Dark on the Other Side (16 page)

“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.

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 bathroom…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 atmosphere 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.

It was pure accident that he saw the item at all. It was
on the front page, but it was hidden down in the lowest left-hand
corner, and Gordon’s name was mentioned only once, in small print.
There was a photograph, and he studied the inexpressive features of the
young man with interest. Copied from a formal studio portrait, the face
was not distinctive. High forehead, hair and eyes of some indeterminate
dark color, horn-rimmed glasses so big that they reduced the features
to unimportance. Gordon’s campaign manager, William S. Wilson.

The name was familiar. Michael groped through his mental
card file on Randolph for several seconds before he realized that the
familiarity had nothing to do with contemporary events. The name was
that of Edgar Allan Poe’s character. A nice, cheerful story that one,
about a man haunted by his own ghost.

The analogy was nonexistent. Accidental death, the police
believed—the strain of an exciting campaign, and too many sleeping
pills. There was no reason why the young, successful assistant of a
rising politician should take his own life.

Michael was curious enough to pursue the story. The next
installment had retreated from page one to page fourteen, reasonably
enough, since there were no dramatic developments. The assumption of
accidental death was confirmed by all the evidence the police had been
able to turn up. So much for William Wilson.

Michael didn’t know, then, that the seed had been
planted. It had not yet taken root; it just sat there in the darkness
of his subconscious mind, rubbing a little, but beginning to be
encased, like a grain of sand in an oyster, by layers of protective
preconceptions. But the intrusion was a seed, not a sterile piece of
grit. The telephone call he got the next day started it growing.

Typically, Galen didn’t waste any words.

“Have you resolved your latest problem?” he asked, as
soon as he had identified himself to his surprised listener.

“No, she’s still missing. Where are you?”

“Paris, of course. I told you I’d be here till the end of
this week. Michael, I want you to go over to my office and—”

“You’re calling me from Paris? Why?”

“If you’ll be quiet for a minute, I’ll tell you. I’m due
at a symposium in about four and a half minutes. Go over to my office
and pick up an envelope my secretary has for you. I’ve already spoken
to her.”

“You want me to mail it to you?” Michael asked, groping.

“If I wanted something mailed to me, I’d have my
secretary mail it,” Gordon said impatiently. “The envelope is for you.
Go and get it now. Don’t make any decisions until you’ve read the
contents.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t believe I’ve used any words of over three
syllables, have I? I must go now. I’ll be in touch with you as soon as
I get back. And remember, don’t do anything drastic until you’ve seen
that envelope.”

The receiver went down with a decisive click. Galen never
bothered with hellos and good-byes.

Michael hung up. There was no use trying to call back. He
didn’t know what hotel Galen was staying at, and it was more than
likely that Galen would refuse to add anything to his enigmatic message
even if he could be located. He was never obscure except by choice.

Michael got up and wandered over to the window. It was
raining again. The sky, what little he could see of it, was a dirty
gray, and the puddles in the alley reflected the sallow light with a
sheen of oily iridescence. Even on the fourth floor, with the window
closed, he could hear the snarl of bumper-to-bumper traffic on the
street. Absently, Michael drew his initials in the smeary film on the
inside of the pane. The hell with it. He wasn’t going all the way
across town on a day like this just to pick up an envelope.