Now You See It . . .

by Richard Matheson

  Oh, now wait a second, my mind protested.

  “Watching him miss verbal clues … visual clues—obvious ones,” she went on. “Watching him bungle hand manipulations he could do in his sleep a few years ago. Flounder through his performance. Flounder, Harry! Him! The Great Delacorte! The most gifted—”

  She began to cry harder.

  If I hadn’t been already speechless, I would have been speechless.

  Could this be true?

  Max floundering? Bungling hand manipulations? Missing clues? My son, Maximilian, The Great Delacorte?

  It had to be impossible. I didn’t think I could endure the pain of it being true.

  Harry obviously felt helpless before her grief. (I felt helpless myself; it seemed so real.) All he could do was pat her clumsily on the back and murmur, “Easy, babe, easy.” “It broke my heart to watch him,” Cassandra said, able to speak once more. She drew in a lengthy, trembling breath, then raised her head and shook it slowly. “Followed by three long months up here, watching him sink a little deeper into despair every day.”

  I felt myself swallow. Max had seemed very gloomy in the past few months. His attentions and words to me had been dispensed with enervated melancholy. I had equated it with his unhappy marriage.

  But his career?

  Now Cassandra clutched at Harry’s arms so tightly that it made him wince.

  “You’re his best friend, Harry,” she told him. (There she lost me.) “You’re his only friend.” (Lost me double!) “If you can’t talk him into this …”

  She sobbed, began to cry again. If it was an act, it was of Tony, Oscar, and Emmy caliber.

  “Easy, babe,” he said. “I think he’s changed his mind, that’s why he asked me here today. It’s gonna work.”

  She looked at him uneasily. “Did he say anything in particular that makes you think that?” she asked.

  “No, but why else would he ask me here?” he counter-questioned. “Like I said, if he wanted to say no, he could have done it on the telephone.”

  “I suppose.” She still didn’t sound convinced.

  “Has he been to a doctor?” Harry asked.

  A doctor, for God’s sake? Now what were they talking about?

  Cassandra’s sigh had been a heavy one. “He won’t go to a doctor,” she said.

  “You think he’s afraid of what he might find out?” Harry asked her.

  She shook her head. “I just don’t know.”

  Harry grimaced. “He’s not that old,” he said. “What, fifty-one?”

  “Fifty-two,” she answered.

  “That’s not old.”

  “His father wasn’t that old either,” said Cassandra.

  That sent a chill right through me, let me tell you. Had Max also suffered a stroke, albeit a mini? Enough to diminish his physical and mental capabilities?

  The thought was shocking to me.

  Cassandra had walked to the picture window and was gazing out. “It’s going to rain,” she murmured. She sighed again and looked toward the desk chair as though Max were sitting there. Another sigh. Moving to the chair, she pushed idly at its high back, making it revolve.

  She then began to pace the room, her expression one of mounting anguish. (I hated the ambivalent emotions she was arousing in me.)

  “I remember every detail of the night I first saw him,” she said. “The Orpheum in London. God, he was magnificent! The most majestic-looking man I ever saw on stage!” Of course, she’d never seen me. “The way he moved. The grace—the flow—the total, overpowering magnetism of him! It was awesome! The audience was his slave. And so was I.”

  She was at the fireplace now, staring into its shadowy depths. She shook her head, a smile of bitter self-reproach on her lips. “But I’m living in the past,” she said. “All I see now is a crumbling edifice. A parody of what he was.” (This was more in keeping with the Cassandra I knew; or, the Cassandra I thought I knew.)

  Harry moved to her and put his arms around her once again. She leaned against him wearily.

  “He’s going to let you do it, babe,” he said.

  “I don’t know that, Harry,” she responded.

  “Babe, he isn’t going to let the whole act die,” he said. “He’s not a stupid man.” (That much Harry had correct at any rate.)

  “I hope so,” Cassandra murmured.

  She straightened up, a look of grim determination on her face.

  “I can do it, Harry,” she declared. “I’ve worked for years! I’m not saying I’m as good as he is.” How modest of her. “But I can do magic. I can do it.”

  “Shh. Babe. Easy.” Harry was patting her back again. “Am I arguing with you? I want to see you make it too; you know that. I want to see you playing the best clubs and theaters in the country—hell, in the world! The first really important female magician!”

  Using the act that I—then Max—developed over the past half-century, I thought, a bile of angry resentment adding my insides.

  “It’s gonna happen, babe,” Harry told her confidently. Bastard, I thought.

  “I can do it, Harry!” she said, her tone a fierce one now. Max really had a battle on his hands, I saw.

  “Sure you can,” said Harry. “That’s why I’m here. To make it happen.”

  Cassandra visibly calmed herself. She looked at him almost pleadingly. “You’re my last hope, Harry,” she said. “If it doesn’t happen today …”

  What was going to happen that day was eons beyond what any of us could have imagined in our wildest flight of fancy.

  “It’ll happen,” Harry said though, unaware. “Take my word for it.”

  She looked hopeful for a moment. “It would be so simple to update the act,” she said.

  Ah-ha, I thought. So that was it.

  “The basic effects are there, as good as ever. All they need is modernizing; we could do it easily.”

  Poor Max, I thought.

  “We could be on top again,” she said. “He could be on top again. Where he belongs.” Was she, in fact, sincere then? “That’s what I want—for both of us.” No way.

  “Come on now, babe,” Harry reassured her. He bussed her lightly on the cheek. “It’s in the bag.”

  She managed a sound of amusement. “If you can manage this, I’ll toast you with the best champagne in town.”

  He ran a hand down her back and across the curve of a buttock; a Kendal move if there ever was one. “Well, I might want just a little more,” he said.

  He had begun to kiss her when she stiffened, looking toward the desk chair. My eyeballs struggled to the task of seeing what she saw.

  In pushing the chair she had caused it to stop moving when it was reversed. (Or had it been reversed when none of us was looking?)

  A puff of gray-white smoke was rising from the chair now.

  Cassandra jerked away from Harry, looking stricken; that’s the word.

  Noting her expression and the fixed direction of her gaze, he, too, looked toward the chair. (That made three of us.) They stared at it in choked silence.

  At last the chair turned slowly to reveal the final principal in the murderous drama about to unfold.

  My son, Maximilian Delacorte.

  chapter 5

  Max was still a very handsome man. His hair, though streaked with gray, was full and dark. His Vandyke beard set off the perfect cut of his features. Like me, he was tall and well-proportioned, his presence something to behold. (As in all modesty I say it—mine was too.)

  He wore a wine-red smoking jacket over his white shirt and four-in-hand tie. Around his neck hung a gold chain with a pair of glasses dangling from it. In the fingers of his left hand, he held the thin cigar he was smoking.

  He blew out smoke and smiled at them. “Good afternoon,” he said. His tone was mild. He must not have heard them plotting, I thought. He sounded too benign.

  Cassandra and Harry could only stare (perhaps gape is the word) at him, so caught off guard were they. Like myself, they were clearly wondering
how long he’d been sitting there and what he’d heard. Unlike me, they were (I hope) ridden with guilt and dreading that he’d heard it all.

  Max looked across the room at me and signaled, smiling. “And good afternoon to you, Padre,” he said.

  How I wished I could return his smile and signal. Lord above, how I wished I could blow the whistle on those two; those three if I included Brian with his most suspicious facsimile of Cassandra.

  It now became apparent that Harry, at least, was wondering more than whether Max had heard his plot or no.

  He was also wondering where in God’s name Max had come from in the first place. The chair had been empty, and it stood behind the desk with no proximity to any wall Max might have popped from.

  It then became evident that Cassandra was wondering the same thing.

  Unlike Harry, however, she meant to use the puzzle as a means to—hopefully—gloss over what Max might have heard of their conversation—or, for that matter, seen of their physical adhesion.

  She pointed at the chair. “When did you build that?” she asked, her tone indicating a chiding amusement she could not possibly have been experiencing.

  Max smiled pleasantly. “When you were in Bermuda,” he said. (Would I ever forget those three lovely weeks of her absence?)

  “Well, you really caught us by surprise,” she said, trying to retain that gloss of amusement in her voice.

  “Did I?” Max sounded almost childlike in his gratification at having succeeded with the illusion. I knew the feeling of course, but I wished that he didn’t feel it at that particular moment.

  Cassandra made a sound of amusement again. “You’ve been saving that for the perfect moment, haven’t you?” she accused.

  “You like it?” he asked.

  “Do I like it?” she responded scoldingly. “You know very well I like it. It’s a wonderful effect.”

  He smiled and nodded, gratified again. “It is,” he agreed.

  Harry began to speak in an attempt to parallel Cassandra’s pose that nothing was amiss. But Cassandra spoke first. “You came in through there,” she said, pointing to the floor beneath the chair.

  Max nodded. “Trap door—indistinguishable, of course.”

  “It’s marvelous,” she told him.

  Harry broke his silence with a burst of (excessive) enthusiasm. “Marvelous?” he cried. “It’s dynamite! Hey, Max!”

  He moved behind the desk, where Max stood to greet him. Was I the only one to note how labored Max’s movements were? No, at least one other person noted it as well.

  Max took Harry’s thrust-out hand in both of his.

  “How are you, pal?” asked Harry.

  “Very well, old friend,” Max answered. “And you?”

  “Not complaining,” Harry replied.

  Max smiled at him; a tired smile, I thought. “You’ve been lying in the sun,” he said.

  “You know me, Max,” said Harry with a grin. “A little sun, a little run. Keeps the blood in motion.”

  Max reached up to touch Harry’s hair. “Plugs flourishing, I see,” he teased.

  Harry chuckled, obviously not pleased to have his implants mentioned. I wished I could have laughed aloud. I hadn’t known about them.

  “Not bad, anh?” said Harry, pretending that he wasn’t displeased.

  At which point in the procedure, who should stride into the room but Brian? As himself now naturally, hair dark, male clothes, his resemblance to Cassandra nonetheless apparent. “Hi,” he said to Harry, smiling.

  “How you doin’, kid?” Harry responded. He extended his right hand and Brian squeezed it in momentary greeting.

  “Fine,” said Brian. “How are you?”

  “Couldn’t be better,” Harry said.

  “Good,” said Brian.

  Their politesse was total sham. Harry had nothing but contempt for Brian, whom he regarded as a no-talent leech, a gofer to the bone. Brian, in turn, loathed Harry for a number of reasons which will presently emerge; I have to follow the rules of proper story-telling, don’t I?

  At any rate, they smiled and spoke most pleasantly to one another. Absolute hypocrisy.

  It was going to be that kind of day.

  Brian removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Max. “Everything you want on here?” he asked. Everything I have to go-fer? I added in my mind.

  Max put his glasses on and perused the list. He nodded. “I believe so. Aren’t you a little late departing, though?”

  Brian shook his head. “Train doesn’t leave for thirty minutes.”

  “You off?” asked Harry, totally disinterested, I knew, but maintaining his pose of sociability—an agent’s skill.

  “Have to pick up props in Boston,” Brian told him.

  “Ah-ha.” Harry nodded. “Have a good trip, then.”

  Brian nodded. “Thank you.” He turned to Cassandra. “We’d better go,” he said.

  “Be right with you,” she replied. “Wait in the car.”

  “All right.” Once more, Brian smiled at Harry. “Nice to see you again,” he said.

  “The same,” said Harry, reciprocating the lie.

  “See you later, Max,” Brian said.

  Max did not reply but raised one languid hand. I didn’t really know what he thought of Brian. I had always assumed that, however kindly disposed he might be to his young brother-in-law, he could not have had too much respect for him. How little respect I found out later.

  Brian walked to the doorway and exited into the entry hall.

  As he did, Cassandra turned to Max with a look of grave concern. “Harry told me you asked him to come here,” she said. “I hope—”

  She broke off, sighing. “Well, you know what I hope,” she added.

  Moving to Max, she kissed him on the left cheek, then regarded him anxiously. “It can all be what it was,” she said.

  Max smiled at her. “Let’s see what happens,” he told her.

  Never had a harrowing event-to-be been heralded with such offhandedness.

  Cassandra looked at him as though she hoped to penetrate his eyes and see into his very thoughts. Then, with an evanescent smile, she turned toward the doorway. “See you in a little while,” she said. She glanced at Harry. “I’ve driving Brian to the station,” she explained.

  “Good.” He nodded. “Give the boss and me a chance to talk.”

  Another fleeting smile from her. “Will you still be here when I get back?” she asked.

  “How long?” he responded.

  “Less than an hour.”

  “I imagine so,” said Harry. “Though I do have to get back to Boston by early evening.” (The well-laid plans …)

  Cassandra nodded and left, closing the door, Harry and Max watching her departure.

  After she was gone, Harry smiled at Max. “Quite a gal you’ve got there,” he said.

  “Quite a gal,” repeated Max. For several seconds he looked at Harry, face expressionless. What is he thinking? I wondered.

  Then he smiled. “Well, old friend,” he said, “I thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure, pal,” Harry replied expansively.

  Max gestured toward the chairs. “Shall we?” he inquired.

  Harry’s smile was wry; at least, he thought it was. “That’s what I’m here for,” he responded.

  He moved to the chair, where he had set down his attaché case and hat, which he picked up and placed on the table.

  In the meantime, Max had headed for the bar. Glancing over, Harry noticed (as I did, worriedly) his sluggish gait and grimaced to himself.

  “Your usual Scotch?” asked Max.

  “No, no, just a diet soda if you have it,” Harry answered. “Too early for the hard stuff.”

  Max peered beneath the bar and came up with a can of Diet Coke. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Harry shook his head. “No. Had my little health-food breakfast before I left Boston.”

  Max pulled the can tab free and asked, “Why Bosto
n?” He picked up the silver tongs to put ice cubes in a glass.

  “Opening tonight,” said Harry. “Client of mine.”

  “Sounds exciting,” commented Max.

  “It is—for him,” said Harry. “His first play. A murder mystery.”

  “Never can believe them,” Max replied; it was a remark immersed in irony, considering what was about to happen.

  “Neither can I,” fawned Harry. “But the public likes ‘em if they’re well done. This one is.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Max responded, starting over with the glass of Diet Coke on ice cubes. Harry hesitated, then apparently felt compelled to say, “You’re movin’ kind o’ slow, pal.”

  “Am I?” Max reached the chairs and handed the drink to Harry.

  “Thanks, Max,” Harry murmured, watching Max settle into the other chair with a faint, but unmistakably weary, groan. What’s going on? I thought; I’ve never seen him look so bad.

  Harry winced at the sight but managed a smile as Max looked over at him. He held the glass up toastingly. “To the best,” he said.

  Max appeared amused as Harry took a sip of Diet Coke, then set the glass down on the table. Max lifted a cigar box from the table and raised its lid, holding it out to Harry, who gestured no. “That stuff’ll kill you,” he remarked; another inadvertently ironic statement.

  “The least of my problems at the moment,” Max replied.

  His voice sounded so tired that Harry nearly commented on it, I noted. Then, changing direction, Harry gestured toward the casket, grinning. “Love that figure in there,” he said. “A new gimmick maybe?”

  Max shook his head. “Just wanted to see what I’d look like.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Harry made a face. “Cassandra told me that, but I couldn’t really believe her.”

  “Why not?” asked Max in mild surprise.

  Harry looked askance at him. “Max,” he said.

  “My future home inside my present one,” Max said. “Seems logical to me.”

  “Come on.” Clearly, Harry still had trouble believing it; but then, he was unable to approach the thinking of a Delacorte.

  Max smiled tiredly, flexing his fingers with effort, wincing as he did. Again I noted Harry on the verge of saying something, then discarding the idea. He took another sip of Diet Coke and set the glass back down. “All right,” he said. “Shall we get on with it?”