Virtual Unrealities, The Short Fiction of Alfred Bester (53 page)

“Marriage. Pfui,” said Gardner. “A feudal practice anyway.”

“I just want you to know you don’t have to be afraid of me … and if I’m what’s wrong with you, I swear I’ll be good about it. I swear it.”

“Spoken like a gent,” Gardner said.

Granville shook his head bitterly. “It’s no good, Jinny. Does seduction come under social pressure or is it one Coven forgot to mention … sexual rewards?”

“You insulting son of a bitch!” Gardner grabbed his lapels with a shaking hand. “What are you trying to do? If you think—”

“I don’t want you to touch me, Gardner.”

“Touch you? I’ll tear you apart!”

“Am I supposed to be scared? With a prior engagement with Coven?”

Granville punched clumsily and broke away. He backed to the office door and got his hand on the knob. “Now get this. You, Gardner … and Berne! You’re my pipeline to the Coven office. Tell Coven and Arno they’re going to have a little trouble taking care of me. I may be a dupe … but you can tell them I know how to fight.”

He shot out of the office, slamming the door behind him in empty challenge.

In panic, but with resolution, Granville went down the fire stairs three to the step. He burst into the West Corridor and ran to his room. From the safe deposit vault in the back cover of Goodwin’s
Forensic Toxicology
he took all his cash … thirty-seven dollars. From his bag he took a small brown bottle labeled: 100
TABLETS MORPHINE SULPHATE
¼
GRAIN POISON
.

As he placed the cash and bottle in his pocket he heard steps approaching outside in the corridor. They stopped before his room. He froze and waited, listening to the murmur of voices and muffled laughter. Then the steps continued. Granville waited until they faded, then opened the door and slipped out.

He took the freight elevator down to the power plant, went through the steaming turbine rooms and out through the truck-loading platform. He was on Race Street behind the hospital. The street was dark and deserted … comfortably deserted. Granville hung back outside the bloom of a sickly street lamp and took stock.

There would be an alarm out for him. Gardner would see to that. In its quiet efficient way, the hospital would be searching for Dr. Charles Granville, unbalanced, a danger to himself and possibly others. Coven and Arno would be looking for him too, to keep that appointment. With shaking fingers Granville found a cigarette and lit it. He started violently as laughter sounded from a distant window.

“Sleep,” he told himself. “Sleep is the answer. There’s a key … or a judo trick … or something. I almost had it. I can get it if I can sleep once before Coven keeps that appointment.” He touched the bottle in his pocket. “Yes, I’ll sleep.”

But the question was how to avoid Coven.

“I’ll be damned if I let him look in peace,” Granville muttered. “I said I’d fight. All right. Let’s start fighting. Let’s give him something to worry about.”

He trotted down Race Street, avoiding the lamps, turned back to Harding Boulevard three blocks below the hospital and flagged a cab on the corner. His resolution remained constant during the ride, but the panic mounted. At police headquarters he could not restrain his trembling. He got his information at the front desk and went up to Simmons’s office so uncontrolled that he almost fell through the door.

“Simmons!” he cried.

The slender man looked up startled. In the blue desk light he looked even more sallow. “For the love of sweet Jesus!” he exclaimed.

Granville took a step toward the desk. “Simmons, you’ve got to help me.”

“I’ll help you to a punch in the snoot!” Simmons jerked back his chair and stood up. “Where do you come off crashin’ into my office like a—”

“I’m Granville.”

“So what?”

“I rode wagon this morning. The Coven accident.”

“Oh. Ohhh.” Simmons relaxed and slumped back into his seat. “Yeah. Sure. For Chrissakes, watch yourself, Doc. You got the manners of an ambulance. What’s on your mind?”

“I want you to get a search warrant and investigate Coven’s office.”

“You do, huh?” Simmons cocked an eye at him. “Why?”

“There’s a murder being planned there.”

“Yeah? Who’s the future corpse?”

“Me.”

Simmons was not impressed. He shuffled papers and said: “To be killed by … ?”

“Coven.”

“Relative of the corpse, huh?” Simmons began reading a stenciled sheet. “Just hysteria, Doc. I get it all the time. Anybody croaks, the relatives always blame it on the doctor … or the cop. You get used to it.”

“This one is different,” Granville said. “The corpse threatened me.”

Simmons lowered the sheet. “What?”

“You and I saw Coven, Simmons. He was the deadest man there ever was at six this morning. I saw his remains this afternoon. He wasn’t dead. You’ve got to investigate.”

“The hell you say!”

“He wasn’t dead, Simmons.” Granville’s voice soared hysterically. “I heard him talk with a mangled throat that couldn’t breathe. He was crushed to death and he was alive. The pieces of him lay there on a couch and—”

Simmons burst out laughing. It was the laugh of a parrot. “What an actor you are, Granville. You almost had me biting. Now go away, I’m busy. No time for
Inner Sanctum
tonight.”

Granville leaned across the desk staring at the detective. “You too, eh Simmons?” he asked.

“What’s the gag now?”

“You’re another one who can’t laugh. It’s easy to spot you once you know what to listen for. It’s something you can’t cover up, eh?” He pounded the desk in futile anguish. “But my God! How many are you?”

“Now take it easy, Doc.” Simmons reached cautiously for his phone.

“You were with Coven when he jumped under the truck, weren’t you? All that talk about passing by when the accident happened … that was baloney for public consumption. You’re right in there with Arno and Gardner and Berne.”

Simmons picked up the phone. Granville cracked his hand down over Simmons’s, forcing the phone back onto the cradle. “You’re all around us, waiting to herd the poor sheep back into the corral if they get curious. And if we won’t follow the Judas goat, we get herded into an asylum. No thank you, not for me.”

With surprising power, Simmons wrenched his hand away and lifted the phone. He snapped: “Jessup, Simmons here. Get a couple of men to my office quick.”

“And don’t forget the straitjackets,” Granville said. He turned and was out of the office.

He ran down the stale dim hall, passed the front desk just as the phone jangled and the sleepy man in uniform reached for it, and was out into the street. As he hesitated uncertainly, a horn honked behind him. It honked again, persistently, for attention and Granville thought he heard laughter. He was afraid to turn, but he did turn and saw Jinny in the roadster double-parked before the headquarters entrance.

“Charles!” she called. “Charles!”

As he ran to the car she opened the door and started to get out. He thrust a palm at her. “Stay in.”

“Darling … darling, I’ve been all over town … chasing after you. I was just going to speak to Missing Persons when I saw … Are you all right, darling? I—”

“I can’t stop here in the street, Jinny.”

“All right, darling. Anything you say. Get in. I’ll chauffeur you …” Jinny tried to take his arm. He jerked away.

“Don’t touch me, Jinny.” He got into the car alongside her. “Start driving. Quick.”

Jinny gave him a bleak glance and started the car slowly. There was a shout from the headquarters entrance. Granville turned and saw Simmons gesticulating on the steps. “Get going, Jinny. Faster.”

The car picked up speed. Jinny kept her eyes straight ahead. Her mouth was trembling.

“Turn right here. Where’s your brother?”

“He … he’s getting commitment orders for you. He and Dr. Berne …”

“Yes. They would. Left here.”

The car turned again, careening into a narrow dark street. Jinny’s body lurched against him. Granville squirmed away from her. “I told you not to touch me.”

“For God’s sake, Charles! Don’t you understand anything? I told you … No matter how upset you are, I’ll stand by you.”

“You never told me.”

“You should have understood. Don’t you want me to stand by?”

“I don’t want anything from you until I’ve heard you laugh.”

“Please, Charles …”

“Laugh, Jinny. I want to hear you laugh.”

“I can’t,” she cried. “It’s all I can do to keep from screaming. Charles … I’m trying to be patient. Listen. You’re in a bad jam. Do you want me to help you or not? Just tell me … But stop talking about laughing.”

“On the left,” Granville said. “In front of that hotel. You can stop.”

It was called the Hotel Adams by an old-fashioned electric bulb sign that winked outside the ten-story McKinley architecture. The brown sandstone façade was a writhing of pillars and festoons and ledges. Granville looked at it and said: “Yes. This’ll do.”

As he got out of the car, Jinny reached toward him, then remembered. “What now, Charles? What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “Your brother’s looking for me. The police are after me. Coven wants me … and I’m going to sleep.” He took the brown bottle from his pocket and held it before Jinny’s eyes. “I’m going to sleep.”

He turned away, ran up the high stoop and entered the dismal lobby. He went straight to the desk, rapped sharply and spoke as the clerk appeared.

“I want a room for the night.”

“Yessir. Just sign the register.”

“My name is Wilkins. Charles Wilkins … from Chicago. I have no luggage. It will follow tomorrow.” Granville picked up the pen, signed, then examined the clerk’s bland face. “Will that be all right?”

“Quite all right, Mr. Wilkins. Just pay in advance … to … ah …”

“I’ll pay.” Granville dug into his pocket. “I want to explain something. I’ve had a bad day and I need rest. I have some clients who may insist on seeing me tonight. I don’t want to see them. I’m not to be disturbed by anyone. Understand?”

“Ten dollars, please. Yes, Mr. Wilkins. I understand.”

“If anyone inquires whether I … or anyone has checked in tonight, the answer is no. I’ve got to get a night’s sleep.” Granville put two tens on the counter and pushed them toward the clerk. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Wilkins.”

“No matter how urgent they say it is.”

“No matter how urgent, Mr. Wilkins. You won’t be disturbed.” The clerk smiled sinfully, selected a key and reached for the call bell. Granville stopped him.

“I won’t need a bellhop. I won’t need service of any kind tonight. Just give me the key and let me go to my room. As far as you’re concerned, I’m not here. As far as anyone is concerned, I’m not here.”

“Yes, Mr. Wilkins. You’re not here. Room 509, sir. Elevator on your right.”

Taking the key and ignoring the elevator, Granville found the stairs and went up quickly. So far so good. He would have a long undisturbed night. A quarter grain of morphine would have him asleep before Coven could possibly locate him. The question was whether he could get to Starr in time. If Coven located him while he was still helplessly drugged …

“It’s a chance I’ll have to take,” he muttered, coming out into a ghastly green hall. He went down the doors, counting numbers, found 509, unlocked the door and entered. The room was brightly lit. Arno arose from a faded lounge chair graciously, glancing at his wristwatch through the black glasses.

“Good evening, Dr. Granville,” he said pleasantly. “Prompt as usual. Come in.”

Granville’s legs sagged. He staggered back, feeling blindly for support. Arno stepped past him smoothly, closed and locked the door, then turned and removed the deadly black glasses.

“And now,” he said, “shall we begin?”

“He had morphine,” Jinny cried, “That’s the reason I had to betray him. I had to. You understand, don’t you?”

“Yeah, honey. It’s okay. Don’t worry.” Gardner thumped his sister’s back. “Now where is he?”

“I couldn’t be sure what he was going to do. He said sleep, but I’m afraid … Just promise you won’t tell him I told you. Promise.”

“We won’t tell the doc anything,” Simmons answered. “All we want to do is avoid trouble. Right? Where is he?”

“There won’t be a scandal?” Jinny persisted. “You won’t make a fuss. You … you’ll just make sure he’s all right?”

“Who wants a fuss?” Simmons said in exasperation. “All I want is my supper. Where is he?”

“We’ll be quiet and discreet, honey,” Gardner said. “We’ll be kind and understanding … and it won’t hit the papers. Now … where is he?”

Jinny pointed to the Hotel Adams. “In there,” she said. “He went into the hotel about half an hour ago. I … I watched from the door. He paid money and got a key. Then he went upstairs.”

“All right.” Simmons was brisk. “Let me handle this. Just do what I tell you. Come on.”

They crossed the street.

“If he’s doped off already,” Simmons continued, “he won’t be any problem. You take him to County and pump him out. But suicides don’t often do it first crack. It takes them time.”

Jinny stared at him with horrified eyes.

“Like razor jobs,” Simmons went on, mounting the high stoop. “They usually sit and take little cuts at the wrist for an hour before they get up enough nerve to dig deep. Same thing with gas. The head goes in and out of the oven a long time before they stay there for the big sleep.”

“I know,” Gardner said, pushing open the glass lobby door.

“Granville’s probably up there now with a glass of water and a handful of dope getting ready for the big swallow. If we bust in, he’ll get desperate and maybe go through a window.”

“Oh no. No!” Jinny wailed.

“Keep your voice down.” Simmons led them to the registry desk. To the clerk he flashed the blue and gold badge and said: “Charles Granville.”

“Not registered here, Inspector,” the clerk said promptly.

“Sergeant,” Simmons snapped irritably. “Let me see the last registry card.”

The card was produced and examined.

“Mr. Wilkins just arrived from Chicago,” the clerk explained carefully. “He—”

“He’s Granville,” Simmons interrupted. “What room?”