The Deep End

by Fredric Brown

  THE DEEP END

  Born in 1906, Fredric Brown was an American science fiction and mystery writer. In early life he attended the University of Cincinnati and Hanover College, Indiana, before working as a newspaperman and magazine writer in the Midwest. His first foray into the mystery genre was The Fabulous Clipjoint (1947), which won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for outstanding first mystery novel. As an author he wrote more than thirty novels and over three hundred short stories, and is noted for a bold use of narrative experimentation, as exemplified in The Lenient Beast (1956). Many of his books employ the threat of the supernatural or occult before concluding with a logical explanation, and he is renowned for both original plots and ingenious endings. In the 1950s he moved to Tucson, Arizona, and wrote for television and film, continuing to submit many short stories that regularly appeared in mystery anthologies. A cultured man and omnivorous reader, Brown had a lifelong interest in the flute, chess, poker, and the works of Lewis Carroll. He died in 1972.

  THE DEEP END

  FREDRIC BROWN

  THE LANGTAIL PRESS

  LONDON

  This edition published 2011 by

  The Langtail Press

  www.langtailpress.com

  The Deep End © 1952 Fredric Brown

  ISBN 978-1-78002-011-2

  THE DEEP END

  SATURDAY

  1

  The Herald city room was hot enough to bake a cake, although it was only half past ten by the big electric clock on the wall. Half past ten of a Saturday morning in July, the last day before a week’s vacation for me.

  Up near the ceiling somewhere a fly was making a hell of a commotion. Its buzz sounded louder to me than the sporadic hammer of typewriters. I looked up and located it, a big horsefly going nowhere fast, in circles.

  Looking up made my collar tight and I loosened it. You damn fool horsefly, I thought, don’t you know there aren’t any horses in a newspaper office?

  I found myself wondering whether a horsefly starved to death if it didn’t find a horse, like the bread-and-butter-fly in Through the Looking-Glass that starved to death unless it could find weak tea with cream in it.

  Someone standing by my desk said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  It was Harry Rowland. I grinned at him. I said, “I was communing with a horsefly. Any objections?”

  “Thank God,” he said. “I thought you were praying. Ed wants to see you, Sam. Right away.” He moved on toward the door. He wore a light tan Palm Beach suit and the back of the coat was soaked through with sweat over the shoulder blades.

  I sat there a few more seconds getting up the courage to stand and walk. I’d been getting by without doing anything for almost half an hour and I’d begun to hope that Ed had forgotten me.

  Ed is the Herald’s city editor. A lot of editors are named Ed. It doesn’t mean anything. I’ve known reporters named Frank and Ernest and once I knew a girl named Virginia.

  I pushed my way through the stifling air into Ed’s office. I sat down in the chair in front of his desk and waited for him to look up, hoping that he wouldn’t. But he did.

  He said, “Kid just killed on the roller coaster at Whitewater Beach. I want a human interest story, what a swell kid he was, bereaved parents, that kind of stuff. Lay it on thick. You know what I mean.”

  I knew what he meant. “I’m sobbing already,” I told him. “Has the kid got a name?”

  “Probably. Get the dope from Rowland.”

  “He just left.”

  “On his way out there. He’ll write the news story, Sam. And Burgoyne will write an editorial. You–”

  “I know,” I said. “The sob story. But I’ve got to have something to work on, Ed, unless you want me to wait till Rowland gets back.”

  “He’ll phone you the minute he gets the kid’s name and a fact or two to start from. Stick by your phone till he calls. Don’t start on anything else. When you hear from him get going and stay with it, clear till deadline if you can get enough dope. Use all the space you can fill. A pic if you can dig one. Hit it hard.”

  “And make ’em cry,” I said.

  He shook with silent laughter.

  I went back to my desk and sat there waiting for the phone to ring.

  Ed hadn’t needed to draw me a diagram. I’d worked for the Herald eight years, so I knew the score. This was strictly a must job for dear old Yale. I’d known that the minute he mentioned Whitewater Beach, which is the amusement resort just outside of town. The Herald didn’t carry Whitewater Beach advertising and the Herald never mentioned Whitewater Beach unless someone was injured or robbed there, and then we really went to town. This was the first time anyone had ever been killed there and the sky was going to be the limit.

  You see, Whitewater Beach was owned by a man named Walter A. Campbell who topped our s. o. b. list. Colonel Ackerman, owner of the Herald, hated Campbell’s guts with an abiding hatred. The feud between them went back over a dozen years. The most common version of how it had started was that Campbell had called the Colonel a crooked politician because Ackerman, then heading the city council, had blocked a paving project that would have improved the main route to Whitewater Beach; Campbell accused Ackerman of doing it for purposes of extortion, to force the amusement park to advertise more heavily in the Herald.

  So now, because Colonel Ackerman never forgot or forgave an insult, I sat waiting for my phone to ring, like a runner waiting for the starter’s gun. But waiting was all right with me; I didn’t want to work anyway. I hoped the phone would never ring. So, of course, it rang.

  But when I said, “Sam Evans,” into it, it wasn’t Rowland’s voice that answered; it was Millie’s.

  “I thought I’d better call to say good-by, Sam,” she said. “I’m going to take an earlier tram than the one I figured on. I found out there was one at four o’clock this afternoon and that’ll be better than the eight-thirty-tonight one because it will get me there late this evening instead of the middle of the night.”

  I said, “That’s fine, Millie, but I’m sorry I won’t get a chance to see you again. I thought–well, I hoped we’d have a chance for one more talk before you left. Listen, would you have time to come downtown and have lunch with me?”

  “Thanks, but I’d better not. On account of leaving sooner than I’d planned to I’ve got an awful lot of things to do. I’ve hardly started my packing. Good-by, Sam.”

  “Wait,” I said. “You won’t have to leave more than half an hour before train time. I’ll see if I can get off at two o’clock as soon as the final goes in. Then I can get home in time to help you with a few things and we can talk a little, and then I can drive you to the station so you won’t have to take a taxi.”

  “Thanks, Sam, but–please don’t. I don’t think we should talk any more, not until we’ve each been away for a week and have had time to think things over by ourselves. We’ve each said everything there is to say until then.”

  “Maybe, but–”

  “Have a good time on your hunting trip, Sam. Good-by.”

  “Good-by, Millie,” I said.

  And the phone clicked in my ear before I could put it down. The click seemed to have an oddly final sound.

  I put down the phone and sat staring at it, feeling a little empty inside, wondering how final that click had been. Was it going to be the end of things between us? Oh, we’d see one another again after our respective trips. But would we ever be together again, or would it be just to compare notes and agree to disagree on a permanent basis? Would it be to discuss at last the ugly seven-letter word neither of us had actually mentioned yet, the seven-letter word which would mean the
end of almost five years of marriage?

  It was to think that over, each of us apart from the other, that we’d arranged separate vacations. I was going hunting and fishing with two friends of mine, one of whom owned a little summer cabin on a lake fifty miles north of the city; Millie was going to spend the week with her sister and brother-in-law in Rockford. She might stay longer than the week if she decided to, but one week was all the vacation I still had coming; I’d taken a week in advance early in the spring when my brother in Cincinnati had undergone a dangerous operation and I’d wanted to be with him.

  That week had come out all right; he’d pulled through nicely. But how would this coming week turn out? Would our marriage pull through?

  I didn’t want to think about it just then. And suddenly I wanted something to do besides just sit and wait for the phone to ring.

  It occurred to me that maybe I could get myself something to start on before Rowland’s call came. I picked up my phone and asked the switchboard girl for the South Side Police Station. A moment later I recognized Louie Brandon’s voice answering. I asked him if he had anything yet on a kid killed at Whitewater.

  “Just a quick report. Kid’s name was–just a minute–Henry O. Westphal, six-oh-three Irving Street, age seventeen. Father is Armin Westphal, owns a hosiery and lingerie store downtown.”

  I had that on copy paper by the time he finished. I asked, “Where’s the body? Still there?”

  “They’re taking it to Haley’s. That’s the undertaking parlor nearest to Whitewater Beach. The address is nineteen hundred South–”

  “I know where it is,” I said. “Who made identification?”

  “Wallet in his pocket. We’re trying to get in touch with his parents. They’re out of town for the day and we haven’t reached them yet.”

  “Heard he was killed on the Blue Streak. Fall out of a car?”

  “No. Got run over by one, climbing across the tracks.”

  “Okay, Louie. Thanks.”

  I had something to start on now. Since the father, Armin Westphal, was a businessman there’d probably be a clipping or two on him in our morgue that would give me some background.

  I called the morgue. “Got anything on an Armin Westphal?”

  “Just a minute.”

  I sat and waited, staring up at the ceiling again. The horsefly was still flying around up there looking for a horse.

  2

  The telephone said, “There’s an envelope, yes.”

  “Good. There isn’t by any chance anything on a Henry Westphal, is there? Henry O. Westphal?”

  “Why didn’t you ask for both at once and save me a trip? Wait a minute.”

  I waited a minute.

  “Yes, there’s an envelope on him too.”

  “I’ll be damned;” I said. ‘I’ll send down for both envelopes.”

  I caught a copy boy and sent him. He was back in a few minutes and put two nine-by-twelve manila envelopes on my desk. I picked up Armin Westphal’s first to get it out of the way.

  There were four clippings in it. One of them was a real break, a biographical sketch with a picture. A few years before we’d run a series of brief biographies of local merchants–chosen, needless to say, by the advertising department and run on the business page. Armin Westphal had made the grade and I had more dope on him than I could possibly use. The picture, just a half-column head, looked familiar; I’d seen him somewhere. A dour-looking man whom you’d never guess to be a purveyor of hosiery and lingerie. The cut for that picture would still be in the cut racks up in the composing room and it was one we could use effectively. The dour expression made it fit; you don’t like to run a cheerful or smiling picture of a man whom you’re describing as a grief-stricken father. The other three clippings were short ones and more recent. They concerned Chamber of Commerce activities and gave me the clue as to where I’d seen him; several years ago I’d covered a couple of Chamber of Commerce banquets and he’d spoken at one of them, very boringly.

  I opened the Henry O. Westphal envelope. There were two pictures in it, both glossy prints taken by Herald staff photographers.

  One was a football shot, the kid in uniform and helmet, poised for a drop-kick. Except that he looked big and husky for seventeen–or more likely sixteen since the shot had been taken last fall and it was now July–you couldn’t tell much about him. Not even his build, for sure; he might have been tall and thin and the rest of it padding.

  The other shot was much better; it was waist-up and was a picture of a grinning, good-looking kid in a white sweat-shirt holding a tennis racket. The date stamped on the back showed it had been taken only six weeks ago. It had been blocked down in crayon for a halftone but apparently the cut hadn’t been made or the glossy wouldn’t be in the file envelope. A cut would be made of it now, all right, probably a two-column one.

  There were five or six clippings. The most recent one, the top one, was only five weeks old. It was about Westphal’s performance in the state high school tennis tournament. He’d gone there representing South Side High–my own alma mater, as it happened–and, after being seeded eighteenth, had placed fourth in the tournament. Each of the other high schools in town had sent a player but none of the others had placed near the top. This was the story the picture had been taken for–before he’d left for the capital to play–but the picture hadn’t been used.

  The other stories were all about football. He’d been pretty good at it. The oldest clipping was three years old and got him off to a flying start; as quarterback of the freshman team he’d led them into a 7-7 tie with the regular team in that year’s intramural game. According to the other clippings he’d come right along, although he’d done nothing very spectacular in his sophomore year except to end that year as first-string halfback–having switched or having been switched by the coach to that position. But last fall, as a junior, he’d been South Side’s best player–at least he’d gained more yardage than any other player. Good as a broken field runner and pass receiver in particular.

  Plenty of material, at least as far as his sports activities went. Good stuff, too. I could bill him as a would-have-been star in two sports.

  I could wax lyrical about what he would have become if only he’d stayed away from that place of danger, Whitewater Beach. I’d damn well better wax lyrical if I wanted to turn out the story that was expected of me. This made it easy, although probably one of the boys from the sports department could do a better job of it. Personally I’ve never seen why people get interested in, let alone excited about, spectator sports. Golf, yes. A bit of hunting or fishing a few times a year. And I play poker as often as I possibly can without getting Millie too annoyed at me.

  But maybe I wouldn’t have that to worry about any longer. Maybe I’d be able to play poker as often as I liked–or be driven by loneliness into playing it even oftener than I liked. Unless, of course, someday–

  I pulled my mind away from my personal problems and back to the story by looking at the picture of the Westphal kid again. Maybe, if I concentrated on the cheerful grin he was wearing in that picture, I could work myself into the proper state of mind to write a really good tear-jerker.

  He was a good-looking kid. And the shoulders in that football picture hadn’t been all padding, either. Even in a sweat-shirt he looked plenty husky.

  I decided to keep studying the clippings until I got my call from Rowland and picked them up to read them more thoroughly; I’d just skimmed the first time.

  I picked up a few things I’d missed. The kid had a nickname, Obie. Probably from his middle name, since the initial was an O. Obadiah, possibly. Somehow, Obie Westphal sounded better than Henry Westphal. Maybe I’d use it that way after the lead; it would give the story an informal touch.

  3

  The phone rang. It was Rowland. He said, “Got paper and pencil ready?”

  “Sure. But I’ve got som
e of it already, Harry. Called the South Side Police Station and Louie was on the desk and gave me what he had. And I found morgue envelopes on the kid and his father. Here’s what I’ve got so far.” And I told him.

  “Good,” he said. “I can’t add much. Get one thing first; we can imply Whitewater was somehow to blame but we can’t say so. They weren’t. The kid was where he had no business being and he was crossing the tracks right past a danger sign. At the bottom of the first dip; the tracks come down to within a foot of the ground there. Maybe there should have been a railing–that’s our only angle–but then again it’s around behind concession booths in territory where the public isn’t allowed. He had to climb a fence to get back there.”

  “Anybody see it happen?”

  “No. And the car that ran over him was empty–which was damn lucky. It was derailed and if there’d been any passengers they’d have been injured pretty badly at least. But it was a test run.”

  “That something unusual?”

  “Hell, no. They do it every day before they open up for business. I guess all roller coasters do. The Blue Streak has two cars and they give each one of them a dry run around the tracks every day before they open. Usually that’s early afternoon, but on Saturdays and Sundays in good weather they open in the morning. This happened at a quarter after ten as near as I can get the time.”

  “Was the kid pretty mangled?”

  “From the chest down, yes. But his head and arms were across the track. They won’t have to use a closed coffin.”

  “Anything new on the parents being located?”

  “No, I guess there’s no way they can be reached until they get back, and that won’t be until after deadline so we won’t have any statement from them for today’s paper. Hey, wait a minute–Haley’s trying to tell me something.”

  I waited a minute and he came back on the wire, “Haley tells me the parents have been reached. They were at Williamsburg, at Mr. Westphal’s sister’s. They’re starting back right away–but it’s about a four, maybe five hour drive from there so you still won’t have a statement in time.”