Quite deliberately, Church spat on the money, then levelled a glance of hurtling hatred at Reich. “There will be no charge,” he said, and turned and disappeared into the shadows of the cellar.
4
Until it was destroyed for reasons lost in the misty confusion of the late XXth Century, the Pennsylvania Station in New York City was, unknown to millions of travellers, a link in time. The interior of the giant terminal was a replica of the mighty Baths of Caracalla in ancient Rome. So also was the sprawling mansion of Madame Maria Beaumont, known to her thousand most intimate enemies as The Gilt Corpse.
As Ben Reich glided down the east ramp with Dr. Tate at his side and murder in his pocket, he communicated with his senses in staccatto spurts. The sight of the guests on the floor below… The glitter of uniforms, of dress, of phosphorescent flesh, of beams of pastel light swaying on stilt legs…Tenser, said the Tensor…
The sound of voices, of music, of annunciators, of echoes…Tension, apprehension, and dissension… The wonderful potpourri of flesh and perfume, of food, of wine, of gilt ostentation…Tension, apprehension…
The gilt trappings of death… Of something, by God, which has failed for seventy years… A lost art… As lost as phlebotomy, chirurgery, alchemy… I’ll bring death back. Not the hasty, crazy killing of the psychotic, the brawler…but the normal, deliberate, planned, cold-blooded—
“For God’s sake!” Tate murmured. “Be careful, man. Your murder’s showing.”
Eight, sir; seven, sir…
“That’s better. Here comes one of the peeper secretaries. He screens the guests for crashers. Keep singing.”
A slender, willowy young man, all gush, all cropped golden hair, all violet blouse and silver culottes: “Dr. Tate! Mr. Reich! I’m speechless. Actually. I can’t utter word one. Come in! Come in!”
Six, sir; five, sir…
Maria Beaumont clove through the crowd, arms outstretched, eyes outstretched, naked bosom outstretched…her body transformed by pneumatic surgery into an exagerated East Indian figure with puffed hips, puffed calves and puffed gilt breasts. To Reich she was the painted figurehead of a pornographic ship…the famous Gilt Corpse.
“Ben, darling creature!” She embraced him with pneumatic intensity, contriving to press his hand into her cleavage. “It’s too too wonderful.”
“It’s too too plastic, Maria,” he murmured in her ear.
“Have you found that lost million yet?”
“Just laid hands on it now, dear.”
“Be careful, audacious lover. I’m having every morsel of this divine party recorded.”
Over her shoulder, Reich shot a glance at Tate. Tate shook his head reassuringly.
“Come and meet everybody who’s everybody,” Maria said. She took his arm. “We’ll have ages for ourselves later.”
The lights in the groined vaults overhead changed again and shifted up the spectrum. The costumes changed color. Skin that had glowed with pink nacre now shone with eerie luminescence.
On his left flank, Tate gave the prearranged signal: Danger! Danger! Danger!
Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun. RIFF. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun…
Maria was introducing another effete, all gush, all cropped copper hair, all fuchsia blouse and Prussian blue culottes.
“Larry Ferar, Ben. My other social secretary. Larry’s been dying to meet you.”
Four, sir; three, sir…
“Mr. Reich! But too thrilled. I can’t utter word one.”
Two, sir; one!
The young man accepted Reich’s smile and moved on. Still circling in convoy, Tate gave Reich a reassuring nod. Again the overhead lights changed. Portions of the guests’ costumes appeared to dissolve. Reich, who had never succumbed to the fashion of wearing ultra-violet windows in his clothes, stood secure in his opaque suit, watching with contempt the quick, roving eyes around him, searching, appraising, comparing, desiring.
Tate signalled: Danger! Danger! Danger!
Tenser, said the Tensor…
A secretary appeared at Maria’s elbow, “Madame,” he lisped, “a slight contretemps.”
“What is it?”
“The Chervil boy. Galen Chervil.”
Tate’s face constricted.
“What about him?” Maria peeped through the crowd.
“Left of the fountain. An impostor, Madame. I have peeped him. He has no invitation. He’s a college student. He bet he could crash the party. He intends to steal a picture of you as proof.”
“Of me!” Maria said, staring through the windows in young Chervil’s clothes. “What does he think of me?”
“Well, Madame, he’s extremely difficult to probe. I think he’d like to steal more from you than your picture.”
“Oh, would he?” Maria cackled delightedly.
“He would, Madame. Shall he be removed?”
“No.” Maria glanced once more at the muscular young man, then turned away. “He’ll get his proof.”
“And it won’t be stolen,” Reich said.
“Jealous! Jealous!” she squawked. “Let’s dine.”
In response to Tate’s urgent sign, Reich stepped aside momentarily.
“Reich, you’ve got to give it up.”
“What the hell…?”
“The Chervil boy.”
“What about him?”
“He’s a 2nd.”
“God damn!”
“He’s precocious, brilliant… I met him at Powell’s last Sunday. Maria Beaumont never invites peepers to her house. I’m only in on your pass. I was depending on that.”
“And this peeper kid has to be the one to crash. God damn!”
“Give it up, Reich.”
“Maybe I can stay away from him.”
“Reich, I can block the social secretaries. They’re only 3rds. But I can’t guarantee to handle them and a 2nd too…even if he is only a kid. He’s young. He may be too nervous to do any clever peeping. But I can’t promise.”
“I’m not quitting,” Reich growled. “I can’t. I’ll never get a chance like this again. Even if I knew I could, I wouldn’t quit. I couldn’t. I’ve got the stink of D’Courtney in my nostrils. I—”
“Reich, you’ll never—”
“Don’t argue. I’m going through with it.” Reich turned his scowl full on Tate’s nervous face. “I know you’re looking for a chance to squirm out of this; but you won’t. We’re trapped in this together, right down the line, from here to Demolition.”
He shaped his distorted face into a frozen smile and rejoined his hostess on a couch alongside one of the tables. It was still the custom for couples to feed one another at these affairs, but the gesture that had originated in oriental courtesy and generosity had degenerated into erotic play. The morsels of food were accompanied by tongue touched to fingers and were as often offered between the lips. The wine was tasted mouth to mouth. Sweets were given more intimately.
Reich endured it all with a seething impatience, waiting for the vital word from Tate. Part of Tate’s Intelligence work was to locate D’Courtney’s hiding place in the house. He watched the little peeper drift through the crowd of diners, probing, prying, searching, until he at last returned with a negative shake of his head and gestured toward Maria Beaumont. Clearly Maria was the only source of information, but she was now too excited by sensuality to be easily probed. It was another in a never-ending series of crises that had to be met by the killer-instinct. Reich arose and crossed toward the fountain. Tate intercepted him.
“What are you up to, Reich?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve got to get the Chervil boy off her mind.”
“How?”
“Is there any way but one?”
“For God’s sake, Reich, don’t go near the boy.”
“Get out of my way.” Reich radiated a burst of savage compulsion that made the peeper recoil. He signaled in fright and Reich tried to control himself.
“It’s taking cha
nces, I know, but the odds aren’t as long as you think. In the first place, he’s young and green. In the second place, he’s a crasher and scared. In the third place, he can’t be flying full jets or he wouldn’t have let the fag secretaries peep him so easily.”
“Have you got any conscious control? Can you double-think?”
“I’ve got that song on my mind and enough trouble to make doublethinking a pleasure. Now get the hell out of the way and stand by to peep Maria Beaumont.”
Chervil was eating alone alongside the fountain, clumsily attempting to appear to belong.
“Pip,” said Reich.
“Pop,” said Chervil.
“Bim,” said Reich.
“Bam,” said Chervil.
With the latest fad in informality disposed of, Reich eased himself down alongside the boy. “I’m Ben Reich.”
“I’m Gally Chervil, I mean… Galen. I—” He was visibly impressed by the name of Reich.
Tension, apprehension, and dissension…
“That damned song,” Reich muttered. “Heard it for the first time the other day. Can’t get it out of my mind. Maria knows you’re a phoney, Chervil.”
“Oh no!”
Reich nodded. Tension, apprehension…
“Should I start running?”
“Without the picture?”
“You know about that too? There must be a peeper in the house.”
“Two of them. Her social secretaries. People like you are their job.”
“What about that picture, Mr. Reich? I’ve got fifty credits riding on the line. You ought to know what a bet means. You’re a gamb—I mean, financier.”
“Glad I’m not a peeper, eh? Never mind. I’m not insulted. See that arch? Go straight through and turn right. You’ll find a study. The walls are lined with Maria’s portraits, all in synthetic stones. Help yourself. She’ll never miss one.”
The boy leaped up, scattering food. “Thanks, Mr. Reich. Some day I’ll do you a favor.”
“Such as?”
“You’d be surprised. I happen to be a—” He caught himself and blushed. “You’ll find out, sir. Thanks again.” He began weaving his way across the floor toward the study.
Four, sir; three, sir; two, sir; one!
Reich returned to his hostess.
“Naughty lover,” she said. “Who’ve you been feeding? I’ll tear her eyes out.”
“The Chervil boy,” Reich answered. “He asked me where you keep your pictures.”
“Ben! You didn’t tell him!”
“Sure did,” Reich grinned. “He’s on his way to get one now. Then he’ll take off. You know I’m jealous.”
She leaped from the couch and sailed toward the study.
“Bam,” said Reich.
By eleven o’clock, the ritual of dining had aroused the company to a point of intensity that required solitude and darkness for release. Maria Beaumont had never failed her guests, and Reich hoped she would not fail tonight. She had to play the Sardine game. He knew it when Tate returned from the study with concise directions for locating the hidden D’Courtney.
“I don’t know how you got away with it,” Tate whispered. “You’re broadcasting bloodlust on every wavelength of the TP band. He’s here. Alone. No servants. Only two bodyguards provided by Maria. @kins was right. He’s dangerously sick…”
“To hell with that. I’ll cure him. Where is he?”
“Go through the west arch. Turn right. Up stairs. Through overpass. Turn right. Picture Gallery. Door between paintings of the Rape of Lucrece and the Rape of the Sabine Women…”
“Sounds typical.”
“Open the door. Up a flight of steps to an anteroom. Two guards in the anteroom. D’Courtney’s inside. It’s the old wedding suite her grandfather built.”
“By God! I’ll use that suite again. I’ll marry him to murder. And I’ll get away with it, little Gus. Don’t think I won’t.”
The Gilt Corpse began to clamor for attention. Flushed and shining with perspiration, standing in the glare of a pink light on the dais between the two fountains, Maria clapped her hands for silence. Her moist palms beat together, and the echoes roared in Reich’s ears: Death. Death. Death.
“Darlings! Darlings! Darlings!” she cried. “We’re going to have so much fun tonight. We’re going to provide our own entertainment.” A subdued groan went up from the guests and a drunken voice shouted: “I’m just one of the tourists.”
Through the laughter, Maria said: “Naughty lovers, don’t be disappointed. We’re going to play a wonderful old game; and we’re going to play it in the dark.”
The company cheered up as the overhead lights began to dim and disappear. The dais still blazed, and in the light, Maria produced a tattered volume. Reich’s gift.
Tension…
Maria turned the pages slowly, blinking at the unaccustomed print.
Apprehension…
“It’s a game,” Maria cried, “called ‘Sardine.’ Isn’t that too adorable?”
She took the bait. She’s on the hook. In three minutes I’ll be invisible. Reich felt his pockets. The gun. The Rhodopsin. Tension, apprehension, and dissension have begun.
“One player,” Maria read, “is selected to be It. That’s going to be me. All the lights are extinguished and the It hides anywhere in the house.” As Maria struggled through the directions, the great hall was reduced to pitch darkness with the exception of the single pink beam on the stage.
“Successively each player finding the Sardine joins them until all are hidden in one place, and the last player, who is the loser, is left to wander alone in the dark.” Maria closed the book. “And darlings, we’re all going to feel sorry for the loser because we’re going to play this funny old game in a darling new way.”
As the last light on the dais melted away, Maria stripped off her gown and displayed the astonishing nude body that was a miracle of pneumatic surgery. “We’re going to play Sardine like this!” she cried. The last light blinked out. There was a roar of exultant laughter and applause, followed by a multiple whisper of cloth drawn across skin. Occasionally there came the sound of a rip, then muttered exclamations and more laughter.
Reich was invisible at last. He had half an hour to slip up into the house, find and kill D’Courtney, and then return to the game. Tate was committed to pinning the peeper secretaries out of the line of his attack. It was safe. It was foolproof except for the Chervil boy. He had to take that chance.
He crossed the main hall and jostled into bodies at the west arch. He went through the arch into the music room and turned right, groping for the stairs.
At the foot of the stairs he was forced to climb over a barrier of bodies with octopus arms that tried to pull him down. He ascended the stairs, seventeen eternal steps, and felt his way through a close tunnel overpass papered with velour. Suddenly he was seized and a woman crushed herself against him.
“Hello, Sardine,” she whispered in his ear. Then her skin became aware of his clothes. “Owww!” she exclaimed, and felt the hard outlines of the gun in his breast pocket. “What’s that?” He slapped her hand away. “Clever-up, Sardine,” she giggled. “Get out of the can.”
He divested himself of her and bruised his nose against the dead-end of the overpass. He turned right, opened a door and found himself in a vaulted gallery over fifty feet long. The lights were extinguished here too, but the luminescent paintings, glowing under ultra-violet spotlights, filled the gallery with a virulent glow. It was empty.
Between a livid Lucrece and a horde of Sabine Women was a flush door of polished bronze. Reich stopped before it, removed the tiny Rhodopsin Ionizer from his back pocket and attempted to poise the copper cube between his thumbnail and forefinger. His hands were trembling violently. Rage and hatred boiled inside him, and his death-lust shot image after image of an agonized D’Courtney through his mind’s eye.
“Christ!” he cried. “He’d do it to me. He’s tearing at my throat. I’m fighting for survival.” He mad
e his orisons in fanatical multiples of three and nine.
“Stand by me, dear Christ! Today, tomorrow, and yesterday. Stand by me! Stand by me! Stand by me!”
His fingers steadied. He poised the Rhodopsin cap, then thrust open the bronze door, revealing nine steps mounting to an anteroom. Reich snapped his thumb-nail against the copper cube as though he were trying to flip a penny to the moon. As the Rhodopsin cap flew up into the anteroom, Reich averted his eyes.
There was a cold purplish flash. Reich leaped up the stairs like a tiger. The two Beaumont House guards were seated on the bench where he had caught them. Their faces were sagging, their vision destroyed, their time sense abolished.
If anyone entered and found the guards before he was finished, he was on the road to Demolition. If the guards revived before he was finished, he was on the road to Demolition. No matter what happened, it was a final gamble with Demolition. Leaving the last of his sanity behind him, Reich pushed open a jewelled door and entered the wedding suite.
5
Reich found himself in a spherical room designed as the heart of a giant orchid. The walls were curling orchid petals, the floor was a golden calyx; the chairs, tables and couches were orchid and gold. But the room was old. The petals were faded and peeling; the golden tile floor was ancient and the tesselations were splitting. There was an old man lying on the couch, musty and wilted, like a dried weed. It was D’Courtney, stretched out like a corpse.
Reich slammed the door in rage. “You’re not dead already, you bastard,” he exploded. “You can’t be dead.”
The faded man started up, stared, then arose painfully from the couch, his face breaking into a smile.
“Still alive,” Reich cried exultantly.
D’Courtney stepped toward Reich, smiling, his arms outstretched as though welcoming a prodigal son.
Alarmed again, Reich growled: “Are you deaf?”
The old man shook his head.
“You speak English,” Reich shouted. “You can hear me. You can understand me. I’m Reich. Ben Reich of Monarch.”
D’Courtney nodded, still smiling. His mouth worked soundlessly. His eyes glistened with sudden tears.
The Demolished Man Page 5
