Criminal Conversation by Nicolas Freeling Read Free Book Online Page B

doorway, grinning, with his hands in his pockets.
    â€œI have something funny to tell you.”
    The face behind the desk was so impassive that he knew it was forcing itself, for just a second, to conceal a flicker of uncertainty.
    â€œI see things, oddly enough, just the other way round. I find that the moment I walk into this consulting-room our positions arereversed, that the patient here is you, and the doctor is myself. Nor do I think you are suffering from delusions. I find you to be suffering from a very banal illness, as banal as nervous fatigue would be to you. An illness upon which I am the specialist. Because dishonesty, you see, is an illness. I don’t just mean telling lies, of course; lies are part of the human whole, and I know from my experience that asking a man to stop telling lies is like giving him an axe and telling him to chop his big toe off. Only a very rare man has the force to do without his lies, since they are, you see, an integral part of him. Your illness is more of an infection.”
    â€œI must congratulate you on the vivacity of your illustrations,” murmured the mask.
    â€œYou know what makes people – intelligent, highly trained, very perceptive people, like yourself – commit crimes? Even violent crimes, like murders? I’m not talking about little foibles like sleeping with other people’s wives. It is because they are wounded in a deep sensitive part, and it is so painful that their reaction is uncontrollable. Wounded in their mechanism of self-deception, an area too complex for us poor ignorant doctors to follow, mostly.”
    â€œMay I interrupt?”
    â€œNo, you mayn’t. Remember your professional training. Let the deluded person run on; listen to him in patience.”
    â€œBy all means.” The smile had been dropped; he was glad to see that a look of slight polite boredom had been assumed.
    â€œNow, as a doctor, suppose for a moment that I was carried here into your consulting-room with a bullet in my stomach that had penetrated the nerve centres, what treatment would you advise?”
    â€œSurgery, my poor friend; that is what carpenters are for.”
    â€œJust so. I am only a carpenter and on that account you despise me, but they have their uses as you will see. You’re coming on nicely now; I’m glad I didn’t underestimate your intelligence. Quite soon now you’ll be realising that I’m about to operate on you for a bad infected wound to your self-esteem that is extremely dangerous to your whole life without swift treatment.”
    There was a silence. Van der Valk supposed that it was the silence of a man collecting his courage rather than his wits. He had, after all, banked upon Post’s being an extremely intelligent and sensitive person.
    â€œYou are beginning to realise,” he went on smilingly, “that this, at the moment, is not your consulting-room at all, but mine, and since an examination is plainly necessary to aid our diagnosis, we examine everything – in the examination-room.” Theatrically, he opened the door behind him, turned calmly, and walked in. There was no protest from the desk.
    â€œThe pieces of paper which you talk about so irrelevantly” – his voice floated back through the doorway – “are things used and needed by bums with no brains. As one intelligent man, you should be able to recognise another. Lots of electrical equipment, I see - you ought to be a skilful electrician, or am I guessing?”
    â€œYes,” came Post’s quiet ironic voice this time, “but occasionally these devices’ most successful use is in impressing the ignorant layman. I believe you have something of the same technique… colleague.”
    Van der Valk had to laugh at that.
    â€œAdmirable point. Lovely garden you have. Ah, and this is where the confident, relaxed, co-operative patient lies on the couch – very comfortable too – and gets