Death Takes a Bow (3 page)

“They'll wonder who I am,” Mr. North thought. “They'll know her, and they've seen pictures of him and who, for God's sake, am I? What's been rung in on them?”

There were three chairs behind a lectern. There was a big chair in the middle, with a high back, and smaller chairs on either side, with lower backs. The big chair for Sproul, the papa bear. The little chair further on for Mrs. Williams, the mama bear. The little chair nearest for Mr. North, the rabbit. Oh God, thought Mr. North. He felt in his pocket for the notes.

He pulled the notes half out and pushed them back. What difference would notes make? He couldn't read them, obviously. They would be only a confusing blur, and this was as well, because—and now he realized it—what he had written on them, those few words which were to guide him, were beyond belief asinine. To utter them would make him at once pathetic and absurd. And they were the only words he knew!

Because now, as Mrs. Williams rose and went to the lectern and rapped on it, Mr. North's mind was blank. It was not merely blank in the ordinary sense; it was blank like a doorway opening on nothing. Mr. North opened the door of his mind and looked in and it opened on nothing. Even consciousness of his own identity seemed to have vanished; the world was an empty dream, with the trimmings of a nightmare. Mr. North searched desperately in his mind for an inkling of anything—he was to introduce somebody for some purpose—a man named Victor—Sproul Victor. I—

“And now,” Mrs. Williams said, her voice corseted with assurance, “I am happy to introduce a representative of Mr. Sproul's publishers who will, I am sure, have something to tell us about their very successful author. Mr.—Gerald North.”

Mrs. Williams turned and smiled at the blank which was Mr. North. He felt himself smiling back. He felt himself rising and walking to the lectern. He felt himself reaching for the sheaf of notes in his pocket and watched himself spreading them out on the lectern. He knew he was raising his head and looking out over the audience and smiling faintly, and he heard his throat clear itself.

And then, of course, that miracle occurred which always occurred; that miracle which, even when he was blankest, Mr. North had always realized would probably happen. Mr. North returned to himself. He saw the audience as a collection of reasonably friendly people, waiting without bias for him to speak; he heard the rustle behind him of Mrs. Williams sitting down and another sound which was, he supposed, Mr. Sproul shifting his feet. He could even, in the instant before he began to speak, hear Mr. Sproul breathing—breathing, it seemed, a little heavily from excitement. So it had got to Sproul, Mr. North thought, pleased—and now, almost amused, Mr. North had been through it and come out on the other side; Mr. Sproul was in it now. Before him, not any longer before Gerald North, loomed that awful moment of arising and that perilous step from seat to lecturing position.

Mr. North began to speak. He watched the people at the rear of the shallow balcony to make sure that they could hear him; he begged them not to be frightened because of the notes, promising them that he would not use them. “Consider them,” he begged, “only as a straw which I have put ready to be clutched.”

He would not, he promised, delay them. He might tell them one small story about Mr. Sproul. He told them one small story about Mr. Sproul and paused, with a half smile which meant that they might, if they wished, now laugh. They laughed. He capped their laugh with an inflection, and they laughed again.

“When you come down to it,” Mr. North thought, “I'm really pretty good at this. Too bad Pam can't hear me.”

He looked out over the audience and for a moment confidence caught in his throat. Pam could hear him all right—assuming his voice was carrying to the fifth row on the side, as presumably it was. Pam was sitting there looking interested and when she caught his eye she smiled and nodded. Dorian Weigand was sitting beside her, and Pam turned to Dorian and made a tiny gesture of lifted eyebrows toward Jerry and Dorian smiled at him. Mr. North hesitated, fractionally, and went on.

He had talked, now, for a little more than five minutes. He rounded it off. They had come to hear Victor Leeds Sproul, not to hear his publisher—obviously biased in Mr. Sproul's favor. “Our bias toward anybody who sells a hundred thousand copies is boundless,” Mr. North assured the audience, which smiled. He had come, Mr. Sproul had, to tell them about a beautiful city which no longer was; about a gracious thing which had been killed. How ruthlessly, how barbarously killed they needed neither Mr. North, nor even Mr. Sproul, to tell them. But Mr. Sproul could, better than any other man of whom Mr. North could think, tell them something of that gracious life—of that ancient civilization—which now had ended but which might, they all hoped, one day rise again. And now it was his very great honor to introduce to them—

“Mr. Victor Leeds Sproul, distinguished author of
That Was Paris
. Mr. Sproul—”

Mr. North turned, smiling, with a half gesture toward the big man in the big chair. And for a second he waited, still smiling, his back half to the audience. And then, in a tone only a little raised, he repeated: “Mr. Sproul.”

He repeated it because it seemed that Mr. Sproul had not heard. Mr. Sproul sat in the chair and did not move, and he seemed strangely relaxed, except that he was breathing very noisily. For a horrible moment it occurred to Mr. North that Mr. Sproul had gone to sleep.

But Mr. Sproul had not gone to sleep, and that realization was more horrible still. Mr. Sproul was in a coma and, at that moment, while Mr. North watched, the body moved a little and the eyes, which had been closed, opened. Then the mouth opened, too. But no words came out of it; never any more would words come out of it. The body, already slumped, relaxed just perceptibly and Mr. North, frozen incongruously with his smile and his half beckoning gesture, knew sickly what had happened.

Mr. Victor Leeds Sproul was no longer breathing noisily. He was not breathing at all.

2

Thursday, 8:45
P
.
M
. to 9:10
P
.
M
.

For an instant after he realized this, Mr. North's inviting hand remained extended, mutely inviting Mr. Sproul to arise and lecture. Then Mr. North became conscious that his simple gesture had become grotesque. He let his arm fall. His eyes left the flushed face of Mr. Sproul and went to the face of Mrs. Paul Williams, who had left her chair and was standing beside him. Mrs. Williams' face was white and horrified.

“He's sick!” she said. She spoke in only a normal voice, but it carried through the auditorium, grown suddenly silent. “Isn't he sick?” This was to Mr. North. He looked at her.

“I don't think so,” he said. “Not any more. A few minutes ago he was—sick.”

She stared at him, and there was horror in her eyes.

“Yes,” Mr. North said. “I'm afraid so.”

His voice was lower, but not too low to carry. There was an odd sound from the audience; it was as if the audience sighed. And then, somewhere in the rear, a woman screamed. It was not a loud scream; it lay between a scream and a sob. And then the silence broke into fragments and the audience was alive, moving, uneasy. And Mr. North turned to it.

“I'm afraid Mr. Sproul is—unwell,” he said. “If one of you is a doctor—?”

A middle-aged man rose in the third row and sidled toward the aisle. Mr. North caught his eye and the man nodded and came to the platform. There were no stairs, but it was a low platform and the man put one hand on it and half climbed, half vaulted up. He went over to Sproul and bent over him and felt his wrist and stared into his eyes. He leaned down and sniffed at the full, parted lips and stood up and looked at Mr. North.

“He's dead, you know,” the man said. He looked at Mr. North, feeling evidently that there was more to be said. “Klingman,” he added. “Dr. Klingman.” It was obviously self-identification. Mr. North nodded.

“What—?” he began. Dr. Klingman shook his head.

“I'd have to examine him,” he said. “Asphyxia, from his appearance. But what would asphyxiate him? Poison. A drug—opium. Or cerebral hemorrhage. Or something the matter with his brain. You'd better call somebody. Somebody in authority. I—”

A high, angry voice broke in. It came from the door leading to the stage from the speakers' room, and it preceded a tall, evidently angry man. He was a high, lean man and apparently about seventy, and his voice crackled in the upper register.

“Well!” he said. “What's this? What's
this?
Something the matter with him?”

The tall old man was obviously annoyed. He seemed to be addressing, chiefly, Mrs. Williams. At any rate he was looking at Mrs. Williams. He was looking at her angrily.

“Mr. Sproul seems—seems to have been taken ill, Dr. Dupont,” Mrs. Williams said. “The doctor”—she gestured vaguely toward Dr. Klingman—“the doctor thinks he's dead.”

“I don't think it,” Dr. Klingman said. “He
is
dead. Completely.” He looked at Dr. Dupont, whom he evidently knew. “Very unfortunate, Doctor,” he said. “Very irregular.” There was, in spite of everything, the faintest touch of raillery in the physician's tone. The tone accepted and lightly ridiculed the older man's annoyance at so improper an interruption to orderly procedure. Then Mr. North placed the tall man. Dr. Dupont, scholar not medico, was president of the Today's Topics Club. He ran it, Mr. North remembered hearing, on the highest plane of the intellect, and with notable asperity. He was not, Mr. North supposed, a man to countenance such extravagances as seemed to have occurred.

“Irregular?” Dr. Dupont repeated. “Unfortunate!” He glared at the physician.
“Irregular
!” He spluttered slightly. He turned his glare to Mr. North.

“Have to get him out of
here
,” he said. Mr. Sproul became, ludicrously, matter out of place, through the fault of Gerald North, who had put him there. Mr. Sproul became, it was clear, a responsibility solely of his publishers. Of Mr. Sproul, as such, Dr. Dupont washed his hands. He looked severely at Mr. North. Mr. North was conscious of annoyance.

“We'll have to get the police,” he said. “It will have—to be looked into.” He was conscious of a certain inadequacy in the words. “The doctor says it may have been poison,” he added. “You can't move him around.”

“Certainly you can't leave him
here
,” Dr. Dupont said, with asperity. “In front of all these people.” He looked at the people. “Most of them members,” he added. His tone was accusing.

They couldn't, Mr. North repeated firmly, do anything else. It was a matter for the police; it was a matter to be left in abeyance for the police. If Dr. Dupont liked, Mr. North would notify the police. Or Dr. Dupont could. But somebody had better. Then Mr. North thought of something and started for the door leading to the speakers' room. Halfway he turned.

“Nobody should touch it,” he said. He said it loudly, so that the restive audience could hear. “It's a matter for the police.”

That, he thought, ought to give Dr. Dupont pause; it ought to make an auditorium full of people sentinels over the body of Victor Leeds Sproul, protecting it from molestation by the weight of public attention. Assuming that anybody wanted to molest it. Meanwhile, Mr. North wanted to get into the speakers' room.

He entered by the door from the stage as Y. Charles Burden, elegant and saturnine as always, but now evidently in a hurry, entered by the door leading from the corridor. Mr. Burden confronted Mr. North.

“What the hell?” Mr. Burden inquired. “What the bloody hell?”

“Our man's dead,” Mr. North told him. “No tour. No more books. No more Sproul.” Mr. North looked intently at Mr. Burden. “Probably,” Mr. North added, “somebody killed him. In front of all of us.”

As he spoke, Jerry North was looking quickly around the room. He knew what he was looking for, but he did not see it. There should be a glass. Or glasses. Sproul had put down a glass as Mr. North entered, before they went onto the stage. He had been drinking something out of it. Had he been drinking alone? Mr. North's memory gave no answer.

“Damn!” said Y. Charles Burden, emphatically. “Booked through to the coast, too.” He looked at Mr. North, and his glance, too, was accusing. “And back again,” he added. “To the coast and back again.”

“All right,” Mr. North said. “And we had him under option. For the rest of his life.” He looked at Burden and half smiled. “Which ought,” he said, “to let us out—you and me, I mean … when the police come.”

“Police?” Burden repeated. He thought it over. “Naturally,” he said. He appeared to think. “Make quite a story,” he said. “I wonder—” He did not wonder audibly. Mr. North could follow without words.

“Grist,” he pointed out, “in its fashion. Grist for the Burden mill. Lend a certain touch of drama to the lecture business, in general.” He paused, reflecting in his turn. “Start quite a run on the bookstores, too,” he added. He looked at Burden, and was horrified at both of them.

“Can't help thinking of things,” Burden said. Even he sounded defensive. “Got livings to make, both of us. Sorry about the old boy, of course. Still—there you are.” He looked at Mr. North reflectively. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I used to know him pretty well at one time. In Paris. A funny sort of bloke, really.”

“Was he?” Mr. North asked. “Funny enough to get murdered? That kind of funny?”

Slowly Burden nodded.

“I shouldn't wonder,” he said. “I shouldn't wonder at all. However …”

He adopted an expression of worried decorum and went past Mr. North and through the door leading to the stage. After a moment, Mr. North followed him. The moment convinced Mr. North that there were no drinking glasses in the room, and that there was nothing apparent in the room to put in glasses if glasses were at hand. Mr. North went back to the stage.