With a contract to deliver four novels a year, he spent most of his time in here. And when he wasn't working, all he could talk about was his writing. It was like an obsession with him; his characters were more real to Charles than she was.
Right now he was showing her some little pen-and-ink sketches of the people in his next book; he had written capsule biographies of each character, too, and described each one in great detail. Charles explained everything very carefully and Alice nodded her head just as though she were listening, though she never listened to him any more.
Then she saw Dominick.
Dominick had a long, thin face, matted hair, and a scraggly beard. And there was something strange about the way his mouth twisted.
"That's because he's giggling," Charles said. "Remember that picture Richard Widmark played in years ago? He giggled when he killed. It's a good tag, that giggle. Helps to make a character come alive."
Alice stared at the picture, and now she listened to him.
"Funny thing," Charles was saying. "Somehow, the villains are always more real to me than the heroes. I suppose that's why I write the sort of things I do. Perhaps it's a subconscious identification with the monster role. Dr. Jekyll, playing Hyde-and-seek." Charles giggled, a bit, himself.
Alice stared at the picture.
"Who is he?" she asked.
"Dominick?" Charles was flattered by her interest, that was obvious. And he was quite taken with Dominick; that was obvious, too. "Dominick is a strangler who has escaped from an asylum for the criminally insane. He takes refuge in this—"
He went on and on. When he'd finished, Alice knew all there was to know about Dominick. And all she needed to know about everything else. She made sure of it by asking questions.
"Just one thing more, darling," she concluded. "Is it a high or a low giggle?"
Charles blinked, like a partially animated stuffed owl. "Why, a high giggle, I suppose." He squinted. "Yes, of course, it would be a high giggle. Quite hysterical, in fact."
Alice nodded and went away, and her husband started to type. Aside from meal-times and odd moments, devoted to catnaps, Charles typed steadily the next three days.
He came out of the study just once during the third day to tell her he'd lost his sketch of Dominick.
Alice looked up from her knitting. "Then draw another," she said.
Charles went into his blinking routine again. "Good idea," he said. "You know something, my dear? Dominick is taking over. That's always a good sign—when the villain takes over the book. Lends a certain three-dimensional quality to the menace."
He went back to his work and Alice resumed her knitting. In a few hours he burst out of the study again. This time he wasn't blinking. He was staring.
"Alice!" he cried. "Something's happened!"
"So I gather." Alice put her knitting aside. "But what?"
Charles shook his head. "I don't know," he said, in an unsteady voice. "It's Dominick. He's alive!"
"I'm so glad, dear."
"You don't understand. I'm not talking about the book. He's actually alive, there in my study. He peered in at me through the window about five minutes ago—I thought it must be an hallucination. Then he opened the window and came inside." He faltered. "I know it sounds crazy, but—"
Alice stood up.
"Where are you going?" Charles murmured.
"Into your study, of course."
"But you can't—he's dangerous—"
Alice sniffed and marched into the study. She stared around the room while Charles cowered in the doorway behind her.
"I don't see anything," Alice said. "Where is he?"
"Right over there," Charles pointed a none-too-firm finger. "Right over there, in that chair."
"Nothing in that chair," Alice told him. She walked over to the chair and pressed the seat-cushion down with her hand. "See?"
"But he moved—he got up and walked over to the corner, there, when you came close. Don't you see him?" Alice gazed at the corner and shook her head.
"Can't you even hear what he's saying?" Charles was almost begging her now. "Listen, he's explaining it all. He says he's a creature of my creative force, born of my psychic energy. He is a materialization of my imaginative faculties—"
Alice went over to Charles and put her hand on his forehead. "You have a fever, darling," she said. "Come up to bed."
She led him from the room, ignoring his backward glances. By the time he reached the bedroom he was trembling. She helped him undress and pulled the covers over him.
"You'll be all right in the morning," she nodded.
"No!" Suddenly Charles sat bolt upright in bed. "Don't leave me! He's here—here in the room—listen to him giggle! He's going to kill me—"
Charles tugged at her arm. "You can't leave me alone with him—"
"I must," Alice answered. "I have to call the doctor."
Dr. Anderson came right over, but he found nothing wrong. "That's because he left when he heard you come in," Charles explained. Dr. Anderson nodded understandingly, administered a sedative, then drew Alice aside out in the hall. She told him what had happened and he gave her the name of this Dr. Richter.
In the morning she passed the name along to Charles. "But I have no intention of consulting a psychiatrist!" he snapped. "It was just temporary exhaustion. I'd been pressing too hard. Now let me get up; I've got work to do."
That afternoon, when she heard the sudden outcry from the study, Alice didn't even wait for the door to open. She put down her knitting and called Dr. Richter.
This time Charles offered no objections. He got ready to keep his appointment for late afternoon, and at Alice's suggestion he took a cab down to the psychiatrist's office. Obviously he was in no condition to drive.
After he left, Alice made another phone-call and in a short while another cab pulled up in front of the house. Van Thornton came in. Nobody saw him, because of the wooded grounds all around the house—Charles' books really brought in a great deal of money, Alice told herself.
And then she stopped reflecting, and just reacted, in Van's arms. It was he, and not she, who finally pulled away.
"What did I tell you?" he said. "I'm doing great—absolutely great!"
"The moment I saw that picture, I knew," she giggled. "It all seemed to come to me in a flash—I said to myself, that's just the way Van would look if he wore a beard. And then everything fell into place, the whole plan, all at once. Maybe I've learned something about plotting from listening to that fat slug all these years."
"Well you won't have to listen much longer, baby!" Thornton squeezed her arm. "Not the way I'm playing."
"Remember how they used to kid me down at the Troupers—all that jazz about being a Method actor? Well, now you're seeing how it pays off when you play for real." He chuckled, low and throaty—the sound was quite different, Alice noted, from the hysterical giggling of last night. Thornton was a good actor; he'd picked up everything she told him.
"It's going to work, doll," he muttered. "I know that, now. You and me, the perfect team!" Then he sobered. "So what's next on the program?"
Alice sat down and picked up her knitting. "Here's the way I thought it should go," she began ...
* * * *
And that's the way it went. Charles had an appointment with Dr. Richter every afternoon, now. In between times he just sat around in the living room. He wouldn't go near the study any more, because he was afraid. Several times he saw Dominick staring in at him through the windows, and after that he avoided work. Sometimes, at night, he'd wake up with a scream, claiming he heard giggling in the hall.
Dr. Richter had it all down in his notes. But that didn't help Charles any. "The man's an idiot!" he snapped. "You know what he had the nerve to hint to me? Oh, he didn't dare come right out and say it, but I know what he was driving at. Schizophrenia. That's his diagnosis. I'm indulging in an imaginary projection of my own character. Writing is like acting, in a way, he says. A certain role takes hold, captures
the imagination—"
Alice sighed. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that any more. You're just overtired. Stretch out on the sofa and relax."
"I can't relax," Charles whined. "Could you, knowing that at any moment you might look around and see—"
"There, there, darling." She made all the right sounds and all the right gestures and he lay down. Within a few minutes he dozed off, because he was really very tired.
Charles was sound asleep when she started to scream. He blinked, sat up, jerked to his feet, his eyes bulging and rolling as he stared at Dominick's hands around her throat. By the time he was halfway across the room, Dominick was gone, and Alice shrank away from him as he approached.
"Don't!" she whimpered. "Don't touch me! You've already done enough!"
"I? What do you mean—?"
"Look!" She gestured towards her throat. The livid marks were plainly visible in the lamplight.
"Dominick," he whispered. "He tried to strangle you."
She began to sob. "There is no Dominick. You did that." He could only blink at her.
"You got up off the couch and grabbed me. And then you started to choke me, and you giggled and giggled—"
Charles wasn't giggling. He was shaking. Shaking all over. Both his chins wobbled.
Alice went to the phone. "I'm going to call Dr. Richter," she said.
"But it's eight o'clock—he's not in his office—"
"This is an emergency," she told him. "He'll see you."
"Couldn't he come out here?"
Alice shook her head and her lips formed a grim line before she spoke. "I don't want him to see me," she said.
Charles sat down on the sofa. "I don't want to go," he whispered. "I don't want to go."
But in the end, he went.
He went, and Alice waited. She didn't knit now; just sat very quietly, glancing at her wristwatch from time to time.
Now Charles would be reaching the office. Now he would be talking to Dr. Richter telling him what happened. She could see it now—like a scene from a play. And the psychiatrist calming Charles, explaining the workings of his imagination, how a character can become real when you live with it day after day, how a part of you begins to believe that you are that character. Oh, it was all very convincing and it was all a lot of nonsense. Dr. Richter must be a very stupid man, even for a psychiatrist.
Alice wondered if he was realizing his own stupidity, now. For now must be the time when it was happening. The time when Dominick would appear. He would walk down the deserted corridor and into the psychiatrist's office, opening the door very quietly as he tiptoed in. He would creep up behind Dr. Richter while Charles lay on the couch, and then his hands would swoop down and he would strangle him. Strangle him very swiftly and very expertly, using his thumbs to crush the windpipe. And Charles would watch, paralyzed with fear; too paralyzed to even scream. The screaming would come later, after Dominick left. With luck, Charles would keep right on screaming—even after they found him there with Dr. Richter's body. Even after they read Dr. Richter's notes about the schizophrenia, and came to question her, and put Charles away. They had places for people who couldn't stop screaming.
But Alice caught herself; she was thinking too far ahead, and she must concentrate on now. Now was when Thornton should be driving out. Now was when she ought to turn on the radio and wait for the ten o'clock news. Now was when she should hear Thornton's key turning in the door. He had his key, of course.
And here he was, right on schedule. Still wearing that nasty beard and those black gloves she'd had the good sense to insist on. He looked positively horrible.
Alice had the radio turned up, and she had to almost shout at him over it, but he heard her and immediately went to the desk in the corner where she'd laid out the alcohol and the cold-cream. He peeled off his gloves and started to remove the beard. Then he got rid of the makeup.
It was good to see his own face again. Alice wanted to see his face before she asked him how things had gone. Somehow it would ease the situation—make things seem a little less awkward. She and Thornton would really be talking about another person; a person who no longer existed. Just as Dr. Richter no longer existed
Alice started over to the radio, to turn it down so that she could speak, and he stood up and made a restraining gesture with his hand. Then she realized what the voice on the radio was saying.
"We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news bulletin—"
And here it was, she didn't have to ask Thornton after all, because the radio was telling her. Brutal slaying ... prominent psychiatrist and his patient found strangled ...
And his patient?
Alice snapped the switch and faced Thornton. "Charles is dead, too?"
Thornton nodded. "Both of them are quite dead. Richter first, then Charles. It was very easy. Much easier than I'd imagined."
Alice felt the anger rise. "But that wasn't the plan—don't you understand? The whole point was to establish Charles as a schizophrenic. So they'd convict him of Dr. Richter's murder and put him away."
"It's better this way. Much better."
Alice was almost ready to hit him. "How can you say that? Don't you see—now they'll be looking for a killer. We haven't got a madman any more. Thornton, what if they come looking for you?"
He stared at her for a moment and he seemed quite bewildered. Then, "Thornton?" he said. "I don't know anyone named Thornton."
She wanted to scream at him then, scream that they still had their madman and there was a Method in his madness. But there was no time, because his hands came up around her throat, and he started giggling.
UNTOUCHABLE
Race was bored with India.
"Nothing moves here, you know?" he griped. "Where's all the action?"
He gave everybody a hard time on location, and finally Simon took him on. Simon had always been able to handle him, and maybe that's why he was directing the picture; a lot of people just wouldn't work on a Race Harmon production any more.
"Look, sweetheart," he said. "I know it's been a drag. First the heat, then the rains, and then everybody coming down with the trots. Miller called me last night about the budget figures—the way he screamed, I could have heard him loud and clear from Malibu without a phone."
"Let him suffer," Race muttered, then took a gulp of his drink. "I should bleed for him, shacked up in that airconditioned office with the blonde throw-rug and a chick to match? Why doesn't he get off his butt and fly over here? We'll see how he likes being cooped up with a bunch of dumb niggers—"
"Please!" Simon frowned. "That's one of the things I wanted to warn you about. They're not niggers. Why, some of those technical people we hired out of the studios down in Bombay could run rings around any crew in Hollywood. The trouble is, they hear you talking on the set and they resent your attitude. Just remember, you're not home now."
"You can say that again! Where I come from, we call a spade a spade, whether he wears shoes or not. And that's the way it's gonna be, so kindly lay off the jive, huh?"
Race poured himself another drink.
"Another thing," Simon said. "Aren't you hitting the sauce a little hard lately?"
"Got to get my kicks somewhere, Pops. This is a nothing unit here, you know? When we came out, I thought I had it made with Gladys, only she's got eyes for that Method swish, that Parker. So I gave a little play to this script-girl of yours, Edna what's-her-name—"
"Messy." Simon sighed. "You didn't have to break into her trailer."
"All right, she made a federal case out of it." Race emptied his glass and thumped it down. "What am I supposed to do for some action? I'm hurting bad."
"Control yourself. We'll wrap up our location shots and be out of here in two weeks."
"Two weeks? Look, Dad, this is Race Harmon you're talking to, not Ralph Richardson. I may have to make the scene with some of that dark meat. Noticed all these chicks in the sarongs, or saris, whatever you call 'em, parading down by the river. Why I s
potted one yesterday, she couldn't be a day over fifteen, but she had a pair of—"
"Race, that's murder!" Simon shook his head. "I saw you talking to that girl, and so did everyone else. You're lucky you left it at that—one false move and there'd have been a riot. I only hope they didn't hear about it up at the palace."
"So what?"
"Can't you understand? These people are not ignorant savages. You've met the Nizam; he's an intelligent man. If you want me to lay it on the line, I think he's a damned sight more civilized than you are."
"He's a nigger."
"Well, you'd better not make any such statements tonight," Simon said. "Don't forget, we're invited to the palace for dinner."
"I'll eat here."
"You'll come to the palace." Simon's voice was firm. "It's important, Race. We're guests here in the Nizam's territory. We've rented his land, hired his people. We can't afford to offend him. I want you to show up sober and on your best behavior. Is that clear?"
"I dig you, Pops." Race waved his glass. "Okle-dokle, it's a take. Who knows? Maybe he'll give us a little of that old Southern hospitality—"
* * * *
The Nizam's hospitality was lavish and unmistakable. There were twenty at table, including Race, Simon, and the principals of the cast. The only representative of the Nizam's household was a bearded Sikh whom he introduced as his major-domo.
"Actually, Rass Singh commanded the palace guard," the Nizam explained. "But since I am no longer the official ruler of this territory, he too has been deposed. We have bowed to progress, or at least, to governmental decree."
"They took away your title, huh?" Race paused and emptied his champagne-glass for the fourth time since starting dinner. "I suppose they got to your harem, too."
"Harem? But I am not a Moslem, my dear fellow."
The Nizam was plump, middle-aged, bespectacled, and he wore a conservative gray tweed suit. But his complexion was unmistakably swarthy, and people with unmistakably swarthy complexions didn't go around calling Race Harmon "my dear fellow." Even if they did serve damned good champagne.
"Come off it!" he said, holding out his glass for a refill. "Everybody knows you rajahs have a ball. I'll bet the joint is full of—whaddya call 'em?—concubines. Yeah, concubines. That's the bit."