John Gardner - Stillness & Shadows

“Carnac’s about as psychic as my left foot,” Craine said, and gave a laugh.

McClaren studied him, shaggy eyebrows lifted with interest. “You know that for a fact?”

“I know that every two, three weeks he gets kicked into the street because his fakery’s so obvious any child can see through it. Tarot, tea leaves, that crazy mason jar—”

“Mason jar?” McClaren echoed.

“Claims it works better than a crystal ball,” Craine said, and gave an angry little goat laugh. “Believe me, if he’s psychic—”

“But isn’t it true,” McClaren broke in, “that with some people psychic ability comes and goes? I’m sure you’ve read of any number of cases — the Fox sisters, Eusapia Palladino, Nelya Mikhailova, for example, or better yet, the famous cousin of William James — I’m sure you’ve read of cases of authentic psychics who, as their powers waned, turned to trickery to keep from disappointing their disciples, or in order to stay in business, or for even more complicated reasons. Think about it a moment. Supposing that there really are people of psychic ability — and believe me, on that score Tummelty’s operation leaves very little doubt — doesn’t it seem natural, on the face of it, that Carnac — at least once in a while — is one of them? Think of that remarkable collection of junk in his shanty — dowsing rods, Ouija boards, canes, crank books and magazines, not to mention stuffed animals, voodoo candles, little bottles of God knows what …”

“Unlike you, I have never been in Mr. Carnac’s shanty,” Craine said.

“Be that as it may,” McClaren said, “the question is, Why is he so interested in such things? If we begin with the assumption that he has had certain psychic experiences from time to time — disturbing experiences, more likely than not, since that’s the usual case … I’m sure in all your reading you’ve run into these things …” Detective Inspector McClaren was rising from his chair as if having an otherworldly experience himself. He dipped his fingers into his sport coat pockets and half-turned away as if to look out a window, though there was no window there. “They’re almost always unpleasant, and usually extremely unpleasant, these psychic experiences. I was reading, in a book Dr. Tummelty lent me, about the dreams people had before the Alberfan disaster in Wales, back in 1966. You probably remember it — coal slide that killed a hundred forty-four adults and children. More than two hundred people reported dreams and premonitions — all exceedingly unpleasant. One woman dreamed of children standing by a building — the school — below a great black mountain. Hundreds of black horses came thundering down the mountainside dragging hearses! Think of Abraham Lincoln’s recurring dream just before his death — alone in a boat, drifting out farther and farther on a still gray sea. But dreams are the least of it. Think of the horror that must have tingled in the back of the mind of that schoolboy who said — famous case—‘How can I be lying down there if I’m standing up here?’ Shortly afterward he was drowned in the well. Or worse yet, think how it is with psychics who work on murder cases, like Hurkos or Croiset. I had the dubious fortune to watch such a psychic myself one time. There were four murders, each of them quite horrible. One after another the psychic went through them, experiencing the pain of each murder himself. I saw him choke — you’d swear there was a wire around his neck — it made his eyes bug out …

“Heaven knows why it has to be this way, but it’s sorrow and pain that leaves the strongest impressions, as they say in the trade. So you can imagine how it would be for a man like Carnac — not a clever man, in fact somewhat dull-witted, so it would seem. He gets these terrifying visions — smells, tastes, sounds, not to mention things seen … No wonder he buys books, tarot cards, black candles, does everything he can to understand and gain control. Surely all this has occurred to you, Craine. There’s no one in Carbondale closer to Two-heads Carnac than you are.”

“Not true,” Craine said, “or if it is true, it hasn’t been my doing.”

“Perhaps that’s so,” McClaren said. “My point remains the same. We have every reason to believe that Carnac may in actual fact be a psychic — and no reason, offhand, to doubt that the murderer has reached the same conclusion. If so, that would explain, of course—”

“You got this idea from Dr. Tummelty?” Craine asked.

“Not exactly. It’s true that we discussed the subject. He’s been interested in Carnac for some time.”

Craine sucked hard at his pipe. No smoke came through. “It’s strange to me how you people all know each other,” he said. “University of twenty or more thousand students, must be a faculty of hundreds at least, and yet all you people”—he held out his left hand, fingers extended, and counted with the tip of his pipe stem—“you, Dr. Tummelty, Professor Davies in English, the computer-center man — what’s his name, Furth—”

McClaren smiled. “All department heads, you’ll notice.”

“Ah! So that’s it!”

Again McClaren stole a glance at his watch. When he saw that Craine had seen, he said, “Quarter after one. I’d better get a move on! By the way, I had a talk with the Denhams, this morning — Denham’s Tobacco Shop.”

“Yes, I go there all the time,” Craine said.

“So I understand. You were drunk, I presume?”

“I suppose you could say it got a little out of hand.”

“You remember what happened?”

“Very little of it.”

McClaren thought about it, then nodded, grim. “It’s interesting, this weakness of memory you claim. I did a little checking on your agency in Chicago, especially the last few weeks there.”

“I thought you might.”

“You can’t really pretend you’ve forgotten all that.”

“Only when people let me.”

“That young woman, your client, the one who disappeared. What do you think happened to her?”

“I imagine she’s dead.”

“Hmm. Yes. I thought so. So do I.” He got up off the edge of the desk and took a step toward the door. “Well, good day, Gerald. Glad you happened by.”

Craine remained there, thinking nothing of importance, thinking how he was supposed to be shaken, and was, no doubt, but if so, shaken too deeply for any surface effect, so that it made no difference, at least for now, then rose at last, his knees trembling, and made his way to the door.

“Can I help you?” the Indian woman asked, looking up at him with a start.

Craine stood turning his limp hat in his hands, obsequiously smiling. “I wonder if there’s someone I could ask a few questions. My name’s Gerald B. Craine, Detective.” He hunted from pocket to pocket for his license, but it was mysteriously gone. With a jerk, he reached out his hand and dangled it in front of her. She looked at it a moment, then reluctantly reached up her small, thin fingers, and shook hands with him. “I thought perhaps my old friend Professor Furth—”

“I’m sorry, Professor Furth isn’t here today.” She brightened, almost bloomed, suddenly confident, now that they had between them some common reality.

“Perhaps someone else then—”

“What kinds of questions did you have in mind?” she asked.

“Oh, things about computers, the staff here — I hardly know. You see, I’m working on a case. In fact, several cases.” He smiled, once more clutching his hat, looking to the woman at the second desk for help, but the second woman had no suggestions, simply hunched her back and made a face. “Just a moment,” the Indian woman said. She rolled back her chair, swung around sideways and up, and crossed to a door opposite Professor Furth’s. She opened it a foot, poked her head in, and called “Dennis?”—then, “Murray …” She opened the door a little wider, slipped through, and partly closing it, her hand still on the edge — fingernails reddish black — talked with someone inside. After a moment she came out again, just behind her a plump, short man with curly hair and thick glasses. “Detective Craine,” she began, and hesitated.