I talked to my lawyer, I talked to all of them: the state’s attorney, the judge, the twelve good men and true. They looked like the people I’d seen on the beach. Lorna screamed at them, but they took her out of court.
The matron who dragged her away was “Mrs. Hubbard.” She had the same power, and I could see she was able to foretell my future. They could all do that. The jury did and then the judge did.
I saw the Professor at the last. He was better than a priest. I watched myself pleading, couldn’t he slip me something? Just one little favor, that’s all I asked, just for him to slip me something so I wouldn’t have to suffocate.
It was no use. Nothing was any use. No wonder my legs wouldn’t work, no wonder they had to drag me, no wonder I fell as they took me into the gas chamber. That gas chamber—nobody could hear me scream, and there was a hissing, and then I coughed. I choked, my meal came up and my lungs came up and my chest burned with a million novo-cained needles. Only this was different.
I watched them carry me and cut me. What was left went into the wagon. The grave diggers get union pay, and it’s steady work. The Professor brought flowers. Charlie didn’t want my body. But the Professor was kind, he brought flowers, and he was the only one who came. Then it rained that night on my grave, and the flowers melted into a soggy mess. Like the soggy mess inside the box.
But how could I know that if I was dead? I couldn’t be dead. This was all out of my imagination. I was safe in bed in the apartment. Safe until tomorrow, when they found out.
I opened my eyes, then fell forward into a pool of deeper sleep. Somewhere in that pool I found the body of Mike Drayton. We drowned there together...
Coming up out of the darkness, into the sunlight, I felt like a new man. A man who needed a shower, a shave, breakfast, a cigarette.
I had them all. But when I lit the cigarette, my hand trembled. The old yoga wasn’t working for Judson Roberts today.
I wondered if Professor Hermann was working. I wondered whether he had dumped the body in the ocean, tried to make it look like suicide by drowning. I wondered if something had gone wrong, if they were looking for me. Better pull down the blinds, quick, and—
No. That was wrong. I must trust him. I had to trust him. He told me to wait, that he’d get in touch with me. So I’d wait.
I read a little bit about totemism and tried to figure out how Lorna Lewis was taking it, if she’d gone to the studio today. I took some notes, and all the while I kept thinking what if Miss Bauer had been right, if resuscitation might have worked.
I threw down the book and asked myself what her angle was—why the Professor had hired her instead of a smart, fast-talking female who was never at a loss for a bright remark, a file folder, or a fresh box of Kleenex.
I picked up Flugel’s Psychology of Clothes and began to read about canes as symbols of personal extension, and wondered what Ellen Post was doing this fine day. Did she have a hangover? Did she remember me? I tried to picture her, place her in a setting. A hall bedroom? Obviously not the place. An apartment like this one? Wrong, again. A big house? Room next to her parents? Did she have money, live alone?
Why hadn’t I found out more about her, gotten her address, made a date?
Lorna said she was a lush. They were all lushes, according to Lorna—she lived in a world of them. Lushes. Hopheads. Queers. Crackpots. This town was full of them. People with quirks and delusions and dreams. People with money. The kind of people I was supposed to take over the jumps, if I got out of this jam.
But Ellen Post was different. Like ripe apricots. Charlie and I used to eat them when we were kids, a whole bagful at a time. They were soft and sweet.
This was no time to think about it. This was no time to read about canes as phallic symbols, either. I wanted to know what was going on. I had to know. Why, it was past noon already!
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.”