Nightmare Alley (17 page)

The next day Mother got breakfast for him. He said nothing and neither did she. But she wasn’t a grownup any more. Or he wasn’t a kid any more. There were no more grownups. They lied when they got scared, just like anybody. Everybody was alike only some were bigger. He ate very little and wiped his mouth and said, “Excuse me,” politely. Mother didn’t ask him to do any jobs. She didn’t say anything at all.

He tied Gyp up to the kennel and set out for the woods where the old loggers’ road cut into them. He moved in a dream and the shine of the sun seemed to hold back its warmth. At the top of the Glade he paused and then slid doggedly down its slope. Around him the trees rose straight and innocent in the sun and the sound of a woodpecker came whirring through them. The grass was crushed in one place; close by Stan found a handkerchief with “C” embroidered in a corner.

He looked at it with a crawling kind of fascination and then scooped out a hole in the earth and buried it.

When he got back he kept catching himself thinking about things as if nothing had happened, then stopping and the wave of desolation would sweep over him.

Mother was in her room when he came upstairs.

But something was lying big and square on his bed. He raced in.

There it was. The “Number 3” set—Marvello Magic. A full hour’s entertainment, suitable for stage, club, or social gathering, $15.00. Its cover was gay with a picture of Mephistopheles making cards rise from a glass goblet. On the side of the box was a paper sticker which read, “Myers’ Toy and Novelty Mart” and the address downtown. The corners of the box were shiny with imitation metal bindings, printed on the paper.

Stan knelt beside the bed, gazing at it. Then he threw his arms around it and beat his forehead against one of the sharp corners until the blood came.

Outside the trolley had approached and slid under the hotel window, groaning its lonely way through the night. Stan was trembling. He threw back the covers, switched on the bed light and stumbled into the bathroom. From his fitted case he took a vial and shook a white tablet into his hand. He found the tooth glass, swallowed the tablet with a gulp of tepid water.

When he got back in bed it was several minutes before the sedative began to work and he felt the peaceful grogginess stealing up to his brain.

“Christ, why did I have to go thinking of that?” he said aloud. “After all these years, why did I have to see her? And Christmas only a week off.”

“S
TAN
, honey, I’m scared.”

He slowed the car and bent to look at the road signs. Sherwood Park—8 miles. “We’re nearly there. What are you scared of? Because these people have a lot of jack? Whistle the eight bars of our opener and you’ll snap out of it.”

“I’ve tried that, Stan. Only—gosh, it’s silly. But how’ll I know which fork to grab? The way they lay out these fancy dinners looks like Tiffany’s window.”

The Great Stanton turned off the highway. Late light of summer evening lay over the sky; his headlights threw back the pale undersides of leaves as the roadster sped up the lane. On either side elms stood in columns of dignity.

“Nothing to it. Watch the old dame at the head of the table. Just stall until she dives in and she’ll cue you on the hardware. My mother’s folks had barrels of jack once. The old lady knew her way around. That’s what she used to tell my old man whenever they went anywhere.”

The house rose out of the dusk behind a sweep of lawn as big as a golf course. At the door a Negro butler with tiny brass buttons said, “Let me rest your coat and hat, sir.”

“My name is Stanton. Stanton the Mentalist.”

“Oh. Mis’ Harrington say to show you right upstairs. She say you be wanting to have dinner upstairs, sir.”

Stan and Molly followed him. Through an archway they could see women in evening dresses. A man in a dinner jacket stood with his back to a dark, enormous fireplace. He held a cocktail glass, gripping it by the foot instead of the stem.

The room was on the top floor, rear; the ceiling slanted.

“Dinner’ll be served right soon, sir. Anything you want, just pick up that phone and push button eight on the box. That’s butler’s pantry.”

When he had closed the door Stan locked it. “Relax, kid,” he said wryly, “we’re eating private. Let’s get loaded first and try out the batteries.”

He opened their traveling bags; Molly drew her dress over her head and hung it in a closet. From one of the bags she shook out a black net evening gown laden with sequins. “Hold the wires, honey, so they won’t catch in my hair.”

Expertly Stan eased the dress over her head. It was high-cut in the back with a ruff. He took a curved metal band attached to a flat earphone and slipped it over her head while the girl held her hair forward. When she threw it back the hair covered her ears so that the compact headset was completely hidden. Stan reached into the low V of the neck, found a miniature plug, and connected the headset. From his own suitcase he took his tails and began to stud a dress shirt.

“Go slow on that makeup, kid. Remember—you’re not working behind foots now. And don’t do any bumps or grinds while you’re supposed to be hypnotized.”

Standing in his underwear, he put on a linen vest with pockets like a hunting jacket’s. They bulged with flat flashlight batteries. A wire dangled; strapping it to his leg in three places, he carried it down and drew on a black silk sock, feeding the wire through a tiny hole. His shoe followed, then the wire plugged into a socket at the side of the shoe. Finally he put on his shirt. Moistening his fingers, he rubbed them on a handkerchief, took from a wax paper envelope a spotless white tie, and tied it, frowning in the mirror of the dresser. In his coat a spider web of fine wire was sewed into the lining as an aerial; another plug connected it with the hidden vest which held the transmitter.

The Great Stanton adjusted his suspenders, then buttoned his waistcoat; he gave his hair a touch with the brushes and handed Molly a whiskbroom so that she could dust his shoulders for him.

“Gee, honey, you look handsome.”

“Consider yourself kissed good and hard. I don’t want to get smeared up. For God’s sake take some of that lipstick off.”

Under the toes of his left foot was the reassuring bulge of the contact key. Stan reached under his white vest and threw an invisible switch. He walked across the floor. “Get any buzz?”

“Not yet.”

“Now.” He pressed hard with his toes inside his shoe; but Molly made no sign. “God damn! If I’d been able to get a line on who was going to be at this shindig I’d have worked a straight crystal routine. There’s too many things to come loose in this damn wireless gimmick.” He ran his hands over the girl’s dress, checking. Then he said, “Hold up your hair.” The headset plug had slipped out. Stan spread its minute prongs with the point of a nail file and rasped them bright with irritable strokes. He connected it and Molly rearranged her hair.

On the other side of the room he again pressed with his left toes.

“I’ve got it, honey. Nice and clear. Now walk and see if it buzzes when you don’t want it to.”

Stan paced back and forth, keeping his weight off his toes, and Molly said she couldn’t hear a thing, only when he wiggled his toes and made the contact.

“Okay. Now I’m in another room. What are the tests?”

“A card, a color, and a state.”

“Right. What’s this?”

Molly closed her eyes. From the earphone came a faint buzz three times—spades. Then a long buzz and three short ones—five plus three is eight. “Eight of spades.”

“Right.”

A tap from the door made Stan hiss for her to keep quiet.

“Dinner is served, sir. Mis’ Harrington send her respects. She’ll let you know on the phone when it’s time for you all to come down. Better let me open up this bottle now, sir; we’s powerful busy downstairs.” He eased the cork out, his polished fingers dark against the napkin.

Stan felt in his pocket for a quarter and caught himself just in time. The butler bowed out.

“Gee, lookit, Stan! Champagne!”

“One glass for you, Cahill. We’re working. If you load up on that stuff you’ll be calling the old girl ‘dearie.’ ”

“Aw, Stan.”

He poured, put a few drops in his own glass, then carried the bottle into the bathroom and emptied the rest, bubbling gaily, down the drain of the washbowl.

From the rear Mrs. Bradburn Harrington looked like a little girl, but, Christ, what a crow when you see her head-on, Stan thought. She tapped a brass gong until the babble died. “Now I have a real treat for us. Mr. Stanton, whom I’m sure many of us have seen in the theater, will show us some wonderful things. I don’t know just what they’re going to do so I’ll let Mr. Stanton tell you all about it himself.”

Stan stood in the hall beside Molly. He took a deep breath and smoothed down his hair with both hands. The butler suddenly appeared beside him, holding a silver plate. On it was a slip of paper, folded. “Mis’ Harrington tell me to give you this, sir.”

Stan took it, unfolded it deftly with one hand, and read it at a single glance. He crushed it and swept it into his pocket, his face darkening. Molly whispered, “What’s the matter, hon? What’s happened?”

“Nothing!” he spat out savagely. “It’s in the bag.”

From the drawing room Mrs. Harrington’s voice continued, “… and it will all be very exciting, I’m sure. May I present Mr. Stanton.”

Stan drew a breath and walked in. He bowed to the hostess, again to the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, what we are about to do may have many explanations. I shall offer none. In the realm of the human mind science has hardly scratched the surface. Most of its mysteries lie hidden from us yet. But down through the years certain people have had unusual gifts. I take no credit for mine.” This time his bow was hardly more than a lowering of the eyes. This audience was the top. This was class. With a momentary shock Stan recognized a famous novelist, tall, slightly stooped, half bald. One of the season’s debutantes, who had already made the papers with an affair involving a titled émigré, sat primly holding a highball on her knee, her white dress so low-cut that Stan fancied he could see the aureoles of her nipples.

“My family was Scotch originally, and the Scotch are said to possess strange faculties.” The gray head of a stern-faced old judge nodded. “My ancestors used to call it ‘second sight.’ I shall call it simply—mentalism. It is a well-known fact that the minds of two people can establish a closer communication than words. A
rapport
. I discovered such a person several years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present my assistant, Miss Cahill.”

Molly swept in smiling, with her long stride, and rested her hand lightly on Stan’s bent forearm. The debutante turned to a young man sitting on the arm of her chair. “Friend of yours, Diggie?” He closed her lips with his hand, staring fascinated at Molly.

Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted. The old judge quietly took off his reading glasses.

“If I may trouble you, I should like to have Miss Cahill recline on that sofa.”

There was a scurry of people finding other seats and a man snickered. Stan led Molly to the sofa and arranged a pillow behind her. She lifted her feet and he tucked the folds of the sequinned gown up from the floor. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket he drew out a ball of rock crystal the size of a marble and held it above the level of her eyes. “Concentrate.”

The room was still at last.

“Your eyelids are growing heavy. Heavy. Heavy. You cannot lift them. You are falling asleep. Sleep. Sleep …”

Molly let her breath out in a long sigh and the lines about her mouth relaxed. Stan picked up her hand and laid it in her lap. She was limp. He turned to the company: “I have placed her in deep hypnosis. It is the only way I know by which telepathy can be made sure. I shall now pass among you, and I shall ask you to show me a number of objects, such as jewels, theater tickets, anything you wish.”

He turned back to the reclining girl. “Miss Cahill, I shall touch a number of objects in this room. As I touch them you are to describe them. Is that clear?”

Dreamily she nodded. Her voice was a whisper. “Yes. Objects. Describe …”