The Reincarnation of Peter Proud

by Max Ehrlich

  He came down the long slope, and at the foot of it he saw a gas station. It was drizzling now. He got out and went into the telephone booth in the station parking lot. A Riverside directory hung from a chain. He fumbled through the pages, his fingers trembling. He turned to the names beginning with “C.”

  Then he found it, as he had known he would.

  Chapin Ann—16 Vista Drive—341-2262

  Chapin Marcia—16 Vista Drive—341-2262

  Without thinking, he dropped a coin into the slot and dialed the number. A woman’s voice answered, soft, melodious, a little blurred.

  “Hello?”

  He did not answer. He couldn’t. Say it to yourself and see how foolish it sounds. “My name is Peter Proud. I’m the reincarnation of your dead husband. The man you murdered at Lake Nipmuck …”

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this?”

  He hung up.

  Vista Drive. Lush and quiet and exclusive. Streets lined with maples and elms. Post lanterns at the gates, huge manicured lawns fronting columned Georgian homes, Colonials, and here and there a contemporary. Streets named not as streets but rather Lanes, Drives, Ways, and Roads. Masses of hollyhock and forsythia in the corners of the gardens, and spruces to green the winter. Classic street lamps with fat globes throwing off yellow light. Each house with an attached garage and big patio. A place of garden clubs, black maids, low speed limits. Big watchdogs and watchful police.

  It had stopped drizzling when he arrived. No. 16 Vista Drive was a Colonial, and typical—white with yellow shutters, brick and stone and wood in the upper stories, post lantern in the driveway, a sweep of manicured lawn.

  He parked the car across the street. Through the open garage door he could see the rear ends of a Cadillac and what appeared to be a Jaguar XKE. My love lives well, he thought. Very appropriate for a banker’s daughter.

  The lights were on in the house, although the drapes were drawn. In one window on the ground floor, light came through an aperture between the drapes. Curiosity overwhelmed him. He was tempted to get out of the car, run across the lawn, crouch under the window, and look in. Maybe she would be in there now. Maybe he could get a look at her.

  It took all his willpower not to try. Reason kept his car door closed. A certain amount of light spilled out onto the lawn. There might be a dog in there. They might pick him up as a voyeur. He’d have a hell of a time explaining what he was doing there. He couldn’t explain it. Even sitting here in the car and staring at the house made him conspicuous.

  He started the car and began to move down the street. Tomorrow, he decided, was another day. He had just turned the comer when he passed a cruising police car turning into Vista Drive. The men in the car glanced at him curiously as they passed.

  When he got back to the hotel a message was waiting for him: Hall Bentley had called and wanted him to call back.

  He dialed Bentley’s private number.

  “Pete. Haven’t heard from you.” Then eagerly: “What’s happened?”

  Peter hesitated a moment. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Not even a clue. At least not yet.”

  “Damn,” said Bentley.

  He had been on the verge of telling Bentley what had happened. But he pulled back at the last minute. He didn’t want the parapsychologist in this just now. Bentley would only complicate things. Bentley was too eager; he’d want to blow this thing sky-high immediately. But Peter wanted to wait. He wanted to know more about himself. About Marcia. About everything.

  “Pete, you’re keeping that diary?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t leave out a thing. Not a single detail. It’ll be important later, part of the general mass of evidence. I’ve already started to block out a report of my own.”

  “What kind of report?”

  “A blow-by-blow description of what took place, from my point of view. How you came to me, why you came to me. No speculation, no projection. Simply telling it the way it is. Later, when you find out who Marcia is—and I say when, not if—then I’ll get statements from Sam Goodman and Nora and the psychiatrist. Factual testimony as to their consultations and discussions with you …”

  “Hall.”

  “Yes?”

  “What if I do find who Marcia is? What happens then?”

  “I’ve given that a lot of thought. Once you definitely identify her, I’ll fly east. Take some special recording equipment with me, the kind I can hide somewhere on my person. Then we’ll both confront her.”

  “Confront her?”

  “That’s right. Hit her between the eyes. Tell her who you really are. Come right out and tell her you’re the incarnation of her dead husband. Prove it by what you know. Meanwhile, I’ll be recording the whole thing. Of course she’ll go into some kind of shock. She won’t have time to think about it at all. The surprise element of this setup will take care of that. Hopefully, the first thing she says will be an affirmation of what you know, and that’ll be an enormous plus in terms of proof.”

  “Hall, you’ve forgotten something.”

  “Yes?”

  “Won’t this be—well, a kind of entrapment? If this idea works, we may force her into admitting she committed the murder.”

  “All right. Suppose she does. She is a murderess, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. I suppose so. Only …”

  “Only what?”

  “Only it seems—well, pretty dirty.”

  Bentley sounded impatient. “Look, Pete, it was pretty dirty of her to catch you in the middle of the lake, brain you with a paddle and then let you drown. Whoever she is, she’s concealed this crime for years. If all this works out—if we do find out who she is—and if we do manage to work out this trap as planned—then it’s her problem, not ours. We can’t be concerned about what happens to just one person here, for obvious reasons. I’m sure you see my point.”

  “Yes,” said Peter. “Of course.”

  “Keep me posted. Give me a progress report every couple of days, even if there isn’t anything to report. I have to tell you I’m going crazy here, waiting. I’ve bitten my nails way down. Maybe I ought to come east and join you.”

  “No,” said Peter. “Let me look into this alone, Hall.”

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble. I could close the office for a while.”

  “No. I want to do this myself. You’d only be in the way here. If anything breaks, I’ll let you know.”

  He could hear Bentley’s long and wistful sigh over the phone. “Okay, you’re the doctor. All I can tell you is that I haven’t slept more than two hours a night since you’ve been away.”

  Chapter 23

  The next morning he drove to Vista Drive.

  Later, he knew, he would contrive some way to meet Marcia. But right now he wanted simply to see her, face to face, and find out what she looked like now, what the years had done. His curiosity was excruciating. He kept visualizing her as he had seen her in the dreams—young and beautiful. Stubbornly, he preserved this image in his mind, even though he knew she would look much older now. Had she grown fat? Ugly? Was she a bridge-playing dowager now?

  And the daughter. His daughter—Ann. What was she like? She would be twenty-seven now. It was odd that a woman of this age would still be living with her mother. He thought of her dispassionately. She was just a name to him. In the Baby Dream, he had seen her only as an infant. And now, he thought, I have a daughter three months older than I am. By his earlier incarnation, of course, but more and more he was thinking of Jeffrey Chapin and himself as the same man. As, of course, they were, if you thought of the soul as the real identity, and the body as nothing—mortal, dispensable, and destructible.

  This time, he parked the car some distance down the street from the house. He knew that he could sit there for only a limited amount of time. Anybody parked in a car and watching a house in an exclusive area like this would be open to suspicion. After a time, somebody might even call the police. He contemplated the idea of dr
iving slowly up and down the street in the hope that she would come out of the house. But that would be conspicuous, too.

  He considered another possibility. He could simply walk up to the house and boldly ring the bell. But then what? How would he identify himself? A door-to-door salesman? Census taker? A man from the light and power company to examine the meter? No, it was ridiculous. He could never carry it off. He wasn’t the type. Anyway, any subterfuge was impossible. Sooner or later, he would find some way to meet Marcia legitimately. It would be embarrassing to be seen now under some other guise.

  Suddenly he noticed that there was only one car in the garage—the Jaguar. The Cadillac was missing. It was a good guess that the Jag belonged to Ann. That meant Marcia Chapin wasn’t at home, anyway.

  He decided to move on, stay away for an hour, then come back again. Maybe he could catch Marcia when she came home from wherever she had gone. Meanwhile, he would try to figure out some way to meet the Chapins. That was going to be very tough, since he didn’t know anyone in town.

  He had just started the car when he saw a woman come out of 16 Vista. She was young and slender, dressed in a plaid skirt and blue sweater. She was carrying a couple of tennis rackets. From this distance he could see that her hair was blonde and that she wore sunglasses. He was too far away to see the details of her face.

  It must be his daughter. It couldn’t be anyone else.

  He watched her as she backed the car out of the driveway. Then she accelerated suddenly, the tires of the Jaguar screaming a little on the shiny blacktop of Vista Drive. She seemed to be in a hurry. He stepped on the gas and followed her.

  He was hard put to keep up with her. She seemed an expert driver as she whipped in and out of traffic. He hoped for a red light somewhere ahead so that he could pull up and get a good look at her.

  She took the parkway and he followed. She was moving very fast, and for a while he was afraid he might lose her. Then he saw her turn off at an exit marked: Green Hills. Another right turn, and then he saw it. He recognized it instantly as the same country club he had seen in the Tennis Dream. Everything looked the same, the big, rambling shingled clubhouse, the rolling fairways, the same small lake, which he now identified as a water hazard for one of the holes. There were four tennis courts now. In the hallucination, he remembered only one. They must have built three more in the years since.

  She drove through the entrance, parked, and went inside. He followed. When he entered the clubhouse, there was no sign of her. She’d probably gone into the ladies’ locker room. He stood there for a few moments uncertainly. A few of the club members were having coffee before beginning their rounds of golf. They stared at him curiously. This was a place where everybody knew everybody. A stranger was conspicuous here.

  He walked over and studied the bulletin board on the wall. On it were pinned the usual routine club announcements, the various tournaments, and a list of those scheduled to take golf or tennis lessons each day. On the tennis list he saw the name Ann Chapin. She was scheduled for the next hour, from eleven to twelve.

  He sought out the club steward, took out his wallet, and showed the steward a card. It was a courtesy card issued by private golf clubs to their members. If one’s home club was reasonably prestigious, other private golf clubs throughout the country would extend privileges and offer their facilities. His father was still a member of the Los Angeles Country Club, one of the most exclusive in Southern California, and Peter had a joint membership. The steward glanced at the card, smiled, and held out his hand.

  “Welcome to Green Hills, sir. What can we do for you?”

  “I’d like to play some tennis.”

  “Fine. But you may have a little trouble finding a partner. I could look around….”

  “Thanks. But that won’t be necessary. Maybe I could work out with the tennis pro.”

  “Oh, yes. Ken Walker. He’s an excellent teacher.” The steward went to a phone near the bar and dialed a single number. “Ken? John Wicker. We have a guest from California. A Mr. Proud. He’d like to talk to you about a workout.” He hung up and turned to Peter. “You’ll find him in the pro shop. Just go out the main entrance and walk down the hill and to the right. It’s near the first tee. Meanwhile, I’ll arrange a locker for you.”

  The tennis pro was a tall, bronzed man in his middle thirties. He smiled warmly as they shook hands.

  “Proud. Peter Proud. It’s an unusual name, and it rings bells. You played in the Southwestern Tournament at San Diego, right?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t get very far.”

  “If you qualified for that one at all, you don’t have to apologize. Anyway, welcome to Green Hills. What can I do for you?”

  “I’ll be here for a while on business. Haven’t had a racket in my hand for almost a month and I’d like to sharpen up my game while I’m here. I thought if you had some time today …”

  “I’m booked for the next hour. How about right after lunch?”

  “That’ll be fine. I have some time to kill. Mind if I come down and watch?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The pro went out. The shop carried a complete line of tennis equipment as well as golf. He bought two Wilson T-2000 steel rackets, and sneakers, socks, shorts, jersey and sweater. He went into the locker room, changed, and then walked down to the courts.

  She was in tennis whites now and volleying with the pro. There was a row of benches just outside the court and he sat down. Then he took his first long look at his daughter.

  He was stunned by her beauty. He saw that her eyes were violet, so dark he could see them from where he sat. Her hair was blonde and finely spun. It was tied back in a high and tight ponytail, and when she ran and had to lean over to make a drop or placement shot, it fell over her right shoulder. Then she would fling it back with a tilt of her head. Her mouth was full and ripe and mobile, pink against the slightly tanned face. There was just the hint of high cheekbones, which seemed to give an Oriental slant to her eyes. She moved about the court with exquisite grace. Her legs were long and superb—perfectly fashioned, sensuously curved, the skin smooth and flawless, the kind you never saw on ordinary women. Her beauty was not surface. It was something she wore naturally. It was ripe and mature, the beauty of a full-blown woman of twenty-seven.

  He remembered the Baby Dream, the brief, hallucinatory flash when, as Jeffrey Chapin, he had paced the floor with her in his arms. It was incredible to think that here he was now, on a warm spring day nearly twenty-seven years later, in some other life, watching her now, fully grown, about his own age.

  He saw that her tennis was good—superb, in fact. Her stroke had plenty of power, and her shots were accurate. She had a good, strong forehand and an adequate backhand. She knew how to smash a lob, her drop and placement shots were shrewd, and once or twice she caught Walker flatfooted with a hard crosscourt shot. The pro was not toying with her. She made him play. Now and then they stopped while Walker made suggestions. Peter judged her as just a cut under professional tournament level. Well, he reflected, she comes by it naturally.

  He was the only one there watching from the sidelines. He knew she was aware of his presence, and curious about him. Now and then she would steal a glance at him. When he caught her eye, she would quickly turn her head away.

  Finally the hour was up. They walked off the court. Peter entered the gate and went directly to her.

  “Like to play a little longer?”

  She had bent over to put her racket into its cover. He saw the lush swell of her breast under her blouse. She looked up at him, surprised, and confused.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course, if you’re tired …”

  “No,” she said. “I’m not tired at all.” Then: “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

  “He’s a guest,” said Walker. “From Los Angeles.” He introduced them. They shook hands. The touch of her flesh was warm, exciting. The violet eyes studied him. They seemed bottomless. Suddenly they smiled. They were fran
k, totally without guile, very direct. They said: I like you, Peter Proud, whoever you are. I like you very much. And I don’t even know you. He heard Walker saying: “I happen to know he plays damned good tennis, Ann. He’ll make you run. And it’s a chance to work on that backhand.”

  “Okay?” said Peter.

  “Yes,” she said, “I’d love to.”

  They volleyed for almost an hour. Watching her face as she ran, he lost the ball a few times. He found the experience exhilarating. He heard himself shouting, “Hit it back, hit it back!” just as he had done in the Tennis Dream. The young girl opposite him was not Ann Chapin; it was her mother, Marcia. He was Jeffrey Chapin, and this was many, many years ago….

  Finally she raised her racket high in surrender and came to the net.

  “Whew!” she said. “I’m pooped. Enough, enough.”

  “Thanks for the game.”

  “Thank you. How many chances do I get to play with two professionals in the same day?”

  He grinned. “I’m not a professional.”

  “No? Then you’re missing your calling. What do you do for a living?”

  “Later. How about a drink first?”

  “My God,” she said. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  They walked up toward the clubhouse. He thought about the Tennis Dream again. He was sure he would never be tormented by it again. Now that he had re-created it, even in a vague way, it would vanish.

  They took a table in the lounge area near the bar. He ordered a gin and tonic, she a vodka and tonic. They clinked glasses and smiled at each other. Suddenly she laughed.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I won’t tell you”

  “Why not?’ ”

  “You might be offended.”

  He grinned. “Try me and see.”

  “It’s your name. Peter Proud. It’s a funny name, strange. But marvelous. I love it.”

  “I hate it,” he said. “But I’m stuck with it. So I grit my teeth and bear it.”

  “Where did you learn your tennis?”