The Haploids

by Jerry Sohl

  "Thanks for the compliment, Captain. No, I'll stick around here if you don't mind."

  The captain let him out of the car and it sped away. Travis joined the crowd around the burning building. The firemen, he could see, were not going to save it. Many of them were wetting down the lots and the buildings on either side. The roof had already caved in and the frame walls were leaning at a precarious angle as flames ate them away.

  Whatever secret the house had held, it held no longer. Travis noticed several newspaper photographers at work, a couple of them from the Star. They were busy and had no time to see him. He stood there and took grim-pleasure out of the fact that this was one news event he could just watch without having to report. In a way it was a good start to his year.

  His year. How would he ever start it, really, if he went gallivanting around trying to solve a mystery which already had the police baffled? As he watched the fire he remembered how he always resented the intrusion of busybodies and the morbidly curious at sensational, bloody events. He hated to have to cover them for the press and could never understand how anybody in his right mind could shoulder his way through a crowd in a rude attempt to reach the dead or the near-dead. Yet such events had the effects of a human magnet. It drew certain types like flies. And those types were plentiful.

  It wasn't that Travis couldn't enjoy a good fire. Fires were something different. Once they were started, it was a sort of game. You watched the firemen, players on the opposing team, match wits with the flames. Usually the firemen won out quickly, since fire equipment was gauged to quench flames scientifically. But in such cases as this, once the old frame building started firemen could only prevent other buildings from burning down. Besides, it appeared that someone had set something off inside, something extremely inflammable, judging from the way the windows burst with smoke and flame when he and the captain were at the warehouse.

  He looked around at the crowd. Some people stood transfixed, some with their mouths wide open, others with grim, fascinated looks. Others just stood, their faces blank. There were several chewing gum for all they were worth.

  Maybe the guy who started the fire is in the crowd, he roused. But then he remembered that it had been a woman who had tried to kill the old man—now the first old man. Perhaps she started this blaze to cover up—what? A rubble-strewn floor? A diagram on the wall? A packing case full of textbooks and odds and ends and marks on the floor where a machine had stood?

  That reminded him of the card he had slipped from under the rubbish-filled packing case. He looked at it now. It read:

  TURNER, ROSALEE Apt. 32 1917 Prospect Ave. Normal No R Serial No. 17 432 12/2/30 Site 18 Union City 13 Employed: Higgins Development Co.

  232 Drexler Drive, U. C.

  He wondered vaguely if this could have been the girl, with the hypodermic syringe. Just another piece of the puzzle, just something else to worry about. But at least it was something definite. Perhaps he'd look her up. Maybe he'd be wiser, though, to tear it up and forget about the whole thing. But he put the card in his pocket.

  The fire was beginning to wane as water under pressure did its job with what was left of the building. Some of the people, satisfied that the firemen had won out, were walking away. So did Travis.

  As he walked he thought about the whole business. He was going to have to make a decision. If he insisted on trying to figure it all out, he was going to run into the police at every turn. Captain Tomkins had already hinted the department did not care for encroachment by a newspaperman—an idle newspaperman, at that.

  And just what was his place in the scheme of things, anyway? It had been coincidence that he was there when the old man was brought to the hospital. It had been curiosity that made him follow the girl down the hall to see her try to kill the old man. If he had not followed her perhaps she would have completed her job and no one would have been the wiser.

  He wanted desperately to find himself this year. Trying to run down a mystery like this wouldn't be finding himself, he reasoned. Trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle isn't facing up to the problems of life. It's the reverse: an escape. Should he escape and plunge into the thing?

  As he crossed a street he shook his head and a woman he did not see passed him by. She shook her head in pity. No, he decided, he ought not plunge into it. If people are running around with strychnine-filled hypodermics and burning down buildings, he didn't want to get mixed up in it any further.

  Perhaps I ought to get out of town as I had figured I should, he thought. Go to Chicago. New York. Maybe lie around Florida beaches and try to figure my life out. But I can't leave town right now. I've got to be a witness at the inquest on the old man's death.

  By the time he got to his apartment hotel he had made up his mind. After the inquest Captain Tomkins could have the case with his compliments. All of it. He was through with it, pretty girl or not.

  He mixed himself a highball, turned on some dance music, fell into a well-padded armchair and drew another chair close so he could put his feet on it.

  This is the life, he said. I'm going to do this until I'm sick of it. By then I'll know what I want to do. Then all I need to do is do it. No City Editor Cline. No managing Editor Parsons. No Hal Cable. Oh, Hal's a nice enough guy, it's just that I shouldn't get into a rut, always running out to dinner with him, knocking around with him at night. Wonder what he'll do? Gibson Travis, his sidekick gone for a year. No, sir, for a year there will be no Dutch McCoy, no Captain Tomkins and no myriad other people I know from the mayor on down and from the cuties in Mack's Frolics—ah, that wonderful dive—on up.

  He went out in the kitchen, mixed himself another highball and on the way back to the front room stopped to look at himself in the full length mirror on the open closet door.

  "Here's looking at you," he said to himself, raising his glass and taking a big drink. Six foot. Dark hair. Girls had commented on his hair. He took good care of it. Black eyes —no, not really black, they just looked that way from a distance. They were a mixture of brown and dark blue and some black specks. Good build. He was proud of his build. It had served him well in college. Track. Football. Press nominee for all-state. No, nothing wrong with my build,, he thought. Just my brain. He chuckled to himself and went in and sat down again.

  A few drinks later he began to feel good about everything. He left the apartment and made an evening of it, feeling better by the hour. By the time he got home again he had forgotten about two old men, a girl with a hypo, and a house that burned down.

  The jangling urgency of the telephone snapped him out of a dream where he was basking in the warmth of a bright sun on a deserted beach. His training made him instantly awake. He walked to the phone.

  "Hello."

  "Travis?" It was a raspy voice.

  "Yeah."

  "Cline."

  "I know. I lived with that voice of yours for ten years, remember? What the hell's the matter, can't you guys get out a paper without me?" He stifled a yawn.

  "I think we're doing a better job since you've been gone."

  "Well, then why bother me?"

  "You're news, sweetheart."

  "Yeah? The hell you say."

  "Listen, Travis. Elmer Sedges is on his way down to your place as of right now. He shot out of the newsroom as soon as he knew you answered the phone. You're going to be interviewed, chum."

  "That's where you're wrong, Cline. By the time Elmer gets here I'll be gone."

  "Now listen, Travis. Things have been busting all over. According to Chief Riley you fought with a girl who wanted to kill the old guy in the hospital."

  "No comment. How do you like that?"

  The rasp got excited. "Wait a minute, Travis. I mean business. If the police are talking there's no reason you shouldn't. Get wise. This is your chance to get into the newspaper legitimately."

  "Not unless you run my picture, too."

  "You want a picture? You think I'm kidding?"

  "No, I guess you're not kidding. But look, Clin
e, I just decided to give this case to the birds."

  "You're on O'Brien's witness list."

  "That's all I've got to do. Then I'm moving out of here. I've just been dreaming about lying on a beach under a hot summer sun."

  "You're holing up with a dame. I know you too well."

  "Go to hell."

  "Now don't get sore. . . . Just how much do you know about all this? The boys at the fire said they saw you. What were you doing out there?"

  Travis wondered if the police had told Cline about the connection between the fire and the old man in the hospital.

  "I just like to follow the fire engines," Travis replied.

  "Can't get it out of your system, eh? But no kidding, what's your theory on all this?"

  "You asking for my opinion? Comes the millennium."

  "All right, smart guy. Maybe you'll be next."

  "Maybe I'll be next? Now what kind of talk is that for a city editor. That guy was old enough to be my father."

  "Who are you talking about?"

  "That guy in the hospital." i

  "Hell, Travis, get up on the news."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He was just the first guy."

  "So you know about Chester Grimes, eh?"

  "I know about Chester Grimes and about three other guys."

  "Just a minute, Cline. I don't know anything about any three other guys."

  "Where have you been? Best I fill you in. Three doctors have reported three different cases just like the old man and Grimes. The people involved all complained about being giddy, having a fever and being listless. Nothing unusual in that. Could be a cold or a variety of things. But doctors making home calls failed to diagnose it right away. Since this morning all three have been taken to the hospital where they are being closely watched."

  "I think you're going off the deep end on this thing, Cline. Any time anybody gets sick from now on and doctors can't tell what it is right off the bat, then bang! They got what the old man had."

  "Wait. I'm not through yet. Since the autopsies on this unidentified old man and' Chester Grimes, the health department has been in on the thing. State experts have been called in to examine the remains. Several medical schools are sending specialists. The doctors were warned by the health department of the possibility of a new disease here yesterday because of the two strange deaths. This morning's activity could be the start of a sort of plague—a black plague."

  "For God's sake, Cline, I-"

  "Keep your shirt on. Listen: Those three people whose flesh was inflamed were taken to the hospital—did I tell you about the flesh before? Well, anyway, they've set up a" special contagion ward at U. C. The latest report is that despite medical attention and transfusions the flesh on all three has turned slightly gray."

  Travis whistled in surprise.

  "Say," he said, "you mentioned morning. Is it morning already?"

  "Why don't you take a look out the window?"

  "I can't see that far. Had a bad night."

  "I can see where that year off is going to lead you. Well, for your information, it's 10 a.m."

  "Thanks. Say, how about giving me those names. You know, the three in the hospital. May be somebody I know."

  "I don't think so. Just a moment." There was a rustle at the other end. Then Cline came on again. "Here they are. Tony Sansona, 1311 Willard Street; Jeb (I suppose it's Jebediah—we're checking that one) Tobias, 2112 Ridgeway Avenue; and Matthias Kronansky, 711 Leland Street."

  Travis took down the names.

  "Listen, Travis, be a good boy and stick around until Elmer shows up."

  "The hell with Elmer. If this is the plague, I couldn't think of a better time for getting out of town."

  "You wouldn't run out at a time like this!"

  "No, not really, Cline. But don't blame me if I'm not here when Elmer turns up. I've just thought of an angle. I've got work to do."

  "Tell me about it."

  "I'll call you if anything develops." He dropped the phone into its cradle.

  Plague. The Black Death. Hell, it couldn't be that, Travis reasoned. That was something carried by rats during the Dark Ages, wasn't it? Surely with modern plumbing, sewage systems and cleanliness of city life—no, it was something else. Maybe it was something manufactured in that very building that had been burned down. Perhaps the people who had created the plague, or whatever it was, had burned the building in an attempt to destroy the germs, the origin of the scourge, before they impregnated others. But they already had! The plague had spread already . . . and a man named Gibson Travis and a police officer by the name of Captain Tomkins, and don't forget Mac, the driver, and all those who had combed the house —they had already been exposed.

  Panic raced through him before he knew it and then he had to take control of himself. Hell, he wasn't ill . . . yet.

  He suddenly thought of his decision to give up the mystery. Funny how things sometimes look different in the cold light of day, he mused. How did Shakespeare say it? 'Thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. . . ."

  If he could be of any use before he took off on his year he certainly owed it to the old man, to Chester Grimes, to the three people now ill, to do whatever he could.

  The least thing I can do, he decided, is to go down to the tax assessor's office and ask a very important question.

  FOUR

  The tax assessor's office was in the basement of the municipal building, down with the public lavatories and the city storerooms. It was at one end of a dark hallway and on the door, in old-fashioned letters, were the words: City Assessor.

  Whatever else the city had done, it had no doubt taken its assessing seriously since the beginning. Behind the door were filing cabinets that in themselves were a history of the filing cabinet industry. As the city grew and more people were added to the assessment rolls, a new cabinet was added. There were old, ornate ones with fancy curlicue lettering. There were modern ones of gray metal and chrome handles.

  Hiram Peaslip, the assessor, was every bit like the office. A relic, but a relic living in a contemporary world. Hiram knew the history of the city and most of the people in it. That is why it was odd that he did not have a record of 1722 Winthrop Street. And what's more, he didn't have any idea who owned it.

  Why don't you look again, Mr. Peaslip," Travis urged. "Surely there ought to be something on it. Maybe the treasurer would have a receipted bill upstairs."

  Mr. Peaslip shook his head. "Mr. Adams arranges all the receipts alphabetically. We'd have to look through everything from A to Z. Just take my word for it, Mr. Travis. It's just not here." Mr. Peaslip coughed—a little too nervously, Travis thought.

  "I've never been through your filing system," Travis said. "Why don't I go back and see if I can find it?"

  "I can't let you do that, Mr. Travis," Mr. Peaslip said, wringing his hands. "I just can't."

  "You forget, Mr. Peaslip, the city assessor's books are public property. I'm afraid you have nothing to say about it." Travis made a motion to go through the swinging door to the filing cabinets beyond.

  Mr. Peaslip stepped in front of the door. "You stop where you are. You're just starting trouble. You stay where you are and I'll go ask the mayor if—"

  "You go upstairs for the mayor and I'll find what I want while you're gone."

  "You wait then while I call him up from down here."

  "You're obstructing a citizen's rights," Travis said. "I ought to report you to the state's attorney."

  Mr. Peaslip's watery eyes flooded over, his face became white and he wrung his hands more nervously than ever.

  "Please, Mr. Travis. Please don't make it so hard. Please just leave."

  "Look, Hiram, I don't want to cause you trouble. I just want to find out who owns 1722 Winthrop Street."

  Mr. Peaslip's lips worked one over the other and he looked at Travis uncertainly.

  "All right," he squeaked. "I'll—I'll tell you. But you must promise not to tell a
nyone. It's—the place is—was—owned, it burned down, you know, yesterday, it was—"

  "Let's have it, Mr. Peaslip. I haven't all day."

  The city assessor ran his tongue over his lips. "I'm not supposed to tell. The place belongs to Mr. McCoy."

  "Dutch McCoy!"

  The little assessor nodded.

  "Thanks a lot, Mr. Peaslip," Travis said. "Now don't worry about it. Just relax. You're not going to get into any trouble. Let me use your phone. I'm going to make a call and it hasn't anything to do with Dutch McCoy. Do you have a map of the city?"

  Mr. Peaslip brought out, held in trembling hands, a map of the city. Travis looked for 1311 Willard Street, 2112 Ridgeway Avenue and 711 Leland, grunted in disappointment when he found they were—with the exception of the Ridgeway address—a few blocks removed from 1722 Winthrop Street.

  Then he got on the phone, called the Star and asked for the photo department. "Hal?"

  "Hey! The prodigal son!"

  "Not so fast, Hal. Look, I've got a job I want you to help me with."

  "You want bail money again?"

  "Nothing like that. I'm serious."

  "O.K., O.K. I'm listening."

  Travis explained that he had at first decided to give up doing anything about the mystery of the old man, but the three new cases had made him change his mind.

  "What's your angle? Hell, Trav doesn't do something for nothing. It's not like you not to be thinking of yourself?"

  "Think so? Well, maybe I've changed. Maybe an old guy changed me—an old guy all black and dead and an old Bum the same way and now three more people laid up with this thing."

  "I've heard there was a pretty girl involved, too, lucky boy. They tell me you wrestled with her. Learn any new holds?"

  "Have your little joke. Do you want to help or not?"

  "O.K., O.K. What do you want me to do?"

  "Can you get away this afternoon?"

  "Sure, sure. I guess so."

  "I'll buy you the biggest and best drink in town if you'll go out and see somebody in the families of Tony Sansona, 1311 Willard Street, got that? And Matthias Kronansky, 711 Leland Street. The other guy I'll see myself."