William Gresham - Nightmare Alley

Beauty, lolling in the most comfortable chair in the room, suddenly started up and began to scratch her chin with her hind foot. Stan eased Grindle away toward the door. As it closed behind them he saw Beauty biting industriously at the fur over her ribs.

On the steps of the plant its owner paused. From his pocket he took out two envelopes, held them to the light and handed one to Stan. “Here-might as well give you this now, Carlisle. I was going to send it to Mrs. Prescott as you suggested, but you can save me the trouble. This other we won’t need.” He tore the envelope and its contents to bits.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Grindle.”

The smile broke out again with a glitter of white teeth. “It was a warrant for your arrest-in case you tried any fraudulent methods of producing phenomena. It wasn’t my idea, Mr. Carlisle. I have to take advice once in a while, you know, from some of the boys who look after my interests.”

Stan was erect and the blue eyes were hard. “That warrant was signed by a judge?”

“I presume so.”

“And on what grounds was I supposed to be arrested-if you or one of your employees thought he detected trickery?”

“Why, with conspiracy with intent to defraud.”

“And how would I have defrauded you, Mr. Grindle? Out of taxi fare from New York?”

The big man frowned. “You understand, I had nothing to do with it. Mr. Anderson-”

“You may tell Mr. Anderson,” said the Rev. Carlisle tautly, “that I would be quite capable of suing for false arrest. I have never taken a penny for exercising gifts of mediumship. I never shall. Good night, sir.”

He got into the waiting car and said coldly to the driver, “Just to the railroad station-don’t drive me all the way in to New York.”

Grindle stood gaping after him, then turned and went back to the plant.

Anderson was a good lad, devoted, devoted. Couldn’t ask for more loyalty. But God damn it, he didn’t understand. He just didn’t understand the deeper, the spiritual things of life. Well, from now on Andy would be told to keep his nose out of psychic research.

The others had left the directors’ room but Anderson was still there. He was attacking the end of the conference table with mighty heaves, trying to make the light flash.

“Give it up, Andy,” the Chief said acidly. “On home. Go on.”

“I’ll find out how he did it! He did something.”

“Andy, you can’t find it in your soul anywhere to admit that it might have been an odylic force that you can’t see or feel or measure?”

“Nuts, Chief. I know a hustler when I see one.”

“I said go home, Andy.”

“You’re the boss.”

As he was leaving Grindle called to him: “And fire the woman you had taking care of Beauty’s coat. It’s a disgrace-she’s been neglected.”

Anderson’s voice was smoldering but weary. “What is it now, Chief?”

“It’s disgusting-Beauty’s coat is swarming with fleas.”

“Okay, Chief. She gets the gate tomorrow.” He walked quickly from the plant, found his car in the parking lot and rammed in the ignition key irritably. That goddamned phoney reverend. He would be just the one to weasel inside the Chief. And the Chief would protect him. But how in the jumping blue blazes of merry hell did he ever turn that light on and off inside the case? Odylic force, balls!

“Is that your odylic force, Reverend?”

“Yeah. That’s it, babe. Like it?”

She chuckled, warm and enfolding, beneath him in the dark of the bedroom.

“Wait, lover. Let’s rest.”

They rested. Stan said, “He’s going overboard, all right. He’s not so tough-just another chump.”

“Go easy with him, Stan.”

“I’m easy. Every test a little stronger until he’s fattened up for the full-form stuff. There’s only one thing-”

“Molly?”

“Yeah, Molly. That dame’s going to give us a lot of trouble.”

“She can be handled.”

“Yeah. But it wears you out, handling. Lilith, I’m sick of the dame. She’s like a rock around my neck.”

“Patience, darling. There’s no one else.”

They lay silent for a time, seeing each other with their finger tips and with their mouths.

“Lilith-”

“What, lover?”

“What does that guy really want? I’ve beaten him over the head with ‘forgiveness’ but I get only half a response. He doesn’t gobble it. There’s something else. Okay. We bring back the dead dame. She tells him he’s forgiven and everything’s jake. But where do we go from there?”

Dr. Lilith Ritter, at the moment in a very unethical but satisfying position in relation to one of her patients, laughed deep in her throat.

“What does he want to do? With his first love? Don’t be so naïve, lover. He wants to do this… and this…”

“But-no; that’s no good. Not with Molly. She’ll never-”

“Oh, yes, she will.”

“Lilith, I know that dame. She never stepped out of line once in all the years we been teamed up. I can’t sell her on jazzing the chump.”

“Yes, you can, darling.”

“Christ’s sake, how? ”

The warm mouth closed his and he forgot Molly and the con game which kept him in a torment of scheming. Through their pressed lips Lilith murmured, “I’ll tell you when the time comes.”

The psychic lamp, provided by the Rev. Carlisle, shed no light except through a single dark-red disc in the center of its tin slide. The medium, dressed in a black silk robe, black silk pajamas and slippers, lay back in an armchair on one side of the billiard-room doorway. Grindle, in his shirtsleeves, sat opposite him, the lamp on a coffee table at his side. Dark curtains covered the door and a faint breeze tugged at them. Carlisle had raised one window in the inner room a few inches for ventilation. It was not open far enough for a man to stick his head through and it had been sealed. Grindle had pressed his signet ring into the hot wax. The other windows were sealed shut. There was a fifteen foot drop to the lawn outside, which sloped down to the river.

Beyond the darkened billiard room the two men waited. The medium’s head was thrown back. His left wrist was fastened to Grindle’s right by a long strand of copper wire, and he had poured salt water on their wrists.

The heel of the reverend’s slipper was pressed tight against the leg of his chair.

Rap!

It seemed to come from the table bearing the red lantern.

Rap!

“Is there one in spirit life speaking?” The medium’s words were a hoarse whisper.

Rap! Rap! Rap!

“We greet you. Are conditions favorable? May we turn up the lamp a little?”

Three more raps answered him. Grindle leaned over and raised the lamp’s wick until a warning rap commanded him to stop. His big face was intent and ill at ease, but Stan detected no craft or outright skepticism. He was interested, moving in the right direction.

They waited. More silence. Then from beyond the dark draperies of the doorway came another knock-a hollow, musical sound, as if something had struck the window. Grindle started from his chair but the warning, upraised hand of the spiritualist stopped him. Carlisle’s breathing came fast now, and heavy, and he seemed to lose consciousness.

The “sitter” began to sweat. Did he imagine a tingling discharge of current at his wrist where the wire was bound?

Another sound, a distinct click, from the billiard room. Then a whole chorus of clicks which he made out to be billiard balls, knocking against one another, sometimes in rhythm, as if they were dancing.

Sweat began to roll from the industrialist’s forehead. It was a hot night, but not that hot. His shirt was sticking to his chest and his hands were dripping.