The Black Lizard Big Book of Black Mask Stories

To say that I was puzzled to account for this latest eccentricity on the part of the wealthy doctor would be to put it mildly; but I was under sufficient obligations to him to make me feel anxious to comply with his request. A man much my senior, he had been responsible for putting me through law school, and had seen me started in the practice which was now bringing me in a very comfortable income. Each year he extended me an invitation to visit his Santa Delbara home for a week or two, and I eagerly looked forward to these trips.

Dr. Potter lived alone, except for his servants, in a magnificent house built on the hills nearly a mile from the city of Santa Delbara. He had long since retired from general practice, and devoted his attention to investigations along the line of scientific research. Of great wealth, and a recluse by nature, he was free to devote his entire time to experiments which were not only highly original, but which, rumor had it, were sometimes a trifle weird in their nature.

In due course I arrived at Santa Delbara, and was met at the train by the Doctor’s chauffeur, John Dawley, a young man whom I had met on my previous visits.

I had never fully approved of Dawley. He had seemed a trifle “fresh,” and I greeted him with what I was convinced was formal dignity. It took more than a formal greeting to repress the young scamp, and he addressed me with that free and easy manner which was so distasteful.

“H’llo Guv’ner. See you’re back with us again. The Boss’ll be glad to see you, but it’ll make a lot more work for me with no extra pay. That is, unless the tips is good. Ha, ha! Nothin’ like askin’ for what a feller wants these days.”

I made some reply, and, ignoring the hint, entered the car. I never could understand why Dr. Potter, with his quiet refinement, keen mind and unfailing courtesy, permitted a man like John Dawley to remain in his employ. I remembered hearing some gossip about his being the relative of Dr. Potter’s dead brother. Rumor said he was an illegitimate son of the dead brother, who had requested Dr. Potter to look after the boy.

Although I had eagerly looked forward to meeting my friend again, yet it was with grave misgivings that I approached the large, white mansion perched on the hill. Intuition told me Dr. Potter had something more in mind than the mere selection of a skeleton for his den, when he had arranged for the purchase of the body of his dead enemy.

I was met at the door by the Doctor’s confidential manservant, “Kimi.” I believe that originally Kimi’s name was Kukui Shinahara, but the Doctor had always referred to him as “Kimi” (meaning “you” in the Japanese language), and “Kimi” he had become.

There is perhaps nothing more flattering on earth than the smile of a Japanese friend, it is so expansive and enthusiastic. Even when one doubts the absolute sincerity behind it, it is flattering.

In the case of Kimi I really numbered him as a friend following the custom of the Doctor, who treated Kimi with every consideration, and more as a friend than a servant. He had been with the Doctor for years, a trusted and loyal employee. He knew all of the Doctor’s friends, and the manner in which he greeted them was a pretty good indication of just where they stood in the favor of his employer.

It was partly a knowledge of this custom on the part of the grinning servant which made me feel such pleasure at the sincerity of his greeting and the expansive smile with which he greeted me. He told me the “master” was awaiting me in the study, and I lost no time in following him to that portion of the house.

Dr. Potter really was glad to see me; of that I am positive, and subsequent developments proved it; but, to one who did not know his peculiar character, it would have been hard to believe, from anything in his greeting, that he had not seen me for nearly a year, or that he cared anything about me. His greeting was as casual and matter-of-fact as though I had just returned from an hour’s absence.

Lest I give you a wrong impression of my friend, I must mention something of his wonderful control of his emotions, and his philosophy of life. A deep student of the “mystic,” he believed both pleasure and pain were merely relative mental states, and had nothing whatever to do with the real facts of life. A rigorous schooling had taught him to absolutely control his emotions, and I doubt if I have ever heard him laugh; and certain I am that he has never given way to any expression or ejaculation of surprise or dismay in my presence.

Tall, thin, yet filled with a supple grace of movement, and with muscles like whipcords, in spite of his sixty years; by far the most striking thing about him was his face, calm, serene, immobile, almost expressionless, it furnished a setting for a pair of deep blue eyes from which seemed to emerge a species of violet ray, playing over one like a searchlight peering into the mind.

“Well, well, Pearce,” he greeted in his crisp, well-modulated tone, “it is indeed a pleasure to see you once more, and a double pleasure to think that you responded so promptly to my note.”

“And it’s mighty good to see you!” I exclaimed, grasping him by the hand, with an eager enthusiasm I made no effort to control. “I should indeed be a sorry friend, to say nothing about being an ungrateful one, if I failed to accept an invitation to spend a week or two with you, when my presence might be of some benefit to you.”