It was late when Stan pressed the buzzer outside the apartment. Lilith opened the door, frowning. “I don’t like your coming here so much, Stan. Somebody might see you.”
He said nothing but hurried in and threw his brief case on her desk, tugging at the straps. Lilith closed the Venetian blinds a little tighter.
From the case he dug a helter-skelter of papers, the faked letters with currency still attached, which Lilith gathered up, pulling off the cash. She emptied them into the fireplace and put a match to them.
Stan was feverishly smoothing out bills and arranging them in stacks. “The convincer boodle did the trick, babe. I took every cent I had in the sock—eleven grand.” He patted the piles of bills. “Jesus, what blood I’ve sweat to get it in this goddamned racket! But here’s the payoff.”
In two legal-sized brown envelopes were thick oblong packets. He drew them out and broke confining strips of paper. “There it is, baby. How many people ever see that much cash in all their lives? One hundred and fifty thousand! Look at it! Look at it! And the McCoy. I never saw one five-yard note before. God almighty, we’re lousy with ’em!”
The doctor was amused. “We’d better put them away, darling. That’s a lot of money for one person to carry in his pocket. You might spend it foolishly.”
While Stan gathered the crumpled bills of the convincer into a wad and slipped a rubber band around them Lilith assembled the “take” and placed it carefully back in the brown envelopes, sealing them. She swung open the dummy drawers of the desk and when she dialed the combination Stan automatically tried to get a peek but her shoulder was in the way. Lilith put the money away and spun the dial.
When she stood up the Rev. Carlisle was staring into the polished mahogany of the desktop, his face flushed. “Wounds of God! A hundred and fifty grand!”
She handed him a double brandy and poured one for herself. He took the glass from her hand and set it on the bookcase. Then he slid his arms around her roughly. “Baby, baby— God, this high class layout had me dizzy but I get it good and clear now. Baby, you’re nothing but a gonif and I love you. We’re a couple of hustlers, a pair of big-time thieves. How does it feel?”
He was grinning down at her, squeezing her ribs until they hurt. She took his wrists and loosened them a little, closing her eyes and raising her face to him. “You’re wonderful, darling, the way you read my mind.”
Dr. Lilith Ritter did not go to bed right away. After Carlisle had gone she sat smoking and drawing careful parallel lines on a scratch pad. Once she turned back to the file cabinet behind her and took out a folder identified only by a number. It contained a chart on graph paper, an idea with which she often played, an emotional barometric chart, marked with dates, showing a jagged rise and fall. It was an emotional diagram of Stanton Carlisle. She did not trust it entirely; but the curve had reached a high point, and on four other occasions such peaks had been followed by sudden drops into depression, instability, and black despair. Finally she put the folder away, undressed, and drew a tub of hot water into which she threw pine bath salts.
She lay in the water reading the financial section of the evening paper. Grindle Motors was off two points; it would go still lower before it started to rise again. Lilith’s smile, as she tossed the paper to the floor and snuggled deeper in the comforting, scented warmth, was the smile of a well-fed kitten.
With a twist of triumphant glee her mind drew pictures of her two sisters as she had seen them last: Mina, spare and virginal, still proud of a Phi Beta key after all these years of beating Latin into the heads of brats. And Gretel—still looking like a wax angel off a Tannenbaum, with half a lung left to breathe with and a positive Wassermann.
Old Fritz Ritter had kept a State Street saloon called “The Dutchman’s.” His daughter Lille smiled. “I must be part Swedish,” she said softly to a bar of pink soap, molded in the form of a lotus. “The middle way.”
For two days Ezra Grindle had dropped from sight. His legal staff, his chauffeur-bodyguard, and his private chief of police, Melvin Anderson, had conferred again and again as to where the boss might be, without getting anywhere. Anderson knew little about the Old Man’s activities lately and was afraid to stick a tail on him for fear he would find out about it. The Chief was cagy as hell. The lawyers learned that Grindle had not touched his checking accounts. Nothing, at least, had cleared. But he had been into one of his safe-deposit boxes. It was difficult to find out what securities the Chief had liquidated or how much. And where was he? He had left word: “I shall be away on business.”
The lawyers went over the will. If he had made a new one they would have drawn it. All his faithful employees were remembered, and the rest was distributed to his pet colleges, medical foundations, and homes for unwed mothers. They would just have to wait.
In a tiny bedroom, lit only by a skylight, on the top floor of the Church of the Heavenly Message, the great man sat with his glasses off and his dentures in a glass of water beside him. He was wearing the yellow robe of a Tibetan lama. On the pale green wall of his cell was painted in Sanskrit the word Aum, symbol of man’s eternal quest for spiritual At-One-ness with the All Soul of the Universe.
At intervals Grindle meditated on spiritual things but often he simply daydreamed in the cool quiet. The dreams took him back to the campus, and her lips when he kissed her for the first time. She wanted to see his college and he was showing her the buildings which stood there in the night, illumined, important. Afterward they strolled in Morningside Park, and he kissed her again. That was the first time she let him touch her breast …
He went over every detail. It was amazing what meditation could do. He remembered things he had forgotten for years. Only Dorrie’s face eluded him; he could not bring it back. He could recall the pattern of her skirt, that day at Coney Island, but not her face.
With the pleasure of pressing a sore tooth, he brought back the evening, walking on the Drive, when she told him what she had been afraid of; and now it was true. It seemed that no time had passed at all. His frantic inquiries for a doctor. He had exams the very time she was supposed to go; she went by herself. Afterwards, up in the room, she seemed all right, only shaky and depressed. What a hellish week that was! He had to put her out of his mind until exams were through. Then the next night—they told him she was in the hospital and he ran all the way over there and they wouldn’t let him in. And when he did get in Dorrie wouldn’t speak to him. It went around and around in his head—like a Tibetan prayer wheel. But it was slowing down. Soon it would stop and they would be Joined in Spirit.
The skylight had grown a darker blue. The Rev. Carlisle brought him a light supper and gave him further Spiritual Instruction. When the night had come there was a tap at the door and Carlisle entered, carrying with both hands a votive candle in a cup of ruby-red glass. “Let us go to the chapel.”
Grindle had never seen that room before. A large divan was piled with silk cushions and in an alcove was a couch covered with black velvet for the medium. The entire room was hung in folds of dark drapery. If there were any windows they were covered.
The clergyman led his disciple to the divan; taking his hand he pressed him back against the cushions. “You are at peace. Rest, rest.”
Grindle felt foggy and vague. The bowl of jasmine tea which he had been given for supper had seemed bitter. Now his head was swimming lightly and reality retreated to arm’s length.
The medium placed the votive candle in a sconce on the far wall; its flickering light deepened the shadows of that dead-black room and, on looking down, the bridegroom could barely make out the form of his own hands. His eyesight blurred.
Carlisle was chanting something which sounded like Sanskrit, then a brief prayer in English which reminded Grindle of the marriage service; but somehow the words refused to fit together in his mind.
In the alcove the medium lay back on the couch and the black curtains flowed together by their own power. Or was it the medium’s odylic force?
They waited.
From far away, from hundreds of miles it seemed, came the sound of wind, a great rushing of wind or the beating of giant wings. Then it died and there arose the soft, tinkling notes of a sitar.
Suddenly from the alcove which served as a cabinet came the trumpet voice of the control spirit, Ramakrishna, last of India’s saints, greatest of bhakti yogis, preacher of the love of God.
“Hari Aum! Greetings, my beloved new disciple. Prepare your mind for its juncture with the Spirit. On the seashore of endless worlds, as children meet, you will join for an instant the Life of Spirit. Love has made smooth your path—for all Love is but the Love of God. Aum.”
Ghostly music began again. From the curtains before the alcove a light flashed, then a sinuous coil of glowing vapor poured from between them, lying in a pool of mist close to the floor. It swelled and seemed to foam from the cabinet in a cascade. Its brilliance grew, until on looking down Grindle could see his own figure illumined by the cold flaming brilliance of the light. It rose now and pulsated, glowing bright and then dimming slightly. The air was filled with a mighty rhythm, like the heart of a titan, roaring and rushing.
The pool of luminous matter began to take form. It swayed as a cocoon might sway from a moth’s emerging. It became a cocoon, holding something dark in its center. Then it split and drew back toward the cabinet, revealing the form of a girl, lying on a bed of light, but illumined only by the stuff around her. She was naked, her head resting on one bent arm.
Grindle sank to his knees. “Dorrie—Dorrie—”
She opened her eyes, sat up and then rose, modestly drawing a film of glowing mist over her body. The old man groped forward awkwardly on his knees, reaching up to her. As he drew near, the luminous cloud fell back and vanished. The girl stood, white and tall, in the flicker of the votive candle across the room; and as she gazed down at him her hair fell over her face.
“Dorrie—my pet—my honey love—my bride …”
He picked her up in his arms, overjoyed at the complete materialization, at the lifelike smoothness of her body—she was so heartbreakingly earthly.
Inside the cabinet the Rev. Carlisle was busy packing yards of luminous-painted China silk back into the hem of the curtains. Once he put his eye to the opening and his lips drew back over his teeth. Why did people look so filthy and ridiculous to anyone watching? Christ!
The second time in his life he had seen it. Filth.
The bride and bridegroom were motionless now.
It was up to Molly to break away and get back to the cabinet. Stan turned the switch and the rhythmic, pounding heartbeat filled the room, growing louder. He tossed one end of the luminous silk through the curtains.
The quiet forms on the divan stirred, and Stan could see the big man burrowing his face between Molly’s breasts. “No— Dorrie—my own, my precious—I can’t let you go! Take me with you, Dorrie—I don’t want earth life without you …”
She struggled out of his arms; but the bridegroom seized her around the waist, rubbing his forehead against her belly.
Stan grabbed the aluminum trumpet. “Ezra—my beloved disciple—have courage. She must return to us. The force is growing weaker. In the City—”
“No! Dorrie—I must—I—once more …”
This time another voice answered him. It was not a spiritual voice. It was the voice of a panicky showgirl who has more than she can handle. “Hey, quit it, for God’s sake! Stan! Stan! Stan!”
Oh, bleeding wounds of Christ, the dumb, stupid bitch!
The Rev. Carlisle tore the curtains apart. Molly was twisting and kicking; the old man was like one possessed. In his pent-up soul the dam had broken, and the sedative Stan had loaded into his tea had worn off.
Grindle clutched the squirming girl until she was jerked from his hands.
“Stan! For God’s sake get me out of here! Get me out!”
Grindle stood paralyzed. For in the dim, red, flickering light he saw the face of his spiritual mentor, the Rev. Stanton Carlisle; it was snarling. Then a fist came up and landed on the chin of the spirit bride. She dropped to the floor, knees gaping obscenely.
Now the hideous face was shouting at Grindle himself. “You goddamned hypocrite! Forgiveness? All you wanted was a piece of ass!” Knuckles smashed his cheekbone and Grindle bounced back on the divan.
His brain had stopped working. He lay looking stupidly at the red, jumping light. A door opened somewhere and somebody ran out. He stared at the leaping red flame, not thinking, not living, just watching. He heard something stir near him but couldn’t turn his head. He heards sounds of crying and somebody say “Oh, good God,” and then the faltering slap of bare feet and a girl’s voice sobbing and a fumbling for a door and a door opening and staying open against a hallway where there was a dim yellow light but it all made no sense to Ezra Grindle and he preferred to watch the little flame in its ruby-red glass cup flickering and dancing up and down. He lay there a long time.
Below him the front door slammed once. But it didn’t seem to matter what happened. He groaned and turned his head.
One arm—his left one—numb. And all one side of his face frozen. He sat up and stared about him. This dark room—there had been a girl’s body. Dorrie’s. She was a bride. It was his wedding. The Rev. Carlisle—
Slowly he remembered things in little snatches. But was it the Rev. Carlisle who hit Dorrie? Or was it an evil spirit impersonating him?
Grindle stood up, having trouble balancing. Then he shuffled over to the door. One leg was numb. He was in the hallway of a house. There was a room upstairs.
He held onto the banister and took a step but he fell against the wall and sank to his knees. He crawled, step by step, dragging his left leg, which felt wooden and dead. He had to get upstairs for some reason—his clothes were upstairs—but everybody had gone—dematerialized.
He found the cell with the green walls and hauled himself to his feet, his breath whistling. What had happened? His clothes were still in the closet. Have to put them on. There was a wedding. There was a bride. Dorrie. They had been together, just as Stan had foretold. Stanton—Where was he? Why had Stanton left him this way?
Grindle was annoyed with Stanton. He struggled to get his trousers on and his shirt. Have to sit down and rest. Dorrie was there in spirit. Who else could it be but Dorrie, his Dorrie, come back again? Had she lived after all? And come back to him? A dream—?
But they had gone.
Glasses. Wallet. Keys. Cigar case.
He limped back into the hall. Stairs again, a mile of them going steeply down. Hold on. Have to hold on tight. Andy! Where was Andy and why had he let him get caught this way in a house with so many stairs and what had hurt his leg? With a sudden surge of anger Grindle wondered if he had been kidnapped. Shot? Slugged over the head? There were desperate men who might—the mob rule grows ever more menacing, even as we sit here tonight, gentlemen, enjoying our cigars and our…That was from a speech.
And the door to that black room open.
Grindle felt as if twenty years had fallen over him like a blanket. Twenty more years. He stood looking into the dark. There was a cabinet over there, and a single splash of green light still lay on the floor.
“Stanton! Dorrie! Stanton, where are you!”
Halfway across the room he stumbled and crawled the rest of the way to the pool of light. But it wasn’t moist and musky, like Dorrie. It felt like fabric.
“Stanton!”
Grindle struck a match and found a wall switch. The light revealed that the patch of luminous vapor was a piece of white silk sticking out from the bottom hem of the black curtains in the alcove.
But Stanton had struck Dorrie!
He drew aside the curtains. There was the couch, all right. Maybe Stanton had fallen behind it when the evil presence— this was Thursday? I’ve missed the board meeting. They would hold it without me; too important. I should have been there, to act as a sea anchor on Graingerford. But Russell would be there. Dependable
man. But could Russell convince them by himself of the soundness of the colored-labor policy? The competition was doing it—it was a natural. Graingerford be damned.
On the floor by the couch lay a control box with several switches on its bakelite panel. Grindle turned one.
Above him began the faint, ghostly music of a sitar. Another turn of the switch and it stopped.
He sat on the medium’s couch for a moment, holding the box on his knees, the wire trailing from it underneath the black velvet cover toward the wall. A second switch produced the cosmic heartbeat and the rushing wind. Another—“Hari Aum!”
At the sound of Ramakrishna’s voice he snapped it off. The click of the switch seemed to turn on his own reason. In one jagged, searing flash he saw everything. The long build-up, the psychic aura, the barrage of suggestion, the manufactured miracles.
Dorrie— But how, in heaven’s name, did that sanctimonious devil find out about Dorrie? I’ve never spoken her name all these years—not even to Dr. Ritter. Even the doctor doesn’t know about Dorrie or how she died.
The villain must be genuinely psychic. Or some debased telepathic power. A fearful thought—such a black heart and such uncanny powers. Maybe Dr. Ritter can explain it.
Downstairs. Got to get downstairs. Telephone. In that devil’s office—
He made it.
“Andy? I’m perfectly all right—just can’t talk very plain. Something’s the matter with one side of my face. Probably neuralgia. Andy, for the Lord’s sake, stop fussing. I tell you I’m all right. It doesn’t matter where I am. Now keep quiet and listen. Get Dr. Samuels. Get him out of bed and have him up home when I get there. I’ll be there in two hours. I want a checkup. Yes, this evening. What time is it? Get Russell up there too. I’ve got to find out what happened at the meeting this morning.”
Nightmare Alley Page 25