Dagger of Flesh

by Richard S. Prather

  It surprised me when I saw my office door standing ajar, but then I remembered the goons who had broken in. I almost expected them to be waiting inside for me, but the office was empty when I switched on the lights. A good thing, too, because I still didn't have my gun.

  It was warm and sticky in the office, and my shirt was clinging to me, so I hung my coat on the rack, then loosened my tie and rolled up my shirt sleeves. As I rolled the cloth over my biceps the dot of red at the bend of my arm caught my eye again. I still couldn't remember where the hell I'd picked that up.

  I sat down behind the desk and looked at my watch. A few minutes to seven o'clock. Darkness outside, time to go home and go to bed, and I was ready for bed. I was tired and sleepy and disgusted. I thought about Jay, Ann, Gladys, Hannibal, Ayla and Peter, Arthur, and Martha Stewart, and Joseph Borden. And this whole miserable mess griped me.

  Hypnotists! Parrots! The hell with everything. My eye fell on the two books Bruce Wilson had given me, books on hypnosis, and I was griped even at them. I picked them up and hurled them clear across the office. They banged into the door, the door jumped open wider, the books dropped to the floor.

  That's it, Scott. Get it off your chest, act like a five-year-old. Well, maybe it was a good thing. It was time I stopped pussyfooting around and shook up a few people. Borden, particularly, if I could only find him. If I didn't like his answers I'd bend him around a little till I got some answers I did like.

  I glanced at my watch. Seven on the nose. I might be able to catch Borden at either his office or his apartment by now. I grabbed the phone.

  And then I remembered.

  I had to go to the Phoenix Hotel. Room 524 at the Phoenix Hotel. I got up, rolled my sleeves down, got my coat off the rack and slipped it on.

  Phoenix Hotel, I was thinking. Phoenix, Phoenix—yeah, a big place down Broadway. Have to hurry. It was important. Have to hurry. I switched off the lights, started out the door, started to shut it. Couldn't leave the place yawning wide open. And there were those damn books on the floor.

  Haven't got time, Scott. Gotta make it snappy. Phoenix Hotel. The name loomed in my mind. I stopped, looking from the door to the books, and I felt a compelling urgency, almost a clamorous shouting inside me, urging me to get moving, hurry up, hurry up, get wherever I was going.

  I shook my head. I was acting like an old maid. I bent over and picked the books off the floor and, in the faint light spilling from the hall behind me, the title of the top book leaped up at me; Hypnotism. Hypnotism, by G. H. Estabrooks, the brilliant professor of psychology at Colgate University. I'd got a kick out of the imaginary-but-real bear he'd created through self-hypnosis for amusement while he was in the hospital.

  I was wasting time. I told myself to put the books on the desk, then get going. But that silly bear stuck in my mind. I had a picture of it frolicking over the beds, rambling through the hospital corridors. If Estabrooks had ever told the nurses that a bear was sitting on his bed, they'd probably have run screaming for a psychiatrist. That brought a chuckle out of me. And then I stopped chuckling fast.

  It was too much like Jay's parrot. The parrot Jay could see and feel, but nobody else could see.

  A trickle of cold climbed up my spine and touched the hairs on the back of my neck. Jay's parrot. I remembered Jay sitting across the desk from me, his face twisted and old, saying, "Right on the dot, Shell. Every damn noon, right on the dot."

  Seven. Seven o'clock, and right on the dot. I put the books on the desk, anxious to get out of here, get on my way. Phrases, pictures, words danced through my mind. Bruce Wilson, relaxed and serious, talking ... phrases from the books ... Jay saying, "Felt like I had to." Right on the dot, right on the dot.

  I didn't know how long I'd been standing there. I peered at my watch. In the darkness of the office I could barely make out the figures. Only two minutes after seven. That didn't seem right. I was sweating now. I could feel the moisture on my face, and my palms were damp. And I was getting scared. All of a sudden I remembered Bruce's saying slowly, "... he wouldn't know anything about it."

  Wouldn't even remember!

  Panic wound itself up in a clammy ball in my stomach. It was crazy. Things like that didn't happen, couldn't happen to me. I stood in front of the desk with my feet spread as if I were ready to fight someone, but I was alone in the room. There was just me and that compulsion in my mind. Then the whole terrible, frightening concept crawled up into my brain.

  I tried to compose myself, tried to stand off as if I were looking at myself from another body, and see what was happening to me. I knew one thing for sure: I wanted to go to the Phoenix Hotel. I wanted to go. I had to go. But I couldn't remember ever having been there before. I didn't even know who was waiting for me. And I knew that never in my life had I known such a compulsion to do a thing that I didn't even understand.

  Finally I accepted the only answer I could find, the only answer that made any sense at all; this wasn't something I wanted to do; it was a thing that somebody else wanted me to do. Somebody else's suggestion, in my mind.

  I remembered that pinpoint Shell on my left arm. Fear leaped up into me. I'm a big guy. I've been shot, and I've had to kill men, and I've been scared. I guess every time I've been in a really tight spot I've been scared, and maybe even more frightened than I was now.

  But this was different. It hadn't ever been this kind of fear. This was like having a cold hand on my brain, tugging it one way, then the other, while I followed along without questioning.

  But I was questioning it now. I knew it wasn't just something I'd brought on myself, I knew there wasn't anything all-powerful or supernatural about it. I didn't have to do anything I didn't want to do; I could resist it, certainly.

  I stepped quickly across the room, turned on the office lights. When the darkness vanished, a little of my panic went with it and I made myself sit down behind my desk. I lit a cigarette and dragged deeply on it, filling my lungs with smoke that was oddly reassuring. It was just luck that I hadn't gone out of here without question. If I hadn't talked to Bruce, if he hadn't given me those books ... but he had.

  How, though? How had it happened? Suddenly I yanked off my coat and pulled up my sleeve again. I stared at the little red dot on my arm, my insides watery. When ... when had I noticed that? This morning. This morning when I got up.

  And then it hit me. Hit me harder than anything else had and for a moment I was dizzy, my bowels cold and my hands shaking.

  I might have killed Jay Weather.

  Chapter Twelve

  I SAT NUMBLY for long seconds staring at the spot on my arm. It didn't seem possible that such a little thing ... It was fantastic. I didn't believe it; I wouldn't believe it. There was another answer somewhere; there had to be.

  But I accepted one thing without further question: that urge in my mind, that compulsion to go to the Phoenix Hotel, was posthypnotic suggestion. It seemed unbelievable, but it was real. And I knew, too, that I was going there. I had to know what was behind this—and who.

  Only five minutes had gone by.

  Who would be at the Phoenix Hotel? If I waited any longer, whoever it was might get frightened himself—or herself. From what Bruce had told me, it could be anyone, anyone at all. My mind raced back over the names and faces of everyone I'd seen in the last two days, but it was difficult to collect my thoughts. I got up, put on my coat again and left the office. As soon as I started for the Phoenix Hotel I felt better, relieved, and that clinched it for me. I knew for sure.

  I stopped in the hall a few feet from the office door. I hadn't thought of it yet, but what if I didn't come back? I went back in, grabbed paper and pen off my desk and scribbled a note as fast as I could write: "Bruce Wilson—Hypnosis. Seven p.m. compulsion go 524 Phoenix Hotel. Found puncture in crook of arm. Might have killed Jay. Shell."

  I left the note on the desk and raced downstairs. Outside I jumped into my car, started it fast and ripped away from the curb with the accelerator jammed down. The
hotel was about a mile away. I didn't want to waste any more time. And as I drove I tried to think this out. It seemed a little easier to concentrate now that I was on my way, wind whipping in the open window and against my face.

  I was still shaken and shocked, but at least I had something to do. I wasn't just sitting, feeling mad at the world and myself, and I felt sure that whoever was waiting for me was Jay's murderer—even if I'd pulled the trigger myself. In a little while we would be face to face. I didn't have a gun, but I had two arms, and my fists, and a lot of good army and barroom-brawl training. And I had my knees and my feet and even my teeth if it came to that, and I'd use any trick in the book against whoever had killed Jay and done this to me.

  Sure. And maybe I wouldn't. What if I wasn't able to do anything? I slammed on the brakes and stopped, remembering Bruce's words again, remembering instantaneous hypnosis, the conditioned reflex that operated automatically, making men fall instantly into hypnotic sleep at a word or sign.

  What if that had been done to me? I couldn't go ahead like this if I weren't sure. Not if it didn't do me any good to see Jay's murderer and learn, finally, what was behind all this. Not if my brain could be picked clean and then the memory wiped out of my mind.

  Suddenly I remembered again all the strange, different things I'd noticed when I'd first got up this morning: the clock, my clothes, my gun. I didn't even know what I'd done on the night just past. How could I go ahead with this now if what I was about to see and hear and say might possibly be erased from my mind as easily as words are erased from a tape recorder? That was how Bruce had described it.

  Recorder! I sat for another few seconds with the car motor running, and finally I had an idea that might work and might not, but was sure as hell worth a try.

  I started the car forward again more slowly. I could see the neon sign in front of the Phoenix Hotel now, about two blocks away, and then I saw what I wanted: Dillon's Radio and Television.

  I double-parked outside and ran in tugging at my wallet.

  I grabbed the first clerk I saw. "Quick. How much for your best tape recorder? Portable."

  "Huh?"

  The stupid bastard. "Tape recorder. Quick. I'm in a hurry. There's a bonus in it if you hurry!"

  Bonus did it. That or the look that was probably on my face. He said, "The Webster's about a hundred-ninety, plus sales—"

  I jammed two hundred-dollar bills and a twenty into his hand and said, "Get it for me. Right now and you keep the change."

  He gawked at the money, then jumped about four feet and was gone. He was back in thirty seconds. "Here—"

  I broke in "This ready to go? This standard?"

  "It's a demonstrator model—the tape's already on. Just plug—"

  I was on my way.

  In the lobby of the Phoenix Hotel I looked around for a bellboy, house dick, anybody. I was perspiring from every pore and I could almost feel the seconds ticking away. I spotted a young uniformed bellhop with bright red hair and a small red mustache. I walked rapidly toward him carrying the recorder, and I had another hundred-dollar bill wadded up in my right hand. The bill was almost wringing wet.

  I stopped in front of him and said softly, "Red. You want to make a hundred bucks?"

  His mouth dropped open and I didn't wait for an answer. I said, "There's a party in Room Five-twenty-four. I want inside the adjoining room—either side will do. How fast can you find out if one's empty, and how fast can you let me in?" I gave him the hundred so he could look at it and get the feel of it, shoved my detective's license in front of his face, and added, "All I want to do is listen, Red." I wiggled the tape recorder.

  It didn't take him two seconds to make up his mind. He looked once at the desk, then said, "Come on."

  We caught an elevator and shot up to the fifth floor. On the way I looked at my watch. It was already seven-fifteen, and I hoped I hadn't wasted too much time. I'd soon know.

  We got out on five and I followed the bellhop down the hall. He stopped at 522 and started to knock, then stopped and looked at me. I shook my head. He hesitated a moment, then dug into his pocket. "Passkey," he said softly.

  I whispered, "This room empty?"

  He shrugged and whispered back, "You got me. I'll let you know in a minute." He opened the door and walked right in. I waited for a woman to scream or a man to start yelling what-the-hell while Red apologized, but nothing happened.

  Red stuck his head out and waved me in.

  Inside, I looked around, trying to decide where I'd put the recorder. Red pointed at the wall that separated this room from 524 next door, and raised his eyebrows. I nodded, and he walked to the back of that wall and opened a closet door.

  "Best place is here," he whispered. "Real thin partition." He was earning his hundred.

  I appreciated his help, but I wanted to handle the rest of this alone. I jerked a thumb and he grinned, then went out and closed the door softly behind him.

  I found the wall socket, set up the recorder, then took the little microphone into the closet and placed it against the wall. I switched on the machine, putting the switch on "Record," turned the volume up as high as it would go and watched the hour-long tape start to wind through the machine. Then I let out a sigh and left the room. I walked to the door of Room 524 and knocked.

  My heart started pounding. In a minute I'd know—and maybe I'd knocked myself out running around with a recorder, for nothing, but I was glad it was done. I felt a little better, but only a little, and then my stomach muscles tightened convulsively when a voice inside said, "Come in."

  I opened the door, stepped inside the room.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I PARKED MY CAR and headed for the office and stepped just inside the doors of the Farnsworth Building.

  It seemed I'd been a little troubled driving up Spring Street and parking the Buick, and now I let the thoughts crystallize. I'd been headed for the Phoenix Hotel, I knew that. The whole frightening episode of a few minutes ago was clear in my mind. I remembered leaving the office, feeling better, ready to go. But after that it was hazy, unclear.

  Christ, had I gone to the Phoenix or hadn't I? I couldn't have, in such a short time. It had been just seven o'clock, seven on the dot, when the urge to leave had hit me. The fright started building up inside me again. I remembered it all, every bit of it; my deductions, the panic, the spot on my left arm, everything up to the time I'd left. The note, too. The note I'd written to Bruce Wilson—unless I was imagining all of it.

  I ran up the stairs and down to the office. I flipped the lights on and crossed to the desk. The note was there. I read it twice, remembering. It seemed as if it had happened only minutes ago. I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to eight!

  Then it had happened. At least, something had happened. I'd left at five or ten minutes after seven. More than half an hour was gone, unaccounted for, sliced out of my mind. I bit my lips, straining to remember where I'd gone, what I'd done, whom I'd seen. I could even have—killed a man in those obliterated minutes. I thought again of Jay Weather, and a shudder rippled up my back.

  I sat down behind the desk and made myself relax a little. I was letting my imagination run away with me. I told myself that I wouldn't murder, not even if I were compelled by hypnosis. Bruce had said that even though he thought such a thing was possible, it would take a lot of time. It wasn't something a man—even an expert hypnotist—could make another do by merely snapping his fingers.

  All I had to do was stay calm, not let fear cloud my thoughts, and think logically and clearly. I wasn't some jungle savage bowing in front of a stone idol and believing in magic and miracles. I was an adult, a grown man. I wasn't a machine with buttons Shelled "Stop" and "Go," not just a collection of conditioned reflexes that another man could play with, not a tool that another could use for his own ends.

  But my throat was dry and I knew that right now I couldn't even trust my own thoughts. I just couldn't remember. I took off my coat and jerked up my shirt sleeve again. I
looked at the little iodine-stained spot, a tiny puncture scabbed over now. I thought about everything that I could remember, and nothing made sense except that I must actually have gone to the Phoenix. I had no memory of what I'd done there. And I knew I'd probably never find out unless I went back—but I was afraid to go. It was an almost superstitious fear inside me, and I wondered if the truly insane, in moments of lucidity, ever felt as I did now.

  It was like living in two worlds at different times, the worlds separated by forgetfulness. It was, in a way, a kind of hypnotically induced schizophrenia, a dividing of the man inside the body into two entities, neither knowing the other. I wondered what the Shell Scott I couldn't remember was like. Probably there were not only two but many men within each man's flesh, a kind of Jekyll-to-Hyde gamut with myriad men in between, all fused into one appearance and consciousness that walks and talks like a man. I was letting this thing get twisted inside me. I couldn't sit here, staring at my arm and thinking crazy thoughts.

  On my arm ... Between the elbow and wrist on the inside of my arm there were two little red dots, not like the other one I'd noticed earlier, but smaller, barely visible.

  I peered at them, touched them. There wasn't any pain, though the skin had been punctured. They hadn't been there an hour ago. I was as sure of that as I was of anything.

  I sat quietly for the next few minutes, thinking, trying to compose my thoughts and plan. Then I got up, pulled on my coat and left the office.

  I stood outside the Phoenix Hotel and looked up at the neon sign. I was scared. If I had been in here once already and didn't remember it, the same thing might happen again. But at least I knew I'd earlier been headed for Room 524; certainly nothing could happen to me in the brightly lit lobby.

  I went inside and walked to the desk.

  A tall, balding clerk looked up. "Yes?"