With an odd sense of uneasiness I flicked open the first several pages of the book and skimmed through the contents. My German was poor, yet I was able to understand the significance of what Emil Drukker had written in his 448 large, scrawling hand. I read the first six accounts, then stared at Carse in amazement. His six crimes and Drukker’s first six were so identical they might have been conscious reproductions. In all cases the victims were the same sex, the same age, and were in the same general walk of life. I then turned to account Number Seven and after reading a few wretched lines I gasped with horror: it was a seven-year-old girl!
Carse was on his feet, his jaw grim and determined. He stared fiercely at me, waiting my response.
“Carse,” I muttered dazedly, “it—it——”
“You can’t back out,” he cried as he stepped toward me. “There will be no seven, I tell you. It’s ended on six. I swear it to you!”
“No,” I said, “I cannot permit such a risk. Did you read account Number Seven? He not only cut off the head, but he dismembered——”
“You can’t back out!” he screamed as he shook my arm. “You can’t, you can’t!”
“But Carse, this is a girl—a mere child. Don’t you realize it would be unpardonable even for you? No, I can never take such a risk. I must turn you over to the police.”
Carse slapped me viciously, then stumbled back against the table. His face was a mask of suffused blood, his eyes wild with desperation.
“Damn you!” he cried savagely. “You are no friend; you’re a cheat, a betrayer!”
Suddenly his groping fingers touched the butcher knife and he drew himself taut. His fingers wound around the hilt like slowly moving worms. For a moment there was scarcely a breath between us; then he lifted his arm and brought the knife slowly out before him. I watched, horror-stricken, unable to lift my feet from the floor. A numbing paralysis of fright seemed to come over me.