Eye in the Sky (1957) (23 page)

Scarlet,
Mrs. Pritchet struggled for words. “David
Pritchet,” she cried, “you’re a filthy-minded little pervert.
What in the name of heaven is the matter with you?
How did you get this way?”

“Got it from his father,” Hamilton conjectured. “Bad
blood.”

“It must be.” Breathing with difficulty, Mrs. Pritchet
rushed on, “He certainly didn’t
get it from me. David,
when
I get you home I’m going to give you the whip
ping of your life. You won’t be able to sit down for a
week. Never in all my life have I—”

“Abolish him,” Miss Reiss said philosophically.

“Don’t
you abolish me!” David roared belligerently. “You just better not;
that’s all I have to say.”

“I’ll
speak to you later,” his mother snapped, chin up, eyes blazing.
“Right now I don’t have another word to address to you, young man.”

“Gee whiz,” David complained, despairing.

“I’ll
talk to you,” Hamilton told him.

“I’d
prefer it if you wouldn’t,” Mrs. Pritchet said tightly. “I want him
to learn that he can’t associate with decent people if he’s going to take up
filthy ways.”

“I have a few filthy ways myself,” Hamilton began, but
Marsha kicked him on the ankle and he lapsed into si
lence.

“If I
were you,” Marsha said thinly, “I wouldn’t
boast.”

Disturbed
and upset, Mrs. Pritchet gazed mutely out the window of the car and
systematically abolished various categories. Old farmhouses with tottering
windmills ceased to be. Ancient rusty automobiles vanished from this version of
the universe. Outhouses disappeared, along with dead trees, shabby barns,
rubbish heaps, and poorly-dressed itinerant fruit-pickers.

“What’s
that over there?” Mrs. Pritchet demanded ir
ritably.

To their
right was a squat, ugly building of concrete. “That,” Hamilton
stated, “is a Pacific Gas and Electric Company power station. It relays
high voltage cables.”

“Well,” Mrs. Pritchet conceded, “I suppose that’s use
ful.”

“Some people think so,” Hamilton said.

“They could make it more attractive,” Mrs. Pritchet
objected. As they passed the building, its plain lines
flowed and wavered. By the time they had left it, the
power station had become a quaint, tile-roofed cottage, with
nasturtiums tangled up its pastel walls.

“Lovely,” Marsha murmured.

“Wait until the electricians show up to check the ca
ble,” Hamilton said.
“They’ll be surprised.”

“No,”
Miss Reiss corrected, with a humorless smile.
“They
won’t notice a thing.”

* * * * *

It was not quite noon when Hamilton drove the Ford
from Highway One into the chaotic green wilderness
that was the Los Padres Forest. Massive redwoods
tow
ered on all sides of them; glades
of frigid gloom lay fore
bodingly on
either side of the narrow road that led deep
into Big Sur Park and up
the slope of Cone Peak itself.

“It’s scary,” David pronounced.

The road climbed. Presently they had reached a broad
slope of bright bushes and shrubbery, with rocks scattered
here and, there among the slender evergreens. And Edith Pritchet’s favorite
flowers, California golden
poppies, grew by
the millions. Mrs. Pritchet, at the sight,
gave a delighted cry.

“Oh,
it’s so beautiful! Let’s have our picnic here!”

Obligingly, Hamilton left the road and drove the Ford
out onto
the meadow itself. Bump-bump went the car, before Mrs. Pritchet had a chance to
abolish ruts. A moment later they came to a halt and Hamilton turned off the
car engine. There was no sound but the faint steaming of the radiator, and the
echoing cry of birds.

“Well,” Hamilton said, “here we are.”

They piled eagerly out of the car. The men hauled the
baskets of food from the luggage compartment Marsha carried
the blanket and the camera. Miss Reiss brought
the thermos bottle of hot tea. David, leaping and scamp
ering around, slashed at bushes with a long stick,
flushing a whole family of quail.

“How cute,” Mrs. Pritchet
noticed. “Look at the baby ones go.”

No other people were visible. Only
the expanse of tumbling green forest leading down to the ribbon of the Pacific
Ocean, the endless lead-gray body of un-road far below, and, beyond that, the
mighty surface of moving water that awed even David.

“Gosh,” he whispered.
“It’s sure big.”

Mrs. Pritchet selected the exact
spot for the picnic, and the blanket was scrupulously spread out Baskets were
opened. Napkins, paper plates, forks and cups were passed jovially around.

Off in the shadows of the nearby
evergreens, Hamilton stood preparing the chloroform. Nobody paid any attention
to him, as he unfolded his handkerchief and began saturating it. The cool
mid-day wind whipped the fumes away from him. No danger to anybody else: only
one person’s nose, mouth and breathing apparatus were going to be menaced. It
would be quick, safe, and effective.

“What are you doing,
Jack?” Marsha said suddenly in his ear. Startled, he leaped guiltily,
almost dropping the bottle.

“Nothing,” he told her
shortly. “Go back and start cracking the hard-boiled eggs.”

“You’re
doing something.” Frowning, Marsha peered over his broad shoulder.
“Jack! Is that—rat poison?”

He grinned shakily. “Cough medicine. For my catarrh.”

Brown eyes
large, Marsha said, “You’re going to do something. I can tell; you always
have a sort of shifty way, when you’re up to something.”

“I’m
going to put an end to this ridiculous business,” Hamilton said
fatalistically. “I’ve had all I can stand.” Marsha’s firm, sharp
fingers closed around his arm.
“Jack,
for my sake—”

“You
like it here so much?” Bitterly, he jerked away from her. “You and
Laws and McFeyffe. Having a fine
time, wish
you were here. While that hag abolishes peo
ple and animals and insects—everything her limited imag
ination fixes itself on.”

“Jack,
don’t do anything.
Please, don’t. Promise me!”

“Sorry,”
he told her. “It’s all decided. The wheels have started turning.”

Peering
near-sightedly across the meadow at the two of them, Mrs. Pritchet called,
“Come on, Jack and Marsha. Cold cuts and yogurt. Hurry, while there’s
still some left!”

Blocking
his way, Marsha said swiftly, “I won’t let you. You just can’t, Jack.
Don’t you understand? Remember Arthur Silvester; remember—”

“Get
out of the way,” he broke in testily. “This stuff
evaporates.”

Suddenly,
to his amazement, tears filled her eyes. “Oh Christ, darling. What’ll I
do? I couldn’t stand it if she abolished you, I’d die.”

Hamilton’s
heart softened. “You donkey.”

“It’s
true.” Tears rolled helplessly down her cheeks; clutching at him, she
tried to push him back. It was, naturally, a waste of effort. Miss Reiss had
successfully maneuvered Edith Pritchet around so that her back was to Hamilton.
David, talking excitedly, was holding his mother’s attention, waving a curious
rock he had exca
vated and pointing off
into the distance at the same time.
The situation was set up and
waiting; his chance wouldn’t come again.

“Go
stand over there,” Hamilton said gently. “Turn your back if you can’t
watch.” Firmly, he pried loose her fingers and shoved her away. “It’s
for your sake, too. For you, Laws, Ninny, all the rest of us. For the sake of
McFeyffe’s cigars.”

“I
love you, Jack,” Marsha quavered wretchedly.

“And
I’m in a hurry,” he answered. “Okay?”

She
nodded. “Okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”
As he moved toward the picnic site, he said to her, “I’m glad you’ve
forgiven me about Silky.”

“Have
you forgiven me?”

“No,”
he said stonily. “But maybe I will when I see
her again.”

“I
hope you do,” Marsha said pitifully.

“Just
keep your fingers crossed.” Striding over the spongy ground, he left her
and rapidly made his way toward the sloping, shapeless back of Edith Pritchet.
Mrs. Pritchet was in the process of downing a
paper cup
ful of hot orange-blossom tea. Gripped in her left hand was
half of a hard-boiled egg. On her extensive lap lay a plate of potato salad and
stewed apricots. As Hamilton approached and hurriedly bent down, Miss Reiss
said firmly to the old woman, “Mrs. Pritchet, would you pass me the sugar?”

“Why, certainly, dear,” Mrs. Pritchet replied civilly,
setting down the remains of her hard-boiled egg and groping
intently for the waxed paper bundle that was
the
sugar. “Goodness,” she went on, wrinkling her nose,
“whatever is that distressing odor?”

And, in Hamilton’s trembling hands, the chloroform-
impregnated cloth faded away. The
bottle, pressing
against his hip, ceased to
trouble him; he had been relieved of it. Mrs. Pritchet politely placed the
sugar bundle in Miss Reiss’ nerveless hands and returned to
her hard-boiled egg.

It was
over. The strategy had collapsed, quietly and
completely.

“Very delicious tea,” Mrs. Pritchet exclaimed, as Mar
sha came slowly over. “You’re to
be congratulated, my
dear.
You’re a natural-born cook.”

“Well,” Hamilton said, “that’s that.” Settling down
on
the ground he rubbed his hands briskly
together and surveyed the assortment of food. “What do we have
here?”

Wide-eyed,
David Pritchet gaped at him. “The bot
tle’s
gone!” he wailed. “She took it!”

Ignoring
him, Hamilton began collecting a lapful of food. “I guess I’ll have some
of everything,” he said
heartily.
“It sure looks good.”

“Help yourself,” Mrs. Pritchet gushed, her mouth
stuffed with egg. “Do try some of this marvelous
celery
and cream cheese. It’s really
incredible.”

“Thanks,” Hamilton acknowledged. I’ll do that.”

David
Pritchet, hysterical with despair, leaped to his
feet, pointed his finger at his mother, and shrieked, “You
wicked old frog—you took our chloroform! You made
it
disappear. Now what’ll we
do?”

“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Pritchet said matter-of-factly. “It
was
a nasty,
foul-smelling chemical, and I frankly don’t
know what you can do. Why don’t you finish your meal
and then go see how many kinds of
ferns you can identify?”

In a funny, strained little voice Miss Reiss said, “Mrs.
Pritchet, what are you going to do
with us?”

“Gracious,” Mrs. Pritchet declared, helping herself to
more potato salad, “what kind of a question is that?
Eat your food, dear. You’re really too thin; you
should
have more flesh on your
bones.”

Mechanically, the group of people ate. Only Mrs.
Pritchet seemed to enjoy her meal; she ate with relish . .
. and she ate quite a lot.

“It’s
so peaceful up here,” she observed. “Only the
sound of the wind rustling through the pines.”

Off in the
distance, a plane buzzed faintly, a Coast Guard patrol craft on its way up the
shore line.

“Dear
me,” Mrs. Pritchet said, her brows drawing
pettishly together. “What an unwelcome intrusion.”
The
plane, and all other members of the genus
plane,
ceased to be.

“Well,” Hamilton said, with mock carelessness, “there
goes that. I wonder what next”

“Dampness,” Mrs. Pritchet answered emphatically.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Dampness.” Uncomfortably, the woman squirmed
around on her cushion. “I can
feel the dampness of the
ground.
It’s very annoying.”

“Can you abolish an abstraction?” Miss Reiss inquired.

“I can, my dear.” The ground, under the six of them, became as
warm and dry as toast. “And the wind; it’s a trifle chill, don’t you
think?” The wind became a glow
ing caress. “How do you find it, now?”

A crazed abandon overcame Hamilton.
What did he have to lose? There was nothing left; they had reached the end.
“Isn’t that ocean a disgusting color?” he announced. “I find it
offensive.”

The ocean
ceased to be a dull, leaden gray. It became a gay, pastel green.

“Much better,” Marsha managed. Sitting close be
side her husband she clutched convulsively at his hand.
“Oh, darling—” she began hopelessly.