The Mindwarpers Page 13

  The real solution of his predicament lay with the company that might become a regiment. He knew that as surely as he knew the difficulty of finding and pinning down the company. Some of them could tell him what had given them the willies; some might be less cautious and more candid than the not-too-helpful Henderson. Any few would do provided that they could be induced to open their minds to another nightmare-addict.

  “Look, brother, I’m not a cop, I’m not a security agent, I’m not a stooge of authority. I’m Richard Bransome, a fellow research worker on the run from everybody because I’m in a dream-world of my own. I’m not wanted for a murder that I believe I’ve committed. I’m convinced that in the long ago I killed a girl named Arline Lafarge. What do you think you’ve done?”

  If only one of them, just one would say, “My God, Bransome, there’s something screwy here. I killed Arline myself, near a one-horse dump called Burleston. I know I did it. How the devil could you—”

  “Tell me why you did it.”

  “She was a bitch. She drove me to it. I did it in a blazing temper. She got me really mad.”

  “How?”

  “Well … uh … I just don’t recall right now. It was so long ago and I’ve tried hard to forget it.”

  “Same with me. How about us tracking down the others and finding how many more have bumped Arline? It would be nice to know. We could present the cops with a mass-confession and squat in jail together and count the hours to the end.”

  Might it work out that way? Nothing the human mind can conceive is impossible. On the other hand, unknown forces might have been too farseeing and crafty for such simplification and taken the precaution of burdening each victim with a different phantom. Henderson, for example, appeared to have a secret peculiarly his own; he had not blinked an eyelid at mention of Burleston and Arline and had denied knowing either place or person.

  He was commencing to feel pretty positive that the ill-fated Arline was an illusionary creature. It was hard, very hard to accept this idea because his memory persisted in contradicting it. To deny the dictates of his memory was about as difficult as it would be to repudiate his own face in the mirror.

  In spite of accumulating evidence and/or lack of evidence, in spite of rapidly growing doubts, his memory remained sharp and clear with respect to the worst moment of his life. Even though the vision of the past might be no more than a bad dream built around a ghostly female, he could still visualize Arline’s features as she went down to her death, her black hair tied with baby-blue ribbon at the nape of her neck, her jet-black eyes full of shock, her thin lips that had curled in scorn once too often, the faint freckles on the sides of her nose, the streak of blood creeping down her forehead. She had been wearing a string of graduated pearls with button earrings to match, a blue dress, black shoes, a gold wristwatch. The picture was stereoscopic and in full color even to her nail-polish, which was lurid. It was a vision as complete in detail as only a reproduction of the real can be complete.

  But was she real?

  Or was she a mental figment just sufficiently large to create critical mass?

  The other refugees would know all about her or about phantoms like her. It would be hard if not impossible to get at them without Reardon’s co-operation. He did not fancy seeking Reardon’s help, especially after recent events. Besides, such a move would get him all tied up in bureaucratic complications at the very time when he was about to switch from the hunted to the hunter. He would appeal to Reardon and the redoubtable forces behind him only at the last resort.

  Therefore his fellow fugitives could be of no help in raising the pursuit, though, with luck, Henderson might prove a slow and stodgy exception. For the time being he’d have to run along on his own—and, he decided, there was a quarry to be tracked down.

  Five men could solve the mystery of Arline Lafarge. Five knew all about her and could be forced to talk.

  Those five were the two who had grabbed him on the steps, also the talkative trucker and his stooge, also the big foreigner who had egged him into flight. If he were right in these conclusions there was a sixth man, the unseen slugger, whom he could not include in his calculations because he had no means of identifying him.

  Any one of the five could give a lead to the others and, perhaps, to a bigger mob lurking in the background.

  As he hastened along he amused himself by making a more or less impassive study of his thirst for vengeance. Being what he was, primarily an objective thinker, he’d always viewed as a symptom of primitivism the supreme delight of handing someone a bust on the nose. Now the desire didn’t seem so retrogressive. Indeed he’d have despised himself had he lacked it. One cannot dispense with everything, basic human feelings included. He was happily married and that sweet state could never have been attained without emotional qualities on his part.

  Yes, if the opportunity came along, or if somehow he could create the chance, he was going to build up pressure of emotion to the bursting point, force all of it down into his right fist and make a hell of a mess of somebody’s face.

  In other words, he was riled and enjoying it.

  NINE:

  NIGHT’S DARK curtain lay across the sky, street lamps were gleaming, shop-fronts lit up. This was his own town but he did not go home; if anyone wanted him it was there they’d keep watch, waiting for the lost sheep to return to the fold. So far as he was concerned, they could wait until they took root. He had no hankering to be picked up yet. What he needed more than anything else was time—time enough to prowl around, find a target for his ire and dish out some hefty punches.

  His progress through town was fast but careful. A hundred people, some of them workers at the plant, lived hereabouts and knew him if only by sight. He didn’t want to be seen, much less spoken to, by any of them. The less others knew about his return, the better. Using the darker streets and avoiding the main shopping areas, he stopped only at a small store to buy himself a razor, toothbrush and comb. His journey ended at a motel on the side of town farthest from his house.

  There he cleaned up and had a meal. For a short while he suffered the temptation to phone Dorothy and arrange to meet her at a roadside cafe or some such place. But the children soon would be going to bed and she’d have to find a neighbor willing to baby-sit. The morning would be better, after the kids had gone to school. In the meantime he could have a word with Henderson if that worthy were still at Lakeside. He put through the call and Henderson answered.

  “You still there? I thought you might have left by now.”

  “I’m going tomorrow afternoon,” Henderson informed. “Old Addy’s taking over for a short time and is delighted to do so. Don’t know why he sold the store in the first place. Did you bait the you-know-who?” “Yes. There was nothing doing.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “They know nothing about it, and that’s definite.”

  Henderson was doubtful. “If they did know something, they wouldn’t necessarily admit it to an unknown voice on the phone. More likely they’d have tried to pick you up. Did you give them enough time to make a grab?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “In that case you can’t take anything for granted.”

  “I didn’t need to give them time. They weren’t trying to pick me up.”

  “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Because they made no attempt to detain me on the line,” explained Bransome. “Furthermore, I offered to go see them and they wouldn’t take me up on it. They said it would be a waste of time. They weren’t the least bit interested in seeing me, never mind making a grab. I’m telling you, Henny, the whole affair is some kind of dope-dream and I’m proceedig on that assumption.”

  “Proceeding? What can you do about it? D’you mean you’re returning to the plant?”

  “No—I’m not going back to work just yet.” “Then what?”

  “I’m determined to do some smelling around. With luck I might discover something worth finding. At any rate, I’m going to
have a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “You’ve got a lead worth following?”

  “I may have. I can’t be sure about it right now.” Bransome frowned to himself and went on, “If, as I expect, your own queries really satisfied you that your worries are baseless, I suggest you think back to the circumstances in which they started. You should be able to remember the people who shared those circumstances. They are your suspects. See what I mean?”

  “Bransome,” said Henderson, unimpressed, “you may fancy yourself as a private investigator, but I’m no detective and I know it. I’m not suited to that kind of work either by training or by inclination.”

  “I’m no better suited, but that won’t stop me. You never know what you can do until you try.”

  “Have it your own way.”

  “I intend to. I’m sick and tired of having it in somebody else’s way.” He clenched a fist and eyed it as if it were symbolic. “Henny, if you find you’re in the clear, for Pete’s sake don’t rest content to leave it at that. Don’t settle down to be happy and let sleeping dogs lie. Come back here and join forces with me. We may have been hexed by the same bunch of characters. You might recognize one and me another. We could help each other to pin them down.”

  “I’m not committing myself just yet,” said Henderson, instinctively countering yet another come-home-all-is-forgiven gambit. “You’ve checked and you’re looking for blood. I’m about to check and I’m hoping for salvation. At the present moment our positions are very different. In a few days’ time I may have moved over to your position. I may then be ripe for mayhem—in which case I’ll decide what to do for the best.”

  “You won’t be human if you don’t want to subject someone to the death of a thousand cuts,” Bransome opined. “You’ll need a helper to hold the victim down. I’m applying in advance for that job. You can reciprocate by doing the same for me.”

  “I’ll let you know how I get on,” Henderson promised.

  “Best of luck!”

  Ending the call, Bransome borrowed one of the motel’s telephone directories, took it to his room, and spent an hour searching through it and making notes. He finished with a short list containing the addresses and phone numbers of a legal advisory service, a mental specialist, a car rental agency, two detective outfits, four trucking companies and several modest eating places that he had never frequented. Most of this data might not be used but it would be convenient to have it ready to hand. Shoving the list into his wallet, he prepared for bed. His sleep that night was deep and untroubled.

  At nine-thirty in the morning, estimating that by now she would have returned from taking the children to school, he phoned Dorothy. He was careful about arranging to see her; she would be a direct lead to him, there was no knowing who might be listening on the line or who might be glad to learn of the rendezvous.

  “Listen, Lovely, this is urgent and I mustn’t waste words. So let’s keep it short, eh? Can you meet me for lunch about twelve-thirty?”

  “Of course, Rich, I’ll be quite—”

  “Remember where you lost and found your silver compact? I’ll wait for you there.”

  “Yes, all right, but why do—”

  He hung up as she was speaking. No doubt she’d feel irked about that, but it couldn’t be helped. Reardon and those behind him had the power to tap a telephone line and, in his opinion, weren’t above doing it for five cents. Brevity and evasiveness were the only defenses against an eavesdropper.

  By ten o’clock he was loafing around the gates of a trucking company. This was in the industrial district, a broad road lined with factories, yards and warehouses. Traffic was sparser than in the center of town, almost all of it consisting of huge vehicles bearing heavy loads. Pedestrians were so few that he was conspicuous and painfully aware of it. Undeterred, he strolled to and fro by the gates for an hour and a half during which time one truck entered and none emerged. He got a good look at the driver and co-driver. Both were complete strangers.

  Just inside the gates was a weighing station, alongside it a small hut inhabited by another watcher who wrote something in a book as the truck lumbered through, then gazed boredly through the window. He began to notice Bransome’s occasional amblings past the gates and eyed him with increasing curiosity. Eventually he left his hut and came outside.

  “Waiting for someone, mister?”

  “I’m looking for a couple of fellows I know,” said Bransome, laconically.

  “Truckers?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kept you long enough, haven’t they? Give me their names and I’ll tell ‘em you’re here.”

  “Sorry, I can’t—I know them only by sight.”

  “That’s a big help,” commented the other. A phone shrilled in the hut. “Hold it a minute.” He dashed into the hut, answered, consulted his book and transmitted some information. Then he returned to the gates.

  “I can describe them,” said Bransome.

  “That’s a fat lot of use. I’m no good at that sort of thing. Couldn’t recognize my Aunt Martha if you painted her on oils.”

  “Be surprised if you could—the way I paint.”

  “You couldn’t be worse than me, mister.” He scratched his bristly head, pondered the problem, then pointed across the yard. “Go into that office over there and ask for Richards. He knows every employee like he knows his own face. He ought to—he hires ‘em and fires ’em.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Bransome trudged across the yard, entered the office, and said to the girl behind the counter, “Can I have a word with Mr. Richards, please?”

  She looked him over with cool calculation. “You looking for a job?”

  “No,” said Bransome, deeply shocked. “I’m seeking some information.”

  Richards came after a few minutes. He was a thin-featured, disillusioned-looking type. His voice suggested patience that came with effort.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I hope so. I’m trying to find a couple of truckers.”

  “What for?”

  “Eh?”

  “What d’you want ‘em for? Are they in trouble of some kind? Who are you anyway? A cop or an insurance investigator?”

  “Seems to me you’re all set to expect the worst,” said Bransome, grinning. “You must have plenty of woe from truckers.”

  “That’s my business. What’s yours?”

  Since the other seemed accustomed to dealing only with authority, any kind of authority, Bransome gave him a half-truth. “I’m an official from the Defense Department.” He exhibited his pass and noted that it was examined with gratifying respect. “I have reason to believe that two truckers can supply some information of interest to the department. If I can find them I’d like to ask them a few questions.”

  Now satisfied, Richards said less surlily, “What are their names?”

  “I don’t know. I can give their descriptions. Your gateman thinks you might be able to identify them for me.”

  “All right, I’ll try. What do they look like?”

  Bransome provided verbal pictures of the pair of gossipers in the diner. He flattered himself that they were very good descriptions given in full detail.

  When he had finished Richards said, “We have forty-eight assorted roughnecks driving all over the country. About twenty of them correspond more or less with the idea you’ve given of the men you want. Some won’t be back for a couple of days, others for a week or more. If you want to have a look at them, you’re in for quite a long wait.”

  “That’s bad,” conceded Bransome, disappointed.

  “You sure they work for this outfit?”

  “I don’t know who they work for.”

  “Jumping Joseph!” Richards eyed him incredulously. “What kind of badges do they wear on their pocket-flaps?” “No idea.”

  “Well, what kind of a truck were they using? What color was it and what lettering or symbols did it carry?”

  “Don’t know. When last seen they weren’t in a tru
ck. They were in the railroad station, presumably waiting for a train.”

  “Oh, Lord!” Richards threw an appealing glance toward heaven. “Let me tell you something. Ordinary truckers do not use trains, not unless they’re being taken home for burial. They use trucks. They take loads out and they bring loads back, if and when a return-load can be got. Otherwise they come back empty. So in all probability your men are transfer-truckers.”

  “Huh?”

  “A transfer-trucker,” explained Richards with exaggerated patience, “takes a load away and delivers it, truck and all, at some distant trucking depot. He gets further orders there. Either at that depot or at some other reached by bus or train, he picks up another loaded truck, takes it away and delivers it. And so on and so on. He also acts as relief man, handling trucks for fellows on vacation or sick or thrown into the jug. He’s a gypsy, a wanderer, a general messer-abouter, here today and gone tomorrow and God only knows where the day after.”

  “I see,” said Bransome, feeling that as a detective he was proving somewhat feeble.

  “The point is this: transfer-truckers are used only by the big interstate companies with a number of depots. Not by small outfits like the four in this town. There are dozens of interstaters each employing hundreds of men. All you’ve got is a couple of descriptions that might fit a thousand or more guys at present trundling around anywhere from the North Pole downward.” He spread hands in a gesture of futility. “It’s worse than looking for a couple of special fleas in a dogs’ home. If I were you, I’d quit. Life’s too short.”

  “I guess that finishes that,” said Bransome, ruefully. He turned to go. “I’m grateful for what you’ve told me. We’re never too old to learn.”

  “Think nothing of it.” Richards watched him reach the door then called, “Hey, there’s something else now that I come to think of it. A pair of transfer-truckers wouldn’t be waiting at the local station.”