I turned cold and sick.
Could this be happening to Val?
I won’t let him make love to me. Her voice echoed in my mind, and her despairing whisper, horrible, horrible.
‘You look bad,’ Dyer said with concern. ‘Why don’t you go home? I can see you’re really upset.’
I drank some more of the whisky.
‘I guess I am. When she hit her head . . . I thought she had killed herself.’
‘You go home.’
‘No, I won’t do that. I’ll get back to my desk. I still have a lot of work to do.’
‘Don’t forget to tell the quack to contact Tiny.’
I was lucky to meet Dr. Fontane as he came down the stairs. He was like a stork: tall, thin with a hooked nose and small beady eyes.
I introduced myself.
‘How is she, doctor?’
‘She has a nasty cut at the back of her head. Nothing serious. It would be better for her to stay in bed for a few days.’
‘Mr. Vidal should be informed.’ He smiled sourly.
‘I have already spoken to him.’ Nodding, he went down the steps to his car.
I returned to my office and closed the door. My mind was seething. As I sat down at my desk, the telephone bell rang.
I had an instinctive feeling it was Vidal calling and I hesitated, then, my heart beating violently, I lifted the receiver. ‘Burden?’ His squeaky voice jarred my nerves.
‘Yes Mr. Vidal.’
‘What happened? That fool of a doctor said Mrs. Vidal fainted and hit her head. I’ve never known her to faint. You were there. What happened?’
I licked my dry lips.
‘I don’t know, Mr. Vidal. I was on the telex. My back was turned. I heard Mrs. Vidal get up, then the sound of her fall.’
‘Do you think she fainted?’
‘I think she must have.’
There was a pause, then he gave his short, barking laugh.
‘Women!’ Again a pause, then he asked, ‘How is she getting on with the work?’
‘All right, Mr. Vidal.’
‘Burden! Remember what I said! Always tell me the truth!’ The snap in his Voice made me stiffen. ‘I will repeat the question: how is my wife getting on with the work?’
I was about to repeat my answer when I remembered that within an hour or so he would get the schedule, crammed with typing errors. He would know who had typed it. I couldn’t afford to be caught in a he if I was to remain close to Val.
‘Well, of course, she is a little out of practice,’ I said.
‘That’s to be expected after a six year layoff.’
‘Is she being efficient?’
‘She doesn’t have to be efficient. That is my prerogative, Mr. Vidal.’
He laughed.
‘A tactful man. The doctor tells me she should stay in bed for a few days. Get yourself a secretary Burden. My wife will soon get tired of office routine. I know women. They like to talk about work, but when it comes to the crunch they start throwing faints.’
I was now hating him so violently that if he had been in the office I would have struck him.
‘I’ll do that Mr. Vidal,’ I said.
‘I want an efficient service Burden. See to it,’ and he hung up.
As I replaced the receiver, I looked at the briefs still to be done. There was no time now to think about what had happened, what Dyer had said. I had to get these briefs cleared.
I called the Employment agency and asked them to send me a top class secretary on a temporary basis.
‘This is an emergency,’ I said. ‘Put her in a taxi and get her to me as quickly as you can.’
When I mentioned Henry Vidal’s name, the woman in charge said a girl would be with me in half an hour.
‘I’ll send you Connie Hagen. She is exceptionally good. Will you need her long?’
‘A week, maybe two weeks. I’m not sure.’
‘All right, Mr. Burden. She’ll be along.’ She then asked, ‘Did that boy show up . . . the messenger you wanted?’
I had forgotten about him.
‘Not yet.’
‘He’ll be along any moment. I told him to have his lunch first.’
Within ten minutes, the boy arrived. His name was Ray Potter, a gangling, long haired, amiable type who seemed painfully anxious to please.
I explained about how to obtain visas, gave him the passports and the addresses of the various consulates and sent him on his way.
I then got down to the briefs. What with telexing and telephoning and checking my reference books, I had no time to think of Val.
Connie Hagen arrived. She was around eighteen or twenty years of age, and the fattest girl I have yet seen which is saying something in this county of grossly fat women. Her round face revealed efficiency, humour and kindness. I liked her on sight. As with most fat girls, she wore skin tight trousers and a blouse that scarcely held under the pressure of her enormous breasts.
I gave her three schedules to type. The moment her fat little fingers dropped on to the keyboard, I knew I had found the support I needed.
The three schedules were finished in a quarter of an hour.
A quick look at them showed perfect typing. I then gave her a list of flights to book and left her to it.
We worked at top pressure until 17.45. Potter returned with the visas. I gave him four of the schedules to deliver to various hotels, assuring him he wouldn’t have to work this hard tomorrow.
‘I don’t mind work, Mr. Burden,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just want to earn what I’m being paid.’
When he had gone. Connie opened her handbag and took from it a paper sack.
‘Like a bite, Mr. Burden?’ she asked. ‘I always like a little bite before supper. Liver sausage on rye.’
‘No, thanks. We’re nearly through.’ I looked with unbelieving eyes at my now empty desk top.
She took a big bite out of the sandwich, munched and nodded her satisfaction.
‘I can’t get over me working for Mr. Vidal,’ she exclaimed. ‘Gosh! And in this marvellous house! Won’t I bend my boyfriend’s cars tonight! I’ll have you know Mr. Burden, it is a real privilege to work for Mr. Vidal.’
This remark turned my mood sour. Up to now. I had been too occupied with Val and Vidal had gone out of my mind.
‘Well, let’s finish,’ I said curtly. ‘It’s getting on for six.’
At 18.10. I had cleared the last schedule. Connie, still rating, put the cover on the I.B.M.
‘What time tomorrow, Mr. Burden?’
‘Nine o’clock, please.’
‘I’ll be here. Nightie-night,’ and away she went, swinging her massive hips, as light as a thistledown on her fat little feet, apparently without a care in the world.
* * *
There was no rush for me to get home. I had warned Rhoda that I might be late. I had much thinking to do and concentration would be impossible with her fussing around.
I sat at my desk. I first thought of what Dyer had said.
Was it possible that Vidal was taking advantage of Val under hypnotism and was having intercourse with her without her knowledge? The thought turned me hot with frustrated rage.
Could any man be so despicable? I remembered what she had told me: He is evil! He is a devil! If he was doing this evil thing, how could I protect her? Should I warn her? After more thought, I decided it would be cruel to do so without having a solution to offer. Had she not said she was no longer a free agent and was completely in his power and that his will had conquered hers? Now that I had more insight of what could be happening, it seemed to me she wouldn’t have made such an admission unless it was true.
There is nothing you can do, she had said. There is nothing anyone can do.
I refused to accept such a defeatist attitude. I was determined somehow to help her, but I did realise how dangerous it was for me to meddle with this power Vidal appeared to have. In my ignorance I could do harm as I had done in this irresponsible finger snapping episode
.
First, then I told myself, I must find out more about hypnotism. I must consult an expert, but who? I thought of Dyer’s friend, Dr. Rappach. I hesitated. Doctors were not supposed to talk about their patients, yet this doctor had told Dyer about the man who had hypnotised his wife. I wouldn’t want it to get back to Dyer that I had been making inquiries.
I felt sure the doctor hadn’t mentioned names. If I approached him tactfully it should be safe enough. I reached for the telephone book. There he was:
Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist.
1141 West Street
West Palm Beach
Not the best district to live in. West Palm Beach was the suburb of Palm Beach where the workers lived and where there was a large Harlem quarter.
I dialled his number.
‘This is Doctor Rappach.’ A thick, deep voice that gave me an impression of age.
‘My name is George Fellows, doctor,’ I said. The phony name belonged to one of the V.I.P.s for whom I had provided tickets. ‘I would like to consult you on the subject of hypnotism. Could you give me an appointment, please?’
There was a pause.
‘Have you been recommended to me, Mr. Fellows?’
‘Your name cropped up at a party I was attending. Someone said you used hypnotism sometimes on your patients.’
‘Was it someone I know?’ The voice was polite but perhaps now a little cautious.
‘I forget his name, doctor: short, thickset, balding. You know how it is at a party.’ I forced a little laugh. ‘Names come, names go.’
‘And you are interested in hypnotism. May I ask why?’
I trotted out the hairy excuse so often used.
‘I’m writing a novel, doctor, and I want my facts right. Naturally, I would pay your usual consulting fee.’
‘I am very busy, Mr. Fellows . . .’ A pause. We both breathed at each other over the line. ‘However, I could find time to see you if nine o’clock would be convenient.’
‘21.00, tonight?’
‘Yes’
‘That’s fine, doctor. I’ll be along.’
We both hung up.
I went back to my thinking.
Twice during our talks together Val had mentioned Trilby and Svengali. She had said: I was a Trilby to his Svengali.
Who was Trilby? Who was Svengali? Wasn’t there once a classical novel called Trilby? I had vaguely heard of it, but had never read it. Could this book give me a clue?
It was possible the Public Library would have a copy. I had to pass the Library on my way home. It shut at 20.00. I had plenty of time. I decided to get the book right away.
Then Mrs. Clements came in.
‘Ah, Mr. Burden, there you are. I was afraid you had gone. Mrs. Vidal is asking for you.’ Her hard blue eyes registered disapproval. ‘She is worrying about Mr. Vidal’s trip to Libya. She won’t sleep until you assure her there are no hitches.’
My heart gave a little bound. Val knew the schedule was tied up. This was her excuse to Mrs. Clements to see me.
I opened a drawer and took from it one of the schedules waiting completion of a visa.
‘There is one small point that Mrs. Vidal was attending to herself. I would be glad of the opportunity to get it settled.’
‘If you will come with me.’
As we walked along the corridor, she said, ‘Please don’t stay long. She should be resting.’
‘It’ll take a very few minutes.’
She paused at the door at the far end of the passage, tapped, opened the door and stood aside for me to enter.
‘Mr. Burden,’ she said and left, closing the door quietly after her.
Val lay in the big double bed. The shades were drawn against the evening sun. The room was cool and luxuriously furnished.
I was shocked to see how white she was: her dark eyes pools of fear and anxiety.
She held out her hand to me. I went to her, longing to take her in my arms. Her hand felt dry and cold.
‘How are you my darling?’ I asked, keeping my voice low.
‘I’m so glad you have come.’ She motioned me to sit on the bed. She kept hold of my hand. ‘What happened? I remember being at my desk and then finding myself in bed. What happened?’
So Dyer hadn’t lied to me. He had said she remembered nothing when she came out of the trance. Should I tell her?
Looking at her, fearful white and feeling her trembling. I decided not to.
‘I don’t know, Val. I wasn’t looking at you. I heard you fall. You must have fainted.’
‘No! I’ve never fainted in my life!’ Her grip on my hand tightened. ‘It has happened to me before. I have been reading in the living room, then suddenly I find myself in bed.’ She shivered. ‘I checked the time. There was a blank space of over an hour! It has happened eight times!’ She looked at me. The fear in her eyes chilled me. ‘He is responsible! I know he is!’
I was now convinced that he was. I now believed everything she had told me. This wasn’t hysteria. I was sure she was under the influence of this man.
‘I’m going to do everything I can to help you,’ I said. ‘You’re no longer alone, Val. You have me.’
She pressed her hands to her head in a gesture of despair.
‘There is nothing you can do. He has won the battle!’
‘There is something I can do and I’m going to do it!’
She looked up at me, her expression made my heart contract.
‘Forget me Clay. How are you getting on? Have you replaced me already?’
‘I have a girl who is doing the typing. I had to get her. It is the only way I can stay close to you.’
‘Is she as efficient as I used to be?’ She bit back a sob. ‘I’m no longer efficient, no longer good for anything . . . he has destroyed me.’
I heard footsteps. Hurriedly I stood up and moved away from the bed. A tap came on the door and Mrs. Clements came in.
‘It is time for Mrs. Vidal’s tranquilliser, Mr. Burden.’
‘I’m just going.’ To Val, I said, ‘There is nothing to worry about now, Mrs. Vidal. I’ll take care of it.’
‘Thank you.’
As I walked down the corridor and down the stairs, the picture of her despair tormented me.
‘Trust me, trust me,’ I kept saying to myself. ‘Val, darling, somehow I will help you.’
It took me only ten minutes to reach the Public Library.
The time now was 19:13. The librarian smiled at me as I approached.
‘Hello, Mr. Burden. Are you still interested in hypnotism?’
‘You have a good memory.’ I paused in front of her desk.
‘It’s not bad. Won’t you sit down?’
I glanced around the big library as I sat down. There were only a few students at the reading desks.
‘Am I right in thinking there is a book called Trilby . . . an old classic?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘There are two books so called. One written in 1833 by Charles Nodler. The other by George du Maurier in 1895. I would imagine it is du Maurier’s book that you are interested in. It has to do with mesmerism.’
I stared at her, startled.
‘Your memory is fantastic!’
She laughed.
‘Not fantastic. I had an inquiry for the book a couple of weeks ago. I looked it up. You are having the benefit of my research.’
‘Have you a copy?’
‘Gracious no, Mr. Burden. We do have some of the English classics such as Dickens and Scott, but not du Maurier who is never asked for these days.’
‘And yet you have two inquiries within two weeks?’
‘That is true. A coincidence. I doubt if I could get a copy now unless I tried in England.’
I was disappointed.
‘Did you read it?’ I asked.
‘I have read most of the English classics, Mr. Burden.’
‘I believe a character called Svengali appears in the book?’
‘Indeed, yes. He played a
n important role in the plot. I think it is fair to say that it was because of this character the book became quite a sensation.’
‘In what way? Could you give me an idea of the plot?’
‘Very briefly, Svengali, a Hungarian musician, meets a young girl. Trilby, who is struggling to make a living. She is represented as being remarkably beautiful with a perfect figure and, if I remember rightly, an angelic disposition. Svengali is a hypnotist. Under his hypnotic influence, he teaches Trilby to sing. She has no voice nor technique, but so powerful is his influence that she becomes, overnight, the finest singer that ever lived. Royalty, Emperors and dukes flock to hear her and Svengali becomes immensely rich. Then, one night, when she was singing in London before a distinguished audience, Svengali, sitting in a stage box dies of a heart attack. Without his hypnotic influence Trilby loses her voice and eventually dies of starvation. That is the story, Mr. Burden.’ She smiled. ‘It is melodrama, of course, but enormously popular at the time. I doubt if you would have the patience to read the book itself. It is over long for modern tastes.’
I had listened to what she had told me with intense interest.
‘Would it be impertinent to ask who the other inquirer was?’
‘I can’t tell you. I have never seen her before. She was very elegantly dressed and quite beautiful dark with large blue eyes. I was a little worried about her. She seemed so tense and anxious.’
Val!
‘Well, thank you.’ I said and got to my feet. ‘I am most grateful.’
As I walked back to my car, I looked at my watch. The time was 19.45. There was no point returning home and then driving to West Palm Beach. I still had some thinking to do. I got in my car and drove to a nearby Howard Johnson restaurant. Finding a corner table away from the noisy tourists, I ordered a club sandwich, then shut myself in a telephone booth. I called Rhoda.
‘Honey, I’m going to be late.’ I said when she came on the line. ‘I won’t be back until ten. Don’t wait supper.’
‘Is this going to happen every night?’ Rhoda demanded crossly.
‘I hope not. How have things been with you?’
1975 - Believe This You'll Believe Anything Page 11