Heed the Thunder

by Jim Thompson

  Courtland entered the elevator. A moment later he stepped off into an enclosed corridor which had been turned into a reception room. A trim receptionist arose from the desk and greeted him.

  “Mr. Courtland? If you’ll go right through that door please.”

  He entered the door indicated and was taken in charge by a pretty white-clad nurse who led him down a narrow aseptic-smelling hall to another room. It overlooked the street, and had little furniture aside from a metal-and-leather reclining table.

  “Please remove your coat and shirt and lie down,” she directed crisply. Then she left him.

  Courtland smiled, ruefully, as he removed the garments and lay down on the table. All this show; it would cost something. But what did it matter?

  The door banged open, and he looked up into the face of a ruddy giant of a man of about sixty. Except for his doctor’s white smock and his indefinable air of breeding, he might have been taken for a blacksmith or a bartender.

  “I’m McClintic,” he boomed. “Now, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Well, I don’t really know, Doctor—”

  “You don’t know?” McClintic winked at the room at large. “How the devil do you expect me to know, then?”

  Courtland smiled, cheered by the big man’s attitude. He started to explain that he did certain unaccountable things, at times, when he had been drinking.

  “What sort of things?”

  “Well, yesterday I insulted a man whom actually I like very much. And the funny part about it is, I’d had very few drinks at the time. I can’t understand—”

  “Wait a minute!” McClintic interrupted as the door opened. “Tower, what do you think of this gentleman? He says he does peculiar things when he’s been drinking. Never heard of anything like that before, did you?” He winked again.

  “Very odd,” agreed Dr. Tower, coming over to the table.

  He was the antithesis of McClintic in almost every way. He was thin, short, and so pale that his skin seemed almost transparent. His eyes, behind their thick-rimmed glasses, were like two fat gray bugs.

  “Why do you keep rubbing your chest?” he asked in a dry, quiet voice.

  “Now that’s something else I was going to ask about,” said Courtland. “You see—”

  He broke off as Tower unbuttoned his underwear and exposed his chest. Both doctors bent over him.

  “How long have you had that rash?”

  “Well, it comes and goes. I’ve had it this time for three or four months.”

  “Ever had it on any other part of your body?” It was McClintic.

  “Yes, I’ve had it in several different places.”

  “When did you first notice it? That is, when did it first appear at any place on your body?”

  Courtland hesitated.

  “Just approximately.”

  “Well,” said the Englishman, “six or seven years ago, at least.”

  The doctors straightened. Courtland could not be sure, but he felt that they had exchanged glances. He could not be sure, but somehow he knew that they had nodded to each other.

  “Is—is something seriously wrong?” he said anxiously.

  “Now you just mind your own business,” said McClintic bluffly. “We’ll take care of you.”

  He adjusted the metal reflector on his forehead and bent over the Englishman. He drew back first one lid, then another, and stared into Courtland’s eyes. He jerked his head at his partner, and Tower repeated the process.

  And when they stood back that time, there was no doubt about their nodding.

  “I’m going to have to ask you a personal question or two, old man,” said McClintic.

  “That’s all right.”

  “Did you ever have a sore on your genital organ?”

  “No.”

  “Are you positive?” asked Tower in his dehydrated voice. “Not even a very tiny sore—one the size of a pinhead, say?”

  “Well, I believe I might have, at that. It never bothered me, however.”

  “It disappeared, eh? And then, a few months later, this rash came out. Right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Did you—had you had intercourse a short time before that sore appeared?”

  “What?” Courtland looked at him blankly, not at once understanding the question. “Well, it wasn’t a short time. As I remember, it was thirty days or so.”

  McClintic chuckled beefily. “Thirty days is pretty short in a lifetime, young man.…Well, what do you think, Doctor?”

  Tower shrugged.

  “Want to try a Wassermann?”

  “I see little point in it. The reaction could very easily be negative after such a long period.”

  “You don’t think we might discover something from the spinal fluid?”

  “A great deal, I imagine,” said Tower dryly; and McClintic seemed to suppress a guffaw.

  Tower scrubbed his hands and left the room, not to return again in Courtland’s presence. The big doctor looked at Courtland thoughtfully and shook his head. And the air of the room suddenly seemed stifling to the Englishman.

  “Is it something serious?” he asked.

  McClintic made no answer. Stepping around to the end of the table, he slid his hand under the back of Courtland’s head.

  “Married, Mr. Courtland?”

  “No.”

  “That’s good. Very good.”

  “I am married,” said Courtland, abruptly. “Is there anything—”

  “No children?”

  “No.”

  “Well, that’s good, at least. Are you pretty well fixed, financially?”

  “Quite.”

  “That’s good, too. Can you feel my fingers there—do you know what part of the brain that is?”

  “I used to, but I don’t any more.”

  “That’s the cerebellum. It’s the co-ordinating or inhibiting center for the cerebrum and medulla oblongata. To oversimplify, it keeps the other brains on the right track—stops ’em from making damned fools of themselves.”

  “I see.”

  “I don’t believe I’d drink any more if I were you, Mr. Courtland. You need to have that little hinder brain in as good working order as possible. What there is left of it.”

  Courtland sat up with a cry. “What there is left of it! What do you mean?”

  “I’m sorry. You have syphilis of the brain.”

  The Englishman swayed dizzily. The room seemed to spin. Gamely, he gripped the edge of the table, biting his lip to hold his consciousness. He opened his eyes again, managed a smile, and slid off the table to his feet.

  “Thank you very much, Doctor. If you’ll tell me what I owe you…?”

  “Nothing. No, I mean it. There’s nothing we can do for you.”

  “There’s no medicine or treatment of any kind—”

  “Not at this stage of the game. If we had caught it, say, six months after the infection, but now—” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “It’s this damned hush-hush about things of this kind that’s responsible. Sometimes I think the whole bleeding American public would rather die of gonorrhea than say it. They don’t know the symptoms of these diseases. They don’t seem to want to know. Consequently, our cemeteries and madhouses are—” He broke off abruptly, his good-natured face apologetic. “I’m sorry, Courtland.”

  “That’s quite all right,” the Englishman nodded.

  …Probably because he had suspected something of the kind all along, there was no shock-reaction after the doctor’s first brutal statement. There was not even a great amount of fear. His principal emotions were regret for what he had done to Myrtle, and gratitude that he could leave her well provided for, when the inevitable end came.

  He spent the day in selecting some earrings and a bracelet for her, and in buying a few accessories for himself. He also opened accounts in two banks, depositing the bulk of his money. The following morning he caught the train for Verdon.

  Fifteen minutes before the train pulled into the to
wn, he took the single half-pint of whisky from his grip and drank it. He knew what effect it would have on him. He needed it for what he had to do.

  …Bella, her eyes suspicious, admitted him to the banker’s house. Without acknowledging her greeting, which was by no means friendly, Courtland shoved past her and entered the dining room.

  Supper was on the table, and Barkley arose with his napkin still stuck under his chin. A fixed, paternal scowl was on his face, and he waved his fork at Courtland before the latter was well into the room.

  “Now, see here, Alf, you’ve got a lot of explaining to do. Some fellows called me up from Grand Island and wanted to know if that was your money, and I said it was, and—”

  “It is. I’m going to keep it, you know.”

  Barkley waved his hand impatiently. “Now, Alf. This is no time for kidding. I want to know how you made out on those trades, and then you better explain—”

  “I didn’t make any trades. I told you: I’m keeping the money for myself.”

  “What?” The banker sank down into his chair. “What are you talking about, Alf? You can’t keep that money.”

  “What’s to prevent me?” said Courtland coolly. “It’s simply a breach of trust.”

  “But—but, Alf, it’s my money.”

  “It was, Bark.”

  “What’s this all about, Father?” Bella swept over to her father’s side, keeping her burning gaze fixed upon Courtland. “Did he steal some money from you?”

  Barkley nodded brokenly. “Twenty-five thousand dollars.”

  “Twenty-five—!” The girl gasped. Even with her limited knowledge of finances, she knew just about what that sum represented—that it would be practically their all. “You give it back, you hear? I—we need our money! I’ll make you give it back!”

  Courtland watched her approach, a cold, unpleasant smile on his lips. Dispassionately, he thought that he had never seen her more beautiful. Her eyes were great black burning pools. Her face was the color of rich cream on which rose petals have been floated. Above her daringly low camisole her full breasts were half exposed from the heaving of her passion.

  “You give it back!” she repeated.

  “I’ll suggest,” he said, “a way for you to earn it back.”

  She gasped. “Why—you—you—”

  Furiously she started to fling herself upon him. But something in his manner—the way he rocked nonchalantly on the balls of his feet, his smile, his eyes—something brought her up short: the knowledge that he would strike her and enjoy doing it.

  She fell back, her hand to her mouth. And Barkley watched the silent interchange stupidly, not catching its significance, his mind filled only with the thought of his lost fortune. For he knew, now, that it was lost.

  “What—what will I do?” he stammered, his voice filled with self-pity. “What will people think?”

  “They won’t need to know,” said Courtland. “I’ll say that I inherited some money; they’ll believe that. And you’ve been in harness so long no one’ll see anything odd about your retiring. I’ll pay you for your fixtures and take care of your bills due. I know you’re not completely flat. What the devil? You have your home here. You can go into some small business later on. If you’d lived as I have these past eight years, you’d consider yourself mighty well off.”

  The dull coals of Barkley’s anger suddenly burst into flame. With an oath, he lurched from his chair, jerked open the doors of the utility cupboard and drew out a shotgun. He leveled its two barrels at his clerk and snapped back the twin hammers.

  “Goddam you, Alf! Hand over that money.”

  “The money’s in Omaha, Bark. Banked.”

  “Then you’ll write me a check for it. I’ll have it certified before—”

  “No,” said Courtland.

  “You’ll do it or I’ll kill you!”

  “I won’t do it. Go ahead and kill me if you like.”

  Courtland laughed pleasantly and began drawing on his gloves. He looked at Bella and winked. And the banker’s finger tightened around the triggers of the gun.

  “I ain’t kidding with you, Alf. I mean to have that money.”

  “Or my life,” nodded Courtland. “Well, you don’t get the money so you may as well start shooting.”

  “I mean it!” persisted Barkley.

  “So do I mean what I say. I’m not going to give you back the money. If you want to kill me, go ahead. I can’t say that I blame you in the least.”

  The shotgun wavered. Slowly the barrels drooped.

  The banker brushed his brow with his hand.

  “Alf,” he stammered, piteously, “what’s come over you, anyway? Are you sick, man?”

  “You might put it that way.”

  “Give me the money, Alf. Just sign it back to me, and we’ll forget all—”

  “No.”

  Barkley stared at him perplexed. He opened his mouth to speak and his voice choked with the mingled impulses of threats and pleadings. He sagged back down in his chair, his mouth hanging open childishly.

  “You!” said Bella.

  And Courtland turned to her. “Yes? You had something to say?”

  “Never mind,” she said sullenly.

  Courtland looked from her to Barkley. He laughed. Abruptly he turned his back on them and walked out.

  …Myrtle Courtland saw him coming across lots. But she did not, of course, do anything so unladylike as to go forth and meet him. She waited until he had gained the porch; then, with a theatrical gesture, she flung open the screen and extended her arm, allowing one formal hand to dangle in front of him.

  He laughed.

  He shoved past her.

  Puzzled, Myrtle let the screen close, and, as an afterthought, she closed the door.

  Courtland was standing in the center of the shabby room, his hands on his hips, smiling strangely. A little timidly she took a step toward him.

  “I’m so glad you’re back, my dear.”

  “What have you got that lace around your neck for? Don’t you suppose everyone knows you trimmed it off your underskirt?”

  “Oh,” breathed Myrtle. “Oh, Alfred!”

  “Well, go on. Why don’t you offer me some tea? Don’t tell me you haven’t a gallon or so made?”

  Myrtle’s lip quivered. “I’ll—I’ll get it right away, Alf—”

  Suddenly he was shouting. “Goddam you and your tea! D’you think I want to bathe in it? You with your airs, you tupenny swell! You’re a cow! A goddamned long-necked cow! You belong in a pasture where you’d have enough room to prance around with your skinny ass…”

  He raved on, reviling her. And the tears that had been in Myrtle’s eyes went away. And her lips stopped their trembling, and her shoulders straightened. And she seemed to grow taller. He stopped, at last, and his body sagged; and then he was hugging her knees, sobbing wildly; and she was stroking his hair. Stroking it, and staring off into space.

  “It’s all right, dear,” she said, not understanding but knowing. “It’s all right.”

  18

  There was much to gossip about in Verdon that year:

  Alfred Courtland took over the bank, and Philo Barkley began the operation of a small-loan and commission business from his home.

  Jeff Parker sold out to the railroad (there was definite proof, at last).

  Link Fargo had a stroke which laid him up for several months.

  Edie Dillon assumed the proprietorship of the hotel.

  And Grant Fargo went to work on the Verdon Eye.

  Of all the other happenings, this last aroused the most comment. Lincoln Fargo declared that the news had brought on his stroke; and everyone else was moved similarly to a greater or less degree. Every day, at the beginning, parties were made up to go by the dingy windows of the Eye to watch the flash young printer at work; and they walked away, shaking their heads, declaring that the day of miracles had at last arrived. There were some who stopped Grant upon the street, over-riding his peevishness to feel his puls
e and brow, and they feigned astonishment that a man so obviously ill should be up and about. Others insisted that he was not really Grant at all, but a double, and they sternly demanded to know where he had hidden the body.

  Not having the character nor the physical strength to repel the ribbing, Grant endured it. And gradually it subsided.

  Grant had not wanted to go to work, of course. He had that inexplicable fear of employment which a man long out of work acquires. But Bella had been insistent on his doing something, since she could not obtain the expected money from her father, and Bella, insistent, was very hard to deny. Too, by that time, her body had become as necessary to him as food and drink. Yes, even drink.

  So, he had gone to work on the Eye, and time found him not too greatly discontented. The eight dollars a week which he earned was ample for spending money. He had excellent free room and board at home. And he had Bella. He had all the comforts of a wife and none of the disadvantages. It was a pleasant, easy life, and he was prepared to continue it indefinitely.

  Bella, naturally, was not.

  She was beginning to despise Grant, even though she enjoyed their intercourse. Ever frank with herself, she knew that she would enjoy another man—almost any other man—much more. She intended to use him only to get away from the town and establish herself in some large city (she had ideas of becoming an actress). She believed that he was saving his money so that, eventually, they could go away together.

  She had begun to see him openly, once her father had lost the check of money upon her. One evening, after he had finished work, she stopped by the print shop in the big red Chandler and picked him up.

  He was pleased to see her in one way, and not in another. Everyone knew that they were keeping company, but there was no use flaunting the fact. Also, it was his habit to stop by the saloon for a few drinks after his labors—a few for himself and a few for the bartender.

  Nevertheless, he was thrilled as usual to see her. It was early spring, and the top of the car was down, and in her linen duster and white driving veil she was like a picture on a calendar. He put on the other duster which lay on the seat, donned a linen cap with a celluloid visor, and got in at her side.