Gene Wolfe - Free Live Free

“I’ll be gone before sundown, so what do I care?” Free said. “You like women, don’t you, Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes,” Barnes admitted, “yes, I do.”

“You’re a bigger man on the inside than on the outside, Mr. Barnes.”

“Thank you,” Barnes said, “but I’d rather be bigger on the outside too.”

“Don’t be any bigger fool than you can help, Mr. Barnes. You said you wasn’t widely respected. I said I respect you, and I do. Only you’ve got hold of a few things you don’t understand hardly at all. Right now you’re trying to figure out how you can ask me about that treasure—some way that will get me to tell you what I don’t know myself about something you’re not even close to understanding.” Old Mr. Free pointed to the wall. There was a sign on it, a white sign of painted boards with black lettering that said something.

Barnes went to it and pushed it aside and looked through the hole in the wall behind it. It was Madame Serpentina’s room, but Candy Garth sat there naked on Madame Serpentina’s bed smoking one of Madame Serpentina’s cigarettes. After a moment Barnes saw that the rumpled sheets of the bed were not rumpled sheets at all, but heaps of rings and diamond bracelets. The key to the room lay on the dresser near the hole, beside Madame Serpentina’s hairbrush, and he knew that if only he could seize it he could open the door and go in—although it would not be necessary for him to walk down the hall and turn the key in the lock, because the wall itself would melt away, the whole house be transformed. He thrust his arm through the hole, feeling a deep pleasure.

Outside, the doorman’s whistle blew thinly and shrilly. He opened his eyes, uncertain for a moment where he was. Gray light shone through the drapes. The whistle blew again. Going to catch an early flight, Barnes thought. He remembered the year he had covered the whole East Coast for Continental Compactors, Inc. The whole damned East Coast. Boston to Miami by plane a couple of times. Philly to New York on the train, riding the ferry from Long Island to Connecticut.

Candy had rolled away, taking the blanket with her—that was surely for the best. One arm was thrust out from under his topcoat, and his feet were cold. The towel lay in a crumpled heap to one side. He stood up, wrapping the towel around him. Candy looked like a bear lying there in her brown blanket, her back to him. The bed that could not be mussed was still unmussed, pristine. The witch slept like an actress in a movie, her profile, almost but not quite too strong to be lovely, outlined against the white sheet, her enormous eyes closed in sleep. Stubb lay on his back, his mouth open, his face strange without its glasses.

Barnes went into the bathroom and switched on the lights. His cheeks were blue with stubble; he rubbed it with both hands, wishing that he, or someone, had a razor; there was none in the litter of cosmetics the two women had spread over the basin table. He examined himself again, combing back his hair as well as he could with his fingers. “Oh, I’m strong at the finish/’cause I likes me spinach … .” His eye was in the pocket of his topcoat. He wondered if Candy had realized it was missing. She’s probably wondering if I noticed how fat she is, he thought, if she’s still awake.

He laughed softly to himself.

His underwear was dry; he put it on. His shirt was still a little damp at the collar, but he put that on too. All the crease was out of his trousers, but otherwise they didn’t look too bad. Perhaps when evening came he would still be here, and perhaps Stubb and Candy would be gone. He would press them under the mattress then.

He made sure his empty wallet was still in the pocket, put on his trousers, switched off the light, and left. The other three were asleep. He put on his tie, his somewhat rumpled suitcoat, and his eye. For a moment he was afraid Stubb was going to wake up when he stepped out into the hall, but he never stirred.

Three doors down, that was what the bellboy had said. The latch was taped back. The room might be rented by now, but if it were, it would be locked. If anyone came to the door, he could pretend he had come to the wrong one. Or try to sell them something—they would get rid of him fast enough. He pushed gently against the door, and it swung back.

The room was quiet and dark. Barnes stepped inside and closed the door silently behind him, then stood listening. Over the sighing of the vent in the wall came the heavy breathing of sleep.

Most of the bed was concealed by the jutting enclosure of closet and bathroom, but as his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness he saw a foot—black shoe, white sock, dark trousers cuff above—that extended beyond it. He walked forward softly.

Sergeant Proudy lay on the bed fully dressed, his head still swathed in bandages. A notebook and a pencil, a small camera, and a revolver were neatly arranged on the bedside table by the telephone. For a moment, Barnes wondered if he should not empty the revolver—it seemed to be the sort of thing they did on TV—then decided not to. It was probably against the law, and he did not know how to open the mechanism anyway.

A black attache case stood open on the desk, and an electric razor nestled there among a clutter of other objects. Barnes reached for it, drew back his hand, then imagined himself making calls with a day’s growth of beard. The temptation was too great; he carried the razor into the bathroom and locked the door.

Proudy’s knuckles slammed against it as he was finishing up his right cheek. “Just a minute,” Barnes called. “I’m almost through.” A fusillade of violent rapping startled him. “Please, Sergeant, it’s early. You’ll wake up the guests, and they’ll complain. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“You better be. Who are you? What the hell is that noise?”

“Just a minute.”

“I’ll shoot through the door!”

There had been no hint of humor in the policeman’s voice. Barnes said, “It’s only your electric razor. I thought I’d shave while you were sleeping. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“You got a gun?”

“I’m not armed,” Barnes said. “You can’t even trim your corns with an electric razor.”

“You’d better not be. I’m going to frisk you when you come out. You can forget about wrapping it in plastic and dropping it in the toilet tank, too. I’m on to that.”

Barnes looked. “This toilet doesn’t have one.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

There was a silicone-impregnated strip of paper for shining shoes. Barnes put one foot on the basin, then the other.

“Come out!”

Something in the policeman’s tone gave Barnes the impression that the revolver he had seen was pointed at the bathroom door. Under his breath he said, “Everything is bathroom doors lately,” and opened the door, still muttering. It was a shock to see he had been correct.

“What’d you say?”

“‘Well, blow me down.’ It’s just an expression.”

“I’ll blow you away if you stay cute. You know who I am?”

“Of course,” Barnes said. “I let you in yesterday.”

“That’s right. That’s exactly right. You know who I am and where I am, and why I’m here. Ain’t that right?”

Barnes shook his head. “How about putting away the gun, Sergeant? I’m not going to do anything.”

“I’ll say you’re not. Turn around and put your hands against that wall. Lean on’em. I’m going to shake you down, and if you so much as wiggle your ass I’ll blow you in two.”

Barnes did as he was told and felt the rapid patting of the policeman’s hands—inside thighs, outside thighs, under arms. His order book was deftly extracted from the breast pocket of his suit coat. He heard the pages riffled, then the slap as the book was tossed on the bed.