Thou Shell of Death Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘It’s a dirty game, though,’ he went on. ‘Bomb or be bombed, gas or be gassed—the law of the jungle dressed up to look respectable in that damned hypocritical word “security”. Man’s character isn’t grown-up enough to be trusted with the inventions of his brain. The Church in the Middle Ages wasn’t being reactionary when it tried to suppress scientific discovery—no more than a father is when he takes a box of matches out of his baby’s hand. Ah, I’m not codding myself. I used to enjoy dogfighting up there. I remember singing once at the top of me voice when I sent one poor devil spinning down in flames.’ His eyes took on a remoter abstraction. ‘But I had reason. I had reason. I’m too deep in it all now.’ He seemed to gather himself together and shrink, throwing a glance of peculiar intensity at Nigel, as though to measure his understanding.
    ‘Too deep?’ Nigel asked slowly.
    ‘Well, amn’t I? Talking what they call pacifism, and working out plans for bigger and better wars,’ O’Brien answered bitterly. ‘I’d like to see every airplane in the world scrapped, and to hell with “progress”. But I’m too old, too fixed in me habits to ahlter annything but the construction of carburettors. It’s your generation that’s got to change men’s minds and achieve real security—and I wish yez luck with it; yez’ll need it. Mine knows all about the horrors of war; but it’s too tired to do annything about ut. It wants to die, I dare say—y’know more than I do about Freud’s death-will; but I can feel ut in me bones. You’re young enough to want to live, and it’s your lot that’s got to see they have the chance to live, even if it means killing off us old ones in the process.’
    O’Brien spoke passionately, but Nigel felt that his passionate words concealed something quite different, something personal and more deeply rankling. There was a long silence. Then Nigel said:
    ‘Are there any other possible motives for someone wanting to kill you?’
    O’Brien’s gaze, which had been abstracted, now suddenly sharpened. Nigel thought of the eyes of a boxer warily covering himself up against an imminent blow.
    ‘Enough and to spare,’ O’Brien said, ‘but I can’t give you anything definite. I’ve knocked about and made enemies. I expect me bad deeds’ll come home to roost some day. I’ve killed men, and I’ve made love to women—and ye can’t do that without laying up a store of trouble for y’self. But I couldn’t give ye a list of them even if I wanted to.’
    ‘The tone of your anonymous letter-writer sounds to me like a personal grudge. You wouldn’t write like that to a person if you were going to kill him for his money or to get hold of some plans.’
    ‘Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t it be the most effective way of disguising your real motive?’ said O’Brien.
    ‘Um. There’s something in that. Tell me about the other guests.’
    ‘I’ll tell ye a little. I want ye to study them yourself, without prejudice. There’s Georgia Cavendish, the explorer; I picked her up out of a nasty hole in Africa once, and we chummed up. She’s a remarkable woman, and she lives up to her reputation, as you’ll see. Her brother, Edward Cavendish, something in the city, looks like a churchwarden—the maiden lady’s prayer—but I fancy he might have been a bit of a boy in his young days. Then there’s a fellow called Knott-Sloman; quite a panjandrum in the war; runs a club now. Philip Starling—’
    ‘What? The don at All Saints’?’ interrupted Nigel excitedly.
    ‘That’s him. D’ye know um?’
    ‘Do I not? He was one of the instructors of my youth. And about the only one who ever nearly reconciled me to Greek accents. He’s a grand little man. That’s one I can strike off the list of suspects.’
    ‘Most unprofessional,’ grinned O’Brien. ‘Well, that’s about all. No, it isn’t. I was forgetting. Lucilla Thrale, a professional peach. Ye’ll have to mind