Дональд Уэстлейк - Help, I Am Being Held Prisoner

“I have only one question, Künt,” the warden said. “If you aren’t doing these damn things, who is?”

“I have no idea, sir,” I said. “I wish I knew.”

“Haven’t you thought about it?”

“Yes, sir, I have. But I don’t even have any suspects to mention. I just can’t think of anybody who might be doing this stuff.”

“Is there anybody here who knows about your practical jokes?”

“Good God, no! Not among the prisoners, sir.”

He gave a somewhat grim smile. “I think I have to believe a response that forceful,” he said. “But you realize, Künt, that not every prisoner in this institution could have performed these little tricks.”

“Sir?”

“It requires a man with privileges,” he said. “A man like you, with access to various parts of the prison closed to many of the inmates.”

“Yes, sir, I see that.”

He shook his head. “It just keeps coming back to you,” he said. “I want to believe you, I want to believe that I’m capable of making an accurate estimate of a man, but goddammit Künt it just keeps pointing at nobody else but you.”

“I realize that, sir,” I said. “And I just don’t have anything to say, except it isn’t me.”

He ticked it off on his fingers. “You have a record in this area,” he said. “You have the kind of access needed by whoever is doing these things. And neither one of us can think of anybody else likely to be doing them.”

It did sound damning, I had to admit it. “If I couldn’t read my own mind,” I said, “I’d be inclined to think I was guilty myself. I really can’t argue with that.”

“There’s another point,” he said. “Small, but significant. None of these events occurred before you arrived here. And none of them occurred during the two weeks that I took away your privileges.”

I thought I knew what was coming, and never has anyone awaited a sentencing with such mixed feelings. I was sure I was about to be relieved from attendance at the next bank robbery, which was beautiful with me since I had as yet no way to counter the thing, but of course simultaneous with that I would also be relieved from attendance at my sessions with Marian. That part wouldn’t be so much fun. I waited, and said nothing.

Nor did the warden. He’d seemed about to go on, but instead he sat there, frowning at me, studying me, thinking about me, and once again his fingers began to go bunk-bunk. Except that this time they more nearly went blup-blup, because he had inadvertently drummed his fingers into the little pool of vegetable beef soup at the base of the shampoo bottle.

He gave a little start, looked at his fingertips with a glare of disgust that reminded me strongly of Phil, and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket to deal with the matter. While doing that, he turned his glower on me and said, “I don’t believe in coming at a man from his blind side, Künt, so I’m going to give you fair warning. If this sort of thing happens again, and you don’t have a rock-solid alibi, and there is no absolutely convincing alternate explanation, I will take you off privileges of any kind. And I will keep you off privileges until it happens again . If it happens while you’re off privileges, in a way that could only be done by a man with access to privileged areas, I’ll accept that as proof of your innocence.”

“Yes, sir,” I said. So I was reprieved once more, both for Marian and the bank.

If only once I could greet an event in my life without ambivalence.

“In the meantime,” he said, “assuming you really are innocent, it might pay you to do some detective work on your own.”

Be an informer, he meant, and I was more than willing to do so. “Yes, sir,” I said. “I’ll be trying to find him, I promise.”

“That’s good,” he said. He considered me, seemed to think of various other things he might say, and in the end merely shook his head slightly and said to Stoon, “Very well.”

Outside, as Stoon and I walked down the corridor together, he said, “If it was me, I’d lock you in over in the restricted cells and throw the key away.”

I was glad it wasn’t him.

That Saturday Andy Butler left. The day before was a very emotional experience for everybody, and especially for Andy. The cooks prepared a special meal for him, and the mess hall that evening turned into a kind of testimonial dinner on Andy’s behalf. It was a mark of his universal esteem that all eight of the tunnel insiders stayed in prison to attend that dinner.

Although silence — or at the most a kind of semi-whispered conversation — was the order of the day in the mess hall under normal circumstances, the rules were abrogated this time sufficiently to allow particular inmates to stand up and make acclamatory speeches, which tended to make up in enthusiasm what they may have generally lacked in polish.

Then I abruptly found that I too was making a speech. I had been sitting near Andy, watching him smile, watching him blink back tears and swallow down the emotions welling up within him, and at a moment when a speaker had finished and the applause had died down without anyone immediately leaping to his feet damned if I didn’t leap to my feet. “Gentlemen,” I said, and as the faces turned eagerly, happily toward me, I stopped dead.

What the hell was I doing? I’d been ready to Confess All. I’d been just about to tell them the entire truth about my past as a practical joker, and how Andy’s good example, his ability to get along with all the people around him, had cured me. Good Christ, talk about sealing your own death warrant!

They were all watching me, hundreds of faces staring up, waiting. I had to say something, I realized that, but it wasn’t going to be the thing that had driven me to my feet, not by a long shot. “Uhh,” I said, “I don’t really have much to say.” Well, that’s beautiful, I thought. “It’s just, uh, that Andy and I have been cellmates for almost three months now, and I want to say he’s the finest man I ever lived with.”

Christ. The whole place cracked up; gales of laughter bounced off the gray walls. I stood there for a few seconds, but they weren’t going to quiet down so I could say anything more, and in any event I couldn’t think of anything rational that I could add. So finally I just sat down again, and after a while somebody else got up, and then somebody else, and gradually I began to feel that my contribution was maybe going to be forgotten after all.

At the end Andy got to his feet. He thanked everybody, he told us he was choked up with emotion, and he said he’d never forget us. “I can only hope the people on the outside are as good as you fellows,” he said.

He glanced my way just once, and I saw a twinkle in his eye, and I thought, Don’t do it, Andy, don’t make a joke, I don’t think I could stand it. I winced, bracing myself for it, but the moment passed, he said nothing, and at the finish he was given a standing ovation and a round of “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow.”

The next day, just before he left, he told me he’d thought of one or two comments he might make at that juncture, but that when he’d seen my stricken expression he’d decided to let it ride. “A joke wouldn’t have been worth it,” he said. “Not the way you were going to feel. And I didn’t want them razzing you for a couple months later on.”

Another lesson for me. “Thanks, Andy,” I said. “You really are a prince.”

He laughed, and we shook hands. “Don’t let problems worry you, Harry,” he said. “They’ll work themselves out pretty soon. Just hang in there.”

Hang in there. Two days from now, I thought, I’m going to rob a bank. “I’ll do my best, Andy,” I said. “Good luck.”