Shooting Star / Spiderweb Page 17

  That Charlie, that big brother of mine, was a tough egg. Always ready to hand out some patronizing advice. But one thing he told me I never had forgotten.

  “There’s two things a man should always get straight—his whiskey and his razor.”

  Well, I’d taken the whiskey. And now I had my razor. I held it for a moment and watched my hand tremble, as I thought of Charlie, and how we’d parted, back in Iowa.

  I held a razor in my hand then, too. It was at the height of our final quarrel, and I’d been packing, and the razor had been resting on top of the table. Just resting, until I’d grabbed it up, groping for it through a red haze, and I went for Charlie, screaming, “So I’m no good, am I? I’ll kill you for saying that, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you—”

  Would I have killed him?

  Suppose he hadn’t caught my wrist in time. Suppose I’d let the razor slash down. Would I have gone through with it and murdered Charlie? I still didn’t know. I know that he did grab my wrist, knock the razor to the floor, and hold me until I quieted down and the haze cleared away.

  But I also knew that whenever I got angry, really angry, the haze came back—and with it, the urge to kill. Perhaps I was a murderer, at heart. Perhaps I could go out again, right now, razor in hand, and run amok in the streets among all the wooden-faced people. I could carve new expressions on their faces with this razor of mine.

  I held it in my hand, and my hand didn’t tremble now. I was thinking about a whole new way of life. A way of death, rather.

  Suppose I took this razor and made it an instrument of Destiny. I could carve faces, I could carve a career with it for myself. All I had to do was stand in an alley and show it to most people and they’d give me anything I wanted. They’d give me everything I couldn’t seem to get any other way. Just the sight of it was threat enough. I could get money from the men, and from the women I’d take—

  No. I was crazy to think of it. It would end in murder, and I’d become a killer, just as I feared. There was a killer inside of me, I knew that now. There’s a killer inside everyone if you probe deeply enough; my killer was strong and he sent out a red haze when he wanted to escape.

  He wanted to escape now. And the only way to prevent that was to turn the razor on him. This whacky town was full of murderers—torso slayers, rippers, maniacs on the loose. It must be something in the air; perhaps the smog was a red haze in disguise.

  Well, my killer mustn’t join the rest. I, and I alone, could prevent it, had to prevent it. Because if I went on, sooner or later somebody else would die. I was certain of it.

  So I held the razor in my hand and I was ready. It was time to cut loose. Time for the unkindest cut of all. Time to kill the killer—

  My headache almost blinded me. It sent sharp pains out against my eyes, but not sharp enough. Not nearly as sharp as the straight edge of my razor, pressing against my throat.

  Then the haze was back and I said to myself, “This is the way it feels when you murder, this is what it’s like to be a murderer—and lucky for you that you’re murderer and victim too.”

  My hand moved in the haze, and the razor’s edge was sharp. As it came down, I was thinking that the edge of a razor is the sharpest thing in the world.

  Then it was the only thing in the world...

  Three

  Then there was something else in the world, after all. Noise. Knocking. Persistent knocking. And rattling. I could hear it somewhere, a million miles away. Knocking on my door, rattling the knob.

  I wouldn’t answer. Maybe the noises would stop if I wouldn’t answer. Then my hand might be steadier and I could go ahead. But not with that thudding— It didn’t stop. I heard a muffled voice outside. What right did anyone have to interfere? I still didn’t have to open the door. This was my business.

  “Go away!” I yelled.

  The doorknob rattled again. Somebody was knocking on my door, pounding on my head.

  I moved into the living room. The voice was now plainly audible.

  “Open up—I want to see you.”

  “No!”

  Silence. I stood there, waiting for the sound of receding footsteps. Another moment now and I’d be alone again. Another moment and I could walk back into the bathroom and— I heard rustling. Something was sliding under the door. Something green slithered into view. I had to move closer, had to look down at it, had to see what it was. I stared. It was a hundred-dollar bill.

  I bent down and picked it up in my left hand, the free hand. There was magic in the feel of it; I stopped trembling the moment my skin came into contact with the crispness. I could see it quite clearly and the pain behind my eyes receded. Who said money can’t work miracles? Miracles from outside the door. Opportunity knocks but once...

  I turned the bolt, opened the door. He came in. The little guy, Peter Lorre. Only it wasn’t Peter Lorre. This man was bald. He had taken his hat off and the light from the bathroom shone on an absolutely hairless skull. If a fly lit on his head, it would slip and break an ankle.

  I didn’t really think that; there was no room in my mind for a gag then. All I could do was stand there and look at him while I tried to slip the razor into my pocket.

  He turned on the living room light, walked over to the sofa, sat down, and pulled out the monocle. This time it didn’t hurt my eyes. Nothing hurt my eyes. I could feel the hundred dollar bill in my hand.

  The little guy looked up at me and smiled. “You are Eddie Haines,” he said. “Delighted to meet you. I am Professor Hermann.”

  My left hand held the money, and my right hand stayed in my pocket with the razor. So I merely nodded at his introduction. Then all at once I felt that I must sit down. I took the chair. He watched me, still smiling.

  “You will pardon my intrusion. I tried to call, but it seems your telephone has been disconnected. And it was important that I see you.”

  “How did you get here?”

  He waved his hand, the one with the diamond ring on the little finger. I wasn’t so sure it was a fake diamond any more.

  “Mr. Rickert gave me your name and address. You remember, I was in his office this afternoon. You wouldn’t talk to me, but I went there for just that reason. I was looking for you, Mr. Haines.”

  “But why?”

  “I heard your voice on an audition record. That is what so interested me.”

  “Are you in radio, Professor?”

  “No. But I am interested in voices. I have something in mind which may also interest you.”

  He had already interested me. Anybody who shoved hundred-dollar bills under my door interested me a lot. I’m funny that way.

  I was sobering up. I started to withdraw my right hand from my pocket and nicked my finger on the straight edge of the razor. I forced a grin as I swabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.

  “Afraid I must apologize to you,” I said. “You see, I was shaving when you rang. Came out in such a hurry I was still carrying my razor, and I stuck it in my pocket. Forgot all about it just now and cut myself a little.”

  Professor Hermann nodded gravely. “I see there are some things I will have to teach you. Such as learning how to tell a lie.”

  “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “My dear young man! You’ll find it’s no use trying to deceive me. I happen to know you weren’t shaving. You were getting ready to cut your throat.”

  I gaped at him and he chuckled. “And that would have been very stupid of you, my friend. Very, very stupid. Because you and I are going to make a million dollars— together.”

  “When? Where? How?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it at dinner,” he promised.

  And that’s why I put on my coat and went out with him. That’s why we sat in the little restaurant until almost nine, eating and talking.

  I did most of the talking, at first. The Professor didn’t say much, beyond encouraging me to tell about myself. I was perfectly willing to do so, as long as I could feel the crispness of that hundred-d
ollar bill in my pocket.

  He sat there, nodding and smiling and shaking his head on cue. It wasn’t until I had several jolts of coffee inside of me that I came out of my talking jag. Maybe I was foolish in letting him pump me without knowing what he really wanted.

  I lit a cigarette and pushed my cup away.

  “Seems to me as though I’m doing a lot of talking.”

  His bald head wobbled. “Go ahead. I like to listen to you. You have a wonderful voice.”

  “Tell that to the radio and TV executives. They won’t listen to me.”

  “Executives!” I caught the familiar wave of the hand, the glittering arc of the diamond swirling through space. “Your voice is too fine an instrument to be wasted on selling gasoline and laxatives.”

  “Then what interests you?” I asked.

  “I’ve already told you. It’s your voice. I’ve spent weeks now, listening to voices. Auditioning records and transcriptions with talent agents. I heard your voice by accident the other day in an advertising office. Mr. Rickert must have sent them a record.

  “Right then I knew I had found what I was looking for. Because you do have a very fine voice, Mr. Haines. I’m not speaking of diction or phrasing. I’m talking about pitch and timbre. You have a persuasive voice. You sound sincere and convincing. Women like your voice, don’t they, Mr. Haines?”

  What was the matter with this guy? I stared at him—a fat, ugly, bald-headed little stranger who tossed around hundred-dollar bills and talked about voices.

  He smiled. “You don’t understand, of course. But you will. I’m sure of that. I like your inquisitive attitude. I like your self-confidence. The way you tried to stare me down in the office this afternoon. I often amuse myself by observing the reactions of strangers. And I’ve made up my mind that with proper training you will go far. You have the voice, the appearance, the youth and the background. It was no accident that brought us together. It was Destiny.”

  Professor Hermann wasn’t smiling now. He hunched forward over the table and his eyes were glittering to match that big diamond.

  “Cut the violin music,” I said. “What’s your proposition?”

  He glanced at the restaurant clock and stood up, quickly. “We haven’t time to discuss that now,” he said. “It’s getting late. We’re due at the meeting.”

  “What meeting?”

  “Come and see. It’s important that you arrive before the testimony starts.”

  “Wait a minute. I want to know what I’m getting into here. After all, I can’t afford to waste my time—”

  He grinned. “You don’t trust me? Then I suggest you give me back that hundred-dollar bill and call it quits. I’ll go to the meeting, and you—you run along back home and cut your throat.”

  I stared at him for a long second, and then it struck me. I began to laugh. I was still laughing as I followed him out of the restaurant and down the street.

  “So you’ve decided to come along?”

  “Right,” I said. “But I still wish I knew where I was going.”

  “All you need to know,” Professor Hermann told me, “is that tonight we take the first step. The first step in the direction of a million dollars.”

  Four

  The professor led me down the street for about half a block and halted before my idea of a beautiful animal—a handsome new black Jaguar.

  “Climb in,” he said.

  “But we didn’t come in a car—”

  He gave that grin again as he jangled a set of keys before my eyes. “Correct. I parked here before I went to see you. I had everything arranged.”

  I matched his grin with a shrug and opened the door. I was relieved to know I wasn’t getting mixed up with a car thief, but at the same time I didn’t quite like the idea of his being so sure of me in advance. A smart apple, the Professor—a smart little bald-headed apple.

  We pulled away, headed down the boulevard, then went northwest toward Beverly Hills. Neither of us said anything for a while and the Jaguar just purred.

  The Professor glanced at the dashboard clock. “Right on time,” he said. “We’ll pick her up and then go to the meeting.”

  “Her?”

  “Oh, I forgot to mention that we’re bringing a guest. You will probably like her—I don’t suppose you’ve ever met a movie star before.”

  “Movie star?”

  “Well, a featured player. Seven hundred and fifty dollars a week. Lorna Lewis. You know the name?”

  Lorna Lewis, the gal with the glamorous gams. The censor’s delight. I’d heard of her, all right. This was going to be interesting, after all.

  “The movie colony is particularly impressionable,” remarked Professor Hermann. “I expect great results from them in our future work. For example, consider their interest in astrology. I can name you dozens of stars, producers, executives who won’t make a move unless the signs are right.

  “I always think of one top name out here—she’s been in pictures ever since the original Lassie was a pup—who lives according to a carefully plotted horoscope based on her date of birth. The only thing is, as she gets older she keeps moving her birthdate forward. She’s changed her age four times now, and each time she gets a new astrologer and a new horoscope. But she won’t so much as sleep with an assistant producer without consulting the stars.”

  The car climbed a hill. Poinsettias pressed myriad bleeding mouths to a garden wall.

  “About this Lorna Lewis,” I said. “Is she gone on astrology too?”

  Professor Hermann shook his head. “No. Spiritualism.”

  I blinked and sat up. “Mean to tell me that’s what you have in mind for us—some kind of spook racket?”

  “Far from it. My dear boy, don’t underestimate me. You and I are above such vulgar fakery. Our paths lead to higher things. But we’ll speak of all that at another time. Right now your cue is to observe—and be silent.”

  We entered the driveway on a hillside. Past the palm-bordered path rose a rambling neo-Spanish hacienda. I caught a glimpse of a side terrace and a swimming pool in the back. Then we drew up before broad stone steps. The motor whimpered in death.

  Professor Hermann led me to the door. The usual buzzer produced the usual chimes. We waited until the door opened.

  “Come in,” said a voice. I recognized it immediately. I recognized the black jungle of curls, the almost Negroid lips, the slim sweep of the perfectly proportioned legs. Lorna Lewis, in person.

  “Be with you in a minute.” She waved us to a love seat in the hall alcove and then dashed up the stairs, treating us to a profile and rear view of one of the finest pairs of peach-colored slacks I’d ever seen.

  “Don’t stare!” hissed the Professor. “And from now on, remember, take your cues from me.” He produced his monocle and bent forward to polish it with a handkerchief as though it were a rare scientific lens.

  “Remember, now, not a word. Let me do the talking.”

  “But—”

  She was running down the stairs again, still wearing the peach-colored slacks and a green blouse. I hadn’t appreciated the blouse before, but it was even better than the slacks.

  “Ready? Let’s go, then. Our appointment’s for nine-thirty and we mustn’t be late.” Suddenly she seemed to notice me. She paused and blinked rapidly, just to show me she could do it without knocking any of the mascara off her eyelashes. “Who’s he?” she asked.

  “Miss Lewis, this is Judson Roberts.”

  This was me, apparently. I rose and started to open my mouth, but the Professor coughed.

  “Mr. Roberts cannot answer you. He is committed to silence until midnight.”

  This time her blink was genuine. “Oh—a vow or something?”

  “Certainly not, my dear child! Mr. Roberts is no fake mystic. He’s a scientist. As such, he is engaged in an experiment of psychological conditioning. He has just arrived from the University of Lima and plans to collaborate with me in my work. I’d like to have him tell you about it some time—
I’m sure you would be interested.”

  “I know I will.” She gave me a long look and I found out she could do other tricks with her eyes besides the blinking act.

  “I’ve invited Mr. Roberts to accompany us as an observer this evening.” The Professor hesitated. “If you don’t mind.”

  “That’s fine with me. But I don’t know if Mrs. Hubbard will approve. I hear she’s very particular about strangers.”

  “More than likely.” The Professor led us outside and slid behind the wheel of the car. Lorna Lewis followed and I edged into the front seat beside her. The peach-colored slacks pressed against my thigh. I pressed back. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to talk, but I managed to make an impression.

  The Professor was doing most of the talking as he nosed the Jaguar south, then east. “Your Mrs. Hubbard probably doesn’t care for outsiders a bit. I wouldn’t, either, if I was working a nice soft racket—preying on motion picture people with phony spiritualism.”

  Lorna Lewis tossed her head. Jungle-storm.

  “You’ll see! Mrs. Hubbard is different. She doesn’t try to fool anyone with tricks or hocus-pocus.”

  “No ectoplasm or apparitions? What about rope escapes and raps? Does she produce apports?”

  “You’re making fun of me.” Her fingers caressed a silver cigarette case. “Mr. Roberts?”

  “Mr. Roberts does not smoke,” snapped the Professor.

  That was news to me. I wondered if I also did not drink. Probably I fasted a lot, too. Certainly I had nothing to do with women. Eyeing Lorna Lewis, I decided that was one rule which would be changed in a hurry.

  “My dear Miss Lewis,” purred the Professor, “I am by nature a skeptic and by profession a psychologist. As such I have devoted much time to the investigation of so-called psychic phenomena. I am sorry to report that I have never seen a genuine medium.”

  “But Mrs. Hubbard doesn’t put on a show,” the girl protested. “Why, I’ve only been there once before, and it was just like sitting down for a visit. The lights were on and everything. But the things she told me, the things she knew about me, it was simply uncanny!