by Sol Stein
“Oh,” Dan Pitz said, “I transferred it to an empty half-gallon milk carton.”
“Very, very clever, Mr. Pitz. According to the news account, your mother and sister were in the front seat and you were in the back seat when you noticed something was wrong with the car. You had them pull over, you got out to see what was wrong, and suddenly, the interior of the car was a mass of flame from an explosion, and there was nothing you could do but watch your mother and sister being incinerated.”
Dan coughed into his hand, “Well, actually, not having done this before, I lit the fuse, got out, and ran like hell. I ran back only after the explosion. There were one or two cars coming down the road, and I thought I’d better be close to it.”
“The newspaper had you trying to pull them out of the fire.”
“Not really,” Dan said. “It was one big ball of fire right away even before the tank went.”
“Where was the container?”
“I had it in a paper bag in back. I just put it right behind the front seats.”
“When the car stopped, you lit the fuse, and got out?”
“That’s it.”
“Were you pleased with the results?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, how much did you inherit as a result of the untimely death of your mother and sister?”
“Well…”
“Well is not an amount.”
“About twenty-seven thousand dollars and some furniture.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Clifford said. “And having used that technique successfully, you tried it again for job advancement purposes, is that right? According to that clipping, you weren’t anywhere near the car.”
This Mr. Clifford was worrying Dan.
“Do go on,” Mr. Clifford said.
“No, I didn’t want to be connected with it. I picked a fairly isolated road. I said I needed to get something out of the paper bag I’d put in back. The manager stopped the car. I opened the back door, lit the fuse, and ran like hell. Never looked back. A mile or two away on another road, I hitched a ride on the back of an open truck. The driver never got a good look at me. I was back in the motel when I got word of the accident.”
“Very clever, Mr. Pitz. Actually, what I’m most interested in was how, once the manager was out of the way, you got that seedy motel into the black so quickly. Can you elucidate?”
Maybe this fellow Clifford is taping this conversation.
“I want to assure you, Mr. Pitz, that I am not making a record of this conversation, but if you’d like to satisfy yourself, please do look around.”
This guy reads minds. “No, no,” Dan said.
“You trust me then?” Mr. Clifford asked.
Dan thought for a moment. “I can’t afford to trust anybody.”
“Suppose I were to go to the authorities? There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”
“It’d be your word against my word,” Dan said.
“My word and Mrs. Clifford’s word.”
Dan smiled. “Guess I’d have to kill you, too,” he said.
Mrs. Clifford guffawed.
“Very, very good, Mr. Pitz. Well, then, continue about the motel.”
“The manager was a very fusty guy, old-fashioned, wouldn’t rent to a couple without suitcases. He had some kind of excuse, but it was really on moral grounds.”
“Oh?”
“I suggested to him that we could take in a lot more if we rented by the hour, your only real cost was the sheets and it would always be just one of the beds, but he wouldn’t do it.”
“I see.”
“You know bed vibrators were very common even then, but he wouldn’t go for them. And he would never have agreed to show the kind of movies on closed circuit that a lot of adults like to see when they check in at a motel.”
“And you were anxious to get all these innovations going?”
“Yes.”
“And under your direction the motel thrived?”
“Yes.”
“Pity you had to kill the manager to prove yourself, but then if you hadn’t, this interview would not be taking place. I suppose I should explain why your ability to deal forthrightly with obstacles and your finding Jewish people uncongenial helps qualify you for a position as manager of our resort. Mr. Pitz, let me tell you about Cliffhaven.”
*
Ten minutes later Dan Pitz felt he had passed a point of no return. He had learned enough about the Cliffords to have a real hold on them. They didn’t seem concerned. Did they have a hold on him?
Dan had learned that Cliffhaven was only six months old, but that the assembling of the real estate and the building had started a year and a half before that when Mr. Clifford had officially retired from the business he had built—something to do with oil-drilling equipment that had been extremely profitable and had made him rich. Mr. Clifford had principles. He was interested in social experiments.
“Can I order you a refill?” Mr. Clifford asked.
“I’d better not.”
“Good,” Mr. Clifford said. He didn’t want a boozer managing Cliffhaven.
“It isn’t as if I’ve invented anything new,” Mr. Clifford said. “The Hebrews were unpopular in various societies long before the birth of Christ and for two millennia afterward. They are a real challenge, however, to those of us who would prefer that they keep their own company somewhere else, because they have a way of surviving, you must admit…” he moved his chair a mite closer to Dan’s, “that is uncanny.”
“It is,” Dan said. Clifford seemed very rational, very sane.
“Did you realize, Mr. Pitz, that we have eight times as many of those people here in these United States than Hitler had to contend with in all of Germany?”
Dan nodded.
“And they have a great deal more direct and indirect influence on the government. That’s why I see my social experiment as a challenge. The fact that Cliffhaven has been successful for half a year is, historically, a fantastic achievement, don’t you agree?”
“I’m not too sure what actually goes on there,” Dan said.
“Oh you’ll have plenty of opportunity for that,” Mr. Clifford said. “Just think. We have sequestered, serially, some several hundreds of them and there’s been not one leak, not one newspaper story, no hint of what we’re doing. Yet people know. Locals. Some of the state police. Others. You see, Mr. Pitz, there are a lot of people who tacitly approve of our experiment. That’s the clue to our success. People don’t interfere. Now then, Mr. Pitz, I hope you’ll stay for dinner.”
The Japanese man served with the expertise of a butler. Dan wondered if he was the cook, too. Surely, for a place as large as this, they must have other servants. But where were they? Were they kept from seeing visitors?
Just as dessert was being passed, Dan heard the very distant ring of a telephone. His instinct was to rise to answer it. Mr. and Mrs. Clifford did not move.
They seemed as if they were expecting him to say something.
“Isn’t there a chance that whatever is going on at your place will be discovered?” Dan asked.
“That question must be very important to you,” Mr. Clifford said. “You’ve been silent for nearly twenty minutes. Who do you think might discover Cliffhaven?”
“Anyone.”
“The guests never leave.”
“The staff? Don’t they leave the premises? Vacations and so on?”
“Of course. You’ll find them very loyal. I think I can demonstrate that to you.”
The Japanese was standing there. Dan hadn’t seen him come in.
“Telephone, Mr. Clifford,” he announced softly.
“I said no phone calls.”
“Important, sir.”
Mr. Clifford seemed a bit put out as he rose to take an extension phone behind the screen in the corner. Dan could not make out any of the words. He wanted to take the opportunity to say a few words to Mrs. Clifford, but not in front of the Japanese, who just stood there as
if he were invisible.
Dan noticed the flush in Mr. Clifford’s face as he rejoined them. “Sen,” he said to the Japanese, “we must be in Cliffhaven tomorrow, hopefully well before noon. If we left at three A.M., would that be sufficient time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well then, Mr. Pitz, you’re in for some unexpected excitement. I trust you’ll stay a short night with us and join me for the trip? You’ll have a chance to see Cliffhaven firsthand.”
Dan hesitated. “I insist,” Mr. Clifford said. “You can take advantage of one of our guest rooms here. Sen, Mr. Pitz will be staying over. Be sure to wake him at half past two. Will a half hour be sufficient for you to get ready, Mr. Pitz? So that we’ll waste no time, Sen will have a breakfast box and a thermos of coffee for us in the car. I trust four or five hours of sleep will do you, Mr. Pitz, you’re a young man. Well, Abigail,” he said, turning to his wife, “we have a little problem at Cliffhaven, and I’m so anxious to see how Mr. Pitz might solve it. Mr. Pitz, of course, I don’t expect you to spend your time for nothing. Your salary in the East was thirty thousand dollars.”
How the hell did he know that?
“I will pay you for tomorrow at that rate, pro rata, but double to make up for the travel time involved. One of our new guests, a Mr. Henry Brown, has managed to break loose for the second time. My people are sure he hasn’t escaped from the premises, that he’s on the grounds somewhere. Not to worry. We have his wife. She will be interrogated tomorrow. It should be interesting for you to observe.”
He is doing this to observe me, Dan thought.
“By the way, Mr. Pitz, at Cliffhaven you will be meeting the present manager, George Whittaker, and I trust you will be discreet. You see, Mr. Whittaker believes I am looking for a number two for him, not a replacement.”
“Of course,” Dan said. Why is Whittaker losing his job? Maybe I won’t want it after I see the place.
“Mrs. Clifford will show you to a guest room upstairs. You’ll find clean pajamas, if you use them, in the drawer of the bureau, as well as underclothes in all the usual sizes for tomorrow. We’re quite prepared for guests here as well as in Cliffhaven.”
13
In the darkness Henry came upon a patch of leaves no bigger than a coffin where he could lie down. He fell to his knees, then slowly let the rest of his aching body down, turning sideways. He put his hands under his cheek as he used to when he was a child.
He must rest, he told himself. Even for a few minutes.
When he and Margaret planned to see a movie on a weekday evening after work, he always took ten or fifteen minutes for a siesta before dinner, trying to drain his mind of thought. He must do that now.
Think of nothing.
This bed of leaves is quite comfortable. It would be easy to fall asleep.
Must not fall asleep.
Rest. Make the mind a blank, but do not fall asleep.
He opened his eyes. You can’t fall asleep with your eyes open. Above him the bracken-like jumble of growth seemed protective. The tops of the redwoods were splayed against the night sky.
Make the mind a blank.
Count the stars.
Were those sounds from the road he was hearing?
He sat up. It was no good lying here. It was too good lying here.
Slowly, he got to his feet. He couldn’t be far from the road.
Should he flag a police car on the road? Not around here.
There was a gas station just near the entrance. Might someone there help? They would look at him, dirty face, dirty hands, torn clothes. They’d think he was crazy.
Would any motorist in his right mind give him a lift?
Henry could hear the activity down on the road, scooters, a car, another car. They are assembling a posse.
Must not get caught. They still had Margaret.
He lay down again on the leaves, thought of Margaret lying beside him. Listen, he told himself, this is like lying down in a snowdrift. It was a way to wait for death.
Got to get moving.
He remembered the time of infinite energy, in his teens and twenties, when he could do anything for however long. Once, when he was twenty-two, he’d caught a flu with fever that lasted for a week. When it was over, he sat up in bed, then swung his legs over the side. When he rose his legs were suddenly unresponsive to his will, and he fell back onto the bed and stayed there for hours, thinking the former infallibility of his body had gone, until reason returned and he tried slowly to get out of bed, stood up slowly, then sat back down, and gradually brought himself back to normal strength over a period of more than a week.
It was like that now. He was demanding more of his body than it could give. He had fallen back onto his bed. He had to get up. Slowly.
On his feet he did not feel woozy. All he had needed was the short respite. He could go on. It would be easier to descend the rest of the way through the dense brush by using the same kind of rhythm monkeys use to swing from branch to branch, letting momentum do much of the work, grabbing a branch with his right hand, letting his body swing forward and down to grab something with his left hand before letting go with the right. It was all right. He was making it. It couldn’t be much farther now.
It was then that he heard from below the yapping of the dogs.
He was eight years old, walking with Bobby down near Van Cortlandt Park near the golf course, when the dog, a collarless mongrel, had come snapping at them.
“Don’t run,” he had yelled to Bobby, but Bobby had run like hell. The perverse dog, instead of following the running boy, stayed to guard Henry, snapping from a distance of four or five feet.
He decided to walk around it as if he weren’t nervous. Just when he thought he was safe, the crazy dog suddenly lunged at him, biting, tearing at his pants cuffs. He remembered the pain shooting up his leg, the sudden blood. He kicked off the biting dog, ran the way Bobby had run.
At home his horrified mother washed his wound down with water, then took him to the doctor, who insisted on the tetanus shot. The doctor said that if they found the dog, they could avoid the rabies series. The policeman came. He rode with his mother in back of the police car to where it had happened. They looked everywhere. No dog. Finally, he was made to take the dreaded series of rabies shots. He remembered weeks of discomfort in school and having to hobble. From that time on he carried the fear of dogs in him.
When he was older, Henry understood his self-deception. Being bitten and getting the shots was bad, but his fear came from something else: Animals were irrational. You can’t argue with them. You could convince people, talk them out of a vicious intent.
Thinking of that now, Henry was embarrassed by his naïveté. Could he talk the people who ran Cliffhaven out of their vicious intent? Were human beings less vicious to each other than animals were? To believe that was to believe in the sin that led to all others. Human nature, the subject of so many heated discussions at his house, was the ultimate trap of the idealist. Man could be a pig. Or a vulture. Under duress, a hyena.
Henry listened carefully, for he suddenly thought he heard the sounds of more than two dogs. The old fear was with him, unshakable.
From the sounds, they were working their way up from the road with the dogs, planning to cut him off. But could they if he went the other way, toward Cliffhaven? Was that crazy? They would be looking for him down by the highway. Or on the way down, but not the way up. Did the dogs have his scent from some piece of clothing he had left behind?
He remembered the story of the prisoner at Sing Sing in the sixties who had escaped from his cell, and the search parties had combed all the adjacent towns uselessly because, as it turned out, so many frantic hours later, the man was still behind the walls, hiding in an outbuilding. Did he remember that now as a God-given clue to what he should do—get out of the woods where the dogs would eventually find him and get to where they wouldn’t look, the place he had escaped from? Or was he losing his mind, becoming his own captor?
T
he yapping sounded closer. He had no choice. Back up to Cliffhaven was where he had to go.
The branch-holding routine he had worked out for going down was much harder going up. The only hopeful sign was that the yelping faded. He was alone and moving faster in a direction they hadn’t expected him to go. Maybe the handlers thought the dogs were following the wrong scent, and were trying to reorient the dogs.
It seemed an eternity before he reached the perimeter of Cliffhaven, circled around in the end of the woods away from the resort buildings, until he came to the long, flat-roofed building set far apart from the others and so different in style. It was built of cinder blocks, not wood, and looked like some oversized utility building. It might have been a small factory except for the absence of windows anywhere.
He’d have to cross about seventy-five yards of open space to get to it. Would he be seen? It was dark, but he’d be silhouetted against the woods.
He couldn’t take a chance, and so, exhausted as he was, he crawled the entire distance, moving his arms like a duck as he had been taught in the army, dragging his body, keeping close to the ground. The knuckles of his right hand were bleeding from the small stones. It seemed not to matter. His body moved like an automaton.
Once against the building, he stood. It was good to stand. He edged around the building to the other side. Should he chance the one door? What if there were someone inside? Would there be any way to get inside a building without windows? There was no sign that the building was air-conditioned.
He tried the door. It was locked.
Henry listened for sounds within the building. Machinery? Nothing. He listened for the dogs and could not hear them.
He had not seen the fourth side of the building. Carefully he made his way around. Luck. A metal ladder going to the roof. Could anyone see him? He’d have to chance it.
He clambered up the ladder. The rungs were very narrow and hurt his feet He mustn’t fall. From the distance, he had not realized the building was nearly two stories high.
Swinging himself over onto the roof, he was glad to see there was a two-foot parapet all the way around. They could come up after him the same way. He tried to pull the metal ladder up. It was very heavy, and he couldn’t get any leverage, yet he managed to lift it off the ground, then hand over hand to pull it up a few inches at a time. It was too heavy. He had raised it perhaps a foot or two off the ground. He couldn’t hold it anymore.
