Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage

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The Glass Cage

An Unconventional Detective Story

by Colin Wilson

a.b.e-book v3.0 / Notes at EOF

Back Cover:

Nine Violent Deaths. . .

Nine Quotes From Blake. . .

draw Damon Reade into a strange and baffling mystery that interrupts his self-imposed isolation and

plunges him into a compelling clairvoyant connection with a maniacal killer!

"Enraged and stifled with torment

He threw his right arm to the North

And his left arm to the South."

Just these words from Blake. No sign of a body, but the tide was still running high. A few hours

later they found parts of a body in a sack near Vauxhall Bridge.

"Literate and enthralling. . . Far beyond the conventional mystery." -- The Hollywood Reporter

This low-priced Bantam Book

has been completely reset in a type face

designed for easy reading, and was printed

from new plates. It contains the complete

text of the original hard-cover edition.

NOT ONE WORD HAS BEEN OMITTED.

THE GLASS CAGE

A Bantam Book / published by arrangement with

Random House, Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Published in New York by Random House, Inc., and

in London, England by Arthur Barker Limited.

Random House edition published May 1967

Bantam edition published July 1973

Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by

mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Random House, Inc.,

203 East 30th Street, New York, N.Y. 10022

Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, Inc., a National

General company. Its trade-mark, consisting of the words "Bantam

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Bantam Books, Inc., 666 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10019.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For

Jonathan and Sue Guinness

and to the memory of

John Cowper Powys

PART I

It had been bright and clear as he left Keswick; but as he crossed the Styhead Pass two hours

later, the air smelled of rain. Five miles away, the cold expanse of Wastwater looked like a sheet of

metal. The rain clouds had covered the top of Scafell, but the snowline still showed below them. He sat

down on a granite boulder, allowing the paratroop rucksack to rest against the slope of the hill behind it.

The skin of his back exhaled warm moisture. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned, feeling

the pleasant ripple of energy along the shoulder muscles. If it had not been for the threat of rain, he would

have removed the rucksack and slept for half an hour, lulled by the sound of the wind and the cries of

sheep on the side of Green Gable. In this place, looking north toward Skiddaw and south to the lowlands

and the Irish sea, he always experienced an active sense of the benevolence of nature, a desire to

become a rock pushing its shoulders into the hills.

The first drops of rain blew against his face. He stood up reluctantly and readjusted the pack. It

contained groceries and a heavy volume called A Treatise on Cosmic Fire, bought in Keswick for one

and sixpence.

A mile above Wasdale Head, he struck off the footpath over the slopes of Lingmell, his head

now bowed into the fine rain. He crossed a stream, removing his shoes and socks and walking with care

on the sharp stones. The water was icy; although it was only six inches deep in the middle, he felt the pain

biting into the calves of his legs, making him swear aloud. Sitting on the opposite bank and pulling on his

shoes, he became aware of someone watching him from a few feet away. A youth with a dark gypsy's

face was grinning at him; the smile was as mirthless as the baring of a dog's fangs.

"Morning, Jeff."

The youth said, "Cold?"

"Frozen. I must put the stones back sometime."

There had been stepping stones across the stream, but it became a torrent every winter and

carried them away.

He stood up, asking, "How's the wife?"

"She's dead. Last night."

"Oh? I'm sorry."

The youth shrugged. He evidently felt that no further explanation was necessary. Pointing to the

stream, he said, "Give me a call. I'll help you."

"Thank you."

As he walked on across the hill, the youth called, "Someone after you."

He turned. "Where?"

"In the post office an hour ago."

"Who was that?"

The youth shrugged and turned away, but when he was a hundred yards off, he called something

else. Most of the words were carried away by the wind and the noise of the stream, but the last word

sounded like "policeman."

Half a mile below his own cottage, a man's voice called, "Mr. Reade." It was Jeff's father. He

came out from behind the stone wall. There was nothing in the field beyond, so he must have been

waiting. He said without preliminaries, "Your goat ate our beans."

"I'm sorry. I tied her in the shed."

The dark face was as loutish as his son's, but more cunning. The left eye had a cast that gave his

smile a disquieting air of malice. He stood there, grinning.

Reade said finally, "Where is she?"

"Tied in my shed."

"Did she do much damage?"

"Can't tell yet. They're all shoots. Few bobs' worth I reckon."

He felt in his pocket, took out a leather purse, and removed half a crown. He asked, "Will that

cover it?"

"Reckon so." The hard hand closed over the money and pocketed it unceremoniously.

Reade did not miss the glint of humor in the eyes. He said, "I'm sorry to hear your

daughter-in-law died."

The man shrugged. "Her own fault. She took 'em of her own free will." He turned away, then

added over his shoulder, "I'll bring the goat over. Reckon she need milkin'."

"Thank you."

The cottage felt cold. He poked out the ashes from under the logs and turned the charred sides

upward. Then he poured paraffin on the logs and ignited it. The blaze was welcome. Afterward he went

to look at the rope in the open shed outside. He half expected to find that it had been cut through, but the

frayed ends showed that it had been gnawed. As he stood looking at it, he heard the goat's bleat.

Bowden came in through the gate, leading her by a length of electrical wire tied to her collar. Without

speaking, he released her, waved his hand, and went out the gate again.

Reade took her into the cottage to milk her; she stood quietly near the fire, the steam rising from

her flanks, as he squeezed the milk into a basin. As he milked, she relieved her bowels onto the sheet of

brown paper that he had spread behind her for that purpose. When he had finished, he set down the

bowl on the table and carefully folded the paper, then took it out to the sanitary pit at the end of the

garden. When he came back, the goat was sleeping on the coconut matting in front of the fire.

For the next half hour he busied himself preparing vegetables for a beef stew that would last for a

week. The meat had been cooked days before. Outside, the noise of the wind was audible above the

sound of the stream that ran down the rock face twenty feet from the cottage. This meant that it would

probably rain for the rest of the day. (In winter it would have meant a storm, probably hail or snow; but

then it had to contend with the thunder of a waterfall from November until March.) He was so intent on

slicing the carrots and onions that he failed to hear the knocks on the door. The wind that sucked smoke

across the room made him turn. The dark-coated man who stood in the doorway called, "Anyone home?

May I come in?"

"Please do." He hastened across to close the door.

"Mr. Damon Reade?"

"Yes. Do sit down. Take your coat off. Are you wet?"

Observing the man's look of surprise as the goat heaved herself to her feet, he said, "Come on,

Judy, outside. We've got a visitor."

The man said, "I don't mind."

The goat went reluctantly outside, and then cantered through the rain to the open shed.

"No, but I'm afraid she stinks when she's wet. I don't notice it, but other people do. Do you mind

if I go on making this stew? It's nearly ready."

"Not at all. Please do, sir."

"I shan't be long. I just want to get some water."

He picked up a bucket and took the oilskin hat from beside the door as he went out. The rain

was now heavy. He held the bucket under the waterfall, allowed it to fill to the brim, then carried it

carefully back to the house without losing any water. The man watched this performance with interest.

"I suppose the water's quite all right for drinking?"

"Oh, perfectly. It sometimes gets a little muddy in winter, but it's all right if you let it settle for half

an hour. There's nothing up there but rock."

He gestured vaguely in the direction of Scafell Pike. The man watched him as he poured the

chopped vegetables and meat into the iron cooking pot, then hung it on the iron spike that projected from

the back of the fire.

Reade said conversationally, "I could easily bring the water into the house if I wanted to. But it

doesn't seem worth the trouble -- except sometimes in winter when it rains for a week on end. There is a

pipe that carries water to the boiler in the bathroom. . ." He threw another log on the fire, then sat down

in the rocking chair. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"That's a nice idea, sir."

He leaned forward and moved the heavy black kettle across the stones until the fire was

underneath it. The water began to simmer immediately.

"You came earlier today?"

"Two hours ago. Your neighbor said he thought you'd be back later. Incidentally, he was in

here." "Inside? When you came?"

"No. But I saw him come out of your front door. I thought he was you at first."

Reade shrugged. "I suppose he was taking a look around. There's nothing worth stealing."

"Don't you lock up when you go out?"

"What's the point? They could easily force a window."

The man looked puzzled. "That's not very satisfactory. I've come across that character before.

I've seen him in court. I'd say he's a regular villain."

"He is," Reade said. "But he's not a bad sort all the same. There's more stupidity than villainy."

"Mind if I smoke? Thanks."

Reade had time to examine his face as he stuffed the pipe. He must have been about thirty-five --

Reade's own age -- with fair hair and blue eyes. At first sight he looked younger, but a closer look

showed the lines of tiredness and worry.

He looked up, smiling. "I ought to introduce myself. My name's Lund. Detective sergeant."

"From Kendal?"

"Carlisle."

The kettle was boiling. As Reade spooned tea into the teapot, he said, "I'm sorry I brought you

back twice. I've been in Keswick."

"Good thing you got back before the rain."

"Yes. It's a nasty walk in the rain."

"Do you always walk?"

"It's the only way from here. It's only fifteen miles on foot. It's be fifty by road."

Lund took a long pull at the pipe and visibly relaxed. He asked, "You like living here?"

"On the whole, yes. It's sometimes inconvenient in the winter -- it's difficult to get coal or wood

out here, and I sometimes get snowed in."

Lund said, grinning, "Not to mention your neighbors."

"Oh, Bowden's all right. You see, the trouble with that family is that they all look so awful, so

everyone distrusts them. They're quite nice really."

Lund said with gentle mockery, "Quite honest, in fact."

"Oh, no. They're not honest. Why should they be? It's not their nature. They're rather like human

foxes. But there's not much malice in them -- if they like you."

He was pouring the tea into two large earthenware mugs, both labeled A Present from

Windermere.

Lund said, "I gather they didn't like their daughter-in-law?"

Reade handed him the tea. "I don't think they disliked her. The son Jeff is lazy. He tends to stay

in bed all day long. So the girl threatened to take a whole bottle of sleeping tablets."

"And he let her do it. And then let her crawl into his bed. . ."

"Yes. But you don't understand how stupid these people are. He could have saved her if he'd

forced her to make herself sick -- in fact, I think she tried to make herself sick later. But he didn't really

believe anything would happen."

Lund said with sharp disgust, "Until she had convulsions. And even then he didn't get out of bed."

His voice took on a tone of amazed disbelief. He said, coldly and violently, "He should be on a murder

charge."Reade said, "I'm not trying to defend them. But you don't understand. You put yourself in their

place, and that's a mistake. You probably imagine how you'd react if your own wife took poison. These

people have no values; life is meaningless to them. They collect their dole money every week -- I think

it's national assistance now -- and then do nothing for a week. At least, Jeff doesn't. He's completely

passive. They're really like something out of a Russian novel. I don't think he wanted his wife to die."

Lund said, "That's what they're saying in the village."

"They would. But they all hate the Bowdens. Why should Jeff have wanted her to die? He

doesn't really want anything -- except perhaps to start to live. Perhaps he'd got rather bored with her.

She wanted him to move to Carlisle and get a job on a building site. But he didn't really mind that. He just

didn't care."

He could see that Lund was trying to repress his irritation, so he said, "Let's change the subject.

That is, unless that's what you want to discuss."

Lund seized the cue. "No, sir, it isn't."

He smiled, and Reade saw that the irritation was only superficial. He thought, with a touch of

sadness: He doesn't really care either. For him it's not a tragedy, only a crime. He said, responding to the

smile, "I must confess that I haven't the remotest idea of what could bring a detective inspector out from

Lancaster to see me."

"Detective sergeant. No, I expect you couldn't guess. S'matter of fact, it's only a very routine

inquiry." He smiled apologetically. "Otherwise they wouldn't have sent me."

"Won't you take your coat off?"

"Thank you. I wouldn't mind. It's getting hot in here." He threw his coat into the old armchair in

the corner of the room, then sat down again. The stew was bubbling by now and sending up a pleasant

smell of onion and beef.

"Well, then, sir, to come to the point. You've read about these Thames murders?"

"No."

"No?"

"You see, I seldom read a newspaper. And although I've got a portable radio set, I don't think

I've listened to it for a year."

Lund looked as if he wanted to scratch his head with the stem of his pipe, but contented himself

with rubbing his chin.

"Can't say I blame you. And of course you've no television out here. Hmm, so we'll have to start

from scratch." He fumbled in his pocket, then went over to the overcoat and took out a notebook.

"Would you like me to light a lamp?"

"No, sir. It's all right. I'll stand by the window." He cleared his throat. "Right. There have been

nine murders so far. The first on February the tenth last year -- fourteen months ago. They're all the work

of a madman."

Reade asked, "How can you know that? Has he been caught?"

"Unfortunately, no. But no one but a madman would chop up the bodies the way he does."

Reade interrupted mildly. "My knowledge of criminal matters is not extensive, but I believe a

great many sane murderers have dismembered their victims."

"I know, sir. There was one down at Lancaster -- Ruxton. But he only killed two women -- his

wife and the maid. But can you think of anybody who went on doing it -- for fun? Nine of them?"

"No. I see your point."

Lund smiled grimly, then went back to the notebook. "Anyway, let me come to the point. At first

these murders didn't get a lot of attention, because the complete bodies weren't recovered. In the first

case they only found an arm and a leg. Both on the mud below Wapping. Might've been medical students

having a lark. But in August he left the complete body -- in several pieces -- all piled up outside a factory

wall in Salamanca Place -- a little street that runs off the Albert Embankment. And on a wall, about ten

yards away from the body, somebody had chalked up some words."

"And they were?"

Lund read from his notebook:

"Till his brain in a rock and his heart

In a fleshly slough formed four rivers

Obscuring the immense orb of fire."

Reade had leaped to his feet and exclaimed, "Good God!"

Lund lowered the notebook, smiling. He said, "I thought that might surprise you."

"My God! My God! Now I understand. Now I see why you came to me. But wait. . . How do

you know it was the murderer? May I see?"

In agitation he snatched the notebook from Lund's hands and stared at the words; then, as his

eyes went down the page, he said, "God, there's more. . ."

"If you'll allow me, sir."

Lund took the notebook. He was obviously gratified by the effect he had produced but annoyed

about the snatching of the notebook.

Reade was too excited to care. He said, "Go on, please."

Lund said stiffly, "Well, as you've already seen, there was more to come. About a week later a

policeman on the river patrol saw some lines written on the wall under Chelsea Bridge. He'd seen the

writing in Salamanca Place and he thought there was a similarity. To begin with, it was very thick writing.

I mean, it wasn't written with an ordinary stick of chalk, but a block of it. It said:

Enraged and stifled with torment

He threw his right arm to the North

And his left arm to the South.

There was no sign of a body, but it was high tide. He thought that perhaps there'd been something on the

mud under the bridge. And a few hours later they found parts of a body in a sack near Vauxhall Bridge."

"And did anyone realize that it was Blake?"

"No, sir. I'm afraid not. As a matter of fact, no one really connected the things together."

"But somebody must have wondered what it all meant?"

"They did, sir." There was perceptible irony in Lund's voice. "They thought the bit about the ball

of fire was a reference to the hydrogen bomb. Which is reasonable, if you come to look at it. And then

the chalk -- it's the kind that people use for chalking up political slogans. So they got the idea it was

probably some kind of political crank -- some ban-the-bomber or something."

"But what about the second quotation -- about flinging one arm to the North and the other to the

South?"Lund shrugged. "Same thing. That's what you'd expect an exploding bomb to do, wouldn't you?

Anyway, the next one made them think they were still on the right lines."

"The next one? There was another?"

"Last December. This time in Pinchin Street, off Cable Street. That's the East End --

Whitechapel area. The body was in eight pieces, same as before -- behind a hoarding under the railway

arches. This time he'd written up:

Then the inhabitants of those cities

Felt their nerves change into marrow

And the hardening bones began

In swift. . .

"That's all."

Reade finished:

"In swift diseases and torments

In shootings and throbbings and grindings

Through all the coasts; till, weakened,

The senses inward rushed, shrinking

Beneath the dark net of infection."

Lund said, "I expect you're right, sir. Anyway, he was obviously interrupted that time, and broke

off. Then a woman came forward and said she'd seen a man come out from behind the fence at five

o'clock that morning. . ."

Reade interrupted. "But at five o'clock in December it would be pitch black."

"Quite. But there was a street lamp. She couldn't give any description of him except that he was

very tall. And she thought he got into a car."

"Didn't she look behind the fence?"

"No. Why should she? She probably thought he'd been there for natural purposes."

"Of course. And what happened when the quotation appeared in the newspapers?"

"It didn't. The inspector in charge of the case had it rubbed off -- after having it photographed, of

course. You see, he thought all this stuff about nerves changing into marrow still pointed to somebody in

CND -- the nuclear disarmers. But he didn't want the press to get hold of that angle, for obvious

reasons."

"Why?"

Lund said wearily, "I wouldn't be sure. Perhaps they thought people might start lynching the

nuclear disarmers. I don't know. Anyway, it was washed off."

Reade said, smiling with cheerful malice, "So they still didn't discover it was Blake?"

"Oh yes, eventually. We're not as stupid as all that."

"And how did you find out, as a matter of curiosity?"

"Through a professor at London University -- Dr. Fairclough. He knew it must be Blake, and

finally dug out the quotations. Then he told us about you."

"I see. You have more quotations you want me to identify?"

"No, sir, it's not that. I told you, this was just a routine check. You see, we thought that a man

like this must be pretty well educated. But at the same time a bit dotty, to say the least. Now Dr.

Fairclough says that you're recognized as the leading Blake scholar in England."

Reade said, "That's kind of him."

"And Dr. Fairclough says that people like you do a lot of corresponding with other people who

are interested in Blake."

Reade stood up suddenly. He said, "Oh God. Now I understand. . ."

"Understand what, sir?"

"I know, I know. I know what you're going to suggest. And if I kept files of all my letters, you'd

be right. . ."

Lund's disappointment was obvious. He said, "You mean you don't keep files?"

Reade felt stupid and apologetic; he felt he had somehow to make amends to this man who had

been brought so far on a wild goose chase. He walked across the room, saying nervously,

"Unfortunately, no. At least, not all of them. But you see, I'm lazy. I correspond periodically with a lot of

other Blake scholars -- Northrop Frye, Foster Damon, Kathleen Raine -- and of course I keep their

letters. But as Dr. Fairclough rightly surmised, I also get letters from cranks. You see, Blake is like the

Bible -- it's a happy hunting ground for all kinds of maniacs and fanatics. It's almost as popular as the

Book of Revelations with the end-of-the-worlders."

Lund said gloomily, "That's why we thought you could help."

"Quite. But what would be the point in keeping these letters, or replying to them? I simply throw

them onto the fire."

"Hmm. You don't have any of them?"

"I don't think so. At least I suppose I may have one or two that struck me as interesting or

amusing. I really don't know."

Lund said with scarcely any hope, "Could you check?"

"By all means. I'll check now. Let me just take that stew off before it burns. Would you like to

join me in some, by the way?"

Lund did not reply, and Reade became aware of the depths of his depression. As he used a

wooden pole to lift the stewpot off the fire, he was thinking: It's a pity, but I'm not to blame. After all, he

was taking an absurdly long shot. That I file all my crank letters. That among them, there is one from a

homicidal maniac. . . He placed the pot on an asbestos mat beside the fire. He said, "I shan't be a

moment."

"Would you mind if I came too?"

"Not at all. After you."

After the downstairs room, the upper part of the house felt damp and cold. The stairway was

completely black. Reade pressed the catch of his study door, and Lund went in first. This was the largest

room in the house, and it had an impressive view over Wastwater toward Greendale and the Copeland

Forest. At the moment the lake was almost invisible in the rain, and the harshness and bareness of the

hills were accentuated. The room had the faintly acrid and charred smell of a paraffin fire that has been

allowed to burn itself out.

The light was poor. Reade lit a tall Aladdin lamp on a chest of drawers, and then opened the top

drawer. As Lund waited behind his shoulder, he said apologetically, "I'm afraid it might be a long search.

You see, I don't have a secretary and I don't bother much with my correspondence. Now my Blake files

-- they're over there in that cabinet -- are in much better order. I'm doing a Blake concordance, you see,

and a line-by-line commentary -- the most thorough commentary that has ever been done."

He was talking to cover his embarrassment at the chaos of letters in the drawer. They were piled

on top of one another with no more order than the litter in a paper chase. It seemed hopeless to try to

find anything in the confusion.

Lund asked accusingly, "Is that the lot?"

"Er. . . no. There are others. . ." He gestured vaguely at the other drawers.

Lund said glumly, "Oh gawd."

"It's. . . er. . . rather difficult when you have a natural dislike of correspondence, as I do."

Lund said, pointing, "Isn't that one unopened?"

"Is it? Yes, perhaps it is. You see, I often feel I just can't be bothered. . . particularly when

they're obviously letters from strangers."

He was surprised that Lund was looking happier.

"Would you mind if I opened it?"

"Not at all. Do."

Lund took the letter over to the window and tore it open. Reade was glad to have him on the

other side of the room. He riffled hastily through the other letters in the drawer, but found nothing that

could be described as a crank letter. When he looked around, Lund was looking puzzled and

disappointed. He held out the letter.

"Nothing much there. Just somebody who wants to know what authority you have for some date

you give."

Reade said, smiling, "You see why I don't bother to open some of my letters?"

"Yes, I'm afraid I do. But are there any others you haven't opened?"

"I think so. I occasionally keep them in here."

He pulled open the bottom drawer and was embarrassed to discover that it seemed to be stuffed

to the top with unopened envelopes.

"All of these?" Lund said incredulously.

"It would appear so, I'm afraid."

Lund said, smiling, "Don't apologize. We might have something here. Would you mind very much

if we took these all downstairs and went through them?"

Reade said hopefully, "Perhaps you'd like to take them away with you?"

"But of course! If you wouldn't object."

"Not at all. You'd be doing me a favor!"

"Splendid!" Lund sounded more cheerful than at any time since his arrival. "Let's just take the

drawer down." At the door, he turned. "And if you don't mind, I'll accept your kind offer of some of that

stew." "Of course. With pleasure."

Ten minutes later, as they sat on either side of the kitchen table and Reade spread chunks of new

bread with unsalted butter, Lund said, "You know, it's amazing how damned hungry you can get without

realizing it. I'd forgotten that I hadn't eaten since breakfast." He sipped a mouthful of the stew cautiously;

it was extremely hot. He said, "Ah, that's really excellent." He laid down his spoon for a moment, taking a

slice of bread. "You know, I'd have thought a man like you would be a vegetarian."

Reade acknowledged the point, smiling wryly. "I should be. But I'm such a bad cook, and I think

I'd soon get bored with vegetable stew."

Lund dropped all pretense of interest in the conversation, and ate voraciously for ten minutes.

When Reade offered a second helping, he nodded without ceasing to chew. Then he said, by way of

apology, "Marvelous stew. . ."

"Would you like a glass of beer with it? My own home brew?"

"That's kind of you. I think I would."

When Reade opened the heavy stone jars, the kitchen filled with the strong smell of fermented

yeast. Lund said, chuckling, "Reminds me of the brewery we used to live next door to when I was a

kid." He tasted the heavy golden-looking liquid, and said, "That's good, but I don't think I'd better take

much of it."

"You're right. Two glasses would put you to sleep."

"As strong as that!" He drank half the glass thirstily, then set it down. "Don't mind my asking, Mr.

Reade, but were you ever married?"

"I'm afraid not. Are you?"

"Oh yes. And three kids, the eldest eleven." He took up his spoon again and waved it

expansively; his manner had now lost all the professional quality and become friendly and open. "You'll

excuse me saying so, but I'd have thought a wife was just what you need here. After all, you're a scholar.

You shouldn't be bothered with domestic affairs."

Reade felt himself blushing, but was glad that he had his back to the window. "That's true, I'm not

a misogynist. But I can't imagine any woman wanting to come and live in this place. As you remarked

earlier, it's rather bleak and remote."

"Even so. . ." Lund grinned cheerfully; anyone less inexperienced than Reade might have guessed

him to be slightly drunk. "Even so, if you don't mind me saying so, you strike me as the marrying kind.

And it's amazing what women'll do. Live anywhere. . ."

He turned his attention back to the second bowl of stew, and in five minutes had emptied it and

was cleaning up the remains of the gravy with bread.

Reade decided to anticipate more personal questions by changing the subject. "Tell me,

Detective Sergeant, why have they sent you here? Have you any connection with the case?"

Lund shook his head, chewing, then swallowed. "No, but it's not worth their while to send a man

all the way from London to see you, is it?"

Reade nodded.

Lund finished his beer in one swallow, and said, "You know, if you don't mind, I'll risk another

drop of that stuff."

Reade smiled, pouring it out, concealing his impatience to be alone. The rain was inaudible, but

he could see it running down the window behind Lund's head.

Lund seemed to read his thoughts; he said, "If this rain'll let up for a minute, I'll make a dash for it.

But it's quite a walk to the village."

"I'm afraid it is. But don't worry, you're not in my way."

"Kind of you. Don't you want to get some work done?"

"I might -- later."

"Do you write every day, or just when you feel like it?"

"Most days. . . it depends."

Lund turned his chair sideways, to face the fire, and stretched out his legs. He was obviously

comfortable and talkative, and Reade began to regret producing the beer. He also knew what the next

question would be.

"Do you write for a set number of hours every day, or do you have to wait for inspiration?"

He said evasively, "I usually work best in the morning."

"Mind if I smoke? I'm not supposed to on duty, of course, but I don't suppose it matters." As he

stuffed the pipe, he said, "Yes, I envy you this kind of life -- I sometimes dream about retiring to the

country -- quiet cottage somewhere, little garden, perhaps a boat to do a bit of fishing. . ." He paused to

light the pipe, sucking slowly until the flame reached his fingertips. "Still, I'm not sure I wouldn't get bored

with it." Reade did not reply. There was nothing he could say. It would be impolite to answer: Of course

you would. You obviously have nothing in your head. Besides, he felt no dislike of the pleasant-faced,

pipe-smoking man, only total indifference.

Lund leaned forward and picked up one of the letters from the drawer. He tore it open with his

thumb and glanced at the single, typewritten sheet.

"Now this is more interesting. Somebody who doesn't like you at all." He read aloud: " 'It is time

somebody exploded your nasty, vicious little conspiracies. A swine like you has no right to pretend to

understand Blake. You are obviously corrupt through and through. Blake was a poet, a man of the spirit.

. .' It's signed Alison Waite. Do you know her?"

"It's a man, actually. A strange crank who wrote a book trying to prove that Blake was a witch. I

reviewed it in an academic journal."

"Has he threatened you before?"

"Several times. I know his handwriting now, so I don't open the letters."

"Mmm. He might be worth checking up on. I can see we're going to have an interesting time

looking through those." He drank half the glass of beer in a long draught, then set it down again. "There's

a certain interest in being in the police force sometimes. I sometimes think I'd miss it if I retired. People

interest me, you know. Most of 'em have got something interesting about 'em if only you look for it. For

example, I was talking with an old boy the other day, and it turned out that his father had been on that

last expedition with Scott of the Antarctic."

Reade said, "I see your point."

Lund suspected disagreement. He said, "But then, you don't really get a chance to judge, do

you? I mean, living in this place? You don't see many people. Don't you ever get fed up with doing the

same thing day after day -- no offense meant?"

"The same thing?"

"Yes, you know, writing about Blake? If you'll excuse me saying so, it's not the kind of thing I'd

enjoy. Mind, I enjoy reading, I read a lot of stuff. Have you read Neville Shute? There's a lot in him."

Reade shook his head, and the silence was heavy for a moment.

Lund had flushed slightly. He said, "You won't think I'm trying to be offensive?"

"Not at all."

"But you know. . . writing about somebody else's books all the time. Or perhaps I'm wrong?

Perhaps there's more to it than that?"

His sincerity was obvious, so it was impossible to be offended. Reade was struck with an idea;

he would claim that he had to walk to the village to do some shopping, and they could walk down

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TheGlassCageAnUnconventionalDetectiveStorybyColinWilsona.b.e-bookv3.0/NotesatEOFBackCover:NineViolentDeaths...NineQuotesFromBlake...drawDamonReadeintoastrangeandbafflingmysterythatinterruptshisself-imposedisolationandplungeshimintoacompellingclairvoyantconnectionwithamaniacalkiller!"Enragedandstifle...

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Colin Wilson - The Glass Cage

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