The Removal Company

by S. T. Joshi

  I had to shut Sanderson up—shake him up, jolt him.

  “How about Grabhorn?” I said. “Did he have to die?”

  That did the trick. Sanderson wheeled about—almost seemed in a panic.

  “You were getting too close, Scintilla! That was your doing! It was you who condemned him to death!”

  His outburst surprised me. “You couldn’t think of any other way of keeping him quiet?”

  Sanderson snapped: “He was trying to flee! He had already changed his name—as if that would have thrown me off the scent for more than a moment—but he had too much information.... He was terrified, wanted to back out of our—our relationship. I couldn’t let him do that. He was fundamentally an unstable man, and might have brought me down with him.

  “So when that receptionist whom I had placed to keep an eye on him reported your visit to me, I felt he had to go.”

  I now remembered something Grabhorn had said: “Why can’t you people leave me alone?” The remark made no sense if applied to Vance and me—we hadn’t bothered him before. He must have been repeatedly hounded by Sanderson’s underlings. I turned back to him.

  “I don’t imagine you pulled the trigger yourself.”

  Sanderson looked actually horrified. “Good God, no! Surely you know there are many people who...who can be persuaded to do that.”

  Sanderson began pacing the little room again. He seemed very uncomfortable with this subject.

  “So what happens now?” I said. “Am I your next victim?”

  He glared at me with narrowed eyes. “I repeat to you, Mr. Joseph Scintilla, that I have never killed anyone in all my career. And I do not intend to start now.”

  “So what’s the game? You’re not just going to let me go free.”

  Sanderson smiled slowly. “Why, yes, my dear man, I am going to do exactly that.”

  I peered at him in the darkness, trying to figure out his meaning.

  “But first,” he resumed, in an efficient, businesslike way, “I hope you will not mind if I put these straps back on for just a moment. They will be fastened firmly, but not uncomfortably.”

  He did as he said, then left the room.

  In a few moments he returned, with a syringe in his hand. Hardly looking at me, he tested it briefly, found it satisfactory, then said: “Please don’t struggle, Mr. Scintilla, it will only do you harm.”

  He inserted the needle into my arm.

  Within minutes, I felt extremely strange.... I was floating...my head seemed detached from my body...vision blurred...thought I was going to be sick...couldn’t focus...Sanderson...was that him...? What... someone talking....

  “You will find Mr. Arthur Vance and his wife and kill them without delay. You will find Mr. Arthur Vance and his wife and kill them without delay. You will find Mr. Arthur Vance....”

  Over and over...like a dream...nightmare...inside my head...beating, pounding, throbbing...inside my head...head bursting...kill...Vance...wife... kill....

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I crawled into my office late in the morning. I felt terrible. The residual effects of that exhausting trip to Italy must still be affecting me. I had a pain in the back of my neck that I couldn’t account for; must have slept funny last night.

  The case seemed to have come to a standstill. Sure, Vance had his wife back, but we were no closer to getting Sanderson than before—and we needed to get him. This evil puppet-master would be lurking in the shadows for the rest of their lives if he wasn’t stopped. And if the case of Priscilla James of Pasadena was what we thought it was, then the Removal Company was still very much in business.

  But how to find the fellow? He had covered his tracks too well. All we had was that bland business card with the disconnected phone number in Murray Hill.

  I fished around in the pockets of my wrinkled suit. Now I couldn’t even find the goddamn card. I scanned my nearly empty desk, opening drawers uselessly. Must have fallen out—or maybe Vance had it. Well, it couldn’t possibly be of any use anyway.

  I felt a need to talk to Arthur Vance. I didn’t know what more he could possibly tell me, but it seemed imperative for me to see him. Maybe his wife could remember something of what she had gone through, although probably she was still so traumatized that it would be unwise to question her.

  I got Vance on the phone.

  “Scintilla here,” I said. “How are you feeling?”

  “All right,” he said, a little nervously. Maybe he didn’t expect even this much solicitude from me—it’s not my custom. “Haven’t been sleeping very well.”

  “Nor I. How about Mrs. Vance?”

  “The doctor has her pretty well sedated most of the time. She’s up for short periods during the day.”

  “You think she’s going to make it?”

  “God, I hope so, Joe!” Vance burst out. “I think her memories—you know, memories of herself, not of this Elena woman—are coming back, slowly...very slowly. I really need to take her back to California, but the doctor says she couldn’t stand such a long trip right now. And anyway, I guess we still have to finish this thing....”

  “That’s what I want to talk to you about. You gonna be home? I’m coming over.”

  “But—but what more can I do?” Vance stammered.

  “I’m not sure. We just got to put our heads together. Just sit tight; I’m on my way.”

  I rang off. Before leaving the office I tried to brush out the dust and wrinkles from my suit, but didn’t have much luck. God, it seemed as if I’d slept in it.

  At the door of my office I stopped abruptly, turned back, opened the lowest right-hand drawer of my desk, and slipped my .22 in my pocket. Don’t know why I did that; I just felt better with it.

  * * * *

  Vance was there, looking frazzled and worried. Dr. Williamson was also there, just coming out of the room where Katharine was resting. Before he closed the door I saw a nurse sitting at her bedside.

  Marge Schaeffer was there too, sitting quietly on the couch.

  Vance offered me coffee, which I accepted. Maybe it would help to shake the cobwebs from my head. I still felt as if I’d slept for a year—brain wasn’t working right. Couldn’t think clearly.

  I sat down next to Marge and gave her a little squeeze. But I quickly turned my attention back to Arthur Vance.

  “Listen, we have to find Sanderson. But we haven’t the faintest idea how to track him down. I was wondering whether your wife might be able to tell us something—”

  Dr. Williamson, who by this time had put on his coat and hat and was almost out the door, stopped abruptly.

  “Now hold on a minute, Mr. Scintilla. That would be very unwise. Mrs. Vance is in a very disturbed state—trauma and partial amnesia, just for starters—and she cannot answer any questions. I forbid it, sir!”

  He stood there with his chest expanded, as if he himself would physically stop me.

  “Okay, doc,” I said placatingly, “it was just a thought.”

  “In any case,” he said, relenting a bit, “she is sedated. She won’t be talking to anyone for hours.”

  “Any chance when she might be ready to talk?”

  Williamson looked exasperated. “Mr. Scintilla, I will acknowledge that I do not know what this is about. I have not been informed”—he glared briefly at Vance—“how Mrs. Vance has suddenly emerged, after having ‘disappeared’ a year and a half ago, nor what she has been through. But she is now my patient, and I have to do the best I can for her. It may be weeks—months—before she can tell of her experiences, whatever they may be.”

  With that, he grabbed the doorknob and made as if to leave, but stopped short and turned back to Vance.

  “Arthur, I will hold you responsible if anything is done to disturb your wife. If you have any concern for her, you will not let that happen.”

  “I won’t, doctor. I promise.”

  “Very well.”

  Williamson stormed out huffily.

  “Well,” I said, “so much f
or that.” I walked about the room impatiently. “But listen, we have to find Sanderson! Arthur, can’t you say anything more about where you were taken in that Packard that day?”

  “Joe, don’t you remember? I was blindfolded! Both times! I hadn’t a clue where we went. And anyway, who’s to say that Sanderson is even in that same place any more? That old phone number is disconnected, so maybe he’s somewhere else altogether!”

  “That’s true,” I murmured. “By the way: where’s that card for the Removal Company? Do you have it?”

  “No, of course not,” Vance said, brow furrowing. “I gave it to you.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not important.”

  We all stood about irresolutely. The coffee hadn’t helped my brain any. Everything still seemed a mush.

  My hand wanted to reach into my pocket. It was as if I had no control over it. Something strange was happening. I dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out the gun.

  For a moment I looked at it in bewilderment—it could have been somebody else’s gun, or somebody else’s hand.

  I pointed it at Arthur Vance.

  All he did was laugh. “What’s the joke, Scintilla? You been watching too many cops and robbers movies?”

  I was muttering something—I could hardly make out the words myself. “...kill...Vance...wife....”

  Marge burst out: “Joe, put that thing away. You might hurt someone.”

  She came forward as if to disarm me. I wheeled around and pointed the gun right at her midsection.

  “Get away from me!” I shouted. “Leave me alone! Leave me alone....” That last sentence sounded more like a whine than a command.

  Marge stopped abruptly, concern and alarm all over her face. “Joe, what’s going on? Are you not well? Please....”

  I put my hands over my ears. “Stop it! Just leave me alone! I don’t want to hurt you, Marge...it’s not you I’m after.”

  I hardly knew what I was saying. The words didn’t seem to be coming from my mouth.

  Marge and Arthur flashed looks of consternation at each other, but didn’t move or say anything.

  I hurled myself toward the double doors where Katharine Vance was resting. Thrusting them open, I pointed my gun at the nurse within and barked at her:

  “Get out, lady! Scram! Beat it! Right this minute!”

  With a little scream she flew up out of her chair and dashed into the living room. She halted there uncertainly until I screamed:

  “Get out! Now!”

  She opened the door and left the place without a backward glance.

  “You too, Marge,” I said, waving the gun at her.

  She didn’t budge. “Joe, please...what’s come over you? You’re not well—something’s terribly wrong. Please don’t do this....”

  I stalked up to her. I was ready to blow her away also. I had never felt so enraged in all my life.

  Marge actually reached out and stroked my cheek. “Joe,” she whispered, “please stop. Please....”

  I thrust her away from me and almost dragged her to the door. “Get out, I said! Right now!”

  With one look at Vance and another at me, she left the place, leaving the door open.

  I turned back to the only other occupant of the room. “Okay, Vance, this is it. Into the bedroom.”

  Still looking at me in complete bewilderment, he marched like a zombie into the room. It was pretty dark—only a small night-light on. Katharine Vance was sleeping on the bed peacefully.

  “It’s the finish, Vance. I gotta do this.”

  I pointed my gun at his chest.

  “Joe, why?” he said softly. “What have I done...?”

  “Just shut up.”

  But my hand started to quiver, then my arm, then my whole body. I was like a man with ague, or St. Vitus’s dance. The dim outlines of the room began to swim in front of my eyes. Why the hell couldn’t I pull the trigger? I had to pull it—my brain was giving me the command to pull it—but I couldn’t.

  I shifted about and aimed the gun at Katharine. My hand was still shaking so much that I tried to steady it with the other hand, but it was no good. My heart seemed to be beating irregularly. I could feel beads of sweat all over me.

  Vance saw the direction of my gun and almost shrieked, “No, Joe!” and flung himself in front of his wife. She continued to sleep in complete tranquility. “Shoot me if you have to, man, but not her! Not her!”

  “You’re both gonna get it,” I said in an undertone. “I gotta do this...gotta do this....”

  Vance suddenly stood up straight, stone-faced. “Do it, then. Do it, Joe. Go ahead.”

  My hand was now shaking so much that I almost dropped the gun. I had to get through with this—after that I would have peace. I knew that the throbbing in my brain would end as soon as I pulled the trigger twice. That’s all I had to do.

  My index finger finally seemed about to respond. It was drawing back the trigger. Drawing it back....

  Then I aimed the gun at my own head and fired.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  My head hurt.

  When I opened my eyes and saw myself on a hospital bed, I momentarily panicked—thought I was back in the office of the Removal Company. But I quickly saw that this was a real hospital—probably the recently opened New York Hospital on Marie Curie Avenue—and sank back on the bed in relief. Then I noticed that there were other people in the room.

  Arthur Vance, Gene Merriwether, and—sitting demurely in a chair reading a magazine—Marge Schaeffer.

  Vance saw that my eyes were open and quickly summoned a nurse. She came in running and checked me over. “How are you feeling, Mr. Scintilla?” she said.

  “Okay,” I grunted. I held my hand up to my head—it was bandaged all around. “What exactly has happened to me?”

  “I think you’d better let your friends explain that,” she said as she made to leave the room. “But remember—not too much excitement.” Her glance took us all in.

  It looked as if no one knew where to start, so I took the initiative. Things were starting to come back—the cobwebs were being cleared from my head.

  “I remember...I remember finding Sanderson’s office...he caught me...drugged me...tried to make me do something....” I looked up at Vance.

  “Yes,” he said, “we figured it was something like that. You nearly blew my head off—and my wife’s too, for that matter.” He grinned as if it were a big joke.

  “Sanderson had given me some kind of hypnotic command,” I resumed. “I guess he figured that would be the simplest way to dispose of us all. But I know a little bit about hypnosis—had talked about it with some medical student at Johns Hopkins years ago. It’s next to impossible to get someone under hypnosis to do something they don’t naturally want to do. So when Sanderson gave me that command, it just didn’t work—set up this conflict in me, I guess. And so....”

  “And so,” Vance picked up, “you pulled the trigger on yourself to short-circuit the mental conflict you were in.”

  “Yes, that must be it,” I said. “But...uh, pardon my asking, but if that’s so, why am I not dead? Was my aim that bad?”

  “Oh, no,” said Vance, “it was pretty good—or would have been if not for this lady.”

  He gestured to Marge, who was still sitting in the chair, but now looking right at me.

  “You...,” I stammered. “Marge...how...?”

  “You didn’t think I was just going to leave you in that situation, did you?” she said tartly, with a bit of a reproach. “You ordered me to leave, but I didn’t. I just hung outside the door. When you went into the bedroom with Arthur, I crept back in. And then, when you turned that gun on yourself, I rushed up from behind and managed to pull your arm up at the last minute. But I think you still grazed yourself. You have a nice groove up the side of your hard head, I think.”

  I reached up and gently felt the right-hand side of my head through the bandages. She was right.

  “Um...thanks, I guess,” I said w
ithout looking at her.

  “You guess?” She was still ribbing me. “You don’t really mean you wanted to blow your brains out? That’s all the gratitude I get for saving your life?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” I said hastily. “You did save my life, and I’m thankful.”

  “Well,” she said with a smile, “I guess I was being a little selfish too. I want you to stick around a little longer.”

  With that, she suddenly bent over and gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

  I must have turned beet red; my face got all hot.

  Vance was smirking. “All right, lovebirds,” he said, “I’ll leave you two alone. Come on, Gene, let’s scram.” He took his friend and marched off.

  At the door of the room he stopped. “But we’ll be back when you’re...er, better. We have things to do, don’t we?”

  “Yes,” I said, grimly. “We do.”

  * * * *

  We were sitting in the apartment of Arthur Vance’s uncle. A few more days had gotten me on my feet—sufficiently, at any rate, to stumble out of the hospital in spite of the doctor’s protests. I still had a bandage—a smaller one—wrapping the side of my head, but with my hat on it was pretty inconspicuous.

  Vance was there, of course, along with Marge and Gene. I wasn’t sure how exactly these two had insinuated themselves into the affair, but it seemed that Vance had told them pretty much everything. They may have been there merely to lend moral support; or perhaps they pictured themselves lending support of a more active kind, although I couldn’t quite see how that was possible.

  Putting Sanderson out of commission was the only goal that remained. Now that his hypnotic command had worn off, everything about my experience in the office of the Removal Company had come flooding back. I also found the scrap of paper on which I had written his current phone number, from that printer’s invoice.