The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  "But the showcase-"

  "Bother the showcase! It could have been done somehow; you didn't check that showcase yourself, and you know what newspapers are. And, for that matter, look what Thurston and Houdini could do with things like that, and let you examine the receptacles before and after. Maybe, too, it wasn't just a joke. Maybe somebody had a purpose putting it there, but why think that purpose had any connection with you? You're an egotist, that's what you are."

  Charlie sighed. "Yes, but- But you take the three things together, and-"

  "Why take them together? Look, this morning I saw a man slip on a banana peel and fall; this afternoon I had a slight toothache; this evening I got a telephone call from a girl I haven't seen in years. Now why should I take those three events and try to figure one common cause for all of them? One underlying motif for all three? I'd go nuts, if I tried."

  "Um," said Charlie. "Maybe you got something there. But-"

  Despite the "but-" he went home feeling cheerful, hopeful, and mellow. And he was going through with the wedding just as though nothing had happened. Apparently nothing, of importance, had happened. Pete was sensible.

  Charlie slept soundly that Saturday morning, and didn't awaken until almost noon.

  And Saturday nothing happened.

  IX

  Nothing, that is, unless one considered the matter of the missing golf ball as worthy of record. Charlie decided it wasn't; golf balls disappear all too often. In fact, for a dub golfer, it is only normal to lose at least one ball on eighteen holes.

  And it was in the rough, at that.

  He'd sliced his drive off the tee on the long fourteenth, and he'd seen it curve off the fairway, hit, bounce, and come to rest behind a big tree; with the tree directly between the ball and the green.

  And Charlie's "Damn!" had been loud and fervent, because up to that hole he had an excellent chance to break a hundred. Now he'd have to lose a stroke chipping the stymied ball back onto the fairway.

  He waited until Pete had hooked into the woods on the other side, and then shouldered his bag and walked toward the ball.

  It wasn't there.

  Behind the tree and at about the spot where he thought the ball had landed, there was a wreath of wilted flowers strung along a purple cord that showed through at intervals. Charlie picked it up to look under it, but the ball wasn't there.

  So, it must have rolled farther, and he looked but couldn't find it. Pete, meanwhile, had found his own hall and hit his recovery shot. He came across to help Charlie look and they waved the following foursome to play on through.

  "I thought it stopped right here," Charlie said, "but it must have rolled on. Well, if we don't find it by the time that foursome's off the green, I'll drop another. Say, how'd this thing get here?"

  He discovered he still had the wreath in his hand. Pete looked at it and shuddered. "Golly, what a color combination. Violet and red and green on a purple ribbon. It stinks." The thing did smell a bit, although Pete wasn't close enough to notice that and it wasn't what he meant.

  "Yeah, but what is it? How'd it get-"

  Pete grinned. "Looks like one of those things Hawaiians wear around their necks. Leis, don't they call them? Hey!"

  He caught the suddenly stricken look on Charlie's face and firmly took the thing out of Charlie's hand and threw it into the woods. "Now, son," he said, "don't go adding that damned thing to your string of coincidences. What's the difference who dropped it here or why? Come on, find your ball and let's get ready. The foursome's on the green already."

  They didn't find the ball.

  So Charlie dropped another. He got it out into the middle of the fairway with a niblick and then a screaming brassie shot straight down the middle put him on, ten feet from the pin. And he one-putted for a par five on the hole, even with the stroke penalty for a lost ball.

  And broke a hundred after all. True, back in the clubhouse while they were getting dressed, he said, "Listen, Pete, about that ball I lost on the fourteenth. Isn't it kind of funny that-"

  "Nuts," Pete grunted. "Didn't you ever lose a ball before? Sometimes you think you see where they land, and it's twenty or even forty feet off from where it really is. The perspective fools you."

  "Yeah, but-"

  There was that "but" again. It seemed to be the last word on everything that happened recently. Screwy things happen one after another and you can explain each one if you consider it alone, but--

  "Have a drink," Pete suggested, and handed over a bottle.

  Charlie did, and felt better. He had several. It didn't matter, because tonight Jane was going to a shower given by some girl friends and she wouldn't smell it on his breath.

  He said, "Pete, got any plans for tonight? Jane's busy and it's one of my last bachelor evenings-"

  Pete grinned. "You mean, what are we going to do or get drunk? O. K., count me in. Maybe we can get a couple more of the gang together. It's Saturday, and none of us has to work tomorrow."

  X

  And it was undoubtedly a good thing that none of them did have to work Sunday, for few of them would have been able to. It was a highly successful stag evening. Drinks at Tony's, and then a spot of howling until the manager of the alleys began to get huffy about people bowling balls that started down one alley, jumped the groove, and knocked down pins in the alley adjacent.

  And then they'd gone--

  Next morning Charlie tried to remember all the places they'd been and all the things they'd done, and decided he was glad he couldn't. For one thing, he had a confused recollection of having tried to start a fight with a Hawaiian guitar player who was wearing a lei, and that he had drunkenly accused the guitarist of stealing his golf ball. But the others had dragged him out of the place before the police got there.

  And somewhere around one o'clock they'd eaten, and Charlie had been so cussed that he'd insisted on trying four eateries before they found one which served duck.

  He was going to avenge his golf ball by eating duck. All in all, a very silly and successful spree. Undoubtedly worth a mild hangover.

  After all, a guy gets married only once. At least, a man who has a girl like Jane Pemberton in love with him gets married only once.

  Nothing out of the ordinary happened Sunday. He saw Jane and again had dinner with the Pembertons. And every time he looked at Jane, or touched her, Charlie had something the sensation of a green pilot making his first outside loop in a fast plane, but that was nothing out of the ordinary. The poor guy was in love.

  XI

  But on Monday--

  Monday was the day that really upset the apple cart. After five fifty-five o'clock Monday afternoon, Charlie knew it was hopeless.

  In the morning, he made arrangements with the minister who was to perform the ceremony, and in the afternoon he did a lot of last-minute shopping in the wardrobe line. He found it took him longer than he'd thought.

  At five-thirty he began to doubt if he was going to have time to call for the wedding ring. It had been bought and paid for, previously, but was still at the jewelers' being suitably engraved with initials.

  He was still on the other side of town at five-thirty, awaiting alterations on a suit, and he phoned Pete Johnson from the tailor's:

  "Say, Pete, can you do an errand for me?"

  "Sure, Charlie. What's up?"

  "I want to get the wedding ring before the store closes at six, so I won't have to come downtown at all tomorrow. It's right in the block with you; Scorwald & Benning's store. It's paid for; will you pick it up for me? I'll phone 'em to give it to you."

  "Glad to. Say, where are you? I'm eating downtown tonight; how's about putting the feed bag on with me?"

  "Sure, Pete. Listen, maybe I can get to the jewelers' in time; I'm just calling you to play safe. Tell you what; I'll meet you there. You be there at five minutes of six to be sure of getting the ring, and I'll get there at the same time if I can. If I can't, wait for me outside. I won't be later than six-fifteen at the latest."


  And Charlie hung up the receiver and found the tailor had the suit ready for him. He paid for it, then went outside and began to look around for a taxi.

  It took him ten minutes to find one, and still he knew he was going to get to the jewelry store in time. In fact, it wouldn't have been necessary for him to have phoned Pete. He'd get there easily by five fifty-five.

  And it was just a few seconds before that time when he stepped out of the cab, paid off the driver, and strode up to the entrance.

  It was just as his first foot crossed the threshold of the Scorwald & Benning store that he noticed the peculiar odor. He had taken one step farther before he recognized what it was, and then it was too late to do anything about it.

  It had him. Unconsciously, he'd taken a deep sniff of identification, and the stuff was so strong, so pure, that he didn't need a second. His lungs were filled with it.

  And the floor seemed to his distorted vision to be a mile away, but coming up slowly to meet him. Slowly, but getting there. He seemed to hang suspended in the air for a measurable time. Then, before he landed, everything was mercifully black and blank.

  XII

  "Ether."

  Charlie gawked at the white-uniformed doctor. "But how the d-devil could I have got a dose of ether?"

  Peter was there, too, looking down at him over the doctor's shoulder. Pete's face was white and tense. Even before the doctor shrugged, Pete was saying: "Listen, Charlie, Doc Palmer is on his way over here. I told 'em-"

  Charlie was sick at his stomach, very sick. The doctor who had said "Ether" wasn't there, and neither was Doc Palmer, but Pete now seemed to be arguing with a tall distinguished-looking gentleman who had a spade beard and eves like a chicken hawk.

  Pete was saying, 'Let the poor guy alone. Dammit, I've known him all his life. He doesn't need an alienist. Sure he said screwy things while he was under, but doesn't anybody talk silly under ether?"

  "But, my young friend"-and the tall man's voice was unctuous-"you quite misinterpret the hospital's motives in asking that I examine him. I wish to prove him sane. If possible. He may have had a legitimate reason for taking the ether. And also the affair of last week when he was here for the first time. Surely a normal man-"

  "But dammit, he DIDN'T TAKE that ether himself. I saw him coming in the doorway after he got out of the cab. He walked naturally, and he had his hands down at his sides. Then, all of a sudden, he just keeled over."

  "You suggest someone near him did it?"

  "There wasn't anybody near him."

  Charlie's eyes were closed but by the psychiatrist's tone of voice, he could tell that the man was smiling. "Then how, my young friend, do you suggest that he was anesthetized?"

  "Danunit, I don't know. I'm just saying he didn't-"

  "Pete!" Charlie recognized his own voice and found that his eyes were open again. "Tell him to go to hell. Tell him to certify me if he wants. Sure I'm crazy. Tell him about the worm and the duck. Take me to the booby hatch. Tell him-"

  "Ha." Again the voice with the spade beard. "You have had previous . . . ah ... delusions?"

  "Charlie, shut up! Doc, he's still under the influence of the ether; don't listen to him. It isn't fair to psych a guy when he doesn't know what he's talking about. For two cents, I'd-"

  "Fair? My friend, psychiatry is not a game. I assure you that I have this young man's interests at heart. Perhaps his . . . ah . . . aberration is curable, and I wish to-"

  Charlie sat up in bed. He yelled, "GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE I-"

  Things went black again.

  The tortuous darkness, thick and smoky and sickening. And he seemed to be creeping through a narrow tunnel toward a light. Then suddenly he knew that he was conscious again. But maybe there was somebody around who would talk to him and ask him questions if he opened his eyes, so he kept them tightly shut.

  He kept his eyes tightly shut, and thought.

  There must be an answer.

  There wasn't any answer.

  An angelic angleworm.

  Heat wave.

  Duck in a showcase of coins.

  Wilted wreath of ugly flowers.

  Ether in a doorway.

  Connect them; there must be a connection. It had to make sense. It had to MAKE SENSE!

  Least common denominator. Something that connects them, that welds them into a coherent series, something that you can understand, something that you can maybe do something about. Something you can fight.

  Worm.

  Heat.

  Duck.

  Wreath.

  Ether.

  Worm.

  Meat.

  Duck.

  Wreath.

  Ether.

  Worm, heat, duck, wreath, ether, worm, heat, duck, wreath

  They pounded through his head like beating on a tom-tom; they screamed at him out of the darkness, and gibbered.

  XIII

  He must have slept, if you could call it sleep.

  It was broad daylight again, and there was only a nurse in the room. He asked, "What--day is it?"

  "Wednesday afternoon, Mr. Wills. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  Wednesday afternoon. Wedding day.

  He wouldn't have to call it off now. Jane knew. Everybody knew. It had been called off for him. He'd been weak not to have done it himself, before--

  "There are people waiting to see you, Mr. Wills. Do you feel well enough to entertain visitors?"

  "I--Who?"

  "A-Miss Pemberton and her father. And a Mr. Johnson. Do you want to see them?"

  Well, did he?

  "Look," he said, "what exactly's wrong with me? I mean-"

  "You've suffered a severe shock. But you've slept quietly for the last twelve hours. Physically, you are quite all right. Even able to get up, if you feel you want to. But, of course, you mustn't leave."

  Of course he mustn't leave. They had him down as a candidate for the booby hatch. An excellent candidate. Young man most likely to succeed.

  Wednesday. Wedding day.

  Jane.

  He couldn't bear to see--

  "Listen," he said, "will you send in Mr. Pemberton, alone? I'd rather-"

  "Certainly. Anything else I can do for you?"

  Charlie shook his head sadly. He was feeling most horribly sorry for himself. Was there anything anybody could do for him?

  Mr. Pemberton held out his hand quietly. "Charles, I can't begin to tell you how sorry I am-"

  Charlie nodded. "Thanks. I . . . I guess you understand why I don't want to see Jane. I realize that ... that of course we can't-"

  Mr. Pemberton nodded. "Jane . . . uh . . . understands, Charles. She wants to see you, but realizes that it might make both of you feel worse, at least right now. And Charles, if there's anything any of us can do-"

  What was there anybody could do?

  Pull the wings off an angleworm?

  Take a duck out of a showcase?

  Find a missing golf hall?

  Pete came in after the Pembertons had gone away. A quieter and more subdued Pete than Charlie had ever seen.

  He said, "Charlie, do you feel up to talking this over?" Charlie sighed. "if it'd do any good, yes. I feel all right physically. But-"

  "Listen, you've got to keep your chin up. There's an answer somewhere. Listen, I was wrong. There is a connection, a tie-up between these screwy things that happened to you. There's got to be."

  "Sure," said Charlie, wearily. "What?"

  "That's what we've got to find out. First place, we'll have to outsmart the psychiatrists they'll sick on you. As soon as they think you're well enough to stand it. Now, let's look at it from their point of view so we'll know what to tell 'em. First-"

  "How much do they know?"

  "Well, you raved while you were unconscious, about the worm business and about a duck and a golf ball, but you can pass that off as ordinary raving. Talking in your sleep. Dreaming. Just deny knowing anything about them, or anything connected with any of them. Sure, the duck
business was in the newspapers, but it wasn't a big story and your name wasn't in it. So they'll never tie that up. If they do, deny it. Now that leaves the two times you keeled over and were brought here unconscious."

  Charlie nodded. "And what do they make of them?"

  "They're puzzled. The first one they can't make anything much of. They're inclined to leave it lay. The second one--Well, they insist that you must, somehow, have given yourself that ether."

  "But why? Why would anybody give himself ether?"

  "No sane man would. That's just it; they doubt your sanity because they think you did. If you can convince then you're sane, then- Look, you got to buck up. They are classifying your attitude as acute melancholia, and that sort of borders on maniac depressive. See? You got to act cheerful."

  "Cheerful? When I was to be married at two o'clock today? By the way, what time is it now?"

  Pete glanced at his wrist watch and said, "Uh ... never mind that. Sure, if they ask why you feel lousy mentally, tell them-"

  "Dammit, Peter, I wish I was crazy. At least, being crazy makes sense. And if this stuff keeps up, I will go--

  "Don't talk like that. You got to fight."

  "Yeah," said Charlie, listlessly. "Fight what?"

  There was a low rap on the door and the nurse looked into the room. "Your time is up, Mr. Johnson. You'll have to leave."

  XIV

  Inaction, and the futility of circling thought-patterns that get nowhere. Finally, he had to do something or go mad.

  Get dressed? He called for his clothes and got them, except that he was given slippers instead of his shoes. Anyway, getting dressed took time.

  And sitting in a chair was a change from lying in bed. And then walking up and down was a change from sitting in a chair.

  "What time is it?"

  "Seven o'clock, Mr. Wills."