12 Stories They Wouldn't Let Me Do on TV (13 page)

    Then, piercing the haze and thrusting him back into knowledge of himself, there was a sharp pain in his shoulder as a muscle twisted and cramped.

    The logpick fell from his hands, thudding onto the thick carpet. He looked down at what he had done-and then, an arm flung across his eyes, he turned and ran, stumbling and wavering, for the outer door of the apartment.

    He smashed into it-scrabbled with shaking hands for the latch -tore it open-plunged out into the corridor-and, sightless, witless, came into heavy collision with a man and a woman just passing the door.

    The woman lurched against the opposite wall. Cursing, the man snarled at Cyprian and caught him by the shoulder and straightened his slim bent body and thrust him back against the door jamb. The woman took one horrified look at Cyprian and screamed. The man stared and said, "What in the name of-"

    Cyprian swayed. Everything-the figures facing him, the walls and doors, the lights overhead, the pattern of the corridor carpet- all swung crazily together before his eyes; swung and tilted so that he reeled, and clutched vainly for support-and slid down against the jamb to sit sprawled and ungainly on the floor, clutching at his whirling head.

    The woman said, "Look at him. Look at him!" in a shaking voice. "That's blood And the man said heavily, "What goes on around here?"

    Cyprian moaned-and began to vomit. Above him the man said, "I'm going to take a look in there," and moved through the open doorway.

    The woman went after him, and there glowed in Cyprian's mind the first sudden and frightful awareness of his danger. Even as another spasm shook him, a tiny self-preservatory spark was born, and when the woman began to scream just inside the door, he was already mumbling to himself, "… there was a man… he went through the window…

    And then the beginning of the long nightmare.

    The man and woman rushing out of the apartment. Shouting. Doors opening. People. More screaming. Trying to get to his feet and failing. More men, one in shirt sleeves, another in a robe, standing over him like guards. Sirens wailing outside. Whistles. Noise. Voices. Elevator doors clanging and heavy feet tramping down the corridor. New voices, harsh and different. Men in uniform. The other faces going, the new faces staring down at him, looming behind the harsh voices. A hand as ruthless as God's pulling him to his feet…

    He wanted help. He craved succor… there was a man… he went through the window…

    He wanted a friend. He wanted Charles. Charles would know what to do. Charles would deal with these bullying louts.

    … there was a man… he went through the window…

    

    

    And Charles was thousands of miles away.

    The nightmare went on. The questions. First in the room where men-not in uniform now-worked over the horror on the floor, muttering to each other, measuring, flashing lights, pointing cameras, ncribbling in notebooks.

    Then in another room, after a hellish, siren-screaming journey in a crowded car. Questions, questions. All framed with the certainty, the knowledge, that he had done what he must not admit having done.

    Questions. And the white light aching in his eyes. His throat stiff and his lips unmanageable. His whole body shaking, shaking. The inside of his head shaking too.

    -Why did you kill her?

    -What time did you kill her?

    -What did you kill her for? What had she done?

    -How long after ya killed her before you run out?

    -I didn't. I didn't… there was a man… he went through the window…

    -All right-so there was a man. An' he went outa the window. Whaddud he do? Jump? Fly?

    -You don't expect us to swallow that, do you?

    -Yeah. How d'ya figure this sorta hooey's goin' to help'?

    -I tell you there was a man… he went through the window… Down the fire escape…

    -He did? Leavin' your prints all over the poker?

    -Yeah. An' splashin' her blood all over ya?

    -Now, listen, Mr. Morse; it's completely certain that you killed this woman. The evidence is overwhelming. Can't you realize that you're doing yourself no good by your attitude?

    -I'm telling the truth. There was a man. I-I was in the bathroom. I heard a noise. I ran in. I saw Astrid. There was a man. He climbed out of the window. I'm telling the truth.

    -Very well. So you're telling the truth. Which window did this man go out?

    -Yeah? And how come he locked it behind him?

    -Never mind that, Mr. Morse. Answer the other question. Which window?

    -I-I don't know… The window in the-the end wall… Next the fire escape…

    -Which window? The right as you face? Or the left?

    -Yeah. Which? One of 'em was locked, bud. Which?

    Questions. And the light. Questions all around him. Questions from faces. Coarse, brutal faces. Sharp fox-faces. They began to associate themselves with the voices.

    And another face with wise gray eyes that watched him always. A face with no voice. A face in the corner. A face more to be feared than all the faces with voices.

    Questions. And the light. Time standing still, immobilized. He had always been here. He would always be here. "… there was a man… he went through the window…"

    It was a pattern, diabolic and infinite: Fear-questions-fear fear-light-fear fear fear-fatigue.

    Fatigue. First a dull dead core of exhaustion, but now beginning to reach out all around itself, encroaching more and more on all other feeling.

    Until even fear was going… going… almost gone-

    -Why don't we wind this up, Morse?

    -Yes. We know you killed her, and you know we know. Why not get it over with?

    -Yeah. How's about it, fella? Why doncha come clean, so's we can let up on ya?

    Fear flickering again, momentarily reborn.

    -I didn't I didn't I didn't… There was a man. When I ran in, he was climbing out of the window…

    For an instant a picture forming behind his eyes. An image of Charles-tall, tough, elegant, dangerous, one shoulder lifting higher than the other, a cigarette jutting from the comer of his long mouth, his creased face creasing more in a mastering smile. Charles coming through the door, being suddenly framed in the doorway, standing and looking down at the faces, the stupid crafty animal faces-

    Then his eyes closing. His head falling forward. Then nothing. Except the hard scratched feeling of the table-top against his cheek. And a ghost smell of soap and pencils and agony.

    A rough hand biting into his shoulder. Shaking. His head lolling, jerking back and forward like a marionette's-

    Then a new voice, quiet, sharp, charged with authority.

    -That's enough. Let him alone. Schraff, you go find Dr. Innes. This isn't any Bowery bum you're handling.

    His head resting on the table again. The voices muttering all around him, not thrusting at him now.

    Consciousness of someone standing over him. Not touching him. Just standing.

    Opening his eyes. Forcing muscles to roll up the ton-weight lids. Seeing the wise gray eyes looking down at him, contemplating him, understanding everything.

    Staring dully up into the gray eyes for a moment, dully wondering. Then letting the heavy lids fold down over his own eyes again.

    The door opening, and brisk footsteps. And quick impersonal hands upon him. Doctor's hands. Feeling at his temples, his wrist. Tilting back his unbearably heavy head, with a deft thumb rolling back those eyelids.

    Then muttering above his head. His coat being eased off, shirt sleeve rolled up.

    

    

    Indefinite pause-and then the fingers on his arm, and the sting of the needle…

    When he waked it was to grayness. A gray blanket over him; gray walls; a door of gray bars; gray light filtering through a small grilled window.

    For some timeless interval the drug held memory in check. But at last, with a sick gray emptiness in his stomach, recollection came. And fear again, all the worse because its edges were dulled now and instead of it being so intense that there was no room in him for other emotions, it was now entangled and heightened by remorse and shame and horror.

    He threw off the blanket and swung his feet to the floor and propped his elbows on his knees and dropped his face into his hands.

    There was a clanging sound, and he started convulsively and raised his head and saw a uniformed guard coming into the cell. The man was carrying a big suitcase which he put down as he closed the barred door. On the side of the case were the initials C.M., and Cyprian saw with dull surprise that it was his own, the one Charles had given him in London. He heard himself saying, "Where did you get that?" and the fellow looked at him and said, "Came from y'r apartment. There's clothes an' shaving tack an' setra." He had a strange manner, at once meaning and noncommittal, official and yet faintly sycophantic.

    He came closer to Cyprian and looked down at him. He said, "Mr. Friar fixed it. An' about sendin' out for what you want."

    A little faint glow of warmth came to life somewhere in Cyprian's coldness. Trust John Friar, he thought.

    The guard said, "You like anything now? Breakfast? Or just coffee?"

    Cyrian went on staring at him: it was as if his mind was so full that he didn't hear words until long after they had been spoken.

    "Coffee," he said at last. "Just coffee."

    The man nodded, and went to the door and opened it again, and paused. "Like to see the papers?" he said over his shoulder.

    This time the words penetrated fast. Cyprian recoiled from them as if they were blows. "No!" he said. "No-no!"

    He closed his eyes and held them screwed shut until he had heard the door open and clang shut, and then receding footsteps echoing. A shudder shook him at the thought of newspapers, and once more he covered his face with his hands. Headlines-as if on an endless ticker-tape-began to unroll behind his eyes, running the gamut from the sober through the sensational to the nadir of the tabloid-

    -FAMOUS PLAYWRIGHT HELD ON MURDER CHARGE. DESIGNER SLAIN…

    -CYPRIAN MORSE ARRAIGNED FOR MURDER. GIRL ASSOCIATE BRUTALLY BATTERED TO DEATH…

    -PARK AVENUE LOVE-FIEND MURDER. FAMOUS THEATER BEAUTY SLASHED. MORSE, BROADWAY FIGURE, JAILED…

    He groaned and twisted his body this way and that and desperately pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until a spark-shot red mist seemed to swim under the lids. But the tape went on unrolling-a ceaseless stream of words.

    He jumped up and began to pad about the cell-and then mercifully heard footsteps in the corridor again and mastered himself and was sitting on the edge of the gray cot when the guard reappeared with a tray.

    He mumbled thanks and reached for the coffeepot. But his hand trembled so badly that, without speaking, the man filled a cup for him.

    He drank greedily, and felt strength coming back to him. He looked up and said, "Can I-would-is it allowed to send a cablegram?"

    "Could be. With an okay from the Warden's office." The fellow reached into a pocket, produced a little memo pad and a stump of pencil. "Want to write it down?"

    Cyprian took the things. Once more he mumbled thanks. He didn't look at the man; he didn't like his eyes. He began to write', not having to think, letting the pencil print the words-

    
-Charles de Lastro Hotel Castilia Venezuela

    In terrible trouble need you desperately please come Reply care John Friar Cyprian.

    He handed the pad and pencil back, and watched while what he

    D had written was read. He said, "Well-?" and met the eyes again as they flickered over him.

    "Seems like this'll be okay." The guard turned a blue-clad back and went to the door. "I'll look after it."

    Once more the clanging, the footsteps dying away-and Cyprian was alone again. His hand steadier now, he poured himself more coffee. Anything, any action, to keep him from thought.

    He drained the cup. He picked up the suitcase and set it on the cot and opened it. Forcing himself to activity, he washed and shaved and put on the clothes he found packed. A suit of dark blue flannel- a white silk shirt-a plain maroon tie.

    He felt a little better. It was easier to believe that' this was Cyprian Morse-and he gave silent thanks to John Friar.

    But there was nothing to do now-and if he weren't careful he might have to start thinking. He lit a cigarette from the box in the suitcase and began to pace the cell. There were five steps one way and six the other…

    So this was Cyprian Morse. Perhaps he did feel better after all. Perhaps-

    Footsteps in the corridor again. One, two, three sets.

    John Friar himself, with another man and the guard. Who opened the door, and stood aside to let the visitors in, and clanged the door shut again and stood outside, his back to it.

    John Friar took Cyprian's hand in both of his and gripped hard. He was white-faced, strained. He looked less like a successful producer than ever, and more like a truncated and careworn Abe Lincoln. The man with him towered over him, a lank, loose-limbed, stooping giant with a thatch of white hair and a seamed, unlikely face which was neither saint's nor gargoyle's but something of both.

    John Friar said, "Cyprian!" in a voice which wasn't quite steady. He made a gesture including the third man. He said, "Julius, meet Cyprian Morse… Cyprian, this is Julius Magnussen."

    Again Cyprian's hand was taken, and enveloped in a vast paw which gripped firmly but with surprising gentleness. And Cyprian found himself looking up, tall though he was, into dark unreadable eyes which seemed jet black under the shaggy white brows.