The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

by Otto Penzler

  “You are on the roof?” I asked.

  “On the roof. One might fall off, of course. But even one with your love of violence can see the danger to me in that. Really, it is possible— but a man would have to be most desperate, and greatly in fear of—of you. No, no—” this as we walked into the spacious hall and entered an elevator. “Death must have its part in life, even in my life, Williams. But it must be smoothed over, and distant—seen, as I said, in the abstract. In plain words. If one annoys, it is better to have him removed through, shall I say—suggestion?”

  We sped quickly to the roof, walked down a corridor. Gorgon stopped before a heavy door, waited several seconds, then placed a key in the lock and swung the door open. And as we walked across the wind-swept roof, beneath the brightness of the stars, toward that California bungalow, he chatted on.

  “You see, Williams, why I might go a long way not to give all this up. The Italian emigrant has gone far in your city—risen perhaps by the customs your laws so agreeably set out for him. In your city—my city—a man first must banish conscience. Second, create a mind without a body, without emotions.”

  We had crossed the roof now, passed under a canopy by the small trees between giant plants. There was real grass, clipped as smooth as a putting green, a tiny fountain, and the ripple of falling water against the slight night wind.

  There were three steps of fancy brick and we were on the small porch. A single twist of the door knob—no waiting this time—and I followed Doctor Gorgon into a large, square hall.

  He tossed his coat and stick onto a high backed chair, placed his hat upon them, and motioned me to do the same with my hat. But the night was not cold. I wasn’t sporting a top coat. My felt hat had cost me twelve bucks—I’d keep it with me. It wouldn’t be at all surprising if I had to leave the house of Michelle Gorgon in a hurry.

  But he was persistent, and I wasn’t going to be small about it. I let him take the hat from me and place it on the chair.

  “A social call, Williams—and let us hope, a friendly call. A hat upon your knee would break the illusion and savor distinctly of the law, the police, at least, as we know the police detective in books and plays. Come, I never keep the servants up. I have always felt rather mentally above the teeming millions of the city. This home of mine is perhaps the realization in a material way of my mental attitude. In here—we will be quite alone.”

  He walked across the generous hall to a smaller hall, and across that narrow stretch through curtains, and stood aside for me to precede him, as he held a door open.

  I didn’t like it but I couldn’t see any harm in it. My hand was still in my jacket pocket; the Doctor’s body so close to mine that I pushed against it as I passed, and just stepped far enough into that room to—. And I drew a surprise.

  It was a library. Expensively bound volumes, deep, soft chairs, heavily curtained recesses before windows. But I saw none of that then. I was looking at the figure of a woman in a large chair, the rug hiding her limbs and body to well above the waist. The neck was long and slender, but there were discolorations upon it—heavy, purplish-yellow stretches, which covered the face as well. Patches of skin that seemed to have long since healed, after a burn.

  And the woman’s hand. I saw her left hand stretched out upon the rug. Twisted, sort of inhuman fingers, thin, emaciated, crippled arm. And Doctor Gorgon had stepped into the room beside me. He too saw the woman.

  Yep—you could knock him. He was no superman at that moment. Chalk white, his face may have been before—perhaps it couldn’t get any whiter—but at least it took on a new hue. A yellowish white of milk, with blotches in the perfect skin. Blotches like the curdling of milk, just as it turns sour. One hand went under his collar and pulled at it as his mouth hung open. For nearly a minute he looked at the woman. And so did I.

  And I was onto Doctor Michelle Gorgon. I thought, too, as I watched his face that perhaps I was the only one in the whole city who was onto him. For that minute, maybe less, he was just what I had placed him for—Eddie for—Joe Gorgon for. Doctor Michelle Gorgon was just a wop, just a human, physical, rotten bit of the life he controlled and stood above. A racketeer, a gangster, a slimy underworld rat. Believe me, for that best part of sixty seconds he did more tricks with his pan than our greatest actor ever pulled off in a Doctor Jekyll and Mr. Hyde performance.

  His mouth opened, his lower lip hung down. Little bubbles of saliva gathered as he tucked his lip in and pulled at it with his upper teeth. He didn’t speak. Not quite. One read, though, all the foul words he would have said if he could have spoken when he desired. But in a moment of mental strain and physical reaction he got hold of himself. Yet, his voice trembled when he finally spoke to the woman.

  “What are you doing here? How dare you come, and—” He swung suddenly on me. “Outside,” he said. “In the hall. Outside, Williams!”

  Outside it was. It wasn’t my party. The heavy door leading to that little hall nearly took my arm off as he closed it and clicked the key. One thing I had seen before that door got me. That was the woman’s eyes. Deep brown they were. Mysterious, living, beautiful eyes, like—. And I took a gasp. Like The Flame’s. Like—. And the words of Doctor Gorgon popped into my head, chased one another around and formed a picture. A woman with a maimed, twisted body. Nothing but her eyes; nothing—

  And from behind that locked door the woman cried out— Shrill, piercing. A scream of terror, even horror.

  “No—God! No. He must never see me like this. I won’t come again. I swear I won’t. I wanted a glass—a mirror.” A sound like an open palm against a face and the cry of the woman. “Help—he’s going to kill me.” And this time the voice died, as if a hand stilled it. Not a hand across the mouth—but a sudden gurgling sound to the stilled voice, as if fingers had clutched at her throat—followed by the sound as if bodies struggled, or one body moved heavily.

  I lifted my hand and knocked upon the door. A moment of silence followed my knock. Then I struck the door again. And when I say “struck” I mean just that. Heavy as the door was, it rattled like thin slats when I pounded my fist against it.

  CHAPTER XIV

  I GO IN FOR ACTION

  That second knock was a wow, and no mistake.

  It brought response from inside. There was a jolt, the slipping of a chair, a whispered voice— another, I thought, which sounded like a man’s. Feet crossed to the door, and Michelle Gorgon spoke. His voice was soft again, but there was still a tremor in it.

  “There, there, Mr. Williams. A little difficulty—family difficulty, that you would not understand. And please don’t pound like that again. I’ll be with you in a minute. I—”

  Feet moved across the floor. Feet that didn’t belong to Michelle Gorgon, by the door. Feet that were too heavy for that delicate, crippled woman in the big chair.

  I know I was silly. It wasn’t any of my business. If I had any sense I’d have lifted my hat and left the place. Yet, I’m the sort of a guy who does silly things, and likes to do them. Why think it out and reason it? Reason’s a damn poor excuse, most times, for not having guts. I didn’t reason then—and I didn’t think it out. I obeyed the impulse. And the impulse was to—well—here was a chance to talk to Doctor Gorgon. And in a way, at least, I understood—and he would understand in a minute. Damn it, he didn’t expect me to keep pounding on that door, like an hysterical woman.

  “Open that door—and keep the lady there,” I said. “No talking like a book now, Doctor. You’ll have to talk like a man for once. Open the door now, or, by God! I’ll put a bullet through the lock.”

  He answered.

  “If you do that you will wake the house. Men who might not understand.” Feet were moving quickly inside—heavy feet, that were weighted under a burden, I thought. The woman was being taken from the room by another door.

  “No more wind, Doc.” I was giving him the truth now. “Open the door, or get out of the way while a bullet goes through the lock.”

  “Willia
ms, I—”

  And that was that. Doctor Gorgon might speak just to hear himself talk, but I didn’t. There was a single roar of my gun, the splintering of wood—and a shattered lock. My hand on the knob, my shoulders hunched, with a thrust of my body I had that door open and was in the room. The time for talk was over. When I want an “in” I generally get an “in.” And when I take a shot at a lock, that ends that lock. Forty-four is the caliber of my guns. Maybe old fashioned and not much in use today—but a forty-four can certainly do a surprising lot of damage.

  This was my field, my game. I didn’t more than step through that door when I slammed it behind me and took one quick slant at Doctor Gorgon. His eyes were staring now, but for a different reason than his usual attitude—the “nothing can excite me” stuff. Well—I won’t say staring—rather, bulging. The deep blue pools were hitting high tide, and sort of flooding their banks.

  But both his hands were empty, and a curtain on the far side of the library was swinging slightly as I caught a glimpse of the trouser leg of a man.

  I brought up my gun, leveled it on that waving curtain and the disappearing leg, and gave the boy who owned the blue trousered limb a chance to live.

  “You behind the curtain. Stop—or I’ll—”

  “Stop!” Doctor Gorgon’s voice rang out. “There has been a grave misunderstanding. You may return Madame to the room at once.”

  And Madame was returned. Michelle Gorgon may have known a lot more words than I did, but, believe me, the few words I have serve my purpose at times. This was one of those times.

  Two men carried the woman. She shrieked as they brought her back, in a kind of a swing chair, between them. Personally, they were rather stupid looking fellows but they knew what a gun was and the purpose of it, and the havoc it might raise, for they kept their eyes riveted on mine.

  And Madame bellowed when they brought her in. She was not a pretty sight now, worse even than before. Her hair streamed over her forehead and her mouth was twisting spasmodically.

  She sort of gasped out her words.

  “Michelle—please—good God! not like this. That any man could see me like this—my hair—” She was trying to fix her hair with that twisted hand, and making a mess out of it.

  Well, I was into it now, and I stepped across the room and stood before her.

  Doctor Gorgon crossed quickly to her too, smoothed back her hair and patted her hand. He was leaning down and looking at her. I pulled at his shoulder and straightened him.

  “Madame,” I said, “you called for help. What—”

  “She is not well.” Michelle Gorgon horned in quickly—rather too quickly, I thought, though I don’t know why I thought it. “She has had a sudden illusion that she would see some one again— some one very dear to her. And unless she is more careful, that illusion will come true— much more careful.” And as I turned sharply on him, “I mean her health, of course. As you see, it is not—”

  “Can the chatter.” And turning to the woman, “What’s the trouble, lady?”

  Her eyes were suddenly alive.

  “Trouble—trouble. I dreamed it. I do not know. Take me away, Michelle. That a man should see me like this, when I was once so beautiful. A young man too. Take me away. But tell him, Michelle. Let me hear you tell the gentleman how very beautiful I was before. Tell him.” There was almost a child-like anxiety in her voice, a sudden quick flash to her eyes, that died in the making, a simper in her voice, a coquettish tilt to her head that was either disgusting or tragic, I wasn’t sure which.

  “Yes, she was a very beautiful woman, Mr. Williams. Very beautiful indeed.” Michelle Gorgon leaned close to her again and looked into her eyes. “Indeed—” he said very slowly, “she was once—once very beautiful.”

  The woman screamed, threw herself back in the chair and lay quite still. I was very close to her—very close to Michelle Gorgon. He had said nothing to her that I hadn’t heard. Certainly he had not touched her, or even pulled “a face on her.”

  “Take Madame to Mrs. O’Connor.” Gorgon spoke to the men who held the chair—then to me, “With your permission, of course.” And there was a bit of a sneer to his voice.

  “Sure. It’s all right by me,” I said easily. But, damn it, I didn’t feel entirely at ease. Not that I was sorry I shot through that lock. Maybe it was a mistake, maybe it wasn’t. But we all make lots of mistakes. None, more than I. I’m not a lad who won’t admit a thing is wrong, just because he did it. Not me. But—well if it was wrong it was just too damn bad. Nothing could change it now. Nothing I could do then would take a forty-four bullet and shove it back into my gun again. Why cry over it?

  “Explain the—the explosion,” Michelle Gorgon said to one of the men. And when the man he spoke to looked at me rather blankly, “You might say to the servants that Madame has caused a disturbance. That is all.” He watched them carry the woman from the room, even walked to the curtains and pulled the rug that covered her legs slightly closer about her feet, and held the curtains open as they passed from view. Then he turned to me.

  “You might have killed me with that shot,” he said. “Absurd, of course—but I could swear I felt or heard the bullet pass very close to me. The newspapers evidently do not exaggerate your— your idiosyncrasies. You do not know it, Williams, but you took quite an advantage of me. I allow nothing untoward to happen in my house.”

  He was talking more, I think to pull himself together. And one thing struck me. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it was because he was disturbed, but when he threw a big word into his conversation he seemed to grope for it—feel for it, as if he tried it out first in his own mind before he spoke it. He walked up and down a bit as he talked, finally paused, looked at me a moment, and walking to the wall pressed a button.

  The man who came to the door I had rather demolished was old, bent, and every inch the trained servant. Michelle Gorgon looked at him a moment, hesitated, then spoke.

  “The No. 1 Sherry, Carleton—Carleton.” He repeated the name “Carleton” very slowly, as if he liked the sound of it and hoped that I would. Then to the man again, “Madame has had a spell. We are very fond of her, Carleton—very fond of her indeed. We must put up with a great deal.”

  “Very good, sir. The No. 1 Sherry.” And the man left the room.

  Michelle Gorgon had exaggerated, to say the least, when he told me the servants had retired.

  “There, there, Williams.” Michelle Gorgon paced the room slowly as he talked. “You have made it a trying evening. I do not believe, though, that the shot was heard outside, or below. It was unfortunate, and I forgive you. I was angry of course, to see—to see Madame so.” He shrugged his shoulders and half extended his arms. “It is my burden, my cross, and I am afraid there are times when I do not bear it like a man. I hope you will need no further explanation. You are my guest. May I simply say that the lady is my wife and that she met with a very serious accident, which maimed her body and affected her mind. She has never seen her face since the accident. The shock might kill her. We watch her rather closely. As you see, there are no mirrors in this room. But the reflection in the glass of a picture, the highly polished surface of a cigarette case, and such objects, have given her more than a suspicion. But she does not know the whole truth. Only a mirror could tell her that.

  “I have been advised to send her away—a private hospital. But she does not wish to go.” He looked dreamily at the ceiling, as if in reminiscent thought. “It would be better for her, of course, far better. But we cling to sentiment, Williams, almost childishly hang onto the subconscious allurements of the past. Indeed, she was a very beautiful, and a very accomplished woman. Like—” He paused, the door opened, and the servant entered with a tray.

  “Like The Flame.” I helped him out. I don’t know why that was on my mind, but it was.

  “Like The Flame—yes,” he said very slowly. He reached for a glass, lifted the bottle and poured me out a drink, and taking one himself, motioned Carleton to place th
e tray and bottle on the table.

  “You, if you are a judge, will appreciate this wine,” he held the amber glass, with its long stem, before the lamp. “I have a friend who puts a seal upon it before it leaves France. It comes from the very cellars of the Marguery, in Paris. My own seal is placed upon each bottle before it is even moved from the shelf. It is very rare and—”

  Michelle Gorgon paused and looked at a white card which lay upon the tray. He half bowed to me, stayed Carleton with a raised hand and said:

  “You’ll excuse me, Williams.” And he turned over the card, read it through carefully, moved his eyebrows a bit, but did not permit his eyes to blink.

  “I told him, sir—” Carleton started.

  “Apologies are unnecessary, Carleton. He would not have come unless— You may tell him to come in.” A moment’s hesitation, and just before Carleton passed out the door, “A bottle of whisky. We must not be inhospitable.” And to me, “It is my brother, Joe. You do not object, I am sure.”

  Maybe I did object. At least unconsciously, for I half came to my feet. Then I shrugged my shoulders but said nothing. Joe Gorgon had pushed himself to the top as a racketeer because of his speed with a gun. Yet, I don’t believe there’s a lad living today, or dead either for that matter, who can pull on me. But then, a lad with a gun hand like that wouldn’t be dead, which gave me the thought that Joe Gorgon was still alive.

  “You will excuse me again, Williams.” Doctor Gorgon picked up a bit of paper beside the telephone on the table, studied it a moment, turned it face down and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was eighteen minutes past two.

  “It is almost like a play,” he went on. “Each scene set to intrigue the audience. Each scene—. But this will be my brother, Joe. An impetuous man, dynamic, invigorating. But let me know what you think of the Sherry.”

  I watched him sip his and heard him say, as he tipped the glass.

  “Here’s to crime—your business, and mine.”

  And, damn it, the “mine” was gotten off in a way that made the wine stick in my throat before going down. Sinister, crafty, evil. There was no expression on his face, but for a moment I thought that I saw the real man. The man I had seen a part of that minute when Madame—or whatever fancy name you’d hang on her—was discovered in the room. A stern face, an intelligent face. Nothing of the sensual or animal in it. Yet, again, for a fraction of a second I saw, or felt that I saw, the real Michelle Gorgon, and it gave me a certain satisfaction.