Nightmare Alley (31 page)

Inside the concrete shack a man in a gray military shirt, a Sam Browne belt and a dark blue cap, was sitting at a desk. He was reading a tabloid; when he looked up Stan read his life history from the face: Thrown off some small city police force for excessive brutality; or caught in a shakedown and sent up—the face bore the marks of the squad room and the prison, one on top of the other.

“Carlisle? Waiting for you. Sign this card.” It projected from a machine like a cash register. Stan signed. Then the cop said, “Pull the card out.” Stan grasped its waxed surface and pulled. “Watch out—don’t tear it. Better use both hands.”

The Rev. Carlisle used both hands. But what was it all about? He handed the card to Thickneck, then realized that he had left them a record of his fingerprints on its waxed surface.

“Now step inside here and I’ll go through the regulations.”

It was a small dressing room.

“Take off your coat and hand it to me.”

“May I ask what this is for?”

“Orders of Mr. Anderson, Head of Plant Security.”

“Does Mr. Grindle know about this?”

“Search me, Reverend; you can ask him. Now give me your coat. Anderson is tightening up on regulations lately.”

“But what are you searching for?”

Stumpy fingers felt in pockets and along seams. “Sabotage, Reverend. Nothing personal. The next guy might be a senator, but we’d have to frisk him.” The examination included the Rev. Carlisle’s shoes, his hatband and the contents of his wallet. As the cop was returning the vest a pencil fell out; he picked it up and handed it to the clergyman who stuck it in his pocket. On his way out Stan gave the cop a cigar. It was immediately locked up in the green metal desk, and the Great Stanton wondered if it was later tagged, “Bribe offered by the Rev. Stanton Carlisle. Exhibit A.”

At the door of the plant a thin, quick-moving man of thirty-odd with black patent-leather hair stepped out and introduced himself. “My name’s Anderson, Mr. Carlisle. Head of Plant Security.” The left lapel of his blue serge suit bulged ever so slightly. “The committee is waiting for you.”

Elevators. Corridors. Plaster walls pale green. A white spot painted on the floor in all the corners. “They’ll never spit in a corner painted white.” The hum of machines and the clank of yard engines outside. Then one glass-paneled door opening on a passage walled with oak. Carpets on the floor. The reception room belonged in an advertising agency; it was a sudden burst of smooth, tawny leather and chrome.

“This way, Mr. Carlisle.”

Anderson went ahead, holding open doors. The directors’ room was a long one with a glass roof but no windows. The table down its center must have been built there; certainly it could never be taken out now.

Grindle was shaking his hand and presenting him to the others: Dr. Downes, plant physician; Mr. Elrood of the legal staff; Dr. Gilchrist, the industrial psychologist, also on the plant staff; Professor Dennison, who taught philosophy at Grindle College; Mr. Prescott (“You know Mrs. Prescott, I believe, through the church.”) and Mr. Roy, both directors of the company. With Anderson and Grindle they made eight—Daniel Douglas Home’s traditional number for a séance. Grindle knew more than he let on. But didn’t his kind always?

At the far end of the table—it seemed a city block away—stood a rectangular glass case a foot high; inside it was an apothecary’s precision balance, a cross arm with two circular pans suspended from it by chains.

Grindle was saying, “Would you care to freshen up a little? I have an apartment right off this room where I stay when I’m working late.”

It was furnished much like Lilith’s waiting room. Stan shut the bathroom door and washed sweat from his palms. “If I get away with it this time,” he whispered to the mirror, “it’s the Great Stanton and no mistake. Talk about your Princeton audiences …”

One last look around the drawing room revealed a flowing cloud of blue fur, out of which shone eyes of bright yellow as the cat streamed down from a chair and floated along the floor toward him. Stan’s forehead smoothed out. “Come to papa, baby. Now it’s in the bag.”

When he joined the committtee he was carrying the cat in his arms and Grindle smiled his tight, unpracticed smile. “I see you’ve made friends with Beauty. But won’t she disturb you?”

“On the contrary. I’d like to have her stay. And now, perhaps you gentlemen will tell me what this interesting apparatus is and how it works.” He dropped the cat gently to the carpet, where she tapped his leg once with her paw, demanding to be taken up again, then crawled under the table to sulk.

The head of Plant Security stood with his hand resting on top of the glass. “This is a precision balance, Mr. Carlisle. An apothecary’s scale. The indicator in the center of the bar registers the slightest pressure on either of the two pans. I had one of our boys rig up a set of electrical contacts under the pans so that if either one is depressed—by so much as the weight of a hair— this electric bulb in the corner of the case flashes on. The thing is self-contained; flashlight batteries in the case supply current. The balance has been set level and in this room there are no vibrations to disturb it. I watched it for an hour this afternoon and the light never flashed. To turn on that light some force must depress one of the pans of the balance. Is that clear?”

The Rev. Carlisle smiled spiritually. “May I inspect it?”

Anderson glanced at Grindle, who nodded. The private police chief opened the doors of the case and hovered close. “Don’t touch anything, Reverend.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand much about electricity. But you’re sure that this lighting device hasn’t interfered with the free movement of the scale? What are these copper strips?” He pointed to them with the end of a pencil from which the eraser was missing, indicating two narrow metal strips leading from under the pans of the balance to insulated connections behind it.

“They’re contact points. Two on each side. If either pan moves it touches these points, closes the circuit and the light goes on.” Anderson swiftly shut the glass doors and latched them.

The Rev. Carlisle was not listening. His face had grown blank. Moving as if in a dream, he returned to the far end of the room and slipped down into the chair at the end of the table, thirty feet from the mechanism in its glass house.

Without speaking, Grindle motioned the others to their places —Anderson on Stan’s left, Grindle taking a chair on his right, the rest on either side. The precision balance had half the long table to itself.

The Rev. Carlisle closed his eyes, folded his arms, and placed his head upon them as if trying to catch a nap. His breathing deepened, jerky and rasping. Once he stirred and muttered something incoherent.

“He’s gone into a trance?”

The boss must have shut the speaker up with a look.

Silence grew. Then Grindle scratched a match to light a cigar and several others took courage and smoked. The room was in semi-darkness and the tension of the waiting men piled up.

The medium had been searched at the gate. Their eyes had been on him very second since he arrived. He had never touched the instrument—Anderson had been watching him for the slightest move. They had all been warned to look out for threads, or for attempts to tilt the massive table. Mr. Roy had quietly slipped from his chair and was sitting on the floor, watching the medium’s feet beneath the table even though they were thirty feet from the balance. The scale was enclosed in glass; Anderson had latched the doors. And this medium claimed to be able to move solids without touching them! They waited.

On his right Stan could feel the great man, his attention frozen on the rectangular glass frame. They waited. Time was with the spiritualist. This was a better break than he had ever dreamed of. First the cat showing up, then this magnificent nerve-racking stall for the committee. Would it work after all?

He heard Grindle whisper, “Beauty—Beauty, come here!”

Stan raised his head, moaning a little, and from under one eyelid saw that the cat had wriggled from Grindle’s lap and now stood gazing into the balance case.

A gasp ran around the waiting circle. The light had snapped on, burning clear and ruby-red, a tiny bulb, Christmas-tree size, in an upright socket in one corner.

Stan moaned again, his hands closing into fists. The light went out; his fists relaxed.

Grindle cut short the buzzing whispers by a snap of his fingers.

Another wait. Stan’s breath came heavier. He felt the saliva in his mouth thickening; his tongue was dry, the saliva like cotton; he forced it out over his lower lip. This was one time when he didn’t have to fake the foam.

The light flared again and the medium’s breathing became a whistling, agonizing battle.

Off again. Stan let out a sigh.

Silence. Time ticking by on someone’s wrist watch. At the foot of the table the Persian looked back, frowning, at Grindle, saying in cat talk, “Let me get into that glass box.”

The light again. This time it stayed on. Anderson slid from his seat while Stan’s heart pounded but Grindle motioned him back and he compromised by standing in his place. From under folded arms Stan could see Anderson’s lean hand, the nails softly polished, braced against the mahogany as he bent forward. The light went out.

This time the medium trembled and threw himself back in his chair, his head lolling. Thickly he said, “Open the case. Let the air into it! Take the cover off and examine the apparatus. Hurry!”

Anderson was already there. The Rev. Carlisle crumpled down in his chair, eyes closed, the foam thick on his lower lip and chin.

Through slit lids he could see Anderson and the psychologist taking the balance from its box. Beauty had stood close by and now was tapping with her paw at the metal contacts on the floor of the case. Grindle picked her up, squirming, and shut her up in the apartment.

Then Stan felt something touch his lips; he let his eyelids flick open. The doctor was standing over him, holding a bit of sterile gauze which he dropped into a flat glass culture dish, putting it back in his pocket. Go ahead, you goddamned wisenheimer townie, analyze it for soap! I could give you a good specimen right in the eye.

Now Grindle had Stan by the arm and was leading him toward the apartment. Over his shoulder he said, “Good evening, gentlemen. You may go.”

With Grindle alone Stan began to recover. The industrialist offered him brandy and he drank it slowly. Beauty stared at him from hot, yellow eyes.

“I’ll have the car take you back to New York, Mr. Carlisle, as soon as you feel up to traveling.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I—I feel a little shaky. Did any phenomena occur?”

“The light in the cabinet went on three times.” Behind the rimless glasses Grindle’s gray, small eyes almost flashed. “That’s proof enough for me, Mr. Carlisle. I shan’t drag you all the way out here again. I told you I’m a hard-headed man. I needed proof. Well—” His voice broke with a tiny shading of emotion which habitual restraint could not hide. “I’ve seen something tonight that cannot possibly be explained by fraud or trickery. The conditions were absolutely air-tight. Some force inside the case depressed the pans of that balance and if anybody ever talks to me about magnets I’ll laugh right in his face. The instrument is made of brass. This plant is miles from city vibrations—it’s rooted in concrete. There were no threads. You never came near the thing; never touched it….”

Grindle was pacing the carpet, smoking furiously, his face flushed.

The Rev. Carlisle finished his brandy and stretched out an affectionate hand to the Persian cat. Safe! This was the money-bags mountain and he stood, not on the top of it, but in sight of the top. He rose at last, rubbing his eyes wearily. The great man had been talking.

“… ten thousand dollars. I told you I’d do it and I mean what I say. The check will reach you.”

“Please, Mr. Grindle, let’s not talk about money. If I have given you proof—”

“Well, you have. You have, man! Let me—”

“The church can always use donations, Mr. Grindle. You can take care of that through Mrs. Prescott. I know she will be pleased. A fine, devoted woman. But for me it is enough to know that some little corner of the glorious truth has been revealed.”

Beauty, lolling in the most comfortable chair in the room, suddenly started up and began to scratch her chin with her hind foot. Stan eased Grindle away toward the door. As it closed behind them he saw Beauty biting industriously at the fur over her ribs.

On the steps of the plant its owner paused. From his pocket he took out two envelopes, held them to the light and handed one to Stan. “Here—might as well give you this now, Carlisle. I was going to send it to Mrs. Prescott as you suggested, but you can save me the trouble. This other we won’t need.” He tore the envelope and its contents to bits.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Grindle.”

The smile broke out again with a glitter of white teeth. “It was a warrant for your arrest—in case you tried any fraudulent methods of producing phenomena. It wasn’t my idea, Mr. Carlisle. I have to take advice once in a while, you know, from some of the boys who look after my interests.”

Stan was erect and the blue eyes were hard. “That warrant was signed by a judge?”

“I presume so.”

“And on what grounds was I supposed to be arrested—if you or one of your employees thought he detected trickery?”