Fredric Brown - Homicide Sanitarium

For the first time I felt a touch of fear. "What do you mean?" I asked.

"You gave Cole his fantasies, but you don't know your own. You don't know that--under the pressure, possibly, of working too hard and studying too hard--your own mind cracked. You don't know that your million-dollar rat-killer is your fantasy.

You don't believe me, now that I'm telling you that it is a fantasy. You'll never believe it. The paranoiac builds up an air-tight system of excuses and rationalization to support his insane delusions. You'll never believe me."

I tried to sit up and couldn't. I realized then that it wasn't a matter of my arms being tied. Jack had put the strait jacket on me. "You're part of it, then," I said.

"You're one of those in the plot against me."

"Sure, sure. You know, Brian. I can guess what started it. Or rather what set it off, probably only a few days ago. It was when Dr. Roth killed your cat. That dream you told me about tonight-- the cat killing Dr. Roth. Your mind wouldn't accept the truth. Even your subconscious mind reversed the facts for the dream. I wonder what really happened. Possibly your cat killed a rat that was an important part of an experiment and, in anger, Dr. Roth--"

"You're crazy," I shouted. "Crazy!"

"And ever since, Brian, you've been talking to a cat that wasn't there. I thought you were kidding, at first. When I figured out the truth, I told Wheeler what I figured.

When you gave us a clue where the cat was supposed to be, on the mantel, he raised his gun and pretended--"

"Jack!" I begged him, to break off the silly things he was saying. "If you're going to help them railroad me, even if you're in on the plot--please get them to let me take Beautiful with me. Don't take her away too. Please!"

Cars were driving up outside. I could feel the comforting weight and warmth of the cat sleeping on my chest.

"Don't worry, Brian," Jack said quietly. "That cat'll go wherever you go.

Nobody can take it away from you. Nobody."

When the phone rang, Tim McCracken grabbed for it. Then he pulled back his hand and made himself count up to ten, slowly, before he lifted the receiver. Just because it was the first time the darned thing had let out a peep in a week, he didn't want whoever was calling to think he'd been sitting there waiting for the call.

Sure, business was bad, but a guy had to bluff. Or did he? While he was counting to ten, McCracken let his eyes run around the well-furnished office that constituted his bluff. He wondered again if he hadn't been foolish to sink the profits from his first three cases into that layout.

But those cases had come so easily and so quickly after he'd quit his job with the police department, and gone out on his own. They'd all come, though, when his office was a secondhand desk in a ramshackle building. And since then--

Eight, nine, ten. He picked up the phone, and said:

"Timothy McCracken Detective Agency. McCracken speaking."

"About that rent, McCracken," came a gruff voice. "When you going to pay up?"

"I explained about that yesterday, Mr.--Say, who is this? You're not Mr.

Rogers."

There was a baritone chuckle at the other end of the line.

"Mack, you ought to be a detective, the way you catch on to things. This is Cap Zehnder. How're tricks? Never mind, you just told me."

McCracken grunted disgustedly. "Cap, if I didn't used to work for you, I'd come over and slap your big ears down for that gag."

"Keep your scanties on, Mack," said Zehnder. "That ain't why I called you. If you still think you're a private detective, I got a client for you. He asked for you by name, even. I didn't have to recommend you. Now what do you say?"

"My God!" said McCracken. "Give quick! Where is he?"

"In the jug, right here. Suspicion of murder. It says it heard of you and wants you to help it beat the rap."

"It? What do you mean, it? You started out with a 'he.' "

"Did I?" The captain chuckled. "My error. It's a mocking bird. And it crochets."

"It what?"

"I said crochets. For a hobby. But it's a mocking bird for a vocation. But, I'm not going to explain everything over the phone. If you want to make twelve bucks, come on over."

McCracken gasped. "Twelve bucks? Listen, Cap, they didn't transfer you to the narcotic squad and put you testing samples, did they? What do you mean, twelve bucks?"

"Okay, don't come then," Zehnder said stiffly. "That's all the money, in cash, he's got. But maybe you can blackmail him for more if you get him off. He'll have a salary check coming from the theatre, if they don't fire him."

"But holy cow, Cap, I can't handle a murder investigation for a twelve buck advance. What's it about? Who'd he kill?"

"Don't you read the papers? Story's in the Morning Blade. Of course, if you haven't got three cents--"

"Okay, okay! Save your breath to cool your soup. I'll drop around and see what the guy looks like."

"Fine, Mack. Listen, Jerold Bell's coming over to see him, too. I told him to stop by and pick you up. Thought I'd save you cab-fare or a walk."

"Bell?" echoed McCracken. "Oh, the insurance guy. I remember him. Where's he figure in?"

"He insured the ring," Zehnder explained. "It's in the papers. Buy one, and I'll refund your three cents." There was a click in the receiver.

McCracken took his hat from the bottom drawer of his desk, and put it on his head. He'd wait for Bell in the lobby and read the newspaper meanwhile.

He looked at his reflection in the mirror of the elevator and wondered if he'd been a triple-dyed sap to quit a paying job for a gamble on being his own boss. Six months ago, he'd been drawing down a paycheck every week, and no overhead to worry about. And this morning, he'd had a cup of coffee for breakfast, instead of the ham and eggs he usually ate.

Twelve bucks would buy a lot of ham and eggs. He hoped Zehnder hadn't guessed how badly he needed that twelve bucks.

The elderly walrus at the cigar counter was waiting on another customer, and McCracken fished up the contents of his pockets and looked at them. There was a folder of matches, three keys, and two pennies in cash, one of which was Canadian.

He shoved his hand back into his pocket, as the walrus turned.

"Morning Blade, George," said McCracken. He grinned engagingly. "Got a case today, George! So don't let the credit worry you. I'll be back in the money soon. Give me a pack of cigarettes, too."

"That's fine, Mr. McCracken," said George. "But if you're working, how come you can't pay--"

"Don't quibble, George. I'm going over now to pick up my retainer. I'll pay you this afternoon."

The walrus looked at him darkly, and then passed the cigarettes across the counter. McCracken had meanwhile picked up the top newspaper from the pile alongside the cash register.

The banner line read: "Italians Suffer New Reverses." That wouldn't be it.

"President Vetoes --" No. But there was two-column head at one side halfway down the page. It read:

SLIMJIM LEE MURDERED, ROBBED

The walrus had followed the direction of his gaze. "Say, is that the case you're gonna work on, Mr. McCracken?" he asked, and there was respect in his tone of voice.

McCracken's eyes caught the words "Mocking Bird" in the second paragraph.

He nodded absently, continuing to read.

"Golly," said the walrus. "Reckon whoever's hiring you has all kinds of dough, then. Slimjim used to be the biggest bookie in town. And the way he sometimes threw money around . . . You stick 'em for plenty, young feller."

"Mmmm," said McCracken, and started to add that you couldn't throw money around the way Slimjim Lee had thrown it, and still have much left, and that the big-shot gambler was reputed to be broke. Anyway, he wasn't working for Slimjim's heirs, if any.