by Clark Howard
“I’ll leave it up to you, Everett,” she said. “Whatever you think is best.”
“Very well.” Simmons turned back to Devlin. “We shall proceed on the assumption that Mr. Keyes has been kidnapped,” he declared.
“All right,” said Devlin. “If we develop factual evidence to that affect, however, then the investigation will have to be conducted on a formal basis. Also, we will be obliged to report our findings to the F.B.I. I’m afraid that will negate your requirement of confidential handling, unless of course your influence extends to the federal level—”
“If we can definitely establish that it is a kidnapping, Mr. Devlin,” the attorney said coolly, “then we will forego the necessity for secrecy, turn the entire matter over to the F.B.I. as required, and issue our own statement to the press at the most opportune moment. In the meantime, we will rely on you to do everything possible to determine the reason, whether kidnapping or not, for Mr. Keyes’ absence. And, of course, during your informal investigation, we will still require that no publicity be released regarding that absence.”
Devlin glanced at Jennifer Keyes and saw that she was staring at Simmons with a cool, detached gaze. The attorney obviously did not represent to her the dependable family advisor coming to her aid in a time of distress. Devlin got the distinct impression, rather, that the lovely redhead had little liking for her husband’s lawyer, and was merely tolerating him now because it was the avenue of least resistance to do so.
“How do you intend to proceed, Mr. Devlin?” Simmons wanted to know.
“I’ll start with a few reliable informants, probably,” Devlin lied patronizingly, “and put out a bulletin on the missing car to see if we can trace its route after Mr. Keyes left his office. After that, I’ll have to more or less feel my way along. In the meantime, if you learn of anyone who has seen Mr. Keyes during the past two days, let me know immediately. And, of course,” he turned to Jennifer Keyes, “if you should receive a ransom note or any other contact—”
“We’ll keep you advised, you may be sure,” Simmons said brusquely.
Devlin accepted the little attorney’s rude interruption with a pleasantly evil smile and said nothing.
“I’ll see Mr. Devlin to the door, Everett,” Jennifer Keyes said as Devlin got ready to leave.
She led him back to the foyer and handed him his hat.
“Thank you for coming, Mr. Devlin.”
She did not offer her hand this time, so Devlin offered his, holding it extended until she was forced by the threat of embarrassment to take it. Once again the touch of her triggered spontaneous thoughts of things warm and soft and fragrant. She let him hold her hand longer this time, and he knew that she was enjoying a quickness of blood similar to his own.
“Good night, Mr. Devlin.”
“Good night, Miss Jordan.”
When their hands separated this time, there was reluctance on both their parts.
Two
When the missing man, J. Walter Keyes, awoke, he found himself sitting upright in a large chair, with his wrists secured to the arms of the chair and his ankles to the legs of the chair, with leather straps.
He blinked his eyes rapidly, driving away the haze of the drug in his body. Through the dissolving mist around his sight, he saw that he was in a room of blue: walls, ceiling, carpet, furniture—everything blue, blending subtly and softly through the dark shades of the spectrum down to the deepest midnight, all merging like colored fluid come to a standstill of perfect harmony. Even the lighting seemed to have a faint cast of cobalt in its luminosity, giving the room a warmth that was almost physical in effect. Keyes noticed at once that there were no shadows in the room—no shadows at all.
At a distance of perhaps six feet in front of him, Keyes’ eyes focused fully on a bare conference table of highly polished cerulean wood. Directly behind it, in a plushly upholstered leather chair, sat a man whom J. Walter Keyes had never before seen, but of whom he felt a sudden, distinct fear. He was unable, in his slow return to conscious awareness, to rationalize the fear, for it took but an instant to pass; however, after it was gone he was left with an intuitive feeling that it had something—some vague things—to do with the man’s appearance.
Actually, there was nothing at all sinister about the countenance of the man behind the table. The face, which had seen perhaps fifty years, had a smooth forehead handsomely sculptured to meet temples heavy with silver-slashed black hair. It had an even line of jaw framing a mouth that was strong and firm, but which gave the impression that it would be quickly responsive to humor. A straight, nose cut perfectly between dark, penetrating eyes— It was those eyes, Keyes abruptly realized, that had prompted his sudden moment of anxiety, of—of cold fear as his own sight had focused upon them. They were not cruel eyes, he saw now, not cold or dangerous eyes; but they had about them something very disquieting. That something, he became aware now as he stared at the man, was their obvious power of penetration. Their very depth and clearness bespoke an ability to melt away pretense, to dissolve deceit, to strip away fraud of any kind. The clarity of them, scrutinizing him now in an almost clinical manner, brought to Keyes an involuntary shudder that rose from the very pit of him. He was being examined, he felt uncomfortably, by the eyes of pure truth.
I do not have to stand for this! he thought suddenly, indignantly, sharply remembering who he was. He clenched his fists and strained at the straps that bound his wrists.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded.
“One moment, please, Mr. Keyes,” said a voice from the side of the room.
Frowning, Keyes jerked his head around and for the first time saw a second conference table, identical to the one before him except that it seated not one but six men.
“You will have your opportunity to speak,” said the same voice.
Keyes saw that the speaker was an older man, perhaps seventy, who sat at the head of the table.
“Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Examiner?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Moderator,” replied the dark—eyed man facing Keyes. “May I have the master file on Mr. Keyes, please?”
The elderly man, who had been addressed as Mr. Moderator, pressed a button on the side of his table, and a moment later Keyes heard a door open behind him. A young woman passed his chair and placed a thick sheaf of papers before the man referred to as Mr. Examiner. As she turned to leave, Keyes let his eyes shift from her legs to her breasts. He watched her body until she passed from his line of sight. When he shifted his eyes forward again, he saw that the Examiner was scrutinizing him closely; the deep, penetrating eyes seemed to be appraising his every move.
Glancing sideways, Keyes saw that the other men in the room were also watching him. Their faces were calmly devoid of emotion, studiously blank, almost as if they were staring into space, victims of mass hypnosis; yet it was clear from their eyes that they too were studying him with an unnerving professional interest. Only a younger man, who sat at the farthest end of the table, evinced any outward sign of feeling at all, and his was so slight to have passed unnoticed had not his voice cut sharply into the quiet of the room.
“How does she look to you?” he said to Keyes in an ice cold voice. “Would you like to steal her mind, too? Turn her into an animal, too—”
“Mr. Investigator!” the elderly Moderator interrupted reprehensively. “You are rudely out of order. Such remarks are completely uncalled for.”
“Did you see the way he looked at her?” the young man said, still glaring coldly at Keyes. “Couldn’t you tell what was going on in his mind? It was written all over his face, the filthy thoughts—”
“Mr. Investigator,” the Moderator censured, “we on this panel are not blind by any means. Nor do we need you to interpret Mr. Keyes’ thoughts for us.”
“It is my right,” the Investigator persisted, “to point out to the panel—“
“That will be enough, Mr. Investigator!”
“Gentlemen, please—” a calm precise voic
e intervened. All eyes turned toward the Examiner who sat facing Keyes. “I suggest we all compose ourselves,” he said, and by his very tone seemed to compel that composure. “First of all, let us remember that our esteemed Moderator—” he bowed his head slightly to the elderly man—“is vested with the highest procedural authority here tonight, and—” now he turned toward the young Investigator—“he is not to be argued with in any exertion of that authority. Also—” he looked back at the Moderator—“I think all of us should remember that our very capable young colleague, the Investigator, has perhaps the most distasteful duties of any of us; duties that oftentimes involve him directly in the most sordid of situations. Remember, gentlemen, that he sees much of what we merely hear about. Let us whose duties are less trying have more patience with those whose duties are not.”
A moment of silence followed the Examiner’s remarks. During that moment, the captive Keyes had time to collect his greatly confused thoughts and remember again just who he was.
“Just a minute!” he demanded. “I want to know what’s going on here! Where am I and why am I tied up like this? Just who in hell are you people anyhow?”
“You will find out everything you wish to know in just a moment, Mr. Keyes,” the Examiner said quietly. A thoughtful expression settled briefly on his face. “As to your inquiry about ‘who in hell’ are we, I will tell you that we are simply and exactly just that: people in hell. People in hell, Mr. Keyes; moving toward Eden.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” Mr. Keyes said impatiently.
“You will,” the Examiner assured him, “you will.” He turned to the panel table. “Mr. Moderator, will you read the charges against Mr. Keyes?”
The Moderator rose and opened a portfolio.
“J. Walter Keyes is charged with the crime of Inhumanity—”
“What?” Keyes snapped. “What’s he talking about?”
“Do not interrupt the Moderator,” the Examiner ordered sternly. He nodded toward the elderly man. “Please continue.”
The Moderator cleared his throat. “The specifications to the charge of Inhumanity are as follows: Promoting Depravity, one count; Aiding and Abetting Moral Degeneracy, one count; Undermining Civilization, one count; and Larceny of a Human Mind, one count.”
“Larceny of a human mind!” Keyes said incredulously. “What kind of nonsense is this? I demand to know what’s going on here!”
“You are hardly in a position to demand anything, Mr. Keyes,” the Examiner remarked with barely concealed impatience. “However, in the interest of expediting this matter with a minimum of interruption from you, I will explain what is about to happen here. We, Mr. Keyes—” he gestured toward the panel table—“are members of a group known as the Eden Movement. Our goal is to effect the beginning of a return to the high plane of civilization from which the human race has fallen. Our plan is to turn mankind around and start it back from the totally undesirable level of existence to which it has sunk. We wish to reverse the world and all its people, until a point in eternity has been reached where no mortal would fear another mortal, and where the only worshipped power would again be a divine one.”
The Examiner paused to smile tolerantly at Keyes’ astonished expression.
“Of course, we do not literally expect to return mankind to the Garden of Eden, as our name might imply; realistically speaking, that would be an impossibility. But the Eden Movement does believe that it is still within the power of the human race to return our thinking to such a level. That is our aim, Mr. Keyes—and you are our beginning.”
“Me?” Keyes said, frowning. “What do I have to do with it?”
“You are the Eden Movement’s first subject. These other gentlemen and myself comprise a Truth Court. Our purpose is to lay bare the complete and unbiased truth about you and the way you conduct your life; and to decide, on the basis of that truth, whether you are fit to remain a member of the human race.”
“Why, I never heard of such a ridiculous thing,” Keyes said stiffly. “By what authority does your so—called court exist?”
“By the authority of truth, Mr. Keyes.”
“No, no, I mean by what law?”
“By the law of truth, Mr. Keyes.”
“Now look,” Keyes snapped, “you’re just giving me a lot of double-talk. This isn’t a legal court. How can you people presume to accuse me of anything? Where do you get the right?”
There was a loud grunt from one of the men at the panel table.
“That question alone should be enough to convict him,” a grey—haired man smoking a pipe said pointedly.
“Please do not interrupt, Mr. Psychologist,” said the elderly moderator.
“Sorry,” the man with the pipe lazily apologized.
“You ask,” said the Examiner to Keyes, “where we get the right to accuse you. We were born with the right, Mr. Keyes. Every man is entitled to the truth. It is a birthright of humanity.”
“That’s utter nonsense,” Keyes spat. “I don’t recognize your right to accuse me of anything, or to put me on trial with your outrageous charges, or to judge me in any way!”
“Are you saying,” the Examiner asked ominously, “that you do not recognize the right of truth? Are you saying that you do not believe in truth?”
Keyes parted his lips, ready to storm vehemently that he recognized nothing that intruded upon his life, nothing that invaded his manner of living as he chose to live; however, before the words rose from his throat, he experienced another sudden moment of cold anxiety that caused him to quickly choke off his reply. Something—again some vague thing—in the way the Examiner had asked the question, warned Keyes to hesitate, and gave him cause to think again of the situation in which he found himself.
It was not the question itself that had stirred the captive’s fearful emotion; rather it was the manner in which the question had been asked. There was something in the tone of the Examiner’s voice that subtly seemed to suggest finality; a spiritless end to everything if the question were not answered correctly; as if it was the last, most final question that ever could be asked of a person. There was something almost dreadful about it.
Looking around at the faces in the room, at the way the eyes of the men of the panel were fixed on him so unmovingly, Keyes abruptly sensed that what was happening to him was not something from which he would be able to extricate himself in one of his usual manners. Indignant shuns of non-recognition seemed to be useless against these granite-like men. Equally hollow, he decided, would be any forceful reminders of his wealth, his influence and social position. He began to grow seriously aware for the first time that the fact of his being where he was, his hands and feet strapped to the chair, plus the apparently serious attitudes of the men in the room, attested once and for all to the realization that he could be in some sort of actual danger.
Keyes felt perspiration break out on his upper lip, under the thin, pencil mustache he wore to conceal his inherently weak, almost delicate mouth. Don’t fight, he told himself, don’t try to resist them. Use the old Walt Keyes personality and charm them out of their fanatic notions that he, J. Walter Keyes, might not be fit to remain a member of the human race—
“We are waiting for your answer, Mr. Keyes,” the Examiner said. “Did you mean that you do not recognize the right of truth?”
“No, of course not,” Keyes said easily, smiling widely. “I’m afraid you’ve taken me entirely out of context; I didn’t mean that at all. If all you want is the truth, why, I’ll be happy to cooperate with you. I have nothing to fear from the truth—”
There was a sharp, snapping sound from the direction of the panel table. Keyes and the Examiner turned their eyes in unison and saw that the young Investigator’s face had drained to a bloodless white. In one of his hands was a wooden pencil which he unconsciously had broken in half.
“Are you all right, Mr. Investigator?” the Examiner asked. The Investigator swallowed tightly and wet lips that were very dry.
�
�Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Suppose we proceed then.” The Examiner turned over the top page in the sheaf of papers before him. “The first specification to the charge of Inhumanity that we will concern ourselves with is the crime of Undermining Civilization—”
Three
Devlin walked into his office in the Justice Building the next morning and found a telephone message saying that the Chief Prosecutor wanted to see him at his convenience. He draped one leg over the corner of his desk and called upstairs to the Chief Prosecutor’s secretary.
“This is Devlin. Your boss wanted to see me; is he free?”
The secretary put his call on hold for a moment, then came back on the line and told him to come right up.
He walked down the corridor past the self-service elevators and climbed the stairs to the next floor. The Chief Prosecutor, who has arrived concurrently with Devlin’s call, was unpacking his briefcase when Devlin entered.
“Morning, Dev,” he said easily. “Pull up a chair.” He closed the now empty briefcase, putting it aside, and sat down behind his paper-stacked desk. “Listen, I apologize for having to saddle you with that Keyes thing. It came up rather suddenly late yesterday and you were the only one due back in the office that I could depend on to handle it properly. I wanted it taken care of right because this fellow Simmons has some local political pull. It’s strictly out of your line, I know; I’ll spring you and put somebody else on the case this morning.”
“Up to you,” Devlin said, keeping his voice neutral. He thought of Jennifer Jordan; the touch of her hand that twice had sent an unexpected surge of emotion through him. It had been a long time since a woman had affected him that way. “I can stay on it if you like,” he said tentatively.
