by Robert Bloch
“Yes, of course.”
“He’s in the hospital, Roger. In a coma.”
“What?”
“Florence Ives just called me. You met her at the party. He and his friend Sheldon Smikle left just after we did, she said. Then when Colin didn’t return, his father became anxious and went looking for him. That was about two o’clock. Brad found him in the condo’s parking area—the section reserved for guests—beaten up and unconscious.”
“My God,” Randall said. “Do they have any idea who did it?”
“No. Do you suppose you could help, Rog? I mean, you run a detective agency. Perhaps if you got some of your people—”
“They’ve reported this to the police, of course.”
“Yes, but—”
“If there’s any way I can help, I will. Look, I’ll be over. We’ll talk to the boy’s parents together.” Unless he was completely disoriented, this was Sunday morning and Manon would not have to go to work. Or was it Sunday morning? He turned his head to scowl at a window.
Daylight. But there would be light at this hour both morning and evening.
Manon took him off the hook. “All right. I’ll fix some breakfast for us.”
Of course. She never would have waited until evening to call and ask how he was. Get with it, Randall, he told himself angrily. If you’re going to be a detective, you’d better get off that damned elevator and shake the ball bearings out of your head.
He wormed off the bed, got out of his clothes and headed for the bathroom. Not until he had showered hot and cold, then shaved and slapped aftershave on his face, did he feel anything like himself again.
At Manon’s condo, as he walked into the lobby, more of last night’s nightmare suddenly came back to him.
The lobby. You do remember getting off the elevator, he told himself as he stood there reaching for details to fill in the gaps.
The residents of this particular condo had a standing joke about their lobby—excluding, of course, the members of the board, who had run up a whopping special assessment to make it look like this. “The fanciest funeral parlor on the beach,” they called it, referring to its clutter of urns, stone benches, artificial ferns, and phony palm trees.
An anteroom, he thought. That’s what you believed it was, Randall—an anteroom. Definition: an outer chamber forming an entrance to something bigger, and sometimes used as a waiting room. You thought you were in hell’s waiting room. Yes.
But you didn’t wait long, did you? You got impatient and started walking.
He remembered walking across the lobby here, past the urns and benches and ferns and palms. Walking to where? To what? To his car, most likely, though at the time he had thought himself in hell, he was sure.
No time to worry about that now, though. Later, when he was over the effects of it all and able to think straight again, he would sit down and try to put the rest of the puzzle pieces in place. Right now he had to see Manon.
He rode the elevator to the top floor and went along the carpeted hall to her door. Rang the bell. Heard hurrying footsteps. The door opened and her hands found his arms as she peered anxiously up at his face.
“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m okay.”
“I was so worried, Rog.” She had on a simple flowered dress this morning, appropriate to the look of deep concern on her solemn face.
“I drank too much, is all,” he said.
“Rog, I don’t believe it. The boys brought me a drink every time they brought you one.”
“Something else must have floored me, then. Something I had before I got there.”
She led him to her dining table and sat him down to scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. “Thought I’d better keep it simple,” she said. “Rog, I called the Casserlys and told them we’d be down. They’re grateful to you for wanting to help.”
“Let’s hope I can.”
She frowned at him again the way she had at the door. “You’re not all right, are you? Your eyes. . .”
“What about my eyes?” he said when she hesitated.
“They look—what’s the word?—haunted, I think.”
Should he tell her what had happened to him after he left her last night? The elevator’s descent into the abyss? His flight from hell’s antechamber into a blackout from which he awoke in his own place with ball bearings in his head? No, he decided. Because it made no sense to him yet, and how could you talk rationally about a thing that made no sense.
Wait.
Breakfast finished, they walked down to the Casserlys’ apartment, where the door was opened by Bradford Casserly. The man appeared to have aged ten years since last evening. His hand, going through the motions of shaking Randall’s, was clammy and limp.
“Eileen is at the hospital,” he said. “Excuse the looks of things, please.” He meant the apartment, which looked as though the last guest had only just departed.
Randall walked over to the buffet table. It resembled a battlefield after hostilities, and he saw nothing suspicious. Stepping to the bar, he scanned the many bottles. Then, turning, he said, “Your boy left here with his buddy last night, Mr. Casserly?”
“With Sheldon. Yes.”
“They left just after we did, Manon tells me.”
“About ten-thirty, I think. I’m not really sure.”
“Have you talked to the Smikle boy?”
With a heavy sigh the older man sat and shook his head. “I’ve been with Eileen at the hospital. The police talked to him, I understand.”
“But you don’t know what he told them.”
“No. I’m sorry.”
“Are you up to telling me how you found your son, Mr. Casserly?”
In a voice that was just barely audible, Casserly said he had gone looking for the boy about two A.M. “First I went down along the beach. Colin has always been fond of walking there at night. Then I wondered if he’d taken the car, and I started through the guest parking to the owners’ side to see if my car was gone. And I found him.”
“In the guest lot.”
“Yes.” Casserly put his hands to his face and said the rest through his fingers. “Beaten—so badly—I hardly—recognized him. Who could have done such a thing? Who?”
“Maybe he’ll be able to tell us when he comes out of it,” Randall said. “Can you tell me where the Smikle boy lives?”
“I know,” Manon said. “I’ll drive you there.”
But before leaving, Randall had a few more questions. Turning to Bradford Casserly again, he said, “You say the two boys left here together last night. You’re sure of that, sir?”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure. We talked to them—Eileen and I and Sheldon’s parents—just before they left.”
“Did they say where they were going?”
“I don’t think so. No, they didn’t. It wasn’t late; they wouldn’t have to.”
“All right, Mr. Casserly. I’ll do my best to find out what happened.” With a last glance at the buffet table and the bar, Randall nodded to Manon.
They rode an elevator to the basement where her car was parked, and she drove him to a home half a mile or so distant on the Intracoastal Waterway. A home with spacious grounds that required professional maintenance, a pool as large as most condo pools, and a uniformed maid, young and pretty, who opened the door to them.
Mr. and Mrs. Smikle were not at home, the maid informed them. “They are at the hospital. Only Sheldon is here.”
Colin’s friend, it seemed, had not yet left his room this morning. Nor had he touched the breakfast she took to him. “He is terribly upset about what happened. The police talked to him in his room.”
“It might be better if he came out of there,” Randall said.
“And who shall I say is here to see him, please?”
Manon answered that. “Miss Rowe and Mr. Randall. He knows us.”
“Yes.” The maid motioned them toward an elegantly furnished living room and went away. When she returned, Randall stared at the young man besid
e her and wondered if it could possibly be the same young man he had met last evening.
That Sheldon Smikle had been ruddy-cheeked, bright-eyed, almost a bit obnoxious as he strutted around the Casserlys’ apartment serving drinks. As if he’d been trying to imitate some teenage hotshot in a movie. This Sheldon Smikle’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, his face seemed molded of offwhite cheese, his mouth quivered as he nodded to them and stuttered, “H-h-hi.”
Manon said, “Sheldon, this is Roger Randall. You met him last night. He’s head of a detective agency.”
The boy looked at Randall and took a faltering step backward, almost losing his balance.
“Like to hear from you what happened after you two boys left the party last night,” Randall said. “Can we sit down?”
Sheldon Smikle sank into an overstuffed chair. Randall and Manon sat facing him on a sectional sofa half as long as a Pullman. The maid looked undecided, then departed.
“I already told the police everything I know,” Sheldon said.
“I’m sure you have,” Manon said. “But please tell Mr. Randall, too. He wants to help as a friend.”
The youth looked at Randall and waited.
“What time did you leave the party?” Randall asked.
“Ten-thirty, sir. About.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Well, we walked along the beach a ways, like we do a lot. Then we went over to the Burger Mac for hamburgers.”
“You were hungry? After that buffet at the party?”
“We didn’t eat much at the party. We were too busy tendin’ bar and servin’ drinks.”
“All right.” Randall leaned toward him, hands on knees, frowning at him now. “You went to the Burger Mac for hamburgers. What then?”
“We took them to a booth and started eat in’. Then we saw these two big guys eyein’ us from one of the tables.”
“Two big guys.” Randall repeated the words slowly. “Eyeing you. And?”
“Well, jeez, they scared us the way they were lookin’ at us! I mean, they were guys in their thirties maybe, like pro football players, and they kept starin’.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“And did you give them a description?”
“Uh-huh. Like—you know—they were in their thirties and real big, like I said, and—”
“Black or white?”
“White.”
“Dressed how?”
“Well, like I told the cops, one had on jeans and a gray sweatshirt, and the other was wearin’ dark pants and a black leather jacket.”
“And they looked at you.”
“Like—you know—they were gettin’ ready to jump us.”
“For what? Your money, you think?”
“Maybe. Or maybe somethin’ else. If you been readin’ the papers, you know what happens to young guys on the beach sometimes. There’s a motorcycle gang hangs around the pier there.”
“So what did you do?”
“We split. Never even finished the burgers.”
“And?”
“When we got to the corner, the two guys were just comin’ out of the Burger Mac, headin’ in our direction. So Colin said we ought to break up and confuse them. ‘Go on home,’ he said. ‘Beat it!’ So I did.”
Randall looked sideways at Manon, then back at the scared face in front of him. “You think it was those two who beat up Colin? Followed him to the condo and attacked him?”
“Well, I can’t be sure. But they came out of the Burger Mac after us and didn’t follow me.”
“Wait,” Manon said, and both Randall and the boy looked at her expectantly. “Colin was attacked in the guest parking area,” she said. “If he’d been coming from the Burger Mac, he wouldn’t have gone through there.”
She and Randall looked at Sheldon Smikle.
It seemed to Randall that the youth’s face grew even paler and his eyes became those of a cornered animal. “He could’ve been tryin’ to throw them off,” was the best the youth could do.
“All right.” Randall stood up. “I’ve got something to start on, at least. Thanks for your help, Sheldon.” He turned to Manon. “You ready, hon?” His look said, Let’s get out of here.
They departed, nodding to the maid as she appeared at the door to let them out. Back in the car Manon said with a frown, “He didn’t tell us everything, did he?”
“I doubt it. Do you know the fast-food place he talked about?”
“I go there often.”
“The people there. The workers. Do you know them?”
“Some of them.”
“Let’s drop in.”
It was typical of such establishments. Apparently the breakfast rush was over; only a few tables and booths were in use, and only two customers waited at the serving counter. Manon led Randall to an employee who was stacking coffee cups with her back to them. At Manon’s “Hi, Aggie” she turned. About thirty, she was a plump, freckled redhead.
“Well, hi, Manon.”
“Can we talk a minute? It’s important.”
“Of course.”
“We want to know if two of the neighborhood kids were in here last night. Were you here about ten-thirty?”
“Uh-huh, I was. I worked late last night.”
“Do you know a couple of teenage boys named Colin Casserly and Sheldon Smikle?”
“Sure. They come in all the time. Those and three, four other kids from around here. But I don’t remember them being in last night.”
Randall said, “Think hard, will you, Aggie? We have to be sure.”
The woman pressed a hand to her chin and half shut her eyes, then wagged her head. “No, I’d remember if they were here.”
Manon said, “Maybe you were busy. Is anyone else here who was working last night?”
The redhead looked along the counter. “Edgar was. I’ll ask him.”
She went away. She came back shaking her head. “Uh-uh. He doesn’t remember seeing them. And I don’t. So it’s pretty certain they weren’t here.”
“Something else,” Randall said. “Do you remember two big fellows sitting at a table last night about that time—ten-thirty or so? The Smikle boy described them. Tough-looking characters, he said. White. One was wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt, the other dark pants and a black leather jacket.”
Aggie shook her head again. “No way.”
“They weren’t here?”
“Sheldon said they were?”
Manon said, “Yes, he did.”
“When he wasn’t even here himself? What’s going on?”
“We’re trying to find out,” Randall said. “Thanks for your help.” He caught Manon’s hand. “We’d better talk to Sheldon again, don’t you think?”
“You go. Take my car,” she said, and handed him the keys. “I’ll walk back to the condo and see what I can do for the Casserlys.”
“Right.”
From the sidewalk in front of the Burger Mac he watched her cross the street and head for the fifteen-story building in which she and the Casserlys lived. Lovely woman, he thought. You’ve got the right one this time, Randall; hang on to her for dear life. Then in her car he drove back to the handsome house on the Intracoastal.
The same maid opened the door. “Sheldon?” she said. “He’s in his room, sir. He’d been on the bed there, crying, since you and the lady left.”
“No need to call him out. I’ll talk to him there.”
She led him through the house to the bedroom, and it was the kind of room only a son of wealthy parents could have. Big as two ordinary bedrooms, it had a picture window overlooking the Intracoastal where the family’s cabin cruiser gleamed like a forty-foot jewel at its private dock. Having a boat of his own—a modest one—Randall could not resist staring through the glass at this one as he stepped past an expensive stereo rig, a home computer, and an oversized TV set to the bed.
The maid, having entered the room before him to speak to its occu
pant, now placed a chair beside the bed for his convenience and departed.
Randall sat and looked at the boy. Said nothing.
Sheldon Smikle had indeed been crying. His eyes were even more inflamed and swollen than before. His expression was one of abject fright.
“Why did you come back?” The question was barely audible.
“Because you lied to me.”
“No. . .”
“You said you and Colin Casserly went to the Burger Mac. You said two big guys followed you out of there. But you weren’t there, Sheldon, and no such goons were there, either.”
If the boy could have crawled into a hiding place, he might have done so. His hands began to shake, his mouth to quiver; his eyes seemed big enough to burst until suddenly the lids shuddered shut to hide them. Or was it to shield them from Randall’s accusing gaze?
“Where did you go when you left the party?”
No answer.
“All right, I’ll wait.” Randall looked out the picture window at the boat again, and around the room at the stereo, the TV, the computer. And then—for no particular reason—his gaze strayed to a closet, the sliding door of which was open.
The closet contained clothes. All the high-style slacks and jackets and shirts a youth like Sheldon Smikle would be expected to own, and a rack of expensive shoes on the floor, and. . .what was the red thing hanging at the very end, all but hidden by a transparent raincoat?
Randall walked to the closet and slid the raincoat aside. And found himself gazing at a red sweatshirt on a hanger, with a red ski mask hanging limply, like a Salvador Dali watch, over the edge of the shelf above.
He stood there and began remembering again.
The lobby, Randall. You rode the elevator down to hell and got off in an anteroom where you were supposed to wait for someone to come and get you. Get out of there, you told yourself. You were a Vietnam vet, God damn it; you’ve been a hand-to-hand combat instructor. Nobody with your training should stand around helpless, waiting to be dragged to a fiery furnace.
Walk, Randall! Walk, man! There must be a way out of here somewhere! That’s what you told yourself.
So you walked. Remember? You walked and walked and it was dark, dark, dark and you didn’t know where in hell you were going, and all at once these two hell-dwellers in red loomed up in front of you, telling you to halt.
