Mirabelle struggled to get away from Theo. She tried to get to Wessler. She said: “I can’t bear it, Dr. Lenz. Seeing him there, not knowing—I can’t bear it. You’ve got to tell me. Is he dead?”
Once again that taut, suspended silence. Then Lenz’s voice.
“No, Miss Rue, he is not dead.”
“Thank God. Thank God. But what is it—is it the smoke? Is he suffocated?”
“It is not only that, Miss Rue. There is a severe contusion on the back of his head. He has been struck by some heavy implement. I am afraid the skull is fractured. He is very, very seriously injured.”
There was some talk about a hospital, calling an ambulance, calling the police. But suddenly I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I thought: “So this is what I’ve worked for. This is what I’ve tried to rehabilitate myself for. Wessler’s out. Tomorrow we open. We can’t open without Wessler. We can’t do anything. This time, we’re through.”
And I was through. I didn’t give a damn about anything.
For months I’d slaved, I’d hoped, I’d struggled against my desire for alcohol. I’d done that—just to have everything swept from under my feet
It wasn’t good enough. There was no damn sense in going on. I was through.
I slipped off the stage. I don’t think the others noticed me. With one burning desire guiding me like a pillar of flame, I ran down the stairs. I was going to leave the Dagonet forever; I was going to get stinking, roaring tight.
I suppose I was somewhere near the stage door when I felt that small, cold hand on my arm. It meant nothing to me. I tried to shake it off. But it stuck.
Then I heard a voice. It said: “Peter, surely you’re not in as great a hurry as all that?”
I paused. I shook myself. I looked at the man standing in front of me, watching me from flat, black eyes—eyes that had a derisive, surface smile.
“The doorman has told me the tragic news,” said Roland Gates. “How very unfortunate for you all. But how fortunate that you took my advice and persuaded me to learn the part There is nothing for you to worry about I shall be more than ready to take over tomorrow night”
I hadn’t said anything until then because I couldn’t There were no words inside me, nothing but an all-embracing, barbarous loathing of Roland Gates. He wasn’t going to get in my show … not if ten thousand demons tortured me. I’d rather see it sink; rather go howling after it to hell.
“Yes, Peter,” he murmured. “I think you’ll find my interpretation of the part very stimulating. I…”
Maybe he said something else, but I didn’t hear it I lunged with my right fist, aiming straight at his jaw. I staggered forward after it. I didn’t know whether or not I had made contact. I didn’t know anything except that I was out again in the cool night air of the alley, hurrying forward.
I remember thinking: Then this is good-by to Iris, too. m never see her again. But that couldn’t stop me. Iris was part of that flimsy dream I had thought I could snatch out of the clouds; she was something I wouldn’t ever have been able to get; anyway.
Here was something I could get, now and forever—and I stumbled into the nearest bar.
CHAPTER THIRTY
I SHOOK myself. I screwed up my eyes, peering across the bar at a white, blurred disk that used to be a clock.
“What’s the time?” I said.
‘Two-thirty-two,” said the barman. “Fifty seconds ago when you last asked, it was thirty-one minutes and fifty seconds past two. Looks like we’re keeping up to schedule.”
“Fine,” I said, “nothing like keeping up to schedule.” I swallowed my fifth? sixth? seventh? straight Scotch. “Pretty good clock, ain’t it? Dependable.”
“Sure,” said the barman. “Why don’t you wash some of that dirt off your face?”
“Good idea,” I said. “Excellent.”
Time elapsed. I could hear it ticking away back of the bar. But I was all right. I was clinging onto the rail. I wasn’t going to tick away.
“So you’re not going to wash the soot off your face?” said the barman. “Maybe you like it the way it is?”
“Certainly. I like my face the way it is.”
“Well, I don’t,” said the barman.
That wasn’t at all the thing one gentleman said to another. I knew it. I drew myself up. I said: “If you don’t like my face, I have no desire to consort with you. Good evening to you, sir.”
My fingers slid from the rail to my hat. My hat was on my head. A little trouble with a revolving door, but I was out again in the fresh air.
There were lights all around me. I knew what they were, lights on bars, movie houses, theaters—theaters. They couldn’t fool me. I hadn’t drunk hard liquor for over a year but I could still take it. Yes, sir. I was okay.
Somewhere, way, way down inside, a midget voice was
nagging: “Wessler’s out. Your show’s shot to hell. You’re through.” But I didn’t pay any attention to it—not a damn sissy voice like that.
A bar with a brass rail; a bar with no rail; a bar with high seats, too high seats, you couldn’t keep on them very well; another bar. What’s the time? Three-thirty. What’s the time? Four-fifteen. What’s the time? Close on five o’clock, sir.
There was a hand on my arm. I turned. A girl was sitting next to me at the bar—damn attractive girl. She was smiling.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” I said. “What’ll you have?”
“Milk,” said the girl.
“Make it two milks, barman,” I said.
“Like to go places with me?” said the girl.
“Sure,” I said. Then I was suspicious. I said to the barman: “Who the hell is this girl anyway?”
“If I was you I wouldn’t give a damn,” said the barman. “I’d take a brody.”
I turned to the girl. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Iris.”
I said: “That’s a nice name. I used to know a girl called Iris.”
“What happened to her?” said Iris.
“She’s out of my life,” I said. “She’s a damn nice girl.”
Someone paid for the milk. I was out in the street with the girl. I was in a car. All the fixed stars of Broadway became comets, shooting past me to left and right. Hell of a lot of comets.
I started counting them. But what the heck? Why should I count any darn comets? I slid back against the seat. There was the girl at the wheel. Cute little silver slipper on the gas. I saw it; then it joggled out of focus; then it was gone.
Sometime later I was conscious again, conscious of speed, a tearing forward motion, a breeze blowing on my face. I was a disembodied spirit hurtling through the empyrean.
The girl was still there at my side, a girl in silver with dark hair floating backward.
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “Let me guess. We’re dead. We’re going to heaven.”
“Right, darling,” said Iris. Her eyes were fixed on the
road. “And at the moment I’m trying like hell to avoid Philadelphia.”
Then I smelt smoke. With a sudden stab of panic, I smelt smoke. It seemed to come from my clothes.
“I’m on fire,” I said.
“No, darling. If you smell anything nasty, it’s just Philadelphia. Don’t worry.”
So I worried … and began dimly to remember. I had been in a theater. There had been smoke—something ghastly had happened. I struggled with an elusive nightmare of memory. I pushed myself around to look at the girl with the silver slippers.
“You’re Iris,” I said.
“Yes, I’m Iris.”
“Nice,” I said. “Very nice.”
The car rushed on.
I said slowly: “Something happened to Wessler, didn’t it? He was burned, bashed over the head. He’s dead.”
“He isn’t dead,” said Iris. “He’s in a hospital. They say he’ll be all right.”
“But he won’t be able to act?”
“No—not for some
months, I believe.”
“Then it’s all over. The play’s through. No more Troubled Waters, no more work, nothing to worry about. Goody, goody. Whoopee.”
“Whoopee,” said Iris. “Don’t talk any more, darling. You’re getting me fussed and we’ll end up in Philadelphia.”
“Always end up in Philadelphia,” I said. “Can’t avoid it. Inevitable.”
I didn’t talk any more because Iris had told me not to. But we were there in the car. For hours and hours we seemed to be in the car. The darkness gradually went and a sort of dirty grayish light was everywhere—the dawn. Towns and things flashed past. Iris was driving very fast.
At last she got some place and slowed up. There was a boy at the side of the road. When we slowed up, he came to us, jumping on the running board. He had a pudgy white face with pimples and a sniff.
Iris said: “This is Elkton, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Could you please direct me to …”
The boy grinned, showing teeth and gaps. “You want a minister, eh? Sure, I’ll fix you up. Best minister in
town. J.B. Stott Reasonable rates, smart service. Record number of splicings for the months of July, August and October 1938. Always accessible night and day. Never …”
Iris said: “That’s a horrid little boy, Peter. Push him off the running board.”
I looked at the boy. He had eyes like a pig. “On the contrary,” I said, “he’s an attractive little boy. Nice little boy. Interesting conversationalist.”
The boy winked at Iris. ‘Tight, eh? Most of the husbands that turn out best are the guys you catch when they’re cockeyed. Yes, ma’am.”
Iris leaned over me suddenly. She pushed the boy. He fell sprawling back on the road. Iris started the car again.
I said: “You shouldn’t have done that to the nice little boy. Heartless. So we’re in Elkton?”
“Yes.”
“And we’re going to get married?”
“We are,” said Iris, “but not by Mr. J. B. Stott”
That all seemed pretty swell to me, getting married and everything—romantic.
Iris drew up outside a building. There was a great black and white sign with a name on it. The name wasn’t Stott —something else. We were inside the building. A man emerged; he seemed to know what we wanted; he brought a fat woman, his wife, and a girl with thick spectacles, an unattractive girl. They were witnesses, he said.
Iris and I stood there together. I had my hand in hers. The man started reading. All I had to do was pretty easy—just repeat a couple of things after him. I knew what was happening. Iris and I were being married. We’d always wanted to be married anyway. Why the hell hadn’t we done it before? The man who wasn’t J. B. Stott was kissing Iris. For one moment of panic I thought the fat woman and the woman with glasses were going to kiss me. But they didn’t.
We were all writing in a book. Iris was paying out money. Then the man was talking to me. He said how he raised chickens and how almost every bride and groom bought day-old chicks from him on the side. Would I care for some? I felt day-old chicks would be pretty damn useful. I ordered dozens. That’s how you bought them, so much the dozen. He said he’d have them put in the car. I said fine.
Then Iris and I were alone in the car. We sat close together in the front seat. I looked at her. She was beautiful with those sloe-dark eyes and soft red mouth. As I watched, her lips trembled. She tried to keep them from trembling but she couldn’t. Suddenly she was in my arms, crying like a baby.
“What is it, darling?” I said. “What’s the matter?”
She said: “Oh, Peter, what a lousy way to get married.”
“It isn’t lousy, darling. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It’s fun; it’s gay.”
For a while she stayed there against my shoulder, sobbing. “It isn’t gay. It’s horrible. I’ve tried not to let down, Peter. But you don’t know what it’s like. Ever since I was a kid, I dreamed about shimmering white satin and bouquets and all my most unattractive friends as bridesmaids so there wouldn’t be any competition.” She looked up. The tears were still gleaming on her cheeks. “But I’ve got you, darling. Even if I did have to take six dozen day-old chicks as well, I’ve got you.”
“I’m not much to have,” I said.
“You are, Peter. You’re a hell of a lot. I wouldn’t have put in so much spade work if I didn’t think that.” She drew herself away. She started the car, looking efficient and executive again.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“On our honeymoon,” said Iris. “In Elkton’s grandest hotel.”
Some time later I was in a hotel room with Iris. I wasn’t tight any more—at least not so tight that I didn’t know what it was all about.
“Happy, darling?” she whispered.
“Happy as hell,” I said. Then I heard something which wasn’t at all a normal sound to hear. I added: “But I think there’s a little stranger under the bed.”
“There is,” said Iris. “Six dozen of them, chicks.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
AT some later, indeterminate time, I stirred on the bed. I opened my eyes onto a blur which gradually resolved itself into an unfamiliar bedroom. My head was splitting; red hot pins were being stuck in my eyeballs. I wanted to die.
I shut my eyes again. That didn’t help. Then a door opened. I made myself look. Iris was coming in, cool and calm in a silver evening gown. That gown made me remember last night or this morning or whatever it was. I felt a bit better.
“Hello, wife,” I said.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. She took one of my hands. ‘Thank God you remember. I couldn’t have borne it—not if I’d married you when you were completely unconscious.”
“Sure I remember,” I said. “This is the grandest hotel in Elkton. Where are the chickens?”
“They’ve gone. We’ve got to go too, darling. I want you to dress. How do you feel?”
‘Terrible.” I tried to move. It was difficult. With a sudden sense of sin, I added: “Iris, I’ve—I’ve got the original hangover.”
She said: “Darling, never mind that. Here are your pants.”
With her help, I dressed. I was very groggy on my feet, but I managed a fairly straight line following her downstairs and out to the car. I was very obedient I didn’t ask any questions. I didn’t even want to ask any.
As the car started forward, I lapsed into a sort of post-alcoholic coma. I had the dim sensation of its being latish in the day. The light, when I did open my eyes, grew more and more opaque. Somewhere on the journey, Iris switched on the headlights.
Once I asked: “Where are we going?”
“New York,” said Iris. “Home.”
I left it at that. And we did drive home—back to my apartment. Iris was very quiet, also dominating. She persuaded me into a tuxedo, spent a few minutes in the bathroom and came out looking even more beautiful than before. Then we went downstairs again in a car, driving crosstown. I was getting my bearings vaguely. I saw the Wrigley goldfish; then we were parking. We got out of the car and headed toward something that was blazing with lights. Dozens of other people seemed to be going there too. We were jostled by other tuxedos and expensive fur wraps.
“We’re going to the theater, aren’t we?” I asked meekly.
“Yes,” said Iris. She guided me into a crowded foyer, up some stairs and down a passage to a door. She opened the door. She kissed me and whispered: “Cross your heart for me, darling.” She pushed me gently forward through the door. I heard her say: “He’s here. Everything’s all right.” Then she was gone.
For a second I hated being without her. Then I switched my slender quota of intelligence onto trying to figure out my surroundings. Somewhere an orchestra was grinding through the “Merry Widow Waltz.” I was in a small darkened room. There were people close to me and ahead of me. Beyond them was cavernous darkness and the “Merry Widow.” Unquestionably I was in a theater box. I saw an empty chair in f
ront of me. I knew how to behave with dignity in a box. I moved forward, somehow reached the chair and sat down.
I could now see the orchestra responsible for the “Merry Widow.” It gleamed below me in a lighted pit Above them, tall, red, opulent curtains covered the high proscenium arch. Behind them stretched the house. It was a large house; it was packed with people, rustling programs, buzzing at each other like innumerable wasps. I saw dazzling white fronts, gleaming dinner gowns. I was probably at an opening, a very dressed-up opening.
I nicked my aching eyes sideways to the figure on my right. The light, coming up from the orchestra pit, played
on his face. It was a familiar face, round and tense, with horn-rimmed spectacles and straggling black hair. Henry Prince. To the far side of him, I saw another face I knew, an alert young face with gay eyes. Inspector Clarke.
I was on a theater party with Henry Prince and Inspector Clarke.
“Hello, Henry,” I said.
“Hello,” he said.
I suppose all told I’d only been in that box about ten seconds. That was why I did not notice the imposing presence on my left until a hand touched my arm and a magnificent, bearded face smiled close to mine.
‘T am indeed glad that you arrived in time, Mr. Duluth,” said Dr. Lenz. “I understand from a telephone call that you are to be congratulated on your marriage.”
“Yes,” I said. “Just on my marriage—not on anything else.”
“And how are you feeling yourself, Mr. Duluth?”
I said: ‘Terrible. Godawful.” I was ashamed but I knew I had to tell him. “Last night I got tight—stinking, hellish tight. Still don’t know whether I’m coming or going. That’s the sort of patient I am. Better give me up. I’m through.”
The orchestra was now playing Whosit, the witch of the wood. I hated being in a theater. I didn’t want to be there at all. I only wished I could get my brain to work lucidly.
Vaguely I heard Lenz’s voice: “On the contrary, Mr. Duluth, I have no fault to find with you as a patient. Under the circumstances, I myself would have prescribed liquor for you last night.”
Puzzle for Players Page 23
