Shooting Star/Spiderweb

I dialed the Professor’s office. He’d paid my phone bill for me for just that reason, last month. I listened to the double ring, then heard a click.

“Yes?”

“Miss Bauer, this is—Judson Roberts. Did he—is the Professor back?”

“No.”

“Have you heard anything?”

“No.”

“I see. If he should come in, you’ll ask him to call me at once?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks.”

I put the little black baby back in its cradle. As I reached for a cigarette, the doorbell rang. I started to get up, then sank back. Once before the doorbell had rung and I’d been afraid to answer it. I’d waited, and a hundred-dollar bill had slid under the door for me. What would happen if I waited now?

I decided to find out. I sat there, as the bell sounded again. Then came an eternity of silence. I stared at the door.

Something rustled. Something rustled, crept, slithered under the door. It wasn’t green, like money. It was white, like paper. A newspaper.

I rose and walked over to the door on tiptoe. I looked down. The newspaper had been reduced to a single sheet, and the torn top portion of a column was inserted under the door upside down. I cocked my head and read a headline:

HOCKEY STAR VICTIM IN TRAIN SMASHUP

I opened the door and let Professor Hermann in.

Nine

“I don’t see how you did it!” I shook my head and tried not to shake anything else.

“It was simple. The newspaper tells the story, does it not? A drunken driver, stalled on the tracks near the curve at La Placentia, just outside of town. The express hit the car, dragged it for a quarter of a mile. Michael Drayton, 31, husband of Imperial starlet Lorna Lewis. Wife hysterical at news of accidental death.” The Professor shrugged and put down the paper. “End of story.”

“Didn’t they find water in his lungs?”

“There was no water left, thanks to Miss Bauer’s work. I checked on that. Lorna’s story about smashing the station wagon gave me the idea of what to do. I told her it would cost her a car. She gave it to me without question. I bundled the body into the back and drove over in time to catch the train that comes through at 4:10 A.M. It was still dark and the side road was deserted. I got out, stalled the motor and propped Mike up in the front seat. Then there was nothing to do but wait for the express to come, and watch it hit. The car was smashed to bits, and I suppose that Mike—”

He saw my face and broke off without finishing the sentence. “I walked a few miles and caught a bus,” he concluded. “Then I phoned Lorna Lewis and told her what to say when she was notified. After that I went home to sleep. I slept until I knew it was time to get up and look at the newspapers.”

The Professor told it that way, without inflection, without emotion. I began to feel cold all over.

“You make it sound so simple,” I said. “But if you hadn’t figured it out, I’d be finished. The whole thing is like a nightmare, from the beginning. It was all an accident, you know. But I could never prove that. Maybe he was no damned good, maybe he had it coming—but I’m still to blame. And you saved me. I don’t quite know how to say it—”

He sat there, smiling at me. “Never mind. I understand. You can forget last night. It was just lucky that I happened to be there.”

The black hat came off. The bald head bobbed, an animated skull. I shuddered and lit a cigarette. He was right, better drop it. I was lucky, lucky he happened to be there. Luck...happened. Something clicked.

“What’s the matter?” asked Professor Hermann.

“Nothing. I was just thinking. How come you didn’t give me any instructions for the party last night?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You remember, you were going to build me up with Lorna.”

“I did. I spent much time talking of you.”

“Yeah. But you didn’t tell me what to do with her. You left me alone, disappeared.”

“I saw that you were getting along all right. There was no need to stay.”

“But you came back.”

“I phoned you, from the filling station, after midnight. I got worried when there was no answer.”

“Didn’t you figure I might be keeping a date with the lady?”

“Yes, of course. But I wanted to check on you.” He smiled. “You know, I am very careful about everything I plan.”

“You must have been.”

“What do you mean?”

I stood up. “I mean, the whole thing looks funny to me now. How did you know where to find us when you returned? How did you know we weren’t in the house, upstairs? Yes, and Mike Drayton—he was supposed to have passed out, with a bottle. What made him come to the coach house and surprise us?”

The top of his head had the dull lustre of old ivory. I stared down at him.

“You’ve told me yourself that you never leave anything to luck. Things just don’t happen by chance when you have a hand in them. So it has to be this way. You went upstairs and woke Mike. You told him where we’d be. You sent him to us, knowing there’d be a quarrel, a fight. Perhaps you even planned on murder.”

“Sit down—you don’t know what you’re saying! You sound like Lorna Lewis, now.”

“Well, I’m not Lorna. I’m not a hysterical little fool. I know what I’m saying, and I know you. You did plan it this way, didn’t you? All of it, from the beginning?”

He looked up at me and smiled. His mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t change. They looked blank, empty: just holes in an old ivory skull.

“Yes,” he murmured. “There is no reason why you shouldn’t know. I planned it this way.”

“But why—why would you do such a thing?”

“Relax. Keep your voice low. I’ll tell you. Better still, I’ll show you. Next month, on the first, when I get a check from Lorna Lewis for a thousand dollars. Consultation fee. There will be such a check, every month, from now on.”

“Blackmail.”

“I do not like that word.”

“I don’t like what you did. I don’t like the way you messed me up in this deal. Why did it have to be me?”

“It just worked out that way. It seemed—”

“Never mind how it seemed! Nothing just works out around you. You had a reason. I want to know.”

“Very well, my young friend. You will know. I’m sorry you forced me to say this, but perhaps it’s for the best.” The skull leaned forward. The eyes, dead no longer, bored through my scowl.

“I have plans for you, big plans. I have taught you many things and you will learn more. In a short time now, you will be Judson Roberts—a man with a reputation, with contacts. You’ll be meeting the public and I’ll be in the background, and the money will roll in. Just as I promised.

“And I know you. In a little while you’d start getting delusions of grandeur. You’d begin to wonder why you couldn’t run the show alone, why you must continue to play Trilby to my Svengali. And you’d try to dump me.

“Mind, I don’t say you’d succeed. But you’d try.” He nodded slowly, confidentially. “So to protect myself, I planned this. And it has worked. Now you won’t try to step out of line. Because you’re involved in a murder. You know it and Lorna Lewis knows it. But more important still, I know it. And I’m not afraid to talk if I must.”

I smirked. “I can just hear you talking, Professor! Why, you’re an accessory—”

“Perhaps. It might cost me a year or two in prison. But you’d get the book thrown at you. And, as you have so aptly remarked, I leave nothing to chance. That’s why I brought Miss Bauer along. She’s a good witness—an innocent bystander who saw it happen. She would testify as I wish.”

I knocked over the ashtray and swept my hand up, trying to keep the sweat on my forehead from blinding me. The skull bobbed up and down before me.

“So now you know, my friend,” murmured Professor Hermann. “And now you will never try to cross me. You will never attempt to take over. You will do just as I say and not plan anything rash, like running away.”

I stood up again. It was hard, this time, but when I reached my feet the power came back, surging through me. I needed that power, now.

“You think of everything,” I whispered. “But did you ever think that I might try to...kill you?”

I was lightning. I was thunder. I struck from the side. My hand went down, aiming for the fat crease in his neck—

But something was wrong. I stumbled. His foot was out. I was going down. And then there was a pressure in the back of my own neck, an intolerable pressure, crushing the spine up into my brain.

His voice found me in the darkness.

“You’re a fool! Don’t ever try that again. I warn you, I have powers you’ve never dreamed of! Now, get up—if you can.”

I dragged myself over to the chair. My head rested on a red-hot lance that bored through my backbone.

“I told you once before to forget everything that happened last night. That was good advice. You had better follow it. Forget today, too. Because we’re starting over again.”

He was still sitting there, perfectly calm. The skull still grinned.

“Yes, we’re starting,” he murmured. “The time has come. I’ve got the office lined up and the decorators hired. Next month we’ll be on our way, both of us—on our way to the top.

“That’s why you must forget all this. The past is dead, safely dead. Only the future is alive. I’m going to make those promises come true, for both of us.

“I am your friend, Eddie. Believe that. I’m the only friend you ever had. You can trust me. You must trust me. You will trust me.”

It was like something you hear in a dream, something you hear when you’re under ether, something you hear when you’re under hypnosis. Hypnosis. Those slitted eyes of his, staring and staring at me... “You’ll have everything,” droned the voice. “I’ll stay in the background and you’ll get the glory, the fame, the money, the power. That’s the way it’s going to be. Never doubt it for an instant. You’re Judson Roberts, remember? And I’m just...nobody.”

I shook off the voice, shook off the stare, and looked at nobody, sitting there in the chair. His head was like a skull, and then it changed. Maybe it was the slitted eyes and the slitted mouth. Maybe it was something else. But all of a sudden, it hit me. For the first time I realized that Professor Hermann looked like the Devil.

He sat there, and his pudgy hands closed over a shadow. It was only a shadow, but he held it tightly now and I knew he would never let it go.

He held my soul...

Ten

The inquest was a routine thing. I didn’t even have to get up on the stand. Lorna was there, of course, and she saved the day. She’d learned something about acting all right, and she gave the performance of her life. She sobbed and gasped and murmured at all the right times; she trembled and quivered in all the right places.

After she finished her testimony, it was in the bag. Mr. Himberg said a few words, and so did the Professor, but the verdict was already set. Accidental death. Of course, as the Professor reminded me, a coroner’s inquest verdict can always be set aside, pending the introduction of new evidence. But there wouldn’t be any new evidence, as long as I was a good boy.

By common consent, we scattered as soon as we got outside. Himberg escorted his starlet through the newspaper gauntlet, and Lorna did an encore of her performance. The Professor drove off with Miss Bauer, after arranging to meet me at his office in the morning. We were going to get started and he suggested I get a good night’s sleep.

As for me, I teetered on the edge of the curb for a moment—and then she showed up.

The dusty, battered convertible slid to a halt alongside me and she said, “Oh, dear! I’m late again—it’s all over, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “That’s right, Ellen.”

“Well, I’m not going to pretend I’m sorry. I missed it on purpose, you know. I—I didn’t want to hear about it.” She shivered, slightly. “The whole thing just makes me sick. People like Lorna and Mike, ruining their lives. But who am I to talk?” She shivered again. “Can I give you a lift somewhere?”

“Just on my way home,” I told her.

“Climb in.”

I did so, murmuring my address. She made a U-turn at the corner. She drove expertly, and today the apricot scent came through untainted by alcohol.

“If you came late on purpose,” I said, “why did you bother to stop by at all?”

“Please, Mr. Roberts. You shame me.” But she wasn’t ashamed as she continued. “You know why I came. It was to see you and to apologize for my rudeness the other night.”

I blinked. It had been a long time since I’d heard any straight answers.

“You were very kind and patient with me,” she continued. “I appreciate that.”

“And I appreciate your frankness, Ellen. I’m not used to honesty lately.”

“You mean your friend, the Professor?”

She caught me off guard for a moment. “The Professor? What do you know about him?”

“Oh, nothing, really. Except that my uncle tells me he used to run some kind of fake mail-order health cult until the postal authorities cracked down on him. Are you working for him?”

“No. He’s just...advising me.”

“I see.” She smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“All right.” I lit a cigarette and leaned back. I could sense her nearness, could sense how it would be if she were even nearer. She wouldn’t be like Lorna, full of gasp and frenzy; her love would not be blind—blind eyes, blind mouth, blind body groping for frantic fulfilment. No, she’d be soft and warm and steady and sure. I could feel the kindness and the comfort here, and I wanted it very badly. I needed it very badly.

But it was not mine to take. So I puffed on my cigarette and moved away while she threaded through the traffic.

“You could say you’re glad to see me, you know,” she said.

“I could. But I won’t.”

“Oh. And why not?”

“Because if I did, you’d believe me. And of course, I’d ask you to dinner tonight. And we’d go somewhere and talk. And because you’re honest, I’d want to be honest too. And so I’d tell you all about myself. Then you’d hate me.”

“Are you that bad, Mr. Roberts?”

“Worse.”

“I must say you administer a very subtle brush-off.”

I half-turned in my seat, facing her. “Believe me, Ellen, it’s not that. I wish I could explain, but I can’t. If I could only have met you three months ago, before all this happened; if you had only slid under my door instead of that hundred-dollar bill—”

She was staring at me curiously, and I didn’t blame her. I’d said too much already.

“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?”

I started a laugh, but it came out as a grunt.

“Trouble? It all depends what you call trouble. Right now I’m getting ready to take my place sitting on top of the world. The throne has already been built. But it’s not going to be an easy seat. And there’s only room for one.”

“I see.”

She didn’t, of course. All she saw was that she’d made another mistake—come crawling to a guy she hoped would be kind, and found out that he was just a conceited heel. I wondered if she’d get drunk again tonight. I knew I probably would, meeting or no meeting.

We drove on in silence. It was the worst strain I’d ever felt in all my life. I wanted to talk to her, I wanted to confess, tell her everything. Something about her hypnotized me. It was the same reaction I had to the Professor. If she told me to jump out of the car and kill myself, I’d probably do it. She wouldn’t even have to tell me—just a look would be enough. Like the Professor—

A horrid thought crawled out and leered. Suddenly I was back three months ago, sitting in Larry Rickert’s office and trying to stare down Professor Hermann’s eyes. Had it been hypnosis then? Had Professor Hermann communicated with me through extra-sensory perception that afternoon, had he planted the seed, told me to go home and kill myself? I’d always wondered why I’d had that inexplicable impulse, and now everything was falling into place.

He never did anything without a purpose. He left nothing to chance. He’d arranged it all: even timed it so that he’d show up and stop me with that hundred-dollar bill. Yes, he knew how to choose his man. Professor Hermann found me open to the power of suggestion, the power of darkness. He was the Devil, and he had work for idle hands to do.

I opened my mouth. I knew what I wanted to say. I wanted to say, “Ellen, don’t stop at my place. Just keep on driving. We can be in Mexicali, you and I, before midnight. We can get married down there and just keep right on going. You need me. I need you. What do you say?”

I opened my mouth, but the Professor closed it for me. What had he said? “You will do just as I say, and not plan anything rash, like running away.”

So I didn’t tell Ellen. I didn’t take her in my arms and bury my face in the apricot fragrance of her hair, seek the ripeness of her lips, enjoy the rich harvest of her body.

She drove silently, swiftly, surely, with never a word or a glance for me. And then came the screech of brakes and we were outside my apartment.

“Thanks,” I said. “Ellen, I’d like to see you again—I haven’t been able to explain what I wanted to say today. This has been a strain, and perhaps when things settle down a little, we can talk. I mean—”

She turned away, but not before I caught a glimpse of her oddly contorted face.

“Goodbye,” she murmured. “And go to hell.”

Then she drove off, before I recognized and realized the meaning of her look. She’d been crying.

But she’d said, “Goodbye,” and she meant it. And she’d said, “Go to hell.”

Maybe she didn’t mean that. But she was right, nevertheless. For Professor Hermann was the Devil, and he had my soul. And my choice, my path, was clear from now on.

I was going to hell.

Eleven

A tall young man with wavy hair and a professionally precise mustache stared at a tall young man with wavy hair and a professionally precise mustache who stared at a tall young man with wavy hair and a professionally precise mustache who—

But you get the idea.

It went on that way, endlessly. The man wearing the soft, sand-colored suit, the white shirt and the solid black knit tie gazed at himself in each of the eight mirror surfaces covering the octagonal office walls.

This octagonal inner office was as big as a barn, with a high ceiling and recessed lighting. The degree of brightness was controlled by a knee-switch behind the desk. That desk and its companion chair, set in the center of the room, constituted the only visible furniture. The rest was all space, light and mirrors—mirrors multiplying the presence and personality of Judson Roberts. Mirrors that dazzled and confused the client.

The mirrors caused self-consciousness and self-hypnosis, too. Of course I wasn’t susceptible any more. Three months here had made me acquainted with the layout, and with the man in the mirror whom I had become: Judson Roberts.

It had cost Professor Hermann a lot to set up Y-O-U— “Your Opportunities, Unlimited.” There was a big nut in the overhead, too, but already it was starting to come back.

I sat behind the desk and studied myself in those mirrors. Mr. Judson Roberts smiled back at me from all over the room. Well, why shouldn’t he smile?

The book was selling through direct mail, the ads were pulling, there was a big play for the weekly lectures at the hotel, the appointments poured in regularly. Strangers kept calling, mail arrived. And Judson Roberts was taking the suckers over the jumps, just as the Professor had predicted.

I didn’t resent the Professor any more, either. He was right, and our successful operation proved it. The Lorna Lewis mess was forgotten—I never saw her any more. For that matter, I saw less and less of the Professor these days. As he had promised, he got me started and then left me alone. He handled his office and I handled mine.

Of course he’d assigned little Sid Rogers to help steer me over the hard spots—and keep an eye on me, too, I suppose. Rogers even took an upstairs room in the new house I’d rented over on New Hampshire near Wilshire. But he didn’t intrude on my privacy, and his aid was welcome at the office.

He briefed May, our secretary. He ghosted my weekly lectures. He checked the appointments, sized up clients, studied the backgrounds of potential prospects. He offered me sensible advice.

“Always dress conservatively...flash is out. This isn’t the boardwalk. Remember to keep your voice soft, low...make it just a little hard for them to hear you...they’ll have to concentrate then, and that’s half the battle. Never turn your back on a sucker. Don’t give him a second to think about anything else.”

Tricks, gimmicks, angles. Always something to learn, something to remember, something to try out.

At first I’d been afraid, wondering if the bluff would work. Now I wondered why I’d ever wondered. The Professor was right: the seeker was always a sucker. And I wasn’t finding it difficult to keep up a front any more. The face smiling back at me from the mirrors was different, somehow. It wasn’t only that I wore a new mustache; I wore a new look of confidence. I looked like Judson Roberts now, I felt like Judson Roberts, I was Judson Roberts.

The phone rang. I lifted the receiver from the concealed alcove inside the round desk. May’s voice was crisply confident. That meant business was in the office.

“Mr. Roberts? A Mr. Caldwell to see you. He wishes an appointment.”

“Wishes” was a code word. It meant big money. “Appointment” was another code word. It meant a ten- or fifteen-minute stall, until Rogers could finish checking on the client.

“Right,” I said, softly. “Tell Mr. Rogers to give me what he can. I’ll buzz you when I’m ready. Meanwhile, give Caldwell the consultation routine.”

That meant May would phone the Professor’s office and ask for Doctor Altschuler. There would be a discussion of psychiatric treatment over the phone. “Mr. Roberts advises— Mr. Roberts recommends that the patient—Mr. Roberts finds indications of—” All for the benefit of the poor mark fidgeting in the handsome but contrivedly uncomfortable chair in the outer office.

I knew what Rogers was doing, too. He was working on Caldwell’s name, out of the little office down the hall from me. He and the girl we hired to play “nurse” were tracking down Caldwell’s history with the aid of three telephones and an entire wall-cabinet full of city directories, phone books, detailed city and county street maps. They were looking for biographical sketches in Who’s Who, in business directories, fraternal publications, school annuals. They were phoning for credit ratings, tracing leads to newspaper morgues. They were checking cross-indexed files furnished by the Professor’s friends in similar rackets. And they would get results, fast. Sometimes fairly spectacular results.

Given a little luck, Rogers could work even without a sucker’s name. All he needed was a glimpse of the license plate of the car he drove. In fifteen minutes, working according to plan and system, he could come up with name, address, occupation, age, financial status...wife’s name, names and ages of children, names of parents and close relatives...present residence and previous residences for the past ten years. In addition there were the little convincing touches: hobbies and club memberships, school background and nickname, and a fairly detailed description of his home and its landmarks. From this it was often easy to guess the character and present problems of the sucker. Yes, Rogers was a good man and he had a good system.

He came in through the concealed entrance behind the rear-wall mirror and laid the typewritten cards on my desk.

“Looks like we’ve got a live one,” he said. “Airline corporation counsel—inherited money, too. But it’s all down here.”

“Thanks, Sid. You’re a fast worker.”

“Good luck.”

He vanished. I read the dossier very carefully. Then I read it again. I looked at my watch. Fourteen minutes since May had called. Time enough.

I put the cards down next to the phone, picked up the receiver and buzzed May.

“Send him in,” I said. I leaned back and pressed the light switch. The mirrors seemed to rise out of the walls, glaring and pressing forward.

The door opened and Edgar Clinton Caldwell stepped into the room.

Now there are three ways to use the information I’d just received from Sid Rogers. The first would be to put on the old mystic act—telepathic impressions. It works well with women and with swishes. The second method is the arch, inscrutable approach: “Yes, we have our own sources of information, you know.” That’s for the wise guys, the loud blusterers.

Looking at Edgar Caldwell, I decided to try the third routine.

He stood there, fat and flustered under the blinding light, gazing at his rumpled reflection in the mirror. He had been sweating, and his coat hung soggily from broad, stooped shoulders. The lower button was open, revealing a wrinkled white triangle with a broad base over a protruding stomach. His gray hair was plastered back over a high, ruddy forehead. He was fat and he was also big—all his features seemed a little larger than life-size.

I could tell he was frightened, but he didn’t know I could tell. He thought he was looking fierce. His eyes glowered. His chin—and its accessory folds—thrust forward aggressively. But I was watching his hands; the large, red, knob-knuckled hands, the hands that clenched and unclenched in unconscious, uncontrolled apprehension. Those hands were looking for something to hang onto in a room of emptiness. Those hands wanted to smash out at the mirrors that multiplied and distorted their reflections. Those hands wanted to come up, cover the eyes and shut out the glare of light, shut out the spectacle of my complacency. But the hands were powerless.

The hands could not grasp. The hands could not destroy. The hands could not conceal.

I looked at Caldwell’s hands and decided on the third approach. I’d increase his fright, then reassure him.

“You are Edgar Clinton Caldwell?” Soft voice, but phrase the question as though the man is on trial.

“Yes. Mr. Roberts?”

Good. His voice trembled a little on my name. Got him.

“I am Judson Roberts. Won’t you come in?”

Get him to cross the room. Make him sweat and falter as he tries not to watch himself in all those mirrors. He’ll notice everything he’s tried to hide from others and himself: the way he looks in profile, the unflattering angles of his head, his poor posture, his ridiculous waddling butt sticking up from behind. Get him to cross the room and he’s licked before he starts.

“Trick layout you got here.”

Start the next gambit. Frank, open smile. Look up. Let him feel reassured, just for a moment.

“It’s meant to impress the credulous. I must apologize to you, sir. There’s no need of any further stage effects.”

I dimmed the lights. He blinked his relief, standing there and waiting for me to confide in him.

Third gambit, now.

I reached into the desk recess and drew out the typed notes. I held them out to him.

“Here, Mr. Caldwell—I’m going to ask you a small favor before we go any further. Will you please verify the accuracy of these statements?”

He took the cards and I watched them disappear in the red folds of his huge hands. I watched him read, watched his eyes dilate, watched the eyebrows as they tried to climb his forehead and hide in his hair.

“What the—where the devil did you get all this dope?”

Smile. Let it hit him, let it sink in. Wait until he’s sold.

“I could make it sound mysterious, Mr. Caldwell, but the whole thing is really quite simple. I have a trained research staff, you know. The moment your name was announced, they went to work in the files. Naturally, a man in your position has left his mark in many places: newspapers, trade publications, directories. Our references yielded this preliminary data. Undoubtedly a more comprehensive checkup would afford us much more information on your background and position.

“Now the reason for all this is obvious to you, Mr. Cald-well. I am a professional psychological consultant, and as such I am a businessman. I conduct my affairs on a business basis, just as you do. Naturally, it is helpful for me to know as much as possible about a client before I see him, just as you try to find out what you can about a prospect. I’m sure that you also have your sources, Mr. Caldwell.”

Watch him grin. He isn’t frightened now. He thinks you’re taking him into your confidence. He’s flattered. You wouldn’t pull any tricks on him. He can see that because you’ve sized him up as an equal. In a word, the poor fish is hooked.

“I might as well be perfectly frank with you, Mr. Caldwell. Our relationship to come will demand such frankness, mutual frankness. Don’t you agree?”

He nodded. I wanted to keep him nodding from now on.

Build up a dependency. The patient and analyst relationship. Keep it in that stage. Flatter him with questions, inquire after every detail, endlessly. Everyone wants to talk about himself. That’s Y-O-U, the whole secret of it. Complete catharsis.

“And now, Mr. Caldwell, let’s talk about you and your problems. You have a problem, don’t you, Mr. Caldwell?”

He had a problem, all right. And now, he was ready to tell me. I listened, but I thought of other things. Problems. They all have problems. Every one is different, and they’re all the same. Always a common denominator—the basic fear.

The rabbity little man, Mason, who came on Thursday afternoons. He was afraid of his homosexuality. Mrs. Finch, Mondays and Fridays by appointment in her home, feared what happened to her when she tried stopping or cutting down on her dosage of luminol. Maxwell Solomon, very confidential (“apt to call you anytime I need you”), attempted to conceal in pyrophobia his dread of divine retribution for saving himself rather than his wife and child in the crash of their private plane. Miss Eudalie Vinyer was afraid of me because I was all men and all men were her father and at thirteen she had been too young to understand what her father was doing with that colored woman. Baker feared his boss, Klotscher feared God, Mrs. Annixter feared cancer, which was a polite term for syphilis, which was a polite term for intercourse, which was a polite term for the Sin Against the Holy Ghost, which was a polite term for the fact that she really enjoyed it. By a strange coincidence, Mr. Annixter was a patient too, and he feared—Mrs. Annixter.

It was all very simple, and all very complicated. Some of them knew and some of them didn’t know what was wrong. Some of them could be told and some of them didn’t want to be told. Some of them needed a doctor, some a psychiatrist, some a lawyer, some a priest, some an executioner. But all of them needed me. They needed an audience, a father confessor, a child, a mother, a lover, to listen and understand and flatter and cajole and condone.

They needed Y-O-U.

Detail. Endless detail. They wanted to tell everything. They wanted every test I could give them—coordination, color determination, mnemonics, word-association and free-fantasy sessions, work with charts, slides, ink blots and anything else I could think up. I would send them to a pal of ours, Dr. Sylvestro, for a complete preliminary physical checkup, and they loved that too.

That was the answer. They feared and they wanted love. Love in the form of interest, attention, an affirmation of their own self-importance. Y-O-U gave it to them. For Y-O-U, with all the metaphysical and practical psychology hokum boiled away, was simply an extension of the old bromides, “Know thyself” and “Be yourself.” The whole routine was built up to flatter the individual, make him think about himself. There were touches of the “charm school” and “expand your personality” routines here: we sent people to beauty parlors and plastic surgeons and dress designers and dancing schools. But in the end, we took them—to the cleaners.

It was fascinating to watch the spectacle. There was only one difficulty: I kept wanting to go outside and vomit.

Now here was Mr. Caldwell and his problem. Edgar Clinton Caldwell, 54. Wealthy. A “successful businessman.” A typical example of middle-class respectability and sublimated anal eroticism.

Doctor Sylvestro had referred him to me. “Nerves.” Also hemorrhoids and constipation.

“But there are some things you can’t even tell a doctor—you understand that, Roberts. Like the string. Sounds silly, and I wouldn’t even mention it to Mrs. Caldwell. But I save string. Every bit. I have boxes full of it down in the office. In the safe. It’s just a habit. I know it’s nothing serious. But why do I do such a thing?”

I knew why. But I didn’t tell him. I let him do the talking during this first session and at the next. I booked him for twice a week and let him gabble for a while before I took over. First with a routine probing. Then with a gradual, almost imperceptible hypnotic technique. That’s something I was picking up from Professor Hermann. I suspected he used it on Miss Bauer and that he’d always tried it with me.

It worked with Caldwell. He grew to depend on our sittings. And I kept taking notes. Notes about him. Notes about his business dealings. I wasn’t quite sure what angle we’d use for the payoff yet. That I’d leave to the Professor.

When I thought I had enough, I took my material to him and asked his opinion.

Professor Hermann read, listened, twirled his monocle. Then:

“Get him to retire. Liquidate his holdings. We’ll need cash for this.”

“Retire? But he loves his business—I can’t take that away from him. Oh, I can probably force the issue, but the results will be bad. He’ll just go to pieces. Inside of six months, he’ll be a wreck.”

“And we’ll be rolling in his money.” The bald head bobbed, the monocle twirled. “Get him to retire.”

So I went back to Caldwell and approached the subject. He listened, then exploded.

“But I don’t want to retire, man! It isn’t that I don’t place any faith in you, Roberts. You know better than that. But here I am, in the prime of life—with a fine position—I own better than fifteen percent of the airline stock. I’ve worked years to get where I am, and now you advise me to get out. Why?”

“Because you’re not happy.”

“Damn it, man, who says I’m not happy? I’ve got a net worth of upwards of two hundred thousand, and no debts. Got a house here in town and one at the beach. Marge and I get along great. The sex part doesn’t bother me. You know, I told you about Eve—”

“You’re not happy.”

“Don’t keep saying that! Just because of those goddamn piles and a few dreams—”

“I’m sorry to keep interrupting you, Mr. Caldwell. I’m sorry to keep repeating myself. But you are not a happy man. And you know it. Your very defensive attitude reveals it. Happy men are under no compulsion to save string. Happy men do not wash their hands until the flesh is red and chafed, the knuckles constantly rubbed raw from frequent cleansing with strong abrasive soaps. Happy men do not require as sexual stimulation, that their mistresses—”

“Please, let’s not mention that part again. I wish I hadn’t let that slip out.”

“You will be thankful some day that you were utterly frank with me. And you will be thankful that I am utterly frank with you.” I leaned forward, confidentially. “I want you to retire. These sessions are stimulating, but they are not enough. In order to remake your life, you must devote your life to the task.

“Your present habit-patterns and associations keep you chained to the very reflexes and conditioning which make you unhappy. You will never be free, never emancipate your personality, until you are willing to start fresh and clean.

“I don’t wish to be an alarmist, Mr. Caldwell, but unless you undertake the step soon, it may be too late to ever escape. You aren’t getting any younger, you know. What you can do today, voluntarily, you will be unable to do five, three, or even one year from now. This is perhaps your last chance.”

“I don’t see it, Roberts. Don’t see it at all. You talk as though I were a sick man. Just because I get down in the dumps once in a while, same as everybody else—”

“Are you the same as everybody else, Mr. Caldwell? Can you say that honestly to me, and to yourself? After what we both know about those dreams, about your relations with Eve, about what happened at the fraternity initiation years ago in college—”

“That was an accident!”

“But your impulses, your desires, were not accidental. They were fundamental, implicit in your disorder.”

“You can’t frighten me, Roberts.”

“Please. I’m not trying to frighten you. Have I ever resorted to any mumbo-jumbo or trickery, since the first time you came to me? Have I ever been anything but straightforward and sincere? I haven’t preached or lectured or put on any of the cheap front you despise. I haven’t attempted to delude you in any way. That’s what makes it so hard for me to impress you now. But you must be impressed with the importance, the necessity of taking this step. Or else—”

“Or else what? What are you driving at?”

“There’ll be a psychosomatic reaction, to begin with. The old-fashioned ‘nervous breakdown.’ You’ve seen it happen to others, many times. In your case, with an anal fixation, it will be most painful. And Eve will take over. She’s almost done so already. From what you’ve told me, she’s practically blackmailing you right now, as it is. And suppose your wife were to find out? Suppose something else happens. In your circumstances, it could easily enough. Then what? Do you remember the Arbuckle affair—”

When a fat man trembles, his flesh quivers all over. Acres of gray jelly, quaking and oozing perspiration.

“But what do you want me to do? Suppose I retire, then what?”

“I’m going to take you back forty years. We’ll start all over again. We’ll go back to the time before the initiation and the scandal, before you had to leave school. You know what your ambitions were then. We’ll recapture that personality, make it dominant once more, make a young man of you, a new man.”

“How?”

“I’ll work with you personally. Every day. Oh, nothing spectacular and nothing drastic entailed. You love Marge and the boys—I won’t do anything to affect those feelings. But you must make a major alteration and adjustment. You need help.

“And you can afford it. Even if you weren’t so badly in need of treatment, I’d advise retirement on the general principle that any man who is financially independent should retire from business and begin living. You’ve tried to retreat from life into your work, and it isn’t successful. So now you must retreat from work into life again.”

“So that’s it, eh? I can afford it, you say—meaning here is where you make a killing. Big fees, is that the angle now, Roberts?”

“Please. You’re antagonistic—not to me, but to the truth. You know my fees. Twenty dollars a consultation. That is not exorbitant. I shall not be able to give you more than three sessions a week. Our program will take about a year. Say three thousand dollars, at the most. I assure you I do not need your money, nor would I particularly care to undertake this treatment if the prognosis were not favorable. Besides, frankly, I have a personal interest in your problem, Mr. Caldwell. And you know I can help you.”

“Yes, I do. I’m going to think over what you said, think it over very seriously. It would be worth it, just to get rid of Eve. Do you think—?”

“That you will be strong enough to give her up? Yes, I can definitely promise you that, Mr. Caldwell. Quite definitely. Eve England is on her way out.”

Twelve

There were empty glasses and filled ashtrays all over the small apartment. I could smell scotch and smoke and Tabu and stale food and Lysol—everything but fresh air. Fresh air wouldn’t have suited Eve England, anyway.

I didn’t exactly suit her, either. I sat facing her on the sofa, pretending to examine my drink while I sized up the tall blonde with the brunette’s complexion. Her hair was dark at the roots, her eyes were red at the corners, her mouth was lined at the edges where the lipstick tapered off.

She gave me a look that would have made her a fortune as a glass cutter and said, “Well, now that you’re here, what’s the big idea?”

“No big ideas. Just little ones.”

“Cut the cute stuff. Speak your piece and get out.”

“That’s no way to handle a customer.”

“Say, what is this?” She stood up, bracelets jangling.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Afraid? Listen, you—”

She began to impugn my character and reputation in rapid, monosyllabic fashion, and that told me all I wanted to know. She was not a clever woman. Just a pushover. And I knew how to handle her. I kept my voice loud, made it harsh.

“You’ve come up in the world, haven’t you? This Caldwell must treat you all right. Of course, he goes for your little tricks. Where’d you pick up those fancy ideas? When you worked Las Vegas?”

Her earrings quivered and danced. “So it’s a shakedown, huh? Well, let me tell you—”

“No. I’ll tell you, instead. This isn’t a shakedown at all, Edith.”

“Eve.”

“Edith Adamowski. You see, I know your name. I know all about you. But don’t get excited. If you want to know who told me, it was Caldwell himself.”

“Caldwell? What kind of a gag is this, anyway?”

I told her what kind of a gag it was. She sat down, after a while, and drank her drink. She even nodded. I went right on talking.

“The important thing is, he doesn’t know anything about it. He mustn’t know. As I told you, he’s willing to pay five grand to get rid of you for good. He thinks he’s a new man, that he can frighten you into it. I advise you to let him do just that. Take the five grand and blow. Then stand by for further orders and maybe you can make more.”

“Well, I dunno. I got a good setup here.”

I walked over to her and sat down. I smiled into her eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you like it?” I asked, softly. “Do you really like it when—”

“Shut up! Don’t talk about it! I hate it. Why do you think I’m on the sauce all the time? He gives me the creeps, but—”

“Then do as I tell you. Take the money and wait for more.”

“How can I be sure you don’t double-cross me?”

“How can I be sure you don’t double-cross me and tell Caldwell I was here?”

She grinned. “Yeah, I never thought of that.”

I grinned right back at her. “Well, don’t start thinking of it, either. Because if you do sing to him, you’re going to have an awful sore throat.”

“Huh?”

“Come here.” I led her to the window, pushed aside the gray strand of a curtain that had once been white. “See that man down there? The big one, standing next to the car?”

She looked at Jake and nodded to me. “I see him. What about it, who is he?”

“I’m not going to introduce you. I hope I never have to. But he’s the man who has orders to see you if you don’t play ball.”

“So that’s it, huh?”

“That’s it. Are you in?”

Eve England gulped the rest of her drink. She drank fast, like a bar tramp, and that’s what she was. If Jake didn’t kill her, some cop or bum surely would. I watched her mouth dispose of the drink and waited for her to form the words I knew would come.

“All right,” she said. “Count me in.” And then, “When do I get the five grand?”

“Caldwell will have it for you,” I told her.

And he did.

I saw him just two days later. He entered, exuding exultancy.

“By God, Roberts, you were right! I did it!” His knobby knuckle slammed against the desk.

“I knew you would. Did you say what I told you?”

“Bet your life. And it was just the way you predicted it would be. She turned on the tears, and then she tried to threaten me. But I remembered what you said, and it worked out.”

“Good for you.”

“You know something? I almost couldn’t go through with it. At one time she almost had me backing out. But I didn’t weaken.”

“Did you pay her off?”

“That’s the important thing. She left town today. I gave her the money in cash.”

“That isn’t the really important thing.”

“No?”

“The important thing is what you’ve proved to yourself. That you have the courage to start over, start fresh. That you are already beginning to become the kind of man you want to be.”

I stood up and looked down at him. “I’m anxious to get started on our regular sessions. How soon will you be through winding up your affairs?”

“Be about three weeks more. They took it pretty hard down at the office, you know. And if it wasn’t for your suggestions, I’d never have been able to sell the retirement notion to Marge. But I’ll be a free man in three weeks.”

“Except for your stock.”

“You can’t talk me out of that one, Roberts. There’s one setup where I’m the expert. Dumping fifteen percent of the company stock on the market right now would sink them. The Imperial outfit is just waiting to close in and reorganize. Besides, as it is, the stuff keeps bringing in dividends. It’s a sound investment. And I won’t have to watch it, just let it sit. I’m going to be a free man.”

“That’s right,” I said. “In three weeks you’ll be a free man.” I stood up. “Meanwhile, we might as well begin our sessions. Suppose I meet you at ten tomorrow, corner of Wilshire and Western?”

“All right,” he said. “You’re the doctor.”

We stood on the corner the next morning, bucking the breeze. “What’s the big idea of the briefcase?” Caldwell asked. “I don’t get it.”

“You will, soon enough. Just follow me and obey orders.”

“Right. Oh, what the devil—”

His hat blew off. I watched it swirl away over the car tops, then spiral into the street. It rolled on its brim.

He started to rush after it.

I grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. Let it go.”

“Let it go? But that’s a twenty-dollar panama, I’m not going to—”

“Hold it. Your first lesson in living begins right now. Look, Ed. Never chase your hat in the street. You might be killed by a car. Besides, who wants to get sweated up and out of breath chasing a hat?”

“But—”

“Let the other fellow do it for you, Ed. Don’t you understand? There’s always somebody else who’s willing to chase your hat for you. Willing? He’s crazy to death to do it. It makes him a hero. And if you thank him for it, he’ll fall all over you.”

I turned and gestured.

“You see? That man without a coat, between those two sedans. He’s picking it up for you. Here he comes now. Just wait here.”

“This yours, mister?”

“Yes, it is. Thank you very much. I appreciate your kindness.”

“Oh, that’s all right. Glad to oblige.”

“Look at him blush,” I murmured, as we turned away. But Caldwell held back.

“Don’t you think I ought to give him something for—?”

“Certainly not. As it is, he’s happy. He’s done his good deed for the day. He feels superior. If you handed him a dollar now it would be like kicking him in the face. He’s on top of the world at the moment, and you have your hat back without any exertion. Just remember that principle in the future.”

Caldwell nodded. “I guess your theories aren’t as impractical as they sound.”

“Well, we’ll test another one right now. Follow me down this block.”

We walked quickly without speaking. At the corner I led him to my car. “Get in.”

“We going somewhere?”

“Not yet. First, you’ve got a job to do. Take this pencil and paper.”

“Yes.”

“Now, write down everything you can remember seeing during our walk down the block.”

“How’s that again?”

“It’s very simple. Just write down everything you saw as we walked over to the car here. People. Costumes. Faces. The names of stores. What was in the windows. Everything.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions. I’m trying to find out something about your powers of observation and association.”

He grumbled and he sweated, but he wrote. And he was secretly flattered by the attention. This was something like it!

Here was somebody who really took an interest in what a man thought, what he could do, what made him tick. Nobody had ever cared about those things before—Marge didn’t, that slut Eve didn’t, the fellows at the office didn’t, even his friends. Why, in the old days his teachers, his father, his own mother hadn’t cared.

I watched him, knowing what he was thinking, knowing what he was doing, knowing what I was doing.

In a way, I almost felt sorry for the man. He looked so pathetic, so eager, as he sat there scribbling away like an anxious schoolboy. I was giving him something nobody else had ever bestowed upon him in his lifetime—something few men ever get or ever realize they want—personal interest. I suddenly knew that I could do what I had promised: remake him, remold him into a better, more integrated, healthy personality.

But why should I? Suddenly it all came back to me: a picture of Caldwell, dozens of men like Caldwell and what they had done to me in the past.

“Sorry, Mr. Caldwell is busy and cannot be disturbed... Afraid there’s nothing doing right now...If you’d care to leave your name...No, I haven’t time to discuss it with you...”

Yes, there were a lot of Caldwells, a lot of fat, well-fed Mr. Bigs around, ready and waiting to make the little fellows dance to their tune, ready to play God.

Well, I wasn’t having any more. From now on, I was Mr. Big and the Caldwells could dance for me.

“All right, that’s enough,” I snapped.

“But I’m not finished yet.”

“Sorry, another time.” I looked at my watch. “I’ve got a new assignment for you.”

And so we started.

I gave him assignments galore—went through the whole bag of tricks.

I supplied him with a card, an order pad, and a briefcase full of sample neckties and sent him into a haberdashery shop, cold, to pose as a tie salesman and get an order.

Another day I got him hopelessly lost in the canyons and made him drive us back.

I kept him awake for two days and two nights, denied him food and water for twenty-four hours, ordered him to grow a beard.

It was silly, it was pathetic, it was as simple as A-B-C, and he loved it. Because I kept up a fast line of patter about personality development, exposing oneself to new experience variants, learning dormant skills and realizing and utilizing psychic potential. The very simplicity of the methodology is what made it so effective. I was always at his side, always ready with a new problem, always eager to discuss his reactions, listen to him talk about himself. He was completely sold.

As a matter of fact, it didn’t hurt him a bit. It was really good therapy. He dropped about eight pounds in two weeks, took on some color, stopped washing his hands every hour. He was still a string saver, but the change of pace and the absence of Eve combined to restore his sex drive and focus it upon more normal goals.

It surprised me, at first, to see him benefit. But why shouldn’t he benefit? The fake religions, the fake healers, the fake mystics, all have a history of success with sufferers and seekers. Sometimes the success is illusory and temporary, often the converts plunge still further into a final morass of maladjustment, but that doesn’t seem to matter to them.

Certainly the change made Caldwell happy. He felt free, uninhibited, readjusted.

“I’m ready to start fresh now,” he kept telling me. “And thanks to you, I know what I want to do. I was never happy in corporation law, anyway. Handling other peoples’ affairs and other peoples’ funds—that’s living your life secondhand. You’ve shown me I know how to sell, how to analyze. And I do have a background of business experience. Seems to me I ought to take advantage of it.”

“What did you have in mind, Ed?”

“Real estate. There’s a boom building up again in the south, you know. Beach development, housing. I’ve had my eye on some property for a long time, now. But I always kept putting it off, being cautious and afraid. Well, now I’m ready.

“And if I do, Roberts—I’d like to show my appreciation to you. Cut you in on the deal if you want.”

“But your funds are tied up,” I reminded him. “Everything’s invested in that stock, remember?”

He laughed. It was a surprisingly energetic laugh. “That was a lot of nonsense. I was talking like an old woman in those days, wasn’t I? Sure, if I sell, the company may have to reorganize and Imperial might take over. But I’ve got my own life to lead.”

This was a new Caldwell talking, and I listened with new interest.

“What do you say, Roberts? Should I go ahead, sell my stock? And do you want in if I do?”

“Well.” I hedged. “I don’t know if you’re ready yet. Give me a little time to analyze the elements involved. I trust you won’t do anything rash until we work things out.”

“Naturally I wouldn’t make a move without your say-so. But I want action.”

“All right.” I nodded. “I think I can promise you some action very shortly.”

And we left it at that, and I went home.

My new place on New Hampshire was a white frame affair, seven rooms and a fireplace—conventional enough, because I didn’t operate from here. Rogers had a bedroom on the second floor, and he kept out of my way, using the back entrance. I wasn’t usually around much anyhow. I ate out, and the night work didn’t give me much chance to try out the fireplace-and-slippers routine.

Once in a while, like tonight, I had a chance to relax. Or thought I did. That’s why I set the pint bottle out on the table and poured myself a shot.

I had to be careful. Rogers mustn’t see me drink. If he was home, he’d be upstairs, though, with his own pint. The important thing was to keep my occasional indulgence from the Professor.

To hell with the Professor!

I took my first drink on that. And as I did so, I realized I meant it. Perhaps Caldwell’s offer today had started me off. Whatever it was, I felt differently now. I knew I had to get out, get away. If only I could take advantage of his friendly offer, go into real estate or something legitimate. Why, this was the kind of thing I’d always looked for.

And now it came too late. Much too late. Because I couldn’t go in with Caldwell. My job was to line him up for the big trimming. And I couldn’t run, either. Because they’d bring me back. I’d have company all the way—some brawny dick sitting next to me in a coach car, trying to make conversation and hide the handcuffs.

No, I couldn’t run because that would only mean trouble. Besides, I was thinking like Eddie Haines now, not Judson Roberts. Not Judson Roberts, who sat in the driver’s seat, who had a fancy office and clients and money rolling in.

Or did he? The Professor was really in the driver’s seat. And the money was rolling in to him, not to me. Sure, I was drawing my hundred a week plus expenses—but he was making more, would make thousands on these killings.

Killings. That wasn’t a good word to use or think about. I was just a stooge. Professor Hermann had me where he wanted me, and I’d never get out. I couldn’t save Caldwell from whatever fate the Professor had planned. I couldn’t save myself.

But I could have another drink...

“Good evening.”

The Professor had come in quietly, using his own key. He stood in the doorway and stared.

“Come in, sit down,” I said. “I didn’t expect you.”

“That is obvious.”

“You mean the whiskey? I was just having a nightcap.”

He sat down at the table and crossed his arms. The sleeves made a black X on the table. X marks the spot. Black suit again. All that money coming in and he still dressed in the same clothing. Like a minister. Or an undertaker...

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Not a thing. Should there be?”

“Rogers tells me you do a lot of this lately in the evening.”

Rogers was a little rat. I raised my glass and drank to holes in his cheese. “Not so much. Besides, what else is there for me to do?”

“You might keep up your studies. There is no end to learning, you know.”

“I’m doing all right. The money’s coming in, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I really cannot complain on that score.”

“Then I’m entitled to my own way of amusing myself.”

“Amusing yourself.” The Professor ran a hand across his gleaming skull. I thought of a janitor waxing a dance floor. That was better than thinking about gleaming skulls.

He stared at me across the table. “So you are still interested in amusement, eh? That’s the end-all and be-all of your existence, amusement. Your sole purpose in living is to justify and pay for amusement, as you call it. In other words, you have the philosophy of a garage mechanic.”

“That would pretty accurately describe my income and status, too.”

“You’re dissatisfied?”

“What a marvelous analysis,” I said.

“But when you think of where you were just seven months ago—”

“I’d rather think about the big promises you made to me. Fame, fortune, anything I wanted. You remember?”

“Yes. Those things will come, if you desire them. Although I had hoped that through your study, you might have developed a genuine interest in metaphysics. Then you and I could have gone on to the next phase together. But I misjudged you, I see. You want, as you term it, amusement.”

“Let’s just call it more money and be done with it. You’ll never get to me with any nonsense about ‘spiritual riches,’ if that’s what you had in mind.”

“I’ve trained you too well, I see. You’re always sure of an ulterior motive, aren’t you?”

I sighed. “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” I told him. “Except this.”

I reached for the bottle and he took it away.

“That’s out.”

“Look, now—”

“Would a guarantee of five hundred a week help to keep you on the wagon?”

“Yes, but—we’re not doing that well.”

“What about your friend Mr. Caldwell? He’ll be ready for the next move, soon.”

I straightened up. “That’s right. And I wanted to talk to you about that. You know, I’m really helping him.”

“Of course you are.”

“He wants to sell his stock. That will bring in about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Excellent. We have uses for that amount.”

“He plans to invest in real estate.”

“Good. Let him plan. His plans will soon change.”

“Look, now, Professor. I’ve got another angle. Maybe we won’t have to touch him at all.”

“What’s that?”

I talked fast, and as I talked it made sense. “Why not let him take his money and go? He’s a new man, he deserves a new start. We don’t need his savings. Not with my angle, not with what I know.”

“I’m listening,” said the Professor.

So I told him what Caldwell had said about his company, about what would happen if he dumped his stock and Imperial took over.

“Do you understand now?” I asked. “I’ll get him to sell his stock. His broker is—”

“I know,” said the Professor. Of course he would know. I realized he had all the details checked.

“Anyhow, the minute he sells, that’s your cue. Get all the cash you can lay your hands on and buy Imperial. They’ll take over and their stock will rise, probably split and rise again. Why, you can make as much or more than you would from Caldwell, and do it legitimately—no danger of a kickback or trouble. Caldwell’s happy and you’re happy. Could there be any better deal?”

“It’s worth considering.” The Professor rose. “I’ll think about it and let you know. Meanwhile, keep Caldwell dangling a few days more.”

I faced him. “This is important,” I said. “I’d like to see things work out without Caldwell getting hurt.”

“I’ll worry about that angle.”

“But he’s going into real estate,” I continued. “And he’ll cut me in. We can make still more if we let him lead us to profitable deals—”

“I told you I’d decide.” The Professor smiled. “But that isn’t the big thing, right now. I came to tell you you’re going on the air.”

“Radio?”

“Fifteen minutes, twice a week. To sell the book, sell your name. I’m having Rogers check on time and costs. Then we might consider an expansion program—train a few assistants for you and sell consultation over the air. How does that sound to you? Five hundred a week and your own radio show—is it a bargain?”

I hesitated.

“Remember, you handle your affairs, and I’ll make the decisions. About Caldwell and all the others. Agreed?”

I took a deep breath because there was nothing else to do. I said, “Yes,” because there was nothing else to say.

The Professor nodded. He didn’t shake hands. He never shook hands. Somehow, that suited me. He had hands like fat, blind white spiders...

“I’ll say goodnight,” he told me. “I’ve got another appointment this evening. Get in touch with me tomorrow and I’ll let you know about Caldwell.”

He left us alone, then, and there we sat: the bottle and I. I looked at it.

“Did you hear what he said?” I asked. “Five hundred a week. And I’m going on the radio! That’s a laugh. I came out here to go on the air, but Rickert said I wasn’t good enough. And now—”

The bottle didn’t answer me.

Thirteen

Two days later, Caldwell sold his stock.

The evening after the sale, I went into a little bar off the Strip to meet the Professor. I slid into a booth and ordered club soda, straight.

Then I waited. Waited and worried. The Professor was late. Probably cooking up something for Caldwell—cooking up a scheme with Doc Sylvestro, Jake, and Rogers. Hush-hush stuff.

Everything the Professor did was hush stuff. I began to wonder about that.

Professor Hermann was a type. A West Coast type. More specifically, a Southern California type. He wouldn’t flourish in another climate.

But this was a land of Messiahs and miracles, of Peter the Hermit and Isaiah the Evangelist; a land where red flowers and green skyscrapers sprang up overnight. A land of fabulous fertility, luxuriant lushness.

The rod smote the rock and gold gushed forth in ’49. The rod waved as a magic wand and lo, there was Hollywood. The rod smote the rock again, and oil spewed fortunes to the skies. The rod pointed and there was real estate, and aircraft factories, and an entire civilization that bought cars from Madman Harry, cracked up, and was buried at Forest Lawn. At night, the flying red horse heralded the Apocalypse in advertising from a dirigible. The searchlights stabbed at heaven to proclaim the presence of a new fruit stand.

No wonder the Professor was accepted here! Even I had accepted him, done his bidding. And now, my life was in his hands.

Yet I knew surprisingly little about him. A little fat bald-headed German refugee who wore black in a land of light, a man who climbed the rungs to money and power, who delighted in dominating. Maybe I’d better use the Judson Roberts technique and analyze him. “It’s a hard job,” I told the bottle. “A hard job, trying to psychoanalyze the Devil.”

“What you need is a drink,” the bottle said.

I blinked, then realized the words hadn’t come from the bottle. They were spoken by Ellen Post.

She had just come in, and she stood opposite me, at the bar. I looked at her a long time, because I wanted to look at her more than anything in the world. I studied her oval face. That exotic effect was caused by a double-fold of the upper eyelids. A simple explanation made by the practiced observation of Judson Roberts, but it didn’t keep Eddie Haines from admiring her features.

Right now I felt more like Eddie Haines than I had in a long, long time.

“Your order?”

I looked at the waiter. I looked at her. Then, “Two apricot brandies.”

She slid into the booth across from me and she smiled. Judson Roberts could have analyzed that smile before you could say “Mona Lisa”—but I wasn’t Judson Roberts tonight. She smiled, and that was enough for me.

“So you remembered.”

“Like an elephant. A pink one.” I took another look at her. She was taller than I remembered her to be, and her voice was softer.

“What brings you here?” I asked.

“My convertible.”

“Nuts.”

“Why Doctor Roberts, what you said!”

“I mean it. Let’s not be smart tonight. I want to know all about you. I’ve been wondering. Who you are, where you live, why we hit it off so miserably after such a brave beginning.”

The drinks arrived. She stared at her glass as though she was looking into the Grand Canyon. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.

“We were both upset, I guess. About the party, and Mike’s death—everything. We should have seen each other. I know that now.”

“What have you been doing?”

“Not drinking, mostly. For quite a while. I went down to the beach and took some more lessons.”

“What kind of lessons?”

“Voice. But I didn’t stick at it this time, either. I’m just not good enough. As with everything else, I’m a might-be. That’s not even as good as a has-been. Apparently my only talent is for liquor.”

“So you’re starting again?”

“Yes and no. I haven’t gone out for months. This was just an impulse.” I watched her pick up the drink. Apricot brandy, apricot lips. She swallowed, made a face.

“Brrr!”

“Then why do you do it?”

“What else is there?”

“You were going to tell me about yourself,” I said, patiently. “About the house you live in, the clothes you buy, the things you like to eat. How you wore your hair when you were a little girl. Do you like fireplaces? And sunsets? And does your nose get red when you have a cold?”

“Really, I’d like to, but I have to run along now.” She rose.

“Sit down.”

“Say you really mean it, don’t you?” She sat down again and waited.

“Why do you always run away when somebody asks you about yourself?”

“That’s my business.”

“You told me once that drinking was your business. Is it a part of the running away, too?”

“Good old Doctor Roberts! Do you think, in your benevolent, homespun way, that you’re going to help me? I’ve heard that line before, too.”

“All right, so it’s a line,” I said. “I can’t help you. Nobody can help you. You help yourself. Either that, or you keep on drinking. And in two hours you’ll be up at the bar, telling everything you wouldn’t tell to me. Spilling drinks and intimacies in front of the bartender. He’ll help you.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You know something? I like you when you get mad. You drop that phony front, then. I made a mistake when I walked out on you. We could have had a lot of fun together.”

“Sure,” I nodded. “A lot of nice clean drunken fun. We’re adults, aren’t we? We know what we want. A great big bottle and a chance to suck on it. A chance to drool our way back to infancy. Babies don’t know what they’re doing, they’re not responsible if they go to bed with each other and make messes. Yes, we could have had a lot of fun. And I’m damned glad we didn’t.”

“So am I.”

She leaned forward. I smelled apricots. The suntan had ripened her.

“Another drink?”

“No. Let’s talk. If you’ve been trying to scare me off drinking, you’ve succeeded.”

“Good. Try and pretend I’m God for a change.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Your God is the bartender. The bartender is always God, or haven’t you noticed?”

“I hadn’t, but go on. You will, anyway.”

“Drinkers are all alike. They go to the bartender for peace, for release. They tell him their troubles in confessional. Like God he dispenses wisdom, judgment, guidance. He rules supreme in his own world. He is quick to punish the transgressor. He can also reward with his favor—or with free drinks. He is omniscient and all-powerful. He knows everything about everybody within the microcosmic universe of the tavern. He is the source of solace and consolation. And he is worshiped in libations, with sacramental wine that produces divine intoxication. He is also, I might add, the father-image. Or more exactly, an idealization of the father. The infantile regressions of the dipsomaniac fit into this pattern of unconscious symbolism.”

“Funny you should say that. I never drank until Dad was killed.”

“And after he died, you kept away from men.”

“That’s right.” She looked at her glass. “He was one swell guy. Drank a lot himself, though. Geoffrey Post—industrial designer. You recall the name? He got into plane building in the thirties. That’s how he died, piloting one of his own planes. Cracked up.”

“So you cracked up. No mother, and the father-image. He drank, so you drank. You couldn’t have anything to do with men, either, because of the part he played in your psychic fantasy. You drank and were attracted to men, but that made you feel guilty, so you drank again. And—”

“Wait a minute. I’m not crazy.”

“They call it dipsomania, you know. And rightly so. Most psychotic states are rooted in some sexual aberration.”

“Why do you drink, then? Are you in love with your mother?”

“I’m an orphan.” I grinned. “But seriously, doesn’t it make some kind of sense to you?”

She nodded. The empty glass between her fingers nodded with her.

“I guess it does. I was beginning to figure some of those things out for myself. We were always together, Dad and I, traveling around and never stopping long enough in one place to make real friends. When I was eighteen he’d take me dancing, we went to parties together. Strangers took us for—” she bit her lip “—lovers.”

“They were right in a way, weren’t they?”

“Yes. Although neither of us was conscious of those feelings. It wasn’t until after Dad died that it hit me. Then I went to pieces, and now I’m trying to put those pieces back together.”

“You can’t do it alone very easily. You’ll need help.”

“Are you suggesting professional treatment?”

“Non-professional. Please, Ellen. I want to help you.”

“But you said you had to go your way alone. That there wasn’t room for anyone else in your life.”

“That’s all changed now. It has to be. You trust me, don’t you?”

“We’ll see. I want to think things over, first.” She rose, and this time there was no dissuading her.

“When will I see you again? I don’t even have your address.”

“I’ll call you. At your office.”

“Goodnight, Ellen.”

“Goodnight—Judd.”

And she left, taking the light with her, leaving the shadows and the empty glass.

I shook my head, raised it in response to a sudden sound.

“That girl, who is she?”

The Professor shot up out of a trapdoor or appeared in a burst of flame.

“Her name’s Ellen Post. We saw her at the Lorna Lewis party.”

“That’s right. She was attracted to you, I remember. Have you seen much of her since?”

“This is the first time since the inquest, and our meeting was accidental. But I hope to be seeing more of her.”

“Good. She may be useful.”

“Useful?”

The Professor slid into the booth, removed his hat, and gave me a glimpse of how his skull looked under dim blue neon lighting.

“I’ve checked on her. Something Lorna Lewis let drop one day aroused my interest. She’s Geoffrey Post’s daughter, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Well-fixed?”

“I don’t know.” I was wary. “She probably has a small income from the estate.”

“That doesn’t matter. But she’s the niece of Leland Post—his only niece. He takes an interest in her, and it helps. Leland Post is a state senator, with ambitions and connections. He’d do a lot, out of love for her and self-interest, to keep her from getting mixed up in any scandal.”

I leaned forward. “Now wait a minute. If you think—”

“Please. Restrain yourself and hear me out. Leland Post is owned by one of the oil syndicates from Long Beach. He’s going to make a bid for Congress next year. Right now he’s very much in the public eye.”

“Hold it, Professor. I’ve got a—a personal interest in this girl. No funny business.”

Those eyes, those unblinking eyes, burned up at me. They burned a hole through the upholstery behind my head. But I met the gaze.

“Very well,” he said, softly. “It was only a thought. Nothing important. We’ll abandon that gambit, as long as you have a personal interest.”

We talked of other things, then. I learned that the radio program would be ready in a month or so, as soon as Rogers could do the scripts. We discussed current cases, current sales figures. And, inevitably, we discussed Caldwell.

“We’re going to have a meeting tomorrow night, at your house,” the Professor told me. “We’ll decide on our next move there.”

I nodded. “What about the stock deal?”

“You were right. He sold, and I bought Imperial today. As much as I could lay my hands on.”

“Then you’ll leave Caldwell alone?” I asked.

“Why leave him alone?” The Professor smiled. “After all, he’s got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in cash, just floating around.”

“But you said—”

“I said I’d think about it. And I have. You’ll get the full story tomorrow night. Make it nine, sharp.” He stood up. “Goodbye, Roberts.”

Judson Roberts nodded goodbye. Eddie Haines just sat there, wondering if she’d call, when she’d call, when he’d see her again. There were definitely two of us to consider, now. Eddie Haines and Judson Roberts. Just a couple of the boys. Eddie Haines hadn’t been around very much lately. He was stuck on Ellen Post, but he never came around any more. Judson Roberts was always available, though. He was everywhere. Seen in the best places these days. A fast, smart operator, this Roberts. He knew how to handle himself and everybody else, too.

Telling the old ladies at the lectures, “Remember the first principles of Y-O-U. Your Opportunities, Unlimited. Cultivate yourself. Allow the seeds of your personality to take root and flower. If your soul is thirsty, drink deeply.” Straight out of the old seed catalogue, that’s the way Judson Roberts worked.

Sitting down with the shy ones, explaining, “There is a homely wisdom in the expression, ‘a diamond in the rough.’ For the personality is a jewel, and like a jewel it must be cut and polished. Experience is the cutting edge that brings out the facets of personality. The more facets, the more brilliance.” Courtesy of Mootbeck’s Cut-Rate Diamond Supply Co. The whole spiel.

And Judson Roberts wasn’t just a spieler. He got around. He knew more about human nature than a towel girl in San Diego. A deep thinker, this Roberts. There was always study and analysis and observation, the sort of thing that helped his personality to flower like a beautiful cluster of poison ivy; gave him more facets than a rhinestone garter.

Sometimes he played God. Sometimes he went out into the streets and worked on his cold readings. He got so that he could size up a stranger at a glance. He lectured, he autographed copies of Y-O-U. He dressed well, he was in the chips, he looked like a million.

Of course, there were little wrinkles forming around the corners of his eyes these days. Once in a while, when he get angry, his mouth crawled out from under his mustache—and it was the kind of mouth that bites the heads off canaries. But why worry? Everything was sailing along smoothly now. Sailing along on the S.S. Schizophrenia—passengers Judson Roberts, first class, and Eddie Haines, steerage.

That’s the way it was, and that’s the way I thought about it that night and the next day, until Ellen Post finally did call me up at the office.

She was at her beach house, at Malibu, and would Mr. Judson Roberts care to run down tomorrow afternoon?

“I’ll be seeing you,” said Eddie Haines.

Fourteen

Eddie Haines had a date for tomorrow afternoon. But Judson Roberts had a date for tonight—nine sharp, at his house.

They joined me around the big table in the dining room: the Professor, Rogers, and Dr. Sylvestro. I had all my notes on Caldwell ready, and they kept passing them around and making notes of their own.

I sat there and watched my companions: little Rogers with his hypersensitive twitchings; the Professor, an ivory Buddha in a black suit; Dr. Sylvestro, a gaunt gargoyle whose specialty was stony silence.

The Professor finished reading and sat back. We all watched him.

“You’ve done a good job,” he said.

“Thanks. As I told you, I’m actually helping the man.”

“Fine. And now we’re ready to take over.”

“I see he’s sold his stock,” Rogers commented.

“Right.”

“That leaves our string-saving friend in possession of a cool hundred and fifty thousand in cash, does it not?” Sylvestro’s deep voice rolled out. I stared at his unnaturally pallid face, at the unnaturally red lips. He sat there smirking like a vampire, saying, “You have plans for that money, Hermann?”

The bald head inclined slowly. “Naturally. In fact, my plans are already in effect. When Jake gets here—”

I was sweating, but I had to make one last try. “Look, Professor. What about my idea? Buy Imperial stock and cash in. Then let me play along with Caldwell for a while. He’s going into real estate and he trusts me. I’ll be able to advise him, check every move he makes. Who knows, if we wait we may make as much or more without any risk. Now suppose you were to arrange a tie-up with some promoters who own beach property, and we could split the profits—”

A fat hand rose and pushed the rest of the sentence back down my throat.

“That is too slow and too uncertain. I have found a better way. With your friend, Eve England.”

“Eve? But I paid her off, she went away.”

“Before Caldwell broke with her, before the payoff, there was a lapse of several days during which he continued to see her. You know that.”

“Yes.”

“But what you do not know is that Rogers also contacted Eve England for me—right after you did.”

I sat up. “Meaning you didn’t trust me to handle the deal?”

“No. We checked on you, naturally. That is my policy. But we had something else in mind. We anticipated this situation.” The Professor got his monocle into position, held me with his glittering eye. “Has it ever occurred to you, my friend, that if a man is willing to pay five thousand dollars he may be willing to pay a great deal more?”

“I don’t get it.”

“Let Jake tell you. That sounds like his ring.”

I got up and answered the bell. It was our Neanderthal friend, all right—the man whose forehead was voted most likely to recede.

“How’s tricks?” he grunted.

“You’re the mystic, you tell me,” I suggested. “Come on in and sit down.” Our little family circle watched impatiently as he extracted an envelope from the pocket of his sports shirt.

“Here they are,” he said.

The Professor opened the envelope. Five small photographic negatives and an equal number of prints shuffled fanwise through his fingers. His face bore the blank stare of a professional poker player who holds a winning hand.

“Well,” said Rogers, “what’d he get?”

“See for yourself.”

Rogers grabbed at the photos. Sylvestro got up and leaned over his shoulder.

“Hey!” Rogers whispered. “How the hell did you manage to get this?”

“The babe cooperated.”

“I’ll say she did! But where were you?”

“Closet. I used that new-type flash the Professor got me. No light, see? When she heard how much she could get out of the deal, she fixed me up. Got ’em all the night before Caldwell told her he was through.”

“Boy, what a masochist!” Rogers breathed. “Look at those ropes and—”

Sylvestro’s gargoyle grimace deepened. He beckoned to me. “Care to look?”

I looked, then hastily turned away. I hoped the Professor wouldn’t see my face. I heard myself saying, “But what are you going to do with this?”

Jake knew. “We’re going to shake down your pal Caldwell for about fifty G’s, to start with. Either that, or we take these pictures to his wife. And then we get another fifty, with duplicate negatives. And then another—”

“Never mind.” The Professor silenced Jake and retrieved the photographs. “I think you understand our plan now,” he said. “Jake will go to him later tonight. Come on, gentlemen, let’s be on our way.”

They filed out—Jake, Rogers, Dr. Sylvestro. I just sat there, waiting. The Professor lingered behind.

“Well?” he queried.

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “You aren’t going to pull a dirty trick like that! You don’t expect me to take a hand in such a stinking, rotten setup.”

“Oh yes I do,” smiled the Professor. “And you will.”

“Count me out.” I stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m phoning Caldwell right now. I’m telling him to have the police there when Jake contacts him. Evidence of blackmail.”

The Professor was still smiling. “You might also ask them to send a squad around here, then,” he suggested. “For evidence of murder. Don’t forget Mike Drayton, my friend.”

It should have stopped me, but it didn’t. I kept moving for the phone. “All right, Professor,” I said. “I’ll do just that. I’m beginning to think I deserve a rap for all the dirty things I’ve done lately. And it will be worth it if I can save Caldwell.”

He was still smiling. “What about saving Ellen?” he murmured.

That did stop me. “Ellen? What’s she got to do with all this?”

“Nothing—yet. And she needn’t have, if you agree to be sensible. But remember what I told you the other evening. We could use Ellen Post nicely, in order to get to Leland Post and some big money. For your sake, I agreed to abandon the notion.

“If you promise to cooperate with Caldwell, I’ll keep my bargain. No frame-up for Ellen Post. But if you don’t, I’ll see to it that she’s the next victim. And you know me well enough to realize I don’t bluff or make idle threats. Go to that telephone now and Ellen Post will pay for it.”

All the while he was smiling, smiling because he knew he’d win. He was crazy, he was the Devil, but he was no fool.

I walked over to the sofa and sat down. I put my head in my hands, but there was nowhere to hide.

“That’s better,” the Professor told me. “Now, tomorrow morning, you can probably expect a visit from Caldwell. Here’s how you handle him—”

He told me, and I sat there waiting to obey. Then he went away and I continued to sit there, waiting for morning to come.

The next morning I sat in my office and waited for Caldwell to come. And I handled him.

“My God, Roberts, say something!”

Caldwell shook my shoulder. Maybe he just put his hand on me, but he was trembling so that he shook anything he touched.

“Don’t you understand?” he panted. “This woman—she came back. She wants fifty thousand. She says she’ll go to Marge... And this man has those pictures, he’s in with her—”

I shrugged his hand off. “I can’t help you. If you’d only taken my advice and broken with her the very day I suggested it, this couldn’t have happened.”

“I know, I was a fool, a damned fool! But it has happened, and something must be done.” He gulped. “Couldn’t you see her again, talk her out of it?”

“Please, Ed. Obviously she’s determined. And I can’t afford to get mixed up in anything like this. You understand my position.”

“But can’t we fix up a trap or something, with the police?”

“Then they’d see the pictures, wouldn’t they? And Marge would hear the whole story.”

“God, what can I do? What can I do?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to pay her off.”

Silence.

“Look, Roberts, you’re sure there is no other way? I’d make it worth your while.”

“It’s too late now.”

“Well, will you come with me tonight when I meet her and that man?”

I gave him a refrigerated smile. “That would be very unwise. And I’m afraid, until this matter clears up, that we had better not see one another.”

“But who can I go to now? Who else is there to help me?”

He waited, but I didn’t answer. I couldn’t answer. There was no answer left for him. I could only sit there and watch him cry, watch his jelly-flesh dissolve in his clothes, watch the red hands as they scrabbled and twisted across my desk, endlessly ravelling and unravelling a piece of dirty string. A string saver.

He got up, finally, and shuffled out. I sat there and kept thinking about that piece of string. Suddenly I knew what was going to happen to Edgar Clinton Caldwell. Tonight he’d pay the fifty thousand. Then, in a few weeks, they’d put the bite on him for another fifty, with the duplicate negatives. And sometime later, they’d be around again for the last fifty. Maybe they’d want him to sell his house, too.

Somewhere along the line he’d crack. He’d crack and look to a bigger piece of string to save him. Caldwell would end up by hanging himself. I knew it as surely as I knew I was sitting there. He’d follow the unconscious pattern to the end. Once a string saver, always a string saver.

And it was my responsibility. Oh, he’d be no great loss to the world. He’d done his share of despicable things, and his behavior with Eve England wasn’t pretty. He deserved some punishment.

But I had no right to do the punishing. Or to execute him. He saved the string, but I’d tie the hangman’s knot. I’d place the noose around his neck; I’d kick the chair away and leave him dangling there, gray jelly quivering on the end of a rope, gray jelly jerking and then the rope cutting into his chin, cutting into his neck and stretching it long and thin. They say, sometimes, when they cut down a corpse, the neck is no bigger around than a child’s wrist—

Still, it was the lady or the tiger. Ellen or Caldwell. One of them had to go, because the Professor said so. I’d kept my bargain, and now I could go and claim my reward. I could go to Malibu this afternoon.

I walked out of my office and down the hall. As I passed Rogers’ little cubicle in back, I suddenly remembered the lecture for this week. He’d be finishing it up, now, and I could take it along for study.

Rogers had his door open. I went in quietly, not wanting to disturb his work. He sat hunched over his desk, going through some papers: pictures and clippings from newspaper files.

I caught a glimpse of a leonine head and a caption:

LELAND POST WINS STATE SENATE RACE

That stopped me.

Rogers looked up. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, scrabbling his clippings together in a heap. “How’d you make out with the sucker?”

“He took it all right. He’ll sail for the fifty G’s, I think.”

“Good.”

I sat down on the desk, casually, and tried to keep my voice from trembling. “Thought you had my speech. But I see you’re working on something else.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Didn’t the Professor tell you yet? We’re rigging up a frame for this politician, Leland Post. He’s the key to some important dough. You’ll be in on it, of course—guess you know his niece. Well, she’s the key.”

“So.” I stood up and clenched my hands behind my back, to keep from strangling him. “What’s the setup?”

“That’s what I’m doping out now. The Professor’ll tell you himself, I suppose.”

“I suppose.”

I walked out of the room, somehow, under my own power. I made it through the hall, taking each step slowly. With every step I took, I called myself a new name.

What a fool I’d been to trust the Professor! Of course he wouldn’t keep his bargain, he had no intention of keeping it. He was out after money and power, and he’d get everything he could. Nothing would stop him. Even while he was playing with me, he’d already set the wheels in motion to take care of Ellen and her uncle.

And now that I knew, what could I do about it? For the moment, nothing. I’d just have to wait and see how he’d approach me, what he’d say, what the scheme was. Then perhaps I might find a way out. But I doubted it. The Professor never left any holes—with him, there was no way out. Except the way Mike Drayton took, the way Edgar Caldwell would take soon.

Maybe, some day, I’d be taking that way out, too. Right now, there was only one place for me to go. Malibu.

Fifteen

The sun was warm at Malibu, so Ellen and I sat in the shade of the little beach house. Only two days had passed since our meeting in the tavern, but here we sat, and I had my arm around her waist. Just a whirlwind romance. Only there was no whirlwind about it, no romance. We merely sat and talked. We had so much to talk about.

Fireworks, for example. The way they look to you as a child. Jewels sprayed on blue velvet. That’s what she said.

“No, my dear, children don’t think that way,” I told her. “Try hard to remember, now. You’re seven. You’re standing on the top of the bluff, at the park, looking up at the sky. You sense the puff from the ground, hear the swish. You try to decide where the burst will emerge, guessing with your eyes. Then it comes. The arcs shoot out. And something inside your throat moves with them, your mouth opens, and you go—”

“Oooooh!” She squealed. “Of course, I remember, now!”

I faced her. “I’d like to ask you a very personal question, if you don’t mind.”

“What is it?”

“Did you ever experience the supreme thrill, the ultimate attainment—of riding on a merry-go-round twice in a row?”

“Three times.”

“Now you’re bragging.”

“Dad took me. And he used to give me money for the movies, on Saturday. Eleven cents. Ten for admission and a penny for—”

“Gum?”

“Yes, or licorice whips, or suckers. But sometimes I got a chocolate mint, because if you picked out one with a pink center you won a free candy bar.”

She sighed. “It’s all so far away, so long ago. But sometimes I wish I could—”

“No you don’t,” I said. “You don’t want to go back. You like it right here.”

“What about you?”

“Guess?” I squeezed her in the most convenient place. “I don’t want to stir. Maybe you are right, at that. There isn’t much fun any more because there’s no sense of personal participation left. In order to have fun nowadays, a kid pushes a button or twists a dial or drops a nickel in a slot. And his fun-integer is noise. Noise from TV programs. Noise from jukeboxes. Noise from portable radios, carried into the woods on picnics, carried down here to the beach, carried into the country to provide a constant background of mechanical voices frantically commanding the purchase of deodorants. I used to be a part of it myself, heaven pity me.”

“You were in radio?”

“Yes. Back in Iowa. I—”

“Come on. I’ve told you about me. Now it’s your turn.”

I stood up. “Getting late.”

“There’s time. You haven’t an appointment?”

“No, but—”

“Then you can’t wiggle out of it. Talk.”

I sighed. We walked arm-in-arm into the beach house. The large living room held nothing but divans and a chaise longue set near the fireplace. Rousseau reproductions graced the walls. I sat down on a sofa and stared at The Snake-Charmer. Dark figure, staring eyes...like the Professor.

“Come on. What’s the matter?”

“Look, Ellen, this isn’t going to be easy. I’m trying to make up my mind. I want to tell you, yes. But right now it’s a risk, wondering how you’ll take it. And I must tell you the truth.”

“Yes. You must.” She came over and sat next to me. She lit two cigarettes and placed the first in my mouth. It was somehow, to me, the most intimate gesture in the world. We puffed and sped smoke in silence.

“Judd.” She came close, very close. “You said you wanted to help me, didn’t you?”

“Right.”

“Well—one of the things that will help me most is to know the truth, about you.”

She called me “Judd” because she thought I was Judson Roberts, and if I was Judson Roberts I’d tell her something all right. It wouldn’t be the truth but she’d believe it. Then she’d put her arms around me—those soft sun-ripened arms—and I’d taste apricots and I’d have what I wanted. Only I wouldn’t have it really, because I wasn’t Judson Roberts but Eddie Haines. And Eddie Haines would rather tell her the truth and take his chances.

“All right,” I said. “Here goes.”

I took a deep breath and exhaled. Then I talked.

Half an hour elapsed between the time I said, “My real name is Eddie Haines,” and my last sentence, “Here I am.”

In between there were two cigarettes—the second one left in the ashtray to burn unheeded—and a grateful deepening of dusk that hid my face in shadows.

I didn’t want her to see my face. There was enough nakedness as it was, because I held nothing back. The failure, the suicide attempt, the meeting with the Professor, the Y-O-U setup, what we did to people like Caldwell, everything.

Everything except the murder of Mike Drayton, that is. I couldn’t tell her that. I wanted to, but I knew what her reaction would be. What I did say was bad enough, and I expected the awkward silence, the stiff, impersonal phrases, the cold, “We’d better go,” with which she’d conclude our relationship when I finished.

What I didn’t expect was the scent of apricots, the strong arms around me, the leaping fire of her lips.

“And I thought I had troubles,” she whispered.

“Then you don’t—?”

Her mouth answered me first, then her voice. “Of course not. Oh, I’m so glad you told me, Eddie! I knew I’d never get used to spending the rest of my life with a man named ‘Judd’!”

It got dark fast, after that.

It was black as midnight when I came home. In fact, it was midnight. There were no lights shining inside the house, not even from Rogers’ upstairs room. I let myself in and clicked the living-room switch.

Immediately, the phone jingled.

I answered. The Professor’s voice snapped across the wire. “Where have you been? I’ve called many times.”

“Sorry. Just got in.”

“Answer my question, please. Where were you?”

“Visiting Ellen Post.”

“Good.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

“I do. By the way, we collected the first fifty thousand tonight. No trouble.”

“Congratulations.”

“And that brings up another matter. I’ve got to invest the money, right away. I’m leaving for San Francisco for a few days, perhaps a week. Taking Rogers with me. You’ll carry on as usual, with one new assignment.”

“What’s that?”

“Keep on seeing Ellen Post.”

“Very pleasant assignment. I intend to.”

“You might enjoy going out and doing the town with her. She likes to drink, doesn’t she?”

“Now wait a minute. You sound as if you have ideas. And you promised me—”

“Nothing to worry about, I assure you. I just think you’re in need of relaxation. The tension of recent weeks seems to be wearing you down. Why not have some of that amusement you’re always talking about?”

Sure. The Professor was right. Live it up a little. He was my friend. My friend, who wanted me to get Ellen Post drunk in public, preparatory to working some new blackmail scheme I wasn’t supposed to know about. He and Rogers would go away and line it all up, and I’d be here laying the groundwork. But suppose I double-crossed him and wouldn’t play?

He answered that without my asking. “Don’t worry while I’m gone. Miss Bauer will communicate with me regularly. And I’ve told Jake to keep an eye on you.”

“That was thoughtful.”

“You ought to know by this time—I think of everything.”

“All right.” I kept my voice even. “Have a good trip.”

“Thank you,” said the Professor. “Enjoy yourself, while I’m gone.”

Click.

Well, there it was. Mike Drayton was dead, Edgar Caldwell was framed and not long for this world, and Ellen Post was next on the list. Everybody I touched was marked for doom. Because I was a puppet named Judson Roberts, and the Professor pulled the strings.

Only he was going away. I’d have four or five days to work. Four or five days to straighten things out, pull out forever, with Ellen. It was my only chance. I’d have to make my plans and execute them quickly.

I switched off the light. I could think better in the dark. Picking up a cigarette en route, I walked over to the window and stared down at the street. There was a beat-up old Ford parked before my door. It was empty. But lounging in the shadows, staring up at me, watching and waiting patiently, was Jake.

That’s how the nightmare began...

Sixteen

Maybe he went away before dawn. Maybe he slept in the car. All I know is that when I went downstairs the next morning, he was standing there.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hello. What are you doing around here?”

“Oh, I’m just gonna stick around for a while, if you don’t mind. You know, the Professor’s going away and he sort of hinted you might need a little protection. In case this gay Caldwell hollers copper or somethin’. If it’s all right with you.” He grinned.

I grinned back. “Sure, Jake. But you needn’t bother.”

“No bother. I’ll come along to the office with you now.”

“I’ll be there all day. I can call you when I decide to go anywhere.”

“Thanks. But I’ll come along. I like hanging around your office. That May, she’s a dish all right.”

“Suit yourself.”

He rode with me to the office and I got inside my private room and closed the door. I picked up my personal phone and dialed Ellen at the beach house. I had to watch what I said in case the Professor had thoughtfully tapped the wire for May to record my conversation.

“Darling, when can I see you? About two be all right? No, I’ll come on out. Like to talk to you. No, I’m not upset. Everything’s fine. Goodbye until then.”

No, I wasn’t upset. Merely petrified. But I had to figure something out, and I had to move fast.

Jake had a time keeping up with me in his battered Ford, but he managed.

“Why you going to drag me off to Malibu?” he grumbled.

“I’m going to see a woman. And you’re going to sit out in the hot sun and sweat. Professor’s idea, remember?”

He called me a name and I gave him a sweet smile. Then we were off.

The same sun shone over the beach today, shimmering in Ellen’s hair. Jake stayed up on the roadway. But even if he’d seen us, it wouldn’t have stopped me from taking her in my arms.

“My! You did want to see me, didn’t you?”

“Let’s go inside,” I suggested.

“Good idea.”

“No—I must talk to you.”

“You disappoint me greatly, sir,” she said.

“Listen, Ellen, this is serious.”

“All right. What’s the matter, Eddie?”

Funny how the little things count. Even then, I wasn’t sure I’d have the nerve to go through with what I planned. But she called me “Eddie.” That was enough. That did it.

I told her everything, then. I told her the Professor had plans to blackmail her uncle through her. I told her that I was to be a part of the scheme. I told her what I suspected.

She shook her head. “But that’s utterly insane! People don’t go around doing such things. Imagine him thinking that you would go for such a scheme!”

“I did go for it, Ellen. I’m taking you out tonight and getting you drunk.”

“You’re what?”

“It’s the only way. I think I’ve figured an angle. If we go to some place like The Gin Mill—”

I explained my angle to her in detail. She nodded.

“This is our only chance, Ellen,” I told her. “I’ve tried to figure it all out. The Professor is gone, but Jake is tailing me. I’ve got to shake him sometime during the next few days, without his realizing that I’m shaking him.

“Then I can get hold of whatever cash is available and disappear with you. We’ll go down to Mexico together, and further south if necessary. We’ll run away for good.”

Ellen pulled away from me. “For good?” she said, softly.

“I don’t understand. Can it be that you don’t want to go away with me?”

“You know I do, Eddie. But we can’t run. You’ll never be safe or sure.”

She was right. She didn’t even know about Drayton’s death, but she was right. I sensed that.

“No, there’s another way. A better way. You told me about this man, Caldwell, and those pictures.”

“Yes.”

“The Professor and his friend Rogers will be gone. Jake is trailing you. Where do you think those pictures would be?”

“At the Professor’s office—no, wait a minute, that would be too risky. Probably at his house.”

“And where does he live?”

“Way off someplace. Vista Canyon. I’ve never been there. Come to think about it, he’s pretty cagey where his private life is concerned.”

“Eddie, I’ll bet those pictures are at his house. And while he’s gone, if you can get away from Jake, you can go out there and find them.

“Then you’ll have a real weapon! Turn those photos over to Caldwell. You’ll save him, and you’ll also save yourself. Because once Caldwell has the pictures, he can threaten to expose the Professor if he makes trouble for you over leaving. Don’t you see? You can turn the tables and blackmail the Professor!”

She would have said more, but I was kissing her.

“Darling,” I said, “you’re on the first team. Now, go change your clothes. You’ve got an important date to go out and get stinking drunk.”

The Gin Mill was one of those fake “atmosphere” joints—with singing waiters complete with false mustaches, steins of beer, a “free lunch” which you paid for, and sawdust on the floors. There were also cuspidors alongside the booths.

That’s what I needed—the cuspidors. Jake shambled over to the bar and roosted there for three hours, while Ellen and I kept the waiter rushing to our booth with refills on scotch.

We drank a lot. At least, Jake thought we did. He’d glance in the mirror out of the corner of one bloodshot eye and catch a glimpse of us raising glasses. But he never noticed us as we emptied the shots into the cuspidor.

As the evening progressed our voices rose, and we began to muss each other up. That part was fun—and there was no need to fake. Around eleven I suggested a little singing. Ellen had a nice voice, but when she cut loose on some old favorites it was murder. Even I couldn’t stand it.

“Stop, you’re overdoing the act,” I whispered. But she kept right on singing. She was singing as I dragged her out of there. We staggered over to the car. Jake lumbered along behind at a discreet distance.

I drove Ellen up Wilshire to the apartment hotel where she stayed when she planned to be in town. It was her uncle’s place, but right now the legislature was in session and she had it all to herself.

“You coming in?” she asked.

“I wish I could,” I said. “But I’ve got work to do.” I watched Jake’s Ford in the rear-view mirror, but Ellen pulled my head around.

“Don’t try anything foolish, darling. That big gorilla could tear you to pieces.”

I shook my head. “I’m not going to bother Jake at all. He’ll see me home, watch me stagger up the steps and call it a day.”

My prediction proved correct. I dropped Ellen, helped her lurch into the lobby, returned to my car and wove my way home to New Hampshire. Jake pulled up behind me.

“How’m I doin’, huh?” I yelled. “Some number, isn’t she? Some number, isn’t she? Some—”

“Not so loud!” Jake was actually embarrassed. “Look, you better turn in. You’re loaded to the eyeballs.”

“Good idea. See you tomorrow, same time, same sta’shun. ‘Bye now.”

He watched me locate the keyhole. I stepped inside, went upstairs and turned on the bedroom light. Then I went into the darkness of the bathroom and peered out of the window. Jake’s car was pulling away from the curb. Good. So far, everything checked. I looked at my watch. 11:35 by radium paint. Late, but not too late for me.

It was going to be a long drive to Vista Canyon. But that’s where the Professor lived. I didn’t know exactly where, and I didn’t know how I’d locate his place in the dark. But he was gone, Jake was gone, and now was the time. Now was the time to go back downstairs and drive away very quietly. Now was the time for speed, across town and out of town. Now was the time to wheel and climb and twist and turn through the Canyon passage.

Now was the time for midnight, and a moon, for skirling winds that clawed the clouds to phosphorescent shreds. Now was the time for silence on winding trails, for whisperings in woods, for howling in the far-off hills. Now was the time to park the car on the shoulder of the road, out of sight; to crunch through gravel and inspect the crooked signboard at the roadway’s fork.

Names, meaningless names, names of the wealthy, names of the reclusive. No Otto Hermann. Hills rose crazily all about me, leering and looming in the moonlight; huge, white wrinkled faces bearded by titanic trees. They watched and waited, watched and waited, while a little ant crawled along the road. Me.

I was a fool to feel that way. I was a fool to come here. Melodramatic nonsense. But if it was nonsense, why did the Professor hide his house?

Little beads of conversation began to string themselves on a single thread of recollection.

“It’s on the very top of the hill...the windlass and cable is convenient because we lower a little car down the hillside for groceries, and you can even ride in it yourself if you like.”

And, “It was built back in Prohibition days. Porch on three sides, wonderful view, completely private. But the big secret is the fox pen just below the house. You see, the bootleggers had to have a place to cache their liquor, and guess what they did? They set themselves up as running a fox farm, and—”

It hadn’t seemed important at the time I heard it. But now everything came back to me. Hillside. Look for a cable from the top of the hill. Three-sided porch. A fox pen in back, just below the level of the house.

I began to climb, to crawl. Crickets stopped their chirping and listened. I hit a winding trail that ended up before the door of a three-car garage. An owl hooted—derisively, I thought. I went back down to the road and started up another path. The wind laughed at me. Look for the cable, fool!

I found it. I followed it, through a tangle of scrub. I clung to the heavy wire as the going got tough. What was the legend—string in the lair of the Minotaur? But this wasn’t fantasy. It was all panting and sweat and dizziness. Then the house looked down at me over the edge of the hillside, and I stared back.

There were no lights on the porches, or inside. I walked around to the front door, using the gravel path as little as possible. The door was locked, of course. I contemplated the wire mesh of the screened-in porch. I felt for my pocket-knife. Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout.

Supposing the Professor hadn’t left? What if somebody else was here—Dr. Sylvestro, for instance? There were no answers. There was only a duty to perform. A Scout is Obedient...

It takes about twelve seconds to break-and-enter a house, according to the movies. Working without director, lights or camera, I managed it in twenty minutes, with the aid of scraped and bleeding fingers. My trouser legs ripped as I wriggled through the wire mesh and dropped to the porch floor with a dull thud.

I got up and waited for an echo, a response from within the darkened house. Crickets punctuated the silence. The door opened to my hand. I was inside, groping for a light switch. I found it, then hesitated. But, a Scout is Brave...

The light went on. I don’t know what I expected to see. A bubbling cauldron, a heap of skulls, the heads of children floating in alcohol—

It was a perfectly conventional room in a perfectly conventional home: unpainted furniture, covered with cushions; a round dining-room table, a stone fireplace and a pile of logs, bookcases made out of boards and bricks. A single touch of luxury was the grand piano that dominated the alcove of the living room.

I walked over to the bookshelves. It’s the first thing I do when visiting strangers. I looked at titles: Romola, Helen’s Babies, When Knighthood Was in Flower, The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come, Man Drowning, Five Little Peppers and How They Grew.

Professor Hermann hadn’t chosen these books. Maybe I’d made a mistake, maybe he didn’t live here at all. There were bedrooms and a kitchen to investigate now.

I walked towards the hall, and as I did so the cricket chirpings deepened, blending into croakings. Frogs. Frogs, out in back of the house, below. Below...I remembered something about a fox farm, a fox pen. Where they kept the liquor in Prohibition days—

Abruptly altering my course, I went out to the rear porch. I switched the light off as I departed, and then allowed the moon to guide me. The view was magnificent: silver trees on platinum hills. But I wasn’t here to prepare a prospectus on mining stock. I sent a stare down at the levelled area in back of the hilltop house. More wire netting, thin-meshed and held together by strutwork. A concrete flooring. This was the fox pen, all right. I didn’t see any foxes inside. I didn’t see the Professor, either.

Going down the porch steps, I listened carefully to the frogs. Were they trying to tell me something? If they were, they gave it up. As I fumbled with a latch and entered the fox pen, the croaking ceased. Silence. Silver silence. I stood inside the pen, but I didn’t feel very foxy. The frogs told me nothing, the silence told me nothing. I didn’t know what I was looking for, but I had to find it.

“The bootleggers had to have a place to cache their liquor and guess what they did?”

They stacked it right out here in the open, in the fox pen. No, they couldn’t do that. There’d be foxes in the pen, to make things look right. But—I saw it over in the corner, shadowed by the house above. A black circle: the metal lid covering a cistern.

Of course! That’s where they hid the liquor in the old days—down below, in the hollowed-out hillside! Lift the lid and climb down the stairs to the storage rooms, the vaults. That’s where they hid the liquor, and that’s where the Professor would hide whatever he wanted hidden.

The frogs croaked a triumphant chorus as I walked over to the iron cistern cover, bent down and reached for the ring in the center. It was heavy. I tugged and I had trouble. I couldn’t seem to move my shoulder. That’s because something was holding it back, gripping it tightly in restraint.

I glanced around at my shoulder and saw what rested there. It was a hand...

Seventeen

“Mr. Roberts—what are you doing?”

I looked up into the plump white face of Miss Bauer.

“Come away,” she whispered. Her hand left my shoulder, traveled to her lips. “He will hear you.”

“He?”

“Otto. He works down in the vaults tonight.” She urged me to my feet. “Do not fear. He will sleep below. Come to the house, eh?”

I followed her out of the pen, up the porch steps. She kept whispering. She had been asleep in the bedroom, she said, and when she heard me prowling around she thought at first I was the Professor. Then she finally tiptoed out to investigate and found me.

All this I learned in the kitchen. Gradually the story filtered through her accent, her idiom, her fear. For Ottilie Bauer was afraid.

She did not know, at first, what crazy business Otto had in mind when he urged her to come and live with him here in the Canyon. This Dr. Sylvestro, he was partly responsible—Otto had been his patient, once, years ago when he’d first come to America, after the war. Otto had been a brilliant man in the old country, but something went wrong. He got crazy ideas about making money, about success, about his power.

Now he was going too far. All this extortion, and threats, and the wild talk—Miss Bauer had warned. Miss Bauer had coaxed. Miss Bauer had pleaded. But he wouldn’t listen.

“Now I do not know what will come. He is preparing more of those horrible photographs. I have wanted to see you, to warn you. This must be stopped. And if you can not stop it, it is better for you to go away while you can. While he is—”

We both heard the sound, both turned. But it was only the wind. I smiled at her, but my hands clenched. She smiled at me, but her lip quivered.

“I can’t go away,” I said, softly. “You see, the Professor knows I killed Mike Drayton. You know it, too.”

Her lower lip quivered, stopped, quivered again.

“No. You did not kill him. That was a lie.”

“But—”

“He made you go away. You saw nothing after that. How I worked on the lungs in the car, how he revived.”

“He revived?”

“He sat in the car and Otto, he drove him away. For air, he told me, and I must go home to bed. It would be all right. So I went home, thinking how lucky we were, and next day in the papers—”

I stood up. “So the Professor murdered him and pinned the rap on me! You’re a witness, you can testify. You’re sure you saw Drayton alive after I left?”

She nodded, and I saw the part in her straight black hair.

“Yes. I can testify. I do not wish to tell this, but he must be stopped for his own good. You go away.”

“You bet I’ll go away, and fast!” I stepped around the table, then halted.

“But what about you—isn’t it dangerous for you to stay? If the Professor knew that you had tipped me off—”

“He will not harm me, Mr. Roberts.” She smiled. It was a very old smile, borrowed from the Sphinx. “You see, he is my brother.”

I drove back before dawn, slept until noon, then called Ellen.

“Go home and start packing,” I said. “We’re getting out of here.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow or the next day, as soon as I can clear up a few odds and ends.”

“You really mean it?”

“Cross my heart and hope not to die. Have you ever wanted to go to Niagara Falls on your honeymoon? Or do you prefer the Zambezi? That’s in Africa—Southern Rhodesia, I think.”

“You sound high.”

“I’m right up there, and you’ll be, too. Now, listen to me. I’ve just come from the Professor’s place. No, I didn’t see him, but I did see Miss Bauer. She turns out to be his sister. That’s right.

“The Professor didn’t leave town at all. That was just a cover-up to fool me. He’s actually getting ready to start his campaign on you and your uncle, and lining up Caldwell for another touch. So he’s still around, but don’t worry.

“Miss Bauer just supplied me with enough information to quiet the Professor—put him behind bars, if necessary. But he’s her brother, and naturally she doesn’t want to see that happen unless it’s absolutely necessary.

“So instead, I asked her for the file and the photos on Caldwell. These she agreed to get. They’re hidden out there at the house, she thinks, down below in a concealed basement. Some time this afternoon, if she’s alone and gets the chance, she’ll get the stuff and bring it over to Caldwell.”

“Caldwell?” Ellen’s voice rose.

“Of course. That’s where I’ll arrange to meet her—and you. Let’s say four o’clock. I’ll call him now and tell him we’re coming over. Once Caldwell has his photos and negatives, we can thumb our noses at the Professor and leave whenever we like.”

“You’re sure there won’t be any hitches?”

“How can there be? Nobody’s going to suspect Miss Bauer of double-crossing her brother. Nobody’s going to trail her to Caldwell’s place. That’s what makes it all so safe.”

“But Eddie—you’re being trailed. By Jake.” I paused. I’d forgotten that little detail. “Don’t worry about Jake. I’ll handle him this afternoon. Now, get busy and pack. Bring your things over to Caldwell’s house. Here, I’ll give you the address.” I read it off to her, made her repeat it. “Take a cab so there’ll be no slip-ups. And I’ll see you at four. Meanwhile, in case you happen to be interested, I love you.”

“You say the cleverest things.”

I hung up, not feeling clever. I’d forgotten about Jake. Well, that problem would be faced shortly. Right now there was the question of Caldwell.

I called him at home. A tired woman answered the phone. At first I thought it might be Marge, but it turned out to be the maid. Yes, Mr. Caldwell was there. He wasn’t feeling very well, but whom should she say was calling? I gave my name and waited.

Mr. Caldwell wasn’t feeling very well. I could imagine why. He’d just had another little phone call from Jake, about more pictures. And perhaps tonight or tomorrow he’d be taking a trip with a little black bag full of bills.

Perhaps a mention of my name would do the trick, though. I hoped so, anyway.

It did.

“Roberts! My God, I’m glad to hear your voice!” He didn’t wait for a reply. “I’m in trouble again. I got another call from—”

“I know. And that’s why I phoned you. I think your troubles will soon be over. Now, listen carefully to what I’m going to say.”

He listened and I told him everything.

“Got it straight?” I concluded. “Ellen Post and Miss Bauer should both be arriving at your house sometime before four o’clock. I’ll be there promptly at four on the head. And that’s that.”

“Roberts, I don’t know how to thank you for all this. You’ve saved my life. You know, I was seriously thinking of...doing away with myself.”

“You’ll live to be eighty, I guarantee it! By the way, is your wife at home?”

“Marge took a run down to Venice to stay with her aunt for a few days. Nobody here but the maid.”

“Maybe you’d better give her the afternoon off.”

“Right. See you at four, then?”

“Four sharp.”

And that wound it up. Except that I wasn’t feeling high any more, because I remembered Jake. Faithful old Jake.

I glanced at my watch. 12:30. I had about three hours in which to shake him. And I didn’t know how. No brilliant ideas came to me as I locked the door, descended the stairs and emerged to find Jake sitting on the steps.

“You sure must of hung on a beaut, the way you slept,” Jake greeted me.

“You been here long?”

“Over three hours. This sun’s murder.”

“You needn’t have bothered.”

“Boss’s orders. He wants to see you.”

“The Professor? I thought he was out of town.”

“Me too. But he called this morning, big as life. He’s going to be waiting for us at your office.”

I went to my car and he went to his. We started our parade downtown.

So the Professor was waiting for me, too. That was going to make things harder. My half-formed plans of ditching Jake in traffic went out the window and bounced off the curb of Wilshire and LaBrea. Anyhow, one thing was certain: if the Professor was at my office, then Miss Bauer would have a free hand out at his house.

But the next move? I’d just have to wait and see.

He was in my office, all right, sitting at the desk when I opened the door.

“Come right in,” he said.

Yes, come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly—the black spider with the white skull, the black spider who knew by the tiniest tremor just what had wandered into the web he spun.

Or did he know? The stolid face told me nothing.

“Thought you were out of town,” I said.

“I had to change my plans. I shall be leaving today, instead. Sit down.”

I sat down on the edge of the desk and swung my leg. It felt good, even though it looked too much like a pendulum, ticking off the minutes, ticking off the seconds before he came out with it—

“Jake tells me you did a good job last night.”

“If you had my hangover, you’d know what kind of a job I did.”

“That’s fine. I want you to keep it up. Tonight and tomorrow night. I’ll return Friday and take over.”

“Take over?”

“Yes. I know how you feel about the girl, and I’ve arranged to spare you completely. She will never know of your connection in the matter. Friday you will take her out for the last time.”

“I will?”

“You will pass out. A friend of hers will be present to take her home. That’s all.”

“Only she isn’t going home. I get it.”

“No need for you to worry. I promise she will not be harmed in any way. And she’ll not blame you for what happens after that. But her uncle will prove to be extremely cooperative from then on, I can assure you.”

He stood up. “In a few weeks it will all be over. Completely forgotten. No harm done. Take her out every night between now and Friday. I’ll get in touch with you then and give you your final orders.” He smiled. “Jake will keep an eye on you meanwhile.”

I smiled right back at him. “You certainly think of everything,” I said.

“That’s correct.”

“Well, think of this for a moment. I’m not taking Ellen Post out tonight, tomorrow, or Friday. And Jake isn’t going to play Boy Detective with me any more, either. Because I am quitting this business, as of today.”

“So?”

“Just so. And get this, while we’re on the subject—if you try any funny stuff on Ellen Post or her uncle, I’ll rip your head off and stuff it down your throat.”

“Dear Doctor Roberts!” He grinned, slowly. “Is this all you have learned of tact, the diplomatic approach, the psychology of personal relationships? You need a refresher course in Y-O-U.”

“I’m not fooling. I mean what I said.”

“That is quite apparent. But may I remind you that you are acting under my orders? And for a very good reason?”

I watched him now. I wanted to see his face.

“Mike Drayton’s murder? But I didn’t kill Mike Drayton. You did.”

I wanted to see his face and I did. It wasn’t worth it. He had no reaction at all.

Then, and only then, did I realize the value of his advice. I should have been tactful, diplomatic, tried to find another way of wriggling out. But no, it was too good to miss, telling him off. And in telling him off, I had told all.

He’d guess, instantly, where I got my information. There was only one possible source. And now...

There was a paperweight on the desk. I slid off the edge of the desk slowly, meeting his blank stare with a smile. Then all in one motion I grabbed, grasped, swung.

He toppled forward in the chair very slowly, like a big, bald-headed doll. The doll was bleeding from a cut behind the ear. Out cold, and for a long time.

I stepped over to the door and peeked out. May was behind the glass, at her receptionist’s desk. Beyond the glass I saw Jake, lounging on a sofa and reading a magazine.

“Jake!” I called. “Come in here a minute. The Professor would like to see you.”

He came over, waddled through the door, waddled right into the paperweight. He didn’t fall like a doll—he fell like a ton of bricks.

I left them decorating the inner office, and locked the door on my way out.

“They’re in conference in there,” I told May. “Don’t want to be disturbed. I’m going out—back later.”

“See you,” said May.

I hoped not. Glancing at my watch, I found it was almost 3:30. Just enough time to make it out to Caldwell’s by four o’clock. I climbed in the car and headed up Wilshire for Beverly Hills.

I swung into the driveway at five minutes to four, got out and ran up the steps.

Caldwell opened the door immediately.

“You’re here,” he acknowledged. “Good!” We went down the hall to the library. Ellen Post stood up and came over and confirmed the look in her eyes with her lips.

“Nobody’s following you?” Caldwell asked.

“Not likely,” I said. I told them what had happened at the office.

Ellen nodded. “But Eddie, you took an awful risk. Suppose they come to, and go out after Miss Bauer?”

“Couldn’t make it in time. She must have left there about the same time I left the office. All it means is we’ll have to hurry. I’m going to have her sign a statement when she arrives—just in case something happens later on. Then we’ll take the photos and negatives, and that ought to prevent anything from happening, ever.

“After that, we’ll be leaving. I think we’ve got this whole thing licked at last.”

“Certainly hope so.” Caldwell paced the room, glanced up at the mantel clock. “Shouldn’t Miss Bauer be here by now, though? It’s almost ten after.”

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

We listened to the clock, and nobody said anything. The clock was suddenly quite loud.

“Where’s the phone?” I asked.

Caldwell gestured towards the next room. I went over, picked up the phone and dialed Information. I got the number of the Professor’s house after a two-minute delay, and the clock kept going louder and louder. Tick-tock.

The phone buzzed. If there was no answer, I could assume Miss Bauer had left. If there was an answer—

“Hello.”

It was a man’s voice. There was something familiar about it. I hesitated until I placed the speaker. Dr. Sylvestro.

“Hello?” he repeated, questioning.

I hung up without answering. Sylvestro was out there. And if the Professor had revived and called Sylvestro before Miss Bauer got away, then...

“Did you get her?” asked Ellen.

“No, but I’m going to.”

“What do you mean?”

I glanced at my watch. Twenty past. “I mean I’ve got to get out to the Professor’s house, right away. She may still be coming, delayed by a flat tire or something. But we can’t take that chance. Sylvestro answered the phone just now, and that can mean anything. So I’m on my way.”

“I thought you weren’t taking any chances. What do you call that? If they find you there, you’ll never get away.”

“I’ve no choice. Miss Bauer is my alibi, our alibi. Besides, I can’t leave her in the soup.”

Ellen put her arms around my neck. They seemed to belong there.

“All right, Eddie. But I’m coming with you.”

“Me too.” Caldwell clenched his big hands.

“No you’re not. You can’t. Miss Bauer may still show up here. You’ll have to be on hand when she arrives, get her statement and the pictures and the negatives. Wait for me to call. I will call, as soon as I can.”

“If you can.”

I kissed her. “Yes, darling. If I can.”

It wasn’t very heroic, and there was nothing heroic about the way I kissed her. I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to stick my neck out, or in.

But I had to, and I went.

I went fast. The walls of Vista Canyon flashed by, the roadside signs blurring before me. “DRIVE SLOWLY” meant nothing to me. And “DANGER—FALLING ROCKS” was kid stuff. I wasn’t afraid of falling rocks. I was afraid of seeing the Professor’s car, or Jake’s, in the rear-view mirror. I was afraid of seeing Doc Sylvestro waiting for me in ambush with a sawed-off shotgun.

As I approached the heart of the Canyon I slowed down. Just before the turn which brought me to the crossroads beneath the hillside, I pulled over to the shoulder and stopped the motor. I climbed out and walked cautiously around the bend. A car was parked up against the trees—a strange car. I inspected it, noted the familiar AMA seal. Dr. Sylvestro’s heap, all right. That meant he was still up there.

I returned to my car and started the motor. A U-turn was dangerous here, but it was more dangerous to leave the car standing where it could be seen. If Sylvestro recognized it, or if the Professor and Jake arrived, it meant, as they say in the drapery business, curtains.

So I drove back slowly down the road until I hit another side path in the Canyon. I pushed the car up the dirt roadbed until I found a spot under some trees, out of sight. I parked here and walked back on foot. I kept looking over my shoulder, in case somebody came along. And I kept looking ahead, anticipating Doc Sylvestro.

My neck got sore in a hurry. It was hot, but sunset wasn’t far off. I came abreast of the crossing again, glanced up at the hillside house far above me, and then found a clump of bushes to screen me. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette, and let the sand fleas have dinner. The cigarette smoke didn’t rise above the bushes, nor did I. I sprawled out and watched the sunset.

Pretty soon it was twilight on the trail, and the ranch-hands were gathered around the fire swapping yarns, the rich and poor alike lolled at their ease before the festive board, and I still sat in the prickly weeds, turning my flea-bitten face to the hilltop. I leaned back and closed my eyes. I began to doze...

Muffled sound from far away: door slam, crunching, footsteps. Dr. Sylvestro descended interminable stairs. I caught glimpses of him through the trees. He minced down, carrying the inevitable black bag. He stopped at the bottom, mopped his forehead and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, and a little red eye moved through the dusk towards his car.

The car started, rolled down the road, out of sight. I waited until the sound of the motor died away in the dim distance, and then I got up. I said goodbye to the fleas and crossed over to the wooden stairway.

I climbed. There was no handrail, and the Canyon depths loomed below. A crowd of bats, courtesy Universal Pictures, flew out of an old vampire movie and chittered at me. The sky darkened. I sweated. Up and up and up. I looked down at the gray ribbon of the road. No cars coming. I went on. Then I stood on a level, stone-set patio, before the porch. The windlass for the little cable car occupied part of the area. I occupied what was left. The house before me was dark. This time I knew what to do. I went around to the porch and looked for the place where I’d slashed the screen. It accommodated me promptly. I entered through the porch and walked into the parlor.

The house was more than dark—it was empty. There were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate what Dr. Sylvestro might have been doing. Perhaps I’d been mistaken. Perhaps Miss Bauer had left. She might be at Caldwell’s place right now. Best thing to do was call and find out, at once.

I looked around for the phone and couldn’t find it. I walked through the hall and peeked into the bedroom. Nothing there. The bed was made, no signs of packing or confusion. I was relieved. I walked on, into the kitchen.

Even before I entered, I could smell it: the strangely familiar odor, the instinctively recognized reek. An attempt had been made to mop up. But there were stains on the table, on the floor all around it. I thought of an operating room—Dr. Sylvestro and his black bag! But then, where—?

Humming. Humming from the corner. Something huge and white and gleaming, something that hummed and purred as it crouched next to the refrigerator. I walked over to the deep-freeze, tugged the handle, raised the lid of the freezer chest.

I saw the packages wrapped in heavy preserving paper—six of them. I lifted out the top one, the round one. I unwrapped Miss Bauer’s head.

Eighteen

There was nothing else for me to do, then. I closed the freezer and left the kitchen, left the humming and the odor and the stains. I found the phone in the dining room to my left.

I clicked the receiver, sharply. I said, “Give me the police department, please.”

An answering voice came. “What are you doing here?”

It was Rogers who spoke.

Here?

I dropped the mouthpiece. Rogers wasn’t here. How did he get on the phone? Then I realized. The phone was connected with the vaults under the fox pen!

I knew it now. I knew there wouldn’t be time to make a call, because Rogers was climbing out of the cistern. I heard a clang as I ran toward the porch door. I stood on the patio, at the head of the stairs. I gazed down into darkness. I’d have to take those stairs in the dark now, and I’d have to move fast.

Feet thudded behind me. The porch door banged. Then I saw the flash, heard the sound of the shot. It went sprang! And it was close, too close. I ran forward. The windlass loomed. I could use the cable car.

There was another shot, another flash and spang! I jumped into the car and reached over to trip the windlass. A knife slashed at my wrist. It was too dark, too close for Rogers to use a gun. He had a knife now, and he was cutting the cable.

I reached out, groped, grabbed. He kicked at my face. I found his leg in the darkness, held on. He toppled but I was a second too late. Something snapped, and suddenly the car was plunging down through a gauntlet of branches that stabbed my face. Rogers squirmed in my arms. We were crashing together, clattering, ripping, roaring in a flimsy wooden car that was like an orange crate.

He still had his knife, and the blade grazed my throat. I twisted his arm. He grunted and bit into my shoulder. I pushed him forward in the swaying car. It was black, no moon shone, and the trees clawed me as we rumbled down. He stood up, trying to kick. The car tipped forward.

I threw myself against him. He screamed and went down. Down and over the side of the car. It went over him. And then it began to turn.

I hurtled down through the treetops with his scream in my ears. I fell and rolled, fell and rolled, and the car crashed past me, and then I hit bottom and lay there, covered with a blanket of black.

A long time later, I opened my eyes. That hurt. But it didn’t particularly matter, because everything hurt. My head and neck ached. For a moment I lay still and tried to keep my eyes shut while I sorted and catalogued the varieties of pain.

I raised up, bracing myself on my hands. I was on the ground, but needles were lacerating my hands. Pine needles. Could I stand up? I could try. There was a tree trunk far away: light-years, pain-years away. I hunched forward and my fingers clawed bark, braced the broad surface. I got to my knees, embracing the tree trunk. It must have looked silly, and it hurt like hell.

I stood up, raising myself by degrees. I could hear something snap. It might be twigs; it might be my vertebrae. But I had to stand up, lift up that load of pain. Weary totin’ dat heavy load. And where was the lonesome road? I found it. I walked very slowly, very softly. I bumped into bushes, and it hurt. I bumped into trees, and it hurt. But I kept right on walking, through the thick underbrush.

Deep darkness and crickets all about me. I was walking along the dry bed of a little gully. It was dusty. I smelled the dust when I stumbled and fell. I coughed and got up and walked again. I wiped dust from my face and something sticky came away in my hand. I kept moving. I had to find the car on the side road. Once I found it, I had to drive it. And that would only be the beginning of this night’s work.

The car was parked where I left it. I managed to open the door and climb in. Then I sat for a moment, waiting for my strength to come back. After a while I realized I’d have to wait for a long, long time. So I just started the car and drove away.

At first I drove very slowly and then I drove fast. The road kept winding and winding and I wound with it. Finally I was out of the Canyon and back on the highway. I checked my watch. Only 9 P.M. Only?

But that meant I’d been gone from Caldwell’s for over four hours. And during that time, anything could happen. Miss Bauer was dead. Where was Dr. Sylvestro and the Professor and Jake?

I thought I knew, but I had to make certain. There was just one way to find out. I pulled in at the first filling station. I went to the washroom, first, and cleaned up—trying not to look at my face in the mirror. The cold water felt good on my face and neck and wrists.

Then I lit a cigarette, came out, and used the wall phone. It rang and rang for a long time before somebody picked it up at the other end. I didn’t say anything, didn’t even breathe until I heard the voice. Then I relaxed.

It was Caldwell, all right.

“Hello,” he said.

“You all right?” I asked. “You and Ellen?”

“Yes.”

“Thank God for that! I was afraid the Professor might have figured things out and paid you a call.”

“What happened?”

“It’s too long a story,” I told him. “Tell you when I see you. Miss Bauer is...gone. That’s all you need to know right now. But listen to me carefully. This is important.”

“Right,” he said.

“I want you and Ellen to stay where you are. Call the cops at once—tell them you just had a threatening phone call, or anything you want. Just so you get them to send a squad over to watch your house. The Professor might still show up. Will you do that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going down to Long Beach, to the boardwalk. The way I figure it, that’s the logical place for the Professor to hide your pictures and negatives. He’d never leave them around his home once he thought I’d be up there. So I’m on my way now.

“Tell Ellen not to worry. If I see the Professor or Jake I won’t go in. But I’ve got to make a search and move fast. I’ll call you the minute I’m finished.”

“Right.”

I hung up and went out. I drove away quickly. From now on, everything would depend on timing. Timing and luck. I circled Venice, kept on going. I was beginning to feel better, now. No bones broken, and at least Caldwell and Ellen were safe and under police protection. All I had to do was find the photos. Timing and luck.

Long Beach loomed ahead. I parked, headed for the boardwalk through the tunnel. I kept my eyes open. No sign of Jake, no sign of the Professor, no sign of Dr. Sylvestro—just the usual evening crowd. I thought of my first visit here, months ago. I’d hated the crowd, then. Now I wanted to reach out and touch people as they passed by—touch them, stop them, tell them I needed their help. Well, they couldn’t help me. I didn’t deserve help. This was something I had to do on my own. I had to do it and succeed, so that I could take my place among people once again.

I stood in front of the pitch. The horse-faced woman nodded at me—she’d seen me often enough, by now, to be friendly.

“Anyone around?” I asked. “Jake, or the Professor?”

She shook her head. “Haven’t seen them all evening. I’m just taking it easy until closing time. Jake said he probably wouldn’t show up tonight but I should stick, just in case he needed me.” She turned the page of a comic book.

I moved past her.

“You going in?”

“Just for a minute,” I told her. “Rogers left my script here yesterday, he tells me. I’m on my way into town. Thought I’d stop by and pick it up.”

It was a simple, logical excuse. She looked up from the page and said, “Want I should help?”

“No, that’s all right. I think I know where it is.”

I headed for the entrance, and then I was going down the short, dark passageway. My skin began to tingle in anticipation—I didn’t like dark passageways, however short. But there was no one waiting for me.

The inner room was empty, too. The banners hung listlessly in the background and when I snapped on the dim overhead light I saw nothing but the covered table and the crystal ball. I didn’t expect to see more. There was a second room in back. Here Jake retired when business was slack and brewed himself a pot of coffee over a hot plate.

I poked my head around the corner tentatively. Nobody took a crack at my skull, so I went inside. Chair, cot, chest of drawers, hot plate, shelf—my eyes inventoried and appraised. Where would he hide the pictures?

I went to work. I turned the chair upside down. I overturned the cot and felt the padding thoroughly. I took all the drawers out of the chest. I swept the plates and cups off the shelf. I even inspected the inside of the coffee pot and the bottom of the hot plate. I drew nothing but blanks. Then I went back into the other room. I kicked over both chairs, ripped out the padding. I yanked the cloth off the table, holding the crystal ball carefully in my hand. No photos, no negatives.

I was wrong. They weren’t here, after all. Sighing, I set the crystal ball back on the bare surface of the table. The clouded crystal ball. Too bad it wasn’t real—then I could stare into it and find out where the pictures were.

I could stare into it and—

My fingers scooped it up, twirled the base. It came free. And there, inside the rounded hollow, I found what I’d been looking for: five pictures. Negatives, two sets of negatives. The works. My hands trembled as I set them down on the table and fumbled for a match. It was very hard to strike a light, but I knew I’d make it. The match flared up. Then, all at once, the flame wavered. The flame wavered, because something came up with a rush and a swoop behind me. I tried to turn, but the match went out.

Something came down on the back of my head, and I went out, too.

Nineteen

“Eddie, are you all right?”

It was Ellen’s voice. I opened my eyes and stared up into her face. My head was on her lap. She massaged the side of my neck. The back of my head throbbed. But I could forget about that, as long as Ellen was with me.

Ellen was with me. But that meant—I tried to sit up and almost made it.

“Take it easy,” she said. “Wait a minute.”

But I didn’t have a minute to wait. I had to sit up, even though the walls spun round and round. I had to sit up, focus my eyes, and stare at my surroundings. I had to find out where I was, where we were.

I managed. Ellen and I were on a couch in a small room. The walls were of unfinished board, nailed loosely in slats over a base of stone. I could see the stone through the boards because some of them were badly warped by dampness. The air smelled damp and musty. A low-watt naked light bulb dangled from the ceiling, its wire connection trailing off to another room beyond a low door.

There was only one other piece of furniture—a chair— and Caldwell slumped forward in it. He looked at me, nodded, but did not smile. Ellen wasn’t smiling, either. Come to think of it, neither was I.

Quite a reunion. Quite a surprise. I’d always been sentimental about reunions, but this wasn’t the time or the place. I could see that at a glance.

“So they got you, eh?” I said.

“That’s right,” Caldwell sighed, heavily. “The way I figure it, Jake or the Professor came to and called Doc Sylvestro out at the Canyon. He took care of Miss Bauer. They didn’t figure you coming back out, so you surprised Rogers.

“They thought you’d come to me. And that’s where they went looking. We had the door locked, but Jake got in through the cellar. Before we suspected anything, he had a gun on us and then he and the Professor took over.”

I shook my head, trying to shake off some of the pain and not succeeding very well at it. Apparently this wasn’t my day for success.

“Might have figured it if I hadn’t been so stupid,” I said. “Then I suppose they were already there when I called you?”

“Yes,” Caldwell told me. “They were there, all right. Jake had his gun in my back all the time I was talking to you. I wanted to warn you, somehow, but—he had his gun in my back, and...”

His voice trailed away in a sigh.

“Not your fault,” I said. “What else could you do? So they knew I was going to the boardwalk and they came after me.”

“Sylvestro did,” Ellen said. “The Professor and Jake brought us here in their car. Sylvestro took you.”

“Just where are we?” I asked. Then, “Don’t tell me. I already know. Well, I always wanted to find out what the Professor’s hideout looked like. I always wanted to get down into the cistern. Looks like my wish is granted.”

“Take it easy, Eddie.”

I stood up. The room whirled, but I waited until it was steady once more. “Where are they?” I asked. “And what are they up to? They didn’t tie us up or anything. Maybe we can—”

“Forget it.”

I recognized the shadow even before the bullet head poked around the side of the door. Good old Jake. Good old Jake and his big fat .45.

“The dame’s right,” he said. “Take it easy. Doc and the Professor are having a little conference. They’ll be ready for you in a minute.”

I grinned at him. He grinned back. Then he slouched into the room. I watched him, watched the gun. Both kept coming closer.

“You know something?” Jake asked. I could smell alcohol on his breath, and I could also smell that acrid, metallic odor common to guns. I didn’t like either one, and both were close.

“What’s that?” I watched him and the gun, but I didn’t move, didn’t dare to move.

“That was a dirty trick you pulled on Rogers. We found him in the bushes. A dirty trick. I don’t like dirty tricks.”

The gun was moving, now. It moved fast. I tried to dodge, but he brought the butt down hard on my shoulder.

Ellen gasped and stood up. He swivelled the gun around. “Sit still, sister,” he said. “This’ll only take a minute.” And he brought the gun-butt up again.

“I kind of liked Sid,” he muttered. “That was a dirty trick.” The butt was coming down and I could only watch it. I couldn’t grab the gun, couldn’t move away. I could only stand there and try to shut out the pain as this drunken ape beat me up in front of Ellen. This time I tried to claw at his arms, but the gun came anyway. I braced myself for the stunning blow, gritted my teeth, and then—

Jake grunted. There was a splintering sound and a crash. His face hung over my shoulder for a moment, frozen in numb surprise. Then he toppled to the floor.

Caldwell stood behind him, panting and holding the splintered back of the chair. He’d moved fast and quietly for a man in his condition. But I wasn’t giving him my attention at the moment. I had my eye on the gun. It lay on the floor, next to Jake’s limp hand, right at my feet.

I stooped to pick it up.

“Hold it!”

They were in the doorway, now—the Professor and Doctor Sylvestro. The man in black and the man in white. Both of them had convincing arguments pointed my way.

I stood up again. Doctor Sylvestro came forward and picked up Jake’s gun. Then he knelt and went into his bedside manner. “Bleeding pretty bad,” he said. “Ought to take care of this right away, Otto.”

“Never mind.” The Professor spoke to Sylvestro, but he looked straight at me. “He deserved what he got. I told him to stand guard. He disobeyed. There’s no room in my plans for disobedience.”

The Professor made a courtly gesture with his gun. “Will you all come this way, please?” he solicited. “I have something to say to you.”

We left the room single file and walked down a short corridor. The Professor was in the lead, walking backwards so that he could watch us with his three eyes—the two in his head and the third, deadly little round eye pointing at us from his hand. Sylvestro brought up the rear, and for the second time today, Caldwell had a gun in his back.

We passed a second room at the end of the corridor. I managed to stare into it. A yellow light bulb disclosed the contents of a photographic darkroom, complete with running water and piles of raw film, chemicals and spools of finished negatives.

I thought of the blackmail photos and wondered how many others might repose in this businesslike little establishment. But there was no time for further speculation. We turned the corner and entered the main chamber.

It was nothing but a low-ceilinged vault, carved out of the rock. The cistern stairs were in the corner, and again a single light bulb gleamed. Its radiance was almost lost in the dark curtains that covered the walls from floor to ceiling. I didn’t quite understand their significance until the notion suddenly came to me: the drapes would muffle all sound here and prevent anything being heard in the fox pen or house above. As a matter of fact, part of this layout—the other two rooms and the corridor—would be directly under the house. The roof there wasn’t stone, but the solid wood flooring of the basement.

This wasn’t the time for architectural speculation. It was a time to file around the big round table in the center of the room and take chairs. Sylvestro and the Professor sat on one wedge; the three of us occupied the remaining chairs as a group.

The Professor stared at us. I don’t know what he saw—fear, hopelessness, resignation.

I stared at the Professor. I saw a little, bald-headed psychopath. I saw a brilliant psychotherapist gone wrong. I saw an immobile basilisk carved out of solid ice. I saw the Devil. And then I saw a small, fat, middle-aged expatriate who had somehow broken under suffering; who had taken a twisted road years ago and could not go back. He drove others because he was driven, he issued commands because he was commanded, he meted out punishment because he was punished. All men were suckers to the Professor, because he’d been a sucker, once. And he was still a sucker now. Even if he killed me, even if he killed all of us, he was a sucker. I almost pitied him.

There was no pity for me in his face, in his voice, when he spoke. “There is not much time,” said the Professor. “I will be brief.”

The gun gestured. “No need to discuss the circumstances which bring us together. I regret them as much as you probably do. Mr. Caldwell had no business to get mixed up in this matter. Miss Post, I had hoped to spare you as much as possible. But now there is no choice.”

His eyes were on me again. I didn’t flinch. “As for you, what can I say? I offered you everything, and you betrayed me. From this night on, Y-O-U is finished and your usefulness is at an end. Both Doctor Sylvestro and myself will have to seek another field of operation.”

“Come on,” said Doctor Sylvestro. “We don’t need a funeral oration, do we? Thought you said you’d be brief.”

“Allow me please to explain,” the Professor answered. “I must tell these people what we have worked out, in order that they may...cooperate.”

“They’ll cooperate, all right,” said Sylvestro. “I guarantee that.” He gestured with his gun for emphasis, although it was unnecessary.

“The Doctor and I have spent some time discussing just what we can do and how we can move to rectify tonight’s mistakes. I think we have found a solution.” The Professor smiled.

“It will require your assistance, however. Mr. Caldwell, you will play the role of witness.”

Caldwell’s knuckles gripped the table. “Witness to what?” he muttered.

“A murder.”

“Now, look here—”

“Might I remind you that I still retain possession of certain pictures and negatives? Besides which, you have no choice. You’re here, and you’ll have to watch. The chances are, you’ll never need to testify as to what you see.”

The Professor turned his gaze to Ellen. “As for you, my dear, your role is equally passive. You are to be a murderess. Oh, you needn’t look so shocked—you won’t actually kill anyone. It’s just that you’ll have to put your hand on the gun for a moment, after it is used and safely emptied. We shall require your fingerprints.”

Ellen’s eyes entreated me. I half-rose, but Doctor Sylvestro’s gun was watching me.

“Again, the chances are you will never be brought to trial for the crime. Because I have good reason to believe that I can sell the murder weapon quite promptly—to your uncle.”

The picture was beginning to take shape, now. He had his blackmail scheme worked out after all. In spite of all that had happened, all the obstacles in his path, the Professor never faltered or failed. He’d use Caldwell as a witness, frame Ellen with a murder, and then go to her uncle and bleed him dry. A quick touch and then he’d run.

All he needed now was his victim. And that answer came, too. The Professor looked at me.

“I don’t need to tell you what role you’re going to play here tonight,” he murmured. “It is not something I had intended—but you’ve chosen the part yourself. Your actions make it imperative and inevitable.”

Ellen began to sob. “Do something, Eddie. Don’t let him kill you. Do something!”

Caldwell patted her shoulder. The Professor’s gun followed his every move. Sylvestro kept me covered.

“Let’s get it over with,” he said.

The Professor nodded slowly.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he murmured.

Sylvestro’s gun came up. The hand holding it across the table was steady. I watched his left eye. It was beginning to squint. I watched his index finger. It was beginning to squeeze. I watched the muzzle of the gun, waited for the explosion to come.

Then I braced my feet and my knees went up, hard, and my arms shot under and the side of the table rose in the air.

Ellen screamed as the gun went off, and then Sylvestro screamed. The flash blinded me for an instant, but I caught sight of the red blur which had once been Sylvestro’s face. The Professor was on the floor, his shoulder pinned by the table. Caldwell bent over him, and the Professor tugged his arm free, fired. The shot went wild, found another target—the light bulb.

Suddenly we were in darkness. I grabbed Ellen’s arm. “Quick!” I panted. “Over here.” We could hear Caldwell gasping, struggling with the Professor. Then came a thud and silence.

“Caldwell!” I shouted. “You all right?”

The answer was a burst of flame. The shot echoed down the narrow corridor. I ran for it, dragging Ellen behind me. We crouched in the corner of the photographic darkroom. I smashed the yellow bulb.

I could hear Ellen gasping. I could hear slow footsteps dragging across the floor. They came down the corridor, closer and closer.

Ellen and I moved back against the table. I groped amidst the chemicals in the darkness, hoping to find something to use as a weapon. The hanging negatives brushed the back of my head.

I picked up a glass jar, held it ready. The footsteps were close, now. They paused in the doorway.

“I give you one chance to come out quietly,” said the Professor. “Otherwise I must shoot. And at this range, I will not miss.”

He was telling the truth. I thought of Ellen beside me. I thought of a .45 slug tearing into her flesh, ripping and rending. Better to come out quietly, take my medicine. I’d done my best and failed. The Professor never failed.

“I’ll count to three,” said the Professor. “One...two...”

I didn’t wait for three. I threw the glass jar forward with all my might. At the same time I pulled Ellen down on the floor; at the same time the Professor’s gun shredded the darkness with a fountain of flame. He screamed.

The jar had either hit him or smashed on the wall behind him. It didn’t matter. The acid, whatever it contained, had splashed. Splashed over his face and throat and chest, splashed and eaten. He writhed on the floor, and we could see him.

We could see him. I turned, swiftly. The bullet had struck the dry negatives hanging from clips on a wire. They flared now. One of them dropped to the table, and a thread of fire ran to the photographic paper.

“Get out, fast!” I shouted. “This place is full of chemicals!”

We ran back into the other room. Caldwell was groping in the darkness next to the cistern stairs.

“Can you make it?” I panted.

He mumbled an assent. “Then hurry, start climbing.” I boosted Ellen up the rungs. A muffled explosion sounded from behind us, and suddenly the darkness was suffused with acrid fumes.

Caldwell was at the top of the cistern now. The lid came off. The rush of fresh air swept through the chambers below us. The fire billowed and rose. Caldwell took Ellen’s arms and I lifted her legs from below. She was out. I climbed swiftly, half-suffocated by the rising smoke. Another crash sounded from below.

Then I was out, I could breathe fresh air, I could look up at the stars as they whirled around calmly and coldly, calmly and coldly.

Whirling calmly and coldly, I passed out.

Twenty

Ellen drove me to the beach house and put me to bed. I stayed there for the next two days. I had a fever, and nightmares, and a constant need for her hand on my forehead, her voice in my ear, saying, “It’s all right, Eddie. Go to sleep, now, and rest.”

Gradually I managed to pull out of it. On the third day she showed me the newspaper stories about the fire at Vista Canyon.

The house had burned: the fire had risen through the basement over the photo lab, and by the time an alarm was given it was too late. Jake, Sylvestro and the Professor were presumed to have perished in the flames. As for Miss Bauer—they must have disposed of her remains immediately after I found the deep-freeze, because there was no mention of her at all. Rogers was at the bottom of the hill, his neck broken. They surmised he’d been fleeing from the fire in the cable car when the cable broke.

Of course an investigation was in progress. Police were “linking Otto Hermann, well-known psychological consultant, with an organized cult-racket run from his hideout in the Canyon house.”

Apparently they hadn’t found much to go on. The fire had taken care of that. My name wasn’t mentioned. Judson Roberts wasn’t tied into this deal, and Eddie Haines never had been. He never need be.

I’ve gone back to the office and closed it up. May, the secretary, had already shown enough sense to disappear. She left the Judson Roberts record file behind, though, and I destroyed it completely. Since there’s no connection between Judson Roberts and Eddie Haines, officially, I’m in the clear.

I can leave town with Ellen now, and nobody will ever know what happened. I can even go to work for Caldwell if I like—he’s grateful enough, and he has reason to keep his mouth shut. On the other hand, I can spill the works. I can go to the authorities and lay the whole mess on the table.

There’s no need to “confess” anything. I don’t feel that compulsion. My own part in the racket was no better and no worse than the role played by thousands who still operate their phony “self-help” swindles today.

But that’s just the point. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. Maybe it would help someone if I told the truth. Maybe it would make it a little easier for the suckers and a little harder for those who prey upon them. I have no illusions about breaking up the whole system, but it might do some good.

Ellen and I can go away, today. Or I can stay here and face the music, risk taking a rap if they want to pin one on me for what happened. Writing it all down here, the way I have these past weeks, I’ve been trying to make up my mind. I can turn it over to the authorities tomorrow. Or I can burn it, the way the Professor was burned, the way the past was burned.

What should I do? Will I be a seeker or a sucker? And which is which? I think I’m going to leave those questions for Ellen to decide. She’ll know what’s best for me and for both of us.

Yes, I’ll ask her. And whatever she says, I’ll do. Just as long as she remembers to call me “Eddie.”