“Oh, yes—I knew you’d think of it in those terms,” I muttered, “but you couldn’t be more mistaken. Really!”
Retrieving my composure after a few moments, I commenced an explanation of this admittedly rare phenomenon. I spoke of the limits placed on human senses, and of the vast unexplored areas beyond those limits; I dealt with cosmogony, cosmology, the space-time continuum, exobiology and many other related matters; I quoted Democritus, Albert Einstein, Bishop Berkeley, Lucretius and Sir James Jeans. Surprisingly, I was quite cogent, even eloquent. Nevertheless, though every word was irrefragably scientific, I accomplished nothing. On my listener’s pretty face, disbelief was as evident as the time on the dial of a clock.
To make matters worse, at the end of my discourse Eulalia raised a fuss. “Stop gabbling like a simpleton,” she said. “Get rid of this brazen gypsy. Give her a punch, Al. Kick her down the stairs right now. What are you waiting for?”
Madge shook her head. “Your arguments are rubbish, absolute nonsense,” she declared contemptuously. “Where did you learn all that gobbledygook?” She then rested her stick against the deck, reached up and grasped the object of our discussion.
At once Eulalia squealed in alarm. “Don’t let her touch me. Please! Make her put me down!” she wailed.
Frightened myself, I snatched the piece of porcelain from the woman’s hands. My action startled her and she asked angrily, “Why did you do that? Did you think I might drop your precious Eulalia?”
“You might,” I answered bluntly, transferring my old companion to the safety of the chiffonier.
“And would it matter if I did? You’d soon find something else to chat with, I’m sure,” said Madge, laughing spitefully. “That’s how it is with schizos. Instead of reading Einstein, Al, you should’ve looked into Freud. Your illness is one that he covers quite comprehensively. The china pitcher is only a prop—a kind of ventriloquist’s dummy. It doesn’t actually talk to you, but you talk to yourself through it. Do you understand?”
“Rubbish!” I said, paying her back in her own coin.
“It isn’t.”
“It is.”
“Listen to me. You say the jug is alive—that it can think and feel, hear and speak. Can it see as well?”
“Yes, Eulalia can see—of course. The mechanics of the thing are a mystery to me, I admit, but—”
“How she does it doesn’t matter. The point is, Al, that if she can see, I can prove I’m right and you’re wrong,” said Madge. “Here’s what we’ll do: you turn and face the door, and while you’re looking away, I’ll perform some simple action in full sight of the jug. Now, if Eulalia is a distinct being, you need only ask her what I’ve done and she can tell you. But if, as I claim, she’s just an extension of yourself, she won’t know any more about my action than you will.”
“A splendid idea!” I exclaimed. “I agree completely. We’ll settle the question at once and forever, my dear girl.”
I whipped about smartly, then, and faced the doorway. A second later I heard a faint rustling, and a few seconds after that, my examiner said, “All right, Al, you may look now.”
As I turned around again, I was unable to restrain a grin. “It’s juvenile, this, but there are some who can learn only through concrete demonstrations,” I crowed, delighted at having a chance to humble my tormentor. To my friend on the dresser, I said, “Very well, Eulalia—what was it she did?”
I waited, but Eulalia merely sighed.
“Well? Tell me what she did,” I demanded.
“Who—your ‘dear girl’?” Eulalia replied finally. “None of your business, Al, none of your business. If you wish to play games with your ‘dear girl,’ you must do so without my participation.”
“Damn it!” I shouted. “What did she do?”
The jealous Eulalia would say nothing more, however. She sighed like a martyr and began to hum to herself.
Meanwhile, Madge Clerisy observed me with unconcealed glee—much as if I were a bear waltzing on his hind legs, or a sea lion balancing a ball on his nose. I was mortified, but beyond clenching my fists and stamping my foot on the floor, there wasn’t a thing I could do. The pair of them had thwarted me completely.
So I swallowed my bile and growled, “Out of an imbecilic perversity, Eulalia refuses to be part of the charade.”
The lady laughed gaily and picked up her Malacca stick.
“I don’t care if you believe me or not,” I told her. “You’re the one, after all, who’s deaf and blind.”
Without a word she limped from the room. I heard her uneven tread go down the hall, and then the sound of the library door closing.
“Well, Eulalia, are you satisfied?” I asked bitterly.
“No,” said she. “I’m not. And I won’t be until you get rid of that detestable creature. Get rid of her, Al—do you hear me?”
I went down to the kitchen and made myself a cup of strong coffee.
16
ERRAND
These proceedings, along with my anxieties about Mahir, left my nervous system in a shambles. I smoked so many cigarettes that the kitchen grew as cloudy as a steam bath.
That Madge’s presence in the old domicile created difficulties I couldn’t deny, but Eulalia was not free of blame either. And it was all so ludicrous, so unnecessary. Each of them made me look like a babbling blockhead in front of the other.
But what happened next, that wretched day?
Oh, yes! Madge came down at about four-thirty, and I poured some coffee for her. She made no mention of Eulalia, for which I was thankful. Indeed, she was preoccupied and scarcely spoke at all. When I offered to drive her back to her hotel in my new car, which she hadn’t yet been in, it was a little while before she answered me. Then she shook her head and murmured, “No, I think not.”
A minute or two later she set her cup down decisively and said, “Go get the Turk, Al.”
“Suleyman? Bring him here?” I asked.
“Yes. I want to talk to him, and it will be more advantageous to do it here than in his junk shop. The sooner we clear this up, the better.”
“What if he won’t come?”
“He’ll come. Let him think we’re ready to meet his terms. Then, when we’ve got him out here, I’ll put the fear of God into the slimy scoundrel.”
“All right, Madge,” I said, getting up. “I’ll go immediately.”
17
CHANCE LENDS A HAND
After so many years away from automobiles, my driving skill was no longer what it had been. I was terribly unsure of myself. A baseball game had just ended at Fenway Park, and I found Kenmore Square crammed with phlegmatically moving cars. It was a real test. In addition, the weather worried me, for a storm was brewing. Masses of livid clouds hurried across the sky, closely followed by denser masses of turbulent gray clouds; it was a vast tableau in which a flock of frantic sheep was fleeing the onslaught of a pack of timber wolves. A deluge seemed only minutes away.
Nevertheless, I got through the milling horde of vehicles and made it safely to Newbury Street. It was late in the day, but chance—that imp of the imponderable—saw to it that Mahir was still in his place of business, though he was on the verge of leaving and had already doused the lights.
He greeted me affably enough, until I mentioned that Miss Clerisy wanted to talk to him. Then his eyes grew wary, and his manner apprehensive. For half a minute he nibbled on his thumbnail, thinking it over. I reminded him that some discussion was absolutely necessary if we were going to make a deal.
In the end he nodded quickly and said, “Okay, Al, but no tricks. No wise tricks, Al.”
He locked the shop door, and we went up the stairs and got into the Mercedes. It was plain that despite his uneasiness, he was thrilled by the luxury of the new automobile. He commented on the upholstery, on the various gadgets on the dashboard and on the clearness of the “windowshield.”
We drove off and reached Brookline before the storm broke.
18
&nbs
p; THE SETTLING OF THE TURKISH PROBLEM
When we entered the parlor, she was standing by the fireplace. Mahir gave her a fleeting glance and then hesitantly sat down on the settee near the window. Madge glared at him, her eyes as hard as bronze. Not until the little man began to squirm, to fiddle with his cummerbund, to cross and uncross his legs and to play with the band of his wristwatch, did she finally deign to address him.
“Listen, you! Would you like to go to prison for the rest of your miserable life?” she started out in a manner as straightforward as the thrust of a stiletto.
The shopkeeper averted his eyes, but replied defiantly, “You do not scare me, miss. I have done no wrong things. It is you and Al who will go to the prison, not me. Out there is a dead man. The police have always an interest in dead men.”
“Yes, they do—and if we tell them that you killed him, they will be even more interested.”
“Me? That is a stupid lie. I did not even know the fat man. Who would believe such a stupid lie? Nobody!”
“An American judge would believe it,” said she. “If Al and I tell one story and you tell another, do you really think they’ll accept yours over ours? Why? Who are you? Only a disreputable peddler, a vile, greasy foreigner, a nothing. What will you say when they ask how you sneaked into the United States?”
“Sneaked? Hayir! There was no sneaking,” cried the Turk, now agitated. “I have a visa. The cops say my papers are okay. Sure! They say I can stay as long as—”
He halted abruptly, licked his lips and then clamped his mouth shut.
“As long as you don’t get into trouble,” Madge finished for him, smiling triumphantly.
At that instant, rain began to buffet the window, creating a rat-a-tat like the ruffling of a toy drum. I wanted to sit down, but I couldn’t do so because the lady remained on her feet.
The conversation now underwent a change. Madge switched from English to a language I assumed was Turkish. The words tumbled from her mouth in a rancorous stream, and there was no doubt at all that Mahir understood their meaning. His flat face darkened with anger. As soon as he had the opportunity, he answered her in the same tongue and with equal vehemence. Back and forth they argued.
At last, turning from her, he spoke to me. “Do you hear what she says—this fine lady? Do you know what means those words? Terrible, dirty, dirty things she is saying. I could translate, Al, but I would not tell such dirty things like that. This one—she is supposed to be a big shot! Ha! I think she is worse than some whore!”
“Shut up!” Madge said menacingly, moving toward him.
“Shut up I will not,” said the Turk, undaunted. “If you want police—good! I will call the police, and the judge and everybody.”
“You’ll do what you’re told, you damn greaseball!”
“No, no, no. Not me! You—you will do what I say to do, miss. You will give to me my share of these precious Egyptian things—these treasures that I know you have someplace—or I will make you sorry. I will make you sorry for being so stingy with me. Do not think you fool me with dumb lies and . . . and loud shouting.”
Madge, seeing she was gaining little headway, seemed to lose her self-command. Her lips were atremble with fury. She uttered a single word in the strange language and then spat in Suleyman’s face. Never before had I seen anyone do that, and it quite startled me. And that it was done by a woman made it all the more sensational. I could assume only that she’d acquired this rude form of rebuttal in the rough-and-ready atmosphere that existed—I imagined—in archaeological camps out in the wilds.
My surprise was nothing compared to Mahir’s, however. He let out a howl and jumped up. The next thing I knew, he’d grabbed a whopping handful of her black hair and was tugging at it as though he meant to rip it from her scalp.
Of course I could hardly permit that. Coming up quickly, I took him by the coat collar and gave him a good shake, but he hung on with all the pertinacity of a louse. In the meantime Madge was squealing in pain. I slapped the Turk on the ear—once, then a second time—and at last he released her, but no sooner had he done so than he turned on me and raked my face with his fingernails. That hurt. Letting go of his coat, I grasped his neck instead.
It was at this point that he commenced to yell. During his previous visit he had warned me that his voice was a strong one; I now found that he hadn’t exaggerated.
“Police! Police! Police!” he bawled.
Completely rattled, I squeezed his neck in hopes of stifling the clamor. It didn’t seem to work.
“Police! Police!” he bellowed, sending cold flashes of fear the length of my spinal column.
Suddenly, above this uproar, I heard Madge’s voice in my ear. “He’s got a knife!” she screamed.
I looked down. The fellow’s coat had fallen open, and his hand was groping along his waistband. Sticking from this sash, just inches from his fingers, was an ornate brass handle.
He’ll stab me in the stomach, I thought, getting panicky. He’ll cut me open. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Madge standing close beside me. She was holding the Malacca cane. Without a second’s hesitation I snatched it from her and slashed wildly at my antagonist.
His cries stopped immediately. Languidly he fell to the floor, rather like a mime portraying a rag doll. I dropped the stick, ran around him, and peeked out the window through a gap in the curtain. Though it was no later than six in the evening, the storm had cast a pall over the heavens, and Beacon Street was gray with crepuscular light. The rain was heavy. It streaked the air—a mad, many-angled fusillade.
“There’s no one in the street, not a soul,” I said. “Thank God for that!”
Turning back to the room, I perceived a most puzzling expression on Madge’s face—an expression like that of someone suddenly stricken with an illness.
“He’s not breathing,” she said huskily.
“What? Nonsense, Madge,” said I. “He’s only stunned. I hardly touched him.”
“His head, Al—do you see? Do you see the welt?”
A new anxiety invaded my mind. I knelt beside the fallen man and saw at once that there was a dent in his left temple—a deep groove as long and as wide as my forefinger. Although the skin hadn’t broken and there was no bleeding, the bruise was a rich vermilion in color.
“The walking stick,” said Madge in a voice like a groan, “the tip of it is iron.”
“Oh, no. It’s too ridiculous. He can’t be dead. He can’t be!”
So saying, I reached for his wrist, but I was so disturbed by everything that I couldn’t tell whether there was a pulse or not. Mahir’s features were now alarmingly waxen. I ripped open his silk shirt and palced my ear against his chest. Was that his heart or my own that was pounding? I asked myself.
“Madge—you listen,” I said, beckoning to her.
Well, she came forward and did as I asked, then slowly shook her head. I noticed for the first time that there was a discharge of blood—a very small quantity—in his nostrils. She got a mirror from her handbag and held it over his face; it showed no trace of vapor. With the tips of quivering fingers, she felt for a pulse in the sides of his throat but was unable to find any.
We performed every test we could think of: slapping his cheeks, shining strong light in his eyes, pricking him with a needle under his fingernails, poking him here and there in hopes of getting a reflex. It was all futile. The Turk was far away. His body was there, but his life was gone.
In a daze, Madge sat down cross-legged on the floor.
“It’s so stupid,” I said. “The poor fellow.” A wave of remorse engulfed me. “Why did I have to hit him? What folly! It won’t be easy to justify my behavior to the police.”
My words roused her. She looked my way, but did not speak.
“There are people who have thin skulls,” I continued. “He must’ve been one of them. What should I say to the police, though?”
“Who was there?” she asked, a trifle dreamily.
“Who w
as where, my dear?”
“Who was with him in the shop when you picked him up?”
Unable to follow this new thread of the conversation, I stared at her blankly.
“Was anyone with him in the shop?” she repeated, her tone sharper.
“No, he was alone. He was just locking up and—”
“Then no one saw him enter your car?”
“I don’t think so. There might’ve been someone looking out a window, of course, but—”
“That’s a risk you will have to run,” she said, and I could see that she was relieved by my answers. “Listen to me now. Tonight you will have to bury this man, just as you did Mr. Hess.”
“Bury him?” I asked, beginning to grasp what she had in mind.
“And if anyone comes here making inquiries about him, you must pretend that you know nothing. You may say that he came here yesterday to buy things, but that you sold him nothing and haven’t set eyes on him since. Do you understand, Al? You haven’t seen him since last night—understand?”
“Do you really believe we can get away with it, Madge?”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it? Consider what the alternative is.”
“That’s true,” I agreed, mulling this over in my head. “All the same, it was an accident. If I explained . . .”
Her lips curled unpleasantly. “It would be extremely difficult for anyone to convince a court that he had killed a blackmailer by accident,” she said witheringly. “And if they discover Mr. Hess, as I’m sure they would, that will make them even more skeptical.”
Her argument frightened me. Nor did she spare me a further embellishment—this in the form of a terse description of psychiatric tests, prisons for the criminally insane, shock treatments and one or two other horrors. I raised no more objections. I concurred with her view completely. I would put Suleyman in the Burying Ground.
That settled, we lifted him onto the sofa. He lay there quite sedately, his eyes closed, his forelock curl still in place, and his countenance even flatter than it had been when he was alive.
Seeing the ornate brass handle protruding from his black cummerbund, I pulled it out. On the other end of it was a small, oval mirror.
The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton Page 13