The Collection (67 page)
He wouldn
'
t have to call it off now. Jane knew.
Everybody knew. It had been called off for him. He'd been weak not to have done
it himself, before--
"
There are people waiting to see you, Mr.
Wills. Do you feel well enough to entertain visitors?"
"I--Who?"
"A
-
Miss Pemberton and her father. And a Mr.
Johnson. Do you want to see them?
"
Well, did he?
"Look," he said, "what exactly's wrong with
me? I mean-"
"You've suffered a severe shock. But you've slept quietly
for the last twelve hours. Physically, you are quite all right. Even able to
get up, if you feel you want to. But, of course, you mustn
'
t
leave."
Of
course
he mustn
'
t leave. They had him
down as a candidate for the booby hatch. An excellent candidate. Young man most
likely to succeed.
Wednesday. Wedding day.
Jane.
He couldn't bear to see--
"Listen," he said,
"
will you send
in Mr. Pemberton, alone? I'd rather-"
"Certainly. Anything else I can do for you?
"
Charlie shook his head sadly. He was feeling most horribly
sorry for himself. Was there anything
anybody
could do for him?
Mr. Pemberton held out his hand quietly. "Charles, I
can't begin to tell you how sorry I am-
"
Charlie nodded. "Thanks. I . . . I guess you understand
why I don
'
t want to see Jane. I realize that ... that of course we
can't-"
Mr. Pemberton nodded.
"
Jane . . . uh . . .
understands, Charles. She wants to see you, but realizes that it might make
both of you feel worse, at least right now. And Charles, if there
'
s
anything any of us can do-
"
What was there anybody could do?
Pull the wings off an angleworm?
Take a duck out of a showcase?
Find a missing golf hall?
Pete came in after the Pembertons had gone away. A quieter
and more subdued Pete than Charlie had ever seen.
He said,
"
Charlie, do you feel up to talking
this over?
"
Charlie sighed. "if it
'
d do any
good, yes. I feel all right physically. But-
"
"
Listen, you've got to keep your chin up.
There's an answer somewhere. Listen, I was wrong. There is a connection, a
tie-up between these screwy things that happened to you. There
'
s
got to be.
"
"Sure," said Charlie, wearily. "What?
"
"
That's what we've got to find out. First
place, we'll have to outsmart the psychiatrists they'll sick on you. As soon as
they think you're well enough to stand it. Now, let's look at it from their
point of view so we'll know what to tell
'
em. First-
"
"How much do they know?"
"Well, you raved while you were unconscious, about the
worm business and about a duck and a golf ball, but you can pass that off as
ordinary raving. Talking in your sleep. Dreaming. Just deny knowing anything
about them, or anything connected with any of them. Sure, the duck business was
in the newspapers, but it wasn't a big story and your name wasn't in it. So
they
'
ll never tie that up. If they do, deny it. Now that leaves the
two times you keeled over and were brought here unconscious.
"
Charlie nodded.
"
And what do they make of
them?"
"
They
'
re puzzled. The first one
they can
'
t make anything much of. They
'
re inclined to leave
it lay. The second one--Well, they insist that you must, somehow, have given
yourself that ether.
"
"But why? Why would anybody give himself ether?"
"No sane man would. That
'
s just it; they
doubt your sanity because they think you did. If you can convince then you
'
re
sane, then- Look, you
got
to buck up. They are classifying your attitude
as acute melancholia, and that sort of borders on maniac depressive. See? You
got to act cheerful.
"
"Cheerful? When I was to be married at two o'clock
today? By the way, what time is it now?
"
Pete glanced at his wrist watch and said,
"
Uh
... never mind that. Sure, if they ask why you feel lousy mentally, tell them-
"
"
Dammit, Peter, I wish I was crazy. At
least, being crazy makes sense. And if this stuff keeps up, I
will
go--
"Don't talk like that.
You
got to
fight."
"Yeah," said Charlie, listlessly.
"
Fight
what?"
There was a low rap on the door and the nurse looked into
the room. "Your time is up, Mr. Johnson. You'll have to leave."
Inaction, and the futility of circling thought-patterns that
get nowhere. Finally, he had to do something or go mad.
Get dressed? He called for his clothes and got them, except
that he was given slippers instead of his shoes. Anyway, getting dressed took
time.
And sitting in a chair was a change from lying in bed. And
then walking up and down was a change from sitting in a chair.
"What time is it?"
"Seven o'clock, Mr. Wills."
Seven o'clock; he should have been married five hours by
now.
Married to Jane; beautiful, gorgeous, sweet, loving, understanding,
kissable, soft, lovable Jane Pemberton. Five hours ago this moment she should
have become Jane Wills.
Nevermore.
Unless--
The problem.
Solve it.
Or go mad.
Why would a worm wear a halo?
"
Dr. Palmer is here to see you, Mr. Wills.
Shall I--
"
"Hello, Charles. Came as soon as I could after I
learned you were out of your . . . uh . . . coma. Had an o. b. case that kept
me. How do you feel?"
He felt terrible.
Ready to scream and tear the paper off the wall only the
wall was painted white and didn't have any paper. And scream, scream--
"I feel swell, doc,
"
said Charlie.
"Anything . . . uh . . . strange happen to you since
you've been here?
"
"Not a thing. But, doc, how would you explain-"
Doc Palmer explained. Doctors always explain. The air
crackled with words like psychoneurotic and autohypnosis and traumata.
Finally, Charlie was alone again. He'd managed to say
good-by to Doc Palmer, too, without yelling and tearing him to bits.
"What time is it?"
"
Eight o'clock.
"
Six hours married.
Why is a duck?
Solve it.
Or go mad.
What would happen next? "Surely this thing shall follow
me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the bughouse forever."
Eight o'clock.
Six hours married.
Why a lei? Ether? Heat?
What have they in common? And why is a duck?
And what would it be
next time?
When would next time
he? Well, maybe he could guess that. How many things had happened to him thus
far? Five-if the missing golf ball counted. How far apart? Let's see-the
angle-worm was Sunday morning when he went fishing; the heat prostration was
Tuesday; the duck in the museum was Thursday noon, the second-last day he
worked; the golf game and the lei was Saturday; the ether Monday
Two days apart.
Periodicity?
He'd been pacing up and down the room, now suddenly he felt
in his pocket and found pencil and a notebook, and sat down in the chair.
Could it be
-exact
periodicity?
He wrote down
"
Angleworm
"
and stopped to think. Pete was to call for him to go fishing at five-fifteen
and he
'
d gone downstairs at just that time, and right to the flower
bed to dig- Yes, five-fifteen A.M. He wrote it down.
"Heat." Mm-m-m, he'd been a block from work and
was due there at eight-thirty, and when he'd passed the corner clock he'd
looked and seen that he had five minutes to get there, and then had seen the
teamster and-He wrote it down. "Eight twenty-five.
"
And
calculated.
Two days, three hours, ten minutes.
Let
'
s see, which was next? The duck in the
museum. He could time that fairly well, too. Old Man Hapworth had told him to
go to lunch early, and he
'
d left at ... uh . . . eleven twenty-five
and if it took him, say, ten minutes to walk the block to the museum and down
the main corridor and into the numismatics room- Say, eleven thirty-five.
He subtracted that from the previous one.
And whistled.
Two days, three hours, ten minutes.
The lei? Urn, they
'
d left the clubhouse about
one-thirty. Allow an hour and a quarter, say, for the first thirteen holes,
and- Well, say between two-thirty and three. Strike an average at two
forty-five. That would be pretty close. Subtract it.
Two days, three hours, ten minutes.
Periodicity.
He subtracted the next one first-the fourth episode should
have happened at five fifty-five on Monday. If--
Yes, it had been
exactly
five minutes of six when he
'
d
walked through the door of the jewelry shop and been anesthetized.
Exactly.
Two days, three hours, ten minutes.
Periodicity.
PERIODICITY.
A connection, at last. Proof that the screwy events were all
of a piece. Every . . . uh . . . fifty-one hours and ten minutes
something
screwy happened.
But why?
He stuck his head out in the hallway.
"
Nurse. NURSE. What time is it?
"
`
"Half past eight, Mr. Wills. Anything I can bring you?
"
Yes. No. Champagne. Or a strait jacket. Which?
He
'
d solved the problem. But the answer didn
'
t
make any more sense than the problem itself. Less, maybe. And today--
He figured quickly.
In thirty-five minutes.
Something would happen to him in thirty-five minutes!
Something like a flying angleworm or like a quacking duck
suffocating in an air-tight showcase, or--
Or maybe something
dangerous again?
Burning heat,
sudden anesthesia--
Maybe something worse?
A cobra, unicorn, devil, werewolf, vampire, unnameable
monster?
At nine-five. In half an hour.
In a sudden draft from the open window, his forehead felt
cold. Because it was wet with sweat.
In half an hour.
What?
Pace; up and down, four steps one way, four steps back.
Think, think, THINK.
You've solved part of it; what's the rest? Get it, or it
will get you.
Periodicity; that
'
s
part
of it. Every two
days, three hours, ten minutes
Something happens.
Why?
What?
How?
They're connected, those things, they are part of a pattern
and they make sense somehow or they wouldn't be spaced an exact interval of
time apart.
Connect: angleworm, heat, duck, lei, ether--Or go mad.
Mad.
Mad.
MAD.
Connect: Ducks cat angleworms, or do they? Heat is necessary
to grow flowers to make leis. Angleworms might eat flowers for all he knew but
what have they to do with leis, and what is ether to a duck? Duck is animal,
lei is vegetable, heat is vibration, ether is gas, worm is ... what the hell's
a worm? And why a worm that flies? And why was the duck in the showcase? What
about the missing Chinese coin with the hole? Do you add or subtract the golf
ball, and if you let x equal a halo and y equal one wing, then x plus 2y plus 1
angle-worm equals-
Outside, somewhere, a clock striking in the gathering
darkness.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine-Nine o
'
clock.
Five minutes to go.
In five minutes, something was going to happen again.
Cobra, unicorn, devil, werewolf, vampire.
Or something cold
and slimy and without a name.
Anything.
Pace up and down, four steps one way, four steps back.
Think, THINK.
Jane forever lost. Dearest Jane, in whose arms was all of
happiness. Jane, darling, I'm not mad, I'm WORSE than mad. I'm--
WHAT TIME IS IT?
It must he two minutes after nine. Three.
What's coming? Cobra, devil, werewolf
What will it be this time?
At five minutes after nine-WHAT?
Must be four after now; yes, it had been at least four
minutes, maybe four and a half
He yelled, suddenly. He couldn't stand the waiting. It couldn't
be solved. But he had to solve it. Or go mad.
MAD.
He must be mad already. Mad to tolerate living, trying to
fight something you couldn't fight, trying to beat the unbeatable. Beating his
head against--
He was running now, out the door, down the corridor.
Maybe if he hurried, be could kill himself before five
minutes after nine. He
'
d never have to know. Die, DIE AND GET IT
OVER WITH. THAT'S THE ONLY WAY TO BUCK THIS GAME.
Knife.
There
'
d be a knife somewhere. A scalpel is a
knife. Down the corridor. Voice of a nurse behind hum, shouting. Footsteps.
Run. Where? Anywhere.
Less than a minute left. Maybe seconds.