Dagger of Flesh (2 page)

I turned. Jay was looking at his left shoulder. He said softly, "You know, I can see him. I can see him just as plain. He's there, I tell you. I can feel him." He cocked his head on the side. "I don't know what's real—Shell, you think I'm crazy?"

"You're not crazy, Jay. Get that out of your head." There was a chance he was, but I'd have been a fool to tell him so. He looked at me as I went back and sat down in the swivel chair behind my desk.

Then he reached into his inside coat pocket, took out a long envelope and put it on the desk. I glanced at the name stamped in the upper left corner: "Cohen and Fisk, Attorneys at Law." Jay took some papers out of the envelope and handed them to me.

"Look at this," he said. "Here's why I came up. The other reason, anyway. I came up to see you as a friend, Shell, not just because you're a detective. Main reason is I can trust you."

"Sure, Jay. Anything I can do," I said. He seemed fairly calm now. Still nervous, but a lot better than he had been. I picked up the top paper and looked at it. For a minute I thought I was reading the thing wrong. It said: I hereby assign, transfer, and sell all my rights, title, and interest in and to the following described property ...

I looked up. "What the devil is this, Jay? This is a bill of sale. It doesn't make sense."

"Yes it does. I'm selling out."

It was a bill of sale, all right, and the description was of Jay's store on Ninth Street. It must have been worth a mint.

"I don't get it," I said. "Why?"

He took a deep breath and his cheeks puffed out as he exhaled. "I've got some trouble. Some kind of trouble—unless I'm imagining it, too." His lips twisted in a wry grin. "Don't know what's real and what isn't since this—Anyway, there's a couple guys come in every night at closing time. Trying to buy the place."

"You don't want to sell, do you?"

He hesitated. "Funny thing, I do, sort of. They want me to sell for twenty-five thousand."

"Twenty-five—why, the business must be worth four or five times that, Jay."

"Closer to a quarter of a million. I carry a big stock, you know. Thing is, I ... I want to sell to them. I can hardly keep from doing it when they come in. I'm so mixed up, it's as if I had to. I'm afraid maybe I will sell."

"You're afraid? Then what're these papers? Why—"

"I'm going to sell it to you, Shell."

"To me? Hell, Jay, I haven't got—"

"For a dollar."

I looked at him. Maybe the guy was crazy.

He said, "It's a favor to me, if you want to go through with it. You won't have to do anything about the business; I'll be around. This is just on paper." He paused, then went on, "These two men who've been after me—they scare me. I'm afraid they'll get rough. One of them carries a gun."

This was getting closer to the kind of thing I'm used to. Tough boys. I was starting to understand. Part of this was getting clearer.

Jay went on. "This is too much for me, Shell. I'm afraid maybe there's something wrong with me, anyway. And now this deal about the business." He licked his lips. "And they're rough. Shoved me around a little last night. Said I'd have to make up my mind soon. Tonight, maybe."

I let that sink in. "You mean shoved you around physically? Actually roughed you up, Jay?"

"Uh-huh. They're big guys. About your size. Said if I didn't sell they'd take care of me."

I was starting to burn. Jay was all of five-seven, and fifty-eight years old. He carried around a little potbelly and was as mild as anybody I knew.

I asked him, "Want some help there?"

He nodded. "That's the deal with those papers. If things work out you can sign back the shop to me. If things don't work out for me, you can see that Ann gets the place. Look at me. Do I look as if I can handle this mess? Hell, I can hardly sell a pair of pants the way I am. There's a check in the mail for you no matter what."

"Knock that off, Jay. You don't need to pay me. And what do you mean, if things don't work out?"

"You know. Anything might happen."

"Nothing's going to happen. I think I get the deal, though. I'll be the new owner as far as the tough boys are concerned, and I'll be able to prove it. I'll have a talk with these guys, and as soon as things calm down a little you step back in. Right?"

He nodded. "If you'll do it."

"Of course I will, if you're sure you want it this way."

"I'm sure. And, besides, I really want to sell. Maybe I can relax a little then. It's been on my mind."

So far this whole conversation had seemed crazy to me, but I played along. "What do you want me to do?"

"The guys who want to buy will come back at five tonight. Want to see them—as the new owner?"

"I'll be there. What about these papers? Do we fill the things out here, so they look legal?"

He shook his head. "It may be legal. I checked with the lawyers yesterday and found I should run a notice of intended sale in one of the county newspapers for seven days before the sale. But a week ago I hadn't even considered it, and I didn't really decide to do this till last night. I haven't any creditors at the moment, though—all paid up. And I haven't dated the bill of sale yet; just sign it and it's done. Do it right here in the office." He smiled. "Give me a dollar, Shell; you're buying a quarter-million-dollar business for one buck."

I had to smile, myself, and he looked at me and laughed out loud. We sat there laughing at each other for a few seconds, then he turned his head and looked at the parrot I couldn't see, and he stopped laughing and said softly, "You son of a bitch."

In five more minutes the job was done and the deal wrapped up, but we sat talking. Jay asked me if I'd shot anybody lately. I told him and he swallowed strenuously.

 

I'd been to Jay's house only a few times, usually meeting him at a downtown bar for a drink, so I asked him about his family. He was a widower whose wife had died in childbirth. Jay's daughter, Ann, would be somewhere around twenty now. She'd never been around when I'd called at Jay's, so all I remembered of her was a scrawny kid about ten or eleven years old who always gave me a pain, and had once kicked me vigorously in the shin just for fun.

Jay had remarried a little over two years back, and I had met his new wife just once, briefly, about a year ago. I was thinking about that meeting and my mouth suddenly started getting dry. I was remembering now; only a little, but enough.

I was almost afraid to ask it, but I said, "How's ... how's the wife, Jay?"

"Gladys? Same as usual. You met her once, didn't you, Shell?" He went on, his voice droning pleasantly, but the sound seemed to swell and fade in my ears and I didn't have any idea what he was saying.

Gladys. Even before I'd asked him, I knew. I had suddenly remembered why Gladys had seemed familiar to me from the beginning. I had remembered, vividly for that one moment, my first sight of her when she'd opened the door for me at Jay's a year ago. I'd even remembered thinking then that she was one of those wide-eyed brunettes who ripen at about eighteen and then get riper, and riper, and riper—and that Jay was going to have trouble with that one.

"What's the matter, Shell?"

"What? Oh, I'm sorry, Jay. I was ... a million miles away." I tried to grin at him. "Say it again."

"I said it won't be long now." He glanced at his watch. "Almost one."

He kept staring at his watch while I looked at him, feeling utterly rotten. The business with Gladys had bothered me before, but it was worse now. Gladys wasn't simply a desirable woman married to some unknown male—she was Jay's wife. I thought about that for what seemed a long time.

Jay looked up suddenly and sighed. "Gone," he said. "Gone. Oh, boy." He grinned happily at me. "I'm sane for another twenty-three hours. Well, Shell, how's it feel to own Weather's?"

"No different, Jay."

"I feel better than I've felt for a week. Seems like one hell of a load off my mind. You'll be down at five?"

"Sure. I'll come down a little early. Anything you want me to do before then?"

"No. I'm all right, if that's what you mean. And thanks. Don't forget, you've got a check coming." I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. "No arguments, Shell."

He got up, nodded and said, "See you about five," and walked out almost jauntily. I watched him go and wondered about him. I wondered a little about me, too. I was one fine, upstanding, hell of a bastard.

I slammed the door hard, sending echoes down the corridor, then went back to my desk, looked up the Jay Weather residence in the phone book, and dialed. A girl's voice answered, a happy, bright voice.

I told her I wanted to speak to Mrs. Weather.

"Half a minute." I heard the phone clatter, then silence—and then the voice I remembered.

"Hello, Gladys," I said. "This is Shell."

"Why, Shell! You darling. Couldn't you wait?"

"Yeah, I can wait. Gladys, forget tonight. Forget every night from now on."

"What?" She was silent for several seconds, then she said quietly, "How did you know where to call me, Shell? What's this all about? Have you been sneaking around spying on me?"

"No. I'm through, that's all. We're washed up."

"You listen to me, Shell Scott—"

I interrupted her. "Listen, Gladys, I'll say it once fast, and then that's the end of it. I know your name, and I know your husband. I like him. It wouldn't ever be the same again. I'm sorry, really, but that's how it is."

Her voice got higher, sharper. "Why, you sneaking bastard. You virtuous, Victorian, simple, stupid—"

There was more, quite a bit more, and finally I hung up. I sat and smoked for a while, thinking about Gladys, and about Jay's friendship and trust; then I forced those thoughts out of my mind and concentrated on the business at hand. I had tried to act as if nothing about Jay had been too peculiar, but now I tried to figure out whether or not the guy was really off his nut. Sane people don't go around seeing nonexistent parrots and casually selling businesses. Or do they?

I walked over to the window and looked down at Spring Street. To my right, on a projecting ledge of the building, a mangy pigeon cocked a beady eye at me and blinked. It was a lousy-looking pigeon. I wondered what I looked like to the pigeon. I wondered what that parrot had looked like to Jay.

When I found myself wondering what Jay had looked like to the parrot, I went back to my desk and put in a fast phone call to City Hall and Bruce Wilson, police psychiatrist.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Three

 

 

BRUCE CAME ON, speaking in the easy, relaxed voice that matched the rest of his personality.

"This is Shell," I told him.

"Hello, Shell. How's the subconscious?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"That's the right answer, chum. What you want?"

"I need some help. Answer me this: what would make a guy suddenly start seeing things that aren't there?"

"What kind of things?"

"Well, a parrot. Why would a guy start seeing a parrot on his shoulder?"

"Don't know."

"Come on, Bruce. What might make something like that happen?"

I could almost see him squeezing his sharp chin between thumb and forefinger. "Hard to say, Shell. You serious? Or is this a hypothetical case?"

"Serious. Guy I know. Friend of mine."

"Not a lush, is he?"

"Uh-uh. Drinks, but no more than I do, as far as I know."

"Hard to say without seeing the man. Tell me more about it."

"Started Monday at noon. And it's been happening every day at noon since then. Goes away at one. This is the fourth day, and he was in my office when it happened. Said the bird was on his shoulder, that he could see it and feel it. Nothing there. Is he nuts?"

He didn't answer for a moment, then he said, "The way you describe it, the thing sounds like a posthypnotic suggestion."

"A what?"

"Posthypnotic suggestion. You know, hypnosis."

I groaned. The little I knew about hypnotism supported that explanation. I said, "Would it work, Bruce? I mean, would it be that real to him?"

"Under the right conditions. Wouldn't work with everybody, but a lot of people can get positive visual hallucinations as a result of hypnosis."

"Don't go away," I said. "I'll be right down."

I hung up, put the bill of sale making me "owner" of Weather's back in its envelope and locked it in the middle drawer of my desk. Then I took off.

 

Bruce Wilson was a tall, bony man with a thick shock of brown hair, and alert brown eyes sparkling over sharp cheekbones. He leaned back in the chair behind his paper-littered desk, looped his left leg over the chair arm and said, speaking as slowly as he always did, "What's a private dick doing with a vanishing parrot?"

"Just walked in on me, Bruce. There's more that's funny, but the parrot business really puzzles me. Never ran across anything like it before. Spell out that hypnosis angle for me, will you?"

He reached up and squeezed his chin. "Simple enough. If a good hypnotic subject, one capable of experiencing positive visual hallucinations, is told while under hypnosis that he'll see a parrot after he's awakened—or at a certain time of day—he'll see it. Doesn't have to be a parrot, of course; could be a monkey, dog, woman, platypus—anything at all that the subject has seen before." He paused. "You ever see a guy with delirium tremens?"

"DT's? Yeah. Wino in Pedro."

"What happened?"

"I woke him up in the middle of the night and the guy started raving. He'd had some flying lessons once, and thought he was coming in for a landing. Then he began seeing spiders on his arms. Started batting at the things ..." I finally got what Bruce was driving at.

"Uh-huh," Bruce said. "But there weren't any spiders, naturally. He saw them, though, just as this friend of yours sees the parrot."

"Yeah, but ..."

Bruce held up a yellow pencil in his right hand. "See this?"

"Sure I see it."

"All right, here's what's happening. When light hits the retina it trips a trigger, so to speak, that shoots an impulse along nerve pathways to your brain, and you get a picture in your brain of a pencil—in other words, a nerve pattern up there in your head that lets you see this pencil. The pencil, itself, is merely the means of tripping that trigger and forming the pattern in your brain. If you remove the pencil, yet still tripped that particular trigger—stimulated the same nerve pathways and formed the same nerve patterns in your brain—then you'd still see the pencil.