Nightmare Alley (30 page)

“My text this morning is from Ephesians Five, verses eight and nine: ‘
For ye were sometimes darkness, but now are ye light in the Lord: walk as children of light: for the fruit of the Spirit is in all goodness and righteousness and truth
…”’

Mrs. Prescott was late, damn her. Or was it the mark who was holding up the works? He must be the kind of bastard that always comes late—thinks the world will hold the curtain waiting for him.

Blue eyes lifted from the page and smiled their blessing on the faces before them. About twenty in the house with a few odd husbands dragged along; and a couple of male believers.

“Dearly beloved, on this day of summer, with God’s glorious sunlight illuminating the world, we find an object lesson in its brilliance …”

Where was Tallentyre? She was supposed to ride herd on Prescott and the mark.

“… for we, who once walked in darkness of fear and ignorance and doubt, find our path through the earth-plane made bright and shining by the surety of our faith.”

At the other end of the shadowy room the front door opened and closed. In the dim light two stout women in flowered print dresses came in—Tallentyre and Prescott. Son-of-a-bitch! Did the chump back out at the last minute? With a flash of anxiety Stan wondered if somebody might have wised him up.

Then in the doorway a man appeared, big, in a light gray flannel suit, holding a panama in his hand. A black silhouette in the gentle glow cast by the fanlight. The spread of shoulder spoke of arrogant ownership. The man was an owner—land, buildings, acres, machines. And men. Two round, owl-like saucers of light winked from the dark head—the light of the conservatory reflected from rimless glasses as he turned his head, whispering to Prescott. Then he sat down in the back row, pulling out one of the bridge chairs to make room for his legs.

The Rev. Carlisle drew breath and fixed his eyes on the gold-embossed Bible before him.

“My dear friends, let me tell you a story. There was a man who had been in the Great War. One dark night he was sent scouting into No Man’s Land with one of his buddies—a star shell rose from the enemy trenches and illuminated the field. Well might he have prayed at that moment with David, ‘
Hide me from my deadly enemies who compass me about
.’ The man of whom I speak dashed for the security of a shell hole, pushing his companion aside, while the machine guns of the Germans began to fill the field with death.”

Ezra Grindle was fanning himself idly with his panama.

“The soldier who was left without cover fell, mortally wounded. And before the baleful glare of the star shell died, the other soldier, crouching in the shell crater, saw his companion’s eyes fixed on him in a mute look of scorn and accusation.

“My dear friends, years passed. The survivor became a pillar of society—married, a father, respected in his community. But always, deep in his soul, was the memory of that dying boy’s face—the eyes—accusing him!”

The panama was motionless.

“This man recently became interested in Spiritual Truth. He began to attend the church of a medium who is a dear friend of mine in a city out west. He unburdened his heart to the medium. And when they finally established contact with the ‘buddy’ whose earth life was lost through his cowardice, what do you suppose were the first words the friend in spirit uttered to that guilt-ridden man? They were, ‘You are forgiven.’

“Picture to yourselves, my friends, the unutterable joy which rose in that man’s tortured heart when the crushing weight of guilt was lifted from him and for the first time in all those years he was a free man—drinking in the sun and the soft wind and the bird song of dawn and eventide.”

Grindle was leaning forward, one hand on the back of the chair in front of him. Mrs. Prescott whispered something in his ear; but he was deaf to it. He seemed caught and held by the voice of the man behind the lectern, a man in white linen with a black clerical vest, whose hair, in the shaft of summer sun, was as golden as his voice.

“My dear friends, there is no need for
God
to forgive us. How can we sin against the wind which blows across the fields of ripening grain, how can we injure the soft scent of lilacs in the spring twilight, the deep blue of an autumn sky or the eternal glory of the stars on a winter’s night? No, no, my friends. We can sin only against mankind. And man, in his next mansion of the soul, says to us tenderly, lovingly, ‘You are forgiven, beloved. When you join us you will know. Until then, go with our love, rejoice in our forgiveness, take strength from us who live forever in the shadow of his hand.”’

The tears had mounted to the clergyman’s eyes and now, in the light of the alcove, they glistened faintly on his cheeks as he stopped speaking, standing erect with the bearing of an emperor in his chariot.

“Let us pray.”

At the back of the room a man who had spent his life ruining competitors, bribing congressmen, breaking strikes, arming vigilantes, cheating stockholders, and endowing homes for unwed mothers, covered his eyes with his hand.

“Reverend, they tell me you bring voices out of trumpets.”

“I have
heard
voices from trumpets. I don’t bring them. They come. Mediumship is either a natural gift or it is acquired by devotion, by study, and by patience.”

The cigars had cost Stan twenty dollars; but he pushed the box across the desk easily and took one himself, holding his lighter for the tycoon. The Venetian blinds were drawn, the windows open, and the fan whirring comfortably.

Grindle inhaled the cigar twice, let the smoke trickle from his nostrils, approved it, and settled farther back in his chair.

As if suddenly remembering an appointment, the spiritualist said, “Excuse me,” and jotted notes on a calendar pad. He let Grindle smoke on while he made a telephone call, then turned back to him, smiling, waiting.

“I don’t care about trumpet phenomena in
your
house. I want to see it in
my
house.”

The clergyman’s face was stern. “Mr. Grindle, spirit phenomena are not a performance. They are a religious experience. We cannot say where and when they will appear. They are no respecters of houses. Those who have passed over may reveal themselves in the humble cottage of the laborer and ignore completely the homes of wealth, of culture, and of education.”

The big man nodded. “I follow you there, Carlisle. In one of your sermons you said something about Spiritualism being the only faith that offers
proof
of survival. I remember you said that the command ‘Show me’ is the watchword of American business. Well, you hit the nail right on the head that time. I’m just asking to be shown, that’s all. That’s fair enough.”

The minister’s smile was unworldly and benign. “I am at your service if I can strengthen your resolve to find out more for yourself.”

They smoked, Grindle eyeing the spiritualist, Carlisle seemingly deep in meditation.

At the left of Grindle’s chair stood a teakwood coffee table, a relic of the Peabody furnishings. On it sat a small Chinese gong of brass. The silence grew heavy and the industrialist seemed to be trying to force the other man to break it first; but neither broke it. The little gong suddenly spoke—a clear, challenging note.

Grindle snatched it from the table, turning it upside down and examining it. Then he picked up the table and knocked the top with his knuckles. When he looked up again he found the Rev. Carlisle smiling at him.

“You may have the gong—and the table, Mr. Grindle. It never before has rung by an exudation of psychic power—what we call the odylic force—as it did just now. Someone must be trying to get through to you. But it is difficult—your innate skepticism is the barrier.”

On the big man’s face Stan could read the conflict—the fear of being deceived against the desire to see marvels and be forgiven by Doris Mae Cadle, 19, septicemia, May 28, 1900:
But I tell you, Dorrie, if we get married now it will smash everything, everything
.

Grindle leaned forward, poking the air with the two fingers which gripped his cigar. “Reverend, out in my Jersey plant I’ve got an apothecary’s scale delicate enough to weigh a human hair —just one human hair! It’s in a glass case. You make that scale move and I’ll give your church ten thousand dollars!”

The Rev. Carlisle shook his head. “I’m not interested in money, Mr. Grindle. You may be rich. Perhaps I am too—in a different way.” He stood up but Grindle stayed where he was. “If you wish to arrange a séance in your own home or anywhere else, I can try to help you. But I should warn you—the place does not matter.
What matters is the spiritual environment
.” He had been speaking slowly, as if weighing something in his mind, but the last sentence was snapped out as if he had come to a decision.

“But God damn it—pardon me, Reverend—but I know all this! You’ll get full co-operation from me. I’ve got an open mind, Carlisle. An open mind. And the men I’ll pick for our committee will have open minds too—or they’ll hear from me later. When can you come?”

“In three weeks I shall have a free evening.”

“No good. In three weeks I’ll have to be up in Quebec. And I’ve got this bee in my bonnet. I want to find out once and for all, Carlisle. Show me one tiny speck of incontrovertible evidence and I’ll listen to anything else you have to say. Can’t you consider this an emergency and come out to the plant tonight?” Stan had moved toward the door and Grindle followed him. “Mr. Grindle, I believe you are a sincere seeker.”

They descended the carpeted stairs and stood for a moment at the front door. “Then you’ll come, Reverend? Tonight?”

Carlisle bowed.

“That’s splendid. I’ll send the car for you at six. Will that be all right? Or how about coming out earlier and having dinner at the plant? We all eat in the same cafeteria, right with the men. Democratic. But the food’s good.”

“I shall not want anything very heavy, thank you. I’ll have a bite before six.”

“Right. The car will pick you up here at the church.” Grindle smiled for the first time. It was a chilly smile, tight around the eyes, but was probably his best attempt. Stan looked at the big man closely.

Hair thin and sandy. Forehead domed and spattered with freckles. A large rectangle of a face with unobtrusive, petulant features set in the center of it. Habitual lines about the mouth as if etched there by gas pains, or by constantly smelling a faintly foul odor. Voice peevish and high-pitched, bluster on the surface, fear underneath. Afraid somebody will get a dime away from him or a dime’s worth of power. Waistline kept in by golf and a rowing machine. Maybe with shoulder braces to lean against when troubles try to make him stoop like one of his bookkeepers. Hands large, fingers covered with reddish fur. A big, irritable, unsatisfied, guilt-driven, purse-proud, publicity-inflamed dummy —stuffed with thousand dollar bills.

The hand which the Rev. Carlisle raised as a parting gesture was like a benediction—in the best possible taste.

When Stan got back to the apartment it was two o’clock in the afternoon. Molly was still asleep. He jerked the sheet off her and began tickling her in the ribs. She woke up cross and laughing. “Stan, stop it! Oh—oh, honey, it must be good news! What is it?”

“It’s the live One, kid. He’s nibbling at last. Séance tonight out at his joint in Jersey. If it goes over we’re set! If not, we’re in the soup. Now go out and get me a kitten.”

“A what? Stan, you feeling okay?”

“Sure, sure, sure. Fall into some clothes and go out and find me a delicatessen store that has a kitten. Bring it back with you. Never mind if you have to swipe it.”

When she had gone he eased the eraser from the end of a pencil, wedged the pencil in the jamb of a door and bored into the shaft with a hand drill. Then he pushed the eraser back and put the pencil in his pocket.

The kitten was a little tiger tom about three months old.

“Damn, it couldn’t be a white one!”

“But, honey, I didn’t know what you wanted with it.”

“Never mind, kid. You did okay.” He shut himself and the kitten up in the bathroom for half an hour. Then he came out and said to Molly, “Here. Now you can take him back.”

“Take him back? But I promised the man I’d give him a good home. Aw, Stan, I thought we could keep him.” She was winking back tears.

“Okay, okay, kid. Keep him. Do anything you want with him. If this deal goes over I’ll buy you a pedigreed panther.”

He hurried back to the church, and Molly set a saucer of milk on the floor and watched the kitten lap it up. She decided to call him Buster.

“Here’s where the Grindle property starts, sir,” said the chauffeur. They had rolled through Manhattan, under the river with the tunnel walls gleaming, past the smoke of North Jersey and across a desolation of salt marshes. Ahead of them, over a flat waste of cinders and struggling marsh grass, the smokestack and long, glass-roofed buildings of the Grindle Electric Motor Corporation rose glittering in the last sunlight.

The car slowed down at a gate in a barbed fence around the top of which ran wire held by insulators.

The private cop on duty at the gate nodded to the chauffeur and said, “Go right in, Mr. Carlisle. Report at Gatehouse Number Five.”

They drove down a gravel road and came to another wire fence and Gatehouse Number Five. “Have to go in and register, sir,” said the chauffeur.