One of the pair of shotguns which usually hung above the fireplace was missing.
Still clasping the weighty cardboard carton, he backtracked and went into the living room. The support brackets were still in place, so the gun had not fallen and bounced out of sight behind a chair. The only other explanation which sprang to mind was that the house had been burgled—but why would a thief not have taken both weapons?
“No, you haven’t been robbed,” said a man’s voice from the innermost corner of the room.
The box slipped from Jerome’s arms as he spun to his left and saw the dark-suited, apple-cheeked old man who was holding the missing shotgun. Time almost stopped for Jerome. He saw the box drift towards the floor in slow motion, its contents shifting as they became relatively weightless. He took in and identified every detail of the intruder—the abundant silver hair, the gold watch chain across the vest, the large square hands. He heard the box strike the floor, then came the first sledgehammer beat from his heart. And it hurt. There was a roaring in his ears and it seemed that the next heartbeat was never going to come…
“Don’t be stupid,” the old man commanded, laser-eyed. Be calm, I tell you! Breathe easy!”
Jerome sucked in air, and part of him was dully astonished to feel a curious placidity flood through his system. It was as though a hypodermic of powerful tranquillizer had gone straight into an artery. He backed away from the other man, no longer in shock but in a way more deeply afraid than before.
“You’re Pitman,” he accused. “How did you do that?”
Doctor Pitman gave a paternal smile. “It’s easy when you know how. More important, young man, how long is it since you’ve had a medical check-up?”
“Five or six years. I’m not sure. I don’t like having check-ups.”
“Why not?”
“They only try to find things wrong. I prefer not to…” Jerome broke off, suddenly outraged by the sheer enormity of what was happening. “What is this? What the hell is this? What are you doing in my house?”
“I’m only returning the courtesy, Ray—you were in my house this morning.” Pitman continued smiling, showing teeth which still looked healthy in spite of his seventy-odd years. “I thought you wanted to talk to me.”
“I did, but…” Jerome resisted an impulse to back away. “There’s something wrong here.”
“That’s good, Ray. You’re an intelligent man and your brain is functional again—which will make things easier for both of us. I was concerned about you a minute ago.”
“I don’t want your concern.”
“I know,” Pitman said. “What you really want is to find out how I knew about your visit when the only person you met is dead.”
Jerome nodded. “That’s enough for starters. How did you know?”
“It’s very simple, Ray.” Pitman paused as though for dramatic effect, apparently relishing the moment, like a club bore spinning out a dull story. “I’m telepathic. I can tell what people are thinking.”
Jerome almost moaned aloud with relief. All thoughts of Pitman’s connection with the horrors of spontaneous human combustion were banished from his mind by the glad realization that he had been totally wrong about the doctor. The strange circumstances of their meeting, the admittedly impressive hypnotic trick with the eyes, the grand manner—all these things had combined to create in him the feeling that the doctor was a near-superman, dangerously gifted. Now he was revealed as yet another crackpot, someone a rational man could outwit and manipulate. The manipulation would have to be done very carefully because of the shotgun, but even with allowances for that the situation was not as bad as he had feared. Pitman was merely holding the gun, not aiming it at him, and in all probability had not even been able to find the shells.
“I did find the shells,” Pitman said gently. “The pantry was one of the first places I thought of searching.”
Having grasped the lifeline, Jerome had no intention of letting go. “Beautifully done,” he said. “I wasn’t even aware of glancing at the gun.”
“I’m glad you’ve got a logical turn of mind,” Pitman replied. “You must realize, my boy, that my problem has always been the exact opposite of that facing phoney mind-readers. They go to great lengths to convince researchers that they can do things they can’t, whereas I’ve always had to conceal my ability. I’ve often wondered how long it would take me, should the need arise, to persuade a sceptic that I really am telepathic.”
Jerome sniffed. “I doubt if either of us can spare that many decades.”
“You’ve also got a rather acid tongue, haven’t you, Ray?” Pitman paused to give Jerome a look of fatherly reproach. “No, I’d say the job could be done in about one minute flat. Happily, the more rational a person is in his scepticism, the harder it is for him to ignore first-class evidence. Isn’t that so?”
“You’ve got the…ball.” Jerome had been about to mention the gun and had changed his mind on the grounds that it was better to keep the doctor’s thoughts on other things. Part of him marvelled at his own resilience, the ease with which he had slipped into a role implanted in his consciousness by a hundred teleplays. He had never dealt with a genuine madman before, but the technique was almost instinctive—play it cool, establish a bond, wait your chance.
“Here you are, Ray—the sort of evidence for which Rhine would have given his right arm.” Pitman nodded at the davenport in front of the fireplace. “Perhaps you’d like to sit down?”
Jerome shook his head. “I’ll stand.”
“Very well. We’ll make this very simple. I want you to think of a series of objects and I’ll tell you what they are. Is that all right?”
“It’s all right with me,” Jerome said compliantly, realizing he would be called upon to exercise some nice judgment. Obviously he would have to give the doctor a good score to humour him, but exactly how good could it be before the doctor’s suspicions were aroused?
Pitman made an impatient gesture. “Start now. Think of something.”
“Sure.” Jerome assumed an earnest expression while he dealt with a new worry. Had it all been too easy so far? Insane people could be devious and clever—which meant that Pitman could be setting an elaborate trap. It might very well be that telling him he had correctly divined a thought would send him into a homicidal rage.
“I’m not getting anything,” Pitman said sharply. “You must focus your thoughts on some concrete object.”
“Sorry—I’m not used to this.” Jerome, in the spirit of someone reluctantly joining a childish game, visualized a farm tractor.
Pitman said, “A tractor.”
Jerome blinked. He had driven through a lot of farming country to reach Parson’s Lake, had seen quite a few tractors, and the doctor must have done the same. The trick was to be less predictable. He pondered for a moment then visualized a New York taxi.
Pitman said, “A yellow cab.”
That had been another form of transport, too closely linked to a tractor. Jerome thought again, taking longer this time, and imagined himself looking at the Mona Lisa.
Pitman said, “The Mona Lisa.”
The most famous painting in the world. The best-known single object in the world. He should have chosen a really obscure painting—like the faded watercolour of a tea clipper which had hung above the piano in his Aunt May’s front room in Albany.
Pitman said, “A picture of a sailing ship.”