by Frances
“Listen,” Jerry North said, and ran his fingers through his hair. “Listen, Pam. You mean, I mean you don’t mean, that the inspector arranged to have somebody murdered so that Bill would have to work and couldn’t come home for cocktails because we were going to be here?”
“You certainly make things sound complicated,” Pam told him, with wide-eyed innocence.
It was around six, then. It was around seven-thirty when Pam said, “Why not come out to dinner with us? Since Bill isn’t here, and we have to because Martha likes Wednesday better than Thursday.” Dorian and Jerry waited. “To be off on,” Pam said.
It was a little before nine when they finished dinner.
“As long as we’re up and about,” Jerry said, “why not go look at that movie at the Art? The actress with the—”
“I know,” Pam said. “The one with both of them rather—extravagantly. ‘The,’ indeed.”
Jerry said that his interest, actually, lay elsewhere and realized, from the pleased expression on the faces of both Pam and Dorian, that he had not greatly improved matters. He said, “Anyway—” which was as useful a remark as he could think of, and they went to the movie. From it, they walked, cross town, to the apartment house in which the Weigands lived.
“Why not,” Dorian said, “come up for a nightcap? Maybe Bill’s home by now.”
They went up for a nightcap. It was a “why-not?” evening.
The telephone was ringing in the apartment—which has a view of more than a slice of the East River; for several reasons, all quite legal, the Weigands do not live on a policeman’s salary—when Dorian opened the door. She was across the room to it, moving as if en route from base-line to net position. She said into it, “Darling!” and then, ‘’At a movie, with the Norths; don’t sound like a cop, darling” and then, “Yes, they did as it happens.” And then listened.
“I’m sure they will,” Dorian said, and turned toward Pam and Jerry and twisted the receiver away from her lips, “Won’t you?” she said.
“Of course,” Pam North said, with no hesitation. “We’d love to.”
“I’m not so—” Dorian said, and then, into the telephone now, “Yes, Bill?” and again listened. She said, “All right. Ten minutes,” and put the receiver back.
“So nice he wants us to—” Pam began and stopped, seeing Dorian’s face.
“Of course he does,” Dorian said. “Only—well, this time there’s something more to it. It seems the man who was killed was somebody you publish, Jerry. A Professor Elwell, and—”
“No!” Pam said. “Not Jamey!”
But there was no use saying it was not Jamey, no use saying it couldn’t be, that it didn’t make sense, as Pam did to Bill, when he arrived as promised. It could be because it was; making sense out of it was, Bill Weigand hoped, where the Norths might help.
“Sometimes,” Pam said, a little later, “it seems as if there’s no future in being a North author. There was that dinosaur man and—”
They knew. Several authors published by North Books, Inc., have led troubled lives, abruptly terminated. A poet once, and a novelist, and of course the dinosaur man. Pam has moments, but they pass quickly, of thinking that it might have been better if they had not found their first body in a bathtub or, having found it, left it unmentioned.
It was not, Jerry told Bill, on being asked, odd that North Books, instead of a publisher of scientific works, should have brought out Elwell’s Hypnotism in the Modern World. For one thing, the book had been written for the lay reader. For another, Jerry, hearing about the book through a friend of his at Dyckman—“a scout, if you must know”—had gone after it.
“Why?” Bill asked.
“Because,” Jerry told him, “we like to sell books.”
Bill waited that one out.
“In the last year or so,” Jerry said, “there’s been—well, a resurgence of interest in hypnotism. And, in the acceptance of hypnotism. It’s been a long time coming, especially in the United States.”*
“Because, Jamey always said, of vaudeville,” Pam said. “The mumbo jumbo. And doctors, even the ones who knew about it, didn’t use it much—or maybe admit using it—because people think of men in capes and glittering eyes.” She paused. “And stiff people between chairs,” she added. “Jamey says—” She stopped, abruptly. “Jerry!” she said. “He was—such a lamb. How anybody—”
“I know,” Jerry said, and then, to Bill, “That’s about it. Recently, because of the work of men like Elwell and a lot of others—the notion that there’s some kind of black magic about it, or that it isn’t true at all, has begun to break down. With medical men, where it’s important. With laymen. It took a long time to make most people accept that the earth isn’t flat.”
Bill said that Jerry seemed, more or less overnight so far as he could see, to have become unexpectedly familiar with hypnosis. Jerry grinned at that, said he was a quick study, that he read the books he published.
“Also,” he said, “Jamey had a way of—of making things exciting.” He paused, spoke more slowly. “He was quite a guy, Bill,” Jerry said. “I feel pretty much the same way Pam does.”
They had known Jameson Elwell only for three or four months, but had, increasingly, seen more of him than the author-publisher relationship fully explained. That sometimes happened. Sometimes it was all business, now and then even rather scratchy business. (“These damn subsidiaries,” Jerry said, somewhat obscurely, and in passing.) Sometimes, an author was as good as his book, or even, on occasion, better. “We hit it off,” Jerry said. “He and I first and then Pam heard about the cats. At first, at lunch, very casually. She had been—”
“I got to talking about Martini,” Pam said. “And poor Sherry. And poor Gin. And any son—” She looked at Jerry, who had said nothing. “All right,” she said, “any man who doesn’t cover an abandoned well. And then about cats in general.” She paused, considered. “I do,” she said, “talk a good deal about cats, I guess. And Jamey told us about—”
He had told them about the cats into whose elusive, surprising minds he and several others were peering at Dyckman University. He had taken Pam to see the cats—
“Doing all sorts of things,” Pam said. “In and out of boxes and stepping on things to make things happen and—”
She had been worried, at first, having come to like Jameson Elwell and being afraid that, if he was doing the wrong things to cats, she wouldn’t any more. But the cats had all seemed very happy, to be enjoying themselves. “Cats like to do things,” Pam said. “Especially when they’re young.”
She stopped and said again that she did talk a good deal about cats. “Actually,” she said, “Jamey used dogs, too, and monkeys. And elephants at one time, I think. But, elephants do take up space, of course.”
This was commemorated by a moment of silence.
“I doubt,” Jerry said, “if elephants come into it, particularly. I don’t know what we can tell you, Bill. The book’s going well. We’ve been to his house—a couple of times for dinner. He showed us his laboratory—he did some hypnosis experiments there—started that when Dyckman was still leery enough to prefer to have them done off campus. It’s changed its mind now. You found the laboratory room?”
Bill had. He told them about the record.
“A quick way,” Jerry said, “to find out whether a person can be hypnotized—will go into somnambulistic trance. Only about one in five will, according to Elwell. Listening to the record, good subjects will begin to sway back and forth and—” He stopped, on looking at Bill Weigand’s face. “Don’t,” Jerry said, “tell me you swayed, Bill. Nothing against it—apparently the more intelligent, the more sensitive, a person is the better chance—”
“Thanks,” Bill said. “But, no.” He hesitated a moment. “I haven’t told him,” Bill said. “And don’t you. But—Mullins swayed just fine. And—didn’t know he was doing it.”
He looked enquiringly at Jerry, who said he wasn’t the authority, just a man who h
ad published an authority. But it seemed probable. At least, people in hypnosis didn’t remember, when they came out of it, were brought out of it, that they had been in. Or, needn’t, unless the operator wanted them to. Jerry said that there were wrinkles within wrinkles, and that he would send Bill a copy of Elwell’s book.
“Long book?” Bill asked, with evident doubt. “All right—no need to look like a Cheshire cat.”
Jerry, still looking rather like one (except that he did not leave his grin hanging in mid-air), said that Professor Elwell’s book was, perhaps, rather long. “People seem to like long books nowadays,” Jerry said. “Apparently long books give them a sense of—” He paused. “Completion, maybe.”
“Accomplishment,” Pam said. “They get through and say, ‘My. Look what I did.’ Particularly novels, of course. The kinds with heroines.”
“Carl Hunter?” Bill said, bringing them back. The Norths looked at him, at each other; they shook heads.
“Should we?” Pam asked.
“A graduate student,” Bill said. “Working with Elwell on the animal psychology experiments.” They shook their heads again.
“He was there this afternoon,” Bill told them. “Left before the professor was killed. He says.”
They waited.
“I have no idea,” Bill said. “It’s obviously possible. You remember a little silver clock the professor had on the desk in his office?”
“You do jump around,” Pam said. “Clock? Don’t tell me it stopped when the—when Jamey died?”
“Not then,” Bill said, and told them when, and how, the clock too had died.
“What a funny thing for somebody to do,” Pam said. “Because the clock—was slow? But, you say it wasn’t. Was Mullins there? Say it was screwy?”
“Yes,” Bill said. “He did use the expression—later and in general terms. He was a little puzzled that you two weren’t—that is.”
“I know,” Pam said. “Poor Mullins. His worst hopes. A clock phobia? I mean—some people go in for clocks, which is supposed to mean something. Do some people go—out for clocks?” She looked at her husband. “Jerry’s thinking,” she said.
The three of them—Dorian quiet, live-eyed, curled in a chair—looked at Gerald North expectantly.
“In hypnotism,” he said, “there’s a—wrinkle. Seems that, during a trance, the operator can tell the subject that, after he comes out of it—at a certain time afterward—he will do a certain thing. Won’t be able to help doing it. Have an irresistible impulse. Usually, of course, to do something that doesn’t make any sense. Afterward, they usually rationalize. Make up reasons for doing the nonsensical thing.” He paused. “I wish you’d read the book yourself,” he said to Bill. “If you think hypnotism has anything to do with—with Jamey’s death.”
“I doubt if it—” Bill began.
“It seems,” Dorian said, “like a devious way to get a clock broken. If you mean that this Mr. Hunter was acting under posthypnotic suggestion.”
Now they looked at Dorian.
“Oh,” she said, “I read. That’s what you were thinking about, wasn’t it, Jerry?”
It seemed possible, Jerry said. If Elwell was right, and he had no doubt that Elwell had been right. “To be honest,” Jerry said, “I had a couple of other experts check the book. In some aspects, they said, very original. In all aspects, very sound. Where was I?”
“Possible,” Pam said. “About the clock.”
Oh—that Hunter, hypnotized, had been told that, at a certain time—or perhaps when he was next in the office—he would take the clock off the desk and throw it into the fireplace. Assuming, of course, that he had been a subject of Elwell’s hypnotic experiments. Assuming that Elwell didn’t mind having the clock broken.
“Why?” Dorian said. “Why would the professor arrange something that would end in—breaking something? It seems—wanton.”
They all, again, regarded Jerry North, who said, “Listen. All I know is what I’ve read in Jamey’s book. Of course—”
They waited.
As he understood it, Jerry said, there was considerable scientific uncertainty as to just how far a person could be persuaded to go under hypnosis. At one time, it was generally—almost universally—believed that a subject could not be swayed to do anything which he would, awake, consider wrong. But experimenters were no longer so sure of that; certainly were not sure within a certain zone.
It was conceivable—always assuming that Hunter had been a subject of experimentation (“Which would have to have been with his full consent; they’re still pretty sure of that.”)—it was conceivable that Professor Elwell had been exploring that particular zone. The average normal person does not, wantonly as Dorian had said, destroy the property of others, especially property of any value. As presumably the clock had been?
“I’d think so,” Bill told him.
Then, Elwell might have given Hunter the posthypnotic suggestion—instruction—that he destroy the clock, to see how far Hunter could be got to go.
“We could ask Hunter himself,” Bill said. “Or—would he know?”
That was difficult to answer; for that answer they needed somebody who really knew something about the subject. If Carl Hunter had been an active participant, rather than merely a passive subject, in the experiments—if he was himself something of an expert—he might recognize his destruction of the clock as a result of posthypnotic suggestion. He might recognize that, and still rationalize by contending that the clock was worthless, running slow. Or, it might be that the suggestion had included the explanation—that Elwell had himself, during Hunter’s hypnosis, offered the worthlessness of the clock as a means of breaking down, in advance, Hunter’s block against vandalism.
“Phew,” Jerry North said, and went to the sideboard and mixed himself a moderate drink.
“We’ll ask, probably,” Bill said. “After I read this damned book. At Elwell’s—did you meet a tall, pale girl, a girl with very large blue eyes, named Faith? Faith Oldham?”
“The poor child,” Pam said. “Yes.”
“Poor?”
“Who,” Pam said, “wants to be named Faith? It was revenge, really. Her mother’s named Hope, you know. Got her own back. She’s very nice, though—Faith, I mean. Not bitter or anything that I could see. Jamey was very fond of her. Treated her—well, as if she were his own daughter. Don’t tell me she—”
Bill was not, he pointed out, telling her anything. Faith Oldham could have got to Elwell’s office without going through the—call it the main house. So, conceivably, given a key, could almost anyone else. Faith and Carl Hunter were, at the least, good friends.
“She felt toward Jamey,” Pam said, “as if he were her father. I’m sure—” She stopped, considered. “No,” she said. “I’m really sure.” She looked at Jerry. “And,” she said, “we’ll have no loose talk of intuition, of either sex.”
“As a matter of fact,” Jerry said, “I feel the way Pam does. Without, of course, being able to prove it. You know about his own daughter—Elizabeth, her name was? She was killed in a car accident before we met Elwell. And—”
“Yes,” Bill said. “We know about her. You mean that, after that, Elwell in a sense adopted Faith Oldham? Emotionally, I mean?”
They didn’t know. It seemed possible.
The telephone rang. “Oh dear,” Dorian said, and went across the room to answer it. She said, “All right, sergeant,” and beckoned with the handpiece.
“Only,” Dorian told her husband, as he took the telephone from her, “remember that even detectives have to sleep sometime.”
He nodded. He said, “Yes, sergeant?” and then, for some time without saying anything further, listened.
“Right,” he said, finally. “The morning will do. Tell him, around nine-thirty. And I’ll meet him at the club. Have somebody check out the accident Elwell’s daughter got killed in—about six months ago. On the Merritt somewhere. And you might nudge Barney a little about the check out on Elwell�
��s records.” He paused. “Don’t I know he’d rather we did,” Bill said. “Good night, Mullins.”
He turned back. Dorian looked at him. “I remembered,” he told her. “Detectives have to sleep.”
“I think,” Pam said, “somebody’s hinting. We’ll—”
But they loitered with intent.
“Just that Elwell’s brother would rather wait until morning to tell us he knows nothing about this ‘shocking business,’” Bill said. “And—preliminary findings on the autopsy.” He paused, seemed to consider. “Probably won’t get us anywhere,” Bill said. “Except give us another thing to check on. Elwell wouldn’t have lived more than six months or a year. Even, the M.E. thinks, with an operation.”
Pam said, “Oh,” and there was shock in her voice. “Did—did he know?”
Bill shrugged. Whether Jameson Elwell had known how much his life drew in was something they, perhaps, would never know. They would try to find a doctor he might have gone to, who might have told him.
“But,” Bill said, “the M.E. says there needn’t have been any symptoms yet. So, unless he was in the habit of having regular checkups—and pretty thorough ones at that—” He ended with a shrug.
It was odd, Pam thought, that this somehow should make it worse, since Jamey was dead in any case—dead, it could be assumed, far more quickly, with a sudden flare of pain instead of pain endlessly smoldering. But—it did. Unfairness added to unfairness, in some fashion not altogether clear. Dear Jamey—
Jerry was closing the door behind him when Pam North said, “Wait a minute,” and turned back.
“Bill,” she said. “There was a tape recorder in the laboratory. Was there anything on the tape?”
“No,” Bill said. “There wasn’t anything on the tape, Pam. As Mullins said—we don’t get the easy ones.”
* “Organized medicine in the United States has taken more than a century to accept the use of hypnosis. At last, the American Medical Association has reported (in its September 1958 Journal) that hypnosis ‘has a recognized place’ in the medical armory, including surgery.”—Harper’s Magazine, November, 1958.
