Four- and five-story walk-up apartment houses, with their backs to the tracks, at least ten families to a building, more usually twenty or more, and the buildings crushed together almost wall to wall. Wood-construction back porches which proclaimed the fire-trap nature of the warrens despite the outer brick shells, family wash hung out to dry on those porches, garbage cans, and trash bins. Mile after mile of undignified and unbeautiful squalor, seen from the rear.
And over everything a film of black grime, old and inescapable, like the dirt on the window sill beside her.
She thought of that vacation, clean air and clear sunshine. Why stay in Chicago? What did the town have to justify its existence? One decent boulevard, one decent suburb to the north, priced for the rich, two universities and a lake. As for the rest, endless miles of depressing, dirty streets. The town was one big stockyard.
The apartments gave way to elevated-train yards; the train turned left and headed east. After a few minutes they got off at Stoney Island station; she was glad to be off it and free of that too-frank back view of everyday life, even though she exchanged it for the noise and seedy commercialism of Sixty-third Street.
Potbury’s office faced on the street, with an excellent view of the elevated and the trains. It was the sort of location in which a G. P. could be sure of a busy practice and equally sure of never being bothered by riches or fame. The stuffy little waiting room was crowded but the turnover was fast; they did not have long to wait.
Potbury looked them over as they came in. "Which one of you is the patient?" he asked. His manner was slightly testy.
They had planned to lead up to the subject of Hoag by using Cynthia’s fainting spell as an excuse for consultation; Potbury’s next remark queered the scheme, from Cynthia’s viewpoint. "Whichever one it is, the other can wait outside. I don’t like holding conventions."
"My wife—" Randall began. She clutched his arm.
"My wife and I," he went on smoothly, "want to ask you a couple of questions, doctor."
"Well? Speak up."
"You have a patient—a Mr. Hoag."
Potbury got up hastily, went to the reception-room door, and assured himself that it was closed tightly. He then stood and faced them, his back to the only exit. "What about—Hoag?" he said forebodingly.
Randall produced his credentials. "You can see for yourself that I am a proper inquiry agent," he said. "My wife is licensed, too."
"What do you have to do with—the man you mentioned?"
"We are conducting an investigation for him. Being a professional man yourself, you can appreciate that I prefer to be frank—"
"You work for him?"
"Yes and no. Specifically, we are trying to find out certain things about him, but he is aware that we are doing so; we aren’t going around behind his back. If you like, you can phone him and find out or yourself." Randall made the suggestion because it seemed necessary to make it; he hoped that Potbury would disregard it.
Potbury did so, but not in any reassuring manner. "Talk with him? Not if I can help it! What did you want to know about him?"
"A few days ago," Randall said carefully, "Hoag brought to you a substance to be analyzed. I want to find out what that substance was."
"Hrrumph! You reminded me a moment ago that we were both professional men; I am surprised that you should make such a request."
"I appreciate your viewpoint, doctor, and I know that a doctor’s knowledge of his patients is privileged. But in this case there is—"
"You wouldn’t want to know!"
Randall considered this. "I’ve seen a good deal of the seamy side of life, doctor, and I don’t think there is anything that can shock me any more. Do you hesitate to tell me in Mrs. Randall’s presence?"
Potbury looked him over quizzically, then surveyed Mrs. Randall. "You look like decent enough people," he conceded. "I suppose you do think you are beyond being shocked. But let me give you some advice. Apparently you are connected in some way with this man. Stay away from him! Don’t have anything to do with him. And don’t ask me what he had under his fingernails."
Cynthia suppressed a start. She had been keeping out of the conversation but following it carefully. As she remembered it, Teddy had made no mention of fingernails.
"Why, doctor?" Randall continued insistently.
Potbury was beginning to be annoyed. "You are a rather stupid young man, sir. Let me tell you this: If you know no more of this person than you appear to know, then you have no conception of the depths of beastliness possible in this world. In that you are lucky. It is much, much better never to know."
Randall hesitated, aware that the debate was going against him. Then he said, "Supposing you are right, doctor—how is it, if he is so vicious, you have not turned Hoag over to the police?"
"How do you know I haven’t? But I will answer that one, sir. No, I have not turned him over to the police, for the simple reason that it would do no good. The authorities have not had the wit nor the imagination to conceive of the possibility of the peculiar evil involved. No law can touch him—not in this day and age."
"What do you mean, ‘not in this day and age’?"
"Nothing. Disregard it. The subject is closed. You said something about your wife when you came in; did she wish to consult me about something?"
"It was nothing," Cynthia said hastily. "Nothing of importance."
"Just a pretext, eh?" He smiled almost jovially. "What was it?"
"Nothing. I fainted earlier today. But I’m all right now."
"Hm-m-m. You’re not expecting, are you? Your eyes don’t look like it. You look sound enough. A little anemic, perhaps. Fresh air and sunshine wouldn’t do any harm." He moved away from them and opened a white cabinet on the far wall; he busied himself with bottles for a moment. Presently he returned with a medicine glass filled with amber-brown liquid. "Here—drink this."
"What is it?"
"A tonic. It contains just enough of What Made the Preacher Dance to make you enjoy it."
Still she hesitated, looking to her husband. Potbury noticed it and remarked, "Don’t like to drink alone, eh? Well, one wouldn’t do us any harm, either." He returned to the cabinet and came back ith two more medicine glasses, one of which he handed to Randall. "Here’s to forgetting all unpleasant matters," he said. "Drink up!" He lifted his own glass to his lips and tossed it off.
Randall drank, Cynthia followed suit. It was not bad stuff, she thought. Something a little bitter in it, but the whiskey—it was whiskey, she concluded—covered up the taste. A bottle of that tonic might not do you any real good but it would make you feel better.
Potbury ushered them out. "If you have another fainting spell, Mrs. Randall, come back and see me and we’ll give you a thorough going over. In the meantime, don’t worry about matters you can’t help."
They took the last car of the train in returning and were able to pick a seat far away enough from other passengers for them to talk freely. "Whatja make of it?" he asked, as soon as they were seated.
She wrinkled her brow. "I don’t know, quite. He certainly doesn’t like Mr. Hoag, but he never said why."
"Um-m-m."
"What do you make of it, Teddy?"
"First, Potbury knows Hoag. Second, Potbury is very anxious that we know nothing about Hoag. Third, Potbury hates Hoag—and is afraid of him!"
"Huh? How do you figure that out?"
He smiled maddeningly. "Use the little gray cells, my sweet. I think I’m on to friend Potbury— and if he thinks he can scare me out of looking into what Hoag does with his spare time he’s got another think coming!"
Wisely, she decided not to argue it with him just then—they had been married quite some time.
At her request they went home instead of back to the office. "I don’t feel up to it. Teddy. If he wants to play with my typewriter, let him!"
"Still feeling rocky from the Brodie you pulled?" he asked anxiously.
"Kinda."
She napped most of the a
fternoon. The tonic, she reflected, that Dr. Potbury had given her did not seem to have done her any good—left her dizzy, if anything, and with a furry taste in her mouth.
Randall let her sleep. He fiddled around the apartment for a few minutes, set up his dart board and tried to develop an underhand shot, then desisted when it occurred to him that it might wake Cynthia. He looked in on her and found that she was resting peacefully. He decided that she might like a can of beer when she woke up—it was a good excuse to go out; he wanted a beer himself. Bit of a headache, nothing much, but he hadn’t felt really chipper since he left the doctor’s office. A couple of beers would fix it up.
There was a taproom just this side of the nearest delicatessen. Randall decided to stop for one on draught before returning. Presently he found himself explaining to the proprietor just why the reform amalgamation would never turn out the city machine.
He recalled, as he left the place, his original intention. When he got back to their apartment, laden with beer and assorted cold cuts, Cynthia was up and making domestic noises in the kitchen. "Hi, babe!"
"Teddy!"
He kissed her before he put down the packages. "Were you scared when you woke up and found me gone?"
"Not really. But I would rather you had left a note. What have you got there?"
"Suds and cold cuts. Like?"
"Swell. I didn’t want to go out for dinner and I was trying to see what I could stir up. But I hadn’t any meat in the house." She took them from him.
"Anybody call?"
"Huh-uh. I called the exchange when I woke up. Nothing of interest. But the mirror came."
"Mirror?"
"Don’t play innocent. It was a nice surprise, Teddy. Come see how it dresses up the bedroom."
"Let’s get this straight," he said. "I don’t know anything about a mirror."
She paused, puzzled. "I thought you bought it for me for a surprise. It came prepaid."
"Whom was it addressed to; you or me?"
"I didn’t pay much attention; I was half asleep. I just signed something and they unpacked it and hung it for me."
It was a very handsome piece of glass, beveled plate, without a frame, and quite large. Randall conceded that it did things for her dressing table. "If you want a glass like that, honey, I’ll get one for you. But this isn’t ours. I suppose I’d better call up somebody and tell ‘em to take it back. Where’s the tag?"
"They took it off, I think. Anyhow it’s after six o’clock."
He grinned at her indulgently. "You like it, don’t you? Well, it looks like it’s yours for tonight— and tomorrow I’ll see about getting you another."
It was a beautiful mirror; the silvering was well-nigh perfect and the glass was air-clear. She felt as if she could push her hand through it.
He went to sleep, when they turned in, a little more readily than she did—the nap, no doubt. She rested on one elbow and looked at him for a long time after his breathing had become regular. Sweet Teddy! He was a good boy—good to her certainly. Tomorrow she would tell him not to bother about the other mirror—she didn’t need it. All she really wanted was to be with him, for nothing ever to separate them. Things did not matter; just being together was the only thing that really mattered.
She glanced at the mirror. It certainly was handsome. So beautifully clear—like an open window. She felt as if she could climb through it, like Alice Through the Looking Glass.
He awoke when his name was called. "Up out of there, Randall! You’re late!"
It wasn’t Cynthia; that was sure. He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and managed to focus them. "Wha’s up?"
"You," said Phipps, leaning out through the beveled glass. "Get a move on! Don’t keep us waiting."
Instinctively he looked toward the other pillow. Cynthia was gone.
Gone! Then he was up out of bed at once, wide awake, and trying frantically to search everywhere at once. Not in the bathroom. "Cyn!" Not in the living room, not in the kitchen- breakfast room. "Cyn! Cynthia! Where are you?" He pawed frantically in each of the closets. "Cyn!"
He returned to the bedroom and stood there, not knowing where to look next—a tragic, barefooted figure in rumpled pajamas and tousled hair.
Phipps put one hand on the lower edge of the mirror and vaulted easily into the room. "This room should have had a place to install a full-length mirror," he remarked curtly as he settled his coat and straightened his tie. "Every room should have a full-length mirror. Presently we will require it—I shall see to it."
Randall focused his eyes on him as if seeing him for the first time. "Where is she?" he demanded.
"What have you done with her?" He stepped toward Phipps menacingly.
"None of your business," retorted Phipps. He inclined his head toward the mirror. "Climb through it."
"Where is she?" he screamed and attempted to grab Phipps by the throat.
Randall was never clear as to just what happened next. Phipps raised one hand—and he found himself tumbled against the side of the bed. He tried to struggle up again—fruitlessly. His efforts had a helpless, nightmare quality. "Mr. Crewes!" Phipps called out. "Mr. Reifsnider—I need your help."
Two more faces, vaguely familiar, appeared in the mirror. "On this side, Mr. Crewes, if you please," Phipps directed. Mr. Crewes climbed through. "Fine! We’ll put him through feet first, I think."
Randall had nothing to say about it; he tried to resist, but his muscles were water. Vague twitchings were all he could accomplish. He tried to bite a wrist that came his way and was rewarded with a faceful of hard knuckles—a stinging rap rather than a blow.
"I’ll add to that later," Phipps promised him.
They poked him through and dumped him on a table—the table. It was the same room he had been in once before, the board room of Detheridge & Co. There were the same pleasant, icy faces around the table, the same jovial, pig-eyed fat man at the head. There was one minor difference; on the long wall was a large mirror which did not reflect the room, but showed their bedroom, his and Cynthia’s, as if seen in a mirror, with everything in it swapped left for right.
But he was not interested in such minor phenomena. He tried to sit up, found that he could not, and was forced to make do with simply raising his head. "Where did you put her?" he demanded of the huge chairman.
Stoles smiled at him sympathetically. "Ah, Mr. Randall! So you’ve come to see us again. You do get around, don’t you? Entirely too much, in fact."
"Damn you—tell me what you did with her!"
"Silly and weak and stupid," Stoles mused. "To think that my own brothers and I could create nothing better than you. Well, you shall pay for it. The Bird is cruel!"
At his last emphatic remark he covered his face briefly. The others present followed his motions; someone reached out and clapped a hand roughly over Randall’s eyes, then took it away.
Stoles was speaking again; Randall tried to interrupt him—once again Stoles thrust a finger at him and said sternly, "Enough!" Randall found himself unable to talk; his throat choked up and nauseated him whenever he tried it.
"One would suppose," Stoles continued urbanely, "that even one of your poor sort would understand the warning you were given, and heed it." Stoles stopped for a moment and shoved out his lips, pressing them tightly together. "I sometimes think that my only weakness lies in not realizing the full depths of the weakness and stupidity of men. As a reasonable creature myself I seem to have an unfortunate tendency to expect others unlike myself to be reasonable."
He stopped and turned his attention away from Randall and toward one of his colleagues. "Don’t raise up any false hopes, Mr. Parker," he said, smiling sweetly. "I do not underrate you. And if you should wish to wrestle for my right to sit where I sit, I shall oblige you—later. I wonder," he added thoughtfully, "what your blood tastes like."
Mr. Parker was equally courteous. "Much the same as yours, Mr. Chairman, I imagine. It’s a pleasant idea, but I am satisfied with the present arrangements."<
br />
"I’m sorry to hear it. I like you, Mr. Parker; I had hoped you were ambitious."
"I am patient—like our Ancestor."
"So? Well—back to business. Mr. Randall, I tried before to impress you with the necessity of having nothing to do with—your client. You know the client I mean. What do you think would impress you with the fact that the Sons of the Bird will tolerate no interference with their plans? Speak up—tell me."
Randall had heard little of what had taken place and had understood none of it. His whole being was engrossed with a single terrible thought. When he found he could speak again, it spilled forth. "Where is she?" he demanded in a hoarse whisper. "What have you done with her?"
Stoles gestured impatiently. "Sometimes," he said pettishly, "it is almost impossible to get into communication with one of them—almost no mind at all. Mr. Phipps!"
"Yes, sir."
"Will you please see that the other one is fetched in?"
"Certainly, Mr. Stoles." Phipps gathered up an assistant with his eye; the two left the room to return shortly with a burden which they dumped casually on the table beside Randall. It was Cynthia.
The surge of relief was almost more than he could stand. It roared through him, choking him, deafening him, blinding him with tears, and leaving him nothing with which to weigh the present danger of their situation. But gradually the throbbing of his being slowed down enough for him to see that something was wrong; she was quiet. Even if she had been asleep when they carried her in, the rough handling she had received should have been enough to waken her.
His alarm was almost as devastating as his joy had been. "What have you done to her?" he begged. "Is she—"
"No," Stoles answered in disgusted tones, "she is not dead. Control yourself, Mr. Randall." With a wave of his hand he directed his colleagues, "Wake her up."
One of them poked her in the ribs with a forefinger. "Don’t bother to wrap it," he remarked; "I’ll eat it on the way."
Stoles smiled. "Very witty, Mr. Printemps—but I said to wake her up. Don’t keep me waiting."
The Unpleasant Profession Of Jonathan Hoag And Other Stories Page 7