The Dark on the Other Side Page 13

  “I wonder,” the doctor said, “why she should come to you. Is she in love with you? Or you with her?”

  “I don’t know what the word means,” Michael said quietly.

  “No more do I.”

  “Then why the hell did you bring it up? No, I don’t think she’s running to anyone, or anything-unless it’s safety. She’s running away from something. Not her husband-”

  “How do you know?”

  “Well, for God’s sake! Modern women don’t run away from husbands, they divorce them. Besides, he-he’s devoted to her. Desperately worried about her. He’s out in this filthy rain now, looking for her. He was here, not five minutes before she came.”

  “He was?”

  “I wish to God you people could carry on a normal conversation instead of trying to make it into a Socratic dialogue,” Michael said irritably. “Yes, he was. And before you can ask, I’ll tell you. I don’t know why he should expect to find her here-that’s the truth, Galen. But he did. He says she’s run away before-to other men.”

  “What other men?”

  “How the hell should I know? I didn’t ask.”

  “I think I might have asked,” the doctor said thoughtfully. “If a nervous husband told me I was number three on any list, I’d be curious about my predecessors. All right, never mind that. She runs away. He pursues.”

  “You make it sound…Galen, I tell you the girl is off her head.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Oh, for-”

  “All I’m trying to indicate is the stupidity of jumping to conclusions. As a writer you ought to know that a single set of observed facts may be capable of varying interpretations. And you know the human tendency to misinterpret evidence in terms of a preconceived theory. So far, all you’ve conveyed to me is that the woman is running away from something she fears. Either her husband is the source of her fear, or he is closely connected with it. Certainly it’s possible that her fears are unjustified or imaginary; that she is, as you so elegantly put it, off her head. But it is also possible that she fears a real danger, one which even you would admit to be a legitimate cause of fear if you knew what it was. Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”

  “I know what she’s afraid of,” Michael said reluctantly. “And it-isn’t there.”

  “What is it?”

  “A dog. A black dog. She saw it one night and it terrified her so badly she went into a fainting fit.”

  “You didn’t see it?”

  “It happens that I didn’t see it. But if I had, if it was real and not a figment of her imagination-so what? The cause is inadequate to explain her response. I tell you, the girl was frantic with fear.”

  The doctor did not respond at once. Linda, who had followed the discussion with growing hope, sagged back. For a while he had sounded like a possibility, a potential convert. But Michael’s last statement was unarguable.

  “I could argue that,” the doctor said after a while. “But I’ll accept your hypothesis, if only to keep you from bellowing at me.”

  “My hypothesis? I haven’t got one.”

  “You sure as hell have. And it’s time you dragged it out into the open and had a look at it. Your voice, when you said, ‘A black dog,’ was significant. What does that phrase suggest to you? No fair thinking about it-give me some images.”

  “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Michael said promptly. “Luminous eyes, jaws dripping with phosphorescence…The black dog of the Celts, that presages doom…Agrisly story I read when I was a kid, about a werewolf…”

  “Now I,” said Galen, “had a black dog once. A big black mutt who followed me everywhere I went and chewed up my shoes and hid under the bed when my mother scolded him.”

  “All right,” Michael muttered. “I see your point, damn your eyes. None of my dogs was black. But it’s not just a personal bias, Galen. It’s partly the emotional atmosphere in that damned house. There are so many sick feelings-between Linda and that foul secretary, between Linda and the old hag who calls herself a white witch. When I looked back on the weekend, it seems to me that we talked of nothing but evil, and demonology, and Satan. The house is big and brightly lit, it has every modern luxury; but it stinks of ugly emotions. It’s a sick house. Now laugh.”

  “Why should I? That’s the most important thing you’ve said yet. You are neither stupid nor insensitive-”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “-and emotional atmospheres can be felt, I’d never deny that. The origins of the feeling are another matter.”

  “I know. And since I don’t believe in mental telepathy, I’ve been trying to remember what small, unnoticed clues I must have seen. There must have been something; I don’t ordinarily come over psychic.”

  The springs of the armchair creaked.

  “I must go,” the doctor said. “I’ll barely make it as it is. I’ll call you when I get back, Michael.”

  “But what am I going to do?”

  “What are you looking for, free advice? It’s your problem.”

  “Consoling as always.”

  “You’ve already made up your mind what to do. You just want me to agree with you. You’re planning to telephone the bereaved husband and tell him his wife was here?”

  “I have no choice about that.”

  “Perhaps not. Good-bye, Michael.”

  “Here’s your briefcase… Your Olympian detachment is all very well, but this isn’t a remote, academic problem. She’s on the loose right this minute, contracting pneumonia by walking around in the rain without any shoes on, if nothing worse. I don’t like the role of informer; but for her own safety I must tell Randolph that she was here. Maybe he can-”

  “ Randolph?”

  Linda heard the sound of the front door opening. The voices had gotten fainter; but the change in the doctor’s tone came from some other cause than distance.

  “This is Gordon Randolph’s wife you’ve been talking about?”

  “I thought I shouldn’t mention names.”

  “No…Damn it, I’m late now. I’ll break my usual rule, Michael, and give you one word of advice, if you’ll walk downstairs with me. If you should hear anything…”

  Linda was on her knees, oblivious of the danger of discovery; but strain as she might, she could make out no further words, only a mutter of voices as the two men descended the stairs. She crawled out of her hiding place, over the prostrate form of Napoleon, who snarled affably at her as she passed. Her cramped muscles complained as she stood upright. Overriding physical discomfort was the agony of indecision that racked her mind.

  She went to the door and looked warily out into the empty living room. The lights still burned and the front door stood open. Michael was a trusting soul… From below, amplified by the funnel of the stairwell, the rumble of voices floated up.

  Briefly she fought the wild, dangerous urge to rush down the stairs and catch him before he left. But she knew she couldn’t take the chance. They all talked that way, the ones who considered themselves liberal and sophisticated; but when it came to action, they balked at the final conclusion. If she could only talk to him at her leisure, with some means of escape at hand in case he turned out to be the broken reed all the others had been… Too late for that now. Too late for anything but escape.

  In her arms she still clutched the coat and purse, which she had been holding for so long. Darting across the room, she scooped up her shoes and went out the door. She reached the floor below just before Michael’s head came into view, and cowered in the shadow of the stairs as he went past. If he had turned his head he would have seen her; but he went quickly, intent on his next move. The telephone; Gordon. And Gordon would see through her trick. He knew her habits and he wouldn’t accept the obvious without checking. She would have to hurry. Gordon would come. Hurry…

  The door above slammed shut and Linda fled down the stairs, her stockinged feet making no sound. The front door of the building opened and closed, and a slight dark form
blended with the darkness of the night, and disappeared.

  Chapter 7

  I

  WHEN MICHAEL DISCOVERED THE TRICK SHE HAD played on him, his first reaction was anger-not at his own stupidity, but at Linda. Gordon, who had just come back after an inspection of the alley under the fire escape, smile wryly at his expression.

  “I know just how you feel, but don’t let it get you.”

  “You told me she was intelligent,” Michael said, recovering. “I should have believed you.”

  Gordon’s smile faded.

  “The operative word is not intelligence. There’s a special kind of cunning developed by people in her condition… Oh, hell, Mike, I’m still trying to mince words. I’m sorrier than I can say that you got dragged into this mess; but now that you are involved, it would be stupid of me to hold anything back.”

  Michael couldn’t help remembering that it was Gordon who had dragged him into the mess. Then his annoyed vanity faded at the sight of Gordon’s tormented face, and he shrugged.

  “I feel very bad about letting her get away. If I had realized how sick she was-”

  “Precisely why you shouldn’t feel guilty. It was my fault for understating the problem. Let’s forget that and go on to something constructive.”

  “Shouldn’t we be trying to trace her? There’s a subway station in the next block; cabs aren’t too frequent around here…”

  “Briggs is already on that,” Gordon said.

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Another unwelcome memory recurred to Michael-the look of unconcealed repugnance on Linda’s face whenever she saw Briggs. Surely he wasn’t the best person to send after a frightened woman… He shrugged the doubt away. It was none of his business.

  “How about a drink?”

  “No, thanks; I’d better get moving.”

  But Gordon appeared to be in no hurry; drawing on his gloves with deliberate care, he managed to look poised and aristocratic in spite of his obvious worry. By just standing there he made the shabby little room look shabbier. His keen black eyes moved around, lingering on the paper-strewn desk.

  “How do you feel about the biography now?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I’ve put quite a bit of work into it…”

  “Have you really?” Gordon’s dark gaze swung back to Michael. “Whom have you talked to? Or should I ask that?”

  “Oh, sure, why not? I started with the colleges. You made quite an impression at both of them.”

  “They all mouth the conventional academic baloney,” Gordon said cynically. “Wait till you talk to my former political cohorts. They won’t be so complimentary.”

  “They were somewhat annoyed at your retirement, I suppose.”

  “A euphemism.” Gordon smiled. “But by all means talk with them; you’ll get an interesting view of my personality. Well. I’ll be in touch, Mike.”

  “Please do. I’m concerned too.”

  When Gordon finally went, Michael dropped into the big overstuffed chair and put all ten fingers in his hair.

  She had looked so young.

  The glamorous hostess in her expensive gowns had seemed mature; the shrewish wife had a woman’s cruelty. But she wasn’t that many years out of college; she must be ten, even fifteen, years younger than Gordon. And when she sat huddled in his big chair, with the rain dripping down onto her pale cheeks, she had looked about sixteen. Her hands and feet were as fragile as a child’s; the sodden shoes had been no longer than his hands.

  Yes, he reminded himself, and she had presence of mind enough to take those pathetic little slippers with her when she outfoxed him. Poor little Cinderella? Rich little Lucrezia Borgia was more like it. But still he sat motionless, head in his hands, his fingers contracting as if their pressure could force from his mind the picture that persisted through every conscious doubt-the picture of a slight, dark figure running down a dusky corridor, growing smaller and more tenuous as it fled, until it finally vanished into air.

  II

  Next morning Michael went around and heckled his agent. Sam Cohen was not noted for his equable disposition; after half an hour of querulous dithering, he exploded.

  “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know whether you want to write it or not? You’ve got to write it. We’ve got a contract!”

  “I didn’t sign it in my own blood,” Michael snarled.

  Sam recognized the signs; he was used to them, but he got writer’s temperament so seldom from Michael that it took him by surprise. After a blink of his scanty eyelashes, he went into the routine.

  “Mike, you know this is the best deal I’ve ever gotten for you. It’s too good to pass up, even if you don’t care about the damage you could do your professional reputation if you renege on a formal contract. Hell, we may have a best seller on our hands if this rumor about Randolph ’s going back into politics is true.”

  Michael sat up in his chair.

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The essential criterion of a rumor is that nobody knows how it started. But I’ve heard it mentioned more than once.”

  “Hmph. I didn’t know you could do that. Get back into the game, I mean.”

  “Why not? He never lost an election, you know. With his money and charm, the party bosses would jump at him. Sure, it will take a little time to get his name before the public again, but-didn’t you ever wonder why he agreed to this biography when he’s refused even an interview for years?”

  “I guess I am naïve,” Michael said slowly. “He’s a nice guy, you know. The idea of his using me-”

  “Naïve is right,” Sam snorted. “So how is he using you? Making you rich is all. Does that make him any less of a nice guy? Oh, get out of here, and let me work. And do some work yourself.”

  Michael grinned and wandered out. On the street he stood blinking at the feeble sunshine and wondering what he wanted to do. He had called Gordon that morning, when the latter had failed to call him. Linda was still missing. The sunshine was anemic. The smog was heavier than usual. It was a lousy day. He was in a lousy mood.

  So he spent the day doing nothing. He made a feeble attempt to clean up the apartment, a chore which was weeks overdue, but he knew his real motive was to be at home in case Gordon called. He did manage to get the dirty laundry collected; there were socks under the cushion of the chair and a sock on the kitchen table. Rooting around in the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a pile of dirty shirts. On top of them lay a small, crumpled black glove.

  Straightening up, with the glove in his hand, Michael abandoned the shirts. So that was where she had been; obviously, there wasn’t any other place. Then he remembered something, and, turning, he bellowed loudly for the cat. Napoleon was gone. Deprived of an audience, Michael muttered to himself. The animal was obviously getting senile. Or else there was something about Linda Randolph that appealed to him. A nasty thought, that one…

  By evening, when the phone still refused to ring, Michael was desperate. He straightened his desk. He managed to cram half the books that had been on it into one bookshelf or another, but there was no place for the rest. He needed another bookcase. Only, where was he going to put it? Every inch of wall space in living room and bedroom was already taken up. Maybe the bath-room…Then, on the bottom of a pile, he found the book that he had bought and then ignored. Randolph ’s masterpiece. With a snort, Michael threw himself into a chair and began to read.

  He came to three hours later when Napoleon bit him on the ankle, milder attempts to gain attention having failed. Still carrying the book, he stumbled out into the kitchen. He gave Napoleon the hamburger he had intended for his own dinner, an error he didn’t even notice till the next day. He went on reading.

  At four in the morning he finished the book, and fell groggily into bed in a state of mingled exaltation and rage. The pathetic little mental image of Gordon’s wife had developed a set of fangs. Anyone who could write a book like that when he was still in his twenties…The man needed encouragement, admiration, an a
tmosphere of peace and quiet-not a crazy wife who probably resented his superior talent. Lying awake in the darkness, Michael could see the ghosts of Gordon’s unwritten books, laid out in a row like murdered babies. Murdered in utero by Gordon’s wife.

  This partisan mood carried Michael through the next few days. He didn’t call Gordon, but Gordon called him and reported that Linda had not yet been found. He sounded less edgy. Of course, if she had been hurt or killed, she would have been heard of by this time, Michael thought. Personally, he no longer gave a damn.

  He spent two infuriating days trying to track down some of Gordon’s political associates, knowing full well that he would never reach the hidden men who made the real decisions, and discovering that politicians were even more peripatetic than academicians and just as impressed with their own importance. Yet through the platitudes and glittering generalities, an impression gradually formed. He believed the rumors of Gordon’s return to politics. It was ridiculous, of course, to resent Gordon’s failure to take him into his confidence. Maybe he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

  Michael found himself curious to read some of Gordon’s political speeches. They were not easy to locate; the big-city newspapers had not followed out-of-state local campaigns in detail. Finally he managed to find back issues of the leading newspaper of Gordon’s state.

  Even in cold print the speeches were impressive. Michael could imagine their effectiveness when they were delivered with the full force of Gordon’s dynamic personality. He had wondered what kind of political speech might be composed by the man who wrote that fantastic book. Now he knew. Of course the media were completely different; a political speech was not a novel. But the similarity was there, not in phrasing or in content so much as in an underlying integrity, the product of a particular kind of mind.

  Gordon’s candidacy had been supported by the newspaper. It got a lot of coverage, and the not so-subtle slant in the reporting, compared with the tone taken toward Gordon’s unfortunate opponent, made Michael’s mouth twist in wry amusement. Politics, he thought, with the comfortable contempt of a man who has never run for office. Well, you couldn’t blame Gordon for the traditional dirtiness of the game… He kicked himself mentally. Blame, hell, you don’t condemn or approve, he reminded himself. You just read. And write, if possible.