it’s provided that a committee of professors from Harvard and Dartmouth are to do that. More than that, the manuscript must be submitted to ’em before 1935.”

  “Not much time, then.”

  “What? Why there’s a year and a half. You can knock something together in less time than that, can’t you?”

  “But will it pass the committee?”

  “I don’t know. It’d better!”

  “Oh, I don’t mind tackling the job, Ormes. I’m no student of early American literature, or any other early literature, for that matter. But, as you say, a fellow can read up, I s’pose. Shall I work at your place—I mean, where those forty thousand volumes are?”

  “Yes. They’re all at my house. Ormesby. Near Pittsfield. In the Berkshire Hills, you know.”

  “And will you give me a free hand?”

  “Free as you please. All I ask is that you finish the job and get me that money. Boy! I certainly could use some of it right now. ’Course I’ll take care o’ you, too, when I get it. Meanwhile, what do you say to a hundred a month and live at my place?”

  “When do I start?”

  “As soon as you can get up there.”

  “I’ll go tomorrow morning. Tonight, if you say so.”

  “Oh, the sooner the better. I’ll go with you. We’ll drive up tonight. Be there before midnight. But now I’d better post you on what you’ll find there.”

  Ormes threw away his partly smoked cigar, lighting a cigarette to replace it.

  “By the way,” he said, holding his lighted match in mid-air, “there isn’t anything to hold you, is there? I don’t remember whether you ever married, Seaverns.”

  “No,” said I. I saw no reason why I should tell him of the recent divorce. “No, I’m a free agent.”

  I settled back in my chair and assumed an air of attention. This Ormond Ormes had become my boss, you see. I stared straight into his eyes, which seemed to be of a nondescript blue, their blond lashes making them appear even lighter than they were. Yet I must admit that I paid very little heed, at the first, to what this new employer of mine was telling me, nor do I know, to this day, all of what he said. Of course there were words, phrases, a few entire sentences that struck through my preoccupation and remained in memory afterwards, though most of them are of small consequence now. I was congratulating myself upon this sudden and unexpected turn in the course of my fortunes. I was preparing to receive the returned prosperity, that prodigal, with a cynicism that would be somewhat in keeping with the heartless manner in which it had left me. I was wondering whether Muriel would be deeply affected if I were to leave town without seeing her, and then I was suddenly remembering how her manner had been unmistakably cold of late. No, she probably would welcome a final break with me. I’d write her as soon as I found myself settled in Ormes’s house. If she cared to reply, all right. If she didn’t . . . I was telling myself that I had no good reason to protest to this ignorant fellow that I could not possibly write such a book as he had described. But Ormes was saying:

  “. . . and then there’s Gray. She’s s’posed to be beautiful. Maybe she is. I reckon you’ll lose your head—at first. But don’t worry ’bout that now.”

  “Who,” I interposed, “is Gray?”

  “My sister. Didn’t I ever mention her to you? Seems to me I must have. Never mind. Gray’s twenty-six. Four years younger’n I am. Good lookin’, as I said. Least she’s s’posed to be. But queer. Never goes anywhere. Never comes to town. Stays up there in the country year in, year out. Men don’t like her. I used to invite fellows there, but it was never any use. ’Cause she’s probably handsome, if I do say it. That is, sometimes I think she is, other times I don’t know. She isn’t a wallflower, either. Gray can talk, dance, do anything else, and do it well, when she wants to. But I guess she prefers the Ghost.”

  “The what?” I cried, starting upright, as Ormes himself had started when I had used the same word.

  “Yes, the Ghost. Gray and I always capitalize the ‘G’ when we mention it in a letter. It’s an old house, more’n a hundred years; in fact the original wing was built in 1767. And so it’s got a ghost. Personally, I’ve never seen the family goblin. Supposed to be that of a woman. Fact is, there used to be two ghosts, though Gray says she’s seen the other one, a man, only once.”

  “So your sister sees such things!”

  “Oh, yes, the place is haunted, all right. My parents were always very proud of our spectres. Used to get up parties to sit and watch for ’em. But nobody ever saw anything. Except my father’s sister, Aunt Matty, when she was a girl. She’s the one who wished this history job onto me, you know. She claimed to have seen both the man and the woman. Twice. But never mind that. The man, according to the legend, always looks like the owner of Ormesby, and the woman always looks like his wife. But never mind all that. It’s mere moonshine and romance, of course. The thing is . . . What will you need in the way of equipment?”

  “Have you a typewriter there?”

  “Yes, I think so. Fact is, Gray uses it, now and then. Don’t know what shape it’s in. But all that sort of thing I’m leaving entirely to you. Order whatever you need. Tell Gray. She’ll see that you get it. Now I’m due at the office. Suppose you meet me there at six. We’ll dine, then go get my car and drive up to Ormesby. It’ll be moonlight. We can do it in five hours. That’ll put us there by midnight, or a little past.”

  Now came the glance at the wrist watch, the suddenly evinced animation, the attitude of being restrained from vast and important affairs only by the courtesy due to a guest. We arose and left the club, and I have never entered its doors since that day. I have no wish to go there.

  My preparations for the journey to the Berkshires were simple and few. I went to my room in ——th Street, the rent for which had fortunately been paid, packed my single bag with such of my better shirts and other haberdashery as could be squeezed into it, then sat down to wait until it should be time to go to the offices of the Ormes-Paget Importing Company. My waiting was punctuated, however, with several fruitless attempts to reach Muriel by telephone. Her hotel had no information as to when she might be expected to return.

  I had a job. I had awakened that morning with a depressive feeling of dread of the day before me. I had roamed the streets, idly and guiltily, unable to rid myself of a feeling that the job I needed, and didn’t want, somewhere awaited me, if only I could summon up courage enough to go look for it and get it. Then, without the slightest effort on my part, it had come to me. I should hav
e a hundred dollars a month, a room to sleep in, a place at the family board. There was a girl for companionship, maybe even for—well, companionship. There was a Ghost for romance. There was a lot of reading to do. Knowing nothing of the difficulties of such a work as lay before me, I shrugged them away. Fortunately my employer knew even less of such matters than I. For more than a year to come I should be safe and warm. If, by some lucky chance, I should succeed in putting together a history of the Elizabethan influence in Colonial literature which would meet the demands of the committee from Harvard and Dartmouth, then I might expect to be rewarded out of the hundred thousand dollars I should thereby have secured for Ormond Ormes. He had plainly hinted as much. Prospects were bright. I began to feel that, after all, prosperity might be “just around the corner.” Maybe the financial and political wizards did know a little of what they were always talking about. I sat indolently before a window in my room, looking down with good-natured pity upon the idlers in the sunlight on the street below. There was probably a job for each and every one of them, if only he took courage and energy enough between his hands to go get it. I was, I suppose, being as tolerant and virtuous as most men are when they are safe and fed and warm.

  And all that shows how little one can foresee of what the future holds. For I know today no more of the Elizabethan influence in early American literature than I knew that afternoon in June. And a scientific classification of the books, pamphlets, periodicals and newspapers in the library at Ormesby has never, to this day, been made.

  II

  As Ormes had predicted, there was a fine moon that night, and we drove between hills and along valleys turned by the magic of that moonlight into vistas of fairyland. It was a night for dreaming. To have talked would have been no less than sacrilege. I do not know what passed in my companion’s mind, but in my own revolved more dreams than one, all of them inextricably and quite pleasantly woven in and around the name of Gray Ormes. When Muriel’s name obtruded, I laid it gently yet firmly aside.