"None." Joey laughed easily. "You should have seen the obvious trick
photos he tried to pass off as evidence. My advice is: forget Jason
Ewing."
There was a long pause. Then, Nugent nodded. "All right. Thanks, Joey."
He picked up a glossy of the accident. "You outdid yourself on this
one."
Joey sauntered to the door. "The master's touch," he called. "I'll hit
you for a raise later."
Satisfied that Nugent considered the Ewing story dead, Joey left the
paper and hurried to a pay-phone.
When Jason Ewing answered, there was a note of near-hysteria in his
voice. He seemed frightened by Joey's interest and was extremely
reluctant to give him another interview.
"I don't blame you for being irritated," Joey said. "I was very rude.
But look, Mr. Ewing, now I see I was wrong. We can't talk about it on
the phone. All I want is a chance to see you again. Maybe tomorrow?"
There was such a long pause that Joey thought Ewing had broken the
connection. Then, he heard the old man sigh.
"I ... I don't know what to say," Ewing faltered. "In the light of ...
of recent developments, I think it would be unwise to involve you, Mr.
Barrett."
Joey laughed. "Listen, this is the break of a lifetime for me. How about
tomorrow morning at nine?"
"Tomorrow." The one word was neither affirmation nor question.
But Joey chose to interpret it as agreement. "See you in the morning at
nine, Mr. Ewing," he said, and hung up quickly.
* * * * *
Joey slept little that night. He was up early, gulped a hasty breakfast,
and stood on the steps at Ewing's house at five minutes to nine.
Again, as on the day before, he had to ring the bell twice before the
door opened and the wrinkled face showed itself. He was shocked by the
change in Ewing. The man seemed much older and there was a haunting fear
in the blue eyes.
"It would have been wiser," the old man whispered, "if you had not come
here again--for us not to have met."
Joey was determined to be charming. He put his hand on the thin old arm
and gently pushed Ewing into the entry hall. "I don't blame you for
being bitter," he said, closing the door. "I was a fool yesterday."
Ewing pulled free and moved agitatedly into the living-room. Even the
morning sun made no impression on the shadows there.
The old man didn't look at Joey. "You were right," he said. "It would be
better to forget the formula."
Joey fought down his impatience. He tried to move smoothly, keep his
voice calm. "No. You mustn't think that. You can't be selfish. You said
yourself, Mr. Ewing, that this knowledge could do great good."
The quiet persuasiveness of Joey's approach seemed cause for further
alarm. "I said that, but since then ... I ... I see that it might also
do great harm."
He tottered away from Joey and slumped tiredly into the chair by the
table.
"Mr. Ewing," Joey said, following him, "yesterday I saw one of your
pictures come to life."
Ewing did not look up. "I know. The accident at the corner. I was afraid
you had seen it."
"Afraid!" Joey laughed. "That was the clincher." He leaned over the old
man. "Listen, Mr. Ewing, the second I saw that wreck, I realized what we
have in Formula #53. I want to help you make use of it--the proper use."
The old man shook his head. "I'm afraid," he whimpered.
Joey ignored the interruption. "We'll work this together. If we play it
smart, the sky's the limit. We can be millionaires. Name our own
prices." He laughed in his excitement. "They'll meet our demands when
they see what we've got to offer."
Ewing had slowly pushed himself to his feet. He regarded Joey with mixed
apprehension and disgust. "You ... you can't commercialize my
discovery," he protested. "I wouldn't permit the formula to be used for
personal gain."
"Not just MY gain. You and me together." Joey looked at the red-plush
photo album and rubbed his hands. "I'll bet we got pictures in that
album worth a hundred grand."
Abruptly, Ewing stepped past Joey and seized the album. He cradled it in
his arms. "That's out of the question." He tottered toward the
fireplace. "Mr. Barrett," he pleaded, "I beg you to go now."
Anger simmered in Joey--anger and frustration. "All right," he said,
forcing himself to be reasonable. "Those are your pictures." He faced
Ewing at the fireplace. "But if I take some, will you give me the
formula so I can develop them?"
Stubbornly, the old man shook his head.
"What IS the formula?" Joey demanded.
"I've never written it down." Ewing clutched the red-plush photo album
with one hand and gestured imploringly with the other. "Mr. Barrett,
every moment you stay here, you jeopardize us both. Leave now. Please.
Forget we ever met ... that you ever heard of Formula #53."
"Forget!" Joey's hands clenched and unclenched in mounting desperation.
"You can't start a guy on a thing like this, Ewing, and then tell him to
forget it!" For a long second, they stared at each other. Ewing was
breathing heavily and perspiration beaded the parchment face.
* * * * *
Joey tried another tactic: "Look ... if you don't want to give me the
formula, at least let me have a few of the pictures in that album.
Whatever I get out of them, I'll split with you." He reached out
tentatively.
Ewing shrank back. "Go away. Let me alone. There's nothing in the album.
I burned the pictures."
"You're lying!" The thought of the money the old fool had thrown away
cut into Joey like a knife. "You wouldn't do a crazy thing like that."
"Only two left. Should have burned them."
Panic seized Joey. He grabbed at the red-plush album. "I don't believe
you. Let me see."
Ewing held onto the book with the tenacity of an aged crab. "You
mustn't," he croaked. "You're destroying yourself. Don't."
But the old man's stubborn and futile resistance stoked the smouldering
fires of Joey's anger. He gripped one corner of the coveted trophy with
his left hand, and with his right, gave Ewing a vicious shove.
With a rattling cry, the old man staggered back and fell with a clatter
into the fireplace.
The book was in Joey's hand. He didn't look at Ewing. The clasp was not
locked. Feverishly, he opened the heavy cover. The truth took his breath
away. Ewing hadn't lied. The pages were empty. He had burned the
pictures. The crazy old fool!
But he had said there were two pictures left. Joey thumbed hastily
through the empty album till he reached the first of the remaining
pictures.
He cried out.
It was a self-portrait of Ewing. He lay sprawled on the floor before the
fireplace, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood smearing his
temple and one of the massive brass andirons.
Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed his
eyes. "Oh, God!" he whispered. "No! No!"
Like a sleep-walker, he moved to the silent figure, knelt, searched in
vain for pulse or heart-beat. There was none. Jason Ewing was dead.
Joey stared at the andiron with its tell-tale stain. He pulled himself
up to a half-crouch and looked wildly around the dark living-room. The
camera was an accusing eye. "It was an accident," he murmured. "His
heart. He was an old man."
The photo album still lay open on the table.
Ewing had saved two pictures. One of himself. The other....
There was a heavy knocking at the front door.
Joey went shakily to the album. Gripping the table's edge, he turned to
the second picture:
Joey Barrett sat in a chair. His trousers were slit. His head was shaved
and there were straps and electrodes.
It was the kind of picture that would sell a thousand extra copies.