by S. T. Joshi
“Be assured,” Sanderson said. “I have no desire to persuade you to do or not to do anything. Your wishes are your own; I am entirely at your service to fulfill them.”
He got up and began to pace about, slowly.
“You realize, of course, that what we are about to do is, to be blunt, contrary to the laws of this nation? And you do realize that it is I who will absorb all the risks involved in this...operation? It is, indeed, quite possible that, if detected, I could receive the harshest penalty that our system of justice has in its arsenal....”
It was now my turn to be angry. “Sanderson, if you’re worried about your money, I have it right here.” I began to reach for the briefcase I had brought with me, but once again that hand of his restrained me. He wore a look of contempt on his face.
“I am not concerned about the money. I am aware that you have brought the money. Frankly, I would do this for no money, as a human service.”
He sat down again at his desk.
“My concern, Mr. Vance”—he looked directly at me with a gaze that made me feel queerly humiliated—“is that you have no second thoughts about this procedure. Pardon me for saying so, but it is not possible for Mrs. Vance to have any second thoughts in the matter. But you...”
“I don’t like what we’re doing,” I said harshly, heedless of what effect my words might have on Katharine, “but if it’s what my wife wants, then that’s all that matters.”
“Very admirable of you.” I couldn’t tell if there was sarcasm in his voice. “But time has a way of affecting one’s feelings. So I trust you will not object to signing this.”
He wheeled the clipboard around and thrust it at me.
“What is this?” I said.
“Merely a statement that you have participated in this affair. By signing it you make yourself…I believe the legal term is accessory. In this case, an accessory before the fact. You should be aware that in some cases the punishment for that is as severe as for….” He did not need to complete the sentence.
For some reason I had not expected this. Apparently Katharine had, for she was not looking shocked or surprised in the least, but instead was merely sitting calmly with hands folded and eyes fixed on a blank spot on the desk in front of her.
I became agitated—almost leaped from my chair. “What...what will you do with that paper if I sign it?”
Dr. Sanderson looked up at me as if I were a foolish schoolboy. “Why, nothing, Mr. Vance...assuming that you say or do nothing in the future about this business. Surely you understand that if I were to implicate you, I would be implicating myself. Quite frankly, I would have preferred working with Mrs. Vance alone, but since you insisted on coming, I have to...protect myself.”
“How do I know you won’t keep extorting more money from me to keep quiet about this?” I said, hotly. “This sounds like a pretty neat scheme for perpetual blackmail.”
Again those green eyes blazed at me, but now they seemed colder, filled with scorn and derision. But his tone of voice didn’t waver—it remained uncannily calm and even gentle.
“If you do not wish to accept my word as a gentleman and a scientist that nothing of the sort will happen, you can perhaps take comfort in the fact that, if I may use a vulgar locution, we each have the other over a barrel. You could blackmail me just as easily as I could blackmail you.”
I sat back down, grabbing the edge of the desk.
“Yes...yes, I see.” I picked up the clipboard, scanned the paper. It had very little writing on it.
Sanderson handed me a pen. I took it, signed two copies of the document, thrust one copy back at him, and stuffed the other in my coat pocket.
With a curt “Thank you” he put the sheet of paper back in his desk. Then he turned to Katharine:
“My dear Mrs. Vance, there is a similar form that I should like to have you sign.” He edged the clipboard in her direction; there was another sheet of paper on it. “I fear that your consenting to this act is no legal defense for what our society considers to be the crime we are committing, but it may be of some minimal help in the event of...untoward developments.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, eagerly taking the pen and signing the document with hardly more than a glance at it. There was, clearly, no need for her to sign in duplicate.
“Very well.” Sanderson got up. “I shall see you again tomorrow, at this same time.” He turned to leave.
Katharine looked as if someone had slapped her face. “But...Dr. Sanderson! I thought...we would....”
Sanderson turned around slowly. “You thought it would be today? Why, no. I think you need a day to contemplate matters—perhaps to take care of any final details. One more day of life will not hurt you.”
If his smile had been a fraction of an inch longer than it was, I would have thought he was indulging in some kind of fiendish mockery. As it was, it was difficult to think of him as meaning anything but what he said.
He left the room by a door opposite from the one we had entered. I felt a sense of utter emptiness, of unreality. I haven’t any idea what Katharine was feeling: disappointment, frustration, regret, panic, confusion? All these things seemed registered on her face, none overmastering the others. All we could do was get up and look about in a daze.
Bullet Head was still in the room—he had been behind us, standing at attention, the entire time. Now he held out the two black silk blindfolds in each hand. He didn’t need to speak; we put them on.
* * * *
I can’t even begin to describe to you what that last night was like. After her initial disappointment, Katharine regained her horrible cheerfulness, knowing that tomorrow would be the end she had longed for. Perhaps the reality of the thing was sinking into me, for I made little effort to dissuade her or even to talk about the matter. It seemed pointless. I still held out a hope that she would pull back at the last moment, but I think I knew in my heart that she wouldn’t.
My only recollections of that evening are disconnected fragments: a Broadway show...Katharine pulling my arm to lead me into some shop full of stuffed animals...a ride on a horse-drawn carriage in Central Park, just as if we were ordinary tourists...steaming hot chocolate in a café somewhere, as the night was getting chilly...Katharine giddy with some appalling excitement...laughing gaily over nothing, whirling herself on the sidewalk like a top, tossing herself joyfully on the bed in our hotel room, finally overcome with exhaustion....
It was almost too much for me. All evening a kind of lead weight had been growing in my stomach, so that I could hardly eat, talk, or even look at her toward the end. It seemed so utterly futile to discuss the matter with her: her mind seemed so completely made up—I knew she wouldn’t be so deucedly happy if it weren’t. Anyway, it seemed a shame to spoil her evening by bringing up anything unpleasant.
Would she pull back at the last moment—the very moment when she knew her action was irrevocable, inevitable, and utterly final? It was all I could hope for.
In a whirl the morning passed—a lavish room-service breakfast, scarcely touched by me but attacked with relish by Katharine...a stroll in Madison Square Park, Katharine taking particular interest in a squirrel that approached her hesitantly and, with a sudden dart, snatched the acorn she held out smilingly...back to the hotel and a light luncheon, Katharine showing no sign that it was to be her last....
Bullet Head was on time, as I could have predicted. A repeat of the blindfolds, the circuitous drive, the tramp up concrete steps, and the stark white room again.
This time Dr. Sanderson led us without delay through a door at the back of the room and into a much larger space—an elegantly furnished room with dark wooden paneling on the walls, a thick shag carpet on the floor, and several doors, unmarked and leading who knows where. He steered us to one of the several couches in the room, and we sat—I dropping heavily on to it, Katharine barely able to restrain herself and sitting at the very edge. Sanderson sat on a couch facing us.
He did not waste time.
I think the “we” confused her for a moment—perhaps she envisaged some kind of collective suicide. But she shook off her doubt.
“Yes, of course.”
“You have no second thoughts?”
“None, doctor. Absolutely none.”
“You are completely resolved in this action? You are at peace with your decision?”
“Yes!” There was more than a little impatience in her voice. Then a slight furrow on her brow.
“Well, there’s only one thing.... You haven’t told me—us”—a quick, harried glance in my direction—“what exactly is involved in the...procedure. Exactly what will you do...?”
Sanderson held up a hand in his habitual gesture to enjoin silence, although in fact Katharine did not seem inclined to say anything more.
“It is better that you not know.” He glanced at me also, suggesting that his comment applied to me as well. “Rest assured that there will be no pain. That is exactly why I am here. Believe me—no pain.”
Katharine actually beamed. “Oh, I believe you, doctor! I do!”
It sounded like some unholy marriage vow.
Sanderson got up. “Very well,” he said heavily. “I think it is time.”
All of a sudden I felt horribly dizzy, as if I were teetering on the edge of a cliff. My last hope—that the finality of the thing would cause Katharine to recoil—was dashed. I was in a panic—I felt like shrieking, I wanted to grab Katharine, even against her will, and flee this loathsome place, to stamp on Sanderson’s seamed, placid face until it was a mass of broken bones and flesh....
But all I did was to croak feebly, “Katharine....”
She held up a hand just as Sanderson had done.
“No, Arthur. It’s too late. I have decided. This is what I want.” Her expression was neither cheerful nor sad, neither excited nor calm. Instead, it was utterly blank. She could have been a corpse already.
She gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. That was all.
Sanderson led her away through one of the doors—I hardly knew which one. Instinctively I reached for her, but Bullet Head—unobtrusively standing behind us, as always—suddenly came forward and grabbed my arm; not violently, but firmly.
I gave up. I knew it was hopeless now. I merely sat down on the couch, my face in my hands.
I have no idea how many minutes passed before I heard a door opening. It was Sanderson. His expression was as placid as ever; it was as if nothing had happened.
I looked up at him, a mute inquiry on my face.
He merely said: “It is over.”
I didn’t know what to do or say. Should I rave like a maniac or walk calmly out of the place? Should I throttle him, or shake his hand? I’m not sure that what I had actually done—what I had been a party to—had fully sunk into my consciousness. The room began to spin again, and the doctor in his white suit looked like some spectre bent on haunting me the rest of my days.
“What...what did you do?” I said weakly.
He merely looked at me with a mildly irritated expression, but said nothing. I had forgotten: it was better that I not know.
“Do you think...I can see her?” I stammered.
His eyes flickered for a moment. “I do not think that is wise.”
I almost leaped from the couch. “But I have to see her! Just one last time! Surely that’s not too much to ask....”
Sanderson seemed a bit agitated, even alarmed, at my outburst. That hand went up again.
“Very well, Mr. Vance. But I warn you that such an experience is usually very painful to the...survivors. Please take care.”
I nodded dumbly, and followed him through a door. There, on what appeared to be a wheeled hospital bed—the only object of furniture in the small room—was Katharine. A sheet covered everything but her face.
I went over to her. I wondered whether I should touch her—whether Sanderson would chide me, or even physically prevent me from so doing, or whether I could endure the horror of it. I gently reached out and brushed her cheek with my fingers. It was already cold.
With a strangled cry I wheeled around, no longer able to stand any of this—my dead wife, the placid Sanderson, the antiseptic surroundings, the bullet-headed factotum.... Then I turned back, gazed for what seemed to be minutes at Katharine’s face, hoping against hope to see some faint trace of animation—the flicker of an eyelid, the rise and fall of her chest, the return of color to her cheeks...but there was nothing.
Very quietly, very gently, I bent down and pressed my warm lips against her cold ones. They yielded, softly, as dough yields when pressed by a thumb. There was no response.
CHAPTER SIX
By this time Vance and I were almost finished with a meal at Delmonico’s. Evidently his lofty social status was a sufficient cover for my lack of proper evening dress. I’ll admit this was one of the better meals I’ve had lately. Vance didn’t eat much—was too busy talking—but I didn’t follow his example, either in the eating or in the talking.
He was scowling down at his dessert and coffee, as if one or the other contained some blemish that offended his sense of decorum. I saw no problem with what was in front of me. But when Vance continued silent, I felt I had to say something.
“If you want to rest a while and take up your story later….”
“No!” It could have been Bullet Head speaking. “No...just let me think a bit. I want to finish.”
For once I wished one of my clients actually did smoke—it might calm him. Instead, he shot a hand through his hair, swallowed a large mouthful of scalding coffee without apparently tasting it, and went on:
“You can’t imagine what sort of complications this whole business created. First of all, of course, there was the matter of what to do with...with the....”
“The body?” I supplied.
Vance glared at me. “Yes,” he said heavily, turning away from me. “Although I should have known that Sanderson had that all taken care of. When I asked him, all he said was, ‘I will deal with it,’ in that bland, toneless voice of his. I suppose he must have had some means....” The memory of it caused Vance’s face to writhe in pain. “God, I can’t even bear to think of it! Heaven only knows what he did....
“Anyway, that was by no means the end of it. Naturally, we hadn’t told our families what we were doing—and the explanations were... well, shall we say, they weren’t very convincing. It would positively have killed Katharine’s mother if she ever found out—a husband already dead by suicide, and now a daughter.... No, it would have been too much. She herself might have....”
Vance swallowed hard, put the thought out of his mind, and proceeded.
“All I said, when I got back to San Marino, was that Katharine and I had had a big fight and she had left me—gone off on her own. I also had to say that she felt some deep resentment against my family, and that’s why we shouldn’t expect her to write to any of us.... In a way that wasn’t much of a lie: I wouldn’t say she resented my family’s wealth and standing so much as that she was constantly having to face the fact that we still had wealth and standing whereas her own family didn’t. I think it made her feel rather like chattel when she married me.... Well, that’s of no importance now.
“How to explain why she didn’t write to her own mother was the difficulty. She had been very close to her father, and took his death hard, but she also loved her mother deeply; and it wounded Mrs. Hawley terribly that she wasn’t receiving any messages from her daughter. In fact, she spent quite a bit of money hiring some private eye here in New York to look for Katharine, but of course he found nothing—not the faintest trace of a lead.”
“Do you mind my asking,” I said, “how much Sanderson charged for his...services?”
Vance looked blankly at me and said: “One hundred thousand dollars.”
My coughing fit lasted for several minutes.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Vance continu
ed after he was sure I had regained control of myself. “I was a sucker. But he was right about one thing: he really was taking a big risk doing what he was doing...assuming he actually did do it.... I mean, what he did was murder, isn’t it? Helping a person commit suicide is murder, right?”
“Yes,” I said. “Legally, anyway.”
“What do you mean by that?” Vance said sharply.
“Nothing.... I only meant that the law regards it as murder, and Sanderson could conceivably be sent to the chair. My own views on the matter aren’t important.”
Vance continued to peer at me, as though he might ferret out some nugget of information from my face, but finally gave it up.
“Anyway, that’s what I gave him. That was the deal. And he made me sign that paper so that I wouldn’t go to the police—because then he could involve me in the matter.” Vance took another swig of coffee. It wasn’t hot any more.
I scratched my head. “Mr. Vance, your story is very peculiar, and very touching also.” I meant that honestly—wasn’t being snide. “But what exactly do you want me to do? You sounded pretty sure, when you saw your wife lying there on that bed in Sanderson’s office, or whatever it was, that she was...well, that she was dead.”
“I know that.” Vance looked around the room, for no apparent reason. “But maybe it was a trick! I’m sure now that it was a trick!”
“Why?”
That brought him up short. “What do you mean, why?”
“Why do you think it was a trick?”—patiently.
“Because of this!” And he brought out his clipping from the Herald-Tribune.
I glanced at it, then looked back at him. “You think this...this Elena Cavalieri...is your wife.” It was a statement, not a question.
“I don’t think so! I mean, I do, but I’m not the only one! Don’t you see?” He was almost enraged with frustration: by the way he was looking at me, I must have been the world’s prize moron. “This was sent to me by my friend, Gene Merriwether. He works on the Herald-Tribune. We go back a long way...our families know each other, and he and I went to Berkeley together...in fact, he must have met Katharine then also, although she was a freshman and we were seniors.... Anyway, he came east to pursue a career in journalism, but so far he’s been stuck doing the society columns. Since he’s California blue-blood, I guess his paper thinks he knows something about the Four Hundred....”
