Walk with Care Read Free

publicity stunt, or nervous fiddle-faddle, or plain ordinary persecution mania. Man’s a spell-binder. Spell-binders run to nerves. He may be offering us a mare’s-nest or trying to sell us a pup. On the other hand he may not. That’s why I’m here.”
    Mr Smith removed his glasses and began to polish them with a fine silk handkerchief. He said,
    â€œYes?” There was the very faintest possible shade of interrogation in his voice.
    Garrett dived into a crowded pocket and brought up a mixed handful which included a calendar, a book of stamps, a bunch of keys, a battered pencil end, several crumpled bits of paper, one of those penknives fitted with corkscrews gimlets wirecutters tweezers and hoofpicks, a frightfully old matchbox, and a couple of odd lengths of tarred twine. He selected the least crumpled piece of paper, crammed the rest of the things back, and unfolded what appeared to be a list. He thrust it upon Mr Smith, who took it delicately, turned it over, held it at arm’s length, and inquired,
    â€œWhat is this?”
    â€œMy good man—don’t you see?”
    Mr Smith put on his spectacles and frowned vaguely at a list of names.
    â€œEllinger,” he read in a tentative voice—“er—Reddington—Lemare—Denny—Masterson—” He looked over the rim of his glasses and caught Garrett’s hard stare. There was something in it—something—
    He said, “Well?”
    Garrett snatched the paper, jabbed at the first name with a stubby forefinger, and said,
    â€œEllinger.”
    â€œYes?” Once again there was that faint inquiring note.
    â€œEllinger resigned three years ago.”
    Mr Smith nodded.
    â€œHealth,” said Garrett. “Nervous breakdown. Calamity for him. Calamity for the nation. Blow to the cause of international peace. Leader in The Times. Exit Ellinger. I believe he grows roses.”
    Mr Smith nodded—the slightest of movements.
    Garrett jabbed at the second name on his list.
    â€œReddington. Another nervous breakdown. Voyage round the world. Long visit to married daughter in Australia. Another crape bow for international peace.”
    He hit the paper again.
    â€œLemare.”
    â€œHas he had a nervous—er—breakdown?” said Mr Smith.
    Garrett grinned.
    â€œNot to notice. Blatant bounding beast! But, whereas he used to bound and bray on the side of peace, and the League of Nations, and a joyous general internationalism, he now bounds and brays amongst the prophets of evil. … And that brings us to Denny.” He flung out an angry accusing hand. “Can you tell me why Denny drowned himself? You can’t and nor can anyone else. He had everything at his feet. Happily married and all that. And then—” He snapped his thumb and forefinger. “Why? Nobody has the slightest idea. Temporary insanity. Why? To this day his wife believes he was murdered. I’m not so sure she’s not right. I don’t mean technically. Scotland Yard went into all that, and there wasn’t the slightest son to suspect anyone on board. He just went over the side. Lord—what a tragedy!”
    â€œYes,” said Mr Smith.
    The low murmur into which Ananias had subsided became louder and more distinct. Words and a rhythm emerged:
    â€œBeware—walk with care,
    Or Mumbo-Jumbo will hoodoo you”
    He repeated the last line in a dry whisper. And then, on a malignant scream and to the accompaniment of clapping wings, he vociferated: “Mumbo-Jumbo! Mumbo-Jumbo! Mumbo-Jumbo! Mumbo! Jumbo!”
    Mr Smith said “Ananias!” in a warning voice.
    The wing-clapping went on, but the screams died down. In a whisper Ananias continued to call upon Mumbo-Jumbo.
    Garrett made a schoolboy grimace and turned his shoulder.
    â€œDamn creepy devil,” he said, and jabbed at the last name on the list.
    â€œMasterson.”
    Mr Smith started very slightly. The Masterson