The Thousand Deaths of Mr Small Read online

  Solly Schwartz said boldly: “Maybe your appearance, perhaps?”

  “Do you think so? Perhaps you are right. I am not a Beau Brummell, it is true; I do not dress even with the informal elegance of His Majesty King Edward. I have neither the time nor the money. I am not interested in such things in any case. Life is so short, sir, and there is so very much to do. The work I have in hand would tax the endurance of a Hercules. Indeed, his labours are nothing in comparison with mine. What, after all, was the carrying off of the golden apples of the Hesperides? A mere nothing. As for the cleansing of the Augean Stables, without boasting I may say that I could have done the job better myself. Hercules, as you will remember, wrestled with Death for the body of Alcestis. Ha-ha! Every hour, sir, I wrestle with death for my own body—I struggle with Time for my work. If I told you of the problems with which I am confronted believe me, you would be appalled.”

  “Could I have a look at that tin can?”

  Mr. Goodridge was slapping his pockets. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear, I have no tobacco. Have you, by any chance, a cigarette-case?”

  Solly Schwartz had, but it was empty. He said: “I’ll tell you what: I’ll pop round the corner and get some. What do you smoke?”

  “I roll my cigarettes out of a mixture of equal parts of black shag, bird’s-eye, and red shag. You are very obliging, my dear sir.”

  “That’s all right. You stay here and finish that gin, and I’ll be back in two ticks. Oh, by the way, while I’m gone you might dig out that tin can of yours.”

  “I can refuse you nothing. It is so seldom that one meets with a sympathetic and enlightened companion with whom one may enjoy intelligent conversation. The can, certainly.”

  “I shan’t be a quarter of a second,” said Solly Schwartz. He hurried to the nearest tobacconist and bought a quarter of a pound each of black shag, red shag, and bird’s-eye. Then, on an afterthought, he got six big Corona-Coronas and a large box of fat-headed wax vestas. Returning, he paused at a public-house and bought another bottle of gin; fiery old Tom. He was back in the basement in five minutes. Mr. Goodridge had dug out of one of the piles of junk on the floor a large tin can and a sheet of paper. When he saw Solly Schwartz’s purchases he cried: “What, cigars? Heavens above, can I believe the evidence of my eyes? Corona-Coronas, as I am a living sinner! And what is this? Another bottle? Oh, but my dear sir, you shouldn’t! No, really. This is munificent.”

  “A pleasure, I am sure,” said Solly Schwartz, striking a match and offering a light. Mr. Goodridge’s eyes flickered with drunken delight and a great cloud of smoke poured out of his nostrils while his lips puckered about his cigar. Meanwhile Solly Schwartz was examining the tin can.

  “I don’t quite see this,” he said.

  “Beg pardon? See what? Oh, that silly thing! Why it’s perfectly simple. All you need do is, roll that little wheel that you will observe on the rim of the lid with a simple movement of your thumb, and the entire top is accurately and scientifically cut off. Better than that, the raw edge of the tin is at the same time neatly folded over. A child could use it, without cutting his little fingers.”

  “And does it really work?”

  “Oh, infallibly. But do you really mean to tell me that a man of your intellect is interested in such toys?”

  “I’m interested in its business possibilities, same as you were. Why don’t you have another drink?”

  “Thank you. No, but I assure you, you had better profit by my experience. There really aren’t any business possibilities in that piece of nonsense. They simply won’t have anything to do with you, you know—although perhaps you, an elegant man, a well-dressed man, a man of commerce who is not otherwise preoccupied; you might induce one of these inaccessible magnates to take an interest in it. In which case … allow me to make you a present of it.”

  He thrust the tin can and the diagram into Solly Schwartz’s hands. The hunchback could hear the beating of his own heart, but he said, calmly enough: “Well, thanks very much. If I can do anything with it, rest assured you won’t lose by it, Mr. Goodridge. Is it patented?”

  Mr. Goodridge laughed heartily. “Patented? Oh, but, my dear sir, do you think that I have money to waste taking out patents for things of that sort? The taking out of patents is an arduous and expensive business, you know, and when I tell you that when my real work is done I shall have to patent no less than seventy-two new devices for a single machine you will realise that I have neither money nor time to waste on tin cans.

  “What machine is that, Mr. Goodridge?”

  “There are not many men in this city, I may say in this world, with whom I would talk of the matter. But with you … look.”

  Somewhat unsteadily he struck one of the wax vestas and, after three fumbling attempts, lit a great green-shaded reading-lamp. “… I’ll show you.”

  “Watch out for those matches,” said Solly Schwartz, stamping one out with his good foot, “you can’t be too careful with them.”

  “Look at this,” said Mr. Goodridge, pulling away an oily cloth that covered a shapeless object on the work-bench; and in the bright light of the lamp Solly Schwartz saw a wonderfully intricate and delicate assembly of wheels, wires, and springs. It could be likened to a steel spider’s web spun to catch tiny, elusive brass insects—at regular intervals, apparently enmeshed, there lay bright, polished fittings shaped like dead ants, with legs and antennae of fine, strong steel—it was a machine out of a dream. There was something about the look of it that filled Solly Schwartz with unaccountable excitement. “What is it?” he asked.

  Mr. Goodridge did not answer this question; he said, playfully: “You may look, but you mustn’t touch. Only I may touch.” Then he forced down a lever which must have tensed a powerful spring, for when he touched a button after that the machine seemed to come to life. With an appearance of deliberation, almost terrifying in a notched disc of lifeless metal, a large wheel turned and nudged awake another wheel, which, with a movement strongly suggestive of an understanding nod, gently pushed forward three subtly-bent bars that resembled thin, sensitive fingers. They explored three hidden places, and set some mechanism in motion that whirred, buzzed and hummed. Mr. Goodridge pressed the big lever again, and then the machine seemed to be trying to sing. “Watch closely, now, but do not touch,” he said. Solly Schwartz saw something reminiscent of the keyboard of a typewriter, neatly inscribed with letters of the alphabet, numerals, and mathematical symbols. “Watch this closely. I press these four symbols—A, plus, B, square.” As he did so, wheels began to spin and the dead brass ants awoke and moved their antennæ—whereupon, above the drone of the machine Solly Schwartz heard a gentle but insistent rhythmic rapping as some concealed metal parts fell, he supposed, into certain grooves. And this noise, metallic as it was, had a disconcertingly human quality: it was like the noise an impatient man makes when he drums with his fingers on a table while he is making some trivial but annoying calculations. There were nine taps in less than a second, and the machine was still; and then it was as if a heart had stopped beating.

  “See,” said Mr. Goodridge. He reached for a slot and pulled out a little oblong frame containing nine tiny squares of gunmetal, each bearing a symbol neatly painted in white, so that Solly Schwartz could read: A2 + 2AB + B2.

  Mr. Goodridge continued: “(A + B)2 = A2 + 2AB + B2—a simple quadratic equation. I am perfecting the one, the only real calculating machine.”

  “I don’t understand those As and Bs and all that. I … well, I haven’t had your education,” said Solly Schwartz.

  “You are not a mathematician, I see,” said Mr. Goodridge, fondling the machine with one skinny hand while with the other he raised the bottle to his lips. “It is not important, many men of talent have no taste for mathematics, although for the life of me I cannot understand why. Let me demonstrate in a simpler way—although goodness knows what can be simpler than a quadratic equation. Give me some jumble of figures—something that would take you several minutes, with pencil an
d paper, to add up and check.”

  Solly Schwartz said: “9–8–9–2–3–7–9–0–3–4–5.”

  Mr. Goodridge tightened the spring and depressed eleven keys. The machine sang again, and tapped its fingers twice. Mr. Goodridge pulled out another frame containing two numbered metal wafers. “The total is 59,” he said, and Solly Schwartz who was stilly busy with a pencil on his cuff cried out in astonishment. Covering the machine again, Mr. Goodridge said: “If I am spared for another ten years, I hope to complete this work. But will you not take a little of this excellent gin you have been so generous to provide, and for which I am so very grateful? Most of my little income goes to feed my little baby——” he caressed his machine through the cloth—“and I seldom have the opportunity to indulge.”

  “No, thanks all the same. But go on, what were you saying? Finish it? Haven’t you finished it already?”

  “Oh far from it, so very far from it, I assure you! What on earth is the use of a machine that can merely work out a problem in simple arithmetic or algebra that a schoolboy in the fifth form could solve in five minutes?”

  “Can it add up pounds shillings and pence?”

  “Eh? I beg pardon? Pounds shillings and pence? Why, of course it can. At least, it could, if I took the trouble to fit it properly. But I am not concerned with that. My little hungry baby here has passed in simple arithmetic and elementary algebra. I have higher hopes for her. She is destined for the higher mathematics … my poor backward child…. What, little one? Your father and mother have given their heart and soul to you and the very bread out of their mouths, and thirty-five years after you were conceived you are still only eleven years old…. But never mind, never mind, a little patience and all will be Well. Slow and steady wins the race, my dear. Soon you shall have infinitesimal calculus, conic sections, and the higher trigonometry. At the touch of a finger you shall lisp logarithms…. Have no fear, my dear, Papa will never send you unfledged into a merchant’s counting-house, but into the studies of mathematicians. Great astronomers shall cherish you and stroke you with their wise hands, and if they are kind to you you will tell them in a moment what they could not work out in a month. And if you are good the whole world shall dance attendance on you, my life, and clean you and cosset you and anoint your head with oil…. And you shall be queen of them all….” He drank again and gasped: “This is remarkably rich and full-bodied, sir. But I mustn’t take any more of it. I have work to do.”

  Instinct warned Solly Schwartz that this was not the moment to talk of commercial possibilities. He said: “I’m afraid I’m detaining you. I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Oh, no in-in-instrusion, I’m (excuse me) sure. But … but … perhaps, perhaps … as a man superior understanding you will … perhaps excuse …”

  “Can I see you to-morrow?”

  “Not … not so luxurious as … or spacious as the Kremlin, or … Diocletian’s palace in Dalmatia, but welcome.” Mr. Goodridge put down the lamp on his drawing-table and, shaking himself like a spaniel, became coherent. “You have been most kind. I do not receive visitors generally, but you are always welcome. Usually I begin to feel in need of refreshment at about six in the evening, when I pause to rest my eyes. At that hour——”

  “—All right, thanks very much then, I’ll drop in to-morrow about six, and I’ll bring a cold chicken—what say?”

  “What can I say? I am overwhelmed.”

  “Oh and I forgot, I got this tobacco for you,” said Solly Schwartz, taking the packets out of his pocket. “And I’ll leave you the cigars and the matches too.”

  “My dear sir! I will smoke one of them now to clear my head, bless you. And so, shall we say good-night?”

  Turning in the area to wave a second good-night Solly Schwartz caught a glimpse of him in the closing doorway—a macabre figure, holding a big cigar as a trumpeter holds a trumpet, and striking a match on the lintel. Then the door closed, and there was a great clashing of heavy bolts.

  Solly Schwartz hurried away. Mr. Goodridge’s tin can in the side pocket of his tight-fitting, close-buttoned coat made an unsightly bulge and hurt his hip, but he did not care. In that pocket there was a fortune. Let it hurt: the more it chafed the more certain he was that he had it. He would not undo one button in such a case; he would not give way half an inch.

  His head was humming and buzzing, whirring and clattering—and calculating—like Mr. Goodridge’s fabulous machine. Behind the barred door of that stuffy, stinking basement in Wilkin Street there was Ali Baba’s cave, and he had the Open Sesame. To-morrow he would get the idea of that salt-shaker, properly drawn on a sheet of paper. He remembered the fable of the monkey that thrust its paw into a narrow aperture and clutched too many nuts, so that he got stuck and came to grief. That was not Solly Schwartz’s style. A little here, a little there—never more than the hand could easily contain; and so, in the end, all!

  Before he fell asleep Solly Schwartz dreamed of enemies cruelly crushed and friends magnanimously rewarded. But when at last his eyes closed, he slept dreamlessly until eight o’clock in the morning, when, as a struck match starts into bright flame, he flared into consciousness and, without even stretching himself, sat up thinking clearly, touching finger-tip to finger-tip gingerly as though he feared that he might burn himself. After five minutes of concentrated thought he got out of bed—in those days he still slept in his underwear—and, having dressed himself in his best clothes, wrapped the tin can in a sheet of brown paper, buttoned the diagram in an inside pocket, and went to consult a solicitor who knew the mysteries of the law appertaining to patents—no shyster-lawyer, no winker and nudger and leerer, but a good hatchet-faced practitioner of the old school, in Staple Inn. He was taking no chances. On the way he stopped at the bank and drew twenty pounds, half in clean bank notes and half in gold. He did not imagine that the consultation would cost him more than a few shillings, but the feel of money in his pocket stiffened his confidence, clarified his mind, and lubricated his tongue. Having pocketed the money he asked for his pass-book and saw that he had more than six hundred pounds to his credit. He had known this before—he knew his resources to a shilling—he simply wanted to see it in black-and-white. It made him feel stronger. Walking to Staple Inn, so vigorously that the iron ferrule of his stick struck an occasional spark out of the paving stones, he thought that it would be a good idea to call his tin can “The Schwartz Safety Can”. He had a great desire to see his name in print, or stamped in metal—one bank holiday, when he went to Southend for the day, he put a penny into one of those machines that impress upon a strip of aluminium any twenty-six letters you like, and, punching the handle with all his might, struck out only the thirteen letters of his name, just for the sake of seeing it. He carried that stamped strip in his pocket for years, until it broke. It was his last penny, and he was thirsty, and the great glass receptacles on the lemonade vendors’ barrows were full of liquid gold. Yet he had turned away and spent his penny to see, and feel, his own name in capital letters.

  He thought: Better wait a bit. Schwartz: it sounds too foreign—or rather, too common. Besides, The Schwartz Safety Can is too much of a mouthful. I want something they can say quick. Can … can … can …

  Then he remembered a childish rhyme:

  A funny old bird is the pelican

  His beak can hold more than his belly can

  He said: “Pelican! Peli-Can!”

  Then he clanked and stamped under an arch, shattering the dignified silence of the Staple Inn, where he sat for an hour with the lawyer and arranged matters to his complete satisfaction.

  *

  At five o’clock Solly Schwartz bought a cold roast capon and a quarter of a pound of sliced ham at a cook shop and limped towards the Vauxhall Bridge Road. He was tempted to ride in a cab, because the straps of his iron foot were beginning to chafe his leg. He could easily afford the shilling the cab would cost, and he was hot and tired. But the more his leg hurt him the tighter he clenched his teeth, muttering: “Y
ou hurt me, you bastard—now I’ll hurt you. Walk, walk!”—hammering the pavement with his heavy stick, and forcing himself to move so fast that he was in Wilkin Street by six o’clock, even though, on the way, he stopped at a crockery shop and bought two threepenny tumblers. He felt the need of a drink, but not out of Mr. Goodridge’s utensils. He bought a bottle of gin, too, and a handful of good cigars. This, he felt, was small capital to put into a gold-mine.

  But Wilkin Street, normally secretive and empty, was full of people, exchanging knowing nods and weighty conversation. Although there had been no rain for a week, the gutters were running and the drains were gurgling with scummy black water. The air, which ought to have been full of dust, was full of ashes. Solly Schwartz saw a policeman, brushing his tunic with one hand and blowing his nose with the other—and this in itself was extraordinary because he had never before seen a policeman blowing his nose. “What’s up, officer?” he asked.

  “Fire.”

  “Where?”

  “Number 37B. House burned down, two houses next door seriously damaged. If you want to know anything more read the papers to-morrow—I’m sick of answering questions all day long.”

  “37B!” screamed Solly Schwartz.

  “Anybody you know live there?” asked the policeman, with commiseration.

  “Anybody I know? My friend—I was on my way to see him—look, I’ve got a capon and a bottle of gin for him. He lives in the basement——”

  “—No, he doesn’t,” said the policeman. “Not no more. That’s where the fire started. Was your friend a man in the habit of locking himself in with oil-lamps, etcetera, etcetera?”

  “Well?”

  “Well, I’m sorry to say he set the place alight this morning. The firemen’ve been at it most of the day. They saved most of the two other houses, but they couldn’t do much with 37B except get most of the lodgers out. If your friend lived in the basement I’m sorry to say he’s done for. Fire started down there and by the time the firemen broke the door down with their axes—I’m sorry to say your friend locked himself in—the place was a blazing inferno,” said the policeman, who read the papers, “a ’olocaust. And there you are.”