Now You See It . . .

by Richard Matheson

  On the other hand, I felt utter pride in his response to them, more pride than I had ever felt for him before.

  Harry, needless to say, felt neither emotion—if he felt emotion at all, which I doubt. He gazed at Max with a baleful expression. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you needed money. My mistake.”

  He started by Max, who grabbed his arm again, restraining him.

  “If I wanted money,” Max informed him, “I’d sell my blood. My soul is not for sale.”

  Bravo, Sonny! If only I could have shouted it aloud.

  Harry regarded Max with cold amusement. “Big words, my friend,” he said.

  Pulling loose, he walked around Max and headed for the desk again.

  “True words,” Max told him. “And you are certainly not my friend. Not anymore.”

  “You’re breaking my heart,” said Harry.

  Reaching the desk, he picked up the telephone and punched out a number, placing the receiver to his ear.

  Max followed him. Among the items on his desk was a long Arabian dagger in an ivory sheath. Max picked it up.

  “Do you have any notion whatsoever how demanding it can be to function as a stage illusionist?” he asked.

  Harry ignored him but I paid close attention, feeling a warmth of nostalgic pleasure. These were words I’d spoken to Max many times in the past.

  Harry spoke into the mouthpiece. “This is Kendal,” he said. “Put Linda on.”

  “A skilled illusionist must also be a skilled actor,” Max continued.

  “Linda? Harry,” he told his secretary. “Call Resnick and tell him that I’m on my way back to Boston; I’ll probably be late.”

  “The actor makes us look at something, the magician makes us not look,” Max told him at the same time.

  “Yeah, right; okay,” Harry said into the telephone. “Call him now.”

  He put down the receiver and gazed apathetically at Max, who was saying, “Two sides of the same coin. The illusion of reality versus the reality of illusion. The magic of drama versus the drama of magic.” (He remembered every word, bless him.)

  Harry’s cheeks puffed out as he exhaled, a look of boredom on his face. He started back toward the chair on which his attaché case was lying.

  “Do you know how I became The Great Delacorte?” Max asked, following again. Harry didn’t even look at him. “I wasn’t born The Great Delacorte, you know,” Max continued. “I had to work to perfect the character. Just as my father had to—”

  “Well, it’s the wrong character, old boy!” Harry cut him off, pointing an accusing finger at him. “That highfalutin’ bullshit may have been hot stuff when Roosevelt was in the White House, but it doesn’t sell a nickel’s worth today! You need something different now! Something—”

  He broke off in disgust and moved to the chair. “You don’t want to listen to advice. You know it all,” he said.

  Picking up his attaché case, he opened it and searched inside.

  “Sit down, Harry,” Max told him.

  “I don’t have time to sit down, pal,” said Harry, his face distorted by animosity, then by fury. “Where in the fucking hell is the fucking number of that fucking cab company?” he raged.

  “Sit down, Harry,” Max repeated.

  “I don’t have time—”

  His voice stopped as he heard the (chilling) sound of the dagger blade being snatched from its sheath.

  Heavy silence. Harry stared at Max incredulously. (So did I.)

  “Are you threatening me?” Harry finally asked.

  Max did not reply. The dagger, pointed upward in his right hand, lowered.

  Thinking he had won the point, Harry checked his gold-banded Rolex. “All right,” he said. “You have five minutes, and get rid of that fucking knife.”

  “Dagger,” Max corrected.

  And he jerked his right arm up as though to hurl it straight at Harry’s chest.

  chapter 8

  Hey!” cried Harry, alarmed and angry at the same time.

  Several moments more of threat, Max’s gray-blue eyes unblinking as he looked at Harry.

  “Hey!” said Harry again, thoroughly intimidated.

  Max stared at him.

  Then, turning, he hurled the dagger at the lobby display. Harry (and I, it felt like) jolted as the blade pierced the figure of The Great Delacorte.

  “How appropriate,” Max observed. “Right through the heart.”

  A rumble of distant thunder made Harry shudder—as though the gods had just declared their displeasure.

  Max and Harry stared at one another. Finally, Harry found his (labored) voice. “You’re crazy, Max,” he said. “You know that?”

  “There is that possibility,” Max answered calmly. “Madness is afoot in this house. Don’t you feel it?” I saw that his smile was unnerving to Harry. “The very air tingles with it.”

  He was right; it did.

  Max turned abruptly for the fireplace. “And now,” he said, “sit down.”

  “Max, I have to go,” said Harry. His tone was not aggressive anymore, but mollifying.

  Moving swiftly, Max took down the pair of dueling pistols, put one on the desk and, carrying the other, returned to Harry, who watched him in uneasy silence. “What are you doing?” Harry murmured.

  Max cupped his right hand behind his ear. “Pardon?”

  “What are you doing?” Harry repeated.

  “I loaded them this morning,” Max replied, his answer an apparent non sequitur.

  “What?” asked Harry.

  “I said—”

  “I heard what you said,” Harry interrupted. “What do you mean, you loaded them?”

  Max extended the pistol with his right hand, pointing it at Harry’s heart. “I loaded them for use,” he said. “Now will you kindly sit down?”

  “You can’t be serious about this,” Harry protested. But neither he nor I had any doubt regarding Max’s seriousness.

  Which was proven as Max extended his arm all the way, the dark eye of the barrel quite close to Harry’s chest now.

  With a swallow dry enough for me to hear across the room, Harry sat down in the chair, placing his hat and attaché case back on the table.

  “Do you really want your father here?” he asked, his tone weak.

  “Oh, yes, definitely,” Max replied. “I want him to hear it all. I only hope to God that, somewhere in his brain, he’s capable of understanding and appreciating what I’m doing.”

  Oh, Sonny, Sonny, yes I am. My brain the only part of me that really functioned then.

  “Look, I don’t know what the hell you are doing here,” said Harry nervously, “but let’s not be impulsive. Let’s talk about this. I think you need help, pal.”

  “The kind of help I got in Chicago?” Max asked softly.

  Harry’s face went blank.

  “The kind of help I got in Des Moines?” asked Max. “In New Orleans? In Tampa?”

  “What are you—”

  “It took a little research on the last three,” Max cut him off. “But Chicago dropped right on me in the middle of an afternoon this May. A phone call from a Mr. Charlie Haines—”

  “Wait a second,” Harry said.

  “—inquiring why you’d turned down his generous offer; was I sick or something?” Max was glaring at Harry now, the pistol aimed at his head. This is true? I thought.

  “Max, put that down,” said Harry, trying in vain to sound authoritative.

  “Is that the kind of help I need?” asked Max.

  “Max, I only did it to help,” Harry said. My God, it is true, I thought.

  “Curious help—pal,” responded Max. “Rejecting four well-paying engagements without consulting me.”

  “All right, I was wrong—”

  His voice broke into a gasp of horror as Max abruptly jammed the barrel against his forehead. “Yes, indeed you were,” said Max. “The question is, old friend … why?”

  Harry tried to take in breath. He wasn’t too successful at it,
and his voice wheezed as he replied, “Is the answer worth killing me for?”

  Max said, “Absolutely.”

  With his left hand, he drew back the pistol hammer.

  Harry hissed, completely terrified, and closed his eyes, his face a mask entitled Total Dread.

  When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and peered up at my son, who towered over him, looking down with godlike disdain.

  Words tumbled from Harry’s mouth as he said, “I thought it would make you realize sooner that you needed help, real help. I wasn’t trying to hurt you!”

  He positively whined as Max pressed the barrel end tighter against his forehead. Good, I thought.

  “Is that why you let that man look through my devices while I was on stage that night in Philadelphia?” Max asked.

  “What?” asked Harry. What? asked my mind.

  Harry groaned as Max pushed the pistol even harder against his skull.

  “All right, all right,” said Harry, his voice thin and shaking. “I was trying to get you some money.”

  “By letting that man steal my magic?” said Max. Oh, blow his goddam brains out, Sonny! I thought.

  Harry’s lips were trembling. Swallowing again, he managed, “Nothing happened, Max.”

  “Nothing happened because it’s not that easy to steal Delacorte magic.” (I’d seen to that.) His voice grew hard. “But you were going to take a crack at it, weren’t you?”

  His finger tightened on the trigger. Harry whimpered, his eyes shutting once again. “Dear God,” he whispered.

  Well, maybe this is not too good an idea after all, I thought.

  Nothing happened.

  Harry opened his eyes a crack to peer up at Max.

  He reacted. I reacted.

  Max was smiling.

  “How tempting,” he said, “to pull the trigger and observe your brains go flying. Every black, dismal shred of them.”

  Another sound of dread from Harry, followed by a sound of scoffing from my son.

  “Everyone talks about how tough you are,” he said. “Toughest agent in the business, Harry Kendal. Made of tempered steel.”

  He snickered. “Made of cottage cheese,” he said. “Tough at selling clients down the river, yes. At life, however—?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “—a total wimp.”

  He turned and walked away, headed toward the desk. I must admit I felt a great relief. Whatever Harry had done—and it must have been a lot—I didn’t want to see my son a murderer.

  Obviously, he didn’t want it either.

  “What a blithering idiot you are,” he said, tossing the pistol onto the desk. “To even think that a man of my degree would be capable of such barbaric murder. And in front of my father!” His words shamed my original urge that he do just that.

  Harry watched him blankly, wondering what Max was planning next. I confess that I wondered, too.

  The answer was immediate in coming as my son pulled out the top middle drawer of the desk and removed a vial.

  Holding it up for Harry to see, he set it down and lifted the silver thermos decanter, pulled off its top and poured water into a glass. Putting down the decanter, he unscrewed the cover from the vial and shook four red capsules into his palms. Oh, now what, Sonny? I thought uneasily.

  Max tossed the capsules into his mouth and, with the water, swallowed them.

  “There,” he said, “that should do it. Give me five minutes. Maybe ten.”

  Son! My mental voice was anguished.

  Harry was still numbed by fright. He stared at Max uncomprehendingly.

  “What are you doing?” he muttered.

  The hand behind the ear. Max inquired, “Pardon?”

  “What are you doing?” Harry asked again, more loudly now.

  “Past tense, old friend,” Max answered. “What you should say is, what have I done?”

  Harry still didn’t understand. I understood only too well.

  Max tossed the empty vial to Harry—who tried to catch it, but massed; it fell into his lap. He picked it up and studied it. There was no label. He looked back at Max in confusion. Then he smelled the opening of the vial, wincing at the odor.

  “Bitter almonds,” Max informed him.

  Arsenic, I thought in horror.

  “Arsenic,” said Max.

  “Oh, my God.” Harry labored to his feet. “You’re crazy.”

  “I believe we’ve already established that,” said Max.

  Harry rushed to the desk, his legs appearing somewhat rubbery. He snatched up the telephone receiver.

  “A waste of time,” Max told him calmly. I felt ill. “I’ll be dead long before anyone can get here.”

  Harry looked at him in agitation. “What the hell do you expect me to do, just stand by and watch you die?” he demanded.

  Why not? My thought was stricken. It’s all I can do. Except that I’ll be sitting by instead.

  “Just stand by,” said Max, “and offer me the courtesy of listening with attention for the last few minutes of my life.”

  “Oh, God,” said Harry—and my mind—and stared at Max.

  Then he said, impulsively, “I’ll drive you to the hospital in your car!”

  “There isn’t time,” Max told him quietly. The calmness of his tone was chilling to my blood. “I have five to seven minutes left at most. Sit down.”

  “Jesus, Max!”

  “Sit down,” said Max. His smile was thin. “And, for once in your life, listen to me.”

  “Jesus,” Harry mumbled.

  There’s nothing I can do to stop this. There was utter, helpless horror in my mind. Nothing!

  Harry didn’t sit; he couldn’t. (I could do nothing but.) He watched Max with a pained expression as my son began to pace around the room.

  “The more I get my circulation going, the less time it will take,” he said.

  “Jesus, Max!”

  Max raised a silencing hand.

  “I never told you about Adelaide, did I?” he asked. “My true love. My only love. My wife. My friend. My treasure.”

  Not that, my mind pleaded. Adelaide had always been an angel to me.

  “I was married to her before you came along,” continued Max. “Before Cassandra came along.”

  Harry twitched (I may have done the same without sensation) as Max’s right leg seemed to buckle momentarily and he staggered slightly. Harry made a sudden move toward him, then stopped as Max walked on, a look of haunted recollection on his face.

  “Those were the best years of my life,” he said. “We loved each other deeply. I was happier than I have ever been.”

  I closed my eyes and prayed to weep. I always knew that Max adored her; I could see it in his every word and action, in his face. My son adored her as I’d adored my wife, and both of us had lost those magic, wonderful relationships.

  Max started to go on and, for several seconds, his voice grew thick. I saw him struggle to prevent its happening again before he’d finished what he had to say.

  “My joy was her beside me,” he continued, pacing once again. “Her love unquestioning. I idolized her, Harry. I’m sure you think that such an emotion was never possible for me. He knew though,” he added, pointing at me. “He saw it all.”

  I did, my son, I thought, agonized, opening my eyes again.

  “She was, to me, everything that was good. Everything that was pure and beautiful and innocent.”

  His last word was emphasized involuntarily, accompanied by a wince of pain. Harry went stiff with apprehension.

  For several moments, Max stood motionless, eyes hooded, breathing slowly.

  “Max, let me call an ambulance, for God’s sake!” Harry cried.

  Max waved him off and started pacing once again, his movements uneven now.

  “She was carrying our child when the accident occurred,” he said, his voice tormented. I wished, in vain of course, that I could, by closing my eyes, shut away the entire scene.

  “She was tired,” Max said.
“I insisted that she stay at home. She wouldn’t hear of it. She had to be on stage with me. Helping me. Supporting me.

  For God’s sake, stop the self-torture! I thought.

  Max stopped and leaned against the frame of the picture window, breath erratic as he looked out toward the gazebo. “Getting dark,” he said. “A storm is coming.”

  He turned from the window, his expression rigid as though to hold away the pain.

  “It was too much for her,” he said, beginning to pace again, weaving now. (I stared at him in anguish.) “She misjudged. She didn’t move quite fast enough. A piece of heavy equipment fell.”

  He stopped, throwing a hand across his eyes as though to blot away the memory of that hideous night.

  “My wife,” he murmured brokenly. “Our child.” He threw back his head. “All in one dread moment!”

  He clenched his teeth, pushing his left hand to his stomach.

  “Max,” said Harry.

  Max paid no attention to him. Hand pressed hard against his stomach, features set in a grimace of pain, he began to pace again. I can’t bear this, I thought.

  “She’s been dead for twelve years now,” he said. “Yet still I love her—only her. My darling and my angel. There’s never been another like her. There never could be; never.”

  With a breathless cry of pain, he fell toward one of the chairs, hands shooting down to brake himself on the chair back.

  He struggled to a standing position as Harry ran over, a look of hapless dread on his face. Max reached out a trembling hand to pat him weakly on the arm.

  “This is the best way out … old friend,” he mumbled, sounding very weak. It’s not the best way out for me, my mind screamed, half in terror, half in rage.

  “It’s not only Adelaide who’s gone,” Max continued. He drew in a straining breath. “Everything is gone—you know that as well as I.”

  I’m not gone! I thought. I may be useless, but I’m still around!

  Max groaned and clenched his teeth again, hand pressed to his stomach. “God,” he murmured.

  He forced a smile; there was no amusement in it. “Yes, everything is gone,” he said. “My hands, my eyes, my ears, my marriage, my career.” He paused. “And now my life,” he finished.

  I’m not gone. Sonny, my thought, admittedly, one of wretchedness.

  With a brief, hollow cry, Max dropped to his knees beside the chair, twisting in a paroxysm of pain, eyes staring, face a mask of agony.