The Last of Philip Banter

by John Franklin Bardin

  Foster’s eyes glinted and the corners of his mouth curled tightly. ‘Then in your opinion he has not had a breakdown yet?’

  ‘The line of demarcation between neuroses and psychoses is so slight as to be often imperceptible. In very few cases is there a definite point at which you can say, “This patient is now insane.” Insanity encroaches. It bores from within gradually, seizing possession of the intellect. I could make tests, subject Philip to a complete mental and physical examination – this I would do anyway – but I doubt if my diagnosis would change until the alcoholism is cleared up. Then we may be able to say definitely whether Philip has had a break.’

  Foster raised his eyebrows. ‘I had not been prepared for so encouraging a statement from you, doctor. Frankly, I’ve been worried about Philip. I have watched my daughter lose her spirits and grow pale in the past few months. I have heard what she has had to say about the way her husband has treated her – we are very close, you know – and I had come to the conclusion that the man was both a rotter and crazy. He would have to be crazy to do some of the things he has done.

  ‘Now you tell me about a “Confession”. This is something I know nothing about, and I think I can say Dorothy also has not heard of it. Philip must be writing it himself, or else it is an elaborate excuse to explain away his other actions. I want to see him and talk to him about this!’ And he reached for the telephone.

  Matthews held up his hand. ‘Before you call Philip in, I want you to know that the purpose of my visit today is to get help in persuading Philip to go to a sanatorium. You know, of course, that we must have Philip’s consent or that of some member of his family. Dorothy could commit him, if that becomes necessary. But it is much better for him if he goes of his own free will. I spoke to him about it yesterday afternoon, and he suddenly invented an appointment that he must keep to get away from me. I thought if we both talked to him, he might see things differently.’

  Foster nodded his head and reached for the telephone. He called Miss Grey and asked her to have Philip come into his office. When he replaced the instrument, he sighed and said, ‘You know, just this morning I had one of the girls come in to tell me that she was leaving us. She has been with us several years and most of that time she has worked as my son-in-law’s secretary. Recently, when his condition became obvious to me, I called Miss Grey aside and asked her to report to me anything that Philip did that seemed to her peculiar. She has done this faithfully and I have relied upon her. Yet she told me today that she is quitting, that she can’t stand to work for Philip any longer. She says he is too strange, that he frightens her. I tried to persuade her not to leave us and told her that she did not have to work for Philip. As a matter of fact, I gave Philip notice yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t want to tell her that. She said that she would think it over.’ He spread his hands dramatically to indicate his confusion. ‘So you see how Philip has affected Brown and Foster,’ he said.

  Matthews started to speak, but he heard the door open and turned around to see Philip enter the room. Philip’s eyes were bloodshot and heavy lidded, his skin was pale and he held himself badly. When Matthews had seen him yesterday, he had been unshaven and his clothes had been slightly crumpled. Today his clothes were neat enough, but he looked ill.

  ‘You wanted to see me?’ Philip asked. He stood just inside the door which was still ajar, his hand on the knob.

  ‘Come in, Philip,’ Foster snapped. ‘Dr Matthews is here to see you.’

  Philip glanced at his friend. ‘I told you that I’d call you and make an appointment,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Sit down, Philip,’ Foster commanded. ‘What’s this Dr Matthews tells me about a “Confession”?’

  Philip had not expected this. Matthews could see him grow tense. He looked at him and said, ‘I didn’t think you’d tell everybody about that, George.’ He spoke quietly but each word expressed his anger and disappointment.

  ‘I have only told your father-in-law. I wanted to talk to Dorothy, but my nurse could not reach her yesterday afternoon. I thought that someone close to you should know how ill you are, Philip.’ Matthews spoke quietly and kindly.

  Philip looked at him coldly. ‘You want to put me in a sanatorium, don’t you? You think that I am losing my mind. And if I refuse to commit myself, you intend to persuade Steven or Dorothy to commit me.’

  Old Foster pounded his fist on his desk. ‘Dr Matthews has just been telling me why he did not think you were insane,’ he snorted. ‘If he wants you to go to a sanatorium, it’s because he thinks it will cure your drinking. Not that I think that’s all that is wrong with you!’

  Philip smiled at his father-in-law’s outburst. ‘Suppose I told you that I now have evidence that I am not writing that “Confession”, George?’ He turned and looked at Matthews. ‘And suppose I said that if you would give me the rest of the day to prove to you that someone else has been writing it, someone else who wants to drive me out of my senses – what would you say to that?’

  Matthews regarded his pipe which had gone out. He did not look at Philip. ‘I would still say that you need a good long rest. And a doctor’s care.’

  Foster sat rigidly, his eyes unswervingly on Philip, who went on speaking, hurriedly, anxiously.

  ‘Well, this morning I came down to the office expecting to find another instalment of this “Confession”. Although the last section had been wrong about many things, it had predicted that I would do a terrible thing last night – and I did. I was unnerved this morning. But when I got to my desk I found only a blank piece of paper waiting for me. I could have left it there myself for all I know, although I doubt it. I had told Miss Grey to clean up my desk every night before she left, and she said that she had not noticed this piece of paper.

  ‘Then I looked in the drawer of my desk for the two previous instalments of the “Confession”. They were gone. My desk drawer had been forced and its contents stolen. Now, I ask you, if I had been writing the “Confession”, and then forgetting I had written it, why should I steal it from myself?’ He looked at both Foster and Matthews and waited for them to answer.

  Neither man spoke. Philip continued, ‘Doesn’t it seem likely that whoever was writing that manuscript, for whatever reason, wanted it back? Wasn’t he afraid that I might do what I should have done in the first place, go to the police with it? So he came to the office last night or early this morning. He broke into my drawer and stole the manuscript. And by now he has destroyed it.

  ‘But it won’t do him any good. I know who he is, and why he has been doing this to me. He is a man who has hated me ever since I married Dorothy. He has resented my success, coveted my wife. He did not have the courage to attack me to my face. But, since he is a thwarted novelist, he conceived of the “Confession” as a subtle way of getting rid of me. He used Brent and me as pawns in a game – his only goal was to get Dorothy to divorce me. He did not care if I landed in an asylum or not. All he wanted was my wife.’

  Philip stood up. He swayed on his feet, his eyes blazing. ‘I am going to see Jeremy Foulkes, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘I am going to wring the truth out of him – and neither of you can stop me!’

  Both Matthews and Foster were on their feet and approaching Philip. He backed towards the door. And as he did, he picked up a heavy leather chair and brandished it at them. They kept coming on – he kept backing. When he reached the door, he threw the chair. They both fell flat to avoid its crashing bulk. When they stood up, he was gone.

  Foster was white with rage. ‘I’m going after him!’ he cried. ‘Why, he’ll kill somebody!’

  Matthews was cooler. ‘First, we have to find out where Jeremy Foulkes lives. I knew him in college, but I’ve lost track of him since. And then I want to call a friend of mine in the Police Department and ask him to stand by.’

  But Foster already had his hat and coat on. ‘Forget the police. We can handle this ourselves. And don’t worry about finding Jeremy’s address. I know where he is.’ And he p
lunged out the door.

  Matthews followed him, reluctantly. He was afraid this would develop into a wild-goose chase.

  5

  Philip was as shocked to see Brent, as Brent was to see Philip. They stood for a moment, each on his side of the threshold, frozen with consternation. Brent was the first to move; her hand crept to her mouth to cover her trembling lips. Then, without willing it, she stepped back a pace… and another… and another. Philip followed her, waiting for her to cry out, to scream – knowing that he should turn about and go away – but following her anyway. He was compelled to enter the room.

  Brent never screamed. Instead, she managed to recover her poise and even smile. ‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ she said.

  Philip felt like laughing, but some inner decency prevented it. ‘I’m afraid that’s an understatement. I didn’t expect to find you here, you know. I wouldn’t have come if I had.’

  Brent sank down on the couch, Philip remained standing. He had not even taken off his hat. ‘You came to see Jeremy?’ she asked.

  Philip nodded his head. ‘I wanted to talk to him.’

  There was an unusually long silence. He kept waiting for her to speak to him the way she had earlier in the day, to order him out of the loft. She was trying to remember all she had just read in the ‘Confession’, to piece it together and to make sense out of it. And she was afraid…

  ‘You aren’t feeling well, are you, Philip?’ Brent smiled and her changing eyes were unexpectedly soft and kind. ‘You’re confused, aren’t you?’

  Philip did not know what to make of her questions – he had expected an entirely different reaction. He had not as yet seen the manuscript that was lying on the sofa. All he could say was a wondering, ‘You aren’t angry with me?’

  Brent tossed her head. ‘I was this morning, Philip. Can you blame me? But I’m not now.’

  Philip smiled. He took off his hat and coat and put them over the chair hesitantly. Despite her reassurance, he still expected her to revert to her previous attitude. He certainly did not expect what came next.

  ‘Sit down, Philip. Make yourself comfortable,’ she was saying. ‘I want to talk to you about this. As a matter of fact, I’m glad you came.’ And Brent picked up the ‘Confession’ and placed it on her lap, thumbing a page. Instantly, Philip’s eyes were riveted on the manuscript.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.

  Brent shrugged her shoulders. ‘I had been trying to get in touch with Jerry,’ she said. ‘We had a date last night which he broke. When I ’phoned him here this morning after you left my place, I found he still wasn’t home. I decided to come here and wait for him.’ She smiled disarmingly. ‘I wanted to give him a chance to present his excuses.

  ‘When I got here, I found the door ajar. That’s not too unusual. Although I keep telling him that he should be more careful, Jerry’s the type that likes to leave everything unlocked. Well, I walked in and made myself at home. I took care of a few things, and then I sat down to read and wait for him, I was reaching for a book when I found this’ – she tapped the manuscript with a finger – ‘lying on the couch. I started to read it. I had just read the last page of it when you rang the bell.’

  She paused and looked at Philip. Her eyes were kind, but inquiring. Philip thought about the contents of the ‘Confession’. A deep flush burned its way up his throat to his face.

  ‘I found it very interesting, Philip – extremely interesting.’ She hesitated, looked down at the manuscript. ‘I don’t know quite what to make of it, Philip.’

  He tried to speak and could not. He felt completely helpless, as if her words robbed him of everything but his consciousness and this they intensified, focused, so that all of him – his present, past and future – was concentrated in this moment that had stopped, stood still and confronted him.

  ‘Philip, do you really believe all this happened? Is this your version of last night – and the night before?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘that was the way it was to happen. The “Confession” said it would happen that way. But, luckily, it didn’t.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Philip wet his lips. He was breathing more easily now, and his heart had stopped hammering erratically. ‘That manuscript,’ he began, ‘the one you’re holding in your lap, came in two parts. I found the first part on my desk Tuesday morning when I came to work. I read it, pondered over it and forgot about it. I thought perhaps that someone was playing a poor joke on me. But when I got home, it began to come true!

  ‘I didn’t know that you and Jeremy were coming to dinner at our house that night – I had not met you yet, of course, and I did not know your name. But as soon as I got home Dorothy told me that you were coming, just as the manuscript predicted. And, throughout dinner and afterwards, other little things happened just as they had in the prophecy!

  ‘Some of the events predicted did not occur. But those that did occur were often uncanny. The conversation even turned to Henry Miller, for example. And I did make love to you – although I tried very hard not to!’

  ‘Auto-suggestion,’ said Brent, blushing.

  ‘You mean I wrote it myself?’ Philip asked. ‘I had thought of that. And a psychiatrist I talked to about it said the same thing. But I can’t bring myself to accept it.’

  ‘You said the “Confession” was in two parts. What happened the next day?’ asked Brent.

  ‘I was coming to that,’ said Philip. ‘After I left you that first night, I went down to the office. I intended to sit and wait for whoever was writing the manuscript, if anyone was. I wanted to catch him – or her – red-handed. But when I reached the office, something happened. The next thing I remember it was morning and my secretary was shaking me. I had fallen asleep apparently. My typewriter was open on my desk again, and there was another section of the “Confession” lying beside it. You know what it predicted. You read it.’

  Brent nodded her head. Her expression was intense and troubled. Philip looked at her, realizing again how desirable she was to him. ‘I tried my best that day – yesterday – to avoid doing what the manuscript predicted. I had lunch with an old friend of mine, a psychiatrist. I went to a movie, usually the safest of activities. I spent the evening drinking. And you know what happened.’

  ‘What did you do this morning after you left me?’

  ‘I went to the office again. This time there was only a blank piece of paper on my desk. I felt relieved…’

  Brent’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘A blank piece of paper!’ she sighed.

  ‘Why, yes.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I suppose it’s silly of me, but – ‘

  ‘But what?’

  ‘If this “Confession” were your fate… if it really were a record of what is about to happen to you… A blank piece of paper might signify…’

  ‘My death?’ Philip concluded drily.

  Brent bit her tongue. ‘Something like that,’ she admitted.

  Philip shuddered. This was one possibility he did not want to consider. He tried to be nonchalant. ‘That’s a little silly, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Brent was not convinced.

  ‘Mere superstition.’

  Brent nodded her head. Philip laughed. ‘Well, if it is that, there’s nothing I can do. I have an appointment with death – and I’ll have to keep it.’

  They looked at each other, and their looks said: ‘We’re sensible people living in an era of scientific knowledge. If we acknowledge fate, we call it environment or conditioning or determinism – or by some other rational tag. What we are thinking now is fatalistic nonsense. It can’t be true!’

  The telephone jangled.

  Brent reached for it, picked it up, listened a moment and then covered the mouthpiece with her hand. ‘It’s Jeremy,’ she told Philip. ‘He says Dorothy is with him. Do you want me to tell them you’re here?’

  Philip considered this. If he could get Brent, Jeremy and Dorothy
together in the same place, he felt sure he could talk the whole tangled affair out – and discover who had been writing the ‘Confession’ and why.

  ‘Ask them both to come here,’ he said. ‘I want to get to the bottom of this.’

  Brent spoke into the receiver again. After listening a little longer, she said. ‘All right, I’ll be seeing you,’ and hung up. She smiled at Philip. ‘They’re coming,’ she said.

  ‘To get on with my story,’ said Philip, ‘soon after I reached the office this morning, Miss Grey came in to tell me that she was quitting. She said I had been acting “queer” lately. Then she left. I thought she had gotten her pay and gone for good. But she came back. She confessed that she had been paid to put the manuscripts on my desk!’ And then Philip told Brent all about the messengers and the hundred dollar bills.

  ‘Did you check with the messenger service?’ Brent asked. ‘I should think they would be able to tell you who ordered the messenger.’

  ‘I did that. And I found out who ordered the messenger. A fellow by the name of Philip Banter.’

  Brent was thunderstruck. She stood up and walked over to where Philip was sitting. ‘But, don’t you see, this proves that you must have written the “Confession”?’

  Philip held up his hand. ‘That’s not all the story,’ he said. ‘When I looked into the drawer of my desk for the manuscripts this morning, I found the drawer had been forced and the manuscripts were missing. This theft must have occurred between the time I left the office yesterday morning and my arrival there today – nearly a twenty-four hour period.’

  ‘Can you account for every minute of that period, every one of your movements?’

  ‘Perhaps not all. But I think I can account for most of them. I had lunch from noon until one-thirty with Dr George Matthews. I was in a barber shop until two-thirty. I walked from the barbershop to the theatre district from two-thirty to three. From three until six I was seeing a movie through twice. After I left the theatre, I went directly across the street to a bar where I drank and talked to a soldier until far after midnight. When the bar closed I took a taxi to your building where I passed out in your presence.’