The Council of Justice · Chapter 12 (2/2)

Manfred agreed to see him and made him as welcome as the circumstances permitted. Fressini was a little impressed with his own importance, and had the professional manner strongly developed. He had a perky way of dropping his head on one side when he made observations, and reminded Manfred of a horse-dealer blessed with a little knowledge, but anxious to discover at all hazards the “points” that fitted in with his preconceived theories.

“I would like to measure your head,” he said.

“I’m afraid I cannot oblige you,” said Manfred coolly; “partly because I object to the annoyance of it, and partly because headmeasuring in anthropology is as much out of date as bloodletting in surgery.”

The director was on his dignity.

“I’m afraid I cannot take lessons in the science⁠—” he began.

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Manfred, “and you’d be a greater man if you did. As it is Antonio de Costa and Felix Hedeman are both beating you on your own ground⁠—that monograph of yours on Cerebral Dynamics was awful nonsense.”

Whereupon Fressini went very red and spluttered and left the cell, afterwards in his indiscretion granting an interview to an evening newspaper, in the course of which he described Manfred as a typical homicide with those peculiarities of parietal development, that are invariably associated with cold-blooded murderers. For publishing what constituted a gross contempt of court, the newspaper was heavily fined, and at the instance of the British Government, Fressini was reprimanded, and eventually superseded by that very De Costa of whom Manfred spoke.

All these happenings formed the comedy of the long wait, and as to the tragedy, there was none.

A week before the trial Manfred, in the course of conversation, expressed a desire for a further supply of books.

“What do you want?” asked the governor, and prepared to take a note.

“Oh, anything,” said Manfred lazily⁠—“travel, biography, science, sport⁠—anything new that’s going.”

“I’ll get you a list,” said the governor, who was not a booky man. “The only travel books I know are those two new things, Three Months in Morocco and Through the Ituri Forest. One of them’s by a new man, Theodore Max⁠—do you know him?”

Manfred shook his head.

“But I’ll try them,” he said.

“Isn’t it about time you started to prepare your defence?” the governor asked gruffly.

“I have no defence to offer,” said Manfred, “therefore no defence to prepare.”

The governor seemed vexed.

“Isn’t life sufficiently sweet to you⁠—to urge you to make an effort to save it?” he asked roughly, “or are you going to give it up without a struggle?”

“I shall escape,” said Manfred again; “aren’t you tired of hearing me tell you why I make no effort to save myself?”

“When the newspapers start the ‘mad’ theory again,” said the exasperated prison official, “I shall feel most inclined to break the regulations and write a letter in support of the speculation.”

“Do,” said Manfred cheerfully, “and tell them that I run round my cell on all fours biting visitors’ legs.”

The next day the books arrived. The mysteries of the Ituri Forest remained mysteries, but Three Months in Morocco (big print, wide margins, 12s. 6d.) he read with avidity from cover to cover, notwithstanding the fact that the reviewers to a man condemned it as being the dullest book of the season. Which was an unkindly reflection upon the literary merits of its author, Leon Gonsalez, who had worked early and late to prepare the book for the press, writing far into the night, whilst Poiccart, sitting at the other side of the table, corrected the damp proofs as they came from the printer.