Брендан Дюбуа - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2006

By nine o’clock the crowd had thinned, but its power was still with him. With the insolence of confidence, he attached himself to the painter and to the man’s plans for dinner with a few influential clients.

When he got home at two o’clock, he did not know whether his exultation was the racing of his own pulse or the throbbing attention of the inner listener. He paced the living room in wide, jagged arcs; finally he took a sleeping pill and forced himself to lie on the bed.

Around five o’clock his staring eyes closed, but behind their lids a dream began almost at once: at the end of a flame colored carpet, down which he walked for dozens of triumphant yards, he was greeted by a massive figure in red.

John wiped his face with a gray handkerchief and turned to the last entry in his notebook. He was making his daily report to the gentleman known simply as M, who sat behind a battered desk in an office that had seen better centuries. M wore a gray cape as thin as smoke, and a chronic scowl.

“Merchandise check on Judson A. Wick,” John read. “Requested Fame and Influence. Field: none. When pressed, subject chose the film industry, a desire inspired by watching a friend’s success. Here is the printout on his mental processes: Settled on becoming a producer, a notion which he got from his ex-wife. Decided to produce a certain novel, an idea which came from the same source. Determined that the novel was brilliant, by checking the opinion of a noted film critic. Selected a screenwriter and director, names he also got from the critic. Subject ended the trial period feeling confident and self-assured, a state which he induced by seeking out the reactions of influential persons at a fashionable cultural event.”

M glowered. “Do you mean there wasn’t even one of his own? Not one opinion or desire?”

“No, all were derived from other people. I believe he even got the idea of selling his soul from the Gounod opera.”

“Damnation!” roared M. “There are too many like him! They’re ruining my business! I need some kind of consumer protection. It’s fraud, that’s what it is — people trying to sell me borrowed merchandise. If I didn’t check them out first, they’d bankrupt me.” He sighed, in a shower of sparks. “Why are the ones without a soul of their own always the most eager to sell?”

John smiled wryly. “I’ll have the incident erased from Wick’s mind.”

“What mind?” snarled M. “Just suppose I took people like that. Where’s my profit? Where’s my pleasure? Turn them into servants, procurers of other souls, and they’d feel right at home. No agony at all.” His glance darted hotly over John’s face. “Not like you, eh, Doctor?”

“No, not like me.”

“Well,” sighed M, “get back out into the field. And see if you can find me someone like you. Someone with a clear title to his property.”

Something in the depths of John Faust’s eyes glowed in pain for a moment. Then he closed his notebook and left the office wearily and sadly.

Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine , June 1976. Copyright © 1976 by Davis Publications, reprinted by permission of the author’s estate.