Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 104, Nos. 4 & 5. Whole Nos. 633 & 634, October 1994

Two Feet of Steel by Terry Mullins

© 1994 by Terry Mullins

Terry Mullins’s stories often involve the arts or literature in one way or another, hut this derives not only from his having made his career in the arts (the Philadelphian is a retired editor) hut from his addiction to research. His new piece for EQMM deals with one of the hazards that may face a curator of rare and valuable objects...

As he heard a distant church bell striking twelve midnight, Edward Clipton straightened the pages before him and laid his pen on top of them. His wife had gone to bed an hour earlier and he had promised to follow soon, but he had found several ridiculous errors in the galley proofs of the museum’s forthcoming catalog and correcting them had taken far longer than he had expected.

Stiff and irritated at the printer’s inability to follow simple instructions, he rose from his desk and started across the room. Before he reached his study door, it opened and a masked figure entered pointing a pistol at him. It motioned for silence and for him to turn around. He did so and was quickly blindfolded and gagged. His hands were tied and he was pushed forward.

They went out the front door of his house and he was not permitted to stop until the feel of asphalt was under his feet. He could hear the sound of a car motor running. There was the sound of a door opening and he was shoved into the backseat of an automobile. In moments the car was under way.

The drive was not a long one. When it ended, he was pulled from the car and hurried into a building. Even before the blindfold and gag were removed, he knew where he was. He was in his own museum. Briefly he wondered what had happened to Renelle, the night watchman. In the half darkness of the exhibition room, he found out. The man beside him removed a ski mask and appeared as Renelle himself.

“What do you want?” Clipton asked.

“The Rembrandt, of course,” Renelle replied. Cold, unsmiling, phlegmatic as ever, the watchman led the way to the museum vault.

Dimly the shapes of Dali’s mad fantasies, Demuth’s hard abstractions, Miller’s bloated figures, and Ecter’s flashy constructions appeared and disappeared as Clipton and the night watchman crossed the room and entered a hall hung with Hopper’s stark commentaries on American Victorian buildings and the frozen people who inhabited them.

Renelle opened Clipton’s private office door, ushered him in, and crossed to the museum vault. There he loosed Clipton’s hands.

“How did you know?” Clipton asked.

“I’ve had three months on this job to look at everything on display. There’s a lot of valuable stuff out there, but the Rembrandt’s a copy, an almost perfect copy but a copy just the same. So the real Rembrandt must be in the museum vault. Open it!”

Silently Clipton cursed the board’s folly in cutting costs: one night watchman instead of three, no time locks on doors or vault. It had cost them comparatively little to have a first-rate copier make a reproduction of the only multimillion-dollar painting the museum owned and put it on public display. The original was brought out only on special occasions.

Renelle became impatient. “Open it!”

Clipton approached the computer keyboard reluctantly. He tapped out the entry number and then spun the computerized dials. He opened the huge steel door. Inside a light came on automatically, giving the first clear illumination Clipton had seen since he left his home.

Renelle quickly found the wooden case containing the Rembrandt. He thrust Clipton into a comer of the vault, left with the painting, and shut and locked the vault. Suddenly Clipton was in complete darkness, the afterimage of the vault’s light still dancing in his brain. He blinked, but it did no good. He rubbed the places on his face and wrists where the bonds had left throbbing indentations. He could feel no cuts. Apparently he was undamaged.

He pushed at the vault door without result. Two feet of steel door refused to budge. Then he settled down to wait. The air conditioning which kept temperature and humidity even in the vault should keep him from suffocating, so he expected nothing more than boredom and frustration.

But the absolute darkness did not permit boredom. Clipton had always considered himself a night person. He liked to walk out under the night sky in the country or sit on the roof of his Manhattan apartment and watch the dark shapes of transcontinental jets pass across the velvet canopy that even lights of the metropolis couldn’t paint. But absolute blackness was another matter. He had never felt so cut off from all that was human.

He opened and closed his eyes. As the darting images of retinal shock subsided, a feeling of helplessness gripped him. He couldn’t come to terms with the fact that it didn’t matter if his eyes were open or shut. It was one thing to have a blindfold holding his eyelids shut. Psychologically, it was another matter altogether to open one’s eyes and see nothing, nothing at all.

Over a lifetime, he had become accustomed to the change from darkness to light — some light at any rate — which accompanied opening his eyes. To have that not happen was like having the laws of the universe suspended. He tried to quit blinking. He tried to ignore the darkness. There was nothing he could do for another six hours at least.

He might as well sleep. Take advantage of the dark. Close his eyes and sleep. But why close his eyes? The whole point of closing one’s eyes is to shut out the disturbing stimulus of light. It would be a mockery to shut his eyes to help him sleep in here.

All right, keep them open and go to sleep. That proved to be impossible. He was too conditioned to going to sleep with his eyes closed. So close them and go to sleep. Absolute darkness and absolute silence should put him to sleep quickly.

But there wasn’t absolute silence. The steady but muffled whir of the air-conditioning motors penetrated the vault. It was, of course, a reassuring sound, but it soon became an annoying sound. What if they stopped? The vault was small. There might be four hours’ supply of air but never six. And if they stopped, could he stand absolute silence as well as absolute darkness?

It wasn’t the same. He could do something about the silence. He could talk, sing, clap his hands, kick the vault. No, stop that. The motors hadn’t ceased. It was insane for him to be talking, singing, clapping, and dancing around as if at a party.

Just sit still and wait for morning. He propped his back against the side of the vault and tried to go to sleep. Gradually he brought his thoughts under control. He was in a stressful situation. He didn’t try to deny that. And the usual way to deal with stress was either to alter the situation and destroy it, or to run away from it. He could do neither. Since he couldn’t alter the situation’s impact on him, he would try to alter his response to the situation

Actually, meditation might be better for him at this point than going to sleep. Meditation would reduce the consumption of oxygen. So would sleep, but not so much and not so quickly. Meditation would also cut down the amount of blood lactate. That should help. He would begin by contemplating something. At first he focused his attention on the bronze Buddha in the exhibition gallery.

No sooner had he chosen it as his object than he concluded he ought to assume the same position as the statue. He found it distracting to try to contemplate a statue which was in the lotus position while he himself had his back propped against a steel vault with his legs stretched out in front of him.

So he tried to assume the lotus position. He couldn’t do it with his shoes on. He took them off and realized immediately that the vault was cold. That shouldn’t be. The air conditioner was delicately adjusted to keep temperature and humidity at a constant level. But the vault was growing cold. There was no doubt about that.

He put his shoes back on, stood up, and reached up as close to one of the vents as he could. He should be able to feel a slight movement of air even if he couldn’t reach the vent itself. He felt nothing. And he realized that Renelle had clogged the air-conditioning system so that he wasn’t getting any air at all. That was why the motor sound was muffled. Being unable to shut the air conditioning off, Renelle had simply stuffed something into the air ducts.

That meant there might not be enough oxygen in the vault to last until the museum opened.

He fought down an automatic reaction of panic.

The darkness, the increasingly cold darkness, pressed in upon him with an almost physical pressure. He had no idea how much time had passed. Without matches, without an illuminated dial, he had no objective measure of time.

Then he realized that the air in the vault was already becoming thicker. There was a cold, moldy, musty smell, like a crypt in a cemetery.

“I must meditate,” he told himself. “I need the lower consumption of oxygen which comes from meditation.” And the more he told himself this, the tenser he got as he found that he could not meditate.

He shook himself, deliberately tensed all his muscles and relaxed them one by one. He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly three times. He tried again to concentrate on the statue of the Buddha and found that it didn’t work. He was distracted by the lotus position, by the position of hands and fingers, and by the sensually withdrawn expression on its face.

He tried to concentrate on his own navel and found himself thinking about his belt buckle pressing on his navel. In this absolute darkness, contemplation of visual objects was proving impossible.

He tried sounds. Briefly, he tried losing himself in reciting the Lord’s Prayer, but despite his desperation, he was unwilling to use prayer as a mere technique, as a tool for self-help. He changed his approach, using “Om Mane Padme Hum” with more success, but came to the conclusion that it was too long for real meditation. The rhythm of chanting it suggested tunes with a similar rhythm and he had to fight against turning the mantra into a jingle with irreverent words.

At length, he settled for repeating ONE softly under his breath.

And then there began a singular transformation of will. Clipton gradually achieved the state of relaxation he sought, and as he automatically repeated the word ONE, he spent less and less energy vocalizing the word and it became sub vocal. Although the sound remained the same, his mind changed the word, it became WON, the same sound but with different associations.

As hours passed, the air in the vault became more and more fetid. His lungs pumped more slowly and with greater and greater difficulty. Seated as he was on the floor with his back to one wall, he could reach the wall on his right and his feet could touch the opposite wall. He was thus dreadfully aware of the narrow confines of his prison. At times they seemed to be closing in on him, and the word which he continued to mutter under his breath seemed to echo off the steel walls around him.

In spite of all attempts to keep his mind blank, memory of the outside world intruded with scenes of past light and laughter which taunted his present state. The very word he was using for relaxation betrayed him. ONE. WON. WON. Scenes of contests which he had won came to his mind.

The final moment of the hundred-yard dash he had won at college rushed in on him. There was the same difficulty breathing, the same exhaustion of spirit. But then there had been light, the hot sun of a Virginia spring day. He had not been alone. There had been people shouting and cheering. There had been coaches and teammates supporting him as he gasped and stumbled. There had been the feel of red earth beneath him as he sank to the ground. He had won. WON. WON. WON.

The end of a tennis match came to him. Several sets had seen games go to deuce again and again. Both players were worn out. A blister on his thumb had him using the Australian backhand in the last game. On match point, his opponent had dropped a dying ball inches over the net. He had charged it from mid-court and hit the ball when it was at the top of a sad bounce. His return hit the net and fell on the other side. There had been exhaustion. He had collided with the net and sprawled onto the red clay court. But there had been light, people, voices, and hands, and help. ONE. ONE. He had won. He won one.

Something was wrong. Clipton shut off all thought. He stopped repeating that insidious word.

That was all in the past. Here there was darkness. Here there was the cold metal vault. Here was two feet of steel shutting him off, perhaps forever, from the sun, fresh air, friends, human voices, help.

Hours passed and he had no way to count them. The air in the vault began to suffocate him. The waiting was interminable. Nothing happened. The air got thicker. The hideous darkness stretched out to infinity. And behind all the suffering was the knowledge that no one knew he was there except his murderer, the man who had locked him in. With foul air crushing his chest, Clipton rose and threw himself at the door of the vault. As he did so, he realized that he could breathe a bit better — not much, but some. For a moment he held the wild hope that he had jarred the steel door and air was rushing in. But there was no movement in the air of the vault, no current of warmth. Instead, he discovered that the couple feet of difference between sitting and standing had made a difference in the amount of oxygen available.

He felt cold sweat forming in beads on his forehead and trickling into his eyes and down his cheeks. If the air was becoming unbreathable that fast, he had only hours to live and he must keep standing.

He tried to breathe slowly, tried to relax, tried to meditate. But panic had already begun to grip him. With each effort to relax, he was just holding panic at bay. In desperation he tensed his muscles and deliberately relaxed them again. It helped a little, but less than before. It staved off panic for a while.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly. Hope faded. A pernicious lethargy crept over his body. His senses dulled. A torpid acceptance of death touched his mind and, when forced away, returned with greater force and increasing frequency, sapping his will.

He realized that he was becoming insensitive to the cold, to the hard press of the vault door against his body, to the very darkness itself. His consciousness was less and less of reality and more of weird possibilities. Unreal and spectral shapes filled his imagination. Fantasies, grotesque semi-dreams crowded into his mind. His normal fear and pain gave way to abnormal obsession with the slow beating of his heart, the sinister trickle of sweat down his body, the useless whir of the useless air conditioner.

When the sound came, he was almost unconscious of it. Like a searchlight penetrating fog, the sound fought its way through his confusion. Somewhere doors were slamming. There were footsteps; people were walking. Then he heard voices. Henry Brian, his secretary, was speaking in a loud, complaining voice, a voice which Clipton had heard him use to subordinates when Henry thought his boss was out of hearing. The day watchman was answering.

Clipton struggled to consciousness. The intercom between his office and the vault was working. If he could hear them, they should be able to hear him.

He shouted. He screamed. There was no response. The sounds from the office continued as before. Henry was badgering the day watchman to account for Renelle’s absence.

“He just wasn’t here when I arrived.”

“Were you on time?”

“I was on time, a bit early in fact.”

“Mr. Clipton will have something to say about this. You know you are supposed to take over from Renelle.”

Clipton called out until he was hoarse. The conversation continued uninterrupted by Clipton’s clamor. Gradually he accepted the fact that the communicator had been damaged. He could hear them, but they could not hear him. He beat on the steel door.

He reached down and took off a shoe. As he bent down, he breathed air from near the floor. He almost passed out. Standing again and with his head held face up like a swimmer trying to keep from drowning, he leaned against the door and pounded on it with his shoe. Noises on the other side stopped. He struck with the shoe again.

He heard Henry ask, “Did you hear something?”

Clipton pounded even harder.

“There it is again.”

“It’s coming from the vault. There’s someone in there.”

“Of course there’s someone in there,” Henry snarled in disgust. “That fool Renelle has got himself locked in. He’ll simply have to wait until Mr. Clipton arrives to let him out.”

“But how did he get in?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps old Clipton forgot to lock the vault. It serves Renelle right if he’s locked in. He should have reported to Mr. Clipton and closed the door. He had no business going in.”

“But, Mr. Brian, I don’t think Mr. Clipton would leave the door open.”

“He shouldn’t, but maybe he just forgot. Still, we ought to tell him. I’ll call his home and tell him that he was careless and left the vault unlocked and Renelle has got himself shut up in it.”

There was a brief silence and then Henry’s voice resumed, “Mrs. Clipton, this is Henry Brian. May I speak with Mr. Clipton, please. Yes, I know he should be in the office now but he seems to be late and the night watchman is locked in the museum vault. No, I don’t think it is a matter for the police. As soon as Mr. Clipton arrives with the combination, we will let the night watchman out and probably dismiss him. He should have... No, I really don’t think we need to... Yes, if you insist, I will call them. You don’t have to come down here. It’s not terribly important. Mr. Clipton will take care of it when he... All right, I’ll call right away.”

Clipton beat on the door again.

“Oh, shut up, Renelle. You’ve caused enough trouble. Now she’s coming down here and Clipton will let her upset the whole routine the way she always does.

“Hello, police? This is Henry Brian of the Clipton Museum. Our night watchman has got himself locked in our vault and Mrs. Clipton said I should call you. No, Mr. Clipton has not arrived as yet and when he does, we’ll let the night watchman out. There’s really no need for you to send anyone... Very well, do as you like.”

All this while Clipton had been breathing slowly and trying to relax. The air in the vault was foul. He heard the sound of normal activity in the next room. Henry was berating the day watchman again. Then heavier steps approached. There were other voices, Henry speaking with two other men. As the others entered the room, Clipton could make out what they were saying.

“How do you know it’s the night watchman?”

“Because he wasn’t here when the day watchman arrived.”

“But neither was the boss, was he?”

“No.”

“Isn’t he usually here before you?”

“He should be.”

“So maybe both he and the watchman are in there.”

“Hey! You in there, can you hear me?”

Clipton beat on the door.

“He can hear us all right. Wonder why he doesn’t say anything?”

“He can hear us because of the intercom, but the line from there to here is broken.”

“How long has it been broken?”

“It was working all right yesterday.”

“I’ll say it’s broken. Someone smashed it. Something is not right here. I’m going to call our locksmith to open the vault.”

“But Mr. Clipton will open it when he arrives.”

“Not if he’s in there with the night watchman. They could die from being shut up in that little thing.”

“There’s no danger of that. The vault is air conditioned.”

The officer called for the locksmith and then said, “I wish there was some way we could communicate with them in there.”

Henry said, “But there is. We can communicate the way we do with the dead.”

Clipton gasped, choked, and forced himself to do shallow breathing.

“How’s that?”

“In a seance one asks questions and spirits of the dead respond by rapping on a table or something. I’ll show you.” Then his, voice changed to a hollow wail as he said, “Give one rap for No and two for Yes. Do you understand?”

Clipton pounded twice.

“See? He hears us. Are you all right?”

Clipton slammed the shoe against the door violently.

“I imagine he is a bit upset, maybe even afraid. Is that you, Renelle?”

Clipton hit the door again.

“Did you hear two raps, Officer? I thought I only heard one.”

“There was just one. It was clear enough. That’s not your night watchman in there. Maybe it’s Mr. Clipton. Give it a try.”

“Are you Mr. Clipton?”

He pounded twice.

“Are you alone?”

Two more blows.

“Then where is Renelle?”

Clipton, trying to do shallow breathing, found himself cursing in a way that used up precious oxygen.

“He can’t answer that yes or no.”

“That’s right. I forgot. I get so excited when I speak with the dead that I sometimes make mistakes.”

“Ask if the night watchman locked him in there.”

“He wouldn’t have done that. He leaves as soon as the day watchman arrives and Mr. Clipton doesn’t open the vault until...”

“Just ask him.”

“Oh, all right. Did Renelle lock you in?”

Clipton pounded twice.

“That sounded like two raps.”

“It was two raps. Your night watchman locked your boss in there and ran away. I’m going to report this to the lieutenant. We’ll look for this Renelle.”

At that point other steps sounded and the officer explained the situation to the lieutenant and a locksmith.

“This is a computerized lock,” a new voice said. “Before we can begin to turn the dials in the usual way, we must feed the key number into the computer. Even then the dials do not drop tumblers in the usual way. I couldn’t detect the tumblers dropping into position. My equipment is useless. We’ll have to blast that vault open.”

“But there’s someone in the vault.”

“That’s too bad. We can’t blast. Who has the combination?”

Henry spoke again. “Mr. Clipton, who is in the vault, is the only one who has the combination except for the chairman of the board, and he’s in Frankfurt, Germany.”

“Can you reach him?”

“I can’t, but I can give you his home phone number. Maybe someone there knows where he is staying.”

Clipton nearly collapsed. He didn’t have long to live. The atmosphere in the vault was becoming fetid. He had only minutes left.

“Mr. Clipton’s wife is here. Shall I let her in?”

“Hello, Mrs. Clipton. We’ll have your husband out shortly. Do you know the combination?”

“No, but he does.”

Henry’s voice interrupted. “He can hear us, but the line out of the vault is broken. I’ll tell him you are here.”

“Henry, get away from that microphone.”

“But I’m his only contact with the outside world.”

“Get away! Edward, what’s the first digit of the key number?”

He pounded twice.

“See, he can only answer yes or no.”

“Shut up, Henry. The first digit is two. What’s the second?”

He pounded three times, then twice, then three times.

“The key number is two, three, two, three.”

“Got it.” The locksmith’s voice. “Now get the combination.”

“Is the first number to the right?”

He pounded twice.

“What is the number?”

He hit the door twenty-seven times. The exertion was overcoming him. It was hard even to hold the shoe but he knew that if he dropped it, he could never bend down and get it back.

“Then how many to the left?”

He struck the door eighteen times, fighting to breathe, fighting to retain consciousness, fighting to summon enough strength to wield the shoe.

“How many to the right?”

Somehow he continued. The frantic pounding on the door died down to a slow and heavy swinging of the shoe, hitting the door, and then resting.

“That’s it, Mrs. Clipton. That’s the last number. I’ll open the door.”

At first he thought he was falling unconscious on the floor. He struggled to stay upright. Then he realized that the vault door was moving. A sudden burst of light almost blinded him. Fresh warm air poured over him like a shower. Instinctively, he stumbled toward his wife and wrapped his arms around her.

But his first words were not for her. His first words were, “Henry, you’re fired!”