The Devil's Due

by Monique Martin

  The young man's eyes went wide as he seemed to find whom he was searching for. Simon followed his gaze. Sam Roth.

  “Trouble?” Alan asked.

  Roth hadn't noticed and casually ended a conversation with someone, excused himself and exited into the hall. The young man's chest rose and fell quickly with fear and adrenaline. He shoved one hand deeply into his jacket pocket, hunched his shoulders and followed.

  “I'm afraid so,” Simon finally answered. “Elizabeth, please don't—”

  He turned around to ask her not to get involved, but she was already following the young man and Roth from the room. She turned back and waved for them to follow. Simon swore under his breath and ignored Grant's delighted laugh.

  They caught up with Elizabeth at the entrance to the main hallway. The boy looked around nervously and nearly caught them staring right at him.

  “Don't talk to me about the Academy!” Grant said suddenly. “Laughton is a hack!” He spun around, his back to the boy now, and nearly bumped into one of Roth's prized statues as he stood sloppily in front of Simon and Elizabeth.

  It took Simon a moment to realize what Grant was doing. “A travesty,” Simon said loudly joining Grant's argument mid-flow.

  Grant thumped Simon on the chest in agreement. “I could have played Henry the VIII and two of his wives with both hands tied behind my back!”

  Simon could see the boy dart into a room and nodded to Alan who stopped swaying and fell in with them. The trio continued down the hall.

  “I love Charles Laughton,” Elizabeth said softly.

  “Traitor.”

  They inched down the hall and came to the door the boy had gone through. Thankfully, he'd been in such a rush, he hadn't closed it behind him. Inside the study, Sam Roth stood, hands in the air and a dark scowl on his face. The boy held a revolver leveled at Roth's chest.

  His hand trembled and his finger inched closer to the trigger. “She was my sister.”

  “Take it easy, kid,” Roth said, trying to inch closer to his desk. “Who was your sister?”

  “Sara!” The boy took a stuttering step closer. “Sara Brown!”

  “I don't know her. You're mixed up. Look, kid—”

  “No.” The boy shook his head. “No, she was mixed up. And you did it to her.”

  Roth shook his head and then noticed the trio at the doorway. His eyes went wide and the boy spun around, following his gaze.

  Simon's heart raced and he started to step in front of Elizabeth to shield her.

  “Stop!” the boy yelled. He spun back and forth between Roth and the door. “Get in,” he said, waving the gun at them. “Shut it.”

  The three of them slowly made their way around the perimeter of the study until they were near Sam Roth.

  The boy was breathing hard now, caught between panic and anger. “You were part of it, weren't you?”

  “Listen son,” Roth said.

  Tears were streaming down the boy's face. “I am not your son. I was her brother. And you and your lies, they killed her.”

  “Ruby?” Elizabeth said.

  The boy's attention and the gun he held moved toward her. Simon's hand inched closer to Elizabeth's arm, ready to snatch her from the line of fire.

  The boy's face crumpled for a moment. His expression held such a look of pain and sorrow Simon was struck by the force of it. “That's what they turned her into.”

  “I'm sorry about your sister, kid, but—” Sam said.

  “Shut up!” The boy turned his attention back to Sam, but he was growing more panicky and more dangerous by the minute. “That's not what he said. He said you tricked her. You turned her into something she wasn't. You killed her.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Simon saw Elizabeth take a step closer to Roth. He groaned inwardly. Damn it, what was she doing? She raised her hands in front her showing she was no threat. Simon wanted to grab her and pull her back to his side, but any movement might set the boy off.

  “What's your name?” she asked.

  “What does it…” he started, but a woman's presence and her soothing voice seemed to get through to him. “Walter.”

  “This isn't what…Sara would have wanted, is it, Walter?”

  Walter seemed to be wavering, but his finger was still on the trigger and the gun was still pointed at Roth, and damned if Elizabeth wasn't standing at his side now.

  “She wouldn't want you to hurt anyone or get yourself hurt, would she, Walter?”

  She was getting through to him now. Simon could see the doubt clouding his eyes.

  “Yeah, kid,” Roth said. “Don't be stupid.”

  As soon as Roth spoke the words, Simon knew it had been a mistake. Walter's expression changed in an instant. His hand stilled and his face hardened.

  “You sonofa—”

  Simon lunged forward, knowing he was too far away, knowing he'd be too late. As he leapt forward, something flew past his head and struck Walter's arm just as the gun fired. The puff of smoke lingered in the air as the gun fell out of the boy's grip just as Simon collided with him. They landed in a tangled heap on the floor.

  The boy cried out with pain and gripped his forearm with his free hand.

  “Elizabeth!”

  Simon pushed off the boy and kicked the gun across the room. Grant picked it up and Simon hurried over to Elizabeth. She and Roth had fallen back onto his desk.

  “Are you hurt?” Simon asked, reaching out to her.

  “I'm okay.”

  Simon let out a fast breath and turned to Roth who nodded that he was all right too. Simon helped him stand. The bullet hole in the portrait of Roth behind the desk was silent testament to how close they'd come.

  “Everyone all right?” Grant asked as he stood over the boy, gun in one hand. He bent down and picked up the golden Oscar statuette from the ground at his feet. “Charles Laughton, my ass.”

  Walter seemed to be in a state of shock and sat quietly, head down, cradling his injured arm. Grant helped him into a chair and sat down opposite him and lit a cigarette. Partygoers who'd heard the shot hurried into the study. Some offered genuine concern, but it seemed most were merely concerned with making sure they were part of a story sure to be front-page news tomorrow.

  Sam Roth's wife, an attractive middle-aged woman with graying hair and too many strands of pearls, fluttered in. She was in quite a state, despite Roth's repeated assurances that he was fine. At Roth's urging a couple helped his wife from the room and promised to look after her. Just as Roth had managed to sweep the room clear again, two blasted photographers even managed to get off a few quick shots before he slammed the study door in their faces.

  Simon could hardly care about any of that, about any of them. He was focused on Elizabeth, his brave and deranged wife, who stood safe and at his side. Her cheeks were still flushed with the blush of adrenaline. It was deeply bothersome that she positively glowed after nearly being killed and even more troubling that he'd seen her in that state more than once.

  “Are you sure you're not hurt?” he asked again.

  She sighed and then smoothed down her dress. Her eyes went wide in alarm. “Oh no.”

  Simon's heart seized in his chest. “What's wrong?”

  She wrinkled her nose and turned her hip to the side. “I ripped it.”

  “Elizabeth,” Simon breathed. He really needed to take up jogging again. His heart couldn't take much more of this.

  The police arrived a few minutes later and as they were escorting Walter out of the room, Benny Roth arrived. It could have been Simon's imagination, but something seemed to pass between the two men. It was difficult to say though as Benny hurried to his brother's side. It seemed that Walter was hardly in his right mind, but Simon filed away the incident nonetheless.

  “Nice of you to show,” Sam said to his brother.

  “I got caught up with things.” He looked at the bullet hole that tore through the midsection of the portrait behind the desk. “Close call.”

  “Too cl
ose. Be dead if it weren't for them. Comedy writers. Finally good for something,” he said with a smirk, but his gratitude bled through the casual comment.

  Benny Roth gave them both a quick once over and walked over to Simon. “Have we met? You look familiar.”

  “You probably saw us at the studio,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yeah, I guess that's it,” Benny said. Sam Roth made quick introductions.

  Benny's expression was tight, forced. Perhaps he was just upset about nearly losing his brother. “I suppose I should thank you.” He stuck out his hand for Simon to shake. “For saving my brother's life.”

  Simon shook it. “We just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

  Benny nodded thoughtfully.

  There was a knock on the study door and two police officers entered. “We know you've been through a lot, but we've gotta get statements.”

  Benny Roth turned to his brother. “I'll go check on Midge.”

  Sam nodded his thanks and Benny Roth slipped between the officers and out the door. The officer with the ruddy, pockmarked face took off his cap and approached Simon and Elizabeth. “I'll try not to keep ya too long.”

  The questions were cursory and routine. They seemed to have made up their mind before the investigation had even started. Walter Brown was an angry young man, avenging what he saw as the murder of his beloved sister.

  “He did say something about a 'him',” Elizabeth said. “Remember, Simon? He said something like 'he said you'd say that' or something.”

  The officer scribbled something in his notebook. “Any idea who this 'him' is?”

  “No,” Elizabeth said.

  “You?” the officer asked Simon.

  Simon remembered the exchanged glance between Benny Roth and the boy. Roth certainly had something to gain from his brother's death, but…”No,” Simon said. “No idea, I'm afraid.”

  The officer stared at Simon for a long moment and then nodded. “Thanks.” He glanced at his notes. “You be at the Ambassador for a few more days?”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said.

  “Good,” the officer said with a smile. “We'll be in touch.”

  Strangely, an attempted murder hadn't put an end to the party. If anything, it seemed to have re-energized it. However, Simon had had his fill and convinced Grant and Elizabeth it was time to leave. He hadn't forgotten their earlier secret, and waited impatiently for them to offer it up on the drive to Grant's home.

  It wasn't until they were safely tucked away from the world in Grant's living room that Simon reached his limit. “What happened earlier?”

  Elizabeth flopped down onto the sofa and kicked off her shoes. “Attempted murder, mayhem, a little dancing.”

  Grant made a tray of drinks and started toward the coffee table.

  Simon was not amused. “Earlier. What happened earlier when I went in search of Grant?”

  Grant doubled back and added a full bottle of scotch to the tray, paused and then added another.

  Elizabeth stopped massaging her feet, tucked them up under her and settled deep into the sofa cushions. She frowned and rubbed her arm in thought. “I'm not sure.”

  “That's not an answer,” Simon said. “Elizabeth—”

  “Don’t be too hard on her,” Grant said as he set down the tray and offered Simon a drink. Simon took the glass, but placed it untouched on the side table next to the sofa. “Thorn has that effect on people.”

  “Thorn.” Just the mere mention of the man's name made Simon tense. “What did he do?”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “Nothing. I think. I was in the hall waiting for you and then he was just there.”

  “He materialized out of nowhere?” Simon asked.

  Elizabeth gave him a sour look. “No. He came up behind me and was admiring the art.”

  “I'm sure,” Simon said as he paced behind the side chair adjacent to the sofa. He felt an irrational surge of jealousy and pushed it aside.

  If Elizabeth noticed his reaction, she ignored it. “And then Alan was there, and…”

  Grant took the seat opposite Simon's chair.

  “And…” Simon prompted.

  “I'm not sure,” Elizabeth said with a frown and looked helplessly to Grant.

  “And?” Simon said to him, patience wearing very thin now.

  “And I think you'd better sit down.”

  Why was it people said that? Was it supposed to somehow soften the blow? All it managed to do was heighten Simon's already pulsating anxiety. In lieu of strangling the truth out of everyone in the room, he forced himself to sit down and gestured for Grant to continue.

  “And your drink,” Grant said. “You might want—”

  “What I want,” Simon said angrily, “is to know what the bloody hell is going on!”

  “Simon…”

  “No,” Grant said, “I don't blame him. He has every right.” He leaned back in his chair and stared into the bottom of his glass before speaking. “Edgar Thorn is an…unusual man. People often feel the way Elizabeth does right now, confused and unsure, after an encounter.”

  Simon frowned. “Encounter? That's an odd choice of words.”

  “Is it? Edgar Thorn is an odd sort of man. Or no man at all.”

  “What is it you're not saying, Mr. Grant?” Simon asked with far more patience than he had or Grant deserved.

  Grant pondered the question for a moment and then nodded, seemingly coming to some sort of conclusion. “What I'm about to tell you will sound absurd, even insane perhaps, but I assure you, I believe it with all my heart.”

  He stood and walked over to a bookcase, scanning the shelves briefly before pulling down an old leather-bound volume. Grant pushed out a breath and carried the book over to Simon.

  “Are you familiar with the story of Faust?” he said as he held it out to him.

  Simon looked at the book — Christopher Marlowe's The Tragicall History of the Life and Death of Doctor Faustus. “In the play, a German scholar, dissatisfied with the limits of knowledge, of his life, learns the black arts and summons Mephistopheles, a messenger for the Devil. Faustus offers Satan a bargain. In exchange for, I think it was 24 years of knowledge and power, Faustus will give the Devil—”

  “His soul,” Grant finished for him.

  “It's an ancient legend,” Simon said. “It predates Marlowe by several hundred years, perhaps more. From Paganini to military generals, people have claimed a deal with the devil has given them special powers or used it to justify witch hunts.”

  Grant arched an eyebrow. “You're quite knowledgeable on the topic.”

  Simon put the book aside. “I'm an academic. I've studied things like this for many years. But I fail to see what this has to do with Thorn.”

  “Seven years ago, I was playing Richard the III in Poughkeepsie,” Grant said as he walked over to stand in front of a fireless hearth. “Of course, back then I was Alan Krueger.” He turned to face them, arms out at his sides. “Everything about me is a lie. I was born in New Jersey, for God's sake.”

  “What happened in Poughkeepsie?” Simon asked, hoping to keep Grant from falling off the rails completely.

  “Nothing,” Grant said. “Nothing ever happens in Poughkeepsie.” He walked back over to his chair, but didn't sit. “And so, like every wide-eyed idiot, I came to Hollywood to seek my fame and fortune. And I was cast as 'Man Dying of Scurvy' in the Sea Beast. Fame and fortune seemed very far away. Until I met—”

  “Thorn,” Elizabeth said.

  Grant nodded. “He was very persuasive. I thought he was joking at first, of course, but he had a way about him. As though he could see inside you and move the pieces around.”

  “Yes,” Simon said, remembering how he'd felt upon meeting Thorn. “But surely, you're not suggesting Thorn is some sort of Mephistopheles.”

  “No.” Grant sank down into his chair. “I think,” he said, leaning back. “He's the Devil himself.”

  Simon shook his head slowly. “You'll forgive me, bu
t that seems a bit of a stretch.”

  “It's absurd, isn't it?” Grant said. “And yet. After I signed my contract, everything I'd wished for came true. I'd spent years trying to do what he accomplished for me in the blink of an eye.”

  “He's a man with a lot of power at the studio, isn’t he?” Elizabeth said. “He didn't need any supernatural help to create a career for you.”

  “I told myself that at first. But then as I saw what he did for…to other people, I began to doubt.”

  “People like Ruby?” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes.”

  Simon shook his head. “That's hardly evidence of a demonic presence on the earthly plane. Thorn is a powerful manipulator,” Simon said, “But beyond that…”

  Grant shed his coat and unbuttoned his shirtsleeve. “After I signed the contract, this appeared the next morning.” He rolled his sleeve up to his bicep, took his handkerchief out and rubbed at the inner crease of his elbow. Once the covering make-up was gone, a small, raised bluish mark took shape. He sat forward and presented it for them to see.

  Elizabeth moved closer to get a better look. “The Devil's mark.”

  Grant nodded. “We all have them.”

  Simon was still far from convinced. Natural explanations far outstripped the supernatural ones at this point, although, it would be foolish to dismiss any possibility out of hand quite yet. He moved to sit next to Elizabeth and reached out to touch the scar. Grant pulled back. “I'm not afraid of it,” Simon said.

  “You should be.”

  “Devil's mark or not, it's not contagious.” He felt along the skin. “Slightly raised, some sort of brand.” Simon leaned back into the cushions. “That's hardly proof. Something like that can be produced with conventional means. A small branding iron.”

  Grant rolled down his sleeve. “I think I'd remember that.”

  “Yes, but Thorn is a master manipulator. Perhaps, he uses drugs somehow to magnify his powers of persuasion.”

  Simon ticked off a list of potential causal agents in his mind, discarding most as quickly as he thought of them.

  “Wait a minute,” Elizabeth said. “You said, 'We all have them.'“

  “Yes, that poor girl Ruby, Benny Roth and at least two other men who are already dead.”