7 Steps to Midnight

by Richard Matheson

  “Well—” he said.

  He started, gasping, as a hand clamped hard on his right shoulder. Jerking around, both hands raised to defend himself, he saw a tall man glaring at him, an expression of furious agitation on his face.

  “For God’s sake!” the man said, sounding breathless. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  2

  “What—?” Chris began.

  He winced as the man grabbed his arm and started forcing him along the sidewalk. “Come on,” the man said irritably. “We can’t just stand here.” He spoke with a French accent.

  Chris tried to pull free. “What are you—?”

  “Not now,” the man interrupted. “Just move. Move.” Chris felt a chill across his back as the man looked around, head snapping from side to side, his expression one of apprehension.

  “Who are you?” Chris demanded.

  “Down these steps. Vite, vite.” The man’s fingers gouged at Chris’s arm as they started down the steps. Below, Chris saw an open area crowded with artists and tourists, some having sketches made of themselves, others purchasing silhouettes scissored from black paper.

  He tried to pull away. “You’re hurting me,” he snapped.

  “They will hurt you far more if they get their hands on you,” the man said curtly. Chris shuddered at his words. They?

  He said no more as the man hurried him across the area; a sign identified it as the Place du Tertre. Chris stumbled on the cobblestone paving and the man pulled him upright again. It made Chris grimace involuntarily to see the way the man kept looking around as though searching for pursuers.

  Abruptly, then, he turned Chris into a café, past the outside tables. Leading Chris to the back of the inside room, he had him sit in a booth. He pointed at a side door. “Remember that,” he said.

  He slid in across from Chris and looked at him as though he couldn’t understand what was wrong with him. “I’d like to know what in the hell you are doing here,” he said. “If I hadn’t caught sight of you leaving the hotel in that taxi, you’d be here alone.”

  Chris swallowed nervously. “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice thin.

  “This is what I am asking you,” the man said sharply.

  Chris stared at the man, afraid to trust him. The man was pale with a thin, black mustache, his hair dark and lank. He wore a black leather jacket and a red shirt.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “I—” Chris broke off as the waiter approached them.

  “Messieurs?”

  “Uh… Pastis pour moi, s’il vous plaît,” the man told him. He looked at Chris.

  “What’s that?” Chris asked.

  “Licorice. Like Ouzo,” the man told him. He looked irritated at Chris’s lack of decision. “Citronnade,” he said quickly, gesturing toward Chris.

  “Oui. Un moment.” The waiter turned away.

  Chris started to speak but the man cut him off. “Why did you leave the hotel?” he asked. “You were supposed to stay there.”

  Chris tightened angrily. “How the hell was I supposed to know what to do?” he demanded. He now believed that the man was on his side, though.

  “But why Montmartre?” asked the man.

  “I was telephoned.”

  “By whom?”

  “Uh… I don’t know if you know her. Her name is Alexsandra Claudius.”

  “Who is she?” the man asked.

  “She helped me in London,” Chris said.

  “Well, I wouldn’t know her, then,” the man replied. “But she would not have told you to go to Montmartre.”

  “I heard her voice.”

  “You haven’t heard of voice changers?” the man asked irritably.

  “Oh, my God,” Chris murmured. He had heard about them; read about them anyway: special integrated circuits on a telephone that could disguise a voice, even change the sound of a man’s voice to that of a woman.

  “I see that you know what I am talking about,” the man observed.

  “Yes, I do. But… why?”

  “To lure you here, of course,” the man replied, leaning to his left to look toward the front of the café. “I think we are safe,” he said, leaning back. “Better we stay inside for a while though.”

  “You… don’t know who this woman is,” Chris persisted.

  “No—but that is no surprise,” the man said. “If your relationship with her was in London…” He gestured vaguely.

  “Who called me, then?” Chris asked.

  “The less you know, the better,” the man replied.

  “Oh… God,” Chris muttered. Alexsandra had said the same thing. He was getting damn sick of all this secrecy.

  The waiter brought their drinks and set them down. Chris’s was a glass with an inch of what looked like lemon juice, and a carafe of water. “Put some sugar in it,” the man told him. “It will be less sour.”

  Yeah, sure, that’s what I’m really worried about right now, Chris thought, sour lemonade. Abruptly—irrationally, it seemed—he wondered if he had taken his hypertension medication that day. He had, hadn’t he? In London? He felt a wave of mental dizziness overwhelm him. London this morning, Paris this afternoon. And three short days ago, Arizona.

  “We’ll have to put you in a different hotel now,” the man said, sounding put-upon. “Obviously, they found out where you were.”

  “Who the hell is ‘they’?” Chris asked in a low, resentful voice.

  The man only shook his head.

  “All right, then, if they knew I was in the hotel, why didn’t they just come and get me there?”

  “Because they knew we were watching you,” the man said as though answering the foolish question of a child.

  “Will you please tell me what’s going on?” Chris asked almost pleadingly. “I keep getting shunted from place to place and never—”

  The man raised a hand to silence Chris. “I only know,” he said, “that I was assigned to keep an eye on you while you were at the Penta Hotel.”

  “Of course,” Chris responded. You were only following orders. He poured some water into the lemon juice and took a sip, face curling up at the taste. “Jesus,” he mumbled.

  “A little sugar,” suggested the man.

  Chris lifted the teaspoon off the table and picked up a little sugar with it. “Can you tell me if I’m to stay in Paris?” he asked.

  He thought at first that his question had, for some inexplicable reason, startled the man. Then, suddenly, he realized that the man was looking past him, features stiffening. Chris twisted around, breath catching as he saw two men approaching the booth, their faces dark, their clothes Middle Eastern.

  “Get out of here,” the man said quickly. “Use the side door.”

  Before Chris could respond, the man was pushing to his feet. Chris saw the two strange men break into a run. Abruptly, the man was facing them. To Chris’s startlement, he saw that his carafe of water was in the man’s right hand; with a blur of movement, the man was swinging it at one of the men.

  The Middle Easterner tried to avoid the blow but only managed to dodge enough to have the bottle shatter on the area between his shoulder and neck; blood sprang from the slash in crimson drops. The Middle Easterner’s legs buckled and he stumbled to one side, crashing into a table and knocking it over. The man and woman who had been sitting there sprang back in their chairs, the woman losing balance and falling back against another table with a cry of fright. Dishes, cups and glasses shattered noisily.

  Chris’s gaze leaped to the second Middle Eastern man. He blinked, as—magically, it seemed—a long, thin knife blade shot up from the man’s right hand. The tall man leaped at him and grabbed at his right wrist, their shoes squeaking on the tile floor as they wrestled. The tall man glanced at Chris, his face distorted. “Go!” he shouted.

  Catching his breath, Chris slid from the booth and lunged for the side door. As he did, he looked aside and made a sound of horror as he saw the Middle Easterner driving his knife blade stra
ight into the tall man’s chest. His face a mask of dread, Chris yanked open the side door and ran outside; as he did, he heard another crash of dishes in the café, people screaming.

  Heart pounding, he turned left and started racing along a narrow alley, almost knocking down an old man trudging toward him. “Dieu!” The old man shrank aside, bumping hard against the brick wall of a building, a stunned expression on his face. Chris rushed by him, heard the old man shouting after him. “Connard!”

  He reached an intersection in the alley, slowing down enough to turn right. He glanced back, tensing, frightened, as he saw the Middle Eastern man pursuing him, lips drawn back from crooked teeth, giving him a fierce and animal-like appearance. God! Chris thought. The adventure wasn’t stimulating now. He was terrified.

  The bottoms of his shoes made tiny singing noises on the paving as he ran, already panting for breath. He looked ahead in desperation, with no idea what to do. If he just kept running, the man would surely overtake him. To die in a Paris alley with a knife thrust in his back? It seemed a nightmare beyond belief and yet there might be only seconds before it happened.

  “No,” he muttered, trying to pick up speed. But he was not in good condition; his job had only required sitting and thinking. Inadequate breath was burning in his lungs, a stitch beginning to stab at his left side. He wouldn’t be able to run much longer.

  He raked around another corner and, on impulse, dashed into a small café, almost knocking down a waiter carrying a tray of glasses. “Aiee! Fais gaffe!” the waiter snarled at him. Chris kept running, reaching a narrow corridor. Should he lock himself inside the men’s room, climb out a window? What if there was no window? He kept running and slammed through two swinging, shuttered doors into the kitchen. He’d go out the back door, try to—

  He staggered to a halt, with a stricken expression. There was no back door.

  He was trapped.

  It isn’t true. His mind rejected what was happening. Such things did not take place. His life in total jeopardy? The probability of violent death? He was only thirty-seven years old, for Christ’s sake!

  Chris looked back across the swinging doors and saw the Middle Eastern man come striding into the café; there was no sign of the knife now. Chris stepped back against the wall, heart jolting. My God, what do I do? he thought. His gaze jumped around and, seeing a knife rack on the wall, he stepped over to it, pulling out a long carving knife. You’re insane! he heard his mind protest. You don’t know how to defend yourself with a knife!

  “Hey! Vas-y! Bouge ton cul!” a voice snapped behind him.

  He whirled and saw a florid heavyset man in white cook’s garb glaring at him. Chris stared at him blankly, then winced as the cook advanced on him. He glanced aside to see if the Middle Easterner was coming in. He wasn’t.

  The cook pulled the knife from Chris’s hand, returned it to its rack and gestured toward the corridor. “Qu’est-ce que tu fous?” he growled.

  “Pardon,” Chris murmured, looking toward the swinging doors again. The Middle Easterner was still not coming in; what did that mean?

  He edged to the doors and peered across the one on his left. He felt his stomach muscles jerking spasmodically. The man was sitting at a table, waiting for him. Apparently, he was not inclined to face a repetition of what had happened in the other café.

  The other café, Chris thought, grimacing in pain. Was the tall man lying dead there, his blood running over the tile floor? Where were the police whistles, the pursuit?

  He jerked around with a hiss as the cook grabbed him by the shoulder. He didn’t really hear what the cook said, he was so agitated, but clearly the man wanted him out of his kitchen.

  “S’il vous plaît,” he muttered.

  “S’il vous plaît, mon cul,” the cook responded in a surly voice. He held open one of the swinging doors. “Vas-y!”

  Chris could only gape at him. I can’t go out there, he thought. I’ll be killed. He shuddered. He had to do something to save himself. Come on! he thought. You’re supposed to have a brain! Use it!

  The cook grabbed him by the arm and, suddenly, Chris yanked free, face distorting as he snarled, “Va te faire foutre!”

  Apparently, he had remembered correctly from the book on French profanity he’d once read because the cook looked startled and intimidated, backing off. Now don’t retreat, Chris ordered himself. He made a hostile gesture with his right hand as though waving back the cook. The heavy, red-faced man drew back several steps. Obviously, he was a bully with no real confidence, Chris decided.

  He glanced across the swinging door again. Goddamn the man! he thought in sudden fury. He was actually having a drink while waiting for Chris to come out of the kitchen, not even looking in that direction.

  Chris turned back. Think! he screamed at his mind.

  Night of the Ninja, the memory sprang up.

  Would it work here?

  He drew in shuddering breath. What other choice did he have? It was that or death.

  He looked around quickly and saw a dark raincoat and a hat hanging on a wall peg. With an abrupt movement, he pulled them down.

  The cook started forward, and Chris twisted around, forcing a glare to his face. “On ne bouge plus,” he said in a low, menacing voice. The cook backed off again, looked shocked.

  Chris glanced across the swinging doors again. The Middle Easterner was gazing out at the street. Bastard, he thought.

  Moving quickly, he pushed through the swinging doors and, pulling open the door to the men’s washroom, stepped inside and locked the door behind him, heart jolting heavily again. What was this doing to his blood pressure? he wondered. What the hell difference does that make? he thought angrily. A knife blade in my heart will kill me a lot faster than hypertension.

  All right, all right, he told himself. Do it.

  Hastily, he pulled on the dark raincoat and hat. He’d have to move fast before the cook said something to the waiter and his hoped-for ploy was undone before it started.

  Thank God the man who owned the coat—the cook, the waiter?—was bigger than him. He buttoned it to the neck, then stopped and ran the fingers of his right hand over the wall behind the toilet. A health inspector would go crazy in this place, he thought as he rubbed oily grime on his face, looking into the small wall mirror.

  He had to rub the wall behind the toilet twice more before he had enough grime smeared onto his face to cover all of it. He then tore off pieces of toilet paper and stuffed them into his mouth, bulging out his cheeks. It had worked in the novel but would it work in real life? It seemed improbable to him.

  He looked at his reflection analytically. Well, he did look different, there was no doubt of that. He felt something in the pocket of the raincoat and pulled out a glasses case. Good, he thought. He slid the glasses free and put them on. That helped even more.

  He drew in a deep, bracing breath. Now or never, Barton, he thought.

  Opening the door, he stepped into the corridor, glancing toward the kitchen. The cook, thank God, was still there, looking across the swinging doors, an expression of fear on his face.

  Chris shuffled into the café, slumping over. Yes, he thought as the idea came to him. He started to act like a man beset by stomach gas. He belched loudly, kept moving, shoulders hunched, a look of discomfort on his face. The Middle Easterner glanced at him and turned away. My God, it’s working! Chris thought exultantly. He forced himself to belch again.

  Seconds later, he was walking casually along the street, leaving the café behind. For a few minutes, he felt sure that the man would realize he’d been tricked, that Chris had walked by him, ineptly disguised.

  Amazingly, it didn’t happen. Once, Chris even stopped and got down on one knee to retie a shoe, glancing back to see if the Middle Easterner was after him. He wasn’t. Where was the man from? he wondered as he stood to continue on. Egypt? Iran? Libya? He had no way of knowing.

  Unexpectedly, a laugh tore back his lips. By God, it had worked, he thought. Night o
f the Ninja, for Christ’s sake! Who would have believed it?!

  A few minutes later, he was able to hail a taxicab. At first, he didn’t know what to tell the driver. Then he realized that he had little choice. He had to go back to the Penta Hotel in hope that someone would pick him up there, take him to safety. At the very least, he had to pick up his bag and find safety himself.

  He slumped back against the seat and closed his eyes as reaction set in. Had he really done it? The memory seemed farfetched, unbelievable.

  Then gloom set in again. The pleasure of his escape had already faded. He was still in Paris, still caught in the web of what was happening to him.

  At any moment, he could be pounced on again.

  3

  At the last minute, Chris decided to tell the driver to let him off down the street from the hotel. Better to come walking up in this disguise, he thought. Inept as it was, it would call less attention to him if he entered the hotel on foot.

  He paid the driver and started walking down the block, hunching over again. It was dark now. Anyone watching for him should be thrown off a little more by the lack of visibility.

  No one even glanced at him as he entered the hotel. He walked, using the shuffle again, across the lobby and stood in front of the elevators. A cluster of Japanese tourists were standing there. When the elevator doors opened, they charged in before the occupants—also mostly Japanese tourists—could get out. Banzai, Chris thought as he shouldered himself in among them. He couldn’t resist working up a belch as the door slid shut. He pretended he didn’t see their looks of distaste.

  He stood in silence to the seventh floor, managing to raise another belch as he exited. “Pardon,” he said as though pardoning himself was the last thing in the world he had in mind.

  He walked to his room and listened at the door to hear if there were any sounds inside. When there was nothing, he turned the key in its lock and, bracing himself for a possible struggle, and shoved the door open so hard it banged against the wall.

  There was no one in the room that he could see. Leaving the door ajar, he edged forward and peered cautiously into the bathroom. It was empty.