The Black Door

by Collin Wilcox

  “Has Mr. Grinnel been notified that you have a suspect in custody?” I asked.

  “No. Since we won’t be charging Reusch, we’re limiting the scope of our interrogations, for reasons of efficiency and economy. I expect you’d better check with your local police on anything pertaining to Mr. Grinnel. Our phase of the investigation is almost terminated.”

  There were two or three more questions, followed by Mr. Long’s tedious, technical, rather confusing account of how his department had finally been able to determine that Alfred Reusch had been residing in San Francisco at the time of Roberta Grinnel’s murder. The recitation was so dry and boring, in fact, that I almost missed its concluding sentence.

  “… the final point,” Mr. Long was saying, “is perhaps conclusive circumstantially. We have determined that for a period of two weeks, beginning approximately three months ago, Mr. Reusch was employed at Bransten College, or, to be more accurate, he was employed by a landscape gardening firm that maintains Bransten’s grounds. Of course, as yet, we have been unable to establish any confirmed contact between Mr. Reusch and Miss Grinnel. But that is not to say that a contact did not exist, if only in Reusch’s mind, for instance.”

  “Did Reusch actually write any letters while he was working on this gardening job?” Kanter asked.

  “We can’t be really sure of that,” Mr. Long answered. “The suspect seems to be out of touch with reality some of the time, and he—”

  “—he’s being evasive,” Swanson cut in smoothly. “The suspect readily admits writing letters threatening Mr. Grinnel’s life, and he readily admits the double murder. But things like time sequences seem very hazy in his mind.” Swanson smiled. “Actually, that’s not uncommon, even for the healthy mind. My wife accused me of the same thing, especially where our anniversary is concerned.”

  After the polite laughter Kanter asked, “How was the murder actually committed, Mr. Swanson? Do you have the weapon?”

  Swanson’s smile seemed to slip.

  “The suspect,” he said, “is a little vague on some of the actual details of the crime. As Mr. Long says, there’s no question the suspect is mentally disturbed. However, it’s my opinion that Reusch knew what he was doing at the time of the crime, and that he remembers the crime in its essential details. It’s not uncommon, as you all know, to find a murderer who’s incapable of recalling the details of his crime. We assume, though, that Reusch used some kind of a blunt instrument—a pipe, for instance. He says that he disposed of the weapon. We haven’t had the time to interrogate him thoroughly on this point. Since we’re not prosecuting the case, details of that nature will be up to the local authorities.”

  I asked the next question. “Mr. Long has said that no connection has been discovered between Reusch and Miss Grinnel. But I was wondering whether you might have discovered any connection between the suspect and Miss Grinnel’s brother, Robert?”

  “Not that I know of,” Swanson replied promptly. With a questioning look he turned to Mr. Long, who shook his head. Then Swanson regarded me with a frowning speculation, as if I might have said something to worry him.

  “When will the suspect actually be in the hands of the local authorities?” Campion asked.

  Swanson glanced at his watch. “In about an hour, I’d say. A detail of local men is already downstairs.” He paused and looked around the room, smiling. Dismissal time. There was a general shuffling of papers and a scraping of chairs. The race for the phones was about to begin, followed by the trek to headquarters, where our vigil would begin. There was general agreement that it would be a late night.

  Dan Kanter and I were the last to phone. Kanter’s deadline had passed, and he proposed a late-afternoon snack. I gave my city editor the details of my story, and then, reminding him of my week’s leave of absence, I requested that someone be sent to headquarters in my place, covering for the next few hours. Surprisingly, I didn’t get an argument. The time was four-thirty. Almost six hours remained before deadline, and it seemed certain Larsen wouldn’t give a press interview until he’d had a chance to question the suspect thoroughly.

  And so, ten minutes later, Kanter and I were regarding each other over Danish rolls and coffee.

  “You know something?” Kanter said.

  “What?”

  “I think,” Kanter said slowly, “that there’s something very odd about this so-called suspect.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he answered, “that I think Swanson’s got some nut who’s given him a false confession, and I’m surprised he’s not more cautious about it. In almost every major murder case, there’s at least one false confession. Every detective third grade knows it’s a possibility, and he’s looking for it. Yet here’s Swanson, the area’s number one Federal cop, blithely peddling a suspect that seems questionable, at best.”

  Dispiritedly, I stirred my coffee.

  “That’s a beautiful thought, Dan. But you haven’t talked to the suspect. You’re shooting blind.”

  “I’m shooting by instinct. You wait and see.”

  “Swanson would never put himself in a position like that, and you know it.”

  “We’ll see.” He took a large bite of his Danish. “Are you making any progress?”

  I shrugged. “Not really. A few hunches. But that’s all.”

  “Well, keep at it, that’s my advice.”

  Ruefully I smiled. I was thinking of Grinnel and his parting speech to me: That’s what we’ll give them—someone to hate. If I can teach them to hate with me, I can teach them to follow me.

  And now he had his murderer—a demented Jew named Alfred Reusch. When had Reusch’s sanity left him? At the moment he’d seen his parents prodded like animals toward the gas chambers? During the three days he’d been buried alive? Or had he—?

  “… are you thinking?” Kanter was saying.

  I sighed. “I was thinking about Reusch.”

  Kanter nodded, saying nothing. He had finished his coffee and roll, and now he sat staring down at the empty dishes.

  “There’s something else that’s very strange about this confession,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  He raised his eyes. “Did it ever occur to you that Reusch is practically a tailor-made suspect for Grinnel’s purposes?”

  I stared at him.

  “Are you trying to tell me that—?”

  “I’m not trying to tell you anything,” he said. His voice was the reporter’s now, brusque and businesslike. “I’m just pointing out an obvious fact: Alfred Reusch is exactly what your friend Grinnel ordered.” He heaved himself to his feet.

  “Take my advice, Steve. If you’re working on something promising, keep at it.”

  “I think I will,” I answered, following him to the cash register. “But I’m afraid I’ll be working on my own time from now on.

  Forty-five minutes later I was standing in the dingy hallway outside the office of the F.F.F. On the frosted glass door was inscribed “Forward For Freedom,” and in smaller letters in the lower right-hand corner: Geo. Ferguson, Dir., M. Pate, Exec. Sec. Hrs. 5-8 Daily.

  Drawing a deep breath, I turned the knob and pushed open the door.

  A stout, sandy-haired woman was seated at a small reception desk smiling pleasantly at me.

  “Hello,” she said, her rimless glasses sparkling in the glare of bright overhead light. “May I help you?”

  “Are you the executive secretary?”

  “Yes. I’m Mrs. Pate.”

  “Well, I—” I swallowed, and started again. “I was looking for Mr. Ferguson, then. Mr. George Ferguson.”

  An exaggerated expression of compassion puckered at her face.

  “George—Mr. Ferguson—is home with a cold.” She nodded and then shook her head, both gestures suggesting a dampish, matronly identification with the afflicted. “A bad cold,” she added.

  “Then he won’t be in this evening?”

  “I’m afraid not. Is there anything I can do fo
r you?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Is it about our membership drive? Addressing literature?”

  “No, it’s—” I took a deep breath and tried to collect myself. “No, it’s nothing to do with that. I wanted to see Mr. Ferguson concerning some business I’m doing with, ah, with Mr. Grinnel.”

  “Mr. Grinnel?” She seemed hardly able to believe her ears. She blinked and drew her plump body into a more alert posture as she sat before me. “You mean you come from Mr. Grinnel? Or—” suspicion suddenly shadowed her rapt expression—“or did you mean you have business with Mr. Grinnel? Like something to sell, or something?”

  “No, no. I’m working for Mr. Grinnel. It’s—” I thought about it a moment, then said: “It’s a confidential assignment, actually. May I have Mr. Ferguson’s home address, please? I’ll drop in on him for a few minutes.”

  Regretfully, she shook her head.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Mr.—?”

  “Drake.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Drake. But, as you probably know, one of our strictest rules is that we never give out the addresses or home phones of our associates.” And, again, suspicion narrowed her eyes as she said: “If you’re with Mr. Grinnel, you should know that. It’s a standing rule in every chapter in the country.”

  “Well, I’m not a member of the F.F.F., you see. It’s just that I’m on a—a special assignment for Mr. Grinnel, as I said.”

  She shook her head in decisive denial. Plainly, she was now suspicious of me, and I watched her dull, pleasant expression change into something sullen and crafty.

  “Are you sure you even know Mr. Grinnel?” she asked finally.

  I took a moment to think about it, while I tried to assess her. Then I asked: “Do you know Mrs. Fay? Mr. Grinnel’s secretary?”

  She nodded, watching me closely.

  “All right.” I pointed to the phone. “Call up the Fairmont, and ask for Mr. Grinnel. You’ll probably get Mrs. Fay. Tell her Stephen Drake is here, and he wants Mr. Ferguson’s home address in connection with the investigation I’m making for Mr. Grinnel.”

  I sat down on one of the reception room chairs, folded my arms, and waited.

  It was obvious neither Mrs. Pate nor the F.F.F. had ever intended that she should be in such a difficult position, and for a moment I thought she was going to burst into tears, snatch up her purse, and run out the door. But in the next moment, looking at her more closely, it seemed more probable she might open her desk drawer, withdraw a pistol, and order me into the back room, where the chains and torture instruments were waiting. I had the weird sensation of being somehow suspended between two worlds: one embodied in the impersonal, drab office with its cheap, glaring lights, and the other lurking somewhere deep and dangerous, behind the mousy brown eyes of the dumpy lady I faced across the desk.

  I watched her hand slowly pick up the telephone as her eyes remained upon my face, expressionlessly.

  If Grinnel were in the White House, I thought irrationally, and I were telling this dowdy lady a lie, I would be shot.

  She was dialing, waiting, and now asking for Mr. Grinnel. As the connection was being made, I watched her expression change again, now involuntarily rapt, as she realized in whose presence the other phone was ringing.

  “Is this Mrs. Fay?” There was a brief pause. “Well, this is Mrs. Pate, of the local chapter. I—” Her face suddenly broke into a grateful, almost beatific smile as she listened for a moment. Then she spoke again.

  “I have a Mr. Drake here, Mrs. Fay. Mr. Stephen Drake. And he, well, he wants Mr. Ferguson’s home address. I told him the rules, of course. But he asked me to contact you. And, well, I thought that—What?” She blinked, her eyes wide and surprised as they looked innocently into my own. “Well, yes, I will. And thank you, Mrs. Fay. Thank you so much.” Gently, with a soft, mother’s touch, she laid the telephone to rest in its cradle, her eyes lingering dreamily upon it. Then, sighing to herself, she carefully wrote across a slip of notepaper and handed it to me.

  “I’m dreadfully sorry to’ve cause you all this trouble, Mr. Drake,” she said gently. She rose from behind the desk, as if to pronounce upon me a parting benediction. “But I’m sure you can understand.”

  I answered with a sticky, sardonic piety. “Of course, Mrs. Pate. And I do understand. Thank you so much.” I stood for a moment as we gazed at each other—two enraptured disciples with the Word for the waiting world.

  I opened the door and left. As I walked briskly toward the stairway, I wondered whether the managing editor would someday join the F.F.F.

  Then I glanced at the slip of paper in my hand: 2157 Sobel Street, Apt. #4.

  13

  THE BUILDING AT 2157 Sobel Street was similar in vintage and feeling to the one in which David Pastor and Roberta Grinnel were murdered, although the neighborhood was different. Ferguson lived in San Francisco’s Mission district, a blue collar section of the city. As I drew up in front of the building, I noticed with misgivings the dimly lit street. Newspapers and debris choked the gutters, and lighted windows revealed broken, patched panes and torn curtains. As I got out of the car, I recalled newspaper stories on the delinquency problem in the Mission. Only a month previous I’d covered a knifing close by. As I walked to the apartment house door, I glanced nervously over my shoulder, wondering whether I should have called Larsen first. But what could I tell him—that I had a strange, uncomfortable feeling I was finding my way closer to something evil and dangerous?

  I immediately located Ferguson’s mailbox and his apartment, number 4. But still I stood irresolute, unwilling to ring the bell, yet unwilling to simply turn and go. Finally I pushed at the lobby door. It swung open, squeaking in mild protest. I walked inside. Ahead was a broad staircase, covered with worn floral carpeting. In the lobby, two doors bore numerals 1 and 2. The carpeting smelled musty and depressing. The woodwork was scarred by time and abuse. The plaster was stained and cracked.

  I became aware of an eerie, apprehensive scalp prickle as I began climbing the stairs. I turned at the first landing. I was walking down the second-floor corridor. There were four doors. Ahead was number 3; the next was number 4. Almost dreamily now, I was walking toward Ferguson’s apartment. I remember feeling a complete cessation of external sensation, as if nothing could touch me. It was, I realized, precisely the same numbed, floating feeling I’d experienced in San Jose crossing a darkened street, following my own footsteps into a deeper darkness.

  I was pressing the buzzer of number 4. There was no response, although I thought I heard a soft, furtive movement within. I pressed the buzzer once more. Then, as I heard heavy, shuffling footsteps approaching, I remember thinking, a little irrationally, that I should have asked Larsen for a permit to carry a gun. Because it was dangerous, what I was doing. I should be armed.

  And I should have some plan. Was I going into the apartment? Was I going to identify the man to my satisfaction, and then call the police? I didn’t know. I had simply followed a series of hunches and hopes and hallucinations to where I now stood, uncertain and frightened, my breath coming shallow and fast, stifled by a nameless, faceless fear.

  The door swung open.

  The present and the past fused with the real and the remembered; he was staring at me as I’d seen him stare, standing over the girl’s twisted, naked body—a creature with his fingers still crooked in murderous spasm. She lay still tangled in the tortured, carnivorous jungle tendrils, savagely ensnared by her own futile struggles.

  I blinked and stepped back. I looked at him again.

  He was a bulky, bloated, incredibly ugly man. My first impression was of coarse black hair, somehow more anthropoid than human. The strangely obscene hair covered his forearms like a pelt, and covered his head like a shapeless hat made for another man. His eyebrows were heavy with the same black, spiky hair, and his day’s growth of beard was a dark stain against his sallow white face.

  The small, dark, suspicious eyes became even smaller be
neath descending black brows; the thick lips twisted to ask, “What is it?”

  I caught the overpowering odor of alcohol.

  I licked at my lips, suddenly determined not to go into the apartment.

  “My—my name is Stephen Drake,” I faltered. “I’m working for Mr. Grinnel. Mr. Robert Grinnel.”

  For a moment, I thought he hadn’t heard me. He stood leaning heavily against the door frame, staring at me. I was about to repeat what I’d said when he roused himself. With exaggerated caution, he looked up and down the hallway.

  “Mrs. Pate said you were coming,” he mumbled. “She just called.”

  Now, satisfied with his bleary scrutiny of the hallway, he began examining me. He leaned very close, then took a stumbling step forward, to keep his balance. I saw that he was very drunk. His eyes were vague; his mouth was slack at the corners.

  At that moment, a door close by opened. Someone was approaching down the hallway.

  He moved back, an animal backing into the sheltering darkness of its lair. His voice was thick and furtive.

  “Come in.” He was shadowed in the small, darkened entry hall, holding open the door. “If you’re from Mr. Grinnel, come in.” In his voice was the now-familiar awe of the Grinnel name.

  I hesitated. My throat was suddenly dry; my shirt was soaked and clammy.

  “Come on.” A quick anger flamed irrationally in his voice. “Hurry.”

  I was inside, watching his thick, unsteady fingers fumble with the door’s lock, then with the double chain. I realized that I had to begin talking, quickly and convincingly. Yet, watching him rattle the door and then turn unsteadily toward me, I somehow couldn’t speak, but could only swallow, repeatedly. My thoughts seemed to whirl helplessly around a plaintive, querulous refrain: I was a stupid, naive, suicidal fool to be standing in a narrow, darkened hallway facing a drunken murderer.

  “Wha’s Mr. Grinnel want?” He was lurching toward me, his face still in the shadows. I backed away, turned from him, and found myself staring with a rooted fascination at Ferguson’s apartment. The room was incredibly cluttered, conveying an indescribable sense of futility and depravity. The wall bed was down, dominating the room with its tumble of rumpled, soiled bed clothing. Garments draped every chair, and newspapers littered the floor.