by John Brunner
Into the dismal silence there broke once more the ring of the doorbell. They exchanged glances. Laird rose and went to the window again, relieved at even this trifling interruption.
The moment he recognised the new caller, he swung around in astonishment and raced down the stairs, ignoring Courcy’s cry to know who it was. Pulling open the street door, he exclaimed, “Polly!”
She stood nervously on the threshold, clutching her case in both hands. “I got your telegram,” she said.
“Yes, but— Hell, you must have flown here to arrive so quickly!”
“That’s right. I’d never been in an aeroplane before, but this seemed so important… Funny! I’d decided that the first thing I was going to do with—with my legacy was take a holiday abroad, and fly there. I got my passport, and everything…” The words trailed away. “Is it true?” she concluded.
“I’m afraid so,” Laird muttered. “Here, give me your bag and come on upstairs. There are some people you ought to meet.”
And, a few seconds later, ushering her into the living-room, he said, “Polly, let me introduce Courcy Cade—Dagmar Schell—and Bitchy Legree.”
At the last name Polly started. Staring with a mixture of fascination and repugnance, she fumbled her way to a chair and sat down.
Suddenly irritated at her reaction, Laird snapped, “I ought to warn you, Bitchy! Polly isn’t a fan of yours. She found Sammy’s record of your act and threw it in the garbage.”
Polly looked at him in horror and turned bright red.
“No skin off my nose!” Bitchy shrugged. “It was paid for, wasn’t it? Well, I suppose we’d better bring Miss Logan up to date—will you go over it again, Laird, or shall I?”
It turned out to be a collaboration, with each new fact like another stroke on the bell tolling for the funeral of hope. Polly sat listening incredulously, the colour draining from her cheeks again.
“But surely there must be—!” she exclaimed, just as the phone rang, and Laird caught it up.
“Mr Walker?” said an unfamiliar voice. “I have a call for you from Dr Tileman—hold on.”
“Who is it?” demanded Courcy and Dagmar simultaneously.
“Tileman!”
Dagmar’s face froze into a mask of terror. But Bitchy’s became suddenly determined.
“The bastard! If he thinks he can… Laird! Stall him! I have an idea!”
The hateful tones, however, were already in Laird’s ear. “Mr Walker! I wish to speak to my secretary, please!”
“You’re speaking to me. That will have to do.”
“Very well.” Tileman’s tone grew harsh. “I do not know what you are thinking at this moment, but it must be clear by now that you have been deluded by a girl who is mentally unstable, yes? No doubt you have been regaled all day with exaggerated accounts of how your regretted friend met his death!”
“Go on,” Laird said.
“Well, there are two things I wish to say to you. First, of course, this accusation that I somehow brought about the death of Mr Logan. Absurd! And the verdict at the inquest was, I must remind you, natural causes.”
“I’m still listening.”
“And the second thing!” Tileman drew a deep hissing breath. “Last night you experienced—even though you were so rudely dragged away—the unique and marvellous sensory effects which I have made to be possible. You are yourself a travelled man, an adventurer. I understand you have tried such stimuli as mescalin, not so?”
Medea must have told him that. Laird filed the fact for future reference.
“Would you not concede that what I have offered to a handful of carefully chosen people is unmatchable by any other experience?”
“I guess you could say that,” Laird granted.
“It would be a shame—a waste—if it were not to be made available any longer?”
“Well, I have to admit I never knew anything like it,” Laird said.
“And before you were—ah—taken away, you were enjoying our party?”
“That’s true enough.”
“Then let me appeal to you as a rational man, Mr Walker. Two things appear to have upset your judgment. First, a good friend of yours is lamentably dead. And second, since you are”—a conspiratorial, man-of-the-world chuckle—“normally susceptible, an attractive young lady has exploited your sympathy and persuaded you that I am some kind of monster in human form. But was there anything monstrous about what you experienced at Apricots? Please, be honest!”
“I guess not.”
“In that case, can we not meet to talk together, in a reasonable way?”
“I—whoops!” Laird made the exclamation a loud one. “Damn, I’ve dropped my cigarette. Just a second!”
He covered the phone and looked towards Bitchy. “He wants to meet me and talk things over.”
“Tell him to come to the Lizzie tonight. Make it just before I come on. That is, if you want to watch him squirm.”
“I’d like to see that!” Courcy said.
“So fix it,” Bitchy shrugged. “I have a professional reputation to maintain, and it goes this way: nothing, but nothing at all, is too big for Bitchy Legree.”
Laird rounded his mouth silently. To the phone he said, “Sorry about that, doctor. Yes, let’s get together by all means. I shall be at the Lizzie Borden club at ten-fifteen tonight. If you want to discuss this, meet me there.”
THIRTY
The doorman who so much resembled Dr Crippen looked astonished as Laird escorted his party into the club. It wasn’t surprising. Courcy was more excited than apprehensive, but even so she was noticeably nervous, while Dagmar, faced with the prospect of meeting Tileman again, was pale with anxiety and her eyes kept darting from side to side as though she expected to be ambushed.
As for Polly, she appeared to be wishing she could become invisible.
Well, if she’d never even been in a pub before I took her out to lunch, she’ll certainly never have been in such a den of iniquity as a nightclub!
Courcy seemed to have opened her wardrobe and seized an armful of clothes at random. She had looked over the dresses Polly had brought, dismissed all of them as unwearable, and insisted on lending her one. Since she was by a couple of inches the smaller of the two, on Polly the exiguous skirt came less than halfway down her thighs. She had blushed brilliant red when she emerged from changing in the bedroom and Courcy told her she had lovely legs.
But she did. Though embarrassment was making her walk awkwardly, she was easily a match in looks for the other two girls, and every head in the room turned as they entered the club.
Laird had reserved two tables, not one. At a table for three he installed the girls, with Courcy enthusiastically taking charge. He himself sat down at another table a little distance away, ordered a tequila—which he regretted, because the quality was lousy—and composed himself to wait. He had left instructions with the doorman that Tileman was to be admitted as his guest.
I hope to hell this works. Because if it doesn’t…
Four minutes overdue by Laird’s watch, Tileman appeared in the doorway. And, as Laird had half-expected, he was not alone. His companion was Medea.
Peering around the room, Tileman spotted Dagmar before noticing Laird, and his face grew dark. He marched ponderously forward, plainly intending to rage at her.
Laird closed the gap with three swift strides and confronted the gross man, chest to chest. He said very softly, “Your business is with me, Dr Tileman. This way—please!”
Coming up behind, Medea—pale and edgy—touched Tileman’s arm and whispered something Laird failed to catch. With a scowl, Tileman consented to move towards Laird’s table.
Urbanely, as though they were to dismiss nothing more significant than a contract with Dramagic Ltd for special-effects props, Laird ordered drinks for them and offered cigarettes. Medea accepted, but Tileman refused brusquely, twisting his head to watch Dagmar. His expression said: you’ve signed your death warrant!
Laird drew the
fat man’s attention back with a cough. He said, “I’ve been thinking over what you said on the phone, doctor.”
Medea brightened. “I was sure you would! Someone like you couldn’t possibly be offended by what happened at Apricots, let alone afraid of it!”
“Precisely,” Laird conceded. It was half-true: he hadn’t been scared. After what he had heard from Shannon, though, to say he was offended was close to the mark.
“So!” he continued. “Let me assume that you’re not—how did you put it?—not a monster in human form but rather what one of our mutual friends called you last night, the man who’s pioneering a brand-new art-form.”
Suspicious of irony, Tileman glowered at him. After a moment, however, his manner thawed and he spoke in a tone on the verge of the cordial.
“That is how I do regard my activities!” he said. “My clients are privileged participants in a new artistic experience. It is, of course, still in the preliminary stages, but… well, tell me something, Mr Walker. Last night, was the underwater illusion successfully maintained for you? I would expect your answer to be yes.”
“Because Laird has done a lot of skin-diving?” Medea put in.
“Naturally. When the drug has a fund of memory instead of mere imagination to draw on, the illusion is especially complete.”
“It was for me,” Laird said, not even having to tell half a lie. “It was absolutely incredible.”
The assurance relaxed Tileman still further. He planted his huge elbows on the table and leaned confidentially close.
“As I hoped, Mr Walker, you prove to be a rational man, not easily swayed by wild accusations. So I have a proposal to put to you, similar to one I have already put to Mrs Logan and which she has accepted without hesitation.”
“Shoot,” Laird said.
“Now the first time you came to see me, I understood you were looking for assistance in founding a small business of your own. Subsequently I have been told that you are in no need of financial help. Is that so?”
Laird gave a wary nod. “What I was after,” he said, “was really first-class advice, and I heard that Skelton would accept a seat on the board of any company he was interested in. So…” He completed the sentence with a wave of his hand.
“Well, then!” Tileman remembered the drink he had been ignoring, took a swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I need hardly tell you that my—ah—enterprise is both profitable and capable of tremendous expansion. The potential market is colossal. But to exploit it will require substantial capital.”
Laird kept his expression carefully neutral. After last night Tileman would have done better to try and get a loan from the Bank of England than from Laird Walker, but it was imperative to string him along for at least another few minutes.
“What are you doing about the legal problems?” he ventured.
Tileman threw back his head and gave a booming laugh. “My dear Mr Walker! What legal problems? There is absolutely nothing illegal about my undertakings! The whole affair is so novel that no legislation covers it, and I assure you I’m in a position to make certain the situation stays the same for the indefinite future.”
“But you had guards on the gate at Apricots, tight precautions against—”
“Did Dagmar tell you the precautions were against the police?” Tileman interrupted. “The poor girl is obsessed by the Vopos, a very different kind of police from yours! No, our precautions are to protect the—ah—the dignity and the reputation of my clients.” He gave a slobbery chuckle. “Associated with the experience is a considerable freedom from conventional inhibitions, which by the way many people have told me they find positively therapeutic. They say it’s such a relief to be able to forget about their work, the need to keep up appearances, and so forth. But of course one must be able to rely absolutely on the security of the environment before this total relaxation is achieved.”
Under cover of picking up his drink left-handed, Laird stole a glance at his watch. Bitchy was due to come on any moment. He only needed to keep the conversation moving for another couple of minutes.
“You put up a very persuasive case,” he said. “I agree entirely about the chore of keeping up appearances. I hate the image bit which everyone goes in for nowadays. So what exactly are you inviting me to do—invest in your project?”
“Yes—on one condition. That you refrain from sheltering Dagmar. Her insane talk is liable to put the entire business in jeopardy. Provided she does not—what is your phrase in English?”
“Upset the applecart?”
Tileman chortled. “Yes, very good! If all goes well, I can promise the doubling of any contribution you make within two or three years. Moreover, as a financial backer, you would be entitled to enjoy the privileges of our—ah—parties as often as you chose.”
“You shouldn’t have run off last night,” Medea said. “It became absolutely fantastic!”
There was a stir all around them, and Laird glanced at the door behind the piano. A figure was emerging from shadow, in a silver lamé gown slit to the hip, a monstrous wig of silver and black in irregular streaks, and a mask of exaggerated makeup.
“Ah, the celebrated star of the club!” Tileman grunted. “I don’t believe I will remain for the entertainment, however. Think over what I have proposed, Mr Walker. It may seem to be a gamble, but I’ve no doubt it will appeal to you for exactly that reason.”
He gulped his drink and made to rise.
“Sit down,” Laird said in a chilly voice.
“What?”
“I said sit down. I haven’t finished talking to you, and I like Bitchy’s material, so I want to listen without being interrupted.”
Medea leaned towards Tileman and whispered. Laird said, “Persuade him to stay, please.”
Tileman scowled at him, seized Medea’s wrist, and led her away from the table. Laird snapped his fingers at the three girls. As he had instructed them, they neatly thrust back their chairs into a line blocking the aisle to the exit. Tileman found suddenly that he would have to force a path between them.
“Why don’t you sit down again?” Bitchy cooed to the microphone, adjusting the stool before the piano. “Scared of something? What have you to be afraid about, hm?”
People all around tittered and stared at Tileman and Medea.
“Do you think I might perhaps tell everyone how you overcome the obvious difficulties of your relationship?” Bitchy murmured. “There’s something so—so pneumatic about a figure like that!”
The piano rippled to life: a decorated version of Oh You Beautiful Doll.
“Big!” Bitchy said with admiration. “Bouncy! They’ll never believe that you actually saw your kneecaps last Tuesday week!”
Tileman’s face reddened with fury, but Medea gave a sigh and turned back to her seat.
“It’ll go on until you sit down,” she muttered. “Obviously Bitchy doesn’t like people who walk out just as the show’s starting.”
Glowering, but unwilling to risk making a scene, Tileman subsided into his own chair, and Bitchy gave a camp giggle.
“It was in a mirror, of course…” The piano modulated into Two Silhouettes. “Well, now we’ve assured ourselves of an audience after all… never know about people who quit before the fun starts. They might set a trend… Not good for trade, not good at all.”
A phrase, just long enough to be recognisable, from I’ve Got a Loverly Bunch of Cokernuts.
“Speaking of trade, though… No, madam, not your kind! But thank you for reminding me, anyway. I meant to issue a bulletin on the subject of rent tonight.” Heavy chords: Three Rooms with Running Water. “When coloured people move in, values go down—thought some of your customers would like to know… Believe in cutting prices myself… Also in calling a spade a bloody shovel.”
This time when the piano commented most of the listeners failed to get the reference, but Laird did—Black and Tan Fantasy. Bitchy’s musical range was astonishing.
“But the subject unde
r examination this evening, objects, isn’t rent… It’s flat payments, made in cash.” The piano quoted Pennies from Heaven. “Also, oddly enough, Shakespeare. Where did you go last night, sir and madam?”
The piano stopped dead and Bitchy snapped on a coarse rustic accent. “Go bind thou up yon dangling apricocks!”
Tileman and Medea started simultaneously. Laird concealed a grin.
The piano uttered a phrase from a thirties oldie, Mediterranean Moonlight, which Laird had always thought contained the worst line of any popular song in history—exactly the line which Bitchy now crooned close to the mike.
“Mediterranean madness! You mesmerise me like dope!”
And slam, and spin around on the piano stool to face the audience.
“Yes, studs and bitches, that is the subject and theme of my short sermon this evening. Drugs. Calcutta and Leipzig papers please copy. Let me have a spot will you?”
A light leapt up and swivelled across the room while everyone was still completing the double-take from Bitchy camp to Bitchy serious.
“The fat man who tried to get up and leave is called Emmerich Tileman and he runs the most exclusive drug-parties in London. Last night at a house called Apricots in Mill Hill he entertained approximately one hundred rich slobs at a price per head of fifty pounds, but you can contract for private shows at a fee of one thousand. He has at least one man’s death to account for and has been threatening another. Studs and bitches, I give you on stage for the first and only time the murderer of the late lamented Sammy Logan!”
And an elbowed crash on the piano, as the spot homed in on Tileman’s chair.
The man’s mouth worked like that of a stranded fish and his whole face was grey. Beside him, Medea uttered a whimper and tried to cringe out of the circle of light.
“Ever seen a murderer before?” Bitchy inquired conversationally, and reverted to the piano to sketch in a few bars of Sam Hall. “I haven’t—apart from the respectable kind who wear uniforms to do their killing in. I think you should salute this convert to the cause of private enterprise. A refugee from East Germany, Dr Emmerich Tileman came here about four years ago and—”