by Alan Handley
“Three…four years.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sorenson.” He turned to me. “Now, Mr….” He consulted his book again. “Briscoe. How did you happen to find him?”
“Well,” I began. “This is my room and I unlocked the door, only it wasn’t locked.”
“You unlocked the door only it wasn’t locked. Now just how did you do that?” I could feel myself getting more and more angry. That seemed ridiculous quibbling to me. He must have known what I meant.
“I simply mean I put my key in to unlock it but it was already open and swung in a little way and stopped when it hit Kendall’s body. I pushed it open enough to get through and turned on the lights and saw him lying there. I thought at first he was dead.”
“Why did you think he was dead?”
“I don’t know, but he was so still and all, and then that smell…”
“The Lysol, you mean?”
“Yes. The bottle was lying on the floor,” I said. “I’m afraid I got sick.” He gave me an irritating smile. “When I got through being sick I came back and took his pulse and found out he was alive. I don’t remember exactly what I did, but I must have yelled. Anyway, I got all those people outside the door up. Then Helga came and we did what she said and they came and took him away and that’s all.”
“Any idea how it happened?”
“No. I can’t understand what he was doing in my room in the first place. I remembered locking my door this morning.”
“Mr. Briscoe always keeps his door locked.” Helga nodded a grotesque agreement to my statement. “Very particular…”
“Where was he when you found him?”
I pointed out the exact place. “His head was in the bloody place there.”
“It wasn’t a bad wound,” said Helga. “I bathed it, too. It was just in the back of the head. Not much blood. Almost stopped bleeding.”
“Now, how could he have got that?” The policeman looked around the room and his eyes fastened on my dresser. The dresser is about waist-high and has a plate-glass top that covers it completely. He examined the top of it very carefully and then pointed to one corner above where Kendall had been lying. “Yeah, you can see some blood there.” We looked and there was a little blood on the corner and what looked like a few bits of Kendall’s hair and skin. “This man Thayer drink much?”
“All the time.” Helga was very definite about that. “All the time he drink, drink, drink. He owe me for the rent. He go hungry, but he drink.”
“Well, I guess that’s enough.” The policeman put away his pencil and notebook. “The way I see it, he must have staggered and fallen against that dresser glass and spilled the open bottle of Lysol on himself when he fell.” He was very pleased with this bit of deducting.
“But what was he doing carrying an open bottle of Lysol? I keep it in the bathroom.”
“Oh, so you admit it’s yours?” I said I did. “How the hell should I know what he was doing with it. Maybe he was thirsty and wanted a drink. Some of the smoke these bums drink isn’t much better.”
“He wasn’t a bum.” I don’t know why I felt called upon to defend what good name Kendall may have had left.
“Okay, what do you call it?”
“He was an actor.”
“An actor, huh? What’s the difference?” I let that one pass.
“How did he get in my room, then?”
“You left the door open. The cleaning woman left the door open. How in hell should I know?”
“I never did,” said Helga indignantly.
“There, you see?”
“Look, Mac. What are you trying to make out of this, a murder? The guy ain’t even dead. They took him to St. Vincent’s on Eleventh. I’m just trying to get enough dope for a routine report. Why don’t you go ask him how he got in your room?” He opened the door. Some of the crowd was still hanging around out in the hall. “Okay, break it up. All over, just a little accident. Break it up.” He went on downstairs. Helga followed him. A couple of the people in the hall wanted to come into my room and hear all about it, but I told them I was sick and shut the door in their faces.
I was sick, too. For a minute I thought of going around to St. Vincent’s and seeing Kendall and getting it all straightened out, but they had given him dope and he would probably be asleep. The best thing to do would be to run down during the lunch break tomorrow. He’d be awake then and feeling a lot better and maybe I would, too.
I mopped up the blood on the floor. The bedspread also had blood on it. I put that in the laundry bag. I even wiped off the dresser corner where he had hit his head, then I undressed and got in bed, but I didn’t sleep very well.
All night long I kept waking up, hearing Kendall screaming, “My eyes…Oh God, my eyes.” And I could see them, white in the red sockets, staring out at me in the dark.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
MY STORY CREATED QUITE a little sensation at rehearsal at the Lyceum next morning. Mr. Frobisher was late and the rest of the cast was gathered around me and I am sorry to say I was making a big thing of it.
“I remember Thayer in the old silents,” said Miss Randall. “I thought he was wonderful. He was always a prince and Priscilla Barnes was the gypsy, or he was the gypsy and she was the princess. What a pity! Do you suppose he’ll be blind? If any of that stuff got in his eyes I don’t see how he can help it. Poor darling.” Paul Showers had even worked with him in a picture.
“It was years ago, I was just a kid extra, but I’ll never forget his insisting on music. Of course those were the days when you could do that sort of thing. He always had a string quartet to get him in the mood.” I hadn’t realized that poor old Kendall had been quite such a success as he had insisted on telling everyone.
Mr. Frobisher came onto the stage.
“Oh, Frobie,” said Miss Randall.
“Sorry I’m late, people.” He took off his coat. “Had to okay some furniture.”
“Frobie, you remember Kendall Thayer…you know, the one you were telling about last night that made such a scene at that funeral?”
“Certainly, I’ll never forget it. One of the most disgusting performances I’ve seen in some time.”
“Well, he tried to commit suicide or something in Tim’s apartment last night.”
It was strange having that two-by-four cheese box at the Casbah referred to as an apartment. “Isn’t that pathetic! I remember him so well in the silents.”
Mr. Frobisher turned to me. “What is she talking about?”
“It’s true, only the police don’t think it was attempted suicide.”
“Oh?”
“They think it was just an accident.”
“Oh, darling, you didn’t tell me you have had the police in and everything.” I thought Miss Randall’s excitement at that idea was a little ghoulish. “Did they give you a third degree?”
“No. Just asked the usual questions. He’s at St. Vincent’s. I’m going down at noon to see how he is.”
Maggie, who hadn’t opened her mouth all during my monologue about Kendall, said slowly, “I can’t quite see what he would be doing in your room with a bottle of Lysol in the first place.”
“That’s what I told the police.”
“You must remember he was very drunk at the funeral,” said Mr. Frobisher. “He was undoubtedly still drunk and didn’t know what he was doing.”
Greg, the stage manager, handed Mr. Frobisher his script and he became very businesslike. “I’m sorry, children, but we’ve got work to do…. Not even a week before Wilmington, and that third act needs a great deal of polishing. Shall we get started? And, Tim, when you see Thayer, find out if there is anything I can do.” We took our places for the opening of the third act. “Ready?”
“Curtain,” said Greg.
We all knew our lines in the last act now and it was just a question of smoothing-out-business and pointing up. Maggie and I had nothing to do with the plot, and if I had been rewriting this show I would have cut us out quicker than a wi
nk. I had told this to Maggie and she said for me to keep my mouth shut and not go around putting peas in people’s ears, whatever that meant. As far as I could see, I simply mixed and poured cocktails and laughed a lot. Maggie, who was supposed to be my wife, had just come down to the country house, which explains why I was in a dinner jacket and she was in an afternoon dress.
Frobisher had suggested movements a couple of times and the author had changed a word here or there but, aside from that, I was on my own. The same with Maggie. I was worried about it at first because our five days weren’t up. But Maggie said not to worry, that she’d been asking around and, with Frobisher, it seemed that it was a good sign.
The author, who usually is hell on wheels, was an exception to the rule. He was a big radio writer and this show was just a luxury to him…time off from the soap operas. He didn’t spend much time in the theater, being vital at the radio studios to see that the housewives got their vicarious thrills in evenly mounting doses. I meant to get to work on him and maybe he could fix it so I could get a couple of shots in his radio stuff, but he wasn’t around very much and didn’t seem particularly interested in me when he was. What progress there was, Maggie seemed to be making. He thought she was very funny, and when she wasn’t sitting with me they were giggling off in a corner. That didn’t make me feel any better, either. In the first place she didn’t need the job and in the second place, why didn’t he stick to his radio cuties?
At twelve-thirty we broke for lunch. Maggie insisted on coming with me to St. Vincent’s, which surprised me.
“You’ll probably miss your lunch.”
“So will you, but we can send out for sandwiches. Besides, I want to see the poor old thing.”
“Why this sudden interest? Thought we were only supposed to think happy thoughts until after opening night?”
“Never mind…just say I’ve always had a yen to do the Lady with the Lamp.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to ask our author along? He might get some peachy material.”
“Oh, don’t be silly. So that’s what’s been eating you recently?”
“Nothing’s been eating me recently.”
St. Vincent’s Hospital was cold and uncomfortable-looking from the outside. Even the women’s jail a couple of blocks east is much fancier. A few nurses and doctors were just coming back from coffee at the corner drugstore when we arrived. We went in and I explained to the middle-aged woman at the reception desk what I wanted.
“Is Mr. Thayer a relative of yours?” she asked sharply. “Visiting hours are from one-thirty to two-thirty only.” I told her he wasn’t a relative but a friend, and if I couldn’t see Mr. Thayer could I see the doctor that attended him? I didn’t have much time. She looked through some card index and made a phone call and told us to wait in the reception room and she would see what she could do. We went in and sat down. There were a few other people in there with us, and Maggie and I spent ten minutes speculating in hushed tones just which of the men were expectant fathers and which of the women were expectant mothers. We decided all the men looked expectant and none of the women. Presently the woman that had been behind the desk appeared in the door with a doctor and pointed us out to him. He came over and shook hands. He was thin in his shortsleeved white jacket and very nervous, which you don’t expect to find in doctors—that’s the patients’ characteristic. The cloud of disinfectant that radiated from him reminded me of last night, and I could feel my stomach winding up. We told him what we were there for and he led us to a bare little room just behind the reception desk.
“Are you Mr. Briscoe, Mr. Timothy Briscoe?” he asked. His voice was dry and quick. He probably hadn’t had enough sleep. “The patient was asking for you.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, he died this morning.” He needn’t have been quite so offhand about it as though he were trying to show how tough he was. I don’t know what else he could have said, but it was his tone I objected to.
“But how?” I couldn’t believe it. “What from?”
“Acute alcoholism mostly. And then the shock helped.”
“But it doesn’t seem possible.” I put my arm around Maggie.
“Best thing, really. He was blinded, you know…that acid.”
“Was he conscious at all?”
“Oh, yes, for a little. That’s how I remember your name.”
“Well, why didn’t you notify me? I could have been over here in ten minutes.”
“In the first place—” he acted as though I was a child of three and not right bright at that “—he didn’t think to give us your phone number and, in the second place, we don’t happen to have enough nurses and doctors around this place to go ringing doorbells.” I wanted to pop him. Maggie put her hand on my arm.
“Did he say anything else, Doctor, aside from asking for Mr. Briscoe?”
“He may have, miss.” He didn’t take the same tone with Maggie as he did with me. “We were pretty rushed last night in Emergency. He was only conscious for a few minutes, and we had to dope him up again. He was in pretty bad pain.”
“Where is he now? Could we see him?” I was surprised at all this sudden interest on Maggie’s part.
“No, they came and got him this morning. At least I think they did. You can check with the girl at the desk. I’m sorry but I’ve got to go now. It wasn’t so bad…he didn’t know what had happened. I’m surprised he lived as long as he did.” He hurried away.
We asked at the desk and, after several more phone calls, the woman wrote down the name of an undertaker in Maplewood, N. J., and also the name of a brother I didn’t even know Kendall had, who lived there. We thanked the woman at the desk and left the hospital.
“Well, that’s that,” I said.
“Timmy, what did you do with the Youth and Beauty Book? Did you burn it?”
“No, it’s back at the Casbah,” I said. I was puzzled by her question. “Why?”
“Oh, nothing.” We walked on a little way. “Are you sure?” she said suddenly.
“Of course I’m sure. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I was just wondering. When did you see it last?”
“Why, let me see.” I thought back. The last time I had actually seen it was when I put it in my breast pocket at her apartment. I told her that. “That was the last time I actually saw it. It must still be in my suit in the closet. What are you getting at? Now don’t tell me you’re getting the bug! Do you really think this has some connection with Nellie?” I honestly hadn’t thought of any connection up until now, which was funny, because before I had thought everything was suspicious.
“What time is it?” It was almost one. “How long would it take to get to your place?”
“The Casbah? Just a couple of minutes’ walk. Why?”
“I’d like to see if the book is still there. We’ve got time. It won’t matter if we’re a few minutes late. They know we went down to the hospital, or at least that you did.” We didn’t say anything while we walked the last two blocks to the Casbah. There didn’t seem to be anything much to say and we needed our breath, for by the time we got there we were almost running. We pounded up the stairs. I was a little ahead of Maggie. My room still had that smell in it even though Helga had cleaned it thoroughly and had left the window open. I threw open the door of my closet and grabbed the gray suit. Maggie had come in by that time and she watched me as I tried the breast pocket first, then all the other pockets. But, of course, the Youth and Beauty Book was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
WE STOOD LOOKING AT each other, my coat dragging on the floor.
“I don’t suppose it could be anyplace else, could it?” she said hopefully.
“No.” I sat down on the bed and Maggie came and sat beside me. “I haven’t worn this suit since then.” I got up and looked in the bottom of the closet but I knew it wasn’t any use. The book was gone.
“Well,” said Maggie. “I’m on your side now. Where do I sign up?”
“What made
you change all of a sudden? After all that pep talk about me ending up in Bellevue, this seems to me very sudden.”
“It’s that Lysol. I wish I could have seen him, but if it was like you told me, it only means one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That someone deliberately poured that acid in his face. They meant to blind him.”
“Oh God, I can’t believe that! The cop assumed it was an accident without any question.”
“Have you ever taken a good look at a Lysol bottle?”
“Last night when I was trying to find out what you do.”
“Well, it doesn’t have a very wide mouth, does it?”
“No. So what?”
“So just dropping it, if you fell down, wouldn’t make it pour all over your face, especially your eyes. That’s where you said it was mostly, didn’t you?”
“Maybe he knew something.”
“Why didn’t they kill him and be done with it? Oh, darling, I’m scared.” She put her head on my shoulder and, to my amazement, started to cry. That wasn’t like her. I don’t remember her ever having cried before…not really. Not the way she was crying now with deep shaking sobs. I lifted up her head. She pulled the handkerchief out of my pocket and started dabbing at her eyes.
“Hey, wait a minute. Don’t go all weepy on me. What’s the matter?”
She blew her nose and stuffed my handkerchief in her purse.
“Don’t you see, you damn fool? This is your room.”
“A poor thing but mine own. What of it?”
“Maybe that acid wasn’t meant for that old man at all. Maybe whoever did it thought he was pouring it on your eyes.” She started crying again. My stomach, which was just quieting down after the last whiff of Lysol, went into action again. It had never occurred to me that I might have been clawing at my white eyes on this same bed; I clamped my eyes shut and put my hands over them. I could almost feel them burning. In a moment I realized how silly I was being. Maggie finished snuffling and started fixing her face in the mirror over the dresser.