The Traces of Merrilee

by Herbert Brean

  “Bets, we’ll have lunch at Maxim’s,” said Twit-Twit. “By ourselves. Caviar and Montrachet.”

  “What did I say about clean living?”

  “If you really did it by numerology,” said Tom drowsily, “give me a reading, will you, pretty gypsy? I’m going to play the damned thing again tonight.”

  “I don’t know any more about numerology than you do. I just did it by—by—”

  “Woman’s intuition,” I said. “Or ESP.”

  “I don’t know anything about ESP. And I don’t believe in that, either.”

  “You don’t?” I asked. “Why not?”

  Betsy said, “Here we go.”

  “Do you?”

  I envied Tom his stop at the bar. This had been quite a morning, and I didn’t feel much like a debate. But Twit-Twit now was on one of the few subjects about which I have definite convictions.

  I said, “Yes. I believe in ESP. I don’t see how anyone who evaluates the evidence, even briefly, can do anything else.”

  “You sound half-serious.”

  “I’m more than half. The only difficulty with the concrete evidence proving ESP exists is that it is surrounded by an aura of fakery.”

  “Like what?” said Tom, not opening his eyes, by which I knew he was listening carefully.

  “Like the old commercial spiritualists, who held séances in darkened rooms and levitated tables, or made horns blow, or put you in touch with your dead uncle. Or, in a way, the perfectly decent, wonderfully entertaining stage magician who saws a woman in half and tells you what card you will draw before you draw it—you know he is tricking you, of course, and you enjoy being tricked. ESP has nothing to do with any of these.

  “Nor, for that matter, with the people who make a reputation by claiming and proving that there is no seemingly supranormal effect which they cannot duplicate by artificial means. This leads to a dangerous fallacy, by the way—that any natural phenomenon which can be duplicated synthetically is necessarily fake or nonexistent.

  “It is like arguing that, since man has learned how to make real diamonds in an electric furnace, all the ‘natural’ diamonds found over the centuries are fakes. Or that, since high-fidelity sound reproduction can copy a violin’s tone and timbre so faithfully that it fools even concertmasters, there is no such thing as genuine, live violin music.

  “The fact is that the gift of ESP in some people, not regularly and not throughout their lives, but nonetheless definitely and demonstrably there, has been proven so often and so solidly down at Duke in Dr. Rhine’s parapsychology laboratory that it makes ordinary scientific ‘proofs’ look like kindergarten exercises.”

  “Like for instance?” said Betsy.

  “In many scientific procedures,” I said, “it is accepted that if you run off a hundred tests of a thesis and they come out okay, you can consider your case proven.”

  “Well, okay. So what?”

  “Take an applicant for an M.A degree, especially in the physical sciences. Say it’s chemistry. He repeats his experiments, based on his thesis, a hundred times. It works ninety-eight times out of the hundred. That’s good enough. Now he writes it all out, and that is his M.A paper that earns his degree. He has proved that when you do so-and-so, as in his experiment, it works.”

  “What about the two times it didn’t work?” asked Tom.

  “That could well be due to an impure chemical, faulty procedure, a dirty test tube, or whatnot. Ninety-eight times out of one hundred is enough for ordinary scientific proof. Even when you are doing the same simple thing over and over again. But Rhine has had people under the most rigidly controlled conditions call cards correctly to the point where the odds are millions or billions to one against such a possibility. And do it more than once. There was one case of a subject who was tested regularly at Duke and averaged close to ten correct calls out of twenty-five in a card-calling test which extended over two years. On one occasion, he called twenty-five cards in a row. To attribute something like that to mere coincidence is mathematically unthinkable. (As recounted in Dr. J. B. Rhine’s New Frontiers of the Mind, the subject was a young divinity student named Hubert Pearce, and the odds against calling 25 cards correctly in a Zener deck are 298,023,223,876,953,125 to 1. Rhine studied a number of subjects at Duke who could consistently score 8 to 11 “hits” with the Zener deck, which has 25 cards equally divided among 5 different symbols. On the basis of mere chance, a subject might be expected to call 5 cards correctly out of the 25.)

  “Personally I think the occasional ability of some people to demonstrate clairvoyance, telepathy and even precognition beyond a reasonable doubt has been proven. It happens, and maybe oftener than we think.”

  “What about people who have dreams that seem to come true?” said Betsy. “Aren’t they coincidence?”

  “I haven’t been talking about dreams. I’ve been talking about laboratory tests. The dreams are usually set down to coincidence, yes. And I suspect that’s what they often are.”

  “And other times?”

  The hideous pattern of that green face would not leave my imagination. “I don’t know. Sometimes in dreams or visions people see things they could not possibly know about. I don’t know. Let’s get off this.”

  Tom got up. “Okay, swami. Tell me, who’s going to win the opener?”

  “Opener?”

  “The Mets and Dodgers are opening the baseball season this afternoon in Shea Stadium. What’ll be the score?”

  I pulled my blanket over me. “I’m going to sleep and dream it. Ask me at lunch.”

  “Come on, Bets. We’re going to get in on that pool money before the good-money numbers are gone. Let’s leave them here to sleep together. Doesn’t that sound lecherous?”

  “You’re not leaving me,” said Twit-Twit and got up. “I’m going with you,” and “See you,” to me. She was mad about something.

  I pulled the blanket up around my face, closed my eyes and tried to forget everything for a moment.

  I was snapped out of it by, of all things, a perfume.

  At least I think that is what I sensed first. Then I heard a hoarse voice that roused me more because I had heard it recently. It said,

  “...so we can get off Southampton. You know? In three days. I inquire. That is the first—what I mean—port of call.”

  “And then?”

  “Then plane straight back to Hamerica.”

  “What good would that do?”

  The first voice I had not been sure of. The second I recognized from its whispery breathlessness. Not to mention the perfume. I shifted my head farther down under the blanket. “It would get you off the ship. This ocean.”

  “My mother warned me against crossing the water generally. Not against ships. In a plane I’d still cross water.”

  “But it would be over fast, kedves” the maid said. “You wouldn’t be dreading it again forever.”

  There was a silence. A new wave of scent engulfed me momentarily; Merrilee had shifted in her chair. So they had settled in the two deck chairs next to me. I wondered if they had reserved them for the trip as we had ours. It might turn out to be awkward.

  Then she spoke, in a small determined voice.

  “I’m not going to turn around and run. I’m not going back to America. I’m not going to be afraid all my life.”

  “Of course. But just think it over. And take another of your pills. Steward. Steward!”

  But the deck steward, who had brought us bouillon and little sandwiches earlier, was not around.

  “Or would you like a treatment—a quick one?”

  “No. A green pill.”

  “I will get water myself for you.”

  A shadow fell across my chair, and I saw the maid’s shouldery bulk move down the deck.

  I pulled the blanket away. “Hi.”

  “My God. Were you
next to me all the time?”

  “I was napping,” I lied. “Glad to see you out and about.”

  “I thought—we thought—a little air would—”

  “Clear the air. Right.”

  I twisted around. Big steel-rimmed sunglasses, a low-pulled hat, and the blanket made her unrecognizable. It was almost funny, considering who she was and what she was, under the disguise, to glance across the pool at the eager young ladies in sun and swim suits, hoping they looked good.

  “I think everything’s all right,” I said. “Just keep your mouth shut. And especially your maid’s.”

  “Don’t worry about her.”

  “I’m not worrying. No one saw me.”

  “He’s still in the lifeboat?”

  “That’s right. We may all have landed and be off the ship before he’s found.” It was unlikely, of course, and I wondered what the ultimate morality of the thing really was. But in the meantime, she might as well be comfortable. “I doubt if there’s any link at all between him and you. Did you and Jones ever meet on board?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  I’d better warn Newt as soon as possible, I thought, not to make any radiotelephone calls to anyone aboard. “Don’t take any personal phone calls, except from me, until I tell you. And tell your maid.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not sure myself. But I’ll bet I’m right. And that I can explain later.”

  “All right. But I wish you’d not treat me like a complete child. In fact, I’d like to ask you a question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Do you think I have extrasensory perception?”

  I wasn’t going to answer that one truthfully.

  “After this morning?” she insisted.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I told you about my dream before—before we saw him.”

  Yes. If you’re telling the truth.

  “Do you think my mother had it?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t like to keep saying that. But how can I tell?”

  “I think mother did. Klára wants me to go back to the United States.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to go back.”

  “And?”

  “I’m not going. In spite of what happened this morning. I’ve been afraid of too much too long. I want to find things out.”

  “You’re right. So tell me something. Do you think you have ESP powers?”

  “Yes.”

  The whole thing was getting too serious. Far down the deck I saw the maid returning, carefully bearing a little white cup of water.

  “Klára thinks so, too.”

  “Okay,” I grinned. “Who’s going to win the opener today? Come on, princess. Use your powers.”

  She smiled, and in spite of the glasses and the hat and everything else, it was a smile that, had it been around at the time, could have melted the iceberg and saved the Titanic. “You mean the baseball game?”

  “Yes. The Mets and the Dodgers. They play this afternoon. What will the score be?”

  She looked at me oddly, a faraway look. The maid came up.

  “Drink this, kedvesem.” The maid glanced at me as if she had never seen me before.

  Merrilee took the pill and gulped some water.

  “Twenty-one to nineteen,” she said.

  I chuckled. “Better do better than that. This is major-league baseball, not the Little League. Twenty-one to nineteen is a football score.”

  “Thank you, Klára.” She handed the paper cup back to the maid. “And nuts to you.” But she smiled.

  I threw the blanket back and got up. “Sorry. But don’t take too many tranquilizers. There’s a gala tonight, and it would take your mind off your troubles. Mine, too. First dance?”

  “I don’t think I’ll go. After what happened to Sam—I didn’t know him really, of course—but still—and I’m supposed to stay under cover. But thanks anyway. A lot.”

  As I walked toward a change of clothes and (I hoped) an unbelligerent lunch and (I knew) a rewarding drink, I thought to myself. I’d laugh if she turned out to be right about that score. Like hell I’d laugh.

  A hand grabbed my shoulder and I wheeled nervously. “What do you want?”

  It was Tom. He looked a little startled.

  “We were wondering if you fell asleep.”

  “I did.”

  “Everybody’s ready for lunch.”

  “So am I.”

  “You getting a little jumpy?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe I am. You know what? Notice that old dame who was sitting next to you, in sunglasses and so on. I could swear I know her from some place. As if she were somebody else.”

  “Now who’s jumpy?”

  Chapter 8

  Method Actor

  The clangor of alarm bells and a steady blasting of the ship’s whistle sounded abandon ship that afternoon shortly before six bells, if you like nautical parlance. Or about five minutes of three.

  All passengers filed up to the lifeboat stations and made little un-funny jokes and were very amused.

  Everyone except me. For one thing, I wasn’t there, and for another, I was not in a joking mood.

  Since lunch I had been thinking the abandon-ship drill could give me an opportunity, which might not come again, to take a look at Pennypacker’s cabin. His presence on board might be coincidence. He might also be working on something else. There were a million mights. But he might also be the unknown opposition.

  A quick look at what was or was not in his cabin could resolve a lot of questions.

  For, as I thought it over, I’d decided that if I were one who wanted to keep tabs on Merrilee, or scare her out of the trip and out of making the movie, I would want to bug her cabin and thus learn what might pass between her and her maid, or what she might say to visitors or phone callers.

  I’d thought of this during lunch, which was rather quiet, partly because the weather after the morning sunshine appeared to be closing in, and the sea was beginning to heave, making the plates slide on the tables. Pennypacker had looked over as usual and asked how “you boys” were coming along, and we said fine; and then he had looked to the table on his other side and asked how “you girls” were doing, and the three schoolteachers sitting there said they were never better. They looked green. But that was about all the action. Twit-Twit was noticeably cool and seemed to be kicking up a personal storm of her own.

  So, after lunch, I said I wanted a little air and went out on deck by myself and watched the college girls try to play Ping-Pong, despite the pitching, and that is when I made the decision, as well as what plans I could, for getting into the cabin. Just how I’d do it, or even whether I could, I didn’t know; I could hardly hope to get the key again.

  It would also take some nerve.

  I acquired a little with an after-lunch brandy in the smoking room bar and while I sat waiting for the alarm, and arranging my strategy, such as it was, it occurred to me that at some point I had also better search Merrilee’s cabin and see if it was bugged.

  I lingered over the brandy. I wanted to be as late as possible. The pitching was getting stronger, even though the Montmartre is a big ship.

  “Looks like we’ll have weather,” I told the bartender.

  He shrugged a smile. “Sometimes it happens. It is too bad today, because of tonight.”

  “The gala.”

  “Oui, m’sieu. The dinnair. The dancing. It is too bad.”

  “People will still enjoy themselves.”

  “We will be stringing the—how you say?—lines, in another hour I think, m’sieu.”

  He smiled again, but this time only his eyebrows shrugged. He picked up the tip. “Thank you, m’sieu.”

 
I knew what was in his mind. He was not supposed to talk about bad weather, or that there was going to be a storm.

  That is when the alarm bells went off, and the whistle began to hoot. I looked at my watch as though I hadn’t realized how late it was, though I’d been watching the time on the little ship’s clock over the bar.

  “Better get below,” I said, and again sipped the brandy, and put it down as though I couldn’t finish it all at once.

  Of course our steward would presently notice my absence, when the head count was made and, from what I had seen of ships’ drills, would start a check. Let him. That would take time, and all I really needed was a few minutes, given some luck.

  I heard the murmur of conversation as people passed in the corridor outside on the way to their battle stations. The bartender was looking at me, respectfully but in silent warning.

  I drained the cognac. “See you after the riot.”

  I went down the grand staircase, still killing all the time I could, and being bumped by those rushing to or trying to find their emergency stations. Some of them had already put on their bright-yellow life belts, frequently upside-down.

  The clang of bells and the whistle hoots stopped. Suddenly the ship was very quiet and deserted. I found Pennypacker’s corridor, and there was no one in it. Nor were there any keys in doors, or in sight. An officer appeared at the far end of the corridor, and I was inspired. Sometimes inspiration beats luck.

  I quickened my pace and tried to look scared.

  I hurried to Pennypacker’s door and almost beat the officer there. He was bulky in a big yellow life jacket.

  “Pardon, m’sieu,” I said in my superb French. “La—la clef? I—oh, I forget. Pardon, but can you let me in my room? La chambre?” I pointed to the door. “My key—clef—is inside. I need my—” I pointed to his life jacket—”the vest.”

  He looked annoyed, and barked “Hurry, m’sieu.” But he twisted a passkey in the lock and opened the door, without really glancing at me.

  “Merci,” I said.

  I stepped inside fast, and closed the door. Only then did I think to look around and discover if anyone was in the stateroom.

  * * * *

  No one was.