Ratman's Notebooks Page 17

  The old man has left hospital and been interviewed by newspaper reporters. He has given a detailed description of Ratman, which confirms the artist’s impression in yesterday’s paper. The creature has the legs and trunk of a man, but face, head and claws like a monster rat.

  I couldn’t resist buying a paper again tonight. There is an article on monstrous births.

  Incidentally when I got home I found last night’s paper spread out all over the floor of the dining room. I left it in the dining room all right, but I certainly didn’t leave it like that. So far as I know nobody has a key of the house but myself. There was no sign of any door or window having been forced. I can only conclude that the rats for some reason got hold of the paper and spread it over the floor. But why? There doesn’t seem any sense in it.

  Still front page headline news. All the national dailies feature the old man’s account of his experiences. Two of them also have an interview with the drunk. One of them gives about a quarter of a column to the drunk, headed, ‘Has Ratman a Car?’ The funny thing is that the old man didn’t see the car and denies emphatically that there was any car in the street. But both papers have a photograph of the drunk with a bandage on his finger. It’s clever how both papers manage to convey that the drunk was drunk without actually saying so. They do it by treating Ratman’s car as a sort of joke.

  All this of course suits me. Confusion worse confounded. The more muddled everyone gets about Ratman the better. The girl and I pore over the papers together at lunch-time. She has taken to bringing a vacuum flask full of soup into the office every day, which we share. She won’t let me pay anything.

  Again last night’s newspaper spread over the floor. I don’t understand it.

  I have been trying to think of something I could give the girl as a sort of return for the soup. I don’t like accepting the soup every day and giving nothing back. And I’ve got really fond of the soup and wouldn’t like to refuse it.

  At last I decided to consult the Book-keeper. I told him that I would like to give the girl some small gift say once a week or once a fortnight, but that I couldn’t think of even a first gift, let alone a whole series. It’s lucky I did consult him. He has put me off the whole idea. He says it would be tantamount to a proposal of marriage. He knew of two chaps who had been caught in very similar circumstances. One had gone ahead with it, simply because he hadn’t the nerve to do otherwise. The other had had letters from the girl’s lawyers and had ended by paying through the nose to keep the thing out of the courts. So you never know where you are. ‘Just remember,’ the Book-keeper said, ‘every spoonful of that soup you’re walking a tight-rope. One slip and you’re in the soup.’ He thought that frightfully funny and nearly roared his head off. My laughter was more restrained. The thing is I like the soup. It’s quite a change from my usual diet. In fact I’m putting on a little weight, but this may be partly due to having more money.

  It has been noticed that Ratman always goes for cash. The theory now is that he’s some sort of human monster so terrible that his birth was concealed. It is supposed that he has been brought up secretly, but that his relatives can no longer control him. Something like this is generally accepted, though there are all sorts of variations. I like the one about his mother being a lady of title.

  Anyhow about ten days ago one of the local insurance brokers came out with an advertisement—‘Insure your money against rats’—and now even the respectable companies have taken it up. The rates don’t really seem to me too dear. You can insure your money and valuables against theft or destruction by rats or Ratman. The premium for a thousand pound policy is ten pounds. The rate for smaller amounts is slightly higher. After great consultations between Jones and the Book-keeper the office has taken out a policy for a thousand which is more than we usually have in cash. Most business places are doing something similar. Some private people too. Major Robinson told me that he had, and asked was I going to. I said I was considering it. I would do it too, just for camouflage, only these insurance companies are great people for poking their noses in. They might want to inspect the ‘Risk’ as they call it. Lot of Nosey Parkers.

  Another commercial side-issue from my activities has been a craze for Ratman masks. All the children are rushing about with them. Some of them seem almost identical with the one I’ve got.

  All for the good of trade.

  Jones Day draws near.

  I am planning another raid for next week, but this doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten Jones. I think of Socrates every day. Ben will never take his place. I still don’t really like Ben. Now that I haven’t Socrates I don’t really like any of the rats. Sometimes I wish I’d never seen a rat.

  The raid I’m planning now isn’t financially necessary at the moment. Though the cost of keeping the rats is getting more and more as they get more and more, I’ve enough money to do for a long time to come. It’s just I feel that I ought to have what’s now called in business a planned cash flow. It would be bad policy to wait again till I’m really short and then do something desperate. Besides I think it’s well to keep my hand in—and my nerve. I needn’t pretend that I’m not very nervous at times. But I do like hearing people talking of Ratman and wondering what he’ll do next. In secret I laugh and laugh. It’s like being famous under a nom-de-plume.

  The previous day’s newspaper is on the floor every night now when I go home. I needn’t comment on it any more, but it still strikes me as strange. The pages which are uppermost are always those which contain the latest articles or news items about the rats. You’d think someone came in every day and sat on the floor reading about them. But of course no one can get in—except the rats.

  Jones Day draws nearer.

  I’m just back from a reconnaissance. With a car the whole country is open to me. I don’t see why I should confine my activities to one city. If I spread them round a bit the police are less likely to be able to trace me. ‘Where will Ratman strike next?’ they ask themselves. At least so the paper says. Not that I think the police have yet the slightest clue. Still some slip on my part might easily put them on my track. When we kill Jones it won’t be a slip, but it may strike the police as more than a coincidence. The Marauder, tyres, death. Will they link them up? When he’s dead they may even hear of his killing a rat in the Ladies and add that to the chain. If they get as far as that they’ll be getting warm. In killing Jones I shall be taking the biggest risk yet. But Socrates shall be avenged at all costs.

  The greater the risk the greater the precautions I must take. The centre of interest will change till Jones Day brings it back home with a bang.

  Last night I carried out my first away raid. I followed more or less the same plan as with the old man, except that this time I got my victim at the gate of his own home. He got out of his car to open the gate leaving the money in the car. Ben saw to it that he didn’t get back to the car and I attended to the money. I wore my rat-head mask, but I don’t think anyone saw me. I prefer not to be seen. The disguise has been a good one so far, but if I’m seen too often, someone, sometime, is going to realise that it is a disguise. At present everyone still believes I am some kind of deformed monster.

  The police have warned the public to look out for a man with a club-foot. Why a club-foot? I am completely mystified, but of course it is all to the good.

  Another raid on the twin city. Pretty good, but nothing like my snatch from the old man. I don’t think I was seen.

  I’m putting off Jones Day for a month or two. I’m creating a false sense of security in the home town.

  My policy is paying off. The papers report that the demand for rat insurance has eased off here while it’s still increasing in the sister-city.

  All sorts of theories in the papers. ‘Have the Rats Migrated?’ and so on, but there’s still a good deal of support for the ‘Ratman has-a-car’ school.

  Had a very near shave ton
ight. I was going into the sister-city for a look-around. Not a raid. Just a look-around with an eye to future business. And I ran into a police road-block. I had Ben in the car with me. So I immediately shoved him into one of the glove cupboards in the dash and locked it. Then I sat back and prepared for the worst.

  A policeman came up very apologetic. ‘Do you mind, Sir, if we have a look over your car?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Go ahead. What are you looking for?’ Of course I was sweating.

  The policeman became more embarrassed than ever. ‘Rats,’ he answered, looking thoroughly ashamed of himself. ‘You don’t have any rats in the car.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I told him. ‘If you find any you might put them out.’

  ‘This is a queer sort of arrangement you’ve got in the boot,’ he remarked presently, his voice coming through the back seat.

  ‘It is indeed,’ I agreed. ‘I don’t know what the idea of it is. I got the car second-hand and it was like that when I got it. I think a builder or a painter or something must have had it before and used that hole for carrying a ladder or something.’

  I heard the boot bang. He came round to the front and opened the glove cupboard on the passenger side. It wasn’t locked. There was nothing in it but a pair of gloves—rubber gloves, strangely enough.

  He leaned over and pointed to the glove-cupboard on my side. ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest notion,’ I told him. ‘It was locked when I got it and I’ve never been able to get a key that will open it. It may be full of rats for all I know, but if they’re not dead they must be pretty hungry for they’ll have been in there a long time.’

  He laughed and got out. ‘Sorry for troubling you Sir. It’s all this rat-caper. They’re looking for these motoring rats, complete with Ratman if they can find him. A bit silly, it strikes me, but we have to do what we’re told.’

  ‘That’s all right officer. We’ve all got to do our duty, and where we’d be without the police I don’t like to think. Probably lying in bed with our throats cut.’

  Nice touch that. But heavens alive I was sweating so much I wonder he didn’t smell me.

  No more raids for the time being. Jones Day postponed indefinitely. The police are altogether too active. I’ll have to lie low for a bit. Fortunately I’ve enough money to do for a good while.

  Saturday. So I arrived home at lunch-time. Something made me look through the dining room window before going into the house. There was Ben crouched in the middle of a newspaper spread out on the floor. His head was cocked on one side. You’d have thought he was reading the paper with his right eye. Alternatively he might have been watching a fly on the ceiling with his left eye. When I got in he had gone. I didn’t see him again till after lunch.

  The newspapers are saying that people carrying large sums of money ought to be armed. One of them has a heading, ‘Ratman dead or alive.’

  I hear there’s a great increase in the sale of revolvers and automatic pistols.

  An extraordinary thing has happened. At least it seems extraordinary after all these years. Uncle has actually died. And he has left a fortune. To me. Well, about forty-five thousand pounds at the present rate for the Canadian dollar. It’s funny. I go home thinking nothing in particular and there’s this letter waiting for me. I wonder what it is—vaguely, not particularly interested. Then I read it, my eyes popping out of my head. At first I can hardly believe it. It must be a dream or a hoax. But The Royal Trust Company, Executors and Trustees, 10039 Jasper Avenue, Edmonton, Canada, wouldn’t hoax anyone. I read the letter about fifty times. Gradually I come to believe it. I am rich.

  I don’t think I’ll tell anybody.

  I have known that I am rich for just over twenty-four hours. So far my wealth has given me little pleasure, though I would hate to be poor again. I lay awake all last night, too excited to sleep. It wasn’t pleasurable excitement. Strange to say I was worried—and I’m still worried. I don’t know what to do with my money. Today in the office I couldn’t concentrate on my work and made several stupid mistakes.

  Of course I haven’t got the money yet. There are several things I have to do. The Royal Trust Company suggests that I should consult a solicitor, but I know very well what solicitors are—leeches.

  After all, I have told the girl, and I’m going to tell Jones. What’s the good of having money if you can’t get any pleasure out of it? Telling about it is the only way I can get any pleasure out of mine in the meantime.

  The girl was delighted. It was lunch-time and we were alone together in the Cash Office. She burst into a sort of laugh and gave my arm a squeeze with both her hands. ‘Oh! I’m so glad,’ she exclaimed. ‘Now you’ll be able to do anything you like.’

  The reason I’m going to tell Jones is to annoy him. Anything I have Jones thinks ought to be his. He’s been scheming for years to get hold of my house. He’s got a sort of chip on his shoulder about Father. He wants to be equal to Father, and in some funny way he can’t feel he is so long as he doesn’t live in Father’s house. In the same way he’ll want to get hold of my money.

  Everything has quieted down. There hasn’t been a thing in the papers for ages. I mean about rats or Ratman. In a way I quite miss it. I liked to know people were talking about me. I almost feel lonely.

  Today in the office I remarked to the girl, sort of casually, ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? You never hear anything about Ratman these days.’

  For a moment she looked quite puzzled. Then she said, ‘Oh that’s the man that was supposed to go about with the rats, wasn’t it? He was supposed to have something wrong with him, be deformed or something.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I told her, quite pleased to think that my exploits hadn’t been quite forgotten.

  Next moment she spoiled it all, or very nearly. ‘Oh I never believed in him,’ she declared. ‘I don’t think there ever was any Ratman. The papers made it all up. At any rate it was greatly exaggerated.’

  Fortunately I remembered that silence is golden. ‘Sic transit gloria mundi,’ I murmured to myself. That and, ‘Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,’ is about all the Latin I know. Not much use for Dulcie in this country just at the moment, but she’ll be at it again one of these days.

  The gist of all this is that Jones Day could be any time. Of course I don’t know what the police are thinking or what they’re up to, but I don’t see that the chances are ever going to get any better. There’s bound to be some risk whenever I do it.

  Recently I have been doing a good deal of motoring at night sometimes by myself, sometimes with the girl. No rats on board. In fact I’ve given her some quite decent dinners. But that’s not the point. The point is to make sure there are no road-blocks any more, that the police aren’t searching cars. I’ll keep on checking till Jones Day minus one, Jones Eve I might call it.

  Jones Day is fixed. It has fixed itself really, in a rather strange way, for the Friday after next. Today is also a Friday. This evening when I was about to put away the cash preparatory to going home I suddenly realised I was short of money myself—not permanently short. I’ve more than a thousand hidden round the house at home. But I’d promised to take the girl for a run in the car, and of course I knew she’d expect me to stand her a meal as well. And the car needed petrol. So I took a fiver out of the office cash and scribbled a little note ‘I O U £5’ and shoved it in. The Book-keeper happened to be watching. ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you,’ he said. ‘You know Mr. Jones always checks the cash on Friday nights. I wouldn’t put it past him to burn your I O U and say you’re a fiver short. He’s after your blood, you know.’

  ‘Well you’re my witness. He’ll only be showing himself up if he tries anything like that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do it all the same. He wouldn’t like it. He’d say you’d no right to borrow from the cash, and so do
I.’

  Of course I had to put it back. It was a nuisance. It meant going out home first and then of course the girl wanted to come in. I didn’t let her. I told her that the house wasn’t in a fit state for any girl to come into, and nor it is. In fact I made her stay in the car at the gate. She was quite sniffy about it, but I was standing no nonsense.

  ‘So that’s what Jones does on Friday nights,’ I remarked.

  ‘What?’ the girl asked.

  I explained.

  ‘You’d think he might trust you after all these years.’

  ‘Our Mr. Jones trusts nobody.’

  ‘I suppose he knows nobody should trust him and judges everyone else by himself.’ The girl has come to quite my way of thinking about Jones.

  ‘As if I’d want to touch the firm’s money. You’d think I’d none coming of my own.’

  And it was then the idea came to me. The thought of Jones, sitting there all by himself counting the money, put it into my head. Why not kill Jones on a night when he’s got plenty of money to count, and get the money as well. Before that I hadn’t even thought of money in connection with killing Jones.