Dagger of Flesh (16 page)

"No reason why it wouldn't be." He paused, listening.

There'd been another noise from the recorder. I bent over, reversed the tape for a few seconds, then played it forward again. The noise had been the sound of the door opening and closing. "Must have been when he left," I said. "I guess it's a he."

Bruce nodded. "All right, then. We can't be sure, but it's a good guess that you were talking on that recording to Jay Weather's murderer."

I swallowed. "I'd like to buy that, Bruce. It would be an almost foolproof way for the killer to keep tabs on what progress, if any, I was making in my investigation of Jay's death. Lord, I'd report everything I found out to the killer—and I wouldn't even be conscious of doing it. I'd even pass on anything I got from the police." I paused, frowning. "But Bruce, I was just lucky to be out of jail. It's a wonder I wasn't in the can all day." I shook my head. "I still don't know for sure what I did the night Jay was murdered. I could ..."

Bruce said, "Get the idea out of your head that you killed Jay, Shell. Believe me, it's just no good."

I liked hearing him say the words, but I couldn't help wondering if Bruce actually believed what he was saying, or was merely trying to keep my spirits up.

I thought about it. "But those other things, Bruce. I did them and don't even remember. How do I know what else I did and forgot? How can I know?"

He dragged on his cigarette and leaned forward. "What other things, Shell? Don't let this get you down. Look. The only thing we know you did for sure was to go to the Phoenix Hotel. That isn't such a fantastic thing to do, and even that simple suggestion didn't work perfectly. You recognized it for what it was and managed to do everything you did; the note, getting the recorder, and the rest."

He paused and looked at me for a moment, then went on, "Your hypnotist seems to have bungled things a bit, Shell. If he'd explored your mind more thoroughly, or wiped out a little more of your memories of this day, things might have worked out differently just now."

"You're telling me! I guess that's about the size of what we've learned, huh? I did practically all the talking."

He nodded. "Well, we learned a bit more than that. We know, for instance, that the method used to induce the trance was—and still is, remember—an oral command. We also know that he's fairly careful and that he tested you to make sure you were in trance and he could produce anesthesia of your arm."

"You mean that match business?"

He nodded. "You heard it on the recording. Evidently he stuck something—probably a sterilized needle—into your arm after he'd induced anesthesia. You'd have had a tough time to keep from jumping or yelling unless you were actually hypnotized. He was making sure before he went on."

It gave me a shiver again. "You mean under hypnosis he could tell me my arm was numb or dead, then stick pins in me and I wouldn't jump?"

"You wouldn't even feel it."

I shook my head. "Look, I accept it logically—but I simply don't understand it. It just doesn't seem right."

He shrugged. "Well, perhaps it's not important."

"But it is, Bruce. I'm going back up to the hotel."

He seemed startled. "Tonight?"

"No. Like he said on the recording. Tomorrow night at seven. He'll be there. Maybe I can finally get to the bottom of this. You know I've got to. Otherwise I'm likely to blow my top."

"Yes. Of course. But—"

"Yeah. What if I step inside and, bam, go right off to sleep again?" I shook my head. "Damn it, it's hard to believe. But there ought to be some way to get around that."

"I'll have to think about it. Be simple if I could hypnotize you and give you countersuggestions—but I can't."

"How come?"

"We heard it on the recording. He was smart enough to tell you nobody else could hypnotize you. And nobody else will be able to." He shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I can try, but there's little point in it. It'll have to be some other way."

I said, "I'm not going to barge in there alone this time, anyway. I'm going to haul along about ninety cops and maybe a cannon. We've got him now—unless he gets scared. But he should still think he's pretty safe." I thought about it for a minute longer. "Here's what I want, Bruce. I want to go back up, but I don't want to be charging around in a trance and never able to remember what the hell went on. If I know what I'm doing—if it's me—maybe I can turn the tables on the son of a bitch."

Bruce got up and began to pace the floor. "It's a good idea, Shell, but there are difficulties." He stopped next to my chair and said, "He tested you for anesthesia this time. If he tested you once, he'll probably do it again. Do you think you could get through that without giving yourself away—assuming you weren't actually hypnotized?" He shook his head. "I don't know, Shell. It would be rough."

"I could try. Maybe I could."

"And maybe not. And if not, you might get yourself killed." He stopped for a moment, then he grinned. He said, "This may make it clearer for you. Anesthesia can be induced with equal success through either hypnosis or self-hypnosis."

"Self-hypnosis? Hypnotizing yourself?"

"Exactly. I developed the ability a long time ago when I worked a lot more with hypnotism than I do nowadays. I suppose you're familiar with the principles. It's the same as the usual hypnosis, only the suggestions are given by the subject himself. Watch this. I'll demonstrate for you, Shell. Then tell me if you think you could manage it without being hypnotized."

He went out of the room and came back with an inch-long needle in his hand. "It's sterilized," he said, and gave it to me. "Wait till I tell you."

Then he sat down, leaned back in his chair and rolled up the sleeve over his right arm. He rested his arm on the chair and closed his eyes for ten or fifteen seconds, certainly no longer, then he opened his eyes and looked at me. "All right, Shell. There's no feeling in my arm now. Stick the needle into it."

"What? Are you kidding?"

"Go ahead, please. I won't feel a thing, believe me."

I swallowed and poised the needle over his arm. For seconds his bare arm was right under my hand, the sharp point of the needle projecting toward it, but I simply couldn't do it.

"Shell," he said, "if you can't even poke me with that needle, how do you expect to sit quietly while somebody else jams one into your arm?"

He had a point. Maybe he really would feel it if I stuck him, and was just doing this to condition me for something or other. "Go ahead," he said. "You don't have to try to chop my arm off. Just stick me."

Finally I said, "Okay, you asked for it." I brought the needle down gently against his skin. Just at that moment he raised his arm suddenly and the needle buried itself into his flesh. It went in at least a quarter of an inch, possibly more, but when I looked at his face it was completely relaxed and he was grinning.

He told me to pull the needle out, and I grabbed it, but it was in so deep that I was afraid to pull any harder than I was doing for fear I'd injure him.

He brushed my hand aside, yanked the needle out with one quick jerk, then plunged it in again, hard. He kept smiling and his face didn't change expression.

Mine did. My back rippled and the insides of my legs at the knees got weak and watery. My stomach churned. Bruce asked, "Do you still think you could stand that in a normal state without showing something on your face or jerking away?"

I shook my head.

"The reason I went through all this," he continued, "was so you'd realize how difficult it is to fool a man into thinking you're hypnotized when you're not. If you really intend to go back to the hotel tomorrow—to see someone who may well be a murderer—you'll have to be on your toes. It'll be damned difficult to get away with, even if you can somehow manage not to be hypnotized. Perhaps it would be better merely to have the man arrested."

"Yeah. And then he clams up. I want to get to the bottom of this, Bruce. Besides, I've got a very healthy personal grudge against the bastard."

"All right. Just so you realize what you're up against. But don't forget, as soon as you walked into the room the hypnotist gave you an oral command to go to sleep. And you did. Incidentally, that's why I spoke to you when the recording started. Just in case such an oral command had been given when you were entering the room."

"You mean the recording? That wouldn't put me to sleep."

"It might. Hypnosis can be induced by records. People have even been hypnotized over the phone when they've been suitably conditioned. Probably the words on the recording wouldn't have affected you, but I distracted you to make sure." He paused, his forehead wrinkled in thought. "That gives me half an idea for tomorrow night, Shell."

"Well, spill it."

"Let me think about it. It's quite a problem. I'll sleep on it. There's a lot of time remaining before seven."

"Yeah." I was wondering if I did have till seven tomorrow night. I was wondering if there were any other suggestions floating around in my brain, suggestions I didn't yet know anything about.

We were both sitting quietly, thinking, when noises started coming from the recorder again. They were sharper and clearer this time. I heard the sound of scraping, as of a key in a lock, then the click of a door opening.

"I remember this part," I told Bruce. "This must be when I went back and picked up the recorder."

From the speaker came Red's clear voice saying loudly, "What's the matter, mister?" Then sounds of footsteps, a grating and banging as I'd picked up the microphone in the closet, and finally complete silence.

"That's it," I said. "All of it. Right after that I left the hotel and called you." I got up. "Well anyway, I feel a lot better, Bruce. Thanks for everything. Guess there's not much else tonight, huh?"

"Guess not. Come down to the office tomorrow, some time in the afternoon. In the meantime I'll try to figure something out."

"Figure hard. I'll leave this damn recording here. Maybe you can get something else out of it."

He nodded, got up and saw me to the door. I went out into the darkness of a warm Southern California night, and I was so cold I was almost shivering.

 

Back at my apartment, I lay quietly in bed trying to think back over the last two days and pick through my memories and say, "This is real, this happened to me, this I know for sure." It only confused me more. I thought of how little men know about the secrets of the mind, how ignorant we are of what makes us laugh or feel afraid or make love or kill. Year after year men had stripped away more of the mind's defenses, learned more of the secret places and the hidden motives, the results of conditioning, but there was so little we could say we really understood. The mind was still a strange and sometimes frightening place filled with darkness.

I lay awake for a long time before I fell asleep.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

THE TWO ALARMS went off almost simultaneously and I was wrenched violently awake. Sunlight streamed in through the open windows. I lay still, letting memory creep back into me as the alarms shrilled, then grew fainter, "pinged" hesitantly a last few times, then stopped completely.

It was eight o'clock. That was right. I remembered setting the alarms last night for eight. I looked at my arms. No more punctures. Everything normal. My clothes were in the closet, not draped over the chair. Everything was just as it should be. I remembered my thoughts and doubts of the night before and shrugged them off. The hell with them.

This was a brand new morning. I'd had a sound sleep and I felt as good as I ever did this early. After a cold shower and breakfast I sat in the kitchen over a cup of black coffee and looked at the day ahead of me.

This is the day, Scott, I thought. Today you get even, maybe. Today you find out what the hell's been going on and fix some bastard's wagon, if you're lucky.

I wanted to get on with it, get moving, do something. I wished it were already seven p.m., even though part of me dreaded that hour, but I was anxious to get it started and over with. My brain seemed clear enough. I remembered everything that had happened yesterday, and some ideas were rumbling around inside me.

I carried another cup of coffee into the living room and set it on the table alongside the couch, then picked up the phone, dialed Homicide and asked for Captain Arthur Grant.

After the usual chitchat I asked him, "You pick up Lucian or Potter yet?"

"Not yet. We will."

That was a funny deal. Where the hell were these two? I said, "Well, brace yourself, Art. I've got a lousy story to tell you. Have you talked to Bruce Wilson this morning?"

"No. What about Wilson?"

"This is about me. Hang onto your seat and your temper. And listen, let me go all through this thing before you bust my ear. Agreed?"

"What the hell you talking about?"

"I'll tell you. Only for God's sake don't send any squad cars out here till I'm finished."

"You nuts or something?"

I interrupted, "Okay, Art?"

"Yeah, yeah, get on with it."

I got on with it. I gave him everything I could remember, and twice while I was speaking strangled sounds came out of the receiver. But I kept going, through the whole story.

"So there it is, Art," I finished. "Bruce has it all. He'll back it up and square away anything I missed. How about tonight? Can you set it up? You know, bug the place, have some of the boys around?"

He didn't say anything.

"Art? Art, you there?"

"Yeah. Damn you."

"And, Art. I'm sorry about that—those prints. That business. I've been—mixed up."

"Yeah, you have been, you bastard. I oughta pull you back in here."

"I suppose I've got it coming. But, listen, Art, how about the deal for tonight? I sure as hell don't want to be in the can."

"I'll talk to Wilson and call you back."

He hung up and I put the French phone back on the hook and got out pen and paper. Then I sprawled on the divan and started jotting down the little disconnected things I'd picked up in the last couple of days. I listed the names of all the people I'd run up against, what I knew about them and their relationships, and I was still playing with that when the phone rang. It was ten-thirty.