Donovan’s Brain

by Curt Siodmak

  For a moment I was too shocked to move. Then I picked up the picture and turned it face down on the table.

  “You can have the negative,” Yocum proposed quietly.

  As I leaned forward he stood up quickly, afraid I might strike him. I managed to look impassive.

  “I don’t want it. What would I do with it?” I asked.

  He smiled, but his chin trembled. He had been working himself up to this moment so long. He wanted money. It seemed actually within his reach.

  Obviously he needed it badly. His suit was shiny and the shirt front beneath it nothing but a starched dickey. When he moved I saw he was naked inside his coat.

  He grew pale as he saw how I stood there just smiling. His eyes red and hungry and deep-sunk in his gaunt face, glared desperately.

  “Who gave you permission to photograph the body?” I asked.

  He did not answer, but, sitting down again, he said passionately: “Donovan’s family would pay a big price for this. They’ll be interested in knowing you stole W. H.’s brain!”

  I leaned back in my chair, shocked by his outburst. What did he know about Donovan’s brain?

  “And here is another one,” he said with relish. He felt he had me in a corner now, and he enjoyed the advantage.

  He put the picture on the table. It had been photographed through the window of my laboratory at night. He used a flash bulb; the vessel and electric apparatus showed up clearly. He had touched up the picture with a brush and marked the brain.

  Yocum sighed and licked a film of saliva across his lips. The typical neurotic, he had maneuvered himself into a spot where he could not back out without losing his skin.

  I wondered what Donovan would have done with this desperate imbecile. I was not used to dealing with blackmailers, and the fool might ruin my whole experiment.

  There was no use trying to buy him off. If I got the negatives, he would go to Donovan’s family with other prints. He was not going to miss any tricks. His single-mindedness increased the danger. His type stops at nothing.

  I had no money.

  “How much do you want for the negatives?” I asked.

  He grinned and nervously touched a dirty handkerchief to his lips.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  I got up. He hugged his brief-case close to him. His eyes were pleading. He had lost all his air of assurance and was only pitiful.

  “All right,” I said. “But I don’t have that much money on me. And you don’t want a check.”

  If I could stall him off for a day I might find a way out Donovan had to do something to save us. If only I could get in touch with him!

  “You’ll find me at the Ontra Cafeteria, Hollywood and Vine, at eight tonight,” he said, looking past me with an expression of mingled sullenness and excitement.

  Abruptly he turned and walked away, his shoulders hunched up to his ears.

  Two hundred miles from Washington Junction and my laboratory, I suddenly felt incapable of the task which had been set for me. It presented seemingly unsurmountable difficulties now.

  I sat down in one of the soft chairs in the lobby and tried to organize a campaign. When I closed my eyes, I felt creeping upon me the strange sensation that always preceded the brain’s messages.

  My mind dimmed and though I could still recognize my own thoughts, they were hidden behind a transparent screen, cut off from my full consciousness.

  I felt a strong urge to get up. Obediently I rose and left the hotel, walking down the street, stopping for traffic signals, moving perfunctorily, guided by Donovan’s will.

  I did not resist the powerful impulse which propelled me.

  Donovan’s brain did not vacillate. It was closed to new impressions, shut off from new ideas, which flow across the ordinary mind in an unending stream, always to distract it. Donovan’s brain was thinking straight and to the point, the one point only. Its single thought propelled me.

  I stopped at the California Merchants Bank, which I had seen in my dream. I pushed open the door and walked over to the teller, who, as I had visioned him, was sallow faced and black-mustached. I asked for a blank check, stepped back to the writing-desk, and picked up a pen in my left hand.

  I filled out the check to cash, fifty thousand dollars, signed the name Roger Hinds in Donovan’s handwriting, and carefully drew an ace of spades in the upper right-hand corner.

  Not for a moment did I doubt that the cashier would give me the money. He picked up the check, then looked startled.

  “Mr. Hinds?” he asked.

  “In big bills,” I answered, disregarding the question.

  “Please endorse the check yourself on the back, sir,” he said, to find out my name.

  I wrote Patrick F. Cory in my own handwriting.

  He stared at it irresolutely.

  “Make it big bills,” I heard myself repeat as the man disappeared with a murmured excuse.

  The policeman at the door moved forward to keep an eye on me. I knew I must have aroused his suspicion, but still not the slightest apprehension, nor even the thought of preparing an explanation, entered my mind.

  It was Donovan who acted. I was perfectly at ease, let him take care of everything.

  “The manager wants to see you, Mr. Cory.” The man with the mustache had come back and was leading me over to a small office.

  A bald-headed man sat behind a brown desk. He got up, muttered his name, and asked: “Mr. Hinds?”

  “I am Patrick Cory, M.D.,” I said, and the man turned over the check and nodded. He offered me a chair, waited in silence till the door opened again, and another man entered.

  “This is Mr. Mannings, Dr. Cory.”

  The newcomer had the unmistakable look of a private detective. We shook hands.

  “Would you mind answering a few questions, Dr. Cory?”

  “Is anything wrong with the check?” I asked.

  The manager looked at the detective, but at the same time answered my question with a nod.

  “No. We have compared this signature with the original signature of Mr. Hinds. It is the same, undoubtedly. Also the sign in the corner proves it, the ace of spades. Mr. Hinds demanded that only checks so marked be honored.”

  He was speaking quickly, eager to convince himself he was not making a mistake.

  “If you made out the check yourself, you must be Mr. Hinds and not Dr. Cory,” the detective entered the conversation.

  Instead of answering, I put my doctor’s credentials down in front of him.

  “Am I obliged to inform you about my private affairs?” I asked quietly.

  “Of course not,” the manager hastened to assure me. “Only this account was opened under extraordinary circumstances.”

  He waited for me to say something, but when I sat silent, he continued: “We received quite a large sum of money and a letter from Mr. Hinds, who did not give us his address and is unknown to us with the request that we open an account for him. A commercial account. No interest.”

  He stressed the fact that he found it strange for so large a sum to be deposited where it would earn no interest. It was against his business principles.

  “That was nearly twelve years ago. Now the first check is drawn against the account, and you have signed it. If you are not Mr. Hinds, we would be happy to receive some information about the gentleman, because,” he smiled wanly, “the bank likes to know the clients it is serving.”

  “You mean in case of stolen money?” I asked.

  “Oh no. We know what bank the notes came from. We always check on that.” The manager spoke with professional pride. “But Mr. Hinds…”

  “I am Dr. Cory. Will you please cash the check now? I am in a hurry!” I got up.

  The manager rose too, distressed.

  “You’re within your legal rights, Dr. Cory, not to answer questions,” the detective said, but there was a hidden threat in his voice.

  Half an hour later I walked out of the bank with my pockets bulging with money. What should I d
o with it? Pay the blackmailer?

  I bought a brief-case, stuffed the money into it, and went back to the hotel. I felt tired as always when the brain had communicated with me. I went upstairs to rest and wait for further orders.

  Janice was in town. She had left a message for me to ring her at Cedars at Lebanon Hospital. Schratt had told her where I was staying.

  I was at a loss to understand what the brain intended to do. To all appearances it had prepared itself to meet Yocum’s demand or it would not have sent me to the bank. The brain seemed to want me to pay Yocum and get the negatives, but still I had received no definite order.

  Lying on my bed in the hotel room waiting for Donovan to communicate with me, I felt that I had reached the borderline of sanity, beyond which the firm rational ground falls away from under our feet.

  I picked up the phone to call Schratt, but I must have asked for the hospital, because Cedars of Lebanon answered. Since I was connected anyway, I asked for Janice.

  When I heard her voice, distant and full of happy surprise, I suddenly felt calm.

  Promising Janice to see her one day soon, I quickly hung up.

  I had to meet Yocum, and after that I would go back home to continue the research myself. There was nothing to gain by staying away from the brain longer. I knew now that distance did not lessen its influence, and with this proved, the purpose of my journey was achieved.

  I told the clerk I was checking out next day. Then I opened the brief-case and put half the money into my pockets. Yocum had said five thousand dollars, he might ask for more. I did not care how much I paid him. It was not my money and I wanted to get rid of it.

  I had never had so much money in my hands before, but it was just so much paper to me. My sense of property was limited to the instruments I used in my laboratory. Janice bought and took care of all the rest—my suits, shirts, shoes, our food, the house.

  I had fifty thousand dollars in my pocket belonging to a character named Roger Hinds. Did he exist at all, or was this a secret account Donovan had kept for some purpose I could not guess?

  Why had Donovan sent me for fifty thousand dollars when the blackmailer only asked five?

  I left the brief-case with the rest of the money in the hotel safe and went out.

  I was curious as to how Donovan treated blackmailers. He must have had plenty of experience. His success was built on fraud, threat, bribery, and foul play. This little man should present no great problem to him.

  I walked down Hollywood Boulevard toward Vine. It was eight o’clock and Donovan had not told me what to do.

  When I arrived at the cafeteria, a big place crowded with people, I was still at a loss what to say to Yocum. For a few minutes I walked up and down at the entrance, hoping for advice, but no command reached me.

  Perhaps the brain was asleep. Should I telephone Schratt and ask him to wake it?

  “Dr. Cory?” a voice whispered behind me.

  It was Yocum. He clutched his brief-case close to his chest, and even by the yellow light that shone through the bright windows of the restaurant I could see that his cheeks were flushed with fever

  He led me to a shabby car in the parking lot next to the cafeteria. It had a California license plate with a very easy number to remember

  He moved his lips in a soundless attempt to talk. I could tell he had tuberculosis of the throat; the glottal ligaments were affected already and his voice had given out. But in his excitement he was unaware that I could not hear him.

  I took the money iron my pocket and he dropped his case to grab the notes with both hands

  I picked up the brief-case and opened it. Three negatives and some prints were in it, wrapped in newspaper.

  Yocum made no other attempt to talk He stepped into his car, slammed the door, and rolled up the window. He smiled at me, showing big yellow teeth, moved his lips again, and drove off.

  As soon as he had left, I stepped into a taxi. Donovan had called it. In an excited voice I ordered the driver to follow the small yellow coupé, but I could not figure out what the brain purposed by pursuit.

  Yocum drove his car down the boulevard, weaving in and out of traffic. Brakes shrieked and cars skidded to a stop

  “That guy will get a ticket!” the driver called back through the window

  We drove up Laurel Canyon, but the yellow coupe had disappeared. At Kirkwood Drive, having lost Yocum, I dismissed the taxi and walked on, climbing the grade.

  I was not following a plan, just leaving it to Donovan to show me where to go. Up an unpaved road, deeply rutted with rain, I discovered Yocum’s car, it’s door open, parked at the bottom of a small hill. A hundred feet farther a ramshackle hut was half hidden behind tall eucalyptus trees

  I climbed the hill and peered through the window of the cottage. In the middle of a dirty room stood Yocum, in front of a fireplace stuffed with rubbish, old paper, and discarded photographs. In one corner a mattress was covered with torn blankets. There were a couple of kitchen chairs and a table. The windows were so dirty they looked paint-smeared.

  Yocum was acting very strangely. He had carefully spread the bank notes over the floor and had taken off his shoes. He was walking on the money in his stocking feet, careful not to disarrange it.

  He stomped like an ostrich, lifting his feet high. Then he jumped into the air, hit the floor again with knees bent, and balanced there, elbows lifted, hands dropped like a big bird flapping its wings. All the time he uttered little cries, ululating to himself, his eyes glowing in feverish ecstasy.

  Believing himself alone, he followed his neurotic trauma.

  I pushed the door open. Yocum froze in his tracks, then fell on his knees and grabbed the money.

  He turned toward me, his mouth hanging open with fright, stepped behind the table, and pressed the money to his chest. The tattered dickey he wore slid aside and showed his bony thorax.

  “What do you want?” he asked hoarsely. He had got his voice back.

  “The other negatives,” I said, “and the rest of the prints.”

  Yocum retreated, alarmed, into a corner of the room.

  “I have no other negatives,” he said dully, but he was sizing me up.

  “Five thousand more if you hand over everything you have,” I said.

  His chin began to tremble and he leaned against the wall for support.

  “Ten thousand,” he said slowly.

  “Then there are other negatives!” I stepped closer and he retreated at once.

  On the mantelpiece lay matches and an old pipe with a much bitten stem. I lighted a match and threw it into the fireplace. The paper and photos flared up.

  Yocum stared at me, petrified. He did not dare run past me, though he was crazy to get out of the room.

  “You can take everything for five,” he stammered.

  The fire, fed by the celluloid on the photoprints, roared brightly. With one foot I kicked a hunk of flame onto the rug-covered mattress.

  When Yocum jumped forward to pass me, I grabbed him by his thin neck and dragged him to the door. The money fluttered out of his hands. He did not try to fight; paralyzed by fear, he simply collapsed in my hands. His voice left him again and he screamed soundlessly with wide-open mouth.

  I pulled him out of the house, his feet dragging in the dust. Behind me I heard the crackling of the flames, devouring the old shack.

  I walked on, yanking Yocum behind me. I stuffed him into the car, slid behind the wheel, and drove off.

  At the bottom of Kirkwood Drive I turned left and followed the road up Laurel Canyon. Distant fire sirens shrieked and a white pall of smoke drifted up over the canyon.

  At the intersection of Laurel and Mulholland Drive I had to stop to let some fire engines pass. Then I slowly drove the car up a dirt road.

  Yocum did not move. His bony head had dropped onto his knees.

  When he finally lifted his face, he looked punch-drunk.

  “You burned the money,” he whispered.

  I stared at t
he valley below me, at the mountains behind Burbank. Suddenly I was uneasy. Donovan had stopped giving me orders and I was on my own.

  “All my life I wanted a little money,” Yocum murmured. “Now you’ve burned it.”

  His despair overcame his fear and he began to accuse me.

  “Look at me. Rotting away.” He opened his dirty coat to show his fleshless body. “I don’t want to die. I wanted to live for once, and you burned my money!”

  He did not remember that he had blackmailed me. The money had been in his grasp and to take it away from him was robbery.

  Sliding out of the car, he stood tottering at the edge of the embankment. He was at the end of his rope.

  “I’m thirty-eight,” he murmured, bending over me as if accusing me with these words. “I haven’t had a decent meal in years! I have to have money now! I can’t get it by working; I’m sick and they don’t want a man who coughs and loses his voice. They want them healthy and strong. Not like me!”

  He stared at me. His eyes were colorless.

  “Just once I got a break when I had typhoid and they kept me in a hospital for three months. They put me with twenty other guys, but still I had a whopping good time. Somebody to feed me, somebody to look after me. I kept thinking how nice it would be to be sick alone in a room, with a bell to ring for the nurse and everything quiet if I wanted to be quiet. Can’t be so bad to die first-class. I’ve been thinking of it for years!”

  He grinned, baring his stained teeth. It seemed to give him pleasure to tell me his misery.

  “When Donovan cracked up, I got the scoop. The only photographer in Phoenix! And how much did they give me? Ten bucks! I could have held out for more but they knew I needed money. And when they know you need money, they’ll pay you a dime for a gold nugget!”

  He seemed to be pleased that life had been consistently cruel.

  “I photographed Donovan’s empty skull to show how he was killed. I had no plan when I made the shot. Maybe they always take out dead men’s brains, I wouldn’t have known. Then I took pictures of your house and your wife and your car. I got one shot through the window of your laboratory, and when I enlarged the photo, I saw the thing swimming in the glass bowl. It looked like Donovan’s missing brain to me. I put two and two together and knew you were up to something. They don’t just casually take out people’s brains and dump them into goldfish bowls!”