115 lines
4.4 KiB
Plaintext
115 lines
4.4 KiB
Plaintext
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The Murder
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in X. Street
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We begin this new series of The Oriflamme with a quarterly
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competition. The competition was written by Aleister Crowley in five
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installments, and will continue in the next four issues. To compete,
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read each installment of the story and send in your solution of the
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problems propounded. Each issue, we will announce the winner of the
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previous issue's competition. In the Spring 1987 E.V. we will announce
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the winner of the Grand Prize, to be awarded to the competitor who
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submits the best solutions for all five installments. The Grand Prize
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will be a leather-bound copy of the 93 Publishing limited edition of
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Crowley's classic Leah Sublime, printed on handmade paper, gold
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stamped and with marbled end-papers. Oriflamme staff and their
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offspring cannot possibly compete.--H.B.
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PART ONE
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Rupert Lascelles has been dining too freely, a fact that accounts for
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his extraordinary mistake about the time. He had steered a fairly
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successful course down the Strand, avoiding the few passengers who
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were still loitering in that never deserted thoroughfare, and now
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paused at the corner of X. Street. Here, seeking support against a
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convenient lamp-post, he fumbled with his watch chain, and at last
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succeeded in snapping open the case of his gold hunter repeater.
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At this moment a rough, uncouth man, who had been lurking under the
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shadow of the houses, came across and addressed him:
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``Wot's the time, guv?'' he asked.
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``Pasht two,'' replied Lascelles.
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``Ho! is it?'' said the rough man, making a deft grab at his watch.
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The next moment Lascelles found himself alone.
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Now, it appeared afterwards that Lascelles had made a mistake in his
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estimate of the time, since he had mistaken the long and short hands
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of his watch for each other, a mistake which caused him to believe
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that the time was between 55 and 57 minutes later than it actually
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was. (What was the real time?)
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For a moment Lascelles was too startled to grasp the fact that he had
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been robbed, then, pulling himself together with an effort, he started
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down X. Street in a belated chase after the pickpocket, who had by
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this time safely made his escape.
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At the bottom of the street, however, Lascelles saw two men bending
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over some object on the ground, and, believing that one of them was
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his late assailant, he slowed down and approached them cautiously,
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with the result that he was enabled to overhear the following
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extraordinary conversation which was being held between them:--
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Said the first: ``I will take from the red things such as are round.''
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``Very good,'' said the first, ``but, of course, anything that is not
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round, even in your original portion, comes to me.''
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``That is hardly fair,'' replied the second. ``If I agree to that you
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must let me have all the red hot round things that are golden.''
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``Done,'' cried the first, ``on condition that you give up from all
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you are at present entitled to everything which is neither silver nor
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gold.''
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``An easy condition,'' said the second, ``for everything I am entitled
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to is silver.''
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As they laughed and shook hands on the bargain, Lascelles lurched
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forward: ``Shay, ol' pals,'' he observed, ``what was the swag,
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anyway?''
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``You'd better ask the readers of The Oriflamme,'' replied the
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thieves, making off hurriedly.
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At this dramatic moment a series of heart-rending shrieks broke the
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silence of the night, and a book was thrown furiously from an upper
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window.
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``Murder! Murder!'' came the appalling and inhuman yell.
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``Thine hour is come, oh, execrable hag!'' replied a firm but
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courteous voice. ``Thou worthy spouse of Ahab! I am not employed in
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the royal household--far from it! But permit me to take the
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liberty!''--and he plunged her after the book. A grey- headed,
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wizened, monkey-like mass fell upon the pavement with a resounding
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plunk.
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``Life is not extinct,'' exclaimed Lascelles, sober in a moment. Run,
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one of you, and get a word of seven letters which spells the same
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forward and backwards.''
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But it was useless. The victim of the dastardly outrage was as dead as
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mutton.
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The question then most seriously arose--How dead is mutton? But
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Lascelles easily showed to the satisfaction of the bystanders and Mr.
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Algernon Ashton, that it was as dead as anything can be.
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``Why!'' he said; ``I can easily think of six words implying death or
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burial whose initials form the word `mutton.'''
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With a muttered curse, Robert Caldwell slunk away!
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What six words can you suggest?
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