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He kneels before the writing desk. He passes his hand over the carpet. That was where the corpse lay. Is the blood still visible? It is not visible. He pushed his fingers far into his nostrils, but they only smell a little of dust. No blood. He must look more closely. The light is bad. It hangs too high. The flex of the table lamp does not reach so far. On the writing desk is a box of matches. He strikes six at once, six months, and lies down on the carpet. From very close he holds the light to the carpet, looking for bloodstains. Those, red stripes are part of the pattern. They were always here. They must be got rid of. The police will take them for blood. They must be burnt out. He presses the matches into the carpet. They go out. He throws them away. He strikes six new ones. Softly he passes them over one of the red stripes, then delicately pokes them in. They leave a brown mark behind them. Soon they go out. He strikes new ones. He uses a whole box. The carpet remains cool. It is marked all over with brownish scars. Glowing patches are here and there. Now nothing can be proved against him. Why did he confess? Before thirteen witnesses. The corpse was there too, and the ginger cat which can sec at night. The murderer with wife and child. A knock. The police at the door. A knock.

Kien will not open. He stops his ears. He hides behind a book. It is on the writing-table. He wants to read it. The letters dance up and down. Not a word can he make out. Quiet please! Before his eyes it flickers, fiery red. This is the aftermath of his terrible shock, on account of the fire, who would not have been frightened; when the Theresianum burns numberless numbers of books go up in flames. He stands up. How can he possibly read now. The book lies too far off. Sit ! He sits again. Trapped. No, his home, the writing desk, the library. All are loyal to him. Nothing has been burnt. He can read when he wants to. But the book is not even open. He had forgotten to open it. Stupidity must be punished. He opens it. He strikes his hand on it. It strikes twelve. Now I've got you! Read! Stop! No. Get out! Oh! A letter detaches itself from the first line and hits him a blow on the ear. Letters are lead. It hurts. Strike him! Strike him! Another. And another. A footnote kicks him. More and more. He totters. Linesand whole pages come clattering on to him. They shake and beat him, they worry him, they toss him about among themselves. Blood, Let me go! Damnable mob! Help! George! Help! Help! George!

But George has gone. Peter leaps up. With formidable strength he grasps the book and snaps it to. So, he has taken the letters prisoner, all of them, and will not let them go again. Never! He is free. He stands up. He stands alone. George has gone. He has outwitted him. What does he know of the murder? A mental specialist. An ass. A wide-open soul. Yet he would gladly steal the books. He would want him dead soon. Then he'd have the library. He won't get it. Patience! 'What do you want upstairs?' ']ust to look round!' 'Just to get round me!' That's what you'd like. Shoemaker stick to your idiots. He's coming again. In six months. Better luck next time. A will? Not necessary. The only heir will get everything he wants. A special train to Paris. The Kien library. Who collected it? The psychiatrist Georges Kien, who else? And his brother, the sinologist? Quite a mistake, there wasn't a brother, two of the same name, no connection, a murderer, he murdered his wife, Murder and Fire in all the papers, sentenced to imprisonment for life — for life — for death — the dance of death — the golden calf— an inheritance of a million — none but the brave — wave — parting — no — till death us do part — death by Fire — loss loss by Fire — burnt burnt by Fire — Fire Fire Fire.

Kien seizes the book on the table and threatens his brother with it. He is trying to rob him; everyone is out for a will, everyone counts on the death of his nearest. A brother is good enough to die, thieves kitchen of a world, men devour and steal books. All want something, and all are gone, and no one .can wait. Earlier they burnt a man's possessions with him, a will was nowhere to be found and there was nothing left, nothing but bones. The letters rattle inside the book. They are prisoners, they can't come out. They've beaten him bloody. He threatens them with death by fire. That is how he will avenge himself on all his enemies ! He has murdered his wife, the hog is a charred skeleton, George will get no books. And the police won't get him. Powerless, the letters are knocking to be let out. Outside the police knock against the door. 'Open the door!' 'Never more.' 'In the name of the law!' 'Pshaw!' 'Let us in!' 'Din.' 'At once.' 'Dunce.' 'You'll be shot.' 'Pot.' 'We'll smoke you out!' 'Lout!' They are trying to break down his door. They won't do that easily. His door is strong and fiery. Bang. Bang. Bang. The blows grow heavier. He can hear them where he is. His door is bolted with iron. But if the rust has eaten into the bolts? No metal is all-powerful. Bang. Bang. Hogs are herded before his door, ramming it with stomachs, with corners. The wood will crack for certain. It looks so old and worn. They seized the enemy trenches. Entrenched. Ready, steady, crash. Ready, steady, crash! The bell. At eleven all the bells ring. The Theresianum. The hunchback. March off, pulling long noses. Am I right or am I not? Ready, steady — am I right — ready, steady.

The books cascade offthe shelves on to the floor. He takes them up in his long arms. Very quietly, so that they can't hear him outside, he carries pile after pile into the hall. He builds them up high against the iron door. And while the frantic din tears his brain to fragments, he builds a mighty bulwark out of books. The hall is filled with volume upon volume. He fetches the ladder to help him. Soon he has reached the ceiling. He goes back to his room. The shelves gape at him. In front of the writing desk the carpet is ablaze. He goes into the bedroom next to the kitchen and drags out all the old newspapers. He pulls the pages apart, and crumples them, he rolls them into balls, and throws them into all the corners. He places the ladder in the middle of the room where it stood before. He climbs up to the sixth step, looks down on the fire and waits.

When the flames reached him at last, he laughed out loud, louder than he had ever laughed in all his life.