You're All Alone (illustrated) (10 page)

He tucked his sword in his belt and, gripping his wrist cords, pumped with his arms so that he was swinging back and forth along the wall. Soon the swings became so long that his feet were just missing the edge of the wooden shelf and he was soaring well above it. On the next swing he managed to catch hold of one of Jane’s cords. It burned his hand as they careened wildly, but he held on until they came to rest.

Then came ticklish work. Supporting himself on Jane’s cords, he cut his own last two, keeping hold of one of them and making a little loop at the bottom. Setting his foot in this stirrup, he took Jane around the waist. He hooked his other arm around the stirrip-string, drew his sword with that arm, and cut all of Jane’s cords. As the last one parted, he felt she was no longer a limp puppet slung over his arm, but a tiny living woman.

Next moment they were swinging through space. He let the sword fall and clung to the string with that hand. And now he realized that the shortened string was carrying them too high. He let go his hand, kicking loose with his foot, and dropped with Jane. They landed on the edge of the shelf with a breath-taking jar, just managed to wriggle to safety with stomach and knee.

Then they were running along the shelf. From that they dropped to the top of a book case, to a table, to a chair and so to the floor. Ahead of them was a huge door, slightly ajar. Carr knew it led to safety.

But at that moment there began a high thin screaming. Looking back. Carr saw that it came from the puppet of the small dark man with glasses, who had been hanging beyond Jane.

“You wouldn’t take me,” he screamed.

And now other sounds could be heard—giant footsteps.

GRABBING Jane’s wrist, Carr sprinted toward the door, but to his dismay he found that his legs were becoming wobbly. He prayed for strings to make them move. Furthermore, the floor was acquiring an oddly yielding texture. It was as if he and Jane, rubber-jointed, were trying to run through piled hay.

The screaming became earsplitting.

Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Carr saw the angry faces of Wilson and Hackman careening toward him like huge red balloons.

But much nearer, in fact just at his heels, bounded the hound. Tucked back between its slavering jaws was a bitten-off hand.

Carr made one last effort to increase his speed. He sprawled head-long on the billowy floor.

He felt stiff paws on his back, pinning him down. He squirmed around and grappled feebly. The screaming continued.

But then the hound seemed to collapse, to crumple under his fingers. Hitching himself up, he realized that he was in his own room, in his own bed, fighting the bedclothes, and that the screaming in his ears was the siren of a passing fire engine.

He shakily thrust his feet out of bed and sat on the edge of it, waiting for the echoes of his nightmare to stop swirling through his senses.

His head ached miserably. Lifting his hand, he felt a large sensitive lump. He recalled the small dark man hitting him, though the memory was still mixed up with the dream-betrayal.

Pale light was sifting through the window. He went over to the bureau, opened the top drawer. He looked at the three pint bottles of whisky. He chose the quarter full one, poured himself a drink, downed it, poured himself another, looked around.

The clothes he had been wearing were uncharacteristically laid out on a chair.

His head began to feel less like a whirlpool. He went over and looked out the window. The pale light was not that of dawn, but gathering evening. Unwillingly he decided that he, had been unconscious not only last night, but also all of today.

A coolness on his fingers told him that whisky was dribbling out of the shot glass. He drank it and turned around. A gust of anger at the small dark man (may be your friend!) went through him.

Just then he noticed a blank envelope propped on the mantlepiece. He took it down, snapped on a light, opened it, unfolded the closely scribbled note it contained. It was from Jane.

You’re in danger, Carr, terrible danger. Don’t stir out of your room today. Stay away from the window.

Don’t answer if anyone knocks.

I’m terribly sorry about last night. My friend is sorry too, now that he knows who you are. He thought you were with Wilson and Hackman, so his attack on you was excusable. We would stay with you longer, but our mere presence would mean too much danger for you. My friend says you’ll come out of it okay.

I’m sorry that I can’t explain things more. But it’s better for you not to know too much.

Don’t try to find me, Carr. It isn’t only that you’d risk your own life. You’d endanger mine. My friend and I are up against an organization that can’t be beaten, only hidden from. If you try to find me, you’ll only spoil my chances.

You want a long happy life, don’t you?—not just a few wretched months or hours before you’re hunted down. Then your only chance is to do what I tell you.

Stay in your room all day. Then arrange your things just as you usually do before going to work in the morning. Set your alarm for the usual time. You must be very exact-—a lot depends on it. Above all, burn this letter—on your honor do that. Then dissolve in a glass of water the powders you’ll find on the table beside your bed, and drink it. In a little while you’ll go to sleep and when you wake up, everything will be all right.

You may not believe me, but what reason would I have to lie? Honestly, Carr, your only chance to get clear of the danger you’re in, and to help me, is to do exactly what I’ve told you. And forget me forever.

CARR WALKED over to the bed.

On the little table, leaning against an empty tumbler, were two slim paper packets. He felt one between finger and thumb. It gritted.

He glanced again at the letter. His head had begun to ache stabbingly. Phrases that were anger-igniting sparks jumped at him: “. . . is sorry too . . . excusable . . .” What sort of a nincompoop did they think he was. Next she’d be saying, “So sorry we had to poison you.” She was a nice girl, all right—of the sort who throws her arms around you so her boyfriend can stick a gun in your ribs.

He’d blundered into a nasty affair, and maybe he’d picked the wrong side.

And she did have a reason to lie. She might want to scare him off, keep him from discovering what she and her precious friend were up to, maybe gain time for some sort of getaway.

He hurried into his clothes, wincing at the jabs of pain. After pulling on his topcoat, he drained the last shot from the whisky bottle, tossed it back if the drawer, looked at the full bottles a moment, stuck one in his pocket, and went out, glaring savagely at the mirror-imprisoned Carr on the stairs.

He walked a block to the nearest hotel and waited for a cab. Two cruised by with their flags up, but the drivers ignored his arm-wavings and calls. He ground his teeth. Then one drew in to the curb, but just as he was getting ready to board it, two cold-eyed show-girls from the hotel swept by him and piled in. He swore out loud, turned on his heel and started walking.

It was a nice evening and he detested it. He felt a senseless rage at the people he passed. How nice it would be to smash all the neon signs, rip down the posters, break into the houses and toss out of the windows the crooning, moaning, brightly-blatting radios. Come the atom bomb!

But for all that, the fresh air was helping his head. As he neared Mayberry street he began to calm down, or at least focus his anger.

Halfway down the last block a car was parked with its motor softly chugging—a roadster with its top down. Just as he passed it, Carr saw a heavily-built man come out of the entry to the Gregg apartment. He strolled off in the opposite direction, but Carr had already recognized him. It was Wilson.

Repressing the fear that surged through him, Carr made a snap decision and hurried after him.

But just then a voice behind him said, “If you value your life or your reason, keep away from that man.” At the same time a hand gripped his elbow and spun him around.

This time the small dark man with glasses was wearing a black snap-brim hat and a tightly buttoned trench coat. And this time he didn’t look terrified. Instead he was sardonically smiling. He rocked back and forth on his heels.

“I knew you wouldn’t stay in your room,” he said. “I told Jane her letter would have just the opposite effect.”

Carr doubled his fist, swung back his arm, hesitated. Damn it, he
did
wear glasses—pitifully thick-lensed ones.

“Go ahead,” said the small dark man, “make a scene. Bring them down on us. I don’t care.”

Carr stared at the glasses bright with reflected street light. He caught a whiff of liquor.

“You wouldn’t think, would you,” the small dark man mused, “that as we stand here, conversing idly, we are both in deadly peril.” He smiled. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t think that. And as for me, I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Listen,” Carr said, advancing with balled fist, “you slugged me last night. I didn’t like that.”

“So I did,” said the small dark man, again rocking on his heels.

“Well, in that case—” Carr began, and then remembered Wilson. He whirled around. The portly man was nowhere in sight. He took a few steps, then looked back. The small dark man was walking rapidly toward the purring roadster. Carr darted after him and sprang to the running board just as the other slipped behind the wheel.

“You wanted to distract me until he was gone,” Carr accused. “You didn’t want me to talk to him.”

“That’s right,” the small dark man said carelessly. “Jump in.”

Angrily Carr complied, as the small dark man pushed down on the clutch, shifted into first and, stretched out in that position, put his face close to Carr’s and began to talk. His words rode on a wind of whisky, but the voice was bitter and confessional.

“In the first place,” he said, “I hate you—otherwise I’d be doing my best to get you out of this instead of leading you straight toward the center. I don’t care what happens to you and tonight I don’t give a damn what happens to me. But I still have a certain quixotic concern for Jane’s feelings—her li’l romantic dreams. It’s for her sake that I’m going to do what I’m going to do.”

“And what are you going to do?” snapped Carr.

The roadster bucked, leaped forward with a roar.

When you know the world’s a big engine, it may go to your head. You’ll think you can take crazy chances. But the big engine can chew you up just as quick as an ordinary engine chews up a smart-alecky factory hand . . .

CARR’S gaze swung up as the grimy red wall of a truck loomed higher, higher. “World Movers,” the sign said. He closed his eyes. He felt blood-checking swerve and a chalk-on-slate caress along their fender. When he opened his eyes again, it was to see a woman and child flash by not a foot from the running board. He lurched sideways as they screamed around a corner, let go his hat to cling to the car, watched a coupe and streetcar converge ahead of them, closed his eyes again as they grazed through the gap.

“Stop, you idiot!” he commanded. “You’re drunk!”

The small dark man leered at him. “That’s right,” he said triumphantly and turned back to the wheel just in time to miss taking the side off a parked sedan.

To either side small indistinguishable stores and dusty white street globes shot by, while blocks of brick and gleaming streetcar tracks vanished under the hood.

“Tell me what it’s all about before you kill us,” Carr yelled.

The small man snickered through his teeth. His hat blew off. Watching it go, Carr demanded, “Are you one of the men with black hats?”

The roadster went into a screaming skid. Carr cringed as a hot-dog vender’s white stand ballooned in size. But the small dark man managed to straighten the roadster out in time, though Carr got a whiff of hot dogs.

“Don’t ask questions like that,” the small dark man warned. I’m not brave.” Then he goggled at Carr, drove with his left hand for a moment while he tapped his bare head with his right’, and said wisely, “Protective coloration.”

Ahead cars skittered to the curb like disturbed ants. Over the motor’s roar Carr became aware of a wailing that grew in volume. A wild white light mixed with red began to flood the street from behind them, its beam swinging back and forth like a giant pendulum. Then from the corner of his eye Carr noticed a seated man in a big black slicker heave into view several feet above him, creep abreast. Below the man was a bright vermilion hood. Behind him were dim ladders and coils, other slickered figures.

Ahead the street took a jog. It was impossible for both the roadster and the fire engine to get through.

Grinning, the small dark man nursed the throttle. The fire engine dropped back just enough for them to careen through the gap ahead of it, under a maze of trolley wires, while frozen pedestrians gaped.

Carr’s fear left him. There was no use to it.

The street narrowed, its sides grew dark. Behind them the fire engine braked, took a turn.

“You’re mixed up with Wilson and Hackman and Dris, aren’t you?” Carr asserted.

This time the roadster swerved to the left, and for a few moments roared along only inches from the curb, kicking up mud.