I stiffened.
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘Now, don’t get upset.’ He grinned. ‘You did tell me you set her off so she fell and hit her head, didn’t you?’ I turned cold.
‘I imagined she had come out of that.’
‘Doesn’t look as if she has, does it? Anyway, we’ll know something with luck, after the specialist has seen her.’
‘Does Vidal know?’
‘Not yet, but he will have to be told. Fontane will call him sometime today.’
I moved to the door.
‘Let me know what happens,’ I said. ‘It worries me that I could be responsible.’
‘I wouldn’t worry, old boy. If it wasn’t you, it could be someone else. After all, people are always snapping their fingers, aren’t they?’
I went up to my office to find Connie already at her typewriter. We exchanged greetings and I looked through the briefs that had arrived. I was worried sick by what Dyer had told me. In an impulsive moment, I decided, no matter how great the risk, I had to see Val.
I gave Connie some work to do, told her I would be back in a few minutes and left the office. I looked down the long corridor that led to Val’s bedroom. Then I walked fast to the door, paused, listened, heard nothing and tapped lightly. There was no reply to my tap.
With my heart pounding, I opened the door silently and looked into the room.
Alone, Val lay in the big bed.
‘Val?’
Leaving the door ajar, I crossed the room to the bed and looked down at her. I received a shock. She looked so thin and white, and her fixed, blank stare frightened me.
‘Val!’
She didn’t move and her stare remained fixed.
I knew every second I remained in the room was dangerous. Any moment someone could come in and what excuse could I give for being there? If I had put her in this trance by snapping my fingers could I not get her out of it by snapping my fingers twice as Dyer had told me he had done? Dare I experiment with something I knew so little about?
‘Val!’
Still no response.
I touched her arm.
Still no response.
I had to do it! I lifted my hand, hesitated, then snapped my fingers: once, twice.
Her reaction was immediate. She gave a convulsive shudder. Life came back into her eyes. She started up, staring at me.
‘It’s all right, darling... it’s me... Clay.’
She reared back, her hands lifting and shaking.
‘Val! It’s me... Clay!’
‘You’re not Clay!’ Her voice was low: a croak. ‘Get away from me! I know who you are, you devil! Get away from me!’
The tenor in her eyes, the terror in her croaking voice drove me to the door.
‘Get out!’ Her voice was now shrill. ‘Get out!’
Shaking, cold and shocked, I moved into the corridor and quietly closed the door. I stood for some moments, leaning against the wall, feeling sick and desperate. I had lost her! She now imagined I was Vidal!
I walked unsteadily down the corridor, down the stairs and out to my car.
Once in the car, I tried to control myself. I sat there for some five minutes then, making the effort. I started the car engine.
I had to kill him!
But first to buy a gun!
I got off the Turnpike onto East street and found parking in a lot behind a rundown hotel. I walked north towards the Harlem quarter. As I progressed I was aware of hostile stares. I didn’t give a damn. I walked my way, shoving through the blacks on the congested street, my eyes searching for a pawnshop.
At the corner of Southern Beach road I found one. I pushed open the double swing doors and walked into a big space that smelt of black people, dirty feet and despair.
Facing me was a long counter at which stood, in hopeless resignation, some thirty or forty black men and women. Before them on the counter were bundles which they clutched with possessive fear while three black clerks moved up and down behind the counter with indifferent, arrogant expressions.
I stood hesitating. Then I saw a black hand waving to me. I walked away from the counter to a small cubicle, boxed in on either side but open at the back and front.
An old Negro in a black threadbare alpaca coat and a grey flannel shirt with a string tie smiled at me from behind the counter. He had a high domed forehead. His crinkly white hair receded and his bushy white eyebrows made shades for his eyes.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said. ‘There is something, sir?’ I moved close to him.
‘I want to buy a gun,’ I said.
What would he do? Send for the police? Refuse me? I was beyond caring.
‘Yes, sir.’ His expression conveyed I had asked for nothing more ordinary than a flower vase or an alarm clock. ‘A gun? Perhaps a sporting rifle, sir? We have a selection. I have a.22 rifle that has just come in. Would that be of interest, sir?’
‘I want a pistol.’ I wished I knew something about guns. ‘Not a rifle.’
He smiled, showing big yellow teeth like the keys of an old piano.
‘Yes... so many people now want handguns. It is the new way of life. We must protect ourselves. Certainly sir, I can offer you something exceptional.’ The black eyes moved over me, up and down, taking stock. ‘The price comes a little high, but this gun is far from ordinary: a police .38 automatic: a beautiful weapon!’
I didn’t know what to say. All I wanted was a gun capable of killing Vidal, but this I couldn’t tell this old Negro.
‘Well...’
‘Would you be interested at one hundred and thirty dollars?’ The black eyes stared fixedly at me. ‘A beautiful weapon, sir.’
‘Show it to me.’
He went away and after several minutes, while I stood with my back to the shop, feeling curious eyes boring into me, he came to the counter and laid a gun before me.
I stared down at it. It meant nothing to me. It was a gun. I felt a cold tremor run through me as I regarded the short barrel, the trigger and the blue metallic finish.
‘You live in this neighbourhood, sir?’ the old Negro asked. ‘It has become a sad district. Thirty years ago, I well remember how pleasant it was. But now, people come to me in fear. They want guns. They need to protect themselves. Now with a gun like this...’ He picked up the gun and fondled it. ‘You could sleep peacefully. A knock on your door, the sound of breaking glass, a shadow across your bed... with a gun like this you would feel secure.’
‘I know nothing about guns,’ I said huskily. ‘Please show me.’
Ten minutes later. I walked out into the heat and the wind. For the first time in my life, I had a loaded gun in my hip pocket.
I got back to the Vidal residence at 10.45. As I parked my car I saw Dr. Fontane and a short fat man I guessed would be the specialist coming down the steps from the house. They were talking together. Fontane, bending forward, his birdlike face worried, hanging on the words of the fat man. They got in Fontane’s car and drove away.
Dyer now appeared. Seeing me, he came down the steps and joined me.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked.
‘I had things to do. What’s the news?’
‘Foxed them both. The official verdict is a nervous breakdown. These quacks! Anyway, Fontane has talked to Tiny. He’s coming back.’
A sudden squall of rain and wind made him retreat up the steps and into the hall. I followed him. We both paused as rain poured out of the sky.
‘Hell!’ Dyer said. ‘I think we’re in for it. Did you hear the hurricane warning half an hour ago?’
I couldn’t care less about hurricanes.
‘A nervous breakdown?’
He shrugged.
‘That covers everything, doesn’t it?’ He was staring up at the now leaden sky, ‘They say this is going to be the biggest blow we have had since 1928. I’ll have to see these lazy tykes get busy battening down.’