“Nothing,” Mearson said. He left.
* * * *
A guard brought Lorenz Kane to the consultation room and left him there with Mortimer Mearson. Mearson introduced himself and they shook hands. Kane, Mearson thought, looked quite calm, and definitely more puzzled than worried. He was a tall, moderately good-looking man in his late thirties, impeccably groomed despite a night in a cell. One got the idea that he was the type of man who would manage to appear impeccably groomed anywhere, any time, even a week after his bearers had deserted in mid-safari nine hundred miles up the Congo, taking all his possessions with them.
“Yes, Mr. Mearson. I shall be more than glad to have you represent me. I’ve heard of you, read about cases you’ve handled. I don’t know why I didn’t think of you myself, instead of asking for a recommendation. Now, do you want to hear my story before you accept me as a client—or do you accept as of now, for better or for worse?”
“For better or for worse,” Mearson said, “till—” And then stopped himself; “till death do us part,” is hardly a diplomatic phrase to use to a man who stands, quite possibly, in the shadow of the electric chair.
But Kane smiled and finished the phrase himself. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s sit down then,” and they sat down on the two chairs, one on each side of the table in the consultation room. “And since that means we’ll be seeing quite a bit of one another for a while, let’s start on a first-name basis. But not Lorenz, in my case. It’s Larry.”
“And make mine Morty,” Mearson said. “Now I want your story in detail, but two quick questions first. Are you—?”
“Wait,” Kane interrupted him. “One quick question ahead of your two. Are you absolutely and completely positive that this room is not bugged, that this conversation is completely private?”
“I am,” Mearson said.
“Now my first question: are you guilty? The arresting officers claim that before clamming up, you said one thing: ‘My God, she must have been real!’ Is that true, and if so what did you mean by it?”
“I was stunned at the moment, Morty, and can’t remember—but I probably said something to that effect, because it’s exactly what I was thinking. But as to what I meant by it—that’s something I can’t answer quickly. The only way I can make you understand, if I can make you understand at all, is to start at the beginning.”
“All right. Start. And take your time. We don’t have to go over everything in one sitting. I can stall the trial at least three months—longer if necessary.”
“I can tell it fairly quickly. It started—and don’t ask me for an antecedent for the pronoun it—five and a half months ago, in early April. About two-thirty A.M. on the morning of Tuesday, April the third, to be as nearly exact about it as I can. I had been at a party in Armand Village, north of town, and was on my way home. I—”
“Forgive interruptions. Want to be sure I have the whole picture as it unfolds. You were driving? Alone?”
“I was driving my Jag. I was alone.”
“Sober? Speeding?”
“Sober, yes. I’d left the party relatively early—it was rather a dull bit—and had been feeling my drinks moderately at that time. But I found myself suddenly quite hungry—I think I’d forgotten to eat dinner—and stopped at a roadhouse. I had one cocktail while I was waiting, but I ate all of a big steak when it came, all the trimmings, and had several cups of coffee. And no drinks afterward. I’d say that when I left there I was more sober than usual, if you know what I mean. And, on top of that, I had half an hour’s drive in an open car through the cool night air. On the whole, I’d say that I was soberer than I am now—and I haven’t had a drink since shortly before midnight last night. I—”
“Hold it a moment,” Mearson said. He took a silver flask from his hip pocket and extended it across the table. “A relic of Prohibition; I occasionally use it to play St. Bernard to clients too recently incarcerated to have been able to arrange for importation of the necessities of life.”
Kane said, “Ahhh. Morty, you may double your fee for service beyond the call of duty.” He drank deeply.
“Where were we?” he asked. “Oh, yes. I was definitely sober. Speeding? Only technically. I was heading south on Vine Street a few blocks short of Rostov—”
“Near the Forty-fourth Precinct Station.”
“Exactly. It figures in. It’s a twenty-five-mile zone, and I was going about forty, but what the hell, it was half-past two in the morning and there wasn’t any other traffic. Only the proverbial little old lady from Pasadena would have been going less than forty.”
“She wouldn’t have been out that late. But carry on.”
“So all of a sudden out of the mouth of an alley in the middle of the block comes a girl on a bicycle, pedaling about as fast as a bicycle can go. And right in front of me. I got one clear flash of her as I stepped on the brake as hard as I could. She was a teenager, like sixteen or seventeen. She had red hair that was blowing out from under a brown babushka she had on her head. She wore a light green angora sweater and tan pants of the kind they call pedal pushers. She was on a red bicycle.”
“You got all that in one glance?”
“Yes. I can still visualize it clearly. And—this I’ll never forget—just before the moment of impact, she turned and was looking straight at me, through frightened eyes behind shell-rimmed glasses.
“My foot was, by then, trying to push the brake pedal through the floor, and the damn Jag was starting to slue and make up its mind whether to go end over end or what. But hell, no matter how fast your reactions are—and mine are pretty good—you can barely start to slow down a car in a few yards if you’re going forty. I must have still been going over thirty when I hit her—it was a hell of an impact.
“And then bump-crunch, bump-crunch, as first the front wheels of the Jag went over and then the back wheels. The bumps were her, of course, and the crunches were the bicycle. And the car shuddered to a stop maybe another thirty feet on.
“Ahead of me, through the windshield, I could see the lights of the precinct station only a block away. I got out of the car and started running for it. I didn’t look back. I didn’t want to look back. There was no point to it; she had to be deader than dead, after that impact.
“I ran into the precinct house, and after a few seconds I got coherent enough to get across what I was trying to tell them. Two of the city’s finest left with me and we started back the block to the scene of the accident. I started out by running, but they only walked fast and I slowed myself down because I wasn’t anxious to get there first. Well, we got there and—”
“Let me guess,” the attorney said. “No girl, no bicycle.”
Kane nodded slowly. “There was the Jag, slued crooked in the street. Headlights on. Ignition key still on, but the engine had stalled. Behind it, about forty feet of skid marks, starting a dozen feet back of the point where the alley cut out into the street.
“And that was all. No girl. No bicycle. Not a drop of blood or a scrap of metal. Not a scratch or a dent in the front of the car. They thought I was crazy, and I don’t blame them. They didn’t even trust me to get the car off the street; one of them did that and parked it at the curb—and kept the key instead of handing it to me—and they took me back to the station house and questioned me.
“I was there the rest of the night. I suppose I could have called a friend and had the friend get me an attorney to get me out on bail, but I was just too shaken to think of it. Maybe even too shaken to want out, to have any idea where I’d want to go or what I’d want to do if I got out. I just wanted to be alone to think and, after the questioning, a chance to do that was just what I got. They didn’t toss me into the drunk tank. Guess I was well enough dressed, had enough impressive identification on me, to convince them that, sane or nuts, I was a solid and solvent citizen, to be handled with kid glo
ves and not a rubber hose. Anyway, they had a single cell open and put me in it, and I was content to do my thinking there. I didn’t even try to sleep.
“The next morning they had a police head-shrinker come in to talk to me. By that time I’d simmered down to the point where I realized that, whatever the score was, the police weren’t going to be any help to me, and the sooner I got out of their hands the better. So I conned the head-shrinker a bit by starting to play my story down instead of telling it straight. I left out sound effects, like the crunching of the bicycle being run over and I left out kinetic sensations, feeling the impact and the bumps, gave it to him as what could have been purely a sudden and momentary visual hallucination. He bought it after a while, and they let me go.”
Kane stopped talking long enough to take a pull at the silver flask and then asked, “With me so far? And, whether you believe me or not, any questions to date?”
“Just one,” the attorney said. “Are you, can you be, positive that your experience with the police at the Forty-fourth is objective and verifiable? In other words, if this comes to a trial and we should decide on an insanity defense, can I call as witnesses the policemen who talked to you, and the police psychiatrist?”
Kane grinned a little crookedly. “To me, my experience with the police is just as objective as my running over the girl on the bicycle. But at least you can verify the former. See if it’s on the blotter and if they remember it. Dig?”
“I’m hip. Carry on.”
“So the police were satisfied that I’d had an hallucination. I damn well wasn’t. I did several things. I had a garage run the Jag up on a rack and I went over the underside of it, as well as the front. No sign. Okay, it hadn’t happened, as far as the car was concerned.
“Second, I wanted to know if a girl of that description, living or dead, had been out on a bicycle that night. I spent several thousand dollars with a private detective agency, having them canvass that neighborhood—and a fair area around it—with a fine-tooth comb to find if a girl answering that description currently or ever had existed, with or without a red bicycle. They came up with a few possible red-headed teenagers, but I managed to get a gander at each of them, no dice.
“And, after asking around, I picked a head-shrinker of my own and started going to him. Allegedly the best in the city, certainly the most expensive. Went to him for two months. It was a washout. I never found out what he thought had happened; he wouldn’t talk. You know how psychoanalysts work, they make you do the talking, analyze yourself, and finally tell them what’s wrong with you, then you yak about it a while and tell them you’re cured, and they then agree with you and tell you to go with God. All right if your subconscious knows what the score is and eventually lets it leak out. But my subconscious didn’t know which end was up, so I was wasting my time, and I quit.
“But meanwhile I’d leveled with a few friends of mine to get their ideas, and one of them—a professor of philosophy at the university—started talking about ontology, and that started me reading up on ontology and gave me a clue. In fact, I thought it was more than a clue, I thought it was the answer. Until last night. Since last night, I know I was at least partly wrong.”
“Ontology—” said Mearson. “Word’s vaguely familiar, but will you pin it down for me?”
“I quote you the Webster Unabridged, unexpurgated version: ‘Ontology is the science of being or reality; the branch of knowledge that investigates the nature, essential properties, and relations of being, as such.”
Kane glanced at his wrist watch. “But this is taking longer to tell than I thought. I’m getting tired talking, and no doubt you’re even more tired of listening. Shall we finish this tomorrow?”
“An excellent idea, Larry.” Mearson stood up.
Kane tilted the silver flask for the last drop and handed it back. “You’ll play St. Bernard again?”
* * * *
“I went to the Forty-fourth,” Mearson said. “The incident you described to me is on the blotter, all right. And I talked to one of the two coppers who went back with you to the scene of the—uh—back to the car. Your reporting of the accident was real, no question of that.”
“I’ll start where I left off,” Kane said. “Ontology, the study of the nature of reality. In reading up on it, I came across solipsism, which originated with the Greeks. It is the belief that the entire universe is the product of one’s imagination—in my case, my imagination. That I myself am the only concrete reality, and that all things and all other people exist only in my mind.”
Mearson frowned. “So then the girl on the bicycle, having only an imaginary existence to begin with, ceased to exist—uh, retroactively, as of the moment you killed her? Leaving no trace behind her, except a memory in your mind, of ever having existed?”
“That possibility occurred to me, and I decided to do something which I thought would verify or disprove it. Specifically, to commit a murder, deliberately, to see what would happen.”
“But—but Larry, murders happen every day, people are killed every day, and don’t vanish retroactively and leave no trace behind them.”
“But they were not killed by me,” Kane said earnestly. “And if the universe is a product of my imagination, that should make a difference. The girl on the bicycle is the first person I ever killed.”
Mearson sighed. “So you decided to check by committing a murder. And shot Queenie Quinn. But why didn’t she—?”
“No, no, no,” Kane interrupted. “I committed another first, a month or so ago. A man. A man—and there’s no use my telling you his name or anything about him because, as of now, he never existed, like the girl on the bicycle.
“But of course I didn’t know it would happen that way, so I didn’t simply kill him openly, as I did the stripper. I took careful precautions, so if his body had been found, the police would never have apprehended me as the killer.
“But after I killed him, well—he just never had existed, and I thought that my theory was confirmed. After that I carried a gun, thinking that I could kill with impunity any time I wanted to—and that it wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t be immoral even, because anyone I killed didn’t really exist anyway except in my mind.”
“Ummm,” said Mearson.
“Ordinarily, Morty,” Kane said, “I’m a pretty even tempered guy. Night before last was the first time I used the gun. When that damn stripper hit me, she hit hard, a roundhouse swing. It blinded me for the moment, and I just reacted automatically in pulling out the gun and shooting her.”
“Ummm,” the attorney said. “And Queenie Quinn turned out to be for real, and you’re in jail for murder, and doesn’t that blow your solipsism theory sky-high?”
Kane frowned. “It certainly modifies it. I’ve been thinking a lot since I was arrested, and here’s what I’ve come up with. If Queenie was real—and obviously she was—then I was not, and probably am not, the only real person. There are real people and unreal ones, ones that exist only in the imagination of the real ones. How many, I don’t know. Maybe only a few, maybe thousands, even millions. My sampling—three people, of whom one turned out to have been real—is too small to be significant.”
“But why? Why should there be a duality like that?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Kane frowned. “I’ve had some pretty wild thoughts, but any one of them would be just a guess. Like a conspiracy—but a conspiracy against whom? Or what? And all of the real ones couldn’t be in on the conspiracy, because I’m not.”
He chuckled without humor. “I had a really far-out dream about it last night, one of those confused, mixed-up dreams that you can’t really tell anybody, because they have no continuity, just a series of impressions. Something about a conspiracy and a reality file that lists the names of all the real people and keeps them real. And—here’s a dream pun for you—reality is really run by a chain, onl
y they’re not known to be a chain, of reality companies, one in each city. Of course they deal in real estate too, as a front. And—oh hell, it’s all too confused even to try to tell.
“Well, Morty, that’s it. And my guess is that you’ll tell me my only defense is an insanity plea—and you’ll be right because, damn it, if I am sane I am a murderer. First degree and without extenuating circumstances. So?”
“So,” said Mearson. He doodled a moment with a gold pencil and then looked up. “The head-shrinker you went to for a while—his name wasn’t Galbraith, was it?”
Kane shook his head.
“Good. Doc Galbraith is a friend of mine and the best forensic psychiatrist in the city, maybe in the country. Has worked with me on a dozen cases, and we’ve won all of them. I’d like his opinion before I even start to map out a defense. Will you talk to him, be completely frank with him, if I send him around to see you?”
“Of course. Uh—will you ask him to do me a favor?”
“Probably. What is it?”
“Lend him your flask and ask him to bring it filled. You’ve no idea how much more nearly pleasant it makes these interviews.”
* * * *
The intercom on Mortimer Mearson’s desk buzzed, and he pressed the button on it that would bring his secretary’s voice in. “Dr. Galbraith to see you, sir.” Mearson told her to send him in at once.
“Hi, Doc,” Mearson said. “Take a load off your feet and tell all.”
Galbraith took the load off his feet and lighted a cigarette before he spoke. “Puzzling for a while,” he said. “I didn’t get the answer till I went into medical history with him. While playing polo at age twenty-two, he had a fall and got a whop on the head with a mallet that caused a bad concussion and subsequent amnesia. Complete at first, but gradually his memory came back completely up to early adolescence. Pretty spotty between then and the time of the injury.”
The Fredric Brown Megapack: 33 Classic Science Fiction Stories Page 8
