The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “I was thinking of two thousand as a retainer,” he said in a conversational tone, “and an additional two thousand when a suspect is arrested as a result of your efforts, and, say, five thousand when the suspect either confesses or is convicted.” He was already bent over the checkbook, writing. “Is that satisfactory?” he asked, not even bothering to raise his eyes as he asked the question.

  I added it up: two thousand for merely nodding my head. Another seven thousand for value received.

  I opened my mouth, but nothing happened. He looked up, and then smiled mock-tolerantly.

  “That’s another thing you should do something about,” he said. “That incredulous, unprepared expression on your face. If you’re going to inspire confidence in people, you’ve got to be surprised at nothing. You’ve got to be always in control. Think of it in terms of packaging. You’ve got a product, possibly a pretty good product. But you’ve got to package it better, work out a better method of presenting it. Otherwise, the competition might get in ahead of you. Someone will develop a similar product, and present it more effectively. You’ll be left whistling, as they say.”

  When I found my voice, it had an edge of anger at his condescension.

  “I’m in control of myself,” I answered. “I’m simply surprised, that’s all. The fact is, the past week, I’ve actually tried to find the murderer, without much success. Without any success whatever, in fact. So that—” I gestured to the check, now finished and lying between us on the table—“that’s really beside the point.”

  He thoughtfully picked up the check, gazed at it for a long moment, and then negligently tossed it across to me. He shook his head.

  “Wrong again, Mr. Drake.” He smiled, that maddening, handsome, condescending smile. He pointed to the check. “That merely illustrates my good intentions. You will find yourself thinking about the rest of it—the additional seven thousand dollars. And you’ll find yourself working very hard indeed. Not only for the seven thousand dollars, but for the publicity. If you find the murderer, your fortune will be made, as they say. You’ll get a free ride on my well-known coattails. No more grubby interviews, begging your betters for a few words that you can distort into something that’ll titillate your moron readers. You’ll be someone in your own right, Mr. Drake. You’ll be giving the interviews.”

  I looked at the check. Then I leaned forward in my chair, picking up the check with thumb and forefinger. I remember thinking that I was bound to nothing. We had no contract, verbal or otherwise. I could take the check, leave the room, and never come back. Two thousand dollars richer.

  I carefully folded the check and slipped it into my billfold. Perhaps the simple fact of possessing the check produced a sudden surge of confidence. Perhaps Grinnel’s patronizing condescension had finally roused me to take an initiative of my own. In any case, I heard myself saying, “Thanks for the check, Mr. Grinnel. I’ll do everything I can to help you. But I’ll need help, too. I’m sure you realize that.”

  “Help?” The question implied a faintly surprised displeasure.

  “Yes. I’ll need to know everything you can tell me about your daughter, and the possible reasons for her death. You implied at your news conference, for instance, that her murder was actually aimed at you and your work. Do you have any concrete information to that effect?”

  “I have a file of crank letters, Mr. Drake, dating back almost fifteen years.” His voice changed to a bantering note, mockingly supercilious. “Would you like to have the file to sniff through for traces of ectoplasm?”

  I drew a deep breath, momentarily savoring the fantasy of myself rising from the chair, extracting his check from my wallet, carefully tearing it in two, dropping it on the floor and departing. Instead I said, “Do the police know of this file?”

  He nodded. “They’ve photostated the letters.”

  “I hadn’t heard about it.”

  “I think I can tell you why. The F.B.I. also took painstaking photostats because the mails were involved. They demanded absolute secrecy, as they always do.”

  “Is the F.B.I, investigating your daughter’s murder?” I asked, surprised.

  “I’ve no idea what they’re doing. I doubt that Captain Larsen does, either.”

  I nodded. With luck, I could ask Larsen. Since the murder was out of the news, he might be willing to give me an interview.

  “You have no other suspicions, Mr. Grinnel, that might help me?”

  “None, I’m afraid. I’m sure your suspicions are as valid as mine—or as the police’s, for that matter.”

  I nodded, watching him. I had one more question. Taking a deep breath I said slowly, “In thinking about this case, Mr. Grinnel, I’ve often wondered whether your son could be of help. Since he was also enrolled at Bransten, and probably saw his sister frequently, he might have some significant information, something he might not even be aware of, until it was put together with something else.”

  For a long, silent moment he looked at me. “He was interviewed by the police, Mr. Drake. Twice. He told them everything he knew, I’m sure. This has been a terrible shock for him. I had no objection to his being interviewed, when it was necessary. Beyond that, I’ve kept him away from—extraneous pressures. Interviews with the press, for instance.”

  “I understand, Mr. Grinnel. Still, you wouldn’t object to my talking with him, would you?”

  Again, silently, he looked at me. His features were perfectly immobile. “Not at all. You can check with my secretary. I’ve already instructed her to assist you.”

  I watched Robert Grinnel rise easily to his feet. Without offering his hand in farewell, he walked to the door through which he’d come. Then, turning back to me, he said, “One thing I think you should understand, Mr. Drake: What you’re about to do—hopefully find the murderer of my daughter—is not merely a service that you are rendering to me, personally. It is a service, ultimately, to your country. As I told you people in my news conference, there is no doubt why my daughter was murdered. But the people of America will never take my unsupported word. They must have proof. They must have someone to point to, an assassin in the dock to see and hate. And that’s what we’ll give them, Mr. Drake—” His voice dropped. He was the evangelist, maniacally masterful. “That’s what we’ll give them—someone to hate. Because, really, it’s for their own good. If I can teach them to hate with me, I can teach them to follow me.”

  For a brief moment his clear, madman’s eye impaled me. Then he turned and was gone. Almost immediately his secretary appeared.

  She was smiling as she came toward me. I tried to collect myself, and as I did, I was aware of her physical presence. Grinnel had the best of everything, I was thinking—wealth, influence, and women.

  She stopped a few feet from me: precisely the prescribed distance—neither too close nor too far. Her eyebrows arched in a graceful expression of inquiry, perhaps a little ironically.

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Drake? I understand we’ll be working together. Mr. Grinnel has asked me to help you however I can.” Her voice, too, was delicately cast in polite irony. And now I knew why. She didn’t believe in clairvoyants.

  I mumbled something and turned to leave. The bodyguard was gone. She was following me to the door; close behind me, but not too close.

  “Is Bobby, Mr. Grinnel’s son, with you here at the hotel?” I asked.

  “He’s due in town today, as a matter of fact. On the two o’clock plane.” She paused and took a single step closer, yet still not too close.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I’d like to talk to him.”

  “About—” She hesitated. “About the murder?”

  “About the reasons for it. He can give me the—” Desperately, I searched for the proper phrase. Finally I said, “He can give me the background. Something to work on. You see, I’ve already tried to solve the case, even before—” I waved a vague hand. “Before this. But I need something more.”

  She nodded, thinking abou
t it. And then, abruptly, I felt a quick surge of impatient distaste for all of it—the beautifully groomed secretary, the magnetic Mr. Grinnel, and the whole incredible, unhealthy mess.

  “I need something more,” I repeated in a different voice. “If I’m going to help, I’ll need co-operation. Otherwise, there’s no point.” I turned the knob and opened the door. “I’ll call this afternoon about five,” I said. “Should I ask for you or for Mr. Grinnel’s son?”

  Subtly, her manner had changed, in response to my own gathering impatience. She nodded in reluctant acquiescence.

  “You can ask for me,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Fay. Grace Fay.”

  I nodded, thanked her, and said good-by. As I went down in the elevator, I felt apprehensive, as if the check in my pocket bound me to a contract I would come to regret. I found myself thinking of Faust.

  If Grinnel were Mephistopheles, who was his Faust?

  10

  PROMPTLY AT FIVE THAT afternoon, I called Grace Fay. Her voice was typically calm and cool.

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Drake.” Then she paused, waiting.

  “Is Mr. Grinnel’s son there?”

  “Yes, he is.” Another pause.

  “Good. Well, I’d like to talk with him.”

  “Did you want to speak to him now, Mr. Drake?” the impersonal, disinterested voice asked.

  “No. I mean, not on the phone. I’d like to have a conversation with him.” I hesitated, irked at the failure of communication between us, intentionally caused, I felt sure, by the secretary.

  I tried again: “I want to talk with him face to face, and in private.”

  “I see.” She seemed to be considering whether or not to grant my request. “Would you like to come here, then?”

  I was phoning from a booth and was beginning to stifle. Impatiently I nodded at the phone.

  “Yes,” I said. “Yes, that’s fine. Provided we can have some place to ourselves for a half hour or so.”

  “That won’t be any problem, Mr. Drake. Robert has a room of his own just down the hall. Room Six-o-seven. Would that be satisfactory?”

  “Yes, yes. Fine. How about in half an hour?”

  “I’m afraid Mr. Grinnel and his son were just going out. They hadn’t planned to return until seven or so. Would that be satisfactory?”

  “All right, yes. Anything. Shall I go right to his room?”

  She seemed to consider that; I had the feeling she was reluctant to lose control of even the smallest detail concerning either Grinnel or his son.

  “Yes, that will be all right, I suppose,” she answered finally. “Shall we say seven-thirty?”

  “Fine. Seven-thirty.”

  “If there’s any change of plans, where can I reach you?”

  I took a deep breath, at the same time opening the phone booth’s door for some air.

  “Mrs. Fay,” I said slowly. “Mr. Grinnel retained me this afternoon to try and find his daughter’s murderer. He gave me a sizable check, as you probably know, and he promised me more. So there’s a lot involved, both for Mr. Grinnel and myself, and not just money, either. So I’d appreciate it if—”

  “I’m aware of all this, Mr. Drake,” she interrupted. “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m trying to say,” I replied, spacing my words for their maximum effect, “that this is a very serious matter, it seems to me. And I’m very anxious to talk to Mr. Grinnel’s son. So I hope there won’t be any change of plans.”

  “I’ll give Bobby your message,” she said icily. “I’m sure there won’t be any difficulty. Good-by.”

  I wandered out of the phone booth and into a nearby bar, where I had two martinis. Later I wandered into a restaurant in lower Chinatown, where I had a mediocre Chinese dinner. I was aimlessly killing time, and just as aimlessly thinking about the new turn of events. Vaguely I wondered why I wasn’t more elated, first at the two thousand dollars, with the promise of more, and secondly at my bona fide chance for fame and fortune. By the first martini, I’d isolated the problem. It was the publicity department, and the certainty they’d put me on public display, like a shoddy performer in a frowsy tent show.

  By the second martini, though, I’d stumbled across another question. If it were really true that I wanted fame and fortune, then why was I resisting the publicity department’s efforts on my behalf? I was rejecting an opportunity to achieve the precise objective I thought I was seeking. After two and a half years in the newspaper business, I’d learned that fame was seldom accidental. It was usually purchased from the nearest press agent, who in turn purchased it from the nearest columnist. In the communications industry, almost everything is for sale, if the price is right.

  In any case, that afternoon, I’d resolved the riddle temporarily by telling the city editor of my agreement with Grinnel, but stressing that I wanted no publicity until I’d actually found the murderer. He instructed me to tell it to the managing editor, who immediately became condescending behind his tweeds and his paisley tie and his ribbed English socks. But I was ready for him, more than ready, with Grinnel’s check in my pocket, and the promise of more to come. I flatly stated that any premature publicity would jeopardize my chances of success. Whether or not I impressed him, I’ll never know. But he agreed. Furthermore, I was given a week’s leave of absence to work on the case, with pay.

  And so, by the time I’d finished my mediocre Chinese dinner, I was feeling less perplexed about myself. Or, at least, I was feeling better about my pale triumph over the managing editor.

  I decided to walk the four uphill blocks to the Fairmont. I had lots of time and I needed exercise to clear my mind. I was aware of an oppressive dread of my coming interview with Bobby Grinnel. And I was aware that it was something I’d blocked out of my conscious mind during the entire day, even at the price of thinking about the publicity department and the managing editor.

  As I pressed the buzzer of room 607, I somehow didn’t expect to get an answer. Perhaps that was the reason I started when the door opened promptly and the blond young man silently nodded in greeting. Then he stepped back into the room, allowing me to enter.

  I crossed to a chair placed near the window; he closed the door and took a companion chair. Beyond the window the panorama of San Francisco at night was etched in a million sparkling lights, one of the world’s most magnificent vistas.

  I didn’t know really how to begin, and for a helpless moment I simply stared at the view, as if clinging to the city’s unsurpassed beauty. Then, sighing, I turned to face the young man on my left. He was wearing a conservative charcoal flannel suit and a soft white shirt with striped rep tie. He sat rigidly upright in the chair, as if bracing himself against some sudden danger. His feet were placed flat on the floor; his hands gripped either arm of the chair, wrinkling the fabric. His mouth was drawn in a tight, twitching line, as if to suppress some terrible, uncontrollable sound from within. It was then I realized that I’d entered the room and seated myself without the exchange of a single word. It was as if we were unwilling actors following the script of some strangely compulsive pantomime.

  “I’m Stephen Drake,” I said. “I’d like to ask you some questions about your sister. About her murder.”

  He nodded, his eyes never leaving my face. His hands remained tightly gripping the arms of his chair; his feet remained braced on the floor.

  Did he realize that we shared some terrible secret, he and I? Certainly, I thought, the police would have questioned him closely. Had he seemed like this to them—tense and terribly guilty? If he had, they would have examined him extensively, which to my knowledge they hadn’t.

  I shifted in my chair, realizing that I had to relieve the mute, frozen tension between us.

  “How old are you?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth and carefully moistened his lips. “I’m—I’m eighteen.” His voice was shallow and thin, like himself and his body.

  “You’re a sophomore at Bransten, is that right?” I tried to smile and put him at ease.


  “Yes. That’s right.”

  “I understand you’ve dropped out of school for the rest of the year.”

  He nodded warily. I decided to change the subject.

  “What were you studying, Bobby? May I call you Bobby?”

  In answer to the last question he shrugged in indifferent acquiescence, but he seemed to relax. Watching his hands, I saw their grip loosening on the chair’s arms.

  “I was studying political science.”

  “Ah—” Now I didn’t have to pretend interest. “Were you—are you planning to go into politics?”

  Again he shrugged, and now leaned back in the chair. Slowly, as if carefully planning it, he moved one leg, crossing the other.

  “Will you go into the F.F.F.?” I pressed.

  At the mention of the F.F.F., something seemed to flicker throughout his entire body. Irrationally, I thought of a dead frog impaled on a paraffin block, twitching lifeless limbs in response to an electric current.

  Yet his reply was almost diffident.

  “Maybe I will. It—it’s too early to tell yet.”

  “Does your father want you to go into the movement?”

  Uncomfortable now, he moved in his chair. His eyes slid away from mine.

  “He—we haven’t talked about it,” he admitted. “Father wants me to finish school first. That’s the most important thing, he says: to get an education. I don’t do anything in politics now. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Somehow, he seemed very anxious that I believe him, but only for a moment. Now, suddenly, he shrugged, repeating, “Nothing—nothing,” almost to himself.

  “Isn’t that a little odd for a political science major? Aren’t you even interested in campus politics, for instance?”

  He seemed not to hear the question. Almost idly, he was staring off toward the view, blinking.

  For a moment I watched him. What had accounted for his odd, galvanic reaction to mention of the F.F.F.? Somehow, I had the impression it was the conditioned response of a well-trained soldier, jerking up his hand at the word “salute.”