Entities: The Selected Novels of Eric Frank Russell (103 page)

Wohl turned up just then. He charged into the apartment, his eyes agleam. He waved the
Sun
aside with a short, “I’ve seen it.”

“What’s all the excitement about?”

“My hunch.” He sat down, breathed heavily. “You’re not the only one who gets hunches.” He puffed, grinned apologetically, puffed again. “They’ve held those autopsies. Mayo and Webb were full of dope.”

“They were drugged?” asked Graham, incredulously.

“It was mescal,” Wohl went on. “A special and very highly refined form of mescal. Their stomachs contained strong traces of it.” A pause while he got his breath. “And their kidneys were rich in methylene blue.”

“Methylene blue!” Graham’s mind struggled in vain to make something rational of this information.

“The boys followed up these facts pretty fast. They found mescal, methylene blue, and iodine in Mayo’s, Webb’s and Dakin’s laboratories. We’d have found them ourselves if we’d known what to look for.”

Graham nodded agreement. “It’s fair to assume that an autopsy on Dakin would have produced the same result.”

“I would think so,” Wohl approved. “The boys also discovered that the junk in the furnace of Mayo’s distillation setup was Indian hemp. God knows how he’d smuggled it in, but that’s what it was. It looks as if he must have been about to experiment with drugs other than mescal.”

“If he was,” declared Graham, positively, “it was solely by way of scientific experiment. Mayo was never a drug addict.”

“So it seems,” said Wohl, dryly.

Graham tossed him the list provided by Harriman. “Take a look at that. According to the Smithsonian, those eighteen have rolled up during the last five weeks. The law of averages suggests that three or maybe four of those deaths were normal and inevitable. ” He seated himself on a corner of the table, swung one leg to and fro. “That, in turn, suggests that the others were not normal. It also means that we’re involved in something a darned sight bigger than first it seemed.”

Scanning the list, Wohl commented, “Not only big, but crazy. All drug cases have their crazy aspects. This one’s so daffy that it’s stuck on my mind since last night.” He made a face. “I’ve kept on picturing that guy we saw in the cell— pregnant with dog.”

“Let’s forget him for a while.”

“I wish I could!”

“What we’ve got to date,” Graham continued, thoughtfully, “poses several questions the answers to which ought to lead us somewhere.” He stabbed an indicative forefinger at the list which Wohl was still holding. “We don’t know on what basis those news agencies determine their average of three. Is it over the last twelve months, or the last five years, or the last twenty? If it’s a long-term average, this month’s deaths beat it by six times, what were last month’s casualties and last year’s? In other words, what are the total deaths since the start?—and what started them?”

“The first suicide began them,” Wohl declared. “The rest were imitative.” He handed back the list. “Take a look over police files sometime. You’ll find time after time when murder and suicide were temporarily contagious. One spectacular and well-publicized crime often induces several others of similar type.”

“I’ve said from the beginning and I still maintain that these weren’t suicides. I knew Mayo and Dakin very well indeed. I knew Webb by repute. They just weren’t the psychological types likely to indulge in self-destruction, even if full of drugs.”

“That’s the point,” Wohl emphasized, stubbornly. “You knew them sober. You didn’t know them snowed-up. A guy hopped to the eyeballs isn’t the same individual—he’s someone else. He’s capable of anything, including shooting at thin air or jumping off a roof.”

“I’ll give you that much." Graham looked bothered as he folded the list and put it in his pocket. “This mescal feature is a puzzler.”

“Not to my mind, it isn’t. The drug traffic is spread by personal recommendation. I reckon that some scientist, driven half-nuts by overwork, has found a newfangled stimulator more dangerous than he knows. He’s used it, suggested it to others, and some of them have tried it. Maybe it worked for a while, but, like arsenic, it’s accumulative. It piled up inside them until eventually they went gaga one by one.” He spread broad hands. “And here we are!”

“I wish it were as simple as that—but something inside me says that it isn’t.” “Something inside you,” scoffed Wohl. “Another dog!”

Preoccupied, Graham watched the morning
Sun
still crawling across his screen. He opened his mouth to voice a suitable retort, closed it without speaking. The blurred words on the screen suddenly sharpened, became clear. He stood up as Wohl followed his gaze.

Noted Expert’s End

Stephen Reed, Sixty, of Far Rockway, Created a Scene Outside the Central Library on Fifth Avenue This Morning And Then Threw Himself Under an Express Load-Carrier. He Was Killed Immediately. Reed Was One of the World’s Leading Authorities in Optical Surgery.

Graham switched off the receiver, closed down the screen, reached for his hat. “Nineteen!” he said, softly.

“Oh, holy smoke!” Wohl got up, followed him to the door. “Here we go again!”

As usual, most of the half a hundred witnesses of the last of Stephen Reed had vanished beyond trace. Someone hurriedly had called a cop, the police officer had phoned his station, and a reporter waiting there had passed the news to the
Sun.

It took two hours to find three onlookers. The first was a pear-shaped man with sweaty jowls.

He said to Graham, “I was passing this guy and not taking much notice. I got enough to worry me, see? He let out an awful yell, did a sort of dance and ran into the traffic.”

“And then?”

“I could feel what was coming and looked away.”

The next proved to be a bulky blonde. She was edgy. She held a small handkerchief in her hand and nervously nibbled at one corner of it while she talked.

“He gave me a turn. He came along like someone watching for a ghost. I thought he’d seen one. He shouted, waved his arms about, and rushed madly into the road.”

“Did you hear
what
he shouted?” Graham asked.

She gnawed the handkerchief again. Her pale blue eyes were scared.

“He upset me so much that I didn’t catch it. He bawled loudly and hoarsely, at the top of his voice. Something about, ‘No! No! For pity’s sake, no!’ and a bit of other crazy stuff.”

“You didn’t see anything that might have caused him to act like that?”

“No—that was the worst of it!” She had another chew, shifted her eyes around as if straining to see the unseeable.

“She’ll be consulting clairvoyants before this week is through,” commented Wohl, as she departed.

The third witness, a suave, well-groomed man with a cultured voice, said, “I noticed Mr. Reed walking toward me with a most peculiar look in his eyes. They were bright and glassy, as if he’d primed them with belladonna.”

“Done what?” put in Wohl, curiously.

“Primed them with belladonna, like we do on the stage.”

“Oh.” Wohl subsided.

“He was looking alertly all over the place, up and down and around. He had an air of apprehension. I felt that he was seeking something he did not want to find.”

“Go on,” urged Graham.

“As he came near me his face went white. He seemed stricken with sudden and acute fear. He made desperate gestures, like a man trying to ward off a fatal blow, screamed incoherently and raced into the road.” The witness shrugged fatalistically. “A twenty-ton load-carrier hit him. Undoubtedly, he died instantaneously.”

“You didn’t hear what he said?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“There was nothing to indicate the reason for his fear?”

“Not a thing,” assured the other, authoritatively. “The incident moved me so much that I sought immediately for a cause. I could not find one. It appeared to me that he must have been overcome by some feature not apparent—a tumor on the brain, for example.”

“We are very much obliged to you.” Graham watched the suave man go. He brooded silently while Wohl picked up the phone and called the morgue.

What was that subtle, unidentified essence in the human make-up which occasionally caused Malaysians to run amok, foaming at the mouth, kriss in hand, intent on wholesale and unreasoning slaughter? What other essence, similar but not the same, persuaded the entire nation of Japanese to view ceremonial suicide with cold-blooded equanimity? What made fanatical Hindus gladly cast themselves to death before the lumbering juggernaut? Was this present outbreak due to the insidious hold of some new virus, breeding and spreading in places more civilized, perhaps stimulated horrifically by mescal, iodine and methylene blue?

He gave up the speculation as Wohl pronged the phone. Wohl turned to him with the martyred air of one burdened for past sins.

“They won’t be carving Reed for a while, but they’ve found he fits the general pattern in one respect: he’d painted himself with iodine.”

“Left arm?”

“No. Evidently he believed in variety, or perhaps he was plain ornery. He did his left leg, hip to knee.”

“Then we can add him to our list,” decided Graham. “We can say he’s another case without being able to define said case.”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“You know, Art, this drug addict theory of yours may apply to the mescal, but what about the other items being used in association with it? Methylene blue and iodine aren’t drugs in the sense that you mean. They’re innocuous, they’re not habit-forming. They don’t make folk go haywire.”

“Neither does water, but plenty of people take it with whisky.”

Graham made an impatient gesture. “That’s beside the point. As I see it, we’ve two logical steps still to take. The first is to give this Reed’s place the once-over. The second is to seek expert advice on what mescal, methylene blue and iodine can do to people when used like all these bodies have been using it.”

“Reed’s dump is way out,” Wohl remarked. “I’ll get the car.”

The home of the late Stephen Reed was a bachelor’s villa run by a middle-aged and motherly housekeeper. Outside of domestic arrangements, she knew nothing and, when told the tragic news, promptly became incapable of telling anything she might have known.

While she retired to her room, they raked expertly through Reed’s study. They found a formidable mass of papers through which they searched with frenzied haste.

“The chief will be the next to have a heart attack,” Wohl prophesied, grabbing himself another handful of letters.

“Why?”

“The local boys ought to be in on this. The way you make me go rampaging around other people’s bailiwicks would give him an apoplectic stroke. You may not know it, but you’ve got me headed straight for demotion.”

Graham grunted derisively, continued with his search. It was some time before he came up with a letter in his hand.

“Listen to this.” He read it aloud. “Dear Steve, I’m sorry to learn that Mayo is giving you some of his stuff. I know you’re deeply interested, of course, but must tell you frankly that to play with it is a waste of valuable time. My advice is that you throw it in the ashcan and forget it. It will be safer there, as I know only too well.” He glanced up. “It bears Webb’s address, and it’s signed, ‘Irwin.’ ”

“What’s the date on it?”

“May twenty-second.”

“Not so old.”

“A double-link,” Graham observed. “Mayo to Webb and Reed. It’s being passed from one to another. I expected that.”

“So did I.” Wohl turned over papers, scanning them rapidly. “Personal recommendation, like I told you. Though it looks like Webb tried to discourage Reed for some reason.”

“The reason was that to fool around with it meant death—and Webb knew it even then! On May twenty-second he knew that his days were numbered as surely as I know that I’m standing here in my pants. He wasn’t able to do much about it, but he tried to steer Reed away from the grave.”

Looking up from his rummaging, Wohl complained, “You say the damnedest things. You’ll be suggesting that the finger is put on us next.”

“I’m not so sure that it won’t—once we really start to get someplace.”

The same cold shiver insinuated itself into his back muscles, and he flexed his shoulder-blades in an effort to shake it off. He had a keen sense of psychic frustration, as if his brain were permitted to probe in all directions except one. Whenever it tended that way a warning bell sounded within him and his questing mind obediently withdrew.

Cramming a handful of insignificant papers back into its file, he growled, “Not a thing. All about eyeballs and optic nerves. He slept with ’em and ate ’em.”

“Same here,” agreed Wohl. “What’s conjunctivitis?”

“Eye-trouble.”

“I thought it was something to do with railroad switching.” He thumbed through the last of his sheets, returned them to their place. “He’s got no laboratory or surgery here. He operated at the Eye and Ear Hospital, in Brooklyn. We ought to try there, eh?”

“I’ll call the office first. Time I reported.” Using Reed’s phone, Graham had a long talk with Sangster, finished, said to Wohl, “We’re wanted there sooner than immediately. They’ve been waiting for us since first thing this morning. Sangster’s acting like somebody’s swallowed an atom bomb.”

“We
?”emphasized Wohl raising his eyebrows.

“Both of us,” Graham confirmed. “Something mighty important is in the wind.” Rubbing his chin, he surveyed the room in open disappointment. “This place is as fruitful as a vacuum. Whether or not we're wanted urgently, we’d better try that hospital on our way—it’s our last chance to get an item out of Reed.”

"Lets go."

Doctor Pritchard, a tall, slender and youthful individual, got them after the hospital’s secretary had passed them from hand to hand. Welcoming them, he gave them chairs, took off his white coat.

“I suppose you wish to question me about poor Reed?”

“You know he’s dead?” Graham shot at him.

Pritchard nodded soberly. “The police informed us. They phoned soon after it happened.”

“Whether it was suicide is a moot point,” Graham told him. “Maybe he bumped himself deliberately, maybe he didn’t, though I don’t think he did, myself. Nevertheless, the evidence shows that he was far from normal at the time. Can you explain his condition?”