Catch-As-Catch-Can

by Charlotte Armstrong

  “Quiet,” said the young man named George, coming up.

  “Yeh, shuddup,” said Coolie in sudden anger. “You! What’s it your business?” He gave Vince a tug and then he said to big Al, “the onney thing is, Al.…”

  “You did check,” said Andy.

  Coolie ignored him. “Al, if you didn’t monkey with the lock.…”

  “Naw,” said Al, “I slam the door and it locks, that’s all.”

  Andy was listening carefully. He heard doubt in the little man. His mind went to work on it.

  “Innafearing with my freedom,” yelped Vince. “Who you pushing around?”

  “You’ve got no right to break up our show, you know,” said George, “but you kinda people never think of it that way.”

  “Take it easy,” said Talbot sharply. “For God’s sake, nobody lose his head right now. And skip arguing your own business. Get this straight, can’t we? What’s this about a door locking?”

  “What is this anyhow?” said George, puffing.

  “We believe there may be a man in there.”

  “What’s that!”

  “Let him get gassed,” croaked Vince. “He’s worth no trouble.”

  George said, “Look, you two fellows checked, didn’t you?”

  “We did,” said Al. “Nobody’s in there.”

  But Coolie said, “I don’t know.…”

  “Look,” said George, turning pale, “if you don’t know, I’ve got to go say something.”

  “Lemme,” said Coolie. “You hang onto this one.”

  “No, no. I’ll go.”

  “You’re nuts, Coolie,” Al said.

  “Tell them what we say,” called Talbot after George.

  “Yah. Yah, I’ll tell them.” George went scooting toward the front door of the house and dove into the crowd.

  “Now, what’s this,” demanded Andy, “about a door?”

  “Aw,” said Al. “It don’t mean a thing. There wasn’t anything or anybody in that place when I slammed the door. So how could they get in later? See?”

  “Yeh, but …” Coolie began and added weakly, “Well, anyhow, he’ll tell them.”

  “You’re satisfied, now, ain’t you? That whatever’s his name, George, he’ll tell them?”

  “It’s no way to die,” said Andy.

  “Be all right for our crumby friend,” leered Vince.

  And Andy said sharply, “Cut it out, Procter. It’s no way for any human being to die and you know it.”

  “Aw, Mr. Talbot, I don’t really think he’s in there.…”

  “He ain’t in there,” said Al, “and you guys don’t want to make a disturbance.”

  “Not at all,” said Andy. “We’d just like to make sure you are not going to kill a man.” He turned his head to look sharply at the smaller of these men.

  Coolie, shifting from foot to foot, said, “The onney thing is, I … I … I … never did ask the old man for them keys. I didn’t wanna … didn’t wanna … didn’t wanna take my hat off.”

  “Relax,” said Al.

  “What keys?” said Andy. “What about your hat?”

  It took him a few minutes to understand. Slowly, he got the sense of the minor feud between Coolie and his boss. The triviality. Bowman wanted Coolie televised without the disreputable hat. But Coolie, in an inverted vanity, did not want to look other than his daily self. So, he had “forgotten” to ask Bowman for the keys.

  “You mean you did not really check behind that door. You took a chance?”

  “Naw,” Al said. “There wasn’t no chance. Listen—”

  Meanwhile, the assistant, McMahon, said into his communicating device, “Mr. Osborne, at least I’ve got to get this to Bowman. Why don’t I get him to fake the release of the gas? Then there’s no harm done, and we don’t hold up the show, either. How about taking the picture off three, for five seconds? Dave can stall.…”

  “You’re going to bust the rhythm of this thing,” said the director, who was inside the control truck. “Who are those people? Nuts?”

  “George says it was one of Bowman’s own men who didn’t seem positive. You better let me have five seconds with Bowman. Otherwise, I don’t want the responsibility.”

  “O.K. Signal Dave. We’ll take three, in five seconds.”

  Andy, held in the big man’s hands as harshly as ever, said again, “Somebody better make sure they look behind that door.”

  The little man, Coolie, who was jittering up and down on the ground, suddenly let go of Vince and went plunging after George. As the assistant, MacMahon, slid through the front door of the house, Coolie caught George’s coattails, “Listen, is he going to get the keys?”

  “What keys? No, no. Going to get Bowman to fake the whole thing. So it’s O.K. Don’t worry.”

  “I don’t know,” said Coolie. “Mr. Bowman, he don’t know which end up he is, hardly. He’s got his mind on all his friends and customers looking at him. I don’t know if he’ll get the idea, even. You don’t know Bowman like I do. Lemme get through in there and get the keys?”

  “What keys?” asked George, and Coolie began to explain all over again.

  CHAPTER 24

  Camera number one, shooting through the wide open front door, caught the interior of the Baxter house, and two men in the middle of the front room floor with a wicked looking cylinder resting between them. Then Dave Ainsley’s eyes flickered. The screens in the living rooms began to see, through camera number three, a wide-angled view of the exterior, the house corner, and a slanting glance at the bystanders. “Ladies and Gentlemen …” smoothly Dave Ainsley began to recapitulate. MacMahon walked up to Mr. Bowman who was jolted and unsettled by the interruption. “We hear a man got in here,” MacMahon said to him rapidly but firmly. “It’s not sure he got out. Best if you fake that release, Mr. Bowman. Just pretend to open that valve. You can do that? Nobody will know the difference.”

  “There’s no man in here,” said Bowman, glassy-eyed and indignant.

  “Can’t take the chance, sir. Promise me you’ll fake it. If you’ll do that, we can continue.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “O.K.?”

  “Yes, O.K.” Bowman stood, breathing a little hard. His eyes rolled down the vistas of the wide open little house. He licked his lips and the taste of make-up was on them.

  “Camera will be back on you in a second. You understand, now?”

  “Yes, certainly. Certainly.”

  As MacMahon withdrew, Dave Ainsley begarn, “And now Mr. Bowman is just about ready to show us how he does it. Mr. Bowman, you tell me this is fast, is it?”

  Bowman began to speak with growing excitement. He was rapt and proud of his work and he was on the air the first and last time in his life. His hands gestured over the cylinder. “I wear a mask for this.” he explained, “but I don’t hang around, even so. I get out of here as fast as my legs can carry me. Anything that breathes, you see, is gone instantaneously. That’s the beauty of it.”

  MacMahon glanced through the open bedroom at the open closets. He slipped back through the little house. He touched the doorknob of the one closed door. He turned it, used pressure. Then he made a quick tattoo with his knuckles on the wood: He said, “Anybody in there, speak now.” But his ear on the wood heard no answer and no sound.

  From the edge of the road where he was standing with Al’s hard hands still on his forearms, Talbot could see the earphoned heads of the camera men rising above the crowded backs, and the solid crowd around the control truck itself peering in at the gadgets and the engineers, the matter-of-fact of the magical process. He could hear, at the crossroads, the drag of sudden interest and attention, a kind of hesitation step in the rhythm of traffic, as motorists noticed that something was going on here.

  Al was saying, “So what? I’m telling you this guy was in the auto accident. That’s what you say yourself. So how in hell could he be inside that room in there and me slamming the door when I hear the cars crashing?”

  “You’re
certain the door was fixed to lock, then?” Andy was using his head, searching for a flaw in this reasoning. “Or did he fix it to lock, when he went in there to hide, later?” This big Al wasn’t quick. “Was that door unlocked when you started to work in there?” Andy pounded, hunting for a fact. “Did you open it without a key?”

  “Well, sure, because we hadda seal up in there. We hadda get in.”

  “But it’s locked now. Somebody messed around with it. Who? You didn’t.”

  “Well, I—don’t think I did. But I mighta—”

  “For gosh sakes,” Vince said, “the guy’s got ears, hasn’t he? And he ain’t locked in, they say. He can walk out any time by turning the knob. You trying to say he’s committing suicide, Mr. Talbot?”

  “I’m remembering that he was in that auto accident and in one of the cars that crashed. Its possible he was hurt more than anyone knew. Suppose he passed out in there?”

  Andy was thinking. Between this big dumb easy-going illogical type, Al, and that nervous feuding little one—worried about his pride—it could go wrong. Through the intricacy, he could see the zigzag possibility that led to death.

  “Aw,” scoffed Al. “That’s hardly likely. Anyhow, I’m pretty sure the door locked when I shut it.”

  “Pretty sure,” said Andy.

  Vince, who was standing free, said, “Well, it’s not our responsibility, anyhow. We done all we can do about it. I sure wouldn’t want to go in there now, believe me. This program must be pretty near over.”

  Now George came puffing back to where they were standing. “It’s O.K.,” said he gaily. “It’s simple. The guy’s going to fake it. He’s not going to let any gas out, that’s all. See how easy?”

  “Who ain’t going to let any gas out? Bowman!” Al stiffened.

  “Sure. So there’s nothing to worry about. See? We don’t want to throw the program if we can help it. Naturally.”

  “What kind of a man is this Bowman?” said Talbot, sharply.

  “He’s O.K.,” said Al. “He’s O.K. I guess.”

  “Guess,” said Andy.

  On the screen, in the picture, Bowman said, “Now, Dave, I guess you better leave me. And you, too, Mr. MacMahon.” He nodded offstage. “I’ll just attend to this little unveiling and we can leave the bugs to die. Ha ha.” His hands fiddled with a gas mask.

  “Mr. Bowman,” said Dave Ainsley in his eager pleasing voice, “I want our viewers to especially understand the precautions that you take. Now the entire house has been completely inspected.”

  “Certainly,” said Bowman.

  “It’s impossible for a pet or anything like that to be in another room for instance?”

  Bowman bridled. “My men …” he began.

  “Two minutes. Quit stalling,” barked the director, in the control truck. MacMahon began to make time signals. He, himself, slipped toward the door. Mr. Bowman stopped explaining the careful routine of his faithful workmen and took a breath and put on his gas mask. Dave Ainsley began to walk backwards toward the door, where Coolie crouched under the camera, staring in.

  “Relax, will ya?” Al rumbled. “They’ll watch it. Anyhow, probably the man got out long ago.”

  “Probably,” said Andy.

  “Why sure. Been a long time since them lights went on. He’s probably long gone.”

  “Probably,” said Andy again.

  “Like I say, Mr. Talbot,” said Vince the cabdriver, “it’s no responsibility of ours. We told them. It’s up to somebody else, now, I should think.”

  It was a soothing match. George soothed, too. “Smart thing to do is just what they’re doing. Fake it. MacMahon thought of it. You get sharp in this business. You got to think fast. Nobody wants to get redheaded around a TV show, believe me.”

  “Redheaded?” said Andy Talbot.

  “Just an expression.”

  “Expression. I see.”

  MacMahon, watching Bowman who stood ready in his mask, felt himself being tugged at. Coolie whispered, “Did you get the keys? Gimme two seconds, I can unlock that door.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to let the stuff loose at all. He’s going to fake it.”

  “Yen?” said Coolie weakly.

  “He was warned,” said MacMahon. “I told him. It’s his responsibility, now.”

  Coolie got up as if he were tied. He made his way out of the crowd.

  “O.K.?” asked Al.

  Coolie said nothing.

  “Will he fake it?” asked Andy suddenly.

  “I don’t know,” said Coolie. “Too late. Too late, now. He … he … he … gets concentrated.”

  “Well, too late now,” said Vince.

  Andy stared at the ground. He could hear himself saying reasonably, “I did all I could. I warned them. It was their responsibility, after that. I am not to blame.” He hung there, loosely, in Al’s strong and unrelenting hands.

  He heard himself saying this to Laila Breen. Her brown eyes would hold a perfect trust. She would say, “Of course not, Andrew,” in her soft sweet voice.

  But the redhead? A shocked tingling began in his blood. It wasn’t good enough for Dee Allison. It was just not good enough. It would not do. You never stopped. You did not say, “I’m through.”

  He could feel big Al’s paws tightening against his sudden tension and the big body bracing to hold him.

  On the TV screens, and on Mrs. Gilman’s among them, there was only one figure now, the man in the mask, and he was speechless. Off screen, Dave Ainsley’s voice continued, working up the pitch. Making it exciting. Actually, there was nothing exciting to see. The man in the screen merely squatted down and his hands went to the mechanisms at the upper end of the cylinder, but Dave Ainsley got breathless.…

  Outside, on the edge of the road, Talbot said quietly, “Say, Procter?”

  “Yeah, Mr. Talbot?” Vince pricked up his ears.

  “Remember what it was you said you’d like to see? When we caught up to Breen?” Andy was letting himself sag.

  “Huh? Yeah, I.…”

  “We’d walk up to Breen, you said, the two of us. You’d give me a nod. Remember what I’d do then?” Andy’s voice was a drone.

  “Yeah. Yeah, sure. I remember.” Vince licked his lips. His eyes were squirrel-bright.

  “Why don’t you do it,” said Andy, “to the man behind me, now.”

  So Vince, grinning as wide as his whole face, delighted with himself for catching on and with the drama of it all, didn’t even stop to wonder why, but simply wound up a haymaker and cracked Al on the jaw with it.

  Al only staggered but Andy got away. He brushed George from his path. “Sorry, gentlemen,” he said calmly, “but I will have to go personally.”

  He slammed through the ranks of the onlookers. Whipping before camera number one, he knocked it crooked; he knocked Dave Ainsley aside. The figure of Bowman stood up and gesticulated furiously. But, on the TV screen, there was a whoosh of jumbled light and shade and the picture vanished. Channel letters came on and stood stolidly.

  Andy ran without breathing into the pantry, through it, into the kitchen, turned back, saw the one door that was closed in this house. Bowman was crouching over the cylinder. Coolie came flying in. “The keys!” he yelled. “Boss, boss, gimme the Baxter keys.” Then Bowman ripped the mask off and began to roar and MacMahon had flung himself angrily on Talbot’s shoulders.

  But Coolie had a key in the lock and Andy yanked the door open. Breath rushed into him and he yelled in shock and fright.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Due to unforeseen difficulties …” a voice was droning.

  Mrs. Gilman sighed.

  Agnes turned from the front door. “They’re bringing some people out!” she cried. “Two unconscious people!”

  “Oh, no!” said Agnes Nilsson under her breath. “Not three lives!” She looked into the sitting room behind her, superstitiously.

  Suddenly, the picture bloomed again on the screen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen
,” Dave Ainsley was almost screaming with joy, “a most dramatic incident.… Just as you saw Mr. Bowman’ about to release the deadly gas.…” The picture wobbled on a mass of milling people and then it steadied on a girl, whose head rolled sleepily. Then it turned to a man, lying on the ground, who moved and tried to sit up.

  The nurse and the invalid watched until Dave’s last gasp, last wildly excited syllable died away and the music came on. Then Agnes asked timidly, “Is there anything else you would like now, Mrs. Gilman?”

  Mrs. Gilman rested her head back. She was smiling faintly. She picked up her pencil and wrote, “No, thank you, Agnes. That’s enough for tonight.”

  Some of the light remained, enough to shine on Dee’s red-gold hair and her dirty animated face. She sat on the step of the Baxter house, leaning on Andy Talbot’s shoulder.

  “I sure outsmarted myself,” she said. Her tongue was thick. “First I ran myself right into a jam, and then I had to go and bean him. Golly, was I glad to hear your voice!”

  Andy said, appalled, “You could hear!”

  “I think I passed out,” she said. “I knew I was all right, then.”

  Nobody spoke. She looked where Clive, lolling on the seat of a police car, didn’t seem to care that he had been gotten out or what they would do with him now. He looked beaten and empty and it was true, Dee thought, he could never be gotten out of the jam he was in. The silence grew on her. She looked about her. “A near thing, I guess,” she said tentatively.

  “I would have faked the release of the gas, of course,” said Mr. Bowman haughtily. “I must say I don’t like any of this.” Mr. Bowman was going to sue somebody.

  “I was about to cut the picture off the air,” said MacMahon quickly. “We’d have to make sure.… We never.…” He choked.

  Coolie said, “I was tryin’ to get the key. All the time. I woulda yelled or something and broke it up.…”

  But the night air tingled with alarm, just the same. With what might have been. Intentions, crystallizing now, coming into full existence as memories, were not yet as thick and firm and real-seeming as they would be. The tingle of fright still ran on the nerves, the tremble of self-doubt, memories of chances taken before, of conclusions jumped to, and bucks passed.