The Alien MEGAPACK®

by Talmage Powell

  Disappointment showed on her face. She had come to him for help and he wasn’t doing anything for her. “I thought—”

  “You thought all you had to do was to set it on my desk and I would be able to tell you all about it?”

  “Something like that,” she admitted.

  “Thanks for the compliment. I’m neither a superman nor a mental wonder. There, are many things I don’t know. I don’t know, for instance, where you got that rabbit.”

  * * * *

  He didn’t add that he didn’t know enough about her to satisfy him. The Mildred Chambers of the rotogravure section, the Mildred Chambers of the society pages, he knew vaguely. She was a glamour girl, with more money than was probably good for her. She got her picture taken at the Stork Club now with this man, now with that. She lived in the frothy bubble of society, in the false, unreal world of the ultra rich. This much he knew about her from casual reading of the newspapers but the real Mildred Chambers, the little girl hidden away somewhere behind the false front of the social glitter, he did not know.

  He was having the devil’s own time connecting the Mildred Chambers, the girl in the ermine wrap whose photograph he had seen in the picture sections, with this frightened, violet-eyed girl sitting in his office, this Mildred Chambers who had brought him a dead rabbit in a shoe box.

  He could imagine what a Broadway columnist would make of this situation. He thought of the headline:

  SOCIETY GIRL CARRIES DEAD RABBIT IN SHOE BOX.

  The thought shocked him. It was so fantastic it was utterly horrible.

  A society girl carrying a dead rabbit around in a shoe box. This in New York City, in the greatest metropolis of the modern world, in the very home of sophistication, in 1949!

  Privately, Graham knew that this sophistication was only a thin veneer, that just under the surface of this modern world the old fears of the human race could be found, the fear of the dark, the fear of the jungle, the fear of the evil eye, the fear of plain bad luck. Civilization had veneered man; that was all it had done. Under the skin of New York were all the old, old fears of the race.

  “Where,” he repeated, “Did you get this rabbit?”

  “I found it in my apartment this morning,” Mildred Chambers answered. “I called you immediately.”

  “And where is your apartment?”

  She gave an address on Park Avenue. Graham knew the building. It was one of those ultra-expensive places.

  “We live on the eighteenth floor,” she continued.

  On the eighteenth floor of a Park Avenue apartment building she had found a dead rabbit! She lived so high up that the noise of the street did not reach her. She lived up in the clouds almost, in a world set apart from humble dwellers on this earth. She lived in a building of brick and steel, surrounded by asphalt streets and concrete sidewalks. Up eighteen stories in the air in a steel and concrete building she had found a dead rabbit. No wonder she was frightened.

  “Where in your apartment did you find it?”

  “In my father’s room.”

  “Ah. Your father is Whitman Chambers, III?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in your father’s room was the rabbit?”

  “Hidden in a drawer of his dresser. One of the maids found it and brought it to me.”

  “Ah.”

  * * * *

  Graham thought what a Broadway columnist would make of this. In the dresser of Whitman Chambers III, wealthy sportsman and descendant of original New York settlers, a dead rabbit had been found. That would be a juicy tidbit indeed. Had the family tree of another original settler developed a nut? Had Whitman Chambers III quietly gone crazy? Keeping a dead rabbit in a dresser drawer was scarcely the activity of a sane mind.

  “It isn’t that,” Mildred Chambers said hastily. “Daddy is as sane as—as you or I. I’m positive of that.”

  “Did I say he wasn’t?” Graham questioned.

  “No, but you looked it.”

  “And you’re afraid of it!” Graham challenged.

  “What?”

  “The first thing that popped into your mind when that rabbit was found in your father’s room was the thought that your father was going insane.”

  “No!”

  “Isn’t the fear that your father is insane the thing you are most afraid of?”

  “No, Mr. Graham. My biggest fear is that he is not insane!”

  Graham walked around his desk, sat down in the chair, and leaned back. The violet eyes of the girl never left his face. The only sound in the room was the soft rustle of the air conditioning apparatus pushing cool air into the room to combat New York’s August heat. On the street far below, the honk of a taxicab sounded like a noise from another world.

  “If he were insane, you would not be afraid?” Graham said.

  “I would be terribly sorry,” she said simply. “But I would not be afraid.”

  He believed her. And he shivered. Out of the corner of his eyes, he was aware of the shoe box sitting on his desk, of the box and of its contents. He felt the cold spidery feet of a nameless dread walk up his spine.

  “My father has always been interested in the supernatural,” Mildred Chambers continued. “He has an extensive library on the subject. I can’t remember a time when some medium or crystal gazer was not coming to our apartment to demonstrate something to him or to try to sell him something. I don’t think he ever bought anything except books or ever believed in anything. He frequently said that ninety-nine percent of the mediums were fakes and that ninety nine percent of everything written about the supernatural was obviously nonsense. It was the one medium in a hundred who might not be a fake all the time, it was the one percent of the supernatural that was true, which interested him. I believe he thinks that hidden behind all the false trimmings is a grain of important truth.”

  Graham nodded. “Most really intelligent people think the same thing,” he said. “Most intelligent people are interested in knowing what this world is all about. You have stated my own beliefs exactly. Somewhere there is the truth about everything, about the sun, the stars, and the earth, and about the life on this earth. The purpose and the meaning of human life? That is the question. The answer to that question is hard to find. Your father sounds like a man I would enjoy knowing. Go on with the rest of your story.”

  * * * *

  The girl brightened, “Thank you,” she said. “The rest is soon told. About a month ago, my father apparently discovered a part of that grain of truth he has been seeking all his life. At any rate, he found something. A tremendous change came over him.”

  “What kind of a change?”

  “There were two changes. The first one was eagerness. He suddenly seemed to find a new zest in life. He was excited all the time.”

  “Like a child with a new toy?”

  “Yes. But it was more than that. For the first time in years, he seemed to be suddenly very much alive. He was glad. He whistled and he sang. He teased me. Then—he changed.”

  “Yes,” Graham encouraged.

  “He became afraid, terribly afraid—” The girl groped for words.

  “His new toy had turned into a monster?” Graham asked. Again he was aware of the shoe box sitting on his desk, of the shoe box and of its contents.

  “Maybe,” the girl answered.

  “And what do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to find out what has happened and to help him.”

  “I’ll take the job, Graham said. “I’ll see him tonight.”

  Surprise showed on her face. “You mean you’re going to talk to him? I thought a detective—”

  “I’m not the kind of detective who hides in the dark,” Graham answered. “I lay my cards on the table face up. I’m going show him this.” He pointed toward the shoe box. “And I want you present while I talk to him.”


  “Me? Why me?”

  “For the very good reason that you may have been lying to me,” Graham answered promptly. “Or you may have been indulging in a little private fantasy of your own, for reasons of your own. I admit I think you’re honest and sincere, but I don’t know you well enough to be sure of my own conclusions. You may be the nut on the family tree instead of your father.”

  Anger colored her face. “Do you think that is fantasy?” she demanded, pointing to the shoe box.

  “That,” Graham said, “is the only reason why I am going at all.”

  He rose to his feet. “I’ll see you at eight o’clock.”

  She didn’t like his attitude, she didn’t like it a little bit. She was still angry when she left the office. She would have liked to tell him to go to the devil but her fear was stronger than her anger. He sighed, decided again that she was sincere. And he wished again that he didn’t have to hurt people’s feelings to get at the truth that was in them. He picked up the shoe box from his desk, carried it into his laboratory.

  * * * *

  An hour later he was indulging in some fantasy himself. He was apologizing to a person who wasn’t present, to Mildred Chambers.

  He had dissected the rabbit. Every muscle, every internal organ in the body of the little animal had been stiffened to the hardness of bone.

  George Graham had an extensive knowledge of the various ways in which men—and animals—may die, guns, knives, poison, old age, disease. The rabbit had not died in any of these ways. It had not died in any way that Graham had heard, of, or read of, or thought of.

  “Whitman Chambers, where did you get this rabbit?” he thought. “And why did you hide it in your dresser? And what devil’s broth have you been stirring up, Whitman Chambers?”

  Graham was still indulging in fantasy. He had the uneasy feeling that this fantasy was turning into desperate reality.

  * * * *

  Whitman Chambers had gray hair and the most penetrating blue eyes George Graham had ever seen. He was a tall man with just the slightest suggestion of a stoop to his shoulders. There was a suggestion of sadness on his face.

  “George Graham?” he said, extending his hand. “I have heard of you. Under other circumstances, I would have been glad to meet you.”

  “I’m sorry you’re not glad to see me now,” Graham answered. “I’m here to help you. I gather your daughter has told you I was coming?”

  They were in a book-lined library. Mildred Chambers, wearing a sleeveless dinner dress, had answered his ring and had brought him to the library where Whitman Chambers waited.

  “She told me you were coming,” Chambers answered. “I can guess why.”

  The girl had seated herself in a soft chair. Chambers looked at her. “Would you like to leave me and Mr. Graham alone now?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Mr. Graham insisted that I be present when he talked to you.”

  “Um?” Chambers looked at Graham. The sleuth nodded.

  “May I ask why?”

  “Certainly. Your daughter gave me certain information today. I want her to say the same things in your presence that she said when you were absent.”

  “I see,” Chambers answered. He looked angry.

  “For her protection, for your protection, and for my protection,” Graham added. “I am interested only in the truth.”

  “You think, perhaps, she lied to you?” Chambers challenged.

  “Lying might be one word for it,” Graham answered. “It might, however, be better to say that I am not a psychiatrist and I am not interested in the delusions of a deranged mind. She thinks you are in trouble and she hired me to help you. At the time she left my office, I was of the opinion that perhaps your trouble might merely be a delusion on her part. By requiring her to tell her story in your presence, we would be able to tell whether or not it was a delusion. Thus, if she were hallucinating, you would be able to secure the services of psychiatrist rather than a private investigator who specializes in protecting the public from the activities of a certain group of rather unpleasant people.”

  Graham felt a little uncomfortable. His motives had been honest but they might be misinterpreted.

  “You thought she might be crazy, and if so, I ought to know it,” Chambers spoke.

  “Something like that,” Graham answered. He knew the girl’s hot eyes were on him but he didn’t look at her.

  “You have since had occasion to change your mind?” Chambers continued.

  “Yes.”

  “May I ask you what caused you to change your mind?”

  “I dissected that damned rabbit,” Graham answered.

  There was complete silence in the book-lined room. The blue eyes of Whitman Chambers probed into Graham’s face, measured him, weighed him. There was fear in the eyes now. Graham could see it lurking deep in the penetrating depths. He had the impression that the man who faced him was keeping his emotions under iron control.

  Chambers turned to his daughter.

  “So you found it?” he said.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  As though the strength had suddenly gone out of his legs, Whitman Chambers sat down. A pale film of sweat was visible on his forehead. He took a handkerchief from his coat pocket, dabbed at the sweat.

  “Where did you get that rabbit?” the girl spoke.

  * * * *

  Whitman Chambers rose to his feet, walked across the room, and carefully closed the door of the library. He came back to his chair and he tottered as he walked. He looked at his daughter, then his eyes came back to Graham’s face.

  “I’m trying to help,” Graham said. “I have to know the truth, and the whole truth.”

  “Man, I know your reputation,” Chambers answered. “One look is all I need to see the honesty in you. I know you are trying to help and I know you need the truth. I am not questioning your motives or your need for facts.”

  “Then what are you questioning?” Graham asked.

  “I am not questioning anything,” the white-haired sportsman answered. “I am just trying to decide how important it is to me to stay alive.”

  “What?” Mildred Chambers’ sudden whisper was loud in the silent room. “Dad!”

  He didn’t seem to hear her.

  Graham watched in silence. The thousand feet of uneasy fear were crawling on his spine. Chambers’ eyes were on his face, never leaving it.

  “Dad!”

  He still didn’t hear her. He looked at Graham, seemed to find strength in the solid bulk of the man, courage in his even, fearless features. There was something about Graham that gave other people courage. Chambers seemed to draw courage from him now.

  “I bought the rabbit,” he said.

  “Bought it?” his daughter questioned.

  “Yes. I paid a hundred thousand dollars for it.”

  Graham gulped. One hundred thousand dollars! That was real money in any man’s language. And Whitman Chambers III had parted with one hundred thousand dollars to buy a dead rabbit!

  “Extortion,” Graham said.

  Chambers nodded. “You can call it that if you want to. I paid the money willingly and I did not file a complaint with the police. Nor have I any intention of filing a complaint now.”

  “They got you, eh?”

  “They’ve got me.”

  “Don’t you know they will come back for more?” Paying off an extortionist is just an invitation to him to come back for more money.”

  “I know that.”

  “Then why did you pay it?”

  “That is a matter between me and my conscience,” Whitman Chambers answered. “I do not at this moment choose to reveal why I made the payment.”

  “Will you tell me the person to whom you paid it?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Chambers answered. “I’ll take
you to the place where I paid it and to the people to whom I paid it. I’ll let you see what I saw. Then you can judge for yourself whether or not I was justified in what I did. You can tell me whether or not you think the price was too high. Will you go with me?”

  “Of course I’ll go with you!” Graham answered.

  Mildred Chambers rose from her chair. “I’m going too,” she said.

  “I would prefer you do not,” her father said.

  She hesitated. “Can you give me a reason?”

  “Yes. It is better for you not to see—”

  “What you have seen?”

  “Well—”

  Shaking her head, she walked over to her father and kissed him. “That’s not a good enough reason. I’m going with you.”

  “Very well,” Whitman Chambers assented. “But perhaps—” He looked at Graham.

  “I have no objections,” George Graham answered. He pressed his left arm against his coat. Yes, the gun was there in its shoulder holster.

  Graham’s mind came back to a central thought: Whitman Chambers had parted with one hundred thousand dollars. Chambers was no fool. If he spent that much money, he must have been scared right down to the bottom of his soul. What had he gotten in return that was worth a hundred thousand dollars?

  Or had Chambers quietly and easily gone batty? There was the rabbit, that triply damned rabbit. The rabbit was dead but it was never under any circumstances insane. It made Whitman Chambers sane too.

  Graham swore silently. He had the feeling he wasn’t going to like what Chambers was going to show him. He felt of his gun again, to make certain he still had it.

  * * * *

  They went in Chambers’ car to an address in Greenwich Village, to a neighborhood that had been taken over by people who were trying to be arty. The apartment was on the first floor of a building that looked like it had once been a garage but had been converted into living quarters. Chambers rang the door bell.

  A tall, slender, dark-skinned man with the look of a hawk on his face answered the ring.

  “Mr. Chambers. I’m glad to see you. You decided to attend another one of our weekly gathering, I see?” Then he saw Graham. His face changed.