We All Killed Grandma

by Fredric Brown

  “I—don’t know. I rather think I must have. Because I think she must suspect my sanity. I think she thinks I killed Grandma.”

  “Good God, what gives you that idea?”

  I told him what gave it to me, Robin’s attitude in general and that one look of fear I’d caught on her face in particular.

  Pete said, “There’s one can of beer apiece left in the refrigerator. We might as well finish them.”

  He got the beer and came back. He was frowning. He said, “I don’t like it, Rod. Robin thinking that. Doesn’t she know that you’re definitely cleared on the basis of solid evidence, that you couldn’t have done it?”

  “She doesn’t know the details. I guess all she knows is what was in the newspapers. That means she knows that the police don’t suspect me—but she could think they were wrong. But—”

  “But what?”

  “But that would mean she’d have some reason to think they were wrong. And the only reason I can think of is one I don’t like. I must have exhibited, during our marriage, sufficient mental symptoms to make her think that I could have become homicidally insane.”

  Pete fussed with his pipe again. He said, “Rod, I’m going to have a talk with Robin.”

  “Don’t,” I said. “Please don’t. It can’t do any good and—no, please don’t go to her, Pete.”

  “You’re still in love with her, aren’t you?”

  “Still or again, yes. I know now that I should never have gone to see her—that’s one thing Arch was right about. And then for a while I was foolish enough to hope I might get her back. That was before I learned—relearned—about my own heredity. The best thing I can do about Robin, for her sake and mine, is to let her completely alone and try to forget her completely. I’ve got an idea, Pete, that my subconscious mind has known that all along, that forgetting Robin is the only possible thing, and that’s why my mind has a definite block against my going to a psychoanalyst for treatment to get my memory back.”

  Pete said, “If you’re in love with her anyway, what would it matter?”

  “I don’t know, but the block’s still there.”

  I took the last swallow of my beer and stood up. “Eleven o’clock,” I said. “I’d better be going. I start in at the agency again tomorrow and I’d better get a good night’s sleep for once. Thanks for everything, including the beer.”

  Driving home, I found myself going along Robin’s street. No, I hadn’t gone out of my way to take that route; it was a natural one between Pete’s place and mine, although I could have gone other ways.

  There was a light on in a room on the third floor that I thought was Robin’s bedroom. But I didn’t stop to count windows to make sure; I drove fast and kept going.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE alarm woke me at seven-thirty and I felt lousy because, despite the fact that I’d been in bed by midnight I hadn’t gone to sleep until after half past two. How much after I don’t know but that’s the last time I’d looked at the clock. And I’d decided then that, at my first opportunity, I’d see Dr. Eggleston and get a prescription from him for some sleeping powders. Especially now that I was going back to work I couldn’t continue indefinitely being unable to get to sleep until the middle of the night and sometimes later than that.

  And it was a gray, dreary morning. Not raining yet but looking as though it would start any moment and keep raining all day.

  I took a cold shower to wake me up and it helped. And by the time I got to the Carver Agency at nine I had three cups of hot black coffee under my belt and felt almost human.

  May Corbett, the switchboard girl and receptionist who’d reintroduced herself the last time I was here, gave me a smile as I walked in. She said, “Hi, Rod. Swell to have you back.”

  “Good to be back, May,” I said. “Will you tell me where I go?”

  “Jonsey said to have you see him first when you came in. You’ll know him, won’t you? I think you met him in Mr. Carver’s office when you were in here Monday.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Which is his office?”

  “The door next to Mr. Carver’s. Same side of the hall.”

  The door was standing open so I went in. Jonsey looked up from his desk and then came over and shook hands. He said, “Sit down a minute in here, Rod, and then I’ll take you to your own office. Listen, do you want me to introduce you around or would you rather remeet people one at a time as you happen to come in contact with them?”

  He went back behind his desk again and I took the chair beside it. I said, “One at a time would be better. You said my own office; do I have a private room of my own?”

  “Half of one; you share it with Charlie Grainger.”

  I thought back. “Big guy,” I said. “Middle-aged, bald, worked here ten or twelve years. Especially good on direct mail campaigns; writes beautiful sales letters.”

  For a second Jonsey looked startled and I said, “No, I don’t remember that. Vangy briefed me on the force here and I made a special point of remembering the other four copy writers because I’d be working with them more than anybody else.”

  “Good boy. Won’t take you long to pick up the routine at that rate. How did you get along with that stuff?” He nodded at the brief case I had on my lap.

  “Okay, Mr. Jonsey. If I didn’t write copy any more spectacular than that before, I think I can do as well again.”

  “Maybe better, with a fresh approach. And, by the way, leave off the Mister; even the office boy just calls me Jonsey. Or George. Did you study that Lee Hosiery file?”

  “That I did. Especially the pictures.”

  “Good. That’s what Carver wants me to start you on. We’ve got to get a Christmas campaign to show them. Yeah, it’s early June; that’s when we start thinking about Christmas in this racket. Idea to get across is, of course, that nylons are the perfect Christmas present. Exotic and practical at the same time. And from one pair to a dozen. They’ll specially Christmas-package them in units of one, three, six and twelve pairs. To fit any woman and any man’s pocketbook.”

  “Umm,” I said. “Christmas stocking angle. Fill Her Christmas Stocking With Stockings. Forget it; that’s lousy.”

  “I wouldn’t know whether it is or not. That’s not my department. I meant to tell you; if you want to know anything about office routine, assignments, pay checks, advances, anything like that, come to me. If it’s about the merits of an idea for copy, go to Carver.” He grinned. “Back when, I stuck my neck out a few times telling a copy writer his idea was good or bad and managed to be provably wrong most of the time. So I keep my neck in. Carver said to tell you to come and see him as soon as you got any ideas you want to talk over.”

  “Should I do that today? Or spend longer than that getting more ideas lined up?”

  “I’d see him no later than this afternoon if you’ve got anything at all to show him for a starter. He’ll keep you from going off in the wrong direction if you’re heading that way. And he said to tell you that, especially while you’re getting reoriented, you should see him as often as you want.”

  “How often would I take ideas to him ordinarily?”

  “As often as you want. He works closely with the copy writers; probably each of you is in his office at least once a day for at least a few minutes. And incidentally, whatever he tells you is pretty solid. He knows his stuff—whether it’s early in the day or late.”

  “Which is a polite way of saying whether he’s sober or drunk?”

  Jonsey laughed. “All right, whether he’s sober or drunk. Well, anything else you want to know?”

  “Not that I can think of now,” I said. “Maybe I’d better start earning my salary.”

  He took me out into the corridor again. He pointed and said, “That’s the layout department down at the end; it’s one big room. To the right you will notice a door that says Men on it; you’ll want to know where that is. The one across from it says Women, but don’t think that means what Ralph Ericson implied when he got down here early one day
and put a red light over the door.”

  I laughed. “I’ll be glad to meet Ericson.”

  “You will. But you said one at a time so let’s start with your cell mate.”

  We went around a corner in the hallway and there was a door with my name and Charles Grainger’s lettered on it. A big, middle-aged, bald man turned around from one of the two desks as we went in. He said, “Hi, Rod. I’m Charlie Grainger.” We shook hands.

  Jonsey said, “Okay, I leave him with you. Make him take his time getting started so he doesn’t sprain anything.” He left and closed the door behind him.

  I sat down at my desk and Charlie said, “Don’t pick up a pencil yet or put your feet on the desk.”

  “Huh?”

  He grinned. “That’s our code, the way we work it so neither of us interrupts the other when we’re actually working or doing constructive thinking. We both agree that the best atttiude for constructive thought is with the feet on the desk; when either of us is sitting that way we’re presumed to be deep in the process of creative thinking and the other doesn’t interrupt. Nor when either of us has a pencil in his hand, whether actually writing with it or not. Or when swiveled around to face our typewriters. Other than under those circumstances we’re free to bat the breeze.”

  “Sounds like a wonderful system. Okay, I won’t pick up a pencil yet. Until you’re ready to go to work.”

  “I’ll never be ready, but I’ll have to after a while. This is a rush job I’m on. I hear you’re going on the Lee Hosiery campaign; you can take a month on that, so don’t push yourself. You can spend a day just seeing how the desk feels.”

  We batted the breeze a few minutes and then Charlie sighed deeply and said he’d better go back to the salt mines. He picked up his pencil and turned back to his desk.

  I thought I’d start by emptying my brief case. I put the Lee file on one corner of my desk—I’d want to keep that for a while to refer to—and put the other files in a separate stack; I should have remembered to give them back to Jonsey while I was in his office.

  The next step was to inventory my desk to find out what I had in the way of working equipment. It was okay. I tried the typewriter and it worked. I sharpened a few pencils. I put a block of copy paper in front of me and doodled a few minutes and then threw away the top sheet and tried to concentrate on the idea of stockings for Christmas presents. I doodled with that and found myself drawing female legs with stockings on them and apparently I could draw pretty well because they looked like female legs. They looked like Robin’s legs.

  So I wasn’t getting anywhere that way and I put my feet up on the desk and tried to think. I thought, not because I tried to but just because I did, about Robin in a yellow Bikini bathing suit on a bright red blanket.

  That didn’t get me anywhere either.

  I picked up the Lee file and began to look through the ads we’d already done for them again and after a while some ideas began to come. I picked up my pencil and caught on the fly the ones that seemed worth catching, at least for consideration.

  I saw Charlie Grainger pick up the phone on his desk. He said, “Hi, Toots, give me the big cheese.” And after a few seconds, “Grainger, Mr. Carver. Got a few minutes to spare?…Okay, be right there.”

  He took a handful of papers from his desk and went out.

  I got down a few more notes that were leads to ideas, if not ideas themselves. Then there was a tap on the door and I said, “Come in,” although it was already opening. From description I couldn’t place the man who came in until he said, “Hello, Rod. I’m Harry Weston. How you doing?”

  “Getting started,” I said. “Slowly but I hope surely.” He was one of the other copy writers.

  “Dropped in to see if I could give you a hand in case you need it. I’ve got time on my hands this morning. Jonsey gave me a job he figured for half a day and I finished it in the first half hour. Just happened to think of the perfect angle on it right away and I couldn’t improve on it if I spent another week trying. But I hate to turn it in this soon so I’m killing time. You’re on the Lee Christmas campaign, aren’t you?”

  I nodded. “And beginning to get a faint idea or two. Thanks for offering to help but I think I’d rather find out what I can do on my own. If I’m still up a tree after a while I may ask you for help.”

  “Okay. Any time. Well, in that case you want to work and I won’t bother you long. But how’s about our having lunch together then?”

  “Fine,” I said. “What’s the lunch hour here?”

  “We stagger them. You go from twelve to one. I go from one to two ordinarily but today I’ll swap with somebody—or fix it without swapping—so we can coincide. I’ll pick you up here at twelve.”

  I got to working better after he left, got as far as getting a rough layout for one of the better ideas I’d had. A little on the risqué side, though; it’d go fine in Esquire or Sir but wasn’t quite for the Ladies’ Home Journal. I’d wait till I had a chance to check just what magazines were going to be used before I maybe wasted time by going farther with it.

  Grainger came back. Seeing that I was working he didn’t speak when he came in so I put down my pencil. “Carver like what you’re doing?”

  He grimaced. “Says it stinks. And the worst of it is, he’s right. I got to start all over again. But anyway I know where I’m starting from; he suggested a good angle.”

  He was at his desk by then; he jerked paper into his typewriter and started clicking keys so I shut up.

  I jumped when the phone on my desk rang. I picked it up thinking it would be Carver wanting me to come in and show him what kind of a start I was making, but it wasn’t.

  “This is Dr. Eggleston, Rod,” the telephone said. “Last Monday night—Tuesday morning rather—you promised to come in and see me within a week for another checkup. It’s a couple of days over that now. How’s about making an appointment?”

  “Glad to,” I said. “Yes, I’d forgotten that promise, but I’d decided to look you up anyway.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, except that I haven’t been able to sleep right. And especially now that I’m back at work and have to get up regularly, I can’t afford to lie awake half the night. I thought maybe you’d give me a prescription for some sleeping powders or something.”

  “Be glad to. Aside from that you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. About the appointment. Do you have evening hours?”

  “Don’t work evenings unless I have to. And I think I can avoid it on this. You’re through work at five, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, my office is downtown, just a block from where you work. The Union Trust Building, corner of Fourth and Braddock. You can get here in five minutes. I ordinarily leave at five but I’ll wait for you.”

  “That’ll be fine, Doctor,” I said. “I’ll see you as soon after five as I can make it. It won’t take long, will it?”

  “I want to give you a fairly thorough physical checkup. You’d better figure on at least half an hour.”

  I worked a while more and really got going for a while and then Harry Weston came and said it was twelve o’clock. I put on my hat and followed him out, stopping in at Jonsey’s office on the way out to return the other files and to make sure it was okay for me to keep the Lee file for a few more days.

  We jabbered mostly about work and office routine while we ate lunch and I learned a few more of the ropes. I was glad to have confirmed something the morning had already indicated; it was a good place to work. Results were all that counted; nobody minded how much inter-office visiting you did, how often you were late or how much time you missed—within reason—as long as you got the work that was assigned to you done and did a good job on it. Advertising, Carver thought, was creative work and creative work is something nobody can be expected to do for a solid seven hours a day, five days a week. One inspired moment is better than a week of plodding effort and inspired moments are more likely to come in an atm
osphere of freedom than one of rigid discipline. I thought I was going to like working for Gary Cabot Carver. Apparently I had liked it before and had got along well there.

  You could even emulate Carver, Weston told me, and drink on the job. As long as you got the work done nobody cared how, where or when you did it.

  “Did I ever drink at work?” I asked him.

  “A nip once in a while, generally for sociability. You didn’t ever use it to prime your brain when you’d get stuck on something. No, you’re not much of a drinker, Rod. The drunkest I ever saw you was a week ago Monday night.”

  I’d been picking up my coffee cup and it jerked in my hand and sloshed some coffee into the saucer. I put it down. I asked him, “You mean the night of the murder?”

  “Yes. Oh, that’s right, you wouldn’t remember. Your amnesia started because you found the body, didn’t it?”

  “I think so. At least it started about that time. Where did you see me, and when?”

  “You came up to my place a little after ten.”

  “And where is your place? Wait a minute and let me explain why I’m so interested and why I’m going to ask you so many questions, probably. I’ve been trying ever since to reconstruct exactly what I did that evening. And there’s a gap between ten o’clock and half past eleven. How much of that can you tell me about?”

  “Just about all of it, I guess. I live at twelve eighteen Renwood, bachelor quarters. You rang my bell after ten o’clock that night. Not more than five or ten minutes after. You’d been drinking but you weren’t really drunk. You looked and acted awfully depressed. You wanted to do some more drinking but you didn’t want to drink alone and wanted me to go out with you.”

  “And you did?”

  “Yes. If I’d happened to have anything in the place to drink I’d have kept you there, but I was fresh out. We went to the tavern just around the corner on Carr Street. Pete Ringold’s place. We were there only about an hour but my God did you pour the stuff down. You drank like a guy trying to knock himself out and as quickly as possible.”

  Some things began to make sense. Twelve eighteen Renwood was in Vangy’s neighborhood. Only two blocks from her place—and farther out from town. That’s why I hadn’t been able to find the tavern at which I’d done my really heavy drinking between Vangy’s place and downtown where Walter Smith had seen me. The tavern hadn’t been between; it had been two blocks farther out.