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By now, of course, he would have discovered that he could sleep, that she hadn’t done him any real harm; and when he appeared in court he would probably take the line that she was a lunatic. The only danger was that they might all really believe she was crazy.

On the morning of the sixth day Sir Gilbert came in with a grave face. “I’ve got some serious news for you. Dr. Hussman was found dead in bed this morning.”

Miss Featherstone looked at him. “You don’t mean I hit him as hard as all that?”

“No, I don’t. But he hasn’t slept for the past six days. Last night he took an overdose of drugs and ended it.”

But I can’t have killed him, Miss Featherstone was thinking; the machine was only on for a couple of minutes. That can’t have been long enough.

“You must tell all you know now,” Sir Gilbert went on. “It’s your only hope. The Assistant Commissioner will be here any minute. I’ve come to warn you.”

“I suppose you’ve told him what I said to you that first time?”

“Not yet,” Sir Gilbert answered. “But I may have to. So far it’s he who has been telling me things. Apparently Sybil wasn’t the only one. Two other girls died who were friends of Hussman’s. They’ve known that a long time, only they had no evidence to act on. Now they know about Sybil as well, and they know she was your niece. You must tell the whole truth.”

“But what am I supposed to have done?” asked Miss Featherstone.

“You’re supposed to have used some apparatus on him — the same apparatus he used on those girls.”

“I see. Have they found this apparatus in his consulting room?”

“No. Everything there is standard equipment.”

“Well then?”

“There’s something missing. It was on the floor when he called the police, but now it’s gone.”

“H’m! It seems a pity the police didn’t look at it while they had a chance. Am I supposed to have spirited it away?”

“No, Hussman did. It could have been used as evidence against him as well as you.”

“Had he confessed to its existence?”

“He never mentioned it.”

“Too bad!” Miss Featherstone observed dryly. “It looks as though the police haven’t got a case at all until they’ve found this apparatus.”

“D’you mean you’ll refuse to speak?”

“I can’t tell them things I don’t know.”

“But it’s your duty — in the interests of justice and science as well.”

“In my opinion,” Miss Featherstone said flatly, “justice has already been done. As for science, it is discoveries like this that are ruining mankind. The sooner some machines are lost, the better.”

That was the end of her talk with Sir Gilbert. When the Assistant Commissioner took his place, she disclaimed any knowledge of the alleged apparatus. She saw that once she spoke about it she’d be in for a charge — not of assault, but of murder. Accordingly she admitted she had assaulted Dr. Hussman because she knew he was the man who had led Sybil astray. She admitted that and nothing else, and three hours of questioning couldn’t shake her.

The Assistant Commissioner was studying her closely all this time. A grand woman, he was thinking, and putting up a grand show! Pity she had forgotten all about the diary he had in his pocket. It didn’t say enough, that diary; perhaps he could trap her into telling more.

But he really didn’t want to do that. Why stir up everything anew when it had already been so neatly settled? Was it his duty to go on demanding victims when the account had already been balanced? He decided it wasn’t. The machine had vanished, and without it he didn’t have a case.

The Assistant Commissioner stopped suddenly in front of Miss Featherstone. “So you’re quite sure you have nothing more to tell me?”

“Quite sure,” Miss Featherstone replied.

“Very well, then.” He pulled the diary from his pocket and handed it to her. “I was going to ask your permission to read this, but I don’t think it’s necessary now. Better burn it.” Miss Featherstone felt herself sink into the floor as he left the room. She had completely forgotten the diary, and she was certain he had read every word of it.

When the case finally came up Miss Featherstone was bound over to be on good behavior for twelve months. Sir Gilbert had testified as to her sanity, and the magistrate decided to be lenient.

Sir Gilbert saw her off when she took the train back to Devonshire.

“There’s just one more point about sleep,” she said.

“Oh! What is that?” Sir Gilbert sounded suspicious.

“Am I right in supposing that shock or anxiety might cause severe insomnia?”

“Perfectly right.”

“Then, just to take an instance, suppose someone was obsessed with the idea that he would never sleep again. Could that in itself be enough to keep him from sleeping?”

“Quite enough.”

“That’s all I want to know,” Miss Featherstone ended sweetly. “Goodbye, and thank you.”

Sir Gilbert stood gazing where the train had been, long after it was out of sight.

Deja Vu

by Mary Barrett{© 1972 by Mary Barrett.}

In her accompanying letter the author wrote: “My new story started out to be a women’s liberation ghost story and ended up having nothing to do with either phenomenon.

Now you have exactly the same head start your Editor had...

Mrs. Oliver was puzzled. She always liked to pay cash, now that she could, and she no longer kept in touch with anyone out of town. Therefore she received almost no mail. The package which the mailman handed her was a surprise, and, like many surprises, unwelcome.

“There must be a mistake,” Mrs. Oliver said uncertainly.

“No mistake, lady.” And the mailman walked away.

Mrs. Oliver inspected the parcel. It was wrapped in brown paper and sealed with tape. Her name and address were clearly spelled out in neat block letters. The stamps were canceled with the local postmark.

She put the parcel down on the dining table. For some reason she was reluctant to open it. At the edge of awareness, the sensation gnawed at her that she had experienced this same event before. Deja vu.

Don’t be a fool, Mrs. Oliver said sternly to herself. She hoped that she wasn’t getting eccentric, living alone as she had been since John died. Surely a package in the mail was nothing to be so upset about.

She pulled at the sealing tape. Under the paper was a plain white box bearing no identification. Its very impersonality somehow increased Mrs. Oliver’s uneasiness.

The box was lined with white tissue paper. Lying in the center, like a cherished treasure, was a little music box with a dainty lady dancer on top.

Mrs. Oliver gasped. She picked up the box. She wound the little key. The lady dancer turned slowly, gracefully, and the music box tinkled The Blue Danube.

It was impossible!

Mrs. Oliver sat down. Her hands were suddenly cold and her heart was beating fast.

It was the very first gift that John had sent to her. It came before they were married, when John was still courting her. The little Bavarian music box had arrived, then as now, in a parcel in the mail. Then, as now, it had been carefully wrapped and sealed. John was always a careful man.

She looked again at the address on the wrapping paper. It told her nothing. The printed words were impersonal, unrevealing.

Panic hit Mrs. Oliver like a sonic boom. She knew very well where she had last seen the music box — in Mr. Stover’s store, where she had taken it to be sold.

She stood up shakily and forced herself into action.