“And He Shall Sing....”
“AND HE SHALL SING....”
Mr. Cheltenham, a rather dusty and musty, yet amiable-looking person, 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.”
“Don’t you be too sure he didn’t write ’em, sir,” said Mr. Walsh. “Besides your letters, the only papers we found in his rooms were poems, stacks of them. I’ve brought some of them along, and in view of what you say I’d like you to look through them and see if they shed any light on the business, and then I’m afraid I must ask you to come along and identify the body.”
“Must I really do that?” said Mr. Cheltenham.
“I’m afraid so, sir; you’re the only person who seems to know anything about him, and you’ll be wanted at the inquest.”
“Very well,” replied the publisher, “I’ll ring you up when I have looked through these papers.”
“Much obliged, sir,” said the Inspector, and left the room.
The first thing Mr. Cheltenham did was to send for his manager.
“Dixon, I have decided to withdraw And he shall sing.”
“But, sir——”
“I’m afraid there are no ‘but’s’ about it. I’ll explain to the Trade and the reviewers, you hustle up and get the books back; there aren’t many out yet, and reviewers don’t hurry over poetry.”
Some people may remember a curious little mystery about a book of poems—it had another title—which was reviewed enthusiastically in one or two papers, but apparently never published. A few copies are in existence, and sell for good sums when a collector consents to part.
Mr. Cheltenham destroyed every copy he could get hold of. Perhaps an impulsive and unnecessary performance, but he felt he could do no other. Having completed his plans for the withdrawal of the book he turned to the inspector’s bag and its contents. They were “poems,” as he had said, the feeblest, most bathetic, utterly commonplace rubbish on which Mr. Cheltenham in a long and bitter experience had ever cast his eyes. “It is the poetic fame which I desire,” these words came back to his mind as he thrust the heap back into the bag. Perhaps he understood; and “F. Gonesara”? He shrugged his shoulders and took a taxi to Mr. Kato’s flat in a typical Bloomsbury street.
The Inspector was waiting for him.
“Well?” he said.
“Mr. Walsh,” replied Mr. Cheltenham, “when you have time I have a story to tell you, one you may not believe, but I think if you could believe it you would be saved a lot of useless work on this case. And now let’s get the beastly ordeal over.”
“Any time you like, sir. Come with me.” He led the publisher along a passage and opened a door, and they entered a room. Mr. Cheltenham recognised it, as he had expected, and when he saw the bed and a red-stained sheet upon it, he trembled again—and then the Inspector went forward and drew back the sheet.