‘The usual. Are you still mad at me?’
‘I told you to forget it. I’ve forgotten it.’ My mind was miles away from this flat conversation.
‘Well at least I apologised. I think you could apologise too. My face still hurts.’
‘I apologise.’
A pause, then she said, ‘Well, I’ll go down and get something to eat. I’m hungry.’
‘Yes, do that. See you, honey,’ and I hung up.
What a conversation! I thought as I made my way back to my table.
The club sandwich was waiting for me. While I ate, I thought of what I was going to say to Dr. Rappach.
* * *
West Street, West Palm Beach was on the fringe of the Harlem quarter. It was a long, narrow street lined on either side by dilapidated clapboard bungalows with tiny weed choked gardens, protected by rotting wooden fences.
Puerto Ricans, Spaniards and a few black families sat on verandas or on the kerb talking, playing cards, dozing. Some of the women nursed babies.
As I drove down the street, looking for No. 1141, I was aware of curious eyes, hostile eyes and indifferent eyes watching me.
I found the bungalow at the far end of the street. For a long moment I remained in the car, staring at the wooden plaque on which the number was painted, unable to believe that this was the residence of Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist.
The building was secured by rusty cables against hurricanes.
There was a water tank on a brick foundation with a leaky pipe leading into the bungalow. The clapboard had once been white but was now a dirty grey. The path, through a tangle of weeds that led to the front door was littered with scraps of paper and fruit peel blown in from the street. Dirty net curtains screened the dusty windows. One wooden shutter sagged on a broken hinge.
Could this possibly be the home of Dr. Rappach?
Leaving the car, I eased open the wooden gate, walked up the path, up three steps and on to the stoop that creaked under my weight. The front door had long lost its paint.
Three deep slits in the wood would let in the wind and the rain. There was no bell, no knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles. As I stood in the humid heat, I was aware that I was being stared at. I glanced over my shoulder. The bungalows opposite all had verandas on which sat an assortment of young, elderly and old black people. They were like statues carved out of ebony, motionless with curiosity.
The door opened and a man stood before me: tall, lean with a mane of white hair, coarse Negro features, a white pitted leathery skin. He was old. At a guess eighty-five or six.
He held himself very upright as if to challenge his age. As I looked at him, I became aware of the compelling power in his piercing black eyes.
‘Mr. Fellows?’ I recognised the thick, deep voice.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You are Dr. Rappach?’
‘Yes. Come in. I see my children out there are wondering who you are. They have little to live for except to be curious.’
He led me into a dusty, untidy room with a desk, a chair behind the desk, a lot of books, a settee and a wooden kitchen chair facing the desk.
‘This, Mr. Fellows, is my consulting room,’ he said, moving around the desk. ‘Take the settee. I won’t ask you to use the hard chair. That is for my patients.’ He sat down behind the desk and put his old, blue veined hands on the desktop while he surveyed me.
Feeling slightly bewildered, I sat down on the settee that creaked and I had to shift as a broken spring dug into me.
Could this old man. half white, half black, living in this poverty possibly be a friend of the elegant Vernon Dyer?
Could he possibly be a neurologist?
‘I see you are puzzled Mr. Fellows. That is understandable.
Let me explain,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t live in these conditions my children wouldn’t come to me. By coming to me they imagine they are doing me a favour. As they need my help it is a satisfactory arrangement. I charge them 25 cents a visit.’
He smiled, showing his big yellow teeth. ‘I have retired from active practice. At one time I had my own clinic. Now I am old, now I have enough money to take care of my modest needs. I live in this pigsty to take care of the many sick and troubled people who live around me. It is not entirely selfless. I regard it as my insurance for an afterlife.’
I relaxed.
‘All honour to you, doctor,’ I said. ‘My congratulations.’
‘That is something I don’t need.’ He looked at the cheap watch on his thin wrist. ‘I can give you twenty minutes, Mr. Tellows. What can I do for you?’
While at the restaurant I had prepared my story. I was confident he would accept it.
‘As I explained over the telephone, I am developing a plot for a novel,’ I said. ‘The situation is this: a man, call him Dokes, has hypnotic powers. He works in nightclubs. A girl, call her Mary, comes with a party to the nightclub for an evening of fun. Urged on by her friends, she allows herself to be hypnotised. She does the usual silly things a hypnotist entertainer makes his subject do. Dokes is a sensualist. The girl attracts him physically and he is determined to seduce her. I won’t bother you with the buildup Doctor. It is enough to say Dokes finds out where Mary lives, breaks into her apartment and because he has already hypnotised her, he has only to snap his fingers to put her in a trance. While in this trance, he rapes her. On waking the following morning, she has no recollection of what has happened. From then on, when in the mood, Dokes visits and rapes her. That is part of my plot. Before I develop it, I want to know if it is feasible.’
The old black eyes regarded me.
‘If I may say so, Mr. Fellows, your plot is not entirely original. The situation as you describe it actually happened in the eighteenth century to a French countess who was seduced under hypnotism by a pupil of Cagliostro, a famous hypnotist.’
I felt the blood leave my face.
‘So it really could happen?’
‘Yes, it could happen.’
This was something I couldn’t bear to accept.
‘But I understand Doctor, from what I have read that no one when under hypnotic influence can be made to do anything repugnant to them. If this is correct, then surely no woman can be raped under hypnotic influence?’
‘In most cases what you say is correct, Mr. Fellows, but not in every case. Much depends on the power of the hypnotist and on his subject. Some subjects have much stronger wills to resist than others. It has been said that Rasputin had the power to seduce. Cagliostro certainly had.’
I was now feeling so bad, I wanted to terminate this interview as quickly as I could.
‘One other question. If she left the town would it be possible for Dokes to retain his influence over her? Does distance matter?’
‘That would depend on his power. If it was considerable, then she could even leave the country and he could still keep hypnotic contact with her.’
‘Is that a scientific fact?’
He moved impatiently.
‘All the facts I am giving you, Mr. Fellows, are scientific facts. I have a number of patients who have moved from this district and now live quite some distance away. I still keep in contact with them. They will write or telephone and I can ease their troubles by my hypnotic influence.’
Everything he had told me so far confirmed what Val had said. A feeling of despair was laying hold on me.
‘How can Mary break away from Dokes’s influence? It is important for her to do so to tie up my plot.’
‘Realistically, Mr. Fellows, that is not possible. You have created a situation and you are stuck with it. Hypnotism in the hands of amateurs is extremely dangerous. Unless Dokes himself releases her or unless he dies, your heroine will remain in his power indefinitely.’
Grasping at straws, I asked, ‘Suppose she went to someone like you Doctor? Couldn’t this expert counteract Dokes’s influence?’
He shook his head.
‘I am afraid not, nor should he attempt to do so. I certainly would
n’t. We have assumed, to make your plot realistic, that Dokes is no ordinary hypnotist. It then follows that a counterinfluence from another hypnotist would create such a violent struggle in the subject’s mind that she would, without doubt, suffer very serious mental damage.’
I took out my handkerchief and wiped my sweating hands.
‘So the only solution would be for someone to persuade Dokes to release her?’
‘That or a timely heart attack. There is an old classic Trilby. . .’
‘I know it. Svengali died of a heart attack and Trilby could no longer sing.’
‘Exactly Mr. Fellows!’
‘I wouldn’t want to use the same solution in my book.’
He lifted his old shoulders and again looked at his watch.
‘Well, if he couldn’t be persuaded to release her, then he would have to die. He could meet with an accident. I am sure you are inventive enough to dispose of Dokes, Mr. Fellows, without any suggestions from me.’ He smiled. ‘If it were a thriller you are writing, she could, of course, murder him couldn’t she?’
Seven
Well now, Dr. Rappach, let us imagine we are continuing our conversation although I have already paid you a fifty-dollar fee, shaken your hand and driven away from the curious eyes of your children. I am parked on a lonely stretch of beach with only the palm trees to listen to our conversation.
‘First, let me thank you for your valuable time Dr. Rappach. I hope you don’t feel that you could have been more usefully employed than listening to the plot of my novel. You told me you charge your patients a quarter. Well, at least, my fifty dollars represents quite a number of patients. I do assure you, you gave me value for money.
‘You have confirmed what I was reluctant to accept: that there is only one solution to save Val. You said it. Val said it herself.
‘She said: As long as my life lasts, as long as his life lasts, I shall be his slave.
‘You, Doctor, said the same thing only in different words: Unless Dokes himself releases her or unless he dies, your heroine will remain in his power indefinitely.
‘So I am now convinced that only Vidal’s death will release her. It is as simple and as complicated as that. Complicated because to look at him, you couldn’t imagine him dying for many years to come. He is a man in his prime, bursting with energy, a non-smoker, a non-drinker: a man who takes care of himself.
‘And yet his death is the only solution if Val is to be freed of his influence.
‘You said. Doctor, If it were a thriller you are writing, she could, of course, murder him, couldn’t she?’
The hot wind blew through the open car window and yet I felt cold.
‘It is a valuable suggestion. Doctor, but not the right one . . .nearly right, but not quite. It is valuable because I hadn’t thought of murder to solve this problem. To prove to you that your suggestion that Val should murder him is wrong, I have to tell you that she means more to me than life itself. This sounds dramatic, doesn’t it? But it is a fact. I have never ceased to love Val from the moment I met her, six years ago. Murder means risk. I would never allow Val to be exposed to any risk if I could help it. But all the same your suggestion is valuable. I would accept the risk. Now you ask if I feel capable of murdering Vidal. Before I can answer that question, let us first take a look at Vidal. I don’t believe in devils, but if devils do exist as Val says they do and she has more experience of that kind of thing than I have then Vidal could be a devil. A man who can rape a woman under the influence of hypnotic power, who will destroy her confidence in herself and who will reduce her to a despairing, frightened cipher such as she had become, must be devilish. You say there are many people like him and it is the business of the police and the courts of law to deal with them. Yes, but you haven’t suggested that I should go to the police. You know as well as I do the police would dismiss my story as the ravings of just another nutter, envious of a millionaire tycoon.
‘You say I haven’t yet answered your question: do I feel capable of murdering Vidal? Frankly, as I sit here in the dark of my car under the palm trees that are swaying and creaking In the rising wind, with the lights of Paradise City distant across the causeway, the thought of killing Vidal doesn’t make me flinch. It doesn’t make me flinch so long as the thought remains a thought. I am now convinced that Vidal’s death is not only the one possible solution, but the right one. By murdering him, Val and I could pick up the threads that he snapped six years ago. We could get married and live happily ever after. I am already married? Yes, but it is no real marriage. Even Rhoda would agree about that. If Rhoda would be willing to divorce me and Vidal dies, then the dream I have lived for over six years would finally come about. You think I would have Vidal’s death on my conscience for the rest of my days? I wonder. You could be right, of course, but maybe I could convince myself that the end does justify the means and it would not worry my conscience. You again press the question: am I capable of committing murder? There you have a point. There are some people who have no compunction about taking life. My father was like that. He was a small time farmer and not a day passed without him coming from the fields carrying some dead animal: a rabbit, a hare, a badger or a fox. He was a remarkable shot. No pheasant, pigeon nor wild duck had a chance against his skill. He wanted to teach me to shoot but killing made me sick to my stomach. My father despised me for refusing to kill and I despised him for killing. So coming back to your question as to whether I feel capable of killing Vidal the answer is that I don’t know. I can kill him in my mind, I can try to make a plan to kill him so Val and I would never be suspected and if by killing him I could restore her to her old wonderful self of six years ago then I think I could even live with my conscience. But when the time comes, I admit it would be a toss-up whether I could do it. I do know I could never sneak up on him and kill him in cold blood. It would depend on the circumstances. I think I might do it if I were provoked.’
Carried by the wind a warm drop of rain came in through the open car window and splashed on my hand. My mind jerked back to reality. The wind was now roaring through the palm trees and the sea was turbulent. Heavy, black clouds began to blot out the moon. A streak of lightning split the sky followed by a deafening clap of thunder. Down came the rain: a steel curtain of wet violence.
I hurriedly wound up the window, set the windscreen wipers in motion, started the engine and flicked on the air conditioner.
For the moment, the period of thinking was over. There was time. Vidal wouldn’t return for another six days.
I headed for home.
* * *
For the next two days, it rained incessantly.
When Rhoda was at home she was either glued to a magazine or to the goggle box. She informed me that the weather service reported that there was a hurricane building up off the West Indies. This was the cause of the spell of bad weather. It was too early yet to say if the hurricane would be heading our way.
My mind was far too occupied to bother about hurricanes.
During those two days I had no news of Val. I was afraid to ask Dyer, still more afraid to seek out Mrs. Clements and ask her for news. I was alarmed to see from my office window Dr. Fontane arrive and depart twice a day. Surely these twice daily visits must mean that Val was very ill. It tormented me that I dare not ask nor show interest. I would have given anything to have gone to her room to find out what was happening, but the risk was too great.
At night, with Rhoda asleep at my side, I thought of Vidal.
With the wind and the rain slamming against the window, I thought myself closer and closer to the acceptance of murder.
‘Probably you won’t have the guts to kill him,’ I told myself, ‘but if you manage to screw up enough guts, how do you plan to do it? What kind of a jerk would you be if suddenly you had the opportunity and were without the means?’
Vidal presented a problem. Physically, he was at least three times as powerful as I was. By his movements. I was sure his reflexes were quicker than mine. The only
safe and sure way to kill him was to shoot him. But I knew nothing about guns. I had had my chance to learn when I was a kid that I hadn’t taken it. All the same it would have to be done with a gun. If I got close enough to him. I should be able to kill him. So I decided to kill him - if I was going to kill him with a gun.
But where to get the gun? I would have to be careful. The gun must not be traced to me. The safest place was a pawnshop. From what I had read you could buy a gun from a pawn broker, no questions asked. There must be pawnshops in West Palm Beach. If I could leave my desk for a couple of hours, I would go there and see if I could buy a gun.
I woke to find the sun shining, although the wind was still brisk. While Rhoda and I had breakfast, she talked about the hurricane.
‘I’m scared it’ll head this way,’ she said. ‘I was talking to a client yesterday and she said it is really terrible when a hurricane arrives. She remembers the last one, three years ago. The damage was awful and ten people were drowned, just imagine!’
I finished my coffee.
‘It hasn’t yet arrived.’ I got to my feet. ‘I must be moving.’
‘It’s serious Clay.’ Her eyes were round with worry. She loved to dramatise any situation, and of course, a thing like a hurricane was just her meat. ‘We could be marooned! We could even run short of food!’
‘Well, see you, honey.’ I was only half listening to what she was saying. ‘If I’m going to be late back I’ll call you.’
‘You’re too busy thinking about your stinking work to bother about me!’ she exclaimed, suddenly angry. ‘You don’t give a damn if I’m worried or not!’
‘I too have my problems, Rhoda,’ I said and picking up my briefcase, I left her.
As I was parking my car Dyer drove up in his E-type Jaguar.
‘Hello, old boy,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you for a couple of days. Mavis will have sorted the mail by now. Want to see if there’s anything for you?’
‘Sure. What’s this about a hurricane? My wife is getting worked up about it.’
1975 - Believe This You'll Believe Anything Page 12