Twinkle, Twinkle, "Killer" Kane (19 page)

*   *   *

Groper, at that moment, was at the end of the secret passageway. He’d stumbled into it by chance, while seeking Bemish for discussion. Now his fingers pressed at the surface of what seemed to be a door. He pushed, inadvertently, at the nose of a bas-relief horror mask, and the door, to his amazement, quietly slid open. He stepped into a bedroom. It was dark and unlit, but he could make out women’s garments and smelled the cloying scent of sachet. He went to a door. It was locked. He turned the latch, slowly opened it. And looked into the eyes of Jane Mawr, who was standing in the girls’ school corridor, about to knock on the door.

“Fascinating!” said Groper, who was still in Nazi uniform.

Miss Mawr frankly screamed.

“Do you read poetry?” asked Groper.

Miss Mawr stopped screaming, stared at him blankly. “What?”

“Poetry—‘Sweetest love, I do not go for weariness of thee…’?”

“John Donne!” gasped Miss Mawr.

“Yes,” said Groper. “I’m okay.” He took her in his arms. Miss Mawr did not resist.

*   *   *

Cutshaw knocked at Kane’s door. Getting no answer, he boldly opened it, stepped inside and closed it behind him. Then saw Kane. He sat rigidly in a chair by a large, open window, fully dressed, but apparently sleeping. A sheet of paper lay in his lap. Cutshaw moved closer, put a hand on his shoulder, intoning, “The penalty for sleeping on duty is death! Wake up!”

Kane opened his eyes and looked at him;
through
him, with sightless eyes. “I have never killed a lamb,” he said.

Cutshaw felt a prickling at the base of his neck. Then, suddenly he grew furious, shouting, “Kane! Wake up! I need you!”, slapping him sharply across the face.

Slowly, gradually, Kane’s eyes came into focus. He said, “Cutshaw, what do you want?” He thought that he was dreaming. When Cutshaw spoke, he heard only faintly.

The astronaut sat on the floor. “Have you thought about my problem?”

“What problem?” asked Kane.

“Foot’s refusal—if he exists—to clearly promulgate his laws.”

“The paper,” said Kane. “Take the paper—it’s there.”

The astronaut looked around, then saw the paper on Kane’s lap. He picked it up, eying Kane oddly, then carefully read to himself: “To Captain Manfred Cutshaw—I’ve given thought to your deepest problem; or at least, what I think is your deepest problem. And this is the closest I’ve been able to come to the kind of answer that might appeal to you. God knows, there are many answers, but I think you know them better than I. But this one, I believe, is different. And it is this—simply this. If a man were to appear tomorrow in the streets of New York City wearing white shining garments and possibly floating in mid-air, saying, ‘I am a messenger from God come to tell you clearly what He expects of you,’ and then said, ‘I’m willing to give you proof of my credentials,’ what do you think the reaction then would be? Of course—the people would ask for the proof. And what if they demanded, as proper proof, that the following day at precisely—
precisely
ten o’clock—the sun be made to stand still; to stand still for eighty-two minutes—not one second more, not one second less? Now, what would happen the following day if the miracle were accomplished—to the letter, to the second? Can you guess? Well, I will tell you. There would be countless explanations: coincidence, autosuggestion, mass hysteria, mass hypnosis and the like. The phenomenon would prove
nothing
—except to those who
want
to believe—to those who are men of goodwill. It has happened before; you understand that. An even greater miracle was performed. A man was raised from the dead. And then another raised Himself. Many have ached—perhaps, like you—to have looked on Christ, to have touched His garments, seen the proof. As for myself, I am glad that I wasn’t there. Better to doubt, better to doubt. Better to have some excuse for the blood. I hope this helps you.”

There the note ended. It was signed, “Hudson Kane.”

Cutshaw looked up at Kane and shivered.

“I would like some cocoa now,” said the Colonel.

“Cocoa?”

“Where is Beth?”

“Who is Beth?”

Kane answered, “My wife. Do you know her?”

“No.”

“She left me when I died.”

Cutshaw stared at Kane intently. The Colonel’s eyes seemed unseeing. “Are you awake?” Cutshaw asked softly.

“No. No, I’m dreaming. And I must try—try to remember. It’s very important I remember this dream. I’m cold. Why can’t I help you? Cutshaw, you really must let me help you. Brother Charles would be very…” Here his voice trailed off.

Cutshaw waited; then said, “I will let you help me.”

“This dream is nice. Not like the others. Why am I cold?”

Cutshaw rose. “I’ll close the window,” he said; but didn’t. He merely moved to it and stared out. The rain had stopped and stars were bright.

“I would like my cocoa now.”

Cutshaw did not answer.

“Why won’t you go to the Moon?”

“I’m afraid,” husked Cutshaw softly, tasting wet salt drops on his lips. “The stars? See the stars? How cold? How far? And lonely—very lonely. All that space; empty space—and so very far from home. Kane, I’ve circled ‘round and ‘round this house—orbit after orbit—and wondered—wondered how it would be not to stop; just circle alone forever … up there … alone.” Reflected starlight shattered, gleaming, against the wetness in his eyes. “What if I got there and couldn’t get back? Everyone—dies. But I’m afraid to die alone, Kane—so very far from home. Especially if there’s no God; that makes it even more horribly lonely.”

“You’re not afraid,” said Kane disjointedly. “You’re just—unbalanced. I’m going to cure you. It’s important. Don’t worry. I will cure you.”

“I know,” said Cutshaw. “I know.” He moved slowly to the bed, stripped off a blanket and draped it over Kane.

“This dream is nice,” said Kane, smiling. Then he leaned back his head and closed his eyes. “I think I’ll have my cocoa later…”

Cutshaw looked down at him for a moment, then whispered, “God! Oh, God!” He knew that Kane was mad.

Cutshaw left and closed the door. He went downstairs and walked outside, walked into the wood to be alone.

*   *   *

Some of the Nazi-uniformed inmates were in the dormitory, setting up an “interrogation room.” Spoor stood on a chair, adjusting a high-beamed, concentrated light fixture that now hung from the ceiling, newly rigged and ready for shining into some future victim’s eyes. Cutshaw had earlier promised that Kane would be first to be interrogated. He was scheduled for that night.

“How’s this?” asked Spoor, who had been taken back into the fold. No one else felt qualified to “direct.”

“No,” said Zook. “A little lower.”

“So?”

“Better. But where’s the victim? Can’t find
Kane,
can’t find
Groper,
can’t find
Fell!
”

“God will provide,” said Leslie Spoor.

At that moment a black limousine pulled up in front of the mansion door. Spoor raced to a window, saw a liveried chauffeur opening a door. Out stepped Senator Hesburgh.

“Look!” said Spoor. “What did I tell you!”

Strong hands seized the Senator.

*   *   *

Lastrade was on the telephone barking at General Syntax. “Didn’t I
tell
you about that bastard? He’s gone and done it—pulled a sneak! He’s out at the mansion right now! Just got the word from OSI! Now, trot your fanny over there immediately! I’m on my way myself!”

Syntax hung up and ordered a staff car. He was so nervous he couldn’t stammer.

Senator Hesburgh, his hands bound behind him, sat in a straight-backed wooden chair, the interrogation light in his face. His eyes were slits as he stared at Zook, who was pacing deliberately back and forth, his heavy black boots pounding the floor. Zook, affecting a German accent, said, “We haff
ways
of making you talk, you know!”

Dully—and for the twentieth time—Hesburgh chanted his outraged litany. “I’m the United States Senator from—”

“Silence!”
shrieked Zook. “Give up this
pretense!
What is the
point!
Your friends have
confessed,
you idiot,
confessed!
” Then Zook adopted a gentler tone; syrupy, persuasive, as he reached for the cigarettes in his tunic pocket. “Let me persuade you not to be foolish. Make it
easy
on yourself. We can be lenient, very lenient. You have only to answer this one simple question: ‘What is the location of the newest tunnel?’” He leaned over Hesburgh, proffering the package of cigarettes; and winking broadly and conspiratorially at Spoor, who stood back of the Senator, Zook purred, “Cigarette?”

Hesburgh began it again. “I am the—”

“Silence, stubborn dog!” bawled Zook. Then at Spoor: “Sergeant Mueller!”

Spoor clicked his heels and popped to attention.
“Jab, mein Colonel!”

Zook, with cold-eyed cruelty, pointed down at a tunnel opening. “Take him down to Level Eight!”

“Level
Eight?
” echoed Spoor with feigned horror.

“Level Eight!”

Spoor took him down into the tunnels.

*   *   *

Shortly afterward, Syntax arrived. At the door, Krebs eyed him with horror, for he was still in inmates’ garb. “What the hell is this, Halloween!” snapped the General. “Where in the hell is the Senator?”

Krebs had no answers. Nor did Cutshaw, as at that moment he re-entered the mansion, and became apprised of the situation. “Where in the devil is Colonel Kane!” croaked Syntax.

Krebs went after Kane while Cutshaw raced to the inmates’ dorm.

Lastrade arrived, bellowing. Then saw the dogs; the holes in the floor; Corfu’s mad ceiling; the Nazi uniforms. His thunder shook the mansion, and when he learned that Hesburgh was missing, he said not a word; which frightened Syntax more than anything.

Krebs pounded at Kane’s door. It was locked. No answer. Then he and another inmate prowled the mansion, seeking the missing commander.

Spoor had reappeared and now sat grimly in the chair formerly occupied by the Senator. His arms were folded defiantly as Cutshaw tipped the interrogation light full into his face, demanding, “What have you done with the Senator?”

Spoor said, “I
told
you! I repossessed him!”

“Where
is
he?”

“The Home Office!”

Cutshaw cuffed his neck, as General Syntax, brooding in the background, muttered, “Waves! Listen to the waves!”

Cutshaw had despatched the rest of the inmates into the tunnels and around the mansion; sent them feverishly seeking the Senator. Bemish was checking rooms, and went directly to Fell’s to explain what had happened. Fell surfaced briefly from his alcoholic daze, said “Um-hm,” and left his room. He turned a corner of the second-floor landing, walked to a dead-end in the alcove, pressed a stud and looked around furtively as the secret panel slid back. He quietly slipped into the passageway.

*   *   *

In the room off the secret passageway that Spoor had earlier discovered, Senator Hesburgh and Consuelo Endicott sat on a bench in front of the confined dummy of Slovik. She was saying, “We loved each other madly. Hm. But the studio wouldn’t, uh, allow it—no, wouldn’t let us marry. ‘Millions of women love Bela!’ they said, ‘and his public wants him single!’”

Hesburgh’s eyes were darting nervously. Spoor had dumped him into this chamber, and then this madwoman had entered with roses. And a story. Good
Lord,
what a story!

“Bela was gone most of the time,” she prattled on, “and I—uh—was sick with boredom. You see? Yes, sick. Sick with—boredom. What did I say?”

“You were sick with boredom.”

“Oh, yes. So he built this little school for me. Something to, uh, keep me busy. Meantime these passages held us together and away from prying eyes. Eyes
do
pry. Don’t you think?”

“Can you open that door?”

But Miss Endicott was oblivious. “Ah, Bela, darling Bela! In this shrine I keep his memory alive. You understand?”

Abruptly the effiigy sat up in its coffin, croacking “I love you!” and then sat back.

“He
is
alive!” yipped Hesburgh.

Again the Slovik dummy sat up. And again it said, “I love you!”

Miss Endicott smiled, and put a reassuring hand over the Senator’s as the effigy repeated its performance. “No, no, no; it’s just a clock. That and a tape of Bela’s voice. Such a comfort in my loneliness. Or, I should say,
former
loneliness.”

“Does anyone else know about this room?”

“Yes, Norman, darling Norman. That’s Doctor Norman Fell.” Miss Endicott’s eyes turned dreamy. “It was here that I first met him—amid the stakes and silver bullets. Oh, how terribly ironic. Poor, poor Bela, always worried about his ‘image.’ Always hated him for that. Now here I am protecting
mine.
”

The secret panel suddenly slid back. Hesburgh looked up at the figure now framed in the doorway. “Doctor Fell, I presume?” he said.

“Have you well in a matter of days,” said Fromme.

Cutshaw was still searching. But some of the inmates had given up, squatting despondently on the main hall floor as General Lastrade roundly laced Syntax. “While we’re waiting for the FBI,” rumbled Lastrade, “would you care to make a statement?”

No one noticed the distant crashing of shoulder against door.

“It was an honest mistake!” yipped Syntax.

“Splendid progress!” bored Lastrade. “This mansion in ruins, the Gestapo running wild and a United States senator kidnaped! Anything
else,
you splendid ass?!”

“Well,” said Syntax fatuously, “I believe you left out Kane.”

“I’m
coming
to Colonel Kane! And so’s a court-martial! I’m going to—!”

Lastrade abruptly fell silent, staring in shock at the second-floor balcony. Manfred Cutshaw was slowly walking out of Colonel Kane’s room, stopping at the balustrade. Tears coursed down his cheeks. He was carrying Kane in his arms. “He’s killed himself,” he said.

Kane’s collar was turned around.