Towards Zero Read Free

read the words that were being traced. If there had been, they would hardly have believed their eyes. For what was being written was a clear, carefully detailed project for murder.
    There are times when a body is conscious of a mind controlling it—when it bows obedient to that alien something that controls itsactions. There are other times when a mind is conscious of owning and controlling a body and accomplishing its purpose by using that body.
    The figure sitting writing was in the last-named state. It was a mind, a cool, controlled intelligence. This mind had only one thought and one purpose—the destruction of another human being. To the end that this purpose might be accomplished, the scheme was being worked out meticulously on paper. Every eventuality, every possibility was being taken into account. The thing had got to be absolutely foolproof. The scheme, like all good schemes, was not absolutely cut and dried. There were certain alternative actions at certain points. Moreover, since the mind was intelligent, it realized that there must be intelligent provision left for the unforeseen. But the main lines were clear and had been closely tested. The time, the place, the method, the victim!…
    The figure raised its head. With its hand, it picked up the sheets of paper and read them carefully through. Yes, the thing was crystal clear.
    Across the serious face a smile came. It was a smile that was not quite sane. The figure drew a deep breath.
    As man was made in the image of his Maker, so there was now a terrible travesty of a creator’s joy.
    Yes, everything planned—everyone’s reaction foretold and allowed for, the good and evil in everybody played upon and brought into harmony with one evil design.
    There was one thing lacking still….
    With a smile the writer traced a date—a date in September.
    Then, with a laugh, the paper was torn in pieces and the pieces carried across the room and put into the heart of the glowing fire.There was no carelessness. Every single piece was consumed and destroyed. The plan was now only existent in the brain of its creator.
    March 8th
    Superintendent Battle was sitting at the breakfast table. His jaw was set in a truculent fashion and he was reading, slowly and carefully, a letter that his wife had just tearfully handed to him. There was no expression visible on his face, for his face never did register any expression. It had the aspect of a face carved out of wood. It was solid and durable and, in some way, impressive. Superintendent Battle had never suggested brilliance; he was, definitely, not a brilliant man, but he had some other quality, difficult to define, that was nevertheless forceful.
    â€œI can’t believe it,” said Mrs. Battle, sobbing. “Sylvia!”
    Sylvia was the youngest of Superintendent and Mrs. Battle’s five children. She was sixteen and at school near Maidstone.
    The letter was from Miss Amphrey, headmistress of the school in question. It was a clear, kindly and extremely tactful letter. It set out, in black and white, that various small thefts had been puzzling the school authorities for some time, that the matter had at last been cleared up, that Sylvia Battle had confessed, and that Miss Amphrey would like to see Mr. and Mrs. Battle at the earliest opportunity “to discuss the position.”
    Superintendent Battle folded up the letter, put it in his pocket, and said: “You leave this to me, Mary.”
    He got up, walked round the table, patted her on the cheek and said, “Don’t worry, dear, it will be all right.”
    He went from the room, leaving comfort and reassurance behind him.
    That afternoon, in Miss Amphrey’s modern and individualistic drawing room, Superintendent Battle sat very squarely on his chair, his large wooden hands on his knees, confronting Miss Amphrey and managing to look, far more than usual, every inch a policeman.
    Miss Amphrey was a very successful headmistress.