There had been a moment's silence from the recording since the last words, then there was the muffled sound of a door slamming. Words poured softly from the speaker, "Fast asleep, that's fine, you're fast asleep now, in a deep, sound, hypnotic sleep. Going deeper and deeper now, deeper and deeper now, that's it."
I looked at Bruce, the hairs tingling at the nape of my neck. His eyes were on the unwinding tape, but he saw me move and nodded without looking up.
The voice droned on, unrecognizable, speaking slowly, barely audible. Then, "You must do whatever I tell you to do. Do you understand? You can speak normally. Say 'Yes' if you understand."
And then, muffled but distinct enough, I heard the other voice—my voice—answer, "Yes."
This was fantastic, unbelievable even as I listened to it. This was something that had already happened to me, but consciously I was hearing it for the first time. It was terrifying to know that the words that had been spoken, the words and commands yet to be spoken were, all of them, etched deep in some inner recess of my brain, graven there even more indelibly than the molecular patterns on the tape now unwinding before my eyes.
And yet they were all strange to me, unknown, unremembered words and phrases which in an hour I had forgotten more completely than I had forgotten what happened to me on my third day in school or the morning after my tenth birthday. For one whirling, spinning moment I found myself distrusting all of my memories and thoughts and impressions, wondering which were real and which false, even distrusting what I heard and felt now.
I listened unmoving, as I was told by the other voice on the recording to relax in a chair and to roll up my left sleeve. I frowned as the words slipped from the tape. I didn't understand. Bruce was frowning slightly, too, but at the next words the frown smoothed out and he nodded to himself.
"Your left arm is so heavy, so heavy, it is becoming numb and dead. All sensation is leaving your arm. All sensation is leaving your arm. It is becoming completely anesthetized. You can feel no pain in your left arm; you can feel nothing ..." Over and over again, "Your arm is like an arm of lead and you can feel no pain ..."
Bruce glanced up and when I looked at him he pointed at my left forearm.
I looked at my arm, the sleeve still rolled up above my elbow. I touched the stained spot at the bend of my arm and looked back at Bruce. He shook his head.
There was no sound from the recorder now but the tape was still unwinding slowly. Bruce looked quickly around, then picked up a burned paper match from an ashtray nearby. He gripped it between his fingers then, wordlessly, he leaned forward and grabbed my left wrist, holding my arm out, palm up. He held the paper match a few inches from my arm, then suddenly jabbed me with it. I flinched involuntarily and he drew back the match and jabbed me with it once more.
I looked at the two smudges the burned-out match had left on my skin. They almost touched the two tiny perforations I'd discovered earlier in my arm. I shivered, imagining a needle being jabbed deeply into my flesh as Bruce had jabbed with that paper match.
Then there were again words from the tape recorder. "Your arm is now completely normal except that you will feel no pain in it. You will remain sound asleep, yet you will be able to speak normally and answer all my questions completely. You will remain comfortable and relaxed, and will enjoy answering all my questions. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Why were you released by the police?"
"I invented a story for the police and told them my gun had been stolen from my office. They discovered my office had been broken into, and that the desk drawer in which I said I'd left my gun had been forced. They found George Lucian's fingerprints on my desk top and released me."
Bruce swung his head up and looked at me, but I barely noticed him. My mouth was dry, and I was waiting for the next questions. The volume swelled slightly and faded, the words sometimes becoming almost inaudible.
"Describe your movements after you left the police. Name all the people you talked to. Describe your actions and tell me what you learned."
The words that came next from the recorder were all in my unrecognizable voice, but I knew it was mine. I described everything briefly but in good detail, surprising even myself as I sat with Bruce in his living room and listened, with the wealth of detail I unfolded in the recording.
I spoke in a flat voice with little expression and named each person by his or her full name. I always used the third person and the full name, never saying "he" or "she" and—most disappointing of all—never saying "you" to my interrogator.
I told of leaving City Hall, going to my office, visiting Robert Hannibal, Gladys Weather, Ann Weather, Martha Stewart, Arthur. Finally I got to the point where I'd gone back to Ayla's apartment, and I could feel the blood rising to my face.
It was awful.
I shifted uneasily in my chair as Bruce glanced at me and then away, a slight smile on his lips. In a way it was the most interesting part of the recording, but I didn't enjoy one word of it.
I was growing more relaxed as I listened. My embarrassment was taking my mind away from the more frightening aspects of what had happened to me. And then suddenly I got rigid in my seat. All embarrassment and all ease left me completely.
I was thinking ahead of the recording. I remembered that right after I'd left Ayla I'd gone to my office. Then there'd been the desire to go to the Phoenix Hotel, followed by my recognition of that posthypnotic urge. Everything I'd then done flashed through my mind: the indecision and fear, the note to Bruce, and then the blank that was now unfolding on the recording. But somewhere in that blank I'd somehow got the tape recorder itself.
I didn't understand. If I'd spilled that, why hadn't the machine been found and destroyed? Obviously it hadn't. I looked at Bruce Wilson, wondering, thinking crazy thoughts, unable to pick from my mind which of my memories were real and which unreal. I even wondered for a crazy moment why I'd come here to see Bruce, tried to remember if there'd been any compulsion, any greater-than-ordinary desire. But there hadn't been. It had been entirely logical, the sensible thing to do.
I sat up gripping the arms of the chair, telling myself I was silly, idiotic in my fears. I hung onto the words coming faintly from the speaker, straining to hear what came next.
I was still speaking, telling of leaving Ayla's and going to the office. My voice continued, "At seven o'clock I decided to call Joseph Borden again. If I had to, I was going to beat some answers out of him. I picked up the phone, and then remembered I had to go to the Phoenix Hotel, to Room Five-twenty-four. I got ready to leave."
I was weak, wondering what would come next when the other voice broke in, "That's fine. That's fine. Now listen to me. Listen carefully to me. I am going to give you instructions and you must follow them."
I let out such a huge sigh that Bruce looked up at me, startled. I smiled weakly. Of course. Whoever I'd been talking to obviously wanted to know what I'd done during the day. Inasmuch as I was sitting there talking to him—or her; I couldn't even be positive of the sex because the voices were so muffled and faint, but the voice sounded like a man's—he must have accepted without question the idea that I'd come directly to the hotel. It was the only logical explanation, or I wouldn't have been sitting here now.
I returned all my attention to the recording. The other voice continued, repeating every suggestion slowly two or three times, "You will leave this room and return to your office. You will be normal in every way and continue to act as you normally would. You will suffer no ill effects from this and you will remember nothing from the time you left your office till your return. You will be able to recall none of this." Then he said more loudly, "You will always go into a deep, sound, hypnotic sleep when I tell you to, when I say, 'Fast asleep.' But no one else except me will be able to hypnotize you! Do you understand? Say 'Yes' if you understand this."
"Yes."
"That's fine. Now listen very carefully. You will return to this room tomorrow night at seven o'clock." The suggestion was
repeated slowly three times and I answered that I understood. Then, "When I count to three you will open your eyes but remain in the hypnotic sleep. You will open your eyes and in every way appear normal, yet you will remain in the hypnotic sleep until you return to your office. You will return to your office, and you will remember none of this. You will not remember being here, nor will you remember anything that has happened here."
Again he repeated the suggestions, then counted to three. After that there was no other sound for five or ten seconds, then the sound of the door opening and closing. Bruce and I listened intently, but that was all except for soft, whispery sounds and an occasional thud, as if someone were still moving around in the room.
I relaxed, feeling tired from the strain. "Thank God," I said. "I didn't kill Borden, anyway."
Bruce frowned at me. "Kill Borden? You mean—"
"I mean I just didn't know. I couldn't remember anything, and I thought maybe ..." I stopped as I realized I still couldn't be sure. "At least," I said, "I didn't kill him tonight. My time tonight seems to be pretty well accounted for. Well, there it is, Bruce. The whole damned day. You know as much about it now as I do."
He nodded and lit another cigarette, then said from behind a cloud of smoke, "Some of it's clear now, Shell."
"But it all seems like it happened to somebody else, not me," I said. "It's still all blank, even now."
"No reason why it wouldn't be." He paused, listening.
There'd been another noise from the recorder. I bent over, reversed the tape for a few seconds, then played it forward again. The noise had been the sound of the door opening and closing. "Must have been when he left," I said. "I guess it's a he."
Bruce nodded. "All right, then. We can't be sure, but it's a good guess that you were talking on that recording to Jay Weather's murderer."
I swallowed. "I'd like to buy that, Bruce. It would be an almost foolproof way for the killer to keep tabs on what progress, if any, I was making in my investigation of Jay's death. Lord, I'd report everything I found out to the killer—and I wouldn't even be conscious of doing it. I'd even pass on anything I got from the police." I paused, frowning. "But Bruce, I was just lucky to be out of jail. It's a wonder I wasn't in the can all day." I shook my head. "I still don't know for sure what I did the night Jay was murdered. I could ..."
Bruce said, "Get the idea out of your head that you killed Jay, Shell. Believe me, it's just no good."
I liked hearing him say the words, but I couldn't help wondering if Bruce actually believed what he was saying, or was merely trying to keep my spirits up.
I thought about it. "But those other things, Bruce. I did them and don't even remember. How do I know what else I did and forgot? How can I know?"
He dragged on his cigarette and leaned forward. "What other things, Shell? Don't let this get you down. Look. The only thing we know you did for sure was to go to the Phoenix Hotel. That isn't such a fantastic thing to do, and even that simple suggestion didn't work perfectly. You recognized it for what it was and managed to do everything you did; the note, getting the recorder, and the rest."
He paused and looked at me for a moment, then went on, "Your hypnotist seems to have bungled things a bit, Shell. If he'd explored your mind more thoroughly, or wiped out a little more of your memories of this day, things might have worked out differently just now."
"You're telling me! I guess that's about the size of what we've learned, huh? I did practically all the talking."
He nodded. "Well, we learned a bit more than that. We know, for instance, that the method used to induce the trance was—and still is, remember—an oral command. We also know that he's fairly careful and that he tested you to make sure you were in trance and he could produce anesthesia of your arm."
"You mean that match business?"
He nodded. "You heard it on the recording. Evidently he stuck something—probably a sterilized needle—into your arm after he'd induced anesthesia. You'd have had a tough time to keep from jumping or yelling unless you were actually hypnotized. He was making sure before he went on."
It gave me a shiver again. "You mean under hypnosis he could tell me my arm was numb or dead, then stick pins in me and I wouldn't jump?"
"You wouldn't even feel it."
I shook my head. "Look, I accept it logically—but I simply don't understand it. It just doesn't seem right."
He shrugged. "Well, perhaps it's not important."
"But it is, Bruce. I'm going back up to the hotel."
He seemed startled. "Tonight?"
"No. Like he said on the recording. Tomorrow night at seven. He'll be there. Maybe I can finally get to the bottom of this. You know I've got to. Otherwise I'm likely to blow my top."
"Yes. Of course. But—"
"Yeah. What if I step inside and, bam, go right off to sleep again?" I shook my head. "Damn it, it's hard to believe. But there ought to be some way to get around that."
"I'll have to think about it. Be simple if I could hypnotize you and give you countersuggestions—but I can't."
"How come?"
"We heard it on the recording. He was smart enough to tell you nobody else could hypnotize you. And nobody else will be able to." He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I can try, but there's little point in it. It'll have to be some other way."
I said, "I'm not going to barge in there alone this time, anyway. I'm going to haul along about ninety cops and maybe a cannon. We've got him now—unless he gets scared. But he should still think he's pretty safe." I thought about it for a minute longer. "Here's what I want, Bruce. I want to go back up, but I don't want to be charging around in a trance and never able to remember what the hell went on. If I know what I'm doing—if it's me—maybe I can turn the tables on the son of a bitch."
Bruce got up and began to pace the floor. "It's a good idea, Shell, but there are difficulties." He stopped next to my chair and said, "He tested you for anesthesia this time. If he tested you once, he'll probably do it again. Do you think you could get through that without giving yourself away—assuming you weren't actually hypnotized?" He shook his head. "I don't know, Shell. It would be rough."
"I could try. Maybe I could."
"And maybe not. And if not, you might get yourself killed." He stopped for a moment, then he grinned. He said, "This may make it clearer for you. Anesthesia can be induced with equal success through either hypnosis or self-hypnosis."
"Self-hypnosis? Hypnotizing yourself?"
"Exactly. I developed the ability a long time ago when I worked a lot more with hypnotism than I do nowadays. I suppose you're familiar with the principles. It's the same as the usual hypnosis, only the suggestions are given by the subject himself. Watch this. I'll demonstrate for you, Shell. Then tell me if you think you could manage it without being hypnotized."
He went out of the room and came back with an inch-long needle in his hand. "It's sterilized," he said, and gave it to me. "Wait till I tell you."
Then he sat down, leaned back in his chair and rolled up the sleeve over his right arm. He rested his arm on the chair and closed his eyes for ten or fifteen seconds, certainly no longer, then he opened his eyes and looked at me. "All right, Shell. There's no feeling in my arm now. Stick the needle into it."
"What? Are you kidding?"
"Go ahead, please. I won't feel a thing, believe me."
I swallowed and poised the needle over his arm. For seconds his bare arm was right under my hand, the sharp point of the needle projecting toward it, but I simply couldn't do it.
"Shell," he said, "if you can't even poke me with that needle, how do you expect to sit quietly while somebody else jams one into your arm?"
He had a point. Maybe he really would feel it if I stuck him, and was just doing this to condition me for something or other. "Go ahead," he said. "You don't have to try to chop my arm off. Just stick me."
Finally I said, "Okay, you asked for it." I brought the needle down gently against his skin. Just at that moment he raised h
is arm suddenly and the needle buried itself into his flesh. It went in at least a quarter of an inch, possibly more, but when I looked at his face it was completely relaxed and he was grinning.
He told me to pull the needle out, and I grabbed it, but it was in so deep that I was afraid to pull any harder than I was doing for fear I'd injure him.
He brushed my hand aside, yanked the needle out with one quick jerk, then plunged it in again, hard. He kept smiling and his face didn't change expression.
Mine did. My back rippled and the insides of my legs at the knees got weak and watery. My stomach churned. Bruce asked, "Do you still think you could stand that in a normal state without showing something on your face or jerking away?"
I shook my head.
"The reason I went through all this," he continued, "was so you'd realize how difficult it is to fool a man into thinking you're hypnotized when you're not. If you really intend to go back to the hotel tomorrow—to see someone who may well be a murderer—you'll have to be on your toes. It'll be damned difficult to get away with, even if you can somehow manage not to be hypnotized. Perhaps it would be better merely to have the man arrested."
"Yeah. And then he clams up. I want to get to the bottom of this, Bruce. Besides, I've got a very healthy personal grudge against the bastard."
"All right. Just so you realize what you're up against. But don't forget, as soon as you walked into the room the hypnotist gave you an oral command to go to sleep. And you did. Incidentally, that's why I spoke to you when the recording started. Just in case such an oral command had been given when you were entering the room."
"You mean the recording? That wouldn't put me to sleep."
"It might. Hypnosis can be induced by records. People have even been hypnotized over the phone when they've been suitably conditioned. Probably the words on the recording wouldn't have affected you, but I distracted you to make sure." He paused, his forehead wrinkled in thought. "That gives me half an idea for tomorrow night, Shell."
"Well, spill it."
"Let me think about it. It's quite a problem. I'll sleep on it. There's a lot of time remaining before seven."
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