12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV (15 page)

    He didn't move. He sat as he was, and stared into the abyss…

    Morning came, and daylight, and people he heard and saw as if from a long distance. He moved then but was almost unconscious of moving. It was as if his body were an automaton and his mind a separate entity outside it, which had no concern with the robot movements.

    The automaton clothed itself, and ate and drank, and went with his mind and the uniformed men and sat in the crowded courtroom in the same place as his undivided self had sat the day before.

    The automaton sat still and went through motions-of listening to friends and Counsel, of answering them when necessary, of looking attentive to the gabber-jab of the unending witnesses, of considering thoughtfully the closing speech for the Prosecution, of hearing the crabbed Judge rule that the Court, this being Friday, should recess until the morning of Monday…

    But his mind, his actual self, was in hell without a permit. For sixty-two hours the automaton made all the foolish gestures of living; for uncountable stages of distorted time his mind gazed into the pit.

    The Monday came, and the automaton moved accordingly. But the clean-cut edges of the schism between body and mind began to waver before the two parts of him left the cell, as if something had happened which demanded they should be joined again. Resisting the pull, his mind began to wonder what had caused it. His refusal to see John Friar or Magnussen during the recess? The odd, almost excited manner of his guard on bringing a newspaper to the cell and trying to insist on the automaton reading it? The looks which both his escorts cast at the automaton in the car on the way to court?

    He didn't want the union. He would break, he felt, if he couldn't keep up the separation. But the pull grew stronger with every foot of the way, and almost irresistible as he entered the courtroom itself, and his mind felt a difference-a strange, disturbing, agitated alteration-in the other minds behind the faces staring at him.

    And then, with a shivering, nauseating shock, his resistance went and he was swept back into his body once more, so that he was stripped and next to the world again with no transparent armor between.

    It was the face of Magnussen's wizened clerk which brought it about, a face which always before had been harassed and grave and filled with foreboding, but which now was gay and eager and irradiated by a tremendous gnome-like smile. As Cyprian was about to take his seat, this smile was turned full on him, and his hand was surreptitiously taken and earnestly squeezed, and through the smile a voice came whispering something which couldn't be distinguished but all the same was pregnant with the most extreme importance.

    Cyprian sat down, weakly. Once again, he had no strength. He looked up into the little clerk's face and muttered something-he wasn't sure of the words himself.

    An astonished change came over the puckered visage. "Mr. Morse!" The voice cracked in amazement. "Do you mean to say you haven't heard!"

    Dumbly Cyprian shook his head, the small movement leaving him exhausted.

    "Not about the-the other killings!… Mr. Morse! There have been two more murders of unfortunate girls! In every respect the same as Miss Halmar's-even the-the mutilations identical… On Saturday night the first victim was found; and another discovered in the early hours of this morning!"

    Cyprian went on staring up into the excited, agitated face. "D-don't you realize what this m-means!" The voice was stammering now. "All three deaths must be linked. You couldn't have caused the others! They're the work of a maniac-a Jack the Ripper 1" Fluttering hands produced a newspaper, unfolded it, waved it. "Look here, Mr. Morse!"

    There were black heavy headlines. They wavered in front of Cyprian's eyes, then focused sharply and made him catch at his breath.

    POLICE CLUELESS IN NEW FIEND SLAYINGS! MORSE RELEASE DEMANDED BY PUBLIC!

    "Oh," said Cyprian, his lips barely moving. "Oh, I see…" His whole body began to tingle, as if circulation had been withheld from it until now. He said, a little louder, "What-what will happen?"

    The clerk sat down beside him. His hoarse whispering was as clear now as a shout in Cyprian's ears. "What will happen? I'll tell you, Mr. Morse. I'll tell you exactly. The D.A. will withdraw-and not long after Mr. Magnussen's opened. He'll withdraw, Mr. Morse, you mark my words!"

    The words coincided with a stentorian bellow from the back of the courtroom, followed by a stamping rustle as everyone stood up- and Justice swept to its throne in a dusty black robe…

    And Cyprian, life welling up in him, found himself caught in a whirling timeless jumble of fact and feeling and emotion, a maelstrom which was in effect the precise opposite of the long nightmare succeeding his arrest-

    Julius Magnussen towering on his feet, speaking of Cyprian Morse's innocence with an almost contemptuous certainty. Julius Magnussen examining detectives on the witness stand, forcing them to prove all three killings had been identical. Julius Magnussen calling more witnesses, then looking around haughtily at the Prosecution when the Court was asked to hear a statement. The District Attorney himself, gray eyes not understanding now but puzzled and confused, muttering that the state withdrew its case against Cyprian Morse. The Judge speaking, bestowing commiseration on Cyprian Morse, laudation on Julius Magnussen, censure upon their opponents-

    Then bedlam breaking loose, himself the center. Friends. Strangers. Acquaintances. Reporters. All crowding, jabbering, laughing. Women weeping. Flashbulbs exploding. John Friar pumping both his hands. Magnussen clapping him on the shoulder. Himself the center of a wedge of policemen, struggling for the exit. An odd little instant of comparative quiet in the hallway, and hearing Magnussen say to John Friar behind him, "An apology, John, you were right."

    Then John's big car, and the soft cushioned seat supporting him. And quietness, with the tires singing on the road and time to draw breath-and taste freedom…

    All horror was behind him and it was Wednesday evening and Charles was coming home. From John Friar's house in Westchester, in John Friar's car, driven by John Friar's chauffeur.

    

    

    It was deepening dusk when they pulled into the parking lot behind the apartment house. Cyprian peered, and saw no sign of any human being and was pleased. He got out and smiled at the chauffeur and said warmly, "Thank you, Maurice. Thank you very much…" and thrust a lavish tip into the man's gloved hand and waved a cheerful salute and walked off toward the rear entrance of the building. His footsteps rang crisply on the concrete, and a faint, wreathlike mist from his breathing hung on the autumn air. He suppressed an impulse to stop and crane his neck to look up to the penthouse and see the warm lights glowing out from it. He knew they were there, because he had heard John Friar telephoning to his servant, telling him when Mr. Morse was to be expected.

    Good old John, he thought. Thoughtful John! And then forgot John completely as he entered the service door, and still met no one and found one of the service elevators empty and waiting.

    He forgot John. He forgot everyone and everything-except Charles.

    And Charles would be here tomorrow. That was why Cyprian had insisted upon coming home tonight-so that he could supervise preparation.

    He hurried the elevator with his mind, and when it reached the rear hallway of his penthouse, threw open the gate-and was faced, not by light and an open door and Walter's white-smiling black face, but by cold unwelcoming darkness.

    He stepped out of the elevator and groped for the light switch and pressed it and blinked at the sudden glare. Frowning, he tried the door to the kitchen. It wasn't locked, but when he opened it there was more darkness. And no sound. No sound at all.

    A chill settled on his mind. The warm excited glow which had been growing inside him evaporated with unnerving suddenness. He switched on more lights and went quickly through the bright-tiled neatness and threw open an inner door and called, "Walter! Walter, where are you?" into more darkness still.

    Not such absolute darkness this time, but the more disturbing for that. The curtains across the big windows at the west side of the living room had not been drawn and there was still a sort of gray luminosity in the air.

    Cyprian took two or three paces into the room. He called, "Walter!" again, and heard his own voice go up too high at the end of the word.

    And another voice spoke from behind him-a cracked and casual voice.

    "I sent him out for an hour or two," it said. "Hope you don't mind."

    Cyprian started violently. He gasped, "Charlesl" and wheeled around and saw a tall figure looming in the grayness. His heart pounded in his ears and he felt a swaying in his head.

    There was no answering sound-and he said, "Charles!" again and moved toward a table near the figure and reached out for the lamp he knew was on it.

    But his shoulder was caught in a grip which checked him completely. Long fingers strong as steel bit into his flesh, and Charles's voice said, "Take it easy. We don't need light just yet."

    Cyprian felt cold. His head still whirled. He couldn't understand, and the grip on his shoulder seemed to be paralyzing him and he was afraid with that worst of all fears which hasn't any shape.

    He said wildly, "Charles, I don't understand-I-" and couldn't get out any more words. He contorted all the muscles in his face in a useless attempt to see Charles's face.

    "You will," said Charles's voice. "Do you remember once telling me you'd never lie to me again?"

    "Yes," Cyprian whispered-and then, his mouth drying with fear, "Let me go. You're hurting me…"

    "Did you mean it?" The hand didn't relax its grip.

    "Of course… And I never have lied to you since! I don't understand-"

    "You will." The grip tightened and Cyprian caught his breath. "I want a truthful answer to one question. Will you give it?"

    "Yes. Yes. Of course I will…"

    "Did you kill that Halmar woman?"

    "No-no-there was a man… he went through the window…"

    "I thought you weren't going to lie to me. Did you kill her?"

    "Wo! I-" The steel fingers bit deeper and Cyprian sobbed.

    "Did you kill her? Don't lie to me."

    "Yes! Yes!" Cyprian's face was writhing. His eyes stung with tears and his lips were trembling. "Yes, I killed her! I killed her-I killed her…"

    The grip eased. The hand lifted from his shoulder. He tottered on uncertain feet, and the lamp on the table jumped suddenly into life and through the mist over his eyes he saw Charles for the first time -and then heard Charles's voice say, easily and softly and with the old-time chuckle hidden somewhere in it, "Well, that's that. Just so long as we know… I'd like a drink." He turned away from Cyprian and crossed with his lounging walk to the bar-the lounging walk which always reminded Cyprian of the stalking of a cat-

    And suddenly Cyprian knew.

    He knew, and in the same moment that understanding flooded his mind, he thought-for the first time actively thought-of those other two deaths which had saved him from death.

    A scream came to his throat and froze there. He shrank into himself as he stood there-and Charles turned, glass in hand, and looked at him.

    His eyes burned in his head. He couldn't move their gaze from Charles's face. He said, "You did it. You killed those two women. You weren't ill. You got someone else to send those cables. You heard about Astrid and you flew back without anyone knowing. And you plotted and planned and stalked-and did that. As if they were animals. You did that!"

    His voice died in his throat. All strength went out of him and he tottered to a chair and doubled up in it and sat crumpled.

    "Don't fret, my dear Cyprian." Charles drank, looking at him over the rim of the glass. "We sit tight-and live happily ever after-"

    Cyprian dropped his head into his hands.

    "Oh, my God!" he said. "Oh, my God!"

    

    

    

    "This story," commenced MacShaugnassy, "comes from Furtwangen, a small town in the Black Forest. There lived there a very wonderful old fellow named Nicholaus Geibel. His business was the making of mechanical toys, at which work he had acquired an almost European reputation. He made rabbits that would emerge from the heart of a cabbage, flop their ears, smooth their whiskers, and disappear again; cats that would wash their faces, and mew so naturally that dogs would mistake them for real cats and fly at them; dolls with phonographs concealed within them, that would raise their hats and say, 'Good morning; how do you do?' and some that would even sing a song.

    "But, he was something more than a mere mechanic; he was an artist. His work was with him a hobby, almost a passion. His shop was filled with all manner of strange things that never would, or could, be sold - things he had made for the pure love of making them. He had contrived a mechanical donkey that would trot for two hours by means of stored electricity, and trot, too, much faster than the live article, and with less need for exertion on the part of the driver, a bird that would shoot up into the air, fly round and round in a circle, and drop to earth at the exact spot from where it started; a skeleton that, supported by an upright iron bar, would dance a hornpipe, a life-size lady doll that could play the fiddle, and a gentleman with a hollow inside who could smoke a pipe and drink more lager beer than any three average German students put together, which is saying much.

    "Indeed, it was the belief of the town that old Geibel could make a man capable of doing everything that a respectable man need want to do. One day he made a man who did too much, and it came about in this way: