The Sinful Ones

Chapter Ten Time Out of Mind

Carr nudged his glass forward across the chromium surface.

The bartender reached for it. Carr turned toward Marcia. “Another?” he asked. “I’m one up on you.”

She smiled but kept hold of the stem of her glass. The bartender flicked up Carr’s and turned away.

“You want to have just the right amount of edge on you when you meet Keaton,” she said. “He goes a lot by first impressions.”

Carr nodded dutifully. Marcia looked very handsome tonight. Above the black dress her bare shoulders and neck were startling youthful. And on her face was that expression which Carr always found both exciting and disturbing—a look that incited daring, but threatened waspishness if the daring were not of just the right quality; a look that indicated she was intensely interested in you, but only in certain things about you.

Not, for instance, in your troubles. No matter how black.

“What’s the matter, Carr? You’re so silent.”

“Nothing.”

“One would almost think you weren’t looking forward to meeting Keaton.”

Carr finished his Manhattan. He touched his black tie. There was another uncomfortable silence. To break it, he started to talk at random.

“You remember Tom Elvested? He’s been pestering me to go out with some mysterious girl he insists is just my type.”

“Why don’t you?” Marcia said quickly. “It might be very amusing.”

Carr laughed. “I just mentioned it as an example of Tom’s bull-headedness. Once he gets an idea—”

“But why not?” Marcia pressed. “She might be young. That would be interesting for you.”

“Nonsense,” said Carr uncomfortably. “I gather she’s a wet blanket. Some sort of timid intellectual. I mentioned it as an example…”

His voice trailed off. He looked at his empty glass. Marcia looked at him.

“Time we were going,” she said.

In the taxicab she quickly turned and kissed him. Before he could respond she had moved away an was telling him the latest gossip of the publishing business. A few blocks and they were pulling up at the Pendletons’.

From the street, the bright lighted windows of the huge third floor apartment looked like the amusement deck of a medium-size ocean liner ploughing through the night. There were even the strains of music echoing down.

There was a flurry of movement in the street. Another taxicab drew behind theirs. A messenger boy with a cellophane box appeared from the opposite direction and ran up the walk. A large black dog, held on leash by a woman in furs, came snuffing toward Carr and he felt an abnormal twinge of fear. He and Marcia hurried up the walk. He held the door for her and for the couple which had emerged from the second taxi. The man thanked him with a slight bow. The girl, who had a delicately flushed British complexion, touched Marcia’s hand and they chatted.

As Carr followed their nicely filled stockings up the gray-carpeted stairs, he tried to think of something to say to the other man. But instead he found himself wondering what would happen if he had another attack of amnesia. That possibility hadn’t occurred strongly to him before, but now it obsessed his mind.

Was an amnesia attack like fainting, or like sleep? Would it hold off as long as you kept thinking about it? Presumably anything might set it off. Really he must see a psychiatrist in spite of everything.

A shrill laugh of greeting cam skirling down the stairs. He looked up and saw Katy Pendleton hanging over the landing like a fat doll with a face covered by tiny cracks. A fantastic green flower dripped from her hand.

“Look what Hugo sent,” she cried to them. “He can’t come. Detained at the consulate.” She waggled the orchid at Marcia and the British girl. “My dears, you look lovely. Come with me.” She handed the cellophane box to the messenger boy. “No reply.” Then quickly, to Carr and the other man, with a jolly grimace, “Mona will show you,” and sweeping back through the door she revealed a sharp-faced Negro maid she’d been eclipsing.

As Carr stepped inside he saw that the Pendletons’ apartment did have something of the layout of an ocean liner. Rooms opening to either side of two parallel central hallways. The big shadowy sun porch, its dark doors visible beyond dancing couples, might be the bridge. Next, the huge living room—main salon. Then a small stuffy-looking study hung with large, dark portraits—captain’s cabin. Then a library—second salon. Finally the luxurious staterooms. Dining salon and galley presumably at the stern.

The West Indian stewardess—Negro maid, rather—showed Carr a bed heaped with coats and hats, to which he added his own. Returning into the hall he saw Marcia talking earnestly to a small man who wore a soft white shirt under his tuxedo. Carr stopped short, feeling an uncomfortable coldness mounting inside him.

The small man slumped, his arms a-dangle, his thin features slack with tiredness. But this appearance was deceptive. He had a tic. Whenever it convulsed the muscles of his cheek, his dark-circled eyes flashed a penetrating, critical glance, and his fingers curled. It was as if he lurked behind a curtain which small puffs of wind kept twitching aside.

Marcia raised eyebrows at Carr. Carr went resignedly, knowing this must be Keaton Fisher.

But the introduction was hardly over, the dark-circled eyes had only begun to quick-freeze Carr, the limp fingers had not quite finished a pulse-taking handshake—which the tie suddenly converted into a spasmodic grip—when Katy Pendleton, who had been pinning the green orchid to a half-protesting redhead, interrupted.

“Oh, Mr. Fisher, I’ve promised to introduce you to the Wenzels. You’ll excuse us, I know.”

Marcia touched Carr’s arm. “Later.” She hurried off.

Momentarily relieved, Carr found himself a cocktail and drifted into the library, where a number of lively discussions were going on.

Carr recognized several people. But he hesitated at deciding which group to join and the conversation went so fast that his clever remarks were constantly getting outdated. He felt rather like an awkward girl nerving herself for the right moment to start jumping rope.

His uneasiness was fast reaching a peak where he might blurt out any sort of remark just so as to be noticed, when Marcia came along and said she wanted to dance.

As soon as Carr had his arms around her, he realized that here was the only person he wanted to talk to.

His other impulses had been merest camouflage. Why in this world, when something fantastically strange and terrifying had happened to him, should he waste thought or time on this noisy herd? It suddenly struck him that of course he must tell Marcia about his mysterious amnesia attacks. Whatever had made him think otherwise? What was love if you didn’t share? As they circled past the beaming brown faces of the musicians, he got set to tell her.

“Just as well Katy butted in,” Marcia whispered softly and swiftly. “That wasn’t the right time for your talk with Keaton. I’ve spoken to him and arranged things.”

He nodded. “Marcia,” he began with difficulty.

“Now listen carefully, Carr,” she said. “In about ten minutes Keaton will drift away from the library and go into the study. I’ll see to it that he’s alone. You watch for him and make sure not to get tied up with anyone. A few moments later, drift along after him.”

“All right,” he said, “but first, Marcia, there’s something—”

The music ended with a flourish. Marcia gave him a little push. “Now run along and watch Keaton,” she said. “Oh, hello, Guy,” and the next moment her back was turned and she was talking with a lanky, graying Mr. Pendleton.

Miserably, Carr returned to the library, picking up a cocktail on his way. The discussions were still going full tilt. Keaton Fisher was now dominating one of them, timing his points to his tic.

Carr shuffled from the edge of one group to another, smiling and nodding approvingly at some of the remarks, but apparently just enough to get himself accepted without really being noticed. Everyone seemed to have concluded that he was just a vacuous sort of chap who wanted to wander around nursing a drink. He was conscious of a growing wall between him and all the others. A glass wall, perhaps, since it seemed to him that he could no longer hear so well what was being said—there was a humming in his ears.

Just then he noticed Keaton Fisher disappearing into the hallway. As if by magic his anxiety vanished and self-possession returned. Just as earlier he had been filled with relief to get away from Keaton Fisher, now he felt overjoyed at the prospect of getting back to him—anything, so long as it gave him something definite to do.

He veered for a moment toward the table of cocktails, then checked himself and walked straight to the study, pausing outside the door.

Keaton Fisher was inside and along. He had picked up a magazine and was studying the table of contents. He was facing away from Carr. He was motionless—except for the tic.

A childish play on words occurred to Carr, Keaton Fisher had a tic. Therefore Keaton Fisher was ticking. Like a clock.

Dark portraits of bearded men in last century’s clothes looked down on Keaton—masked men like himself who shrewdly eyed profits through the eyeholes in their faces. Carr felt a rush of anxiety and apprehension.

Staring motionless at the same page of the magazine, Keaton Fisher continued to tick.

Motionless—yet all at once he seemed to Carr to double in height, to become a terrifying figure in which was concentrated the quintessence of all the brasher and more predatory qualities of the noisy world around them—the world of out-thinking and out-smarting, come-ons and killings, ads and headlines, slaps and grabs, the world of the super-intelligent business-robots, of the hyper-efficient modern machine-men.

Keaton Fisher went on ticking.

For the moment everything was wiped from Carr’s mind except the question of whether or not to enter this room. He knew that he was faced with a decision that would effect his whole future life. He knew that, as happens much too often with such decisions, he was not making it, it was being made for him by forces stronger than any which consciousness could summon, but it was being made nevertheless.

Keaton Fisher still ticked.

With a little gulping sigh that was almost a whimper of fear, Car ducked back, darted to the cocktail table, drank one, picked up one, then another—he could pretend he was taking it to some woman—walked rapidly into the living room, edged along the wall past the dancers, opened the door to the dark sun porch, saw it was empty, sat down and began to drink in greedy little gulps.

When he put down the second glass beside his chair, reaction struck him a blow that made him writhe. He stared frantically at the dark windows with their reflected gleams of color from the dance floor. What he had done had shut him away from Marcia forever. This had been a last chance, a last test. It would be kidding himself to think differently.

He had scorned a splendid chance to make a real success in the world, a chance to push his head above the level of the nonentities, to clamber up to a level where you had some say about what happened to you.

He had doomed himself to lose his present job, to sneak away from his present environment, to go downhill for God knows how long, until the urges inside him gathered themselves for another try, if they still had the strength for that. Shame and vanity, he knew, would permit no other course.

But most of all, he had lost Marcia.

Perhaps it still wasn’t too late. Perhaps—

He jumped up, hurried back to the living room, sidled past the dancers, entered the study.

It was empty.

He looked in the library. He saw Keaton Fisher talking with some other people. Marcia looked happy, Keaton Fisher also seemed in expansive spirits. As Carr watched, he laughed at something and patted Marcia’s arm—just as his tic came.

Carr jerked back, hurried to the cocktail table, repeated his maneuver with the three drinks, and returned to the sun porch.

But now, as he drank in the darkness with the orchestra moaning behind him, there was a difference. Now that he had taken the irreversible step, or been pushed into it, he hated everything about the surroundings in which the step had been taken. Those idiots! What right had they to create a society in which brashness and machine-efficiency alone counted, in which the unambitious and fleshly-soft were tortured? Blind as bats to the truly important things in life. Jigging and hip-wagging like cogs and pistons while the world went God knows where. Sneering and jibing while time stole days from everyone and wouldn’t give them back. Fighting for crumbs of prestige, while unknown dangers, like black sea monsters, silently circled mankind’s vessel. For a moment Carr felt as if the Pendletons’ apartment were truly a ship, with only one poor drunken fool crouched futilely on the dark and empty bridge. He braced himself against the crash of the rocks.

Then, as the liquor tightened its grasp, another feeling came: optimism, or rather its blustering and uncertain ghost. Why the hell should he think he’d lost Marcia? Didn’t she love him? What difference did it make it she’d been trying to change his life and he wouldn’t let her? That just showed he was strong. He’d get her and take her somewhere else and they’d have some drinks and he’d explain everything to her. Tell her about the amnesia for one thing.

He threw open the door to the living room and strode across the dance floor just as the orchestra was starting a new number. He stared at faces. He didn’t care how rude he was. He just wanted to find Marcia.

Couples brushed him, but he did not move out of the way. What did he care for all these fools who so stupidly took no notice of him? For these pseudo-people who pretended not to notice a drunken man making a spectacle of himself! Smirking imbeciles! How he’d like to run amuck through them, knock down the men, rip the bright dresses off the women—especially those off-the-shoulder ones!

Then he saw Marcia.

She was on the other side of the dance floor, alone. He motioned urgently to her. Her eyes flashed past him with a smile.

She took some twirling steps, just by herself, as if to indicate how irresistible the music was. As she turned his way, he motioned again—an angry jerk of the forearm. But she ignored him.

Keaton Fisher danced past her with Katy Pendleton. Keaton called something to Marcia and she laughed.

She continued to twirl gracefully by herself—tauntingly, Carr felt. He grimaced at her and motioned a third time.

She smiled tantalizingly. Her arm seemed to rest on an imaginary shoulder, her back appeared to arch against an imaginary hand.

Carr thought she must be mocking him. It was as if she said, “This is fun. Don’t you wish you were here in my arms? Wouldn’t you give anything?”

And she kept it up, like an automation.

As if that thought had been a signal, all Carr’s feelings of the evening, his anxieties over Keaton Fisher, his agonies over his decision, his reactions to the whole Pendleton world, crystallized in one frozen instant of drunken awareness.

It was as if all the life-fluid in the figures before him had drained away through a huge single gash.

Sober people feel, for brief moments, that all life and meaning have suddenly gone out of everything around them—the sounds, the words, the people. To a drunken person it is more intense.

It seemed to Carr, as he swayed there squinting, that the Pendletons’ world wasn’t real. These were window dummies dancing. The jabbering voices from the library were recordings, droning up from the hollow insides of animated statues. And look at the orchestra! See how the rigid brown hand thumped the base viol, while two other hands jerked up and down above the piano keys and yet another pair shifted along the saxophone. One saw such trios, made of painted tin, in the windows of toyshops. These were larger and of infinitely more skillful workmanship, but the music still came from somewhere else.

Glass walls, had he thought? These people were behind glass walls, all right, the glass panels of a showcase. They were toys grown to a size where their clockwork racket out-dinned the universe.

Even Marcia was just an elaborate mechanical doll. Somebody had stuck a key in her side, wound her up, and now she whirled and whirled.

Like Keaton Fisher, they were all just ticking.

In a moment they would realize his presence. Enraged that a living man had blundered into the mechanical saturnalia, they would rush at him, a metal tide, glittering, flashing, clashing, flailing him with their metal arms, stamping him with their metal feet. Even now—

He flinched, spun around, saw the door to the stairs, lunged for it.

Carr stared at the bronze lion as if it were the one object in an otherwise empty universe. Then stone, shadow and night soared into being, dwarfing the turmoil of feelings that had been spinning his mind and speeding his feet.

He looked around a little foolishly, realizing that he was standing in front of the Art Institute, on the lakeward side of Michigan Boulevard. He remembered the walk downtown only as a progression of things seen without being noticed. A distant electric sign beamed the time at him—3:39. He felt chill dribbles of sweat on his cheeks. His evening shirt was wet under the armpits. He put his hand to his throat, gathering up the lapels of his tuxedo.

He walked up the stone steps an touched the lion, gingerly, as a child might.

A little later he felt the impulse to walk. But not drivingly—just to drift.

As he moved north along the tremendous boulevard, an occasional whizzing car curtsied apologetically at the cross streets. He was still drunk enough to have an illusion of being very tall and moving majestically.

He veered across the boulevard and stood in front of the dark entry of the public library. Suddenly he realized that something was pulling him through the night, drawing him along by an indefinite number of strands fastened deep in his brain and heart—strands so gossamer thin that one could never possibly become aware of them unless some other force were to oppose them.

The pulls felt very real. It almost seemed to him that he could lean back against them, trusting to their force to keep him from falling.

And they lured. They carried a promise of mystery.

He concentrated with the fixity of a mystic, clearing his mind of all random thoughts and letting his sensation float free, trying to feel and respond to the pulls.

He yielded to them.

The streets were deserted and there was no wind. He passed a bare newsstand. His foot rustled a torn sheet of newspaper.

The pulls continued, though without strengthening. As if a magnet drawing him on were receding as he walked, keeping always the same distance.

Halfway down this block the pull abruptly changed direction, drawing him into a narrow alley, a mere slit between giant walls.

It was too dark to see. He held his hands outstretched and felt ahead with each foot before trusting his weight to the large cobblestones. He could guide himself in a general way by the vertical streak of smoky light shot with strange blue glows at the far end.

After perhaps twenty steps he haled uncertainly. He began to hear muffled laughter and talk, strains of raucous music.

As he edged along the dark alley, he wondered what it could be that he was following. Some actual trail in the pavement or air—chemical or electrical traces that impinged on the senses too subtly for conscious recognition? Or was it submerged memories of something that had happened to him before—perhaps during one of the amnesia attacks? Or even some kind of posthypnotic suggestion?

But thinking interfered with his ability to sense the trail. He must make his mind like that of an amoeba that automatically drifts towards the shadows.

He emerged at the other end of the alley.

He found himself looking into the window of a music store, scanning by streetlight the sheet music and record albums and toy instruments. For a while he stood with his face pressed to the glass door, trying to make out what was inside.

From nowhere, a title dropped into his mind. The Moonlight Sonata. His thoughts bent and shuddered as if from a gust of wind. For a moment he was about to remember everything…

He came to a movie theater. Green-eyed three-sheets leered at him from the lobby and clutched with white claws at shadowy female forms whose terror-stricken faces implored rescue. A sign in front said: “You’ll Stare! You’ll Scream! You’ll shiver with Delicious Panic, as the Mad Monster Roams the Darkened Streets, Seeking His Prey!”

In front of the box office, the oddest thing happened. The trail abruptly veered toward the curb and changed completely in quality. Up to this point it had been quiet, almost sedate, if you could use such words. Now it suddenly became wild, ecstatic, “hot”—the spoor of something crazy and joyful. Carr had come to a place where, if he’d been a dog, he’d have given an excited yelp and bounded off into the brush.

He became suspicious. It wasn’t only that the change in the trail frightened him with its suggestion of the abandonment of sanity.

Dogs usually bounded off at an angle because they’d struck a different scent.

There must be two trails.

He spent almost a quarter-hour beating back and forth. What made it so difficult was that every time he struck the “hot” trail, it ruined his ability to sense the other for several seconds. Eventually he managed to plot them out to his satisfaction.

The hot trail came from around the next corner, circled deliriously in front of the theater, then shot off across the street. The quite trail made one of its side-tracks into the theater and then came out again.

He shook his head. It was all so utterly strange. As if the tails were two of his moods. One melancholy, almost soothing. The other mad, daredevil, crazily impudent.

After a couple of false starts he followed the quite trail across the next street and down another block where it turned a corner. It seemed to grow stronger, or perhaps that was because there was no longer a distinction.

He came into the business district. Here the feeling of hostile desolation, that had accompanied him for some time, increased markedly. It wasn’t only that the liquor was dying in him. Back by the stores and theaters there had been at least the ghost of some sort of human excitement, however cheap and stale, the glamour of tawdry lures hung to enmesh human appetites. But these great looming office buildings, with their trappings of iron-work and facings of granite, actually wanted to be ugly. They gloried in their stony efficiency, their indifference to human desires, their gray ability to crush out happiness.

Carr’s eyes went uneasily from side to side. Did that narrow black façade, shooting up dizzily, jerk forward a little, as if giving an inscrutable nod? There was something exceedingly horrible in the thought of miles of darkened offices, empty but for the endless desks, typewriters, filing cabinets, water coolers. What would a stranger from Mars deduce from them? Surely not human beings. Here reigned grinding death, by day as well as night, only now it put off its disguises.

With a great roar a cavalcade of newspaper trucks careened across the next corner, plunging as frantically as if the face of nations were at stake.

The feeling of active dread, that had first hit him on entering the business district, had increased. There was something that must not hear him, something that must not see him, something that under no circumstances must be allowed to know that it was heard or seen.

Easy enough to understand why a bunch of deserted skyscrapers should give a person a momentary shiver. But why should it give you that certainty of a gang bent on tracking you down? And why, in the name of sanity, should that feeling be tied up with such incongruous items as an advertisement for Wilson’s Hams, a glass panel, a black dog on a leash?

And somehow the number three. Three things? Three persons? Three what?

His feeling of near-memory was mounting toward a climax. He was certain that each hollow in the stone treads had received his foot before; that each naked vista of steel-ribbed and sinewed shafts had trapped his wandering gaze.

It had grown quite light while he’d been thinking. The stars had all gone. He could even make out, some blocks distant, the giant statue of Ceres atop the Board of Trade building. He recalled that she had no face. Being too high for features to be discerned except from an airplane or by telescope, a blank curved surface of stone did just as well.

Then, close, in fact across the street, he noticed three figures. He leaned forward sharply, watching.

For moment he though they might be statues.

There were really four figures, but the fourth was that of a large black animal—doglike yet somehow feline.

The three taller figures seemed to be surveying the sleeping city, somberly, speculatively.

The first was standing beside the dog with one arm extended straight forward towards its neck, as if holding it was the sheen of light, glistening hair, the flare of a wide-shouldered coat.

The second was a portly man.

The third was slenderer, taller, seemingly younger. His head looked small and neat, though not bald. And as he extended his arm to point at something far off, his cuff seemed empty.

Flashes of memory flickered wildly in Carr’s brain. He leaned forward a bit more and craned his neck, as if getting even an inch closer to the group might let him identify him.

It was still too dark for faces. Yet through he knew those three had faces and what the faces looked like, he found himself wondering if they, any more than the statue of Ceres, needed to wear faces now.

He leaned farther and farther forward.

He remembered everything.