The Best of Gerald Kersh Read Free

the Devil in Bon-Bon. The tightly clamped mouth parted a little, to let out a puff of smoke and a few more words.
    ‘I find the light hurts my eyes. Will you drink?’
    ‘Oh, thank you.’
    He indicated a chair. When we were seated, he asked:
    ‘Pardon me. You live in this vicinity?’
    ‘Almost next door.’
    ‘Ah. In apartments?’
    ‘That would be a polite name for them.’
    ‘You will excuse my asking?’
    ‘Of course. Are you looking for a room?’
    ‘Yes, I am. But it must be cheap.’
    ‘I live on the corner. They have one or two rooms vacant there. They’re cheap enough, but——’
    ‘Are there tables?’
    ‘Oh! Yes, I think so.’
    ‘Then I will go there. One thing: I can pay in advance, but I have no references.’
    ‘I don’t suppose Busto will mind that.’
    ‘You see, I never stay long at one place.’
    ‘You like variety, I suppose?’
    ‘I detest variety, but I have to move.’
    ‘Ah, landladies are often very difficult to get on with.’
    ‘It is not that. A large number of people live in this house of yours?’
    ‘A good few. Why?’
    ‘I do not like to be alone.’ At this, he looked over his shoulder. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me the address?’
    ‘I’m going that way. Come along with me, if you like.’
    ‘You are far too kind.’ He reached down and picked up a great black suitcase which had been standing between his feet. It seemed to drag him down as if it were full of lead. I said:
    ‘Can I give you a hand?’
    ‘No, no, no, thank you so very much.’
    We walked back to the house.
    *
    ‘First afloor fronta vacant, thirteen bob. Very nice aroom. Top floor back aten bob, electric light include. Spotless. No bug,’ lied Busto.
    ‘Ten shillings. Is there a table in that room?’
    ‘Corluvaduck! Bess table ina da world. You come up. I soon show you, mister.’
    ‘As long as there is a table.’
    We went upstairs. Straining at his suitcase the stranger climbed slowly. It took us a long time to reachthe top of the house, where there was a vacant bedroom next to mine. ‘Ecco!’ said Busto, proudly indicating the misbegotten divan, the rickety old round table and the cracked skylight, half blind with soot. ‘Hokay?’
    ‘It will do. Ten shillings a week; here is a fortnight’s rent in advance. If I leave within a week, the residue is in lieu of notice. I have no references.’
    ‘Hokay. What name, in case of letters?’
    ‘There will be no letters. My name is Shakmatko.’
    ‘Good.’
    Shakmatko leaned against the door. He had an air of a man dying of fatigue. His trembling hand fumbled for a cigarette. Again he recoiled from the light of the match, and glanced over his shoulder.
    Pity took possession of me. I put an arm about his shoulders, and led him to the divan. He sat down, gasping . Then I went back to pick up his suitcase. I stooped, clutched the handle; tensed myself in anticipation of a fifty-six-pound lift; heaved, and nearly fell backwards down the stairs.
    The suitcase weighed next to nothing. It was empty except for something that gave out a dry rattling noise. I did not like that.
    *
    Shakmatko sat perfectly still. I watched him through the holes in the wallboard partition. Time passed. The autumn afternoon began to fade. Absorbed by the opacity of the skylight, the light of day gradually disappeared . The room filled with shadow. All that was left of the light seemed to be focused upon the naked top of Shakmatko’s skull, as he sat with his head hanging down. His face was invisible. He looked like the featureless larva of some elephantine insect. At last when night had fallen, he began to move. His right hand became gradually visible; it emerged from his sleeve like something squeezed out of a tube. He did not switch the light on, but, standing a little night-light in a saucer, he lit it cautiously. In this vague and sickly circle of orange-coloured light he took off his spectacles, and began to look about him. He turned his back to