The Jacques Futrelle Megapack by Jacques Futrelle

Author:Jacques Futrelle [Futrelle, Jacques]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: classics, detective, mystery, omnibus, Sherlock Holmes rivals, victoriana
ISBN: 9781434446855
Publisher: Wildside Press
Published: 2013-03-19T04:00:00+00:00

THE GRINNING GOD

This story is the result of an unusual method of collaboration between Mrs. Jacques Futrelle, and Jacques Futrelle, creator of The Thinking Machine—unusual in that the first installment, “Wraiths of the Storm,” which presents a remarkable, even an intangible, problem, is entirely the work of Mrs. Futrelle, and the second installment, “The House That Was,” is a legitimate attempt by Mr. Futrelle to solve the problem on the stated facts with the aid of The Thinking Machine.

PART I. WRAITHS OF THE STORM by Mrs. Jacques Futrelle

Professor Augustus S. F. X. VAN DUSEN—The Thinking Machine—readjusted his thick spectacles, dropped back into the depths of the huge chair, manuscript in hand, and read:

“Something less than three months ago I had a photograph taken. As I look upon it now I see a man of about thirty years, clean shaven, full faced, and vigorous with health; eyes which are clear and calm and placid, almost phlegmatic; a brow upon which sits the serenity of perfect physical and mental poise; a pleasant mouth with quizzical lines about the corners; a chin with determination and assurance in every line; hair brown and unmarked with age. I was red blooded then, lusty, buoyant with life and animalism, while now—

“Here is a hand mirror. It reflects back at me the gaunt, haggard face of a man who might be any age; furtive, shifting eyes in which lies perpetual, hideous fear; a brow ruffled over into spidery lines of suffering; a drooping, flabby mouth; a chin weak and utterly devoid of the assurances of manhood; hair dead white over the temples, with strange grey streaks through it. My blood is become water; youth is frozen into senility; all things worth while are gone.

“Fear, Webster says, is apprehension, dread, alarm—and it is more than that. It is a loss of the sense of proportion, an unseating of mental power, a phantasmagoria of perverted imagination; a vampire which saps hope and courage and common sense, and leaves a quivering shell of what was once a man. I know what fear is—no man better. I knew it that night in the forest, and I know it now, when I find myself sitting up in bed staring into nothingness with the echo of screams in my ears; I knew it when that grim, silent old man moved about me, and I know it now when without conscious effort my imagination conjures up those dead, glassy eyes; I knew it when vicious little tongues of flames lapped at me that night, and I know it now when at times I seem to feel their heat.

“I know what fear is! It is typified by a little ivory god which squats upon my mantel as I write, grinning hideously. Perhaps there is some explanation of the event of that night, some single hidden fact which, if revealed, would make it all clear; but seeking that explanation I have grown like this. When it will end, I don’t know—I can only wait and listen,

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