The Sinful Ones

by Fritz Leiber

  Carr looked toward the man, but he could still see only the slippered feet. There was no reply.

  The piano stopped. Carr took a step forward. But just then the woman got up and went over to the piano. He expected her to do something to the mechanism, but instead she began to stroke the air a couple of feet above the piano bench with a downward patting motion.

  Carr felt himself shivering.

  “There, there, dear,” she said, her face showing that silly, vacant expression he had noticed at the door, “that was very pretty, I know, but you’re really spending too much time on your music. At your age a girl ought to be having fun, meeting other young people. But you keep yourself cooped up.” She leaned forward, bent her head as if she were looking around the shoulder of someone seated at the piano, wagged her finger, and said with a sickly playfulness, “Look at the circles under those eyes.”

  The slippered feet protruding from the red davenport twisted. A weary voice said, “Now don’t worry yourself over Jane, Mother.”

  The woman straightened. “Too much practicing is bad for anyone. It’s undermining her health—and I don’t care how ambitious she is, or how ambitious you are for her.”

  The slippered feet were drawn back. The davenport creaked. The man came into sight, not quite as old as Carr had thought, but tired-looking. His shirt, open at the neck, was made for a detachable collar.

  For Carr, time stopped, as if a clockworks universe hesitated before the next tick. In that frozen pause, only his thoughts moved. It was true, then. The dumpy man…The room clerk…Marcia in her bedroom…Last night with Jane—the bar, the music shop, the movie house, the chessplayers…And now this old woman.

  All, all automata, machines!

  Or else (time moved again) this old woman was crazy.

  Yes, that was it. Crazy, insane. Behaving in her insanity as if her absent daughter was actually there. Believing it.

  He clung to that thought.

  “Really dear,” the old woman was saying vapidly, “you simply must rest.”

  “Now, mother, don’t get excited,” the old man said soothingly. “Everything’s all right.”

  The father insane too, Carr thought. No, humoring her. Pretending to believe her hallucinations. That must be it.

  “Everything isn’t all right,” she contradicted tearfully. “I won’t have Jane practicing so much and taking those wild long walks by herself. Jane, you mustn’t—” Suddenly a look of fear came over her. “Oh, Jane, don’t go. Please don’t go, Jane.” She stretched out her hand toward the hall as if to restrain someone. Carr shrank back. He felt sick. It was horrible that this mad old woman should resemble Jane.

  She dropped her hand. “She’s gone,” she said and began to sob.

  The man put his arm around her shoulder. “You’ve scared her off,” he said softly. “But don’t cry, mother, please don’t cry. Tell you what, mother, let’s go sit in the dark for a while. It’ll rest you.” He urged her toward the sun porch.

  Just then, behind Carr, the cat hissed and retreated a few steps higher, the vestibule door downstairs was banged open, there were loud footsteps, and voices raised in argument.

  “But I tell you, Mr. Wilson, you’re just wasting our time. Dris checked. He told us so.”

  “He lied. He’d been with those girls two hours when we saw him.”

  “He hadn’t!”

  “You think not?”

  The first voice was brassy, complaining. The second was cool, jolly. They were those Carr had overheard in the cigarette shop.

  Before he had time to weigh his fear or even to think coherently at all, he had slipped through the door in front of him, crossed the little hall as rapidly as he dared—Jane’s parents were out of the living room by now—tiptoed down the hallway leading to the back of the apartment, turned into the first room he came to, and was standing with his cheek to the wall, squinting back the way he had come.

  He couldn’t quite see the front door. But in a little while long shadows darkened the plaster of the hallway, telling him that someone must be standing in the hall, cutting off the light from the living room.

  “Well, she isn’t here,” he heard Mr. Wilson say.

  “But we just heard her playing,” came the blonde’s voice, naggingly.

  “Be reasonable, Miss Hackman,” Mr. Wilson objected. “You know very well that doesn’t prove anything.”

  “But why would Dris lie about checking on her?”

  Mr. Wilson snorted. “Dris would lie about anything to get time to be with his current girls.”

  “That’s not true!” Miss Hackman sounded as if the remark had stung. “Dris might fool around with girls when we’re all having fun together. Naturally. But not just by himself, not alone!”

  “You think he doesn’t have his private lusts? You think you’re the whole show?”

  “Yes!”

  “Ha!”

  Carr waited for the footsteps or voices of Jane’s parents. Surely they must be aware of the intruders. The sun porch wasn’t that isolated.

  Perhaps they were as terrified as he.

  Or perhaps—no, damn it, that idea he’d had (when time had stopped) couldn’t, mustn’t be true.

  “You’re not being fair,” Miss Hackman whined. “The girl’s probably somewhere in the back of the house. Let’s look.”

  Carr had already stooped and unwhipped the knots of his shoelaces. Now he stepped out of his shoes. The room he was in contained twin beds. Light poured into it from a white-tiled bathroom. There was the same fussiness and profusion of bric-a-brac in the bedroom as in the living room.

  One of the shadows in the hall grew darker. But just as Carr was starting for the bathroom, he heard Mr. Wilson snap a command.

  “Stop! The sun porch! Listen to the old woman! What’s she saying?”

  In the ensuing silence Carr could hear a faint mumbling.

  “You see,” Mr. Wilson whispered loudly. “She’s talking as if the girl were there.”

  “But—”

  “Listen!”

  The mumbling stopped.

  “Do you need any more proof?” Mr. Wilson demanded. After a moment he went on, his voice smooth again. “I know about your tender feelings for Dris, Miss Hackman. As feelings, they mean nothing to me. As influences warping your judgment, they mean a great deal. Dris is very clever at times, but slack. You know that our pleasures, our plans, our very existence, depends on constant vigilance. We could be wrecked by one single person, such as this girl, or the little man with glasses.”

  “He’s dead,” Miss Hackman interposed.

  “That’s wishful thinking. Suppose he or that girl become actively hostile. Worse, suppose they inform another and stronger group like ourselves—there are such, believe me!—of our existence. You and I know, Miss Hackman, that girl knows about us—”

  “I think she’s gone back into her old rut,” Miss Hackman interrupted, “and we don’t have to worry about her. That can happen. Most of them want to go back.”

  Trying to catch a glimpse of the talkers, Carr began to edge closer to the door, noiseless in his stocking feet.

  “But the mother…?” Mr. Wilson was saying.

  “Crazy. So she thinks the girl’s there.”

  Mr. Wilson’s shadow nodded. “I’ll grant you that—as a possibility. The girl perhaps has gone back into her rut. But perhaps she hasn’t. Perhaps she’s taken up with Dris, or he with her, on the sly.”

  “Oh no! That’s indecent! If I repeat to Dris what you just said—”

  “Still, wouldn’t you like proof that it isn’t so?”

  “I wouldn’t lower myself to entertain such a contemptible suspicion!”

  “You wouldn’t, eh? You don’t sound—What’s that!”

  Carr stiffened. Looking down, he saw that he had knocked over a stupid little doorstop in the form of a porcelain Pekinese sitting up to beg. He started for the bathroom door, but he had hardly taken the first painfully cautious step when he heard, from that
direction, faintly, but unmistakably, the sound of someone else moving around. He froze, then turned toward the hall. He heard the stamp of high heels, a little throaty exclamation of surprise from Mr. Wilson, a softly pattering rush, the paralyzing fighting squall of a cat, a flailing of shadows, a smash and clatter as if a cane or umbrella had been brought down on a table, and Mr. Wilson’s exclamation:

  “Damn!”

  Next Carr caught a glimpse of Miss Hackman. She had on a pearl gray evening dress, off the shoulders, and a mink wrap over her arm. She was coming down the hall, but she didn’t see him.

  At the same moment something launched itself at her from behind. The cat Gigolo landed in the faultless golden hair, claws raking. Miss Hackman screamed.

  The ensuing battle was too quick and confused for Carr to follow it clearly, and most of it took place in the little hall, out of sight except for the shadows. Twice more the cane or umbrella smashed down. Mr. Wilson and Miss Hackman shouted and yelled at each other at the same time, the cat squalled continually. Then Mr. Wilson shouted, “The door!” There came a final whangling blow, followed by Mr. Wilson’s “Damn!”

  For the next few moment’s, only heavy breathing from the hallway, then Miss Hackman’s voice, rising to a vindictive wail: “Bitch! Look what it did to my cheek. Oh, why must there be cats!”

  Then Mr. Wilson, grimly businesslike: “It hasn’t got away. It’s trapped on the stairs. We can get it.”

  Miss Hackman: “This wouldn’t have happened if we’d brought the beast!”

  Mr. Wilson: “The beast! This afternoon you thought differently. Do you remember what happened to Dris?”

  Miss Hackman: “That was his own fault. He shouldn’t have teased it. Besides, the beast likes me.”

  Mr. Wilson: “Yes, I’ve seen her look at you and lick her chops. We’re wasting time, Miss Hackman. You’ll have a lot more than a scratched cheek—or a snapped-off hand—to snivel about if we don’t clear up this mess right away. Come on. We’ve got to kill that cat.”

  Carr heard footsteps, then the sound of Mr. Wilson’s voice growing fainter as he ascended the stairs, calling out softly and wheedlingly, “Here, kitty. Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” and a few moments later Miss Hackman joined in with a sugariness that made Carr shake:

  “Here, kitty.”

  The voices moved off. Carr waited a little. Then he tiptoed across the room and peered through the bathroom door. The white-tiled cubicle was empty, but beyond it was another open door, leading to another bedroom.

  He could see that it was a smaller bedroom, but friendlier. There was a littered dressing table with lamps whose little pink shades were awry. On the wall he recognized prints of paintings by Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec. Beside the dressing-table was a small bookcase overflowing with sheet-music piled helter-skelter and novels with bright, torn dust-covers. There was a bottle of ink on the dressing table, mixed in with the cosmetics. It was overturned and a large dry brown stain pooled out from it.

  His heart began to pound as he crossed the bathroom’s white tiles. He remembered the brown ink on the paper Jane had dropped.

  But there was something strange about the bedroom he was approaching. Despite the lively, adolescent disorder, there was an ancient feel to it, almost a museum feel—like some historic room kept just as its illustrious occupant had left it. The novel on the dressing-table was last year’s best seller.

  Still…

  He poked his hand though the door. Something moved beside him and he quickly turned his head.

  He had only a moment to look before the blow fell. But in that moment, before the cap of pain was pulled down over his eyes and ears, blacking out everything, he recognized his assailant.

  The cords in the neck stood out, the cheeks were drawn back, exposing the big front teeth, like those of a rat. Indeed the whole aspect—watery magnified eyes, low forehead, tangled dark hair, taut spindle-limbed figure—was that of a cornered rat.

  It was the small dark man with glasses.

  Chapter Seven

  The Shimmering Garment

  INCANDESCENT LIGHTS were shining in Carr’s eyes, so bright they made his head ache violently. He jumped about in pain, flapping his arms. It seemed a stupid and degrading thing to be doing, even if he were in pain, so he tried to stop, he tried at least to use his hands to shield his eyes from the merciless light, but he couldn’t. The reason was four ropes tied tight to his wrists and knees. The ropes went up into darkness overhead and were jerking him about, as if he were a puppet.

  The ropes turned black, merged with the darkness, disappeared, and collapsed down into something soft and clinging.

  Hitching himself up, he realized that he was in his own room, in his own bed, fighting the bedclothes.

  He shakily thrust his feet out of bed and sat on the edge of it, waiting for the echoes of his nightmare to stop whirling through his senses, for his skin to lose its hot, tight, tingling feel.

  His head ached miserably. Lifting his hand, he felt a large sensitive lump. He recalled the small dark man hitting him.

  Pale light was sifting through the window. He got up, went over to the bureau, opened the top drawer. He looked at the three pint bottles of whiskey. He chose the quarter full one, poured himself a drink, downed it, poured another, looked around.

  The clothes he had been wearing were uncharacteristically laid out on a chair.

  His head began to feel like a whirlpool. He went over and looked out the windows.

  But instead of an empty street, open bedroom windows, flapping shades, and the other insignia of dawn, Carr saw a brisk little throng moving along the sidewalks. Windows were mostly lighted and advertisements were blinking. Unwillingly he decided that he must have been unconscious not only last night, but also all of today.

  A coolness on his fingers told him that whiskey was dribbling out of the shot glass. He drank it and turned around. A gust of anger at the small dark man (is your friend!) went through him.

  Just then he noticed a blank envelope propped up on the mantelpiece. He took it down, snapped on a light, opened it, unfolded the closely scribbled note it contained. It was from Jane.

  >I’m sorry about last night. Fred is sorry too, now that he knows who you are. He was hiding in my bedroom and heard the others come in, and he through you were one of them when you came sneaking through.

  Don’t try to find me, Carr. It isn’t only that you’d risk your own life. You’d endanger mine. Fred and I are up against an organization that can’t be beaten, only hidden from. If you try to find me, you’ll only spoil my chances.

  You want to have a long happy life, get married, be successful, don’t you? You don’t want your future changed, so that you have only a few wretched months or hours ahead of you, before you’re hunted down? Then your only chance is to do what I tell you.

  Stay in your room all day. Then arrange your things just as you usually do before going to work in the morning. You must be very exact—a lot depends on it. Above all, burn this letter—on your honor do that. Then dissolve in a glass of water the powders you’ll find on the table beside your bed, and drink them. In a little while you’ll go to sleep and when you wake up, everything will be all right.

  Your only chance to get clear of the danger you’re in, and to help me, is to do exactly as I’ve told you. And forget me forever.

  <

  Carr walked to the bed. On the little table, leaning against an empty tumbler, were two slim paper packets. He felt one between finger and thumb. It gritted. He put it back.

  He glanced again at the letter. His head began to ache stabbingly. Why, what sort of a nincompoop did they think he was? And what would she be saying next—“So sorry we had to poison you?” “Don’t try to find me…burn this…on your honor…forget me forever…” What nauseous melodrama! Did she think such cheap phrases would soothe him into putting up with what had happened? Yes, she was romantic, all right—the romantic little dear who throws her arms around you and rubs her b
elly against yours so her boyfriend can stick a gun in your ribs.

  He’d blundered into a pretty nasty affair, and maybe he’d picked the wrong side.

  And she did have a reason to lie. She might lie to scare him off, to keep him from discovering what sort of hanky-panky she and he precious small dark man with glasses were up to, maybe to gain time for some sort of getaway. (Don’t stir out of your room today.)

  He hurriedly began to throw on his clothes, wincing when the jabs of pain came. After shouldering into his topcoat, he drained the last shot from the whiskey bottle, tossed it back in the drawer, looked at the full bottles a moment, stuck one in his pocket, went out, glaring savagely at the mirror-imprisoned Carr on the stairs.

  He walked a half block to the nearest hotel and waited for a cab. Two cruised by with their flags up, but the drivers ignored his arm-wavings and calls. He ground his teeth. Then a third cab approached and this one drew into the curb, but just as he was getting ready to board it, two fur-coated blondes from the hotel swept by him and piled in. He swore out loud, turned on his heel and started walking.

  It was a pleasantly mild evening and he detested it. He felt a senseless rage at the people he passed.

  How nice it would be to smash all the neon signs, rip down the posters, break into the houses and toss out of the windows the crooning, moaning, blatting radios and televisions. Come the atom bomb!

  But for all that, the fresh air was helping his head. As he neared Mayberry Street, he began to calm down, or at least focus his anger.

  Halfway down the block a car was parked with its motor softly chugging—a convertible with the top down. Just as he passed it, he saw a man come out of the entry to the Gregg apartment. A rather heavily built man. He strolled off in the opposite direction. But before he turned, Carr had recognized him. Mr. Wilson!

  Repressing the apprehension that surged through him, Carr made a snap decision. Stepping rapidly and decisively, he started after Mr. Wilson.

  But just then a voice behind him said, “If you value your life or your reason, keep away from that guy.” At the same time a hand gripped his elbow and spun him around.