Nightmare Alley

by William Lindsay Gresham

  “One glass for you, Cahill. We’re working. If you load up on that stuff you’ll be calling the old girl ‘dearie.’ ”

  “Aw, Stan.”

  He poured, put a few drops in his own glass, then carried the bottle into the bathroom and emptied the rest, bubbling gaily, down the drain of the washbowl.

  From the rear Mrs. Bradburn Harrington looked like a little girl, but, Christ, what a crow when you see her head-on, Stan thought. She tapped a brass gong until the babble died. “Now I have a real treat for us. Mr. Stanton, whom I’m sure many of us have seen in the theater, will show us some wonderful things. I don’t know just what they’re going to do so I’ll let Mr. Stanton tell you all about it himself.”

  Stan stood in the hall beside Molly. He took a deep breath and smoothed down his hair with both hands. The butler suddenly appeared beside him, holding a silver plate. On it was a slip of paper, folded. “Mis’ Harrington tell me to give you this, sir.”

  Stan took it, unfolded it deftly with one hand, and read it at a single glance. He crushed it and swept it into his pocket, his face darkening. Molly whispered, “What’s the matter, hon? What’s happened?”

  “Nothing!” he spat out savagely. “It’s in the bag.”

  From the drawing room Mrs. Harrington’s voice continued, “… and it will all be very exciting, I’m sure. May I present Mr. Stanton.”

  Stan drew a breath and walked in. He bowed to the hostess, again to the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, what we are about to do may have many explanations. I shall offer none. In the realm of the human mind science has hardly scratched the surface. Most of its mysteries lie hidden from us yet. But down through the years certain people have had unusual gifts. I take no credit for mine.” This time his bow was hardly more than a lowering of the eyes. This audience was the top. This was class. With a momentary shock Stan recognized a famous novelist, tall, slightly stooped, half bald. One of the season’s debutantes, who had already made the papers with an affair involving a titled émigré, sat primly holding a highball on her knee, her white dress so low-cut that Stan fancied he could see the aureoles of her nipples.

  “My family was Scotch originally, and the Scotch are said to possess strange faculties.” The gray head of a stern-faced old judge nodded. “My ancestors used to call it ‘second sight.’ I shall call it simply—mentalism. It is a well-known fact that the minds of two people can establish a closer communication than words. A rapport. I discovered such a person several years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present my assistant, Miss Cahill.”

  Molly swept in smiling, with her long stride, and rested her hand lightly on Stan’s bent forearm. The debutante turned to a young man sitting on the arm of her chair. “Friend of yours, Diggie?” He closed her lips with his hand, staring fascinated at Molly.

  Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted. The old judge quietly took off his reading glasses.

  “If I may trouble you, I should like to have Miss Cahill recline on that sofa.”

  There was a scurry of people finding other seats and a man snickered. Stan led Molly to the sofa and arranged a pillow behind her. She lifted her feet and he tucked the folds of the sequinned gown up from the floor. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket he drew out a ball of rock crystal the size of a marble and held it above the level of her eyes. “Concentrate.”

  The room was still at last.

  “Your eyelids are growing heavy. Heavy. Heavy. You cannot lift them. You are falling asleep. Sleep. Sleep …”

  Molly let her breath out in a long sigh and the lines about her mouth relaxed. Stan picked up her hand and laid it in her lap. She was limp. He turned to the company: “I have placed her in deep hypnosis. It is the only way I know by which telepathy can be made sure. I shall now pass among you, and I shall ask you to show me a number of objects, such as jewels, theater tickets, anything you wish.”

  He turned back to the reclining girl. “Miss Cahill, I shall touch a number of objects in this room. As I touch them you are to describe them. Is that clear?”

  Dreamily she nodded. Her voice was a whisper. “Yes. Objects. Describe …”

  Stan crossed the room and the old judge held out a gold fountain pen. Stan took it, focused his attention on it, his eyes widening. His back was to Molly and her head was turned toward the back of the sofa. She could see nothing. But her voice came as from a distance, just clear enough for them to hear if they listened hard. “A pen. A fountain pen. Gold. And something’s … engraved. A … G … K.”

  There was a ripple of applause, which Stan stopped with a lifted hand.

  The hostess pointed to the spray of little brown orchids she wore as a corsage. Molly’s voice went on, far away. “Flowers … beautiful flowers … they’re … they’re … or … orchids, I think.”

  The crowd sucked in its breath.

  The debutante with the scarlet lips and the low-cut dress beckoned to Stan. When he drew near she reached into the pocket of the young man beside her and took out a gold mesh vanity case. Throwing open the cover, she held it so that only Stan could see what it contained. He frowned and she giggled up at him. “Go on, Mister Mindreader. Read my mind.”

  Stan stood motionless. He took a deep breath and by straining it against his throat forced the color to rise in his face.

  “Look. He blushes too,” said the girl.

  The Great Stanton never moved but Molly’s voice went on. “Something … something … do I have to tell what it is?”

  Over his shoulder Stan said softly, “No, never mind it.”

  The girl snapped the bag shut and replaced it in the man’s pocket. “You win, brother. You win.” She gulped down the rest of her drink.

  The Great Stanton bowed. “Lest I be accused of using trickery and signaling Miss Cahill, I should like a committee to follow me from the room for a few moments. Five or six persons will do nicely. And I shall ask someone here to take a slip of paper and record what Miss Cahill says while I am out of the room.”

  The hostess volunteered, and three couples followed Stan across the hall and into the library. When they were inside he closed the door. Something touched his hand; it was cold and made him jump. The guests laughed. Beside him stood a harlequin Great Dane, gazing up with eyes that held mastery in their steadiness and an odd loneliness too. The dog nudged Stan’s leg with his paw and the mentalist began to scratch him idly behind the ears while he spoke to the others.

  “I should like one of you now to choose some card in a pack of fifty-two.”

  “Deuce of clubs.”

  “Fine. Remember it. Now will someone select a color?”

  “Chartreuse.”

  “That’s a little difficult to visualize, but we’ll try. Now will one of the ladies think of a state—any state in the union.”

  “That’s easy,” the girl spoke with a drawl. “There’s only one state worth thinking about—Alabama.”

  “Alabama. Excellent. But would you care to change your mind?”

  “No, indeedy. It’s Alabama for sure.”

  Stanton bowed. “Shall we join the others?”

  He held the door for them and they filed out. Stan knelt and laid his cheek against that of the Great Dane. “Hello, beautiful. Bet you wish you were my dog, don’t you?”

  The Dane whined softly.

  “Don’t let ’em get you down, boy. Bite ’em in their fat asses.”

  He rose, brushed his lapel, and strolled back to the lights and the voices.

  Molly still lay on the couch, looking like a sleeping princess waiting for the kiss of a deliverer. The room was in a hubbub.

  “The deuce of clubs! And the color—they picked chartreuse and she couldn’t decide whether it was yellow or green! Isn’t it amazing! And Alabama!”

  “How would you like to have him for a husband, darling? Someone I know would have to scoot back to Cannes.”

  “Miraculous. Nothing short of miraculous.”

  Stan sat beside Molly, took one of her hands i
n his and said, “Wake up! Come now, wake up!”

  She sat up, passing the back of her hand over her eyes. “Why —what’s happened? Oh! Was I all right?”

  “You were splendid,” he said, looking into her eyes. “Every test was perfect.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad.”

  Still holding her hand, he drew her to her feet. They walked to the door, turned and bowed slightly and passed through it, applause clattering behind them.

  “Stan, don’t we stay for the party? I mean, the rest of it?”

  “Shut up!”

  “But—Stan—”

  “I said shut up! I’ll tell you later. Beat it upstairs. I’ll be up in a little while and we’ll get to hell out of here.”

  Obediently she went, pressing her lips together, fighting back an impulse to cry. This was nothing more than any other show; she had hoped there would be a party afterwards and dancing and more champagne.

  Stan crossed over to the library, and the dog met him, jumping up. Heedless of his starched shirt bosom, Stan let him. “You know a pal, don’t you, boy.”

  “Mr. Stanton—”

  It was the old man who looked like a judge.

  “I couldn’t let you go without telling you how miraculous your work is.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I mean it, my boy. I’m afraid you don’t realize what you’ve stumbled onto here. This goes deeper than you realize.”

  “I have no explanation for it,” Stan said abruptly, still scratching the dog behind the ears.

  “But I think I know your secret.”

  Silence. Stan could feel the blood surging up over his face. Good Christ, another amateur magician, he thought, raging. I’ve got to ditch him. But I’ve got to get him on my side, first. At last he said, smiling, “Perhaps you have the solution. A few persons of unusual intelligence and scientific knowledge might be able to guess at the main principle.”

  The old man nodded sagely. “I’ve guessed it, my boy. I’ve guessed it. This is no code act.”

  Stan’s smile was intimate and his eyes danced with fellowship. God, here it comes. But I’ll handle him somehow.

  “Yes, my boy. I know. And I don’t blame you for keeping your secret. It’s the young lady.”

  “Yes?”

  The judge lowered his voice. “I know it isn’t telepathy. You have spirit aid!”

  Stan felt like shouting. Instead he closed his eyes, the shadow of a smile passing over his mouth.

  “They don’t understand, my boy. I know why you have to present it as second sight. They’re not ready to receive the glorious truth of survival. But our day will come, my boy. It will come. Develop your gift—the young lady’s mediumship. Cherish it, for it is a fragile blossom. But what a soul-stirring thing it is! Oh, to think of it—this precious gift of mediumship, this golden bridge between us and those who have joined the ranks of the liberated, there to dwell on ever-ascending planes of spiritual life—”

  The door opened and both men turned. It was Molly. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were busy. Say, Stan—”

  “Miss Cahill, I should like you to meet Judge Kimball. It is Judge Kimball, I am certain of it, although I do not recall ever having seen your photograph.”

  The old man nodded, smiling as if he and Stan shared a secret. He patted Molly’s hand. “A great gift, my dear child, a great gift.”

  “Yeah, it’s a gift all right, Judge. Well, I guess I’ll be going back upstairs.”

  Stan took both her hands in his and shook them. “You were splendid tonight, my dear. Splendid. Now run along and I’ll join you shortly. You had better lie down and rest for a few minutes.”

  When he released her Molly said, “Oops,” and looked at her left hand; but Stan urged her toward the door, closing it gently behind her. He turned back to the judge.

  “I’ll confess, Judge. But”—he tilted his head toward the room across the hall—“they wouldn’t understand. That is why I dropped in here for a moment. Someone here does understand.” He looked down at the dog. “Don’t you, boy?”

  The Dane whined softly and crept closer.

  “You know, Judge, they can sense things that are beyond all human perception. They can see and hear presences about us which we can never detect.” Stan had moved toward a reading lamp beside an armchair. “For instance, I received a very faint but clear impression just now that someone from the Other Side is in the room. I am sure it is a young girl, that she is trying to get through to us. But I can tell nothing more about her; I cannot see her. If only our handsome friend here could talk he might be able to tell us.”

  The dog was staring into a dark corner of the book-lined room. He growled questioningly. Then, while the old man watched, fascinated, the Dane leaped up and shot into the corner, standing there alert and quiet, looking upward.

  The mentalist slid his hand unobtrusively into his trousers pocket. “They know, sir. They can see. And now—I bid you good evening.”

  The house had grown full of unseen presences for the old judge; in thinking of some who might be near him now, his eyes grew wet. Slowly, elegantly, his shoulders straight, the Great Stanton ascended the stairs with the tread of an emperor, and the judge watched him go. A wonderful young man.

  In the room with the tilted ceiling Molly was lying on the bed in her brassière and panties, smoking a cigarette. She sat up, hugging her knees. “Stan, for crying out loud, tell me why you got so mad at me when I wanted to stay for the party! Other private bookings we always stay and have fun and I don’t get lit on three champagnes, honest I don’t, honey. You think I don’t know how to behave!”

  He shoved his hands into his pockets, pulled out a slip of paper and crushed it, then flung it into a corner of the room. He spoke in a savage whisper. “For Christ’s sake, don’t go turning on the tears until we get out of here. I said no because it wasn’t the spot for it. We gave ’em just enough. Always leave ’em wanting more. We built ourselves up and I didn’t see any sense in knocking it all down again. For Christ’s sake, we gave ’em a goddamned miracle! They’ll be talking about it the rest of their lives. And they’ll make it better every time they tell it. And what do we get for it? Three hundred lousy bucks and get treated like an extra darky they hired to pass the booze around. This is the big time, all right. Get your name in lights a foot high and then come out to one of these joints and what do they hand you—a dinner on a plate like a hobo at a back door.”

  He was breathing heavily, his face red and his throat working. “I’ll sweat it out of them. By Christ, that old guy downstairs gave me the angle. I’ll shake ’em loose from a pile of dough before I’m done. I’ll have ’em begging me to stay a week. I’ll have ’em wondering why I take my meals in my room. And it’ll be because they’re not fit to eat with—the bastards. I’ve been crazy not to think of this angle before, but from now on I know the racket. I’ve given ’em mentalism and they treat it like a dog walking on his hind legs. Okay. They’re asking for it. Here it comes.”

  He stopped and looked down at the staring girl, whose face was chalky around the lips. “You did okay, kid.” He smiled with one corner of his mouth. “Here’s your ring, baby. I needed it for a gag.”

  Frowning still, Molly slipped the diamond back on her finger and watched the tiny specks of light from it spatter the dark corner of the sloping ceiling.

  Stan carefully unhooked the wires and got out of his clothes. He went into the bathroom and Molly heard the bolt slammed shut.

  You never could tell why Stan did anything. Here he was, madder than a wet hen, and he wouldn’t say why and besides she wouldn’t have pulled any boners; she’d just have smiled and kept her voice low and made believe she was tired from being hypnotized. She hadn’t muffed any signals. What was eating him?

  She got up and retrieved the crumpled slip from the corner. That was when it all started, when the colored waiter handed it to Stan just before they went on. Her fingers shook as she opened it.

  “Kindly do no
t mingle with the guests.”

  CARD VIII

  The Sun

  On a white horse the sun child, with flame for hair, carries the banner of life.

  “I’M NOT going to put on the light. Because we’re not going to argue all night again. I tell you, there’s not a goddamned bit of difference between it and mentalism. It’s nothing but our old act dressed up so it will lay ’em in the aisles. And for real.”

  “Honey, I don’t like it.”

  “In God’s name, what’s the matter with it?”

  “Well, what if there are—what if people do come back? I mean, well, they mightn’t like it. I can’t explain it. I’m scared.”

  “Listen, baby. I been over this a hundred times. If anybody’s going to come back they’re not going to get steamed up because we fake a little. We’ll be doing the marks a favor; we’ll make ’em plenty happy. After all, suppose you thought you could really speak to your dad, now. Wouldn’t that make you happy?”

  “Oh, God, I wish I could. Maybe it’s because I’ve wished so hard for just that and hoped that maybe someday I could.”

  “I know, kid. I know how it is. Maybe there’s something in it after all. I don’t know. But I’ve met half a dozen spook workers in the past year and they’re hustlers, every one of them. I tell you, it’s just show business. The crowd believes we can read minds. All right. They believe it when I tell them that ‘the lawsuit’s going to come out okay.’ Isn’t it better to give them something to hope for? What does a regular preacher do every Sunday? Only all he does is promise. We’ll do more than promise. We’ll give ’em proof!”

  “I—honey, I just can’t.”

  “But you don’t have to do anything! I’ll handle all the effects. All you have to do is get into a cabinet and go to sleep if you want to. Leave everything else to me.”

  “But s’pose we got caught? I can’t help it; I think it’s mean. Remember how I told you once, the night you—you asked me to team up with you—about how I chalked on Daddy’s tomb-stone ‘He never crossed up a pal?’ I was scared to death out there in that cemetery, and I was scared every minute until I touched Daddy’s headstone, and then I started to cry and I said his name over and over, just as if he could hear me, and then somehow I felt like he really could. I was certain he could.”