The Mindwarpers Read online

  “Don’t know where he lives, Mr. Bransome, but I can tell you where he works.” Another look at the clock. “In Voce’s Barber Shop on Bleeker Street. He should be there right now.”

  “Thanks, Walt. Tonight you will be mentioned in my prayers.”

  “That’s nice,” said Walt, giving the ghost of a smile.

  Bransome trudged to the barber shop on Bleeker Street, which wasn’t far away. It proved to be a small, dingy place with four well-worn chairs and two attendants. Plenty of loose hair lay scattered over the un-swept floor. One barber, gray-headed and in his sixties, was trimming a customer in the chair farthest from the door. The other barber was a shrimpish, sallow-faced youth sprawling on a bench by the wall and reading a comic book. As Bransome entered the youth reluctantly got up and motioned toward a chair. Bransome sat in it.

  “Short back and sides.” When the other had finished he slipped him a tip and whispered, “Want a word with you at the door.”

  Following him to the entrance, the youth asked in equally low tones, “What’s the idea?”

  “Are you Jim Falkner?”

  “Yes—how d’you know my name?”

  “Got it from a mutual friend, Walt at the snack bar.”

  “Oh, that zombie.”

  “I’m trying to trace a fellow last seen in the diner. He’s a big, ugly clunker who’s been there only a few times. Walt says you were there one evening with three friends. One of them spoke to this man and got given the conspicuous brush-off. Do you remember that?”

  “Sure do. The big bum took off looking sour. Gil laughed and said he was as chummy as a rattlesnake.”

  “Gil?”

  “Gilbert.” Suspicion clouded Falkner’s face. “What are you after? Are you a cop?”

  “Do I look like one? I’ve lost track of this big character and want to find him. It’s a private matter. Gilbert hasn’t anything to worry about, I can promise you that. Now, who is he and where can I find him?”

  Falkner said a little unwillingly, “His name is Gilbert Mitchell. He’s at the Star Garage at the end of this street.”

  “That’s all I want to know. Thanks for the help.”

  “It’s okay,” said Falkner, still doubtful about the wisdom of giving away his friends.

  Mitchell turned out to be a well-built blond with a fixed half-grin. His hands were black with automobile grease and he had a smear of it across his face. Wiping the face with an even greasier sleeve, he gave Bransome his attention.

  “I’m searching for a heavyweight whose name and address I don’t know. He was last seen in the station snack bar. Walt says you were there one evening with Jim Falkner and a couple of others. You greeted this character with the name of Kossy or Kozzy and he gave you the cold shoulder. What d’you know about him?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “You did speak to him?”

  “I wasted my breath on him.”

  “Then you must know something about him.”

  “A fat lot. I’ve seen him plenty of times in a poolroom downtown. I go there two or three times a week and usually he’s there too. Most times he’s using the table next to mine. He plays with a tough, deadpan bunch who call him Kossy. That’s all I know.”

  “Where is this poolroom?”

  Mitchell obliged with the information.

  “About what time does Kossy show up there?”

  “It varies. Sometimes he’s there early, sometimes late. About nine o’clock would be a good bet” Mitchell’s grin widened as he added, “Don’t play him for money, mister—you’ll get skinned.”

  “Thanks—I won’t.”

  He had no intention of playing pool with Kossy or with anyone else. His only desire was to get the quarry in sight. What he’d do after that would depend upon circumstances.

  The poolroom held twelve tables of which eight were in use. He wandered casually through the smoke-laden atmosphere examining players and spectators, all of whom were too interested in their games to take any notice of him. Nobody was present whom he could recognize.

  Arriving at a little shack-like office in one corner, he peered through its doorway. Inside sat a bald-headed man smoking a thin cheroot and playing with the guts of a time-recorder. Several tipless cues were racked against one wall and a box of blue chalks stood open on a tiny desk.

  “Happen to know a big pug named Kossy?”

  Baldhead looked up, snowing lined and liverish features. He extracted the cheroot.

  “Why should I tell you?”

  Ignoring the question, Bransome opened his wallet, took out a bill. The other made it disappear as if he were performing a conjuring trick. The money vanished out its recipient’s expression did not become less vinegary.

  “His name is Kostavik,” informed Baldhead, speaking without moving his lips. “Lives somewhere nearby. Been coming here only the last five or six weeks but shows up often. Think he moves around quite a lot. Don’t know what he does for a living and don’t want to. That’s about all I can say.”

  “How about his pals?”

  “One of them is called Shas and another Eddy. There’s yet another but I’ve never heard his name used. All of them speak English with an offbeat accent. If they’re citizens the ink is still wet on their papers.”

  “Much obliged.” He gave the other a significant look. “Nobody has asked you anything, not a question.”

  “Nobody ever does.” Baldhead rammed the cheroot in his mouth and resumed his fiddling with the time-recorder.

  Leaving the poolroom, Bransome crossed the street, settled himself in a doorway and proceeded to keep watch on the place. This was as far as he’d been able to get and he’d have to stay with it. If nobody showed up this evening he’d try again tomorrow and the day after. It was a welcome change to be the chaser instead of the chased.

  Already the sky was darkening with impending nightfall and some stores had closed, including the one in the doorway of which he was standing. Lack of sunlight was no handicap; street lamps and neon signs made pedestrians clearly visible on both sides of the street. Desultory traffic was the chief nuisance, because anyone could slip unseen into the poolroom when masked by a passing car or truck. Apart from that he was doing all right provided that no officious cop hustled him onward. He could expect to be given the hard shove sooner or later; cops do not like lurkers in shop doorways.

  This thought had hardly crossed his mind when a cop came into view a hundred yards away and on his own side of the road. He watched the blue-clad official figure parading toward him at a slow, deliberate pace and decided that this spying business was not as simple as it seemed. He’d been stationed there a mere ten minutes and now was about to be moved on. So far as he could see there was no way of avoiding it. To leave the doorway at this precise moment would look suspicious. It would be better to remain and wear a dull-witted expression.

  Ponderously the cop came on, reached the doorway, lumbered straight past and ostentatiously refrained from seeing him. That was strange indeed. The officer’s manner and bearing shouted aloud that he was well aware of Bransome’s presence but determined to ignore it. The incident was out of character and contrary to cop-custom. Bransome stared after the retreating figure and was mystified.

  Approximately one hour later the cop came back and carefully surveyed all doorways except the one Bransome occupied. At that one he acknowledged the watcher’s existence with a grunt and a curt nod. Then he pounded onward, still looking into doorways and occasionally testing locks. Bransome felt like a man who has been awarded a medal without knowing why.

  At that point his attention was drawn back to the facing poolroom. Six men were coming out and four going in. He could see the faces of the departees but not those of the arrivals. However, all were of average height and build and obviously did not include the elusive Kostavik.

  His vigil ended at eleven-thirty. Three men emerged. With a tremendous thrill of excitement he recognized one as a member of the pair who had caught him in his fall down
the steps. The other two were complete strangers. He had not seen this suspect inside the poolroom, neither had he observed him entering it; presumably he must have been among the few who had shown xonly their backs when going in—and at a time when his own mind was obsessed by thoughts of Kostavik. Temporarily he forgot Kostavik and followed this trio. So far as he was concerned one lead was as good as another.

  Chatting together and apparently without a care in the world, the three paced rapidly along the street with Bransome a hundred yards behind and on the opposite side. Farther back two more men came out of an alley and followed Bransome, one on each side of the road. On a corner farther back the cop made a gesture and a car loaded with four men era wed into view and tagged along behind them all.

  This weird procession of shadower-plus-shadower wended its way along the road and through several side streets to a major crossing. Here the leading trio stopped, conversed for a minute or two, then split in three directions. Without hesitation Bransome kept grimly after the one he’d recognized.

  Behind, the two walking trackers likewise split and went after the pair Bransome had disregarded. The car halted and disgorged one man who hung behind Bransome while it in turn followed at a discreet distance behind him.

  Crossing a vacant lot the presumably unsuspecting leader made for a phone booth on a corner, entered it and started dialing. Bransome stopped in the shadow of a high wall and leaned against the brickwork. His follower lolled by a parked car and pretended to be boredly waiting for someone.

  The man in the booth got his connection and said, “Kossy, I’m at Slater and Tenth. I’m being tailed. Eh? Feds my eye! This one’s so raw he’s flashing a red light and ringing a firebell. Whatcha say? Yes, all right—I’ll drag him round to Sammy’s.”

  Leaving the booth, he refrained from looking backward. He walked steadily on. Bransome gave him a slightly longer lead and followed. So did the pseudo car-owner.

  Soon afterward the shadowing car reached the phone booth and halted. A man got out, called a number, cross-examined somebody. Hurriedly he made a second call and returned to the car.

  “This boy is good—if he doesn’t get his head blown off before he’s through.”

  “Have any luck?”

  “Yes. They pinpointed the other party and I’ve passed the news along.”

  The car surged forward, the two leaders of the chase now being out of sight. It didn’t matter much: the man on foot was a remaining link and would point the way.

  He did, too. After three more streets he stepped from an alley and halted the car. Whispering to those within it, he indicated a graystone apartment house halfway up the road and on the right. Two men got out and joined him. Cautiously the three approached the house. Left to himself, the car’s driver felt under the dashboard, drew out a hand-microphone, switched on a radio transmitter and sent out a call. Elsewhere in the city and not far away two more loaded cars started heading fast in his direction.

  Without bothering to sneak a look toward Bransome, the man at the head of the multiple pursuit made a sudden turn, ran up four steps and entered the graystone building. His figure became swallowed in the darkness of the interior while the front door remained invitingly open.

  Still hugging the opposite side of the road, Bransome maintained his cautious rate of progress, passed the apartment house, stopped on the next corner and considered the situation. To decide his next move was simple enough. Either he must go into that house or stay out of it. If he did the latter the entire chase would become futile unless he kept watch on the place until such time as he could link this character with other suspects he had in mind. He was badly in need of such a linkage because without it he had nothing more than theories and suspicions that in official estimation would smack of the fantastic.

  Keeping a given address under expert and constant observation, possibly for several days and nights, was a task more suitable for the police or a detective agency. He had the addresses of two agencies in his pocket right now. But they’d be of little use in these circumstances—like the police, they would not know for whom to look. Descriptions of five men would be their sole data and—after his experiences with the two trucking companies—he had little faith in verbal pictures. The blunt fact remained that only he, Bransome, could recognize certain characters on sight. Therefore he must handle the job himself as best he could.

  To hang around all through the night would try his patience, which was elastic enough for dealing with scientific problems but lacked stretching qualities in the matter of sweet retribution. Besides, this evening he had found definite suggestion of a link: he had staked out the poolroom in hope of tracing one man and had found another. At least two of them, therefore, must be frequenting the same playground.

  Inside this nearby pile of masonry might be a third member of the bunch. Or even all five or six of them, gabbing and plotting together and laughing over their beer. Yes, grinning like apes because other and better men had become burdened with imaginary corpses.

  As anger mounted within him he knew he just had to go in there and take a chance. For the first time in his life he wished he had a gun. Yet a weapon need not be essential. If prowlers who were none too bright could enter bedrooms and rifle the pockets of sleepers, surely he could sneak around long enough to learn a few things and escape unharmed.

  He would go inside, creep quietly from floor to floor and try to discover the identities of the various apartment owners who, in all probability, would have their names upon their doors. If one of them proved to be an elephant named Kostavik it would be linkage enough to justify running out and phoning the police and inviting them to come and stop the riot. Then he’d return to start the said affray.

  Going back to the graystone building, he mounted its steps, went through the door, found himself in a long, narrow hall dimly lit at the back by one feeble bulb. The hall ended in a narrow staircase with a small elevator at its side. Four apartment doors opened onto the hall. This floor was silent, as if unoccupied, but he could hear faint noises of movement above. From higher still came the muffled sound of a radio playing the Radetsky March. The whole place was scruffy, with peeling paint on the walls, woodwork chipped and scratched, a musty smell in the air.

  As quietly as possible he moved from door to door and read the names thereon. In the poor light he almost had to put his nose to them. He was peering closely at a grubby card pinned to the door nearest the rear of the hall, and had time only to note that it said Samuel someone-or-other, when the door whisked open and a violent thrust in the small of the back boosted him through it headlong.

  The double event took him so completely by surprise that he went into the room at an off-balance run, and heard the door slam behind him just as he toppled and buried his face in the threadbare carpet. A series of ultra-rapid thoughts flashed through his mind even as he fell. A shove like that must be deliberate and with malice aforethought. Whoever had slipped up behind him was a tough customer who meant business. This was no time for professions of mistakes, explanations and apologies. Whatever could be done had better be done good and fast.

  So he thumped the carpet, rolled like mad, glimpsed a pair of columnar legs, wrapped his arms around the ankles, heaved with all his might and gained himself a playmate on the floor. The room shook as the other’s bulk hit the floorboards. It was Kossy.

  Somebody with evil intent was bending over Bransome but found himself thwarted by Kossy’s downfall and the resulting struggle. He spat a guttural oath, danced around seeking a vantage point, caught one of the violently thrashing Kossy’s big boots on his kneecap. He swore again and dropped something that rang like a tire iron.

  Kossy had good reason for waving his heavy limbs around. His big, florid face reached the carpet, at which point Bransome recognized it. Unable to make a hefty swing while in a prone position, Bransome did the next best thing. He clutched Kossy’s neck in a grip good enough to stay fixed until death us do part and dug his thumbs into the other’s windpipe.
/>   A few weeks ago he’d never have believed himself capable of taking sadistic pleasure in trying to strangle someone. But that was what he was doing right now, forcing his thumbs with furious violence partly derived from justifiable resentment and partly from the knowledge that his opponent was plenty big enough to eat him if given half a chance. An alliance of fear and anger was lending him power such as he had never possessed.

  So he strove mightily to force his thumbs through Kossy’s gullet and out the back of his neck while all the time his brain but not his voice kept reiterating, “I’ll give you Arline, you big, fat bastard! I’ll give you Arline!”

  Kossy’s hairy, spadelike hands clamped on Bransome’s wrists and tried to tear away his grip, but he held on so determinedly that the other merely pulled his own head forward. They threshed violently around with Kossy slowly purpling. The third man ceased cursing, grabbed Bransome’s hair and tried to tear his scalp from his cranium. The recent haircut deprived the assailant of enough grip and his fingers slid free. He then clutched Bransome’s shoulders to try to tear him loose from the supine Kossy. Bransome kicked like a mule, made connection somewhere and heard a yelp of agony as the pulling hands let go.

  The shouts and sounds of struggling caused another door in the hall to open. There was an incoming rush of feet but Bransome could not look up because his full attention was on his opponent. By now Kossy’s chest was heaving with wheezy, bronchial noises and he was striving to jerk a huge knee into Bransome’s groin.

  Then a number of rough hands simultaneously seized Bransome and tore him away by main force. He was pulled erect. A hard and horny hand slapped his face several times, swiftly and brutally, with force that dazed him and made him reel backward.

  Dimly he was aware of sounds all around, heavy breathing and muttered curses, the shift of many feet. A heavy blow on one ear made his mind whirl. He blinked his eyes in effort to focus and couldn’t see Kossy anywhere, but in a hazy sort of way did see a group of faces one of which was that of a pseudo-trucker, the fellow who’d had so much to say about bones near Burleston. He lashed out to hit that face with everything he could muster, and felt the hard crack of knuckles landing on the other’s mouth.