The Mad Scientist Megapack Page 4

  “What figure? You mean you’re going to make a figure of me?”

  “Any pose, any expression—try to look skeptical. Fine!”

  “Listen, Myshkin, if you don’t mind—”

  “Henry, once and for all, get in there.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “That’s the last you’ll ever hear about this,” he said evenly.

  I entered the cage and got on the box. Myshkin stuck his hands in through the ribs and his fingers flickered over the dials. The machine’s lenses were no more than a foot away from my eyes. The little colored lights seemed very bright. Myshkin touched a final switch, pulled his hands out and closed the cage.

  The machine was rolling down the rails. It moved slower under power than it had when gravity had pulled it. As it rolled past my eyes and approached my profile, one by one the lenses gleamed and turned opaque and were gone.

  “It’s on low speed,” said Myshkin. “Don’t move much.”

  The advice was superfluous; the machine had me rooted. The lenses came around from behind me, reversing the order in which they had disappeared, first flashing opaque beams and then absorbing the color all around them. The copper-orange coils held a touch of pink. The red bulbs winked on and off in pairs and groups. The air was filled with transparent globules of color after the machine had passed me again. Gradually the humming died away, and the sound of blood rushing past my eardrums filled in the silence. The pink copper had soft violet halations obscuring its coils. The topmost lenses had slid down past the level of my eyes, and as I grew calmer, sweat ran down my face and I felt my arms and legs again.

  I don’t know how long it took. Probably two or three minutes, but there was an amazing interval between Myshkin’s first and last words when I heard him say, “All right, Henry, that’s it.” He had my hand and was leading me out of the cage.

  I stood outside, holding one of the steel ribs. Myshkin went into the cage and squatted before the stationary machine. It had stopped a foot from the ground. He turned the steel knob at the bottom of the machine until he had it loose. Then, sliding the knob out from under an apparent opening there, he substituted his free hand, as if to catch something that would drop out of the machine.

  The next instant his body went rigid. The slight, expectant smile he’d worn remained fixed, but it suggested an embalmer’s handiwork. Slowly, his hand—the most reluctant hand I ever saw—came out from under the machine, and we both looked at what lay in his palm.

  It was an egg. An ordinary, medium-sized one.

  A shudder swept through him. The egg rolled off his palm and dropped the few inches to the floor. It didn’t break. He looked down then and stared until the egg stopped rolling.

  “ANOTHER ONE!” he roared, head thrown back, throat muscles swollen, shaking fists at the air. “ANOTHER ONE, DAMN THEM!”

  Then he had burst out of the cage and was running around the room. He overturned everything that stood upright, flinging tools aside, kicking and flailing at everything in his way. He seized a huge, long-handled wrench and smashed cans and boxes, scattering the fragments, and the yellow powder rose in billowing clouds to fill the room before he rushed out.

  I heard him go tearing up the stairs and the house shook with the sounds of his feet, and with scores of objects being flung about. A few minutes later he bounded downstairs again. The front door opened and crashed against a wall and his footsteps were gone.

  I went down the hall to the front door and stepped outside. The street was silent and there was no sign of a tall, emaciated man in oversized pants and an undershirt. The wind that blew in from the river was cold and I went back in.

  The dust was settling in the downstairs room. I pulled the cable out of the wall socket and covered the machine with the green silk drape. Then I turned out the light and closed the door behind me.

  The upper story was a shambles. I righted a chair and sat in it and tried to think. After awhile I realized I wasn’t scared anymore. It was almost ten-thirty by Myshkin’s handsome alarm clock when I ran out of cigarettes. I found my cap and left the house. The street was still deserted and very quiet.

  * * * *

  I didn’t know I was on 52nd Street until I began passing the swing joints. They were just beginning to come alive, but after a beer I kept walking east until I came to the house where I’d lived with Myshkin.

  The fourth floor windows that had been ours were lit, so I went into the tiny lobby. The elevator boy was in a corner with a pretty brunette, but when he saw me he grinned. “Hi, soldier, back again?” and chucked the girl under the chin before he came to the elevator “Four D?”

  “Well. I don’t know,” I said. “Kind of late, huh?”

  “For one of Miss Hopper’s parties? Are you kiddin’?”

  “Oh, is there a party up there?”

  “Alla time, allla time. C’mon.”

  “I wasn’t invited,” I said, stepping into the elevator.

  “Who was?” he said.

  As soon as I rang, a large man with a six-inch black beard and a plaid shirt and a tall drink in one hand opened the door. “Hallo!” he cried heartily. “You’re late! Everybody’s been asking for you, especially Gladys. Not Gladys? You look like one of hers. Well, come in, will you? Not frightened by this, are you?” He waggled a hand under his beard. “Don’t have to wear a tie, hah hah! Very clever of you! Keeps me warm in winter and cool in summer. Stop, you’re killing me!”

  As I started to go in, I heard Harriet’s voice calling, “Was there someone at the door?” The beard turned and she saw me. I closed the door and waited for her.

  “Hello, Henry,” she said, taking my hand and squeezing it and smiling a friendly but somehow special, somehow troubled smile. “I’m so glad you came. I was wondering if you would. I thought you might. Henry, this is Roscoe. Roscoe, be an angel and see about the ice cubes. The tray’s stuck again and no one seems!—”

  “So he’s yours?” cried Roscoe. “Say no more; I understand, but will Gladys? He’s very witty, too. Hup! Not a word,”

  Harriet watched him go swaying down the corridor.

  “I’ll be so grateful when his play closes and he gets rid of that horrid beard. It does things to his character. He’s really very sweet, Roscoe Cramwell, didn’t you recognize him? Virtue, So What?—the psychiatrist, it’s driving him mad. Oh dear, listen to him, he’s destroying my poor refrigerator. You do want to talk, don’t you? It’s in your eyes. They’re so… so very…”

  “Confused?”

  “Silly. I mean it, Henry. Triste, that’s it.”

  “You sound different. Been drinking, huh?”

  “Goodness, just wee sips of this and that. I’m the barman. You’re the one who’s been drinking, haven’t you? Was it that bad? You knew he was here, didn’t you?”

  “Knew who was here?”

  “Why, Mr. Myshkin, of course.”

  “You mean Myshkin’s here?”

  “No dear. I mean he was here.”

  “In his underwear?”

  “Henry, you mustn’t say things like that. Would you like some black coffee? Nice hot black coffee?”

  “Harriet—if I may call you Harriet?”

  “Of course, dear.”

  “Thank you. Harriet, I’ve had some beer but I don’t need or want any nice hot black coffee. I didn’t know anything about Myshkin’s being here. He ran out of his house earlier tonight, and the last I saw of him he was in an undershirt. He must have grabbed a coat or—”

  “A sweater. A great big ugly green thing with a hood.”

  “Whatever it was—”

  “But if you didn’t know, what made you come here?”

  “I don’t know. I started walking and here I was. The lights were on and I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I’m here, that’s all. Now please tell me about Myshkin. How lo
ng ago did he leave? What did he want?”

  “He was very odd. Fortunately, there weren’t many people here when he burst in—”

  “What time was that?”

  “Nine-thirty or so. He was carrying that large wooden box—”

  “What box?”

  “Really, dear, you must be more polite.”

  “I’m sorry. What about the box?”

  “It’s more like a case, really. It has a handle, and some holes in the sides. Like the ones people use to transport pets, you know? He’s brought it here before. ‘Miss Hopper, I’ll be in the darkroom awhile,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother me and don’t snoop.’ Well, he stayed there until half an hour ago, except that he came out once shortly after he’d gone in. He said he wanted some pencils and paper, and before I could stop him he’d taken a handful of my best notepaper. You know, Henry, he rather frightened me.”

  “That’s all, huh? He didn’t say anything when he left?”

  “Not to me, dear; I was in the kitchen. But Roscoe says he startled some friends of his here who saw him leaving. You must know them… let me think—yes, and Roscoe says he made off with a quart of my Scotch, but that’s probably no more true than the noises he said he’d heard from the darkroom—”

  “Darling, there you are!” a delighted feminine voice called.

  A very pretty redhead came swinging down the corridor to us.

  “What’s this about noises?” I asked.

  “Oh, some barnyard thing,” said Harriet. “Now do be polite, dear. Gladys, darling, this is Henry. He’s just back from overseas.”

  “A barnyard thing?” I said. “How do you do?”

  “Darling, that’s a terrible thing to say to me,” said Gladys.

  “Darling, he was talking to me,” said Harriet.

  “Darling, that’s a terrible thing to say to you,” said Gladys.

  “Darling, you don’t understand,” said Harriet. “Henry’s very sweet. He doesn’t say things like that. Now say you forgive him.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “Never mind, darling,” said Gladys, resting her head on my chest and putting my arm around her waist. “I forgive you.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “What about the darkroom?”

  “Heavens!” Gladys shrieked. “When did you get off the boat?”

  “Darling! He’s talking to me!” said Harriet.

  “Then why is he pinching me?” asked Gladys.

  “Is he, darling?” said Harriet. “If you have any further questions, lieutenant, you can just mail them to me.”

  “Harriet, wait a minute!” I called. “Gladys, let go!”

  The last we heard from Harriet was a low, congealing laugh.

  “Heavens, did you ever hear anything like that?” said Gladys. “Is it possible her voice is changing? How ghastly. Let’s get a drink, shall we, darling?”

  “If you’re out of opium, darling,” I said.

  “Darling, I’m so happy I found you!” she shrieked.

  Well, that was Gladys—Gladys Gwendolyne De Winter, her full name was. I got to know it pretty well, the way things turned out. Gladys was a girl of rare and varied talents, but I might have lost her right then if it hadn’t been for a lucky circumstance. The lucky circumstance was my old friend Al Siegman.

  Gladys hooked my arm and off we went to join the party. The living room was loaded with guests and the guests were loaded, and it was so noisy that I didn’t hear Siegman calling me until he gave my spine a resounding slap of greeting.

  The last time I’d seen him, Al had been starting his first year of residency at New York Hospital. He was still there, and as sleepy and happy and bored as ever, and we shook hands for five minutes and talked.

  It turned out he’d come to the party with Arnold Eagle, who knew Harriet Hopper, and he and Eagle were the friends Harriet hadn’t been able to remember—the ones Myshkin startled. I tried to get Al to talk about Myshkin, but he was badly distracted by Gladys, and he addressed his remarks to both of us.

  “Sure he startled us,” he said. “He must’ve lost sixty pounds and his tongue. He didn’t say a word when he saw us, just started to run. Listen, baby, I have a uniform too—a nice clean white one. I just don’t wear my medals. So Eagle went after him. He lent Myshkin a Graflex last spring and hasn’t seen him since. Gladys, baby, are you neurotic? Then he came back and said Myshkin disappeared down the stairs, clucking at him like a hen—what’s the matter?”

  I said: “You said clucking like a hen?”

  “Eagle said that. What’s wrong?”

  “Let’s find Eagle. Al, it’s important.” I tried to pry myself loose from Gladys. “Be nice and squat somewhere,” I begged.

  “Darling, you’re not listening,” she said. “Is Eagle a chubby thing with red cheeks? He took me into the darkroom to analyze my handwriting, and now he’s in there with someone else. I’ll wait, darling. I barely escaped last time.”

  We found the darkroom locked. Al pounded the door, then spoke into the keyhole, and Eagle’s voice came through the door angrily.

  “Don’t bother me. Go find a girl named Gladys. She has a tremendous G loop. I’m busy.”

  “Open up, Eagle,” I called. “It’s me—Henry.”

  The door flew open, a girl flew out, and Eagle cried: “Henry!”

  So it started all over again, the handshaking and the excited talking. I was glad to see him, and it took me a few minutes to get to Myshkin. But there it was. Myshkin had leaped down the stairs, lugging his box, and all Eagle had heard was a loud clucking.

  “Cutt-cutt cutt-awk!” Eagle said. “What could it mean?”

  I took him into the darkroom and asked him about the writing on the wall. Eagle is a first rate photographer himself, and I thought maybe he could understand some of the notes. Instead of that, he began to analyze the handwriting. Even then, I might have listened if he hadn’t started by saying that they had been written by several people. As soon as I could, I excused myself and went out to find Roscoe Cramwell.

  I didn’t have far to go. Howling with pain, Cramwell was on all fours under the piano, trying to pull his beard loose from the grip Gladys had on it. I offered her my arm and she made the exchange with a delighted scream. Then I delivered her to Siegman—from whom only the police or sudden death could deliver her—and followed Cramwell’s retreat to the kitchen.

  He was combing his beard and moaning.

  “I misjudged you, Henry,” he sighed, surveying his reflection in a silver tray. “Look what she did to my splendid spade. Sheer orgiastic vandalism. Pay me close heed, my boy. Few realize it, but the truth is that she is as nutty as the flavorsome cashew. She likes you, therefore your course is clear—leave the country. I have spoken.”

  “Before I go, tell me something,” I said. “Harriet said you heard strange noises in the darkroom while my friend Myshkin was there. What did you hear?”

  “Was that a friend of yours? Henry, I give you my word he was carrying on a dialogue with a hen.”

  “You don’t mean a dialogue? He was in there alone.”

  “A dialogue, my boy. You forget my auditory sense is an instrument of extreme sensitivity. I heard two voices. One was a human imitation of a barnyard fowl, but the other was unquestionably the real thing. It must have been in that box he carried, but I’ve wondered about it off and on ever since.”

  “Small wonder,” I said.

  “Very strange,” Cramwell nodded. “Unless he’s something of a poultry fancier? No? Too bad. Hmmm.” He combed his beard thoughtfully. “There’s always—”

  He broke off as Arnold Eagle walked into the kitchen.

  “What’re you hiding here for?” Eagle demanded, waving a sheet of paper at me. “Harriet’s looking for you. Just a minute. What do you think of this?”

  I took the paper he thrust at
me and looked at it. It was a sheet of good stationary that obviously had been crumpled up and smoothened out again. On one side there was a monogram of two H’s. Under it were several lines of writing, sprinkled with groups of numerals and symbols. It instantly brought to mind the writing on the darkroom walls. Some of it, in black lead pencil, looked like Myshkin’s handwriting, but the rest, in blue crayon, was utterly and very peculiarly different; it had uneven childlike letter formations and queerly shaped word groups, with little regard for symmetry or even legibility.

  The first line in pencil, read: What about excess charges radiated by the coefficient of the enlarger?

  The second line, in blue crayon appeared to answer: Harmless dissipation for most part. Rest absorbed by filter.

  The third line, again in pencil: How permanent is this?

  The fourth line, in crayon: Depends on charge, up to 1 hour.

  There were a few more like that, just as meaningless, before the rest of the writing and apparent mathematical configurations became a solid mass of blue scrawls.

  “Even you can tell there’re two different hands there,” said Eagle. “This is Myshkin’s right? And this? All right, but whatever it is, that’s the same hand that wrote among the things Myshkin wrote on the walls. I can prove it very—”

  “But what is it?” I said. “This blue writing, I mean. It’s writing, I suppose, because I’m apparently able to read it, but somehow it really isn’t writing at all.”

  “Good. I saw it immediately,” said Eagle. “Harriet says it’s one of a few sheets of stationary she gave Myshkin tonight. There’re others just like it in the wastebasket, all torn up, but they can be pieced together.”

  “What for?” I said.

  “It’s about Myshkin. You sounded pretty excited about—”

  “To hell with Myshkin. I’m—”

  “It’s more than Myshkin,” said Eagle. “Listen, to an expert analyst, a handwriting is better than a photograph. But I don’t get a thing from this blue writing, just strange ideas—I don’t know what myself. I looked at the walls again and found more like it. It’s… it’s something… ah, I’m all mixed up.”