James Chase - This Way for a Shroud

She moved along with him, her hand on his arm towards the entrance to the maze.

“Do you know that man?” she asked suddenly.

Pete stiffened and looked sharply at her.

“What man?”

“The one you keep looking at. The one in the black suit. He’s been following us all the morning.”

“Has he?” Pete tried to keep his voice steady. “I — I think I’ve seen him somewhere before.”

By now they had reached the pay-box outside the maze, and Pete moved forward to buy the tickets. It seemed to be the only side-show where there was no queue, and the blonde, middle-aged woman seemed glad to sell him the tickets.

“Keep to your left as you go in,” she said as she gave him the change. “If you get lost ring the bell. You’ll find plenty of bell-pushes as you go through the maze. Someone will come and find you.”

Pete thanked her and joined Frances who was waiting at the entrance. He followed her down a long passage and at the last moment he looked back anxiously over his shoulder. He could see no sign of Moe.

“What do we do?” Frances asked as she walked just ahead of him. “It’s awfully stuffy in here, isn’t it?”

“You won’t find it stuffy once we get into the maze,” Pete assured her. “It’s in the open air.”

They walked a few yards and then they found themselves suddenly in the maze.

The maze was constructed of fifteen-foot-high walls, lined on either side by mirrors. The passage between the wall was six foot wide, just wide enough for two people to walk side by side. The mirrors were so angled that they reflected from one mirror to the other, and as Frances and Pete stepped into the first long passage they were immediately hemmed in and surrounded by their own reflections, multiplied thirty or forty times.

The effect was so startling and overpowering that Frances came to an abrupt standstill.

“I don’t think I’m going to like this,” she said, turning to Pete. “Do you think we’ll ever find our way out?”

“It’s all right,” he said, taking her arm. “We just go straight ahead, and when we come to a cross section we turn to the left. If we keep turning to the left we’ll be out in ten minutes or so.”

“Well, all right,” Frances said doubtfully. “But I don’t really like it.”

He took her arm and walked her forward. He wanted to get her into the centre of the maze in case Moe had seen them and was following them. For some minutes they walked along the mirror-lined paths, turning to the left when they came to the cross sections.

Above them as they walked they could see the blue sky and hear the strident noise of the amusement park. Each path that they came to was a replica of the one they had just left. Their reflections surrounded them. What appeared to be an endless path would suddenly terminate in a cul-de-sac so they had to retrace their way until they found a turning which they had passed without noticing it.

After they had walked for two or three minutes, Frances said suddenly, “I think we should try to get out now. It’s rather dull, isn’t it?”

Pete stopped. He looked back down the path along which they had come. Twenty faces with twenty disfiguring birthmarks stared at him, making him feel a little sick.

Now he had come to the moment when he had to tell her the truth, he realized how difficult it was going to be. There was so little time. Any moment Moe might appear at the end of one of these paths.

“I brought you here to tell you something,” he began. “I’m afraid it is going to be a shock to you.”

She looked quickly at him, and he saw her stiffen slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I’m not Burt Stevens. My name is Pete Weiner. We haven’t much time. Please listen to me and please don’t be frightened.”

He saw alarm jump into her eyes, and he felt desperately sorry for her. To suddenly find herself in this complicated maze with someone who now turns out to be a complete stranger was an alarming experience, he thought, as he tried to smile at her.

“I don’t understand,” she said steadily. “Is this a joke?”

“I wish it was,” he said earnestly. “Before I say anything more I want you to know I wouldn’t harm you for anything in the world. You’re safe with me. So please try not to be frightened.”

She moved a step away from him.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s so little time,” he said, his mind groping for the right words. “I don’t know what it is all about myself. I was sent to hurt you. That man who has been following us came with me. He’s dangerous. I know it sounds unbelievable, but he will kill you if he can get you alone. The only way to save you is for me to kill him while you escape. That’s why I brought you here. You must do exactly what I tell you…” He broke off as he saw terror darken her eyes.

As she listened to the quiet, tense voice, she believed that she was listening to a madman. The newspapers were always mentioning horrible cases of lunatics who trapped girls in lonely places and murdered them. She backed away, staring at Pete, and she raised her hands in an imploring gesture for him to keep his distance.

Seeing her rising panic, Pete remained still. He had realized the danger of telling her the truth. He guessed she might jump to the conclusion that he was a lunatic, and with a sick feeling of despair he saw now that was exactly what she was thinking.

“Please don’t be frightened, Frankie,” he said. “Please trust me. I’m not cracked, and I wouldn’t hurt you. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see I only want to help you?”

“Please go away,” she said, white-faced but still calm. “I can find my way out without your help. Just please go away and leave me.”

“I will go,” he said earnestly, “but you must first listen to what I have to say. This man who is following us has been told to kill you. I don’t know why, but he will do it unless I stop him. They sent me a photograph of you so I should know you. Look, I’ll show it to you. Perhaps it will convince you I’m speaking the truth.”

Seeing her mounting panic, he hurriedly thrust his hand inside his coat for his billfold. He felt if he could only show her the photograph she must realize the danger she was in.

He jerked out the billfold, and as he did so his wrist-watch became entangled with the handle of the ice-pick, and the pick slid out of its sheath and fell on the path at his feet.

Frances looked down and saw the ice-pick. She stared at the murderously sharp blade in horror. Then she looked up and met Pete’s frightened, guilty eyes. A cold chill settled around her heart.

She didn’t hesitate. She was sure now he was a dangerous lunatic who had tricked her into this labyrinth of mirrors to do her harm, and she knew if it came to a struggle she would stand no chance against him. So she spun around and ran.

“Frankie! Please!”

His agonized cry only acted as a spur, and her long legs carried her down the straight, narrow path as fast as she could drive them.

As she ran she kept the fingers of her left hand against the wall of mirrors. It was only by feel that she found a turning, down which she sped. She took another turning, this time to the right, and she ran frantically down yet another nightmare path, her dark hair streaming behind her, her face white, her breath coming in laboured gasps.

She had no idea how long she ran, how often she twisted and turned. It was like running on a treadmill; every step she took brought her to the same place, or what appeared to be the same place.

Finally she could run no more, and she leaned against the mirrored wall, her hands pressing her breasts, her eyes closed as she struggled to regain her breath.

After a few moments she opened her eyes and stared at her reflection in the mirror opposite her. She was shocked to see how frightened she looked, how big her eyes were and how wild and disordered her usually sleek, neat hair had become.