William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

Stan felt in his pocket for a quarter and caught himself just in time. The butler bowed out.

“Gee, lookit, Stan! Champagne!”

“One glass for you, Cahill. We’re working. If you load up on that stuff you’ll be calling the old girl ‘dearie.’ ”

“Aw, Stan.”

He poured, put a few drops in his own glass, then carried the bottle into the bathroom and emptied the rest, bubbling gaily, down the drain of the washbowl.

From the rear Mrs. Bradburn Harrington looked like a little girl, but, Christ, what a crow when you see her head-on, Stan thought. She tapped a brass gong until the babble died. “Now I have a real treat for us. Mr. Stanton, whom I’m sure many of us have seen in the theater, will show us some wonderful things. I don’t know just what they’re going to do so I’ll let Mr. Stanton tell you all about it himself.”

Stan stood in the hall beside Molly. He took a deep breath and smoothed down his hair with both hands. The butler suddenly appeared beside him, holding a silver plate. On it was a slip of paper, folded. “Mis’ Harrington tell me to give you this, sir.”

Stan took it, unfolded it deftly with one hand, and read it at a single glance. He crushed it and swept it into his pocket, his face darkening. Molly whispered, “What’s the matter, hon? What’s happened?”

“Nothing!” he spat out savagely. “It’s in the bag.”

From the drawing room Mrs. Harrington’s voice continued, “… and it will all be very exciting, I’m sure. May I present Mr. Stanton.”

Stan drew a breath and walked in. He bowed to the hostess, again to the guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, what we are about to do may have many explanations. I shall offer none. In the realm of the human mind science has hardly scratched the surface. Most of its mysteries lie hidden from us yet. But down through the years certain people have had unusual gifts. I take no credit for mine.” This time his bow was hardly more than a lowering of the eyes. This audience was the top. This was class. With a momentary shock Stan recognized a famous novelist, tall, slightly stooped, half bald. One of the season’s debutantes, who had already made the papers with an affair involving a titled émigré, sat primly holding a highball on her knee, her white dress so low-cut that Stan fancied he could see the aureoles of her nipples.

“My family was Scotch originally, and the Scotch are said to possess strange faculties.” The gray head of a stern-faced old judge nodded. “My ancestors used to call it ‘second sight.’ I shall call it simply-mentalism. It is a well-known fact that the minds of two people can establish a closer communication than words. A rapport . I discovered such a person several years ago. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to present my assistant, Miss Cahill.”

Molly swept in smiling, with her long stride, and rested her hand lightly on Stan’s bent forearm. The debutante turned to a young man sitting on the arm of her chair. “Friend of yours, Diggie?” He closed her lips with his hand, staring fascinated at Molly.

Her eyes were half closed, her lips slightly parted. The old judge quietly took off his reading glasses.

“If I may trouble you, I should like to have Miss Cahill recline on that sofa.”

There was a scurry of people finding other seats and a man snickered. Stan led Molly to the sofa and arranged a pillow behind her. She lifted her feet and he tucked the folds of the sequinned gown up from the floor. Reaching into his waistcoat pocket he drew out a ball of rock crystal the size of a marble and held it above the level of her eyes. “Concentrate.”

The room was still at last.

“Your eyelids are growing heavy. Heavy. Heavy. You cannot lift them. You are falling asleep. Sleep. Sleep…”

Molly let her breath out in a long sigh and the lines about her mouth relaxed. Stan picked up her hand and laid it in her lap. She was limp. He turned to the company: “I have placed her in deep hypnosis. It is the only way I know by which telepathy can be made sure. I shall now pass among you, and I shall ask you to show me a number of objects, such as jewels, theater tickets, anything you wish.”

He turned back to the reclining girl. “Miss Cahill, I shall touch a number of objects in this room. As I touch them you are to describe them. Is that clear?”

Dreamily she nodded. Her voice was a whisper. “Yes. Objects. Describe…”

Stan crossed the room and the old judge held out a gold fountain pen. Stan took it, focused his attention on it, his eyes widening. His back was to Molly and her head was turned toward the back of the sofa. She could see nothing. But her voice came as from a distance, just clear enough for them to hear if they listened hard. “A pen. A fountain pen. Gold. And something’s… engraved. A … G … K .”

There was a ripple of applause, which Stan stopped with a lifted hand.

The hostess pointed to the spray of little brown orchids she wore as a corsage. Molly’s voice went on, far away. “Flowers… beautiful flowers… they’re… they’re… or… orchids, I think.”

The crowd sucked in its breath.

The debutante with the scarlet lips and the low-cut dress beckoned to Stan. When he drew near she reached into the pocket of the young man beside her and took out a gold mesh vanity case. Throwing open the cover, she held it so that only Stan could see what it contained. He frowned and she giggled up at him. “Go on, Mister Mindreader. Read my mind.”

Stan stood motionless. He took a deep breath and by straining it against his throat forced the color to rise in his face.

“Look. He blushes too,” said the girl.

The Great Stanton never moved but Molly’s voice went on. “Something… something… do I have to tell what it is?”

Over his shoulder Stan said softly, “No, never mind it.”

The girl snapped the bag shut and replaced it in the man’s pocket. “You win, brother. You win.” She gulped down the rest of her drink.

The Great Stanton bowed. “Lest I be accused of using trickery and signaling Miss Cahill, I should like a committee to follow me from the room for a few moments. Five or six persons will do nicely. And I shall ask someone here to take a slip of paper and record what Miss Cahill says while I am out of the room.”

The hostess volunteered, and three couples followed Stan across the hall and into the library. When they were inside he closed the door. Something touched his hand; it was cold and made him jump. The guests laughed. Beside him stood a harlequin Great Dane, gazing up with eyes that held mastery in their steadiness and an odd loneliness too. The dog nudged Stan’s leg with his paw and the mentalist began to scratch him idly behind the ears while he spoke to the others.

“I should like one of you now to choose some card in a pack of fifty-two.”

“Deuce of clubs.”

“Fine. Remember it. Now will someone select a color?”

“Chartreuse.”

“That’s a little difficult to visualize, but we’ll try. Now will one of the ladies think of a state-any state in the union.”

“That’s easy,” the girl spoke with a drawl. “There’s only one state worth thinking about-Alabama.”

“Alabama. Excellent. But would you care to change your mind?”

“No, indeedy. It’s Alabama for sure.”

Stanton bowed. “Shall we join the others?”

He held the door for them and they filed out. Stan knelt and laid his cheek against that of the Great Dane. “Hello, beautiful. Bet you wish you were my dog, don’t you?”

The Dane whined softly.

“Don’t let ’em get you down, boy. Bite ’em in their fat asses.”

He rose, brushed his lapel, and strolled back to the lights and the voices.