With two citizens to confirm his bogus watery suicide, the success of Wagner’s plan was assured. He must now move to execute his own role in it, and let the future take care of itself. He would be a new man: surely opportunities would find him. He might even go so far as to write his novel.
He checked the situations of the only two other human beings with whom he shared the early-morning landscape: if they were friends, lovers, they might be too distracted by each other to observe him.
But their conjunction, which occurred now, was anything but amiable. The man, a husky specimen, had seized the woman from behind. Her struggles were ineffectual within his grasp. He carried her to the very cluster of trees where Wagner invisibly stood, hurled her to the earth, displayed a long-bladed knife, and addressed her with intense hatred.
“Bitch, I’m going to take your money, come in your mouth, and slice you up.”
Wagner found a rock the size of a fist, and clamping it in his fingers, he swung it as hard as he could against the skull of the prospective thief, rapist, and murderer. But the man was in motion at the instant of the blow and thus inadvertently escaped the full force of it. He was hurt and bleeding; but seething with increased energy, he spun about and slashed the air with his blade and cut a slit in the sleeve of Wagner’s jacket, though he could not have known that. In fact he knew nothing, for he could see nothing, and he cursed violently and continued to stab the air.
“Go on,” Wagner shouted at the woman on the ground, “run away!”
But she failed to act on the advice, which perhaps was unconvincing without a visible source, and her attacker, with flashing knife, turned back to the business for which he had come, not in the least deterred by his bleeding head.
Wagner had to strike him twice again before the man reluctantly buckled at the knees, slowly fell as it were in sections, and at last lay prone and unconscious.
Wagner seized the fallen knife and hurled it into the river. Then he knelt by the woman, who as it proved had not responded to his earlier directions, because she had fainted.
He remembered to become visible before gently agitating her to consciousness. She had exceptionally beautiful eyes.
“My name is Fred Wagner,” said he. “This thug is out of action at the moment, but I urge you to get up and leave before he comes to. Even though I got rid of his knife, he looks like he still could be an ugly customer.”
She sat up and stared at the recumbent form of her attacker. Then she gave Wagner her wonderful eyes once more. “You did that?”
He shrugged. “Yes. ... If you think you have the strength, maybe you could go up to the street and call the police. I don’t want to leave this guy.”
“But what about you?” she asked with concern. “Are you armed?”
He considered whether he should reveal that he possessed the ability to become invisible at will, which was really more effective than any weapon, but he decided against doing so, for the result might well be that regardless of the circumstances she would no longer take him seriously.
“I’ll be all right,” he finally told her. “For all I know, he might even be dead.”
As if on cue, the fallen monster groaned and stirred.
“Oh-oh,” Wagner said, seizing his rock again. “Please go get the cops.”
The young woman complied with his plea, starting off somewhat shakily, but soon she had conquered the short hillside and was crossing the street above. Wagner prudently tied the criminal’s hands together in the small of the back, using the man’s shoelaces, and with his own belt bound him at the ankles.
When the police arrived, leaving their car up on the street and walking down to the riverbank, they too were impressed with Wagner’s performance.
“You did this?” asked one of them.
“I guess it was dumb of me to throw the knife in the water,” said Wagner. “It’s evidence, isn’t it?”
“Not deep there. We’ll have somebody get it.” Though the cops were different in appearance, they had almost identical voices: had they been invisible, they could not have been distinguished each from each. They now lifted the perpetrator to his feet. Despite his wounded head, when the hobble was removed he was ambulatory if pushed.
It was necessary for Wagner and the lady to come to the precinct house to make a full report, and the police considerately radioed for transportation so that they would not have to ride with their assailant.
While they stood waiting on the street corner, Catherine Rider, for such was her name, noticed the slit in the arm of Wagner’s jacket.
“You’re wounded!”
“No,” said he. “It didn’t reach the skin.”
“It certainly ruined your suit. I’m going to reimburse you.”
Wagner protested. “No need for that, really.”
“Oh, listen,” said Catherine. “You saved my life, Fred.”
“I did what anybody could have done.”
She continued to give him her intense brown eyes. “Oh, come on, my God, he was huge, and a knife besides? You’re a brave man, Fred. You’re a real hero. Don’t they give some kind of medal for doing such things? I’m going to look into it: I want you to be famous.” She touched her chest and panted. “My heart’s beating like crazy. It’s a delayed reaction.”
Wagner said hastily, “You’re going to be perfectly all right, Catherine. You’re being looked after. Just breathe as deeply and regularly as you can.”
After a few moments she said, “Sorry. I’ll be OK.” She finally managed to produce a smile. “You know just what to do! You’re not an undercover operative of some kind, are you? A secret agent—I mean, for our side?”
Again Wagner considered whether he should reveal the only secret in his possession, but again he decided against so doing: whatever else could be accomplished thereby, the experience would be cheapened.
“Now, now,” he said, not really answering her question (whether or not it had been seriously asked), “you just try to put this behind you.”
She took his hand. “Fred, I’m really grateful. You’re too good to be true: fearless, gallant, yet modest all the same.” She shrugged and winced as if in apology and let his hand go. “I’m getting married next week. ... But Alan will be as grateful as I am. You’d like him, Fred. Maybe you could come to dinner, at least? Alan’s a violinist—if you like music?” Her eyes, widening with the question, grew somewhat less lustrous.
A police car was coming. “Here we go,” said Wagner. “Look, Catherine, please stop worrying about how to compensate me for merely doing what would be any citizen’s duty. Believe me, I have already been richly rewarded.”
Now that invisibility had been proved so effective in the prevention of crime, he felt otherwise about disappearing for good. Perhaps it was unrealistic to expect that the opportunity to rescue a beautiful maiden from dire peril would come every day, but obviously his peculiar gift could be used in many ways to further the cause of common decency.
It was only after he and Catherine had discharged their immediate responsibilities at the police station in the matter of the assailant (who was elaborately named Upton Quincy Flippens and was further identified as a mental patient on furlough from a state facility) that Wagner experienced his own delayed reaction to the fight. He had done his best to brain a man. That the man in reference else might have committed murder was now theoretical. His own role had been actual, and now he was feeling by turns chilly and on fire. In this condition it made sense for him to find refuge.
On arriving invisibly at his apartment he was relieved to find that Mary Alice had carried out her threat to decamp, and, according to the note she had left behind, not too bitterly.
FRED—
Maybe it’s just as well you let me down before a terrible mistake was made. I see now that despite a superficial physical compatibility (which due to my inexperience I might have been exaggerating), there is a vast difference between our ethical beliefs. To be frank, when you didn’t come out and face up to
my dad, I guess I began to realize I couldn’t continue to look up to you with personal respect. In other words, I came back down to earth, and in fact I called up Jackie Grinzing and apologized, and in view of the fact that training two new people really would be a strain, with Gordon leaving soon as well, she gave me my job back. I’m sorry to say she is not willing to make you the same offer though.
Take care, Fred,
M. A. PHILLIPS
Sandra telephoned him early that evening. “Thank God,” she said as soon as he answered. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Was I that awful that you had to go and hide?” But before he could respond, she announced, “The fact is, Miles came home all of a sudden.”
With all that he had been through, Wagner was blasé and asked easily, “From the dead?”
“It’s not as complicated as it sounds,” said Sandra, “and since I’m just calling you on my break, I can’t explain in detail, but the man who was killed was carrying Miles’s driver’s license for some reason. When the ceiling fell on him, his appearance was altered. It was simple to assume he was Miles, and this suited Miles’s purpose, for if he was thought to be dead he could get out of certain financial obligations he had to people who were pretty impatient about collecting.”
“That makes sense,” said Wagner. “But now that he’s turned up, won’t the mob find out?”
“He snuck in late one night,” said Sandra, “and he hasn’t left the apartment since.” She chuckled shrilly. “Isn’t it a good thing I wasn’t in bed with you? That’s why I’ve been trying to get hold of you ever since. Miles is an awfully jealous person.”
“I understand.”
“Do you really, Fred?”
“It was a joy while it lasted.”
“You’re awfully swell to say that,” said Sandra. “I can certainly add, ‘Likewise.’ Now I’m due back at the harp. So long, Fred, and when we meet in the hall we can just say hi and there won’t be any harm in it.”
Ignoring his suicide note, the hospital sent Wagner an enormous bill for his stay of one night, and he received separate statements, also for gargantuan sums, from the surgeon and the anesthetist whom he had stood up, and for the visit to Dr. Leprak.
Catherine Rider proved to be persistent in the matter of asking Wagner to come to dinner and meet her fiancé. There was a limit as to how many dates on which he could pretend to be occupied without hurting her feelings, and he finally had to accept an invitation.
Catherine was exquisite in claret-red velvet. Alan, whose last name Wagner did not quite hear, was a dark, wiry, intense-looking man.
“Alan,” Catherine said, “especially wanted to thank you for what you did.”
“I expected somebody a lot huskier,” said Alan. “You took quite a risk for this girl of mine.” He gestured Wagner to an upholstered chair rather too near, almost under, a grand piano, and without asking brought him a glass of something colorless without identifying it. It smelled like quinine water.
Catherine disappeared into the rear of the apartment, perhaps into the kitchen. Alan sat down at the end of a green sofa, not especially near Wagner. He bent in his guest’s direction.
“Look here, Fred,” said he. “We’re music people. We’re nonviolent. Would you be offended if Katie dropped the charges against this Flippens?”
“The man is a walking terror,” said Wagner. “He threatened to kill Catherine, and I gather he has a record of such crimes.”
“In this case, it was an attempt only,” said Alan, leaning back against the cushions of the sofa, a place Wagner would much rather have been sitting. “The fact is, he didn’t succeed.”
“He oughtn’t get an opportunity to try again.”
“That’s one argument,” said Alan, rubbing the tip of his sharp nose, “but I think we’ve suffered enough. We don’t want to be targets of retaliation.”
Catherine served a casserole. Wagner could reflect that it was the first time he had ever found seafood truly delicious. She looked even more lovely by candlelight, with her sleek dark head, hair parted in the middle, and an expanse of bare upper bosom. She taught piano and sometimes performed herself at recitals. She had not been out for exercise on that fateful morning: she had been in transit to a place from which a peregrine falcon’s nest could be seen, high in the girders of the bridge.
Wagner, who knew little of music and less of birds, found all of this very romantic.
“I’ll come to see you perform,” said he. “But I really do think we should get Flippens off the street.”
Alan said, “Well, I just don’t think we can, Fred—for the reasons aforementioned. We could too easily be waylaid.”
“Not by Flippens,” said Wagner. “He’d be in confinement.”
“But he got out before, didn’t he?”
“We absolutely have to stop this guy,” Wagner said, making a fist. “Whatever it takes.”
Alan was shaking his head. He poured more wine for himself; he had already drunk a good deal and was showing it.
Catherine offered more French bread in a napkin-lined silver basket. She seemed to be silently appealing to Wagner, though as to quite what he could not say.
“I’ll give you my protection,” he suddenly told her. “I did it before, when I didn’t even know you.”
She gazed at him. “You certainly did.”
“Who are you, Fred?” Alan asked in too loud a voice. “Some karate expert or something? A vigilante of some sort? I tell you: I don’t care who or what does the violence, I don’t really approve of it, and I don’t want any personal part of it.” He swallowed some more wine.
“You have nothing to fear, my lady,” Wagner told Catherine, who had begun to assume a place in his imagination. “I won’t let anyone touch you as you go about your life.”
“Oh,” cried Alan, “and isn’t that a handsome promise! And how do you propose to carry it out, sir? That man is a homicidal maniac. The only way to deal with him is to stay out of his way.”
Catherine said quietly, “I believe in Fred.”
After a moment Alan rose from the table. His napkin continued to adhere to his suit for a while, owing to static electricity. “All right,” he said to Catherine. “All right for you.”
Noticing the napkin, he tore it away and dropped it on the tablecloth. He turned and lurched out of the apartment.
“Oh-oh,” said Wagner, with fake guilt, “it looks like I’ve been a troublemaker.”
“Alan can’t stand it if I oppose him in anything,” said Catherine. “But I hope you don’t think too badly of him. He’s not really a coward. It’s just that—”
“I’m in love with you,” Wagner said. “Forgive me for interrupting, but I wanted to say that before he comes back.”
“He won’t be back,” she said. “Not tonight.”
“Doesn’t he live here?”
“No, he doesn’t. He’ll call back and want to talk it over. I hurt his pride by disagreeing, you see. He won’t return till we’ve got that straightened out.”
“Don’t straighten it out, Catherine,” Wagner said impulsively. “Be mine.”
She smiled inscrutably into her wine glass.
“I wasn’t lying when I said I was a writer,” he went on. “Actually I am, but not really the kind you might think. I have always wanted to be that kind, but now I suspect I won’t ever be. At the moment I don’t even have a job. You might think I’ve got my nerve in speaking to you this way at all.”
She looked at him. “No, I don’t, Fred.”
“You’re being hospitable,” said Wagner. “Yet, if I do say so myself, I am more than meets the eye—by being, so to speak, less. You may not believe this, but I can become invisible at will.”
Catherine nodded. “Of course I believe you.”
“It’s my only real talent when all is said and done. It’s the only reason why I could subdue Flippens.”
“It must be a marvelous gift,” Catherine said. “I sensed there was something very special abo
ut you from the first.”
“You’re not dubious?”
“You saved my life.”
“I don’t intend to trade on that episode forever,” Wagner said. “I think I might well be able to find just the right use for my talent as a career, or perhaps more than one, but I’ll need help.”
The telephone rang. Catherine said, “That will be Alan.” She found an instrument on a table near the doorway, lifted it, and listened for a moment, then said, “I think you are wrong.”
She returned to the dinner table. “There have always been a lot of his ideas that I haven’t liked. I rarely have had the nerve to tell him.”
“Well,” said Wagner, “will you be mine?”
“It’s awfully soon.”
“It’s just that I’m impatient right now,” said Wagner. “I’ve wasted so much time. Things have only begun to clear up since I got here to your home. But you don’t have to take my word for what I can do. I’ll give you a demonstration.” He became invisible where he sat.
Catherine sighed in admiration and addressed the chair. “That’s wonderful, Fred.”
Silently he had got to his feet and crossed the room to the sideboard. “I’m over here now.”
“It works perfectly,” said Catherine. “It’s really a wonder.”
Wagner realized he could slip around back of her chair and embrace her from behind, but he was no Flippens.
“You’re not frightened?”
She smiled into empty space. “With you looking after me?”
“Oh, good,” said Wagner. “I love you, Catherine.”
“This whole thing has come about so suddenly for me,” she said. “You understand, I’m very fond of Alan, whom I’ve known for years. And then we have music in common.”
Wagner had unthinkingly returned to his chair. Catherine was still looking where he had been. “I’m back here,” he said, materializing.
Catherine turned with her usual serenity. “Gosh, isn’t that something!”
“Life is going by as we speak,” Wagner said. “Great things are waiting to be done, and I sense that you and I could do them. We’ll start by getting Flippens put away securely. And if you reflect, only you and I are capable of doing that at this time. But though necessary, that’s essentially a negative act. It will just clear the stage for some positive, creative accomplishments. You’ve seen my potential. What I need is someone who believes in me. I think you’re that person. I want you to know it’s a lot more than mere sexual attraction: it’s important to me that you yourself are a performing artist.”
Being Invisible Page 23
