Dark Passage (18 page)

He wondered why someone had killed Gert.
He wondered why that someone had killed George
Fellsinger.

In Patavilca he would be under the sun
most of the time, letting the sun pour down on him, on the beach
under the sun, walking into the purplish water. Perhaps it was
really and fully as purplish as it had looked in the travel
folder.

A hand nudged his shoulder. He looked up.
He saw her.

She said, “Vincent—it’s time.”

He brought his head back. She was
smiling.

She said, “It’s four thirty. It's time to
take the bandage off.”

He looked at his wrist watch. It said four
thirty.

She went into the bathroom. She came out
with a pair of scissors. He began to quiver. His face felt very dry
and flat and smooth and ready under the bandage. The bandage was
soggy and old and his face felt new.

She started to cut the bandage. She worked
slowly. She sat there with his face brought forward a little so she
could get at the bandage better. Now the bandage was coming off. It
came off smoothly, easily, and she unwrapped the gauze until she
came to more adhesive tape, then she went through that with the
scissors and unwrapped more gauze.

He watched her. She didn’t see his eyes.
She had her attention centered on the bandage, getting it away from
his mouth, now going up past his cheeks and his nose, and he
watched her, and her face wouldn't tell him anything, and she had
it coming away from the upper part of his face and then she took
hold of it where it was caked and very slowly she pulled it away so
that now she had the entire bandage off. And she had it in her
hands, with the scissors and she was looking at him. She was
looking at his new face. And then she fainted.

CHAPTER 15

It was quiet and very slow, the way she
went down, the way she subsided on the floor. She looked tired and
little there, and now he was not yet starting to wonder why she had
fainted. He only felt sorry for her because she had fainted. He
went into the bathroom and took hold of a glass and turned on the
cold water faucet. Then he realized there was a mirror in front of
him, level with his face. And he looked up.

And he saw his new face.

He frowned.

It was very difficult to believe that he
was actually looking at himself. This was not himself.

This was new and different and he had not
expected this. The shape of his face was changed. The aspect of his
face was all changed. He still had the same eyes and nose and lips,
unchanged, but they seemed to be placed differently.

There was nothing dreadful about it. There
was everything remarkable and fascinating about it. The man who had
fixed his face was a magician. He wondered why Irene had fainted.
He leaned toward the mirror. There were no scars, except when he
made extremely close study he could see the faint outlines. Only
five days ago, and it was astounding. There was nothing in the
mirror to indicate that he had been given a new face, but his
former face had undergone an operation and new flesh had been added
and steel had gone into the flesh and his face had been changed.
There were no signs of damage, there was nothing except the new
face. He could see it under the five-day beard, the pale, scattered
growth.

And he wondered why she had
fainted.

He leaned even closer toward the mirror.
And he examined his new face. He twisted his features and his
features twisted nicely, as if he had always owned this face. He
put his hands to his face and it was really his face. In the mirror
he saw his hands on his face and on his face he felt the pressure
of his hands and there was no pain, there was no special feeling.
Only his hands on his new face.

Perhaps the beard had something to do with
it. But he didn’t have much of a beard, and his face was distinct
under what beard there was. The beard hadn't caused it. He wondered
what had caused it, what had caused her to faint.

He filled the glass with cold water, went
into the living room. He dipped fingers into the glass, flicked
water on her face. She opened her eyes. She started to sit up. She
looked at his face and shuddered and closed her eyes again. He
flicked more water, and she opened her eyes, sat up fully. She
looked at him. Her eyes stretched up and down.

He said, “Is it as bad as
that?”

His voice was different.

He said, “It’s all right with me. And if
it's all right with me it ought to be all right with
you.”

His voice was very different. It had
always been a light voice. Now it was even lighter, and it was
somewhat hollow.

She stood up. She was looking at him. She
said, “I expected to see something very dreadful.”

“Is that why you fainted?”

She nodded. She couldn’t stop the
up-and-down stretching of her eyes. She said, “I guess it was
everything, added up. I'm sorry.”

He didn’t know what to say. He mumbled, “I
guess these things happen sometimes.”

“Take the whiskers off,” she said. ” Maybe
I’m imagining things.”

He went into the bathroom. He looked at
the face again. Then he prepared it for shaving. The skin cream
felt all right, the soap felt all right. Even the razor felt all
right. And afterward the cold water felt like cold water always
feels. He mopped the towel against the face and then he looked at
the face. It was bright and new and clean. He wondered what had
happened to the flesh that had been taken from his arms. He
couldn’t see any sign of it on his new face. And on his arms the
cuts had healed, had been healed now for two days. And he had a new
face, and already he was beginning to feel that he had always owned
this face. And it was magic.

He went into the living room, buttoning
his shirt.

She looked at him. Now he was arranging
his tie. She said, “Yes, it’s unbelievable.”

“Are you going to let it get
you?”

“I don’t know what I'm going to
do.”

“You have no problem,” he said. “I’m all
right now. I can go now. You don't need to worry about it any
more.”

She looked at the window. Out there it was
coming down from overturned tubs. The wind was hitting it and
throwing it all around out there and it was one of those very big
rains that come down now and then from the north, pushed by a wild
and warm wind.

She said, “When are you going?”

“Now.”

“No.”

“I can’t stay here.”

“Where will you go?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t stay here either,” she
said.

“Why not?”

“I just feel that I can’t, that's
all.”

“I don’t get this.”

“Neither do I. But it’s the way I feel. I
just can't stay here. I've got to go away somewhere.”

He picked up a pack of cigarettes. She
wanted one. He lit her cigarette and lit his own. He looked at the
window. He said, “All right, Irene. Give me it. All of
it.”

“Beginning with what?”

“Your father.” He walked toward the
window. He examined the thickness and speed of the rain. He turned
and looked at her.

She said, “He didn’t kill my stepmother.
It was an accident. That's what he said. That's what I believed and
what I'll always believe. And I'll always believe that you didn't
kill your wife and you didn't kill George Fellsinger.”

“With Gert and Fellsinger it was no
accident. Somebody killed them.”

“It wasn’t you.”

“Then who was it?”

“I don’t know.”

He sat on the sofa and made little burning
orange circles with the end of the cigarette. He said, “Maybe it
was Madge.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe it was Bob Rapf.”

“Maybe.”

He stopped playing with the cigarette. He
put it in his mouth and gave it a pull. He let the smoke come out
slowly and he looked at her and said, “Maybe it was
you.”

She came over to the sofa and sat at the
other end. She leaned back and her eyes went toward the ceiling.
She said, “Maybe.”

Parry took another pull at the cigarette.
He said, “I don’t know why I'm trying to figure it out. I don't see
what difference it makes now. I don't want to get even with
anybody. All I want is to get away. I've got my new face and nobody
will recognize me, and I ought to be getting on my way while the
getting is good.”

“But you’re curious, aren't
you?”

“I guess that’s it,” he said. “I guess I'm
beginning to get curious.”

“And angry.”

“No,” he said. ” No, I’m not angry. I
thought all along it was an accident that killed Gert. Now that I
know it was murder I ought to be angry. But I'm not.

I’m not even angry about Fellsinger. I'm
sort of sad about Fellsinger but not too sad because he didn't have
much to live for anyway. What I can't understand is why anyone
would want to kill him.”

“And your wife?”

“That’s easier.”

“Well,” she said, “that’s something. Start
from there.”

“No. I’ll let it stay where it is and I'll
go away from it. I've had enough of it. I've got to get
away.”

“Maybe if you tried you could find
something.”

He looked at her. He studied the grey eyes
and said, “Do you really want me to try?”

“If you think it’s worth it, yes. If you
think you've got something to start with, a place to start, and a
time, and if you can work from there—”

“Yes,” he said, still studying the grey
eyes.” I’ve got a place and a time. The place was that road. The
time was the moment you followed me into those woods.”

“Take it back further. Take it back to the
trial. Do you see any logic in the fact that I was more than a
little interested in the trial?”

He looked at the floor. “How sure are you
that your father was innocent?”

“Just as sure as I know you’re innocent.
Just as sure as I know there's a world and a sun and stars. I
reacted normally when I recognized the similarity between your
situation and what happened to my father. I couldn't get in on your
trial but I knew it was an accident, just as my stepmother's death
was an accident. All I could do was write crazy letters to the
Chronicle.”

He nodded. “That was all right then.” He
shook his head, “Now there’s no similarity. There's a killer in
this somewhere.”

“You’re not a killer, Vincent.”

He frowned. “That can’t be the only reason
you're going to bat for me. There's another reason dancing around
in the middle of all this and now that we're having a showdown you
might as well hand it over.”

She didn’t reply to that
immediately.

He watched her.

A good fifteen seconds went by. Then she
said, “I’m helping you because I feel like helping you. Do you
mind?”

“No,” he said. “I’m too tired to mind. I'm
too tired to coax it out of you. But every now and then I'll think
about it. Maybe I'll even worry about it. I don't know. Let's play
some Count Basie.”

“Nothing doing.” Abruptly her voice was
firm. “You don’t want to hear Basie just now. You want to hear all
about the hook-up. Madge, and myself—and Bob.”

He remembered a phrase used by the little
man, Max Weinstock, the upholsterer. He said, “Just one of those
things.”

“No, Vincent. Not just one of those
things. San Francisco is a big city. When the trial ended I wasn’t
satisfied. I knew there were things that hadn't come out in the
courtroom. I wanted to get at those things. There's a certain gift
some people have for getting to meet people and striking up
friendships. I'm either blessed or damned with that gift, because
only a few weeks after the trial ended I was friendly with Madge
Rapf.”

“Did she know what you were
after?”

“If she did, if she had the slightest
idea, she ought to get an Academy Award. No, Vincent, I’m sure I
managed it all right. We were seeing a lot of each other, lunch and
shopping and movies and so forth, and it got to the point where I
could write her biography if I wanted to.”

“Would there be a chapter on
me?”

“Not more than a paragraph, if Madge had
her way. She painted you as a liar and a rat and a murderer. She
said you made a tremendous play for her and not only her but
anything you came across in a cocktail bar.”

“Well?”

“It’s all right, Vincent. I'm pretty sure
I know the way it was. She pestered you and you didn't want any
part of her so she finally gave it up. That's what I got from
Madge, even though she put it the other way around. I guess we
really shouldn't blame her too much. The old pride angle. When a
woman loses everything else she can keep on going as long as she
holds onto her pride. Or spirit. Or whatever you want to call
it.”

“Okay,” Parry said. ” Let’s sit here and
feel sorry for Madge.”