by Robert Bloch
I felt a little better, but not much. Because Mariner was still missing, and I didn’t know why. And they knew that I knew.
What I needed now was an ace in the hole. But I didn’t have one. The best I could do was a gun in the suitcase. At the time, I’d worried a lot about packing one along. It seemed risky, and I really didn’t expect to use threats on Mariner. Now I was glad I had it.
Because there was only one thing left for me to do. I’d have to go up to my room, get the gun, and knock on the door of Suite 701 again.
I got up and went out into the lobby. I took the elevator. I got off at the seventh floor. I tiptoed down the hall, past 701, to my own room. I took out the key and opened my door very quietly. I stepped in.
And then I stumbled, reaching for the light. I started to swear, under my breath, but I should have prayed instead. Because my having stumbled is what must have saved me.
The blow came out of the darkness behind the door, and if it had landed on my head, I’d have been a goner. As it was, my shoulder almost broke. But I ducked, and turned, and was just coming up with a right when two things happened simultaneously.
The light clicked on, and the man named Harry stuck a gun in my ribs.
“Now, march,” he suggested.
We marched. There was nobody in the corridor to watch the parade go by. Nobody cheered when we halted before the door to 701.
He knocked. The door opened and Miss Fairborn looked out at Harry. “Did you get him?” she whispered.
“Yes,” Harry murmured. “I got him.” He pushed me into the room and closed the door.
“Then why didn’t you knock him out?” she asked.
“Changed my mind,” Harry said. “I think we might have other plans.” He winked. “Understand?”
Miss Fairborn nodded, then turned. Those great big beautiful eyes stared at me.
“Cut it out,” I said. “I don’t hypnotize easy.”
She sighed. “I know. That’s why I didn’t try. It wouldn’t work on you because you wouldn’t cooperate. You were too suspicious.”
“Sorry. That’s my nature.”
“I’m sorry, too. If only you hadn’t come, if only you’d go away now—but of course it’s too late.”
I looked across the room at the bed. “Where’s the money?” I asked. “I thought it might be piled up here, ready for shipping.”
Harry rubbed his chin with his free hand. I knew where the other one was, of course—it was holding the gun. And I knew where the gun was, too—still in my ribs.
“You had to guess, didn’t you?” he said.
“Yes. I guessed. So where is it, might I ask?”
“You’re in no position to ask anything, but I’ll tell you. The money has already been shipped.”
“And Mr. Mariner?”
“He’s been shipped, too. Or will be, soon.”
“Then it’s like I thought. Murder.”
“You did a lot of thinking, didn’t you?”
“Why not?” I shrugged. “I knew Mariner was afraid for his life. That’s why he kept running from city to city; that’s why he holed up here. He practically turned blue when I spoke to him and he admitted they were after him. I didn’t know what he was talking about until Miss Fairborn showed up. He was twice as frightened then, but he went along with her. So it all adds up, doesn’t it? We were after the same thing—the secret of how he managed to make all that dough in such a hurry.
“The only difference is, I was working alone, and I intended to go about it in a nice way. You teamed up and put on the pressure. You were ready to threaten him, ready to kill him. And you did. I still can’t understand how you figured you’d get away with it, but you did.”
I paused as another thought struck me. “How did you manage to erase his name from our company records? Was it hypnosis again—the way you operated here in the hotel?”
Miss Fairborn nodded. “We have teams operating in every major city.”
“That must cost dough. Of course, with five million involved—”
“Multiply it by ten,” Harry said. “Mariner just made a little extra on the side, after he thought he’d sneaked away from us.”
“From you?”
“You got your story a bit twisted. You see, we all work for the same outfit?”
“Syndicate?”
“Not the one you mean. It’s a group of investment people. Their names don’t matter. Let’s just say they are wealthy and influential people who want to become still more wealthy and influential. They are in a position to get advance tips on a lot of inside deals—but there are laws governing the right to speculate independently in the affairs of your own company. So they conceived this idea of pooling their resources, setting up a private organization to make investments. As long as secrecy is maintained, they can make many millions in profits each year. All they needed was a front man.”
“Mariner?”
“Exactly. A nobody from nowhere. Someone who followed orders; and a few trained people like us to keep an eye on him, check up to make sure he didn’t get out of line. And it worked well, for the past few years. He must have brought in well over fifty million in stocks and bonds alone.”
“But no one man could make that much money without making headlines as well. And I never heard of him until I stumbled across his trail three months ago, as a small investor.”
“Exactly. Up until three months ago, his name wasn’t Mariner. He used half a dozen other names over the years. That was part of the plan, to keep switching identities. And that was part of our job—to go around, when he changed his name, and erase memories of his previous existence. As I told you, we have similar operatives all over the country.
“Then, about three months ago, he decided to change his name on his own. He’d been armed with advance information, told what to invest and where to invest it. So he decided to skip out on us and work for himself. He took the Mariner name, started to dodge around the country. In ninety days he managed to pile up close to five million in cash profits. Then we caught up with him.” Harry rubbed his chin again.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked.
He grinned. “Because I like your face.”
“You’re not going to try to kill me, too,” I said. “You couldn’t get away with that.”
“Certainly not.” He took the gun out of my ribs. “Here, you might as well have this, too.” And he held the weapon out to me.
“But—”
“Go ahead, take it. It isn’t loaded, anyway. Besides, it’s your gun. I found it in your suitcase.”
I blinked. “Why—”
Miss Fairborn smiled at me. “I think I know what Harry has in mind,” she said. “He’s asking you to join us. Aren’t you, dear?”
“That’s right,” Harry said.
“You see,” she said, “now we need someone to take Mr. Mariner’s place. And since you seem to be alone in the world—”
“Exactly.” Harry nodded pleasantly. “An ideal candidate.”
“What if I don’t like the idea?” I asked.
“Nonsense! That’s why you followed Mr. Mariner, wasn’t it?” Miss Fairborn said. “Because you wanted to make millions. That’s been your big dream for a long time, hasn’t it? Well, this is an opportunity to make your dream come true. From now on you’ll be doing just that. You’ll go from city to city—under a variety of names, of course—and you’ll invest a fortune in securities. By the time the first year is ended you’ll probably take in more cash than anyone else in the market today. What more could you ask from life?”
“But I won’t be allowed to keep it. And I’ll have to live under cover, in hotels, with people like you spying on me night and day, watching every move I make.”
“The penalty of wealth,” Miss Fairborn said.
“I won’t have anything, not even a name. Nobody will know me, or even remember me after you’ve erased their memories.”
“But think of the romance of being a man of mystery.”
“I am thinking of it,” I said. “And I don’t like it. I don’t like your proposition, and I don’t like you. What’s there to prevent me from just walking out of here, going to the police, and telling them your whole story? For that matter, I can probably get them to find Mariner’s body.”
“Probably,” said Harry. “Suit yourself. But if you change your mind within the next hour, come on back. We’ll be waiting right here for you.”
“I won’t be back,” I told him, opening the door.
“Yes you will,” Miss Fairborn called after me. “This is what you’ve always wanted. I’m sure you’ll see it our way.”
But, as I walked down the hall to my room, I didn’t see it their way. I didn’t understand it at all. They admitted murdering Mariner and they could have murdered me, too, just to be on the safe side. If their story was true, it would be worth the extra risk. Instead, they offered me this fantastic proposition—this living death. Why?
I didn’t see it. Not until I was actually back in my room, not until I walked into the bathroom and saw him lying there in the tub, with a bullet in his forehead. The pillow through which it had been fired lay on the floor next to the tub. They’d thought of everything. The pillow had muffled the sound of the shot. And that’s why Harry had come to my room. He’d murdered Mariner with my gun. No wonder he’d given it back to me!
Yes, I saw it now. The corpse was in my room, the fingerprints were on my gun. I’d been looking for Mariner, told everyone about him. Running away wouldn’t help. If I wanted to get out of this, I’d have to rely on them. And that meant taking Mariner’s place.
Only knowing what I did about the Syndicate, I’d never be able to try what Mariner had tried. I’d never get up enough nerve to run away and attempt to make money on my own. I’d just go on stooging forever—or until they decided they’d had enough.
I thought about it for the full hour. But long before the hour was up, I’d made my decision.
Finally, I walked back to their room and knocked on the door.
Miss Fairborn opened it. Her big eyes wide and luminous in welcome.
“All right,” I said. “You win. But get me out of here, fast. I can’t stand that body in there—”
She smiled. “Certainly. We’ve contacted our superiors and all arrangements have been made for you. Just check out of your room and stop worrying. Now, here’re your orders . . .”
That was three weeks ago. Since then I’ve been to Detroit and Dallas and now I’m on my way to Kansas City. They gave me a new name—Lloyd Jones—and credentials to match. Everywhere I go, I am met by contacts who give me instructions. I make the investments and I sit in my hotel room. I can see where it’s going to be an endless, monotonous grind.
But I can stand that part of it. It’s just that lately, something else had started to worry me.
You see, I remember how I got on the trail of Mr. Mariner. I was ambitious; I wanted to find a man who had the secret of playing the market. So I looked around, and finally I found him. As a result, I was responsible for his death. At the very least, precipitated it.
No, it isn’t my conscience that’s bothering me.
It’s this.
Somewhere, someplace, there must be others like myself—little guys with big ideas. And somewhere, sooner or later, another man is going to start looking for a fabulous character who seems to have the golden touch. He’s going to run across my name, and he’s going to make up his mind, like I did.
And then he’ll start searching.
If he finds me—well, I remember only too well what happened to Mariner.
There’s no sense trying to run; I’m trapped in my new identity. I can only wait. And, meanwhile, I’ll keep on making millions. Doing what I always wanted to do—make a killing in the market.
But the next victim might very well be me.
The New Season
Harry Hoaker stood waiting in the wings as the lights dimmed.
Stereo sounded the familiar theme, a spot hit the announcer at stage left and framed his jolly jowly face in a golden halo. The announcer was fat, because fat men are funny.
“Hello, Harry,” the announcer said, punching up the final syllables of each word so that the greeting came out as “Helloooo, Harreeee!” That was funny too.
Brasses blared, blending with applause. The spotlight swept to the right and Harry came on, moving to center stage as the applause rose to a roar.
That used to be the hard part for him, waiting out the surge of sound until it died away and left him standing there in the hushed, expectant silence. Now it was just routine, automatic, mechanical.
Harry blanked-out the thought, glancing forward as the arcs blazed up overhead, illuminating the set but blotting out his view of the audience.
“I know you’re out there—I can hear you breathing.” He remembered using the old line when the gags were bombing. And they bombed plenty, it was like an instant replay of Pearl Harbor, back in the early days.
But tonight was the start of a new season, and as Harry acknowledged the applause he did a little instant replay of his own. In the eyes of the audience he’d come center-stage in ten seconds, but Harry knew different—it had taken him twenty years to get there.
That’s when the waiting was really rough, twenty years ago, standing there with the funny hat and the baggy trousers he wore for the kiddie show. Clawing his way out of the Saturday morning ghetto took three years, and then all he got was an afternoon slot across the board on a game show. It was a grind, working with squealing housewives who wet their pants over hard questions like “Which ruler of England was known as the Virgin Queen? I’ll give you a hint—it wasn’t Elizabeth Taylor.” But Harry played it smart, bringing in a couple of writers on his own to get some decent material, and it paid off. When the net decided to put someone up against Johnny Carson on a late-night talk show, Harry’s agent pitched him for the host spot and he got the bid.
At first he’d been scared spitless, but the agent gave him the word. “Not to worry, kid, there’s enough insomniacs and night-people out there to fatten your ratings. All you got to do is stick to the system.”
His advice worked, and so did Harry, those first few years. He worked the writers, squeezing them dry after a season or two, then picking fresh replacements. They left him a legacy of skits and schticks that locked into a format. The viewers ate it up and he ate up his guests—chewed them up, spit them out. A whole staff of savvy programmers furnished him with current celebrities—everyone who had a new show on the network and everyone under contract who didn’t have a show but needed the exposure. The mix was sweetened by bankable stars plugging their forthcoming films, Top Ten singers pitching new recordings, old-timers pushing autobiographies, even a few real writers who came in handy as fillers when he needed somebody to bounce off a laugh. It was a system, that’s for sure, and it played.
Now the writing staff stood at seven and Harry didn’t even have to waste time with them on gag-sessions or even check a script—everything was up there on the crawl and all he had to do was read it off. If a joke died it could still be edited-out before the tape aired later that night.
Over the years he’d made it still easier on himself, cutting down from five shows a week to three, using “guest hosts” to fill in—people who were good, but not too good. It helped, and so did those long months of summer reruns every year. Sometimes he got static for his absences, critics said he was getting lazy and temperamental, but Harry didn’t care as long as they never guessed the real reason.
They didn’t know he was sick.
For a long while he didn’t even know it himself, because the booze and the pills kept him going. Then, a couple of seasons back, he flunked his physical.
It wasn’t AIDS, they told him, but it might be what they called a mutation of the virus. The bottom line was that the name didn’t matter; he had it, and it had him.
They tried new pills and he kept going until the weight-loss. Then they put hi
m on cobalt; his hair fell out but he wore a rug and nobody noticed. Finally the cobalt stopped working and he stopped working too, just before summer reruns began last year, and that gave him three months for the first bypass and recuperation.
Harry felt okay again by fall, but somewhere along the line—January, February, he wasn’t sure exactly when—things came unglued and they were talking transplants. The rest of the season was just a blur, one week up, one week down, popping new pills, taking new tests, trying new treatments, living from showtime to showtime, hanging in there until the summer hiatus. Then they went to work. All the jazz he’d heard about but paid no attention to over the years—skin-grafts, amputations, prosthesis—became realities. But not too real, because they kept him under with shots and injections while they experimented with radical techniques. He couldn’t remember everything they did, but now he was functioning again. A medical miracle, that’s what the doctors called it, and on top of the bundle he laid out for their fees he had to fork over another bundle to keep their silence.
Harry faced silence now as the applause faded. He forced a grin and faced the crawl, going into his opening monologue without a hitch. He didn’t get the point of some of the gags because they were topical and he’d been out of touch. But the crawl even cued him for pauses, and whenever he paused the laughs came.
A new season, but the same old system, plus more gimmicks—computer-selection of material to make sure it was trendy, in-depth demographic analysis to choose the right ticket-seekers for an audience. The production people knew what to do and how to do it, control the ratings, hook the viewers. It was a far cry from the days when Steve Allen pioneered talk shows on live camera with no chance to cover bloopers.
Harry squeezed off another gag, waited for his laugh, hit the topper, milked it with a double-take. Easy.
