Madman on a Drum

by N. R. De Mexico

  Then: Lois' voice, fearful, tense, hurried. Insistent. "Larry Graham! Listen, Larry Graham! They are ..." The words ended in a soft gurgle. There was no more. The record hissed as the needle slid into the center groove.

  It had been a shock, hearing Lois' voice again like that. She had been talking to him over God knew what distances, what complex mechanical contrivances, how many trembling hours.

  Hours ... He looked at his watch. It was twelve, on the nose. Have to hurry. He said: "Thanks a lot for showing me your stuff. By the way, that was a swell recording job. Where is this Black Jewel place?"

  The soundman was replacing the record in the rack. "I dunno, somewhere up in Harlem, I guess. All this political stuff comes from there. But if you think that's any good you ought to hear my recordings. Clear as a bell." He paused. "If you need any work done for you don't bother with them. Here. Here's my card."

  Graham filed it in his wallet, contorted his way through the narrow door to the front of the truck, and clambered out onto the street...

  The Exchange Buffet was crowded with the sweating, hurrying herd, intent, like pigs, only on smashing their way to the trough. Graham stood to one side of the entrance, surveying the place: The curved lunch-counter, the pedestal where sat the hawk-like female who frightened you into telling the precise amount you owed the restaurant for your meal [and who frequently scared you into adding a nickel or so, just to get rid of the criminal feeling her eyes inspired in you]. Bill was not yet in sight.

  Graham placed himself in direct view of the door, so Bill wouldn't miss him, and waited, watching the diners: men of all shapes and sides, universally sweating and uncomfortable in their jacketed and trousered dignity.

  And the women--cool, comfortable in their light dresses. He felt a masculine resentment of female privilege.

  Their light silken garments, open at the bottom, sleeveless, open to expose half of their breasts, cut low in the back. Very interesting and, more important, very comfortable. Only, what if floors were made of mirrors...

  Bill came in, carrying under his arms at least three afternoon papers. Graham stood still, waiting for Brice to spot him.

  Brice saw him and came hurrying over.

  "What's the matter with you?" Brice demanded. "Standing around like this when every cop in town is looking for you. C'mon. This place is too public now they've got your picture out."

  Brice was dragging him bodily from the restaurant, hurrying him down Church.

  "Look, Bill," Graham demanded, stopping suddenly. "What's all this about? Give it to me quick, will you? I can't stand any more of this mysterious business."

  Brice seized his arm and pulled at him. "No time to talk now. There's a cop coming toward us now. C'mon. Make it fast!"

  They turned into a side street, entered a dingy doorway and climbed a rickety stair. They were in a bowling alley-barroom, deserted except for a white-garbed man whistling to himself and polishing the mahogany surface of the bar with a damp cloth.

  Brice dragged Graham to the bar and flung him down on a stool. "Couple of beers and two ham sandwiches," Brice called to the bartender. He swung around to face Graham. "O.K., son. Now, what do you want me to do? I tried to get a telegram that came for you this morning, but Petty grabbed it and took it into Herkimer's office before I got a chance. Do you need any dough? I got a little I can get for you tonight. Where are you going to go? Is there anyone you want me to contact for you?"

  Dark suspicion formed rapidly in Graham's mind. Bill seemed to know an awful lot about all this; too much for an innocent bystander. Supposing all this friendly enthusiasm was part of the plot? Supposing Bill was part of this ... this game or whatever it was that was persecuting him?

  Or, maybe, Bill had brought him here where the two men, Sloppy Joe and Beau Brummel could find him and...

  Brice was still running on: "That business of going to the cops last night was a dam-fool thing to do. Didn't put them off your trail for even a minute... ."

  Graham leaped to his feet. "So you're one of them, too," he shouted. "My best friend trying to double-cross me ... you stinking son of a bitch ..."

  "Sit down, you idiot," Brice said. "And quit talking so loud. Do you want to get the cops down on us? And where do you get this double-cross business ...?"

  "Look, wise guy," Graham raged. "Nobody but one of them could know about my going to the cops last night. You aren't fooling me."

  "Fooling you?" Brice said. "Who the hell wouldn't know about it? The whole damned thing is in the papers. Are you crazy, or something?"

  Graham stared at him: "What the hell are you talking about?" he demanded.

  "You," Brice said, firmly. "I'm only trying to help you out. I don't expect any gratitude, you understand, but I'd rather not be abused for it. After all, I'm taking a big enough chance helping out a murderer without ..."

  Murderer! What was this? Murderer?

  Chapter XI

  UPSTAIRS AND DOWNSTAIRS

  Graham studied the newspapers. It was all there. All the foolish things he had done last night neatly twisted by the--the opposition to incriminate him. It was all there. Everything. He knew, now, what had happened to Lois, why she had missed that important date at Times Square.

  Everything was there.

  The Sun's story was the most in the vein of yellow journalism. He read it swiftly:

  Special details of the Homicide Squad were assigned early today to a feverish city-wide search to track down Larry Graham, 26, of 39th St., Manhattan, charged with the fiendish murder of pretty Lois Morgan, 20, night-club dancer, in his rooming-house apartment at a late hour last night

  "The body of the girl was found early this morning by W. Jensen, proprietor of the building in which Graham was a resident. She had been shot four times in the left breast ..."

  And on and on and on. Everything was stacked against him. His midnight visitation to the 51st Street police station, reported accurately enough by the lieutenant, but naturally, credited as an attempt to establish an alibi.

  J. Norton Backer, the tenant in the downstairs-front of the house, had contributed his two cents:

  "I heard an argument in the hall," Backer told police, "and came out to find Graham threatening Mr. Jensen. When he saw me, Graham fled. Jensen afterward told me Graham had threatened him for entering his [Graham's] apartment earlier in the day."

  And on, and on, and on. Everything turned against him. A description of his room that left no doubt he was, at the very least, a murderous sex-maniac. Even Clancy had been forced to tell his story. One more item in the evidence against him. He was cooked. [Placed in an oven until done.]

  And Lois. Lois, with whom he had gone from Fort Tryon to the Battery in the long summer evenings. Lois... He forced himself off that track.

  Brice said: "What do you want me to do, Larry? Like I say, I've got a little dough I can get for you tonight in case you want to get out of town. And I guess that's what you'll have to do. Your story is straight enough to convince anyone who knows you. But, sonny, you'll have to do a lot more than that with the police." He grinned. "The way I said that sounds like I thought you had killed her. I do know you didn't do it. A man with no more creative imagination than you couldn't build up a story like that out of thin air. But the point is, the cops won't believe you ..."

  Graham wasn't listening. Drunken thought after drunken thought staggered through his mind. It was all so vague. There was nothing he could hold onto. Nothing. He had been framed for a murder. Without reason. Framed for the murder of a girl he was in love with ... well [with masculine auto-reticence] almost in love with. But he had no connection with her. There was nobody, nobody who knew them both. And yet, somebody had known all about him and his relationship with her. That was obvious. Everything was obvious. Everything was obvious to him--and to nobody else--except those who were doing this to him, and why they were doing it.

  Sure he knew Jensen had been bribed into letting them use his apartment, and bribed well enough so that when he h
ad discovered the body in the morning he had kept quiet. Jensen would sell his soul for a nickel ... a plugged nickel. But then, it was a lousy soul.

  But Jensen was unimportant.

  And who else was there? He had no enemies. O.K., there were people who disliked him--newsstand operators who hated him because he wouldn't let them short-change him. People to whom he had been discourteous. But not enough to frame him for a killing.

  No. Suddenly the whole world had turned against him. Lois was gone [but not forgotten, oh, God, no, not forgotten]. His home, his little third floor rear room. His job. His safety--the comfortable feeling of being surrounded by the protection of the state. And now--now he was under threat, not merely from some unknown criminal source but from the very state he had considered his protector.

  Graham's head ached horribly. The beer was making him sleepy. Bill's chatter beside him was an annoyance--a small supplementary discomfort--like the buzz of a fly tickling the greater ache of an open wound...

  What you needed, now, was help. Somebody had to help you. Not Bill Brice. He was a nice guy. A swell guy. Look at the chance he was taking now, being with you like this. Wasn't this aiding and abetting? Being an accessory after the fact? But what could Bill do? He was a nice guy, but he was also a junior auditor working for a precarious living in that ancient and holy firm of Johnathan Herkimer and Son, Inc.

  You couldn't go to the cops. They were looking for you for a murder. Funny word. Murder. Roll it over on your tongue. Taste it. Feel its caustic bitterness. Murder. Herder, Girder, only two other words like it in the whole language. And Murderer! There was no Herderer and no Girderer. No other triple-er word in the language. An unpleasant sounding word. Worder. Worderer... .

  Where was he? Sleepy. Sleepy from tiredness and sleepy from beer in the hot afternoon. Got to stay away. Where was he?

  No. You couldn't go to the cops. And no private detectives. They didn't dare help you. Didn't dare. Like you had leprosy. Only Bill. And you were sleepy. So damned sleepy.

  And Bill was chattering awake like a machine-gun.

  Graham pulled himself together. Got to get out of here before he fell asleep. Be alright if it were winter-time. Wouldn't get so exhausted staying up all night. But in this heat ...

  "Bartender," he said. "Bring me a cup of black coffee."

  He gulped down the scalding liquid, hating the lifeless feeling on his tongue where the heat had seared.

  "Look, Bill," he said. "How about fixing it so I can get some sleep at your place this afternoon?"

  Bill said: "Sure, Larry. Anything to help out."

  Graham got up. "O.K. Wait here a minute. I want to make a phone call." The coffee had done its work. He was, briefly, awake again. There was a legend to the effect that once you got used to it you could go completely without sleep. Sure, Graham thought, but I'm not the man to get used to it.

  You had to get somebody to help you; somebody who wouldn't get in trouble just for helping you. A lawyer, naturally. They couldn't repeat anything you told them, and probably couldn't turn you in. Only thing they could do would be turn you in if you were planning a crime.

  Graham was sure he wasn't planning a crime. Lawyer. That was it. Lawyer, professional advice, straighten everything out, put yourself in his hands, he'd take care of everything. Lawyer? Ken Clark. Ken was a lawyer. Call up Ken, go over there, then go to Bill's and get sleep.

  He was conscious of having thought this all out before. Long ago. Back when he was sitting at the bar hours, no, minutes, no seconds ago with Bill. But he couldn't help thinking it out again. His head ached. His eyes burned. Even the coffee couldn't relieve the maddening effort of his eyes to close.

  He dialed: M - 1 - 6 - 4 - 8 - 4 - 9, in quick nervous jerks, like a motion picture newspaperman. He thought: Funny. You never thought of Ken as a lawyer. He wasn't the lawyer type. Clever, yes. Acute, yes. Quick-thinking, yes. But, somehow, not a lawyer. Too friendly for that, lacking the impersonal attitude of lawyers. There was no answer. What were you thinking of? That was his apartment. He'd be at his office. You didn't remember the number. Somewhere on Madison Avenue. Ken was a pretty big shot in the business.

  He found the number in the Classified and dialed it. A girl answered. "Mr. Clark's office?" she said, with a question mark at the end.

  "Let me speak to K--Mr. Clark, please."

  "Mr. Clark is in court just now. Is there anything I can do?"

  "Can you tell me when he will be in his office?"

  "I think you might be able to reach him here around three-thirty," she said.

  "Thank you. I'll call then," Graham said. He hung up before she could ask his name.

  He went back to the bar. "O.K., Bill. Let me have your keys. I'll run over to your place and get some sleep."

  Brice studied him briefly. "Huh." Caustically. "In your condition you should go alone. Don't be a jerk. Look at yourself."

  Graham faced himself in the bar mirror. He was unbeautiful. His eyes were red and ringed. His beard was a second-growth forest. He looked deflated as a punctured balloon.

  "Anyway," Brice went on. "I've already gotten the afternoon off--to bury my third aunt, of course."

  Brice had a two-room apartment in a big building on Barrow Street at the outer perimeter of Greenwich Village. As he rode, sleepily, up Hudson Street in a taxi, Graham wondered, vaguely, why it wasn't cricket for anyone in New York to know anyone else living within five miles of him.

  Brice had, for the moment, taken charge of operations. He stopped the cab at an appropriate distance from the apartment, paid the driver, and led Graham through a tangled maze of back--unbelievably back--streets. He was happily playing conspirator. This complex operation he described as "throwing pursuers off the track." Not that there were any pursuers. But Brice was taking no chances. Adventure had tumbled headlong into his life and opportunity was not to be thrown away.

  After a while they were entering Bill's apartment. It was on the second floor of the building, had a front view distinguished in that it peered across the street through a sort of gateway into the central garden of another apartment house.

  Graham shaved hastily, worrying, in a soggy way, about the shortness of the time remaining before he must get in touch with Clark. A lot of sleep he was going to get. But Brice insisted. "With that beard," Bill said, "anybody would point you out as a murderer--or at least a rapist."

  Graham finished shaving and threw himself down on Bill's bed. Brice mounted an ecstatic guard at the window ... "Just in case we were followed," he explained.

  Graham's eyes closed. But it was impossible to sleep. He was too tired to sleep. Anyway, sleeping for such a short time would only make him feel worse. He wouldn't go to sleep. Just lie here and relax, in a sort of temporary safety ...

  Graham was running through an endless corridor, running toward a light that moved steadily away from him. Behind him something was pursuing; something dark and frightening and without form, and he must get to the light before it reached him, because once the dark thing caught up with you you could never get to the light anymore and you had to get to the light, although you didn't know why and nothing was more ridiculous than running for the light when all you had to do was surrender to the dark which was what you really wanted to do anyway, only Bill Brice was standing beside you and shouting, "C'mon, Larry. C'mon," and making you go on when all you wanted to do was let yourself fall backwards into the engulfing darkness and let things catch up with you ...

  He was awake and Bill was saying: "C'mon, Larry. C'mon! You've got to get out of here before they catch you. I just saw them coming into the house and they'll be here in a second."

  For one tiny instant suspicion of Bill flared in Graham's mind. How could they know where you were? How?

  But no. Bill was waking him up and getting him to his feet. O.K. Bill was on the level.

  Brice dragged Graham into the living room and thrust him toward a tiny cupboard door in the wall.

  "Dumbwaiter," he explained, brea
thlessly. "Use it for garbage. But it'll do for you. Soon's you're in I'll open the screen over the stove and icebox and it'll cover up the opening. Pull yourself up--not down. You can manage to crawl out at the cable housing on the roof."

  Graham squeezed himself through the narrow opening and wedged his body into a tiny cubicle fragrant with ancient and discarded refuse.

  "I pulled it up to this floor while you were asleep ... just in case," Bill explained, proudly. "Pull yourself up a floor or so, then let it stand until you're sure the coast is clear. You can hear everything from in there. I know. I've ridden that dumbwaiter from here and listened in people's apartments every night since I've been here. For the laughs, you understand. Now, get going."

  Brice slammed the door shut after a quick preliminary pull on the "up" cable.

  Graham was in darkness. It was like being sealed in a coffin--an undersize coffin. There was a rotten stench in the air, and it was hard to keep things straight. His mind felt drugged with sleep.

  He pulled, listlessly, at the cable, and felt himself rising--sullenly. The dumbwaiter was not constructed for such loads. From above came the tortured screeching of the pulley--like a woman in mortal terror. The sound set Larry's teeth on edge. The cold sweat poured from his back. His cramped position in the scant space made even breathing a difficult process, and the lifting cable was barely within his grasp. He was compelled to move upward only in inches.

  Then, from the darkness below, he heard the tinkle of Bill's doorbell. He silenced the screeching of the pulley.

  He must be two full floors away. He felt in front of him. A door. It even gave a little under his hand.

  Bill's voice drifted upward from the darkness: "Of course, gentlemen. Come right in. Although ... I don't understand the reason for this mass invasion."

  Another voice, deeper and a little apologetic, said: "We just want to ask you a few questions about Larry Graham. We understand he's a friend of yours."

  "Yes. Oh. You mean that business in the papers. Pure crap. Larry wouldn't kill anybody."