afraid."
"What are you going to do?"
"You'll see." Fleetwood paused for reflection. "Now, then, in that last
scene you have me diving into a black abyss. That was the last bit of
it, wasn't it?"
" ... _the floor opened into a black abyss in front of him_," Dermitt
quoted, "_and he dived in headfirst._"
"That's right," Fleetwood nodded. "What's the next line?"
"The next line?" Dermitt said. "How should I know? I haven't written it
yet."
"But you must have some idea. Suppose you go over there to your desk
and write it out right now--just as an experiment?"
"Huh? What are you up to?"
"Just try it and see what happens. I'd rather like to know myself as a
matter of fact."
Keeping his eyes on Fleetwood, Dermitt got up slowly and crossed to
the desk in the alcove. "You're mad," he said uncertainly. "You're out
of your mind."
"No," Fleetwood said with a wry smile. "I'm out of _your_ mind.
Besides, you dwell too much on insanity. That's morbid in a fellow your
age." Dermitt said something under his breath, but Fleetwood didn't
hear it. "Now just sit down and write the next line as it comes to you.
And watch me, too, while you do it. I think we may both learn something
interesting."
* * * * *
Dermitt sighed deeply and seated himself before the typewriter. "Oh,
well," he sighed, "what have I got to lose now?" His face however held
the expression of a man who was on the verge of losing everything; he
was whistling in the dark. He turned to the typewriter and pressed a
trembling hand to his left temple.
"Just one line, though," Fleetwood cautioned him. "No more than that."
"The way I'm feeling," Dermitt muttered, "I'll be lucky to do that
much." He lowered his uncertain fingers to the keys and began to type:
_Through the cushiony darkness that engulfed him, a voice called out
to Fleetwood with metallic shrillness_ ... (At the very first tap of
the keys, Fleetwood felt himself falling into black unconsciousness. He
smiled with satisfaction and let it happen.) ... _like a silver cord
plucked by a skeletal hand._
Fleetwood awoke slowly as the keys stopped tapping and the room grew
still. He was still seated in the chair. He stretched himself and
glanced across at Dermitt, whose eyes were now even larger than his
glasses. The little man, lost in sputtering inarticulation, merely
pointed at Fleetwood.
"You ... you ... you!" he managed finally. "You _faded_! Right in front
of my eyes, you vanished!" He quivered emotionally. "Oh, my God!" He
boosted himself unsteadily away from the desk and out of the chair.
He came tottering across the room toward Fleetwood. "Wha ... what
happened?"
Fleetwood shrugged. "It's perfectly plain, isn't it? You transferred me
to paper."
"Then you _are_!"
Fleetwood spread his hands significantly.
* * * * *
Dermitt moved back to the chair and executed another collapse. It is
not likely that the stock crash of '29 could have produced a more vivid
picture of the Ruined Man. His arms hung slack at his sides.
"No wonder the story's been going so badly lately," he groaned. "No
wonder you haven't been consistent in print." He looked up slowly.
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing special," Fleetwood said. "Live a little, I suppose. I haven't
made any definite plans yet. Maybe I'll just do something quiet, like
raising flowers."
"You mean--like you said--you're just walking out on me?"
Fleetwood nodded. "But I'd really prefer it if you wouldn't look at it
just that way."
"But you can't, Cassidy, you just can't. Not just now anyway. I need
you. I've got to finish that story. I've got to have the money from it.
I'm up to my ears in bills and obligations. I can show you if you don't
believe me.... My--our last one, The Kippered Caper, is going awfully
well on reactions and they've already promised me a better price on
this one...."
"I'm sorry," Fleetwood said, "really I am."
"But you _can't_!" Suddenly he stopped, and a look of inspired
shrewdness came into his cherubic features. Magnified by his enormous
glasses, the new light in his eyes was hard to miss. Fleetwood didn't
like the look of it.
"I won't let you," Dermitt went on in a much calmer tone. "I'll put you
on paper, and you'll have to stay there until I'm done with you. You
can't dictate to me. I'll write night and day. I'll take pills to keep
me awake, and...."
"I was afraid you might take this tack," Fleetwood said. "But it won't
work. As you've said yourself, you've been having all sorts of trouble
with me lately. That means I've developed a will of my own, even on
paper. If you shove me back into that story you're going to have more
trouble than you ever dreamed of. You'll never get the story finished.
I meant it sincerely when I said I bear you no ill will, but you've
got to remember I'm here to fight for my life."
"I see," Dermitt said, deflated. He leaned back, then sharply forward
again. "Look, Cassidy, why can't we just make a friendly deal over this
thing? There isn't much left to do on this yarn, hardly anything at all
really. It's just a matter of finishing up. Why don't you stick it out
with me until I'm finished? I'll never write about you again, I swear.
I'll develop a whole new character." He looked to Fleetwood hopefully.
"I'll pay you a regular salary, too, so much an hour--retroactive."
* * * * *
Fleetwood shook his head. "Huh-uh. I'm tired, Dermitt. If I have to mix
it up with any more gunmen or double-dealing dames I'll have a nervous
breakdown. I'm not kidding." His gaze moved to the window and the
glittering vista stretching out into the eternal distance of the night.
"Besides, I've met a girl...."
"A girl?" Dermitt said, incredulous. "How could you meet a girl? When
did you have the chance?"
"This afternoon. In a drug store. But...."
"My God, you work fast, don't you? You didn't do anything unprintable,
did you?"
"Of course not," Fleetwood said with sudden primness. "Besides, it's
none of your business what I do outside of working hours."
Nonetheless, Dermitt pursued the subject further. "What's she like?"
he asked. "Limpid eyes, full of subtle invitation? Green flecked with
gold?"
"I should say not," Fleetwood said, shuddering at the thought. "Kitty's
eyes, as nearly as I can remember, are more mud colored. Flecked with
sand, if they must be flecked with anything. They're astonishing."
"Huh?" Dermitt said, taken aback. "But I'll bet her mouth is something
to wire home about, eh? Petulant and full? Soft and warm?"
Fleetwood shook his head. "Narrow as a string," he said reminiscently.
"Hard and cool. Kitty is no ordinary girl, you understand."
"Are you sure she's any kind of girl at all?" Dermitt asked hesitantly.
"What about her nose? She has a nose, hasn't she?"
"Of course," Fleetwood said. "Two openings at the end for air, of
course. It's just a nose, I suppose, but she's got one all right."
"Uh-huh," Dermitt nodded with subdued spirits. "And hair?"
"She got that too," Fleetwood affirmed. "Lusterless, it is, and sort of
brownish. I've never seen anyone like her. She's absolutely tremendous."
"Fat, too, huh?" Dermitt murmured, "on top of everything else." He
shook his head regretfully.
"Oh, no," Fleetwood put in. "You misunderstand. Her figure, I should
say, could be described as definitely so-so."
"Holy smoke!" Dermitt cried. "So that's the kind of dame you pick
out--you, Fleetwood Cassidy, who, thanks to me, has been in constant
and close contact with some of the most fascinating females in fiction!"
"Oh, those tomatoes." Fleetwood sighed a jaded sigh. "I'm tired of all
those sexy dames. They get so ordinary after a while. When you've seen
one of them you've seen them all."
"Ordinary!" Dermitt said, outraged. "All of my women are unique
artistic creations! And you're darned lucky to have been in the same
stories with them. At least they...." He controlled himself with an
effort and forced a smile. "But getting back to this--this Kitty of
yours, what I had in mind was that maybe I could work her into the
story too. God only knows how I'd do it, but what if I did? Then would
you be willing to finish it out?"
* * * * *
Fleetwood sat up sharply. "No!" He fairly yelled it. "Emphatically no!
You leave Kitty out of this. If you so much as put her name on paper
I'll...."
Dermitt smiled with a certain formidable satisfaction. "You'll what?"
he asked quietly. "I've been thinking how logical it is, that if I have
the power to transform a fictional person into a live being, then I
must also be able to reverse the process and make a live character into
a fictional one."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"I might. And suppose I did? Suppose I transcribed Kitty to paper?
I might even change her a little while I'm doing it. Then you'd just
about have to go back into the story, wouldn't you, if you ever wanted
to see her again?"
"But...."
"But what, Mr. Cassidy?"
"You wouldn't, Dermitt," Fleetwood said limply. "You wouldn't."
Dermitt lifted his gaze noncommitally to the ceiling. "She might make
an interesting character at that," he mused, "if I used her to the
proper advantage." He yawned. "For laughs, that is, and contrast."
"Now, look, Dermitt," Fleetwood said anxiously. "I...."
"Yes, Mr. Cassidy?"
"You say there isn't much of this story left to do?"
"Just a bit, really."
"How long would it take?"
"That depends," Dermitt shrugged. "If everything goes smoothly, if I
can depend on the full cooperation of my characters, it shouldn't take
more than a day. Two days at the outside."
"I see," Fleetwood said. "And how much rough stuff will there be?"
"No more than usual. Maybe a kick or two in the groin. A flesh wound,
naturally."
Fleetwood winced. "Is it absolutely necessary? Do I always have to get
myself shot in the last chapter?"
"If the readers demand it, what can I do?"
"Obviously your readers are from an extremely low level of civilized
society. I'm surprised that a bunch of savage, sadistic-minded brutes
like that know how to read."
"It's no good resorting to insults," Dermitt said mildly. "In fact, you
had better mind your manners or this Kitty of yours is going to get the
surprise of her pallid little life."
For a long moment Fleetwood was silent, weighing the alternatives.
"Okay," he said finally, giving in to the inevitable. "Okay, you win.
All I ask is that you get it over with as soon as possible."
"Fair enough," Dermitt said with satisfaction. "And I'm prepared to be
reasonable about the thing, Cassidy. In fact I'm willing to go to work
right now, if you like. All _I_ ask, though, is that you subdue those
cowardly impulses of yours until I'm finished." He got up, crossed to
the desk and sat down before the typewriter.
* * * * *
Watching with apprehension, Fleetwood stirred nervously and started
to speak, but Dermitt motioned him to be quiet. The little man flexed
his fingers, adjusted his monstrous glasses and regarded Fleetwood
thoughtfully. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them with a
nod of decision. He began to type.
A shudder of weakness passed through Fleetwood's long frame, and he
tried to cry out, but suddenly his voice was only an echo of the
clattering keys....
_Fleetwood stirred, and consciousness seeped into his mind like a cold,
grey fog._
"_Fleetwood!_"
_A voice called to him with quiet urgency. He looked up and saw
Evelyn's face blur into focus close above his own. Her arm was about
his shoulders and she was pulling him toward her._
_"The kiss of death?" Fleetwood said flatly._
_"Don't," she whispered. "Please don't. I didn't know he was like
that...."_
_"Where is he?"_
_It was a moment before she spoke, as though she needed time to make up
her mind. "He's getting the car," she said. "He'll be back in a moment
to take you with him. You've got to get out of here. I want you to."_
_Fleetwood glanced down at the gun beside her on the floor. "You're
going to save me at gunpoint, huh?" he asked._
_"He made me take it." She picked it up and held it out to him. "Here,
you can have it if you want." She pressed it into his hand._
_"How'd you get into all this?" he asked, sitting up. "You make a lousy
gun moll. I'll bet you can't even smoke a cigar."_
_Her smile was bitter. "I needed money," she said. "Gambling debts,
that sort of thing. It wouldn't be a new story, not to you. All I had
were my jewels, and I didn't really have those; Blanchard took them for
security. I had to get them from him. At first I figured I could get
them easily enough, if I gave Blanchard the right story. I had it all
worked out, and Blanchard always had a yen for me. Anyway, I was going
to have Mario sell them for me on the quiet, then I was going to pay
Blanchard off and keep the rest for myself. I didn't want Blanchard to
know I was all the way down to the bottom. Pride, I guess."_
_"But Mario was smarter than you." He said it flatly._
_She nodded. "It was his idea to fake the robbery so we could collect
the insurance money too. I think I agreed just to get out of facing
Blanchard with a lie." She laughed harshly. "That's very funny, isn't
it? Anyway, Mario was going to dispose of the jewels through a fence.
All he wanted for his services, he said, was fifty percent of the final
sale."_
_"He said," Fleetwood prompted._
* * * * *
And even as he said it the thought flickered in the back of his mind
that he was wasting an awful lot of valuable time jawing with this dame
when he should be getting the hell out of there. He controlled the
impulse. He thought of Kitty.
_"Yes," Evelyn sighed. "Really he wanted everything. Me, too. But that
doesn't matter any longer. You've got to get out of here." She got up
and helped him to his feet. "You'll have to hurry."_
_He flipped the gun; it was as empty as a chorus girl's head. He looked
up at Evelyn._
_"I--I didn't know," she said stupidly. "Mario just handed it to me."_
_He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around before she could get
away from him. "There's nothing for winning like using a cold deck,
is there, honey?" he snapped. He gave the arm a twist and her face
registered pain. "Where is it? Where's the ammunition?"_
_"I don't know!" she cried. "Mario didn't...."_
_He pulled the arm up behind her and leaned down on it. The cords in
her neck came out like harp strings. "Where'd you put it?"_
_"Over there!" she gasped, bending forward. "In the drawer of the
cabinet."_
_He let her go and went to the cabinet. She hadn't lied. The slugs
rolled forward as he pulled out the drawer. He scooped them up and
fitted them into the gun. When he turned around she was still rubbing
her arm, staring at him with frightened eyes._
_"What are you going to do?" she whimpered._
_"I'm not going to sneak out of here and let your boy friend shoot me
down with this rod planted on me. Just how much would you be willing to
bet this is the murder weapon the cops are looking for?"_
_"What are you going to do with it?"_
_"I'm going to trade with Mario when he gets tired waiting out there
and comes back inside. Guns or bullet, baby, there's going to be a
swap."_
_"No!" she cried. "No, Cassidy. No more killing." She moved close to
him, swiftly, imploringly. "Mario's coming back for you. That's the
truth. You must believe me, you have a chance to get out of here with
your life. Take it while you still have it. That's all that matters
now. You're right about the gun; it's the one. I knew you'd find out
sooner or later. That's why I wanted you to have it, to put an end to
all this rottenness. Take it or leave it, it doesn't really matter so
much, only get out of here before Mario gets back."_
_"Who're you really worried about?" Fleetwood asked. "Mario or me? Or
do you know yourself?"_
_"Why should it matter so long as you stay alive? If you don't go
you'll only be engraving your own tombstone. Mario won't give you a
chance. He's probably got you spotted from outside right now."_
* * * * *
In all justice, Fleetwood's reaction to these words came quite by
reflex. It was simply that his newly-awakened sense of survival had
responded to the lady's admirable logic in the same quick manner of a
coiled spring answering the touch of release. His reply leaped from his
lips before he had time to properly weigh and consider.
"How do I get out of here?" he said.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth, however, than he realized
what he had done; the lady, Evelyn, stood before him an unreal,
life-sized paper doll. Fleetwood permitted himself a cough of chagrin.
"Oops," he said mildly, then went on to qualify, addressing himself to
the ceiling in the same way a simpler soul might direct a conversation
to the heavens. "I'm sorry, Dermitt, but after all, you did have to go
and build up all that sticky suspense. And I warned you, you know, that
my nerves aren't reliable."
He waited a space, not knowing quite what to expect. The silence grew
and thickened. The room faded as before into hazy obscurity.
"Well," Fleetwood shrugged. "We tried, but I guess it's just no good,
old man." He started toward the fuzzily outlined doorway. "No hard
feelings, I hope."
Then suddenly he stopped as the room jolted back into sharp focus and
the door opposite the one toward which he was moving swung open to
permit the entrance of a girl in maid's regalia. She was a singularly
undistinguished young woman both in face and figure. Her hair was
sand-colored and her complexion was dull. Fleetwood started feverishly.
"Kitty!" he yelped.
Kitty appeared neither to notice nor to hear. She addressed herself to
the restored Evelyn.
_"You rang, madam?" she enquired nasally._
_"Yes, Kitty," Evelyn said. "I need a drink dreadfully if you don't
mind."_
_"Yes, ma'm," Kitty said and turned away._
"Hello, Kitty," Fleetwood said tensely.
Though there was much in Kitty's glance as she passed Fleetwood she
gave no sign that she had heard him. Her eyes met his only with an
expression of restrained disdain, much the sort that a sophisticated
cat might bestow on a mechanical mouse which had snapped its spring.
With a lift of her chin she left the room.
"Hey!" Fleetwood yelled. "Hey!" He addressed himself again to the
ceiling. "Now, look here, Dermitt, you monster," he said, "you can't go
doing this sort of thing. Besides, you're only ruining your own story;
the dame already said the maid wasn't here tonight. You can't come
running new characters into the thing now. It doesn't make sense!"
_"I don't know why I keep that dismal child around," Evelyn said
flintily, quite unmindful of any interruption. "For laughs, I suppose,
or contrast. A bit of comic relief never hurt anyone."_
* * * * *
Fleetwood ran to the doorway through which the aloof Kitty had
disappeared and found himself in a hall. He caught a glimpse of her
skirt as she passed from sight into a lighted room at the back of the
house and took out in hot pursuit.
The room, when he got there, proved to be a kitchen, and Kitty was at
the far end, busily transferring liquid by careful measure from a full
bottle into an empty glass. Fleetwood approached her uncertainly. She
finished her chores with the glass, then turned to him, apparently not
at all surprised at seeing him there. She picked the glass up from the
counter.
_"A drink, sir?" she said, and forcibly and quite without warning
flung the liquor into his face. "Get outa here and leave me alone, you
flat-footed bum."_
"Kitty!" Fleetwood bubbled through the cascading bourbon. "Kitty, don't
talk like that!"
_"Out!" Kitty snarled, cinching her faded eyebrows a notch closer
together. "Beat it, Sherlock!"_
"Kitty," Fleetwood pleaded, "you don't understand. This isn't real,
none of it. You don't belong here at all. It's Dermitt who's doing this
to you, making you act this way. He's just trying to get even with me
for messing up his continuity. You don't really hate me, Kitty, you
like me. Think, Kitty, think hard. You said so."
_By this time Kitty had progressed to the cutlery drawer in a markedly
purposeful manner and was in the act of withdrawing a carving knife,
the blade of which gleamed in cold, brilliant concert with her angry
eyes._
_"Sorry you have to leave so abruptly, Mr. Cassidy," she said with
lethal sweetness. "But we all have to go sometime, don't we?" She
brandished the knife so that it cut the air with a menacing whoosh. "My
kid brother had to, when you helped put him in the chair."_
Fleetwood saw the point, but only momentarily, for he was already on
his way back to the hall and safety. Taking cover behind the frame of
the door he peered around its edge.
"I forgive you, Kitty," he said sadly. "I realize that this is none
of your doing and I still hold the knowledge in my heart that you're
really quite fond of me."
_"I'll cut your heart out, if you don't fade outa here," Kitty gritted
back at him. "Scat!"_
Fleetwood scatted. But not in a mood of docile acquiescence. Fate
had handled him quite nastily during the last several minutes and,
therefore, deserved to be dealt with in kind. He addressed himself to
Fate, using the surname.
"Dermitt," he said between clenched teeth, "now you've gone too far.
Far, far too far. I told you to leave Kitty out of this. If you have
trouble now you've only got yourself to blame. Remember that."
* * * * *
He retraced his steps through the hallway and back into the living
room, where he seated himself solidly on the divan. Favoring Evelyn,
who was still in evidence, with the most perfunctory of glances, he
folded his arms adamantly across his chest and crossed his legs.
"I refuse to make another move," he announced haughtily, "until both
Kitty and I are released from this preposterous narrative. And you may
take that as an ultimatum. I don't care if we're all left dangling by
our participles until we rot like grapes on a vine." And with that he
settled into an attitude of stolid resistance, breaking the silence
only once more for a terse sign-off. "Besides," he added, "your writing
smells like a large dead fish."
Stillness overlayed the room like a dense and redolent mist. Evelyn,
still vividly defined, remained fixed in position like a figure in a
waxworks tableau. A moment passed. Then it happened.
The room jolted, with the swift shock of a train compartment yanked
forward by a sudden start from the engine. But that was all, just a
jolt with an immediate settling. Evelyn moved slightly, but Fleetwood
contained his surprise in a slight lift of the eyebrows. He knew
without question that this somehow heralded a counter action from
Dermitt, but he couldn't guess what it might be. He tensed himself
determinedly against whatever might follow. It followed swiftly enough.
_Evelyn swung about, drawing her hand to her mouth._
_"Mario!" she cried._
_Mario, his mouth drawn down in a grim line, stood in the doorway, gun
in hand._
So that was Dermitt's maneuver, Fleetwood reflected complacently; he
meant to push the action forward by sheer force of will.
"It won't do any good, Dermitt," he said. "I won't budge."
He glanced around, pleased to note that both the gun and Mario's
murderous gaze were directed toward the place which he had deserted
when he'd left the room to follow Kitty.
_"Move, Cassidy," Mario grunted. "Get goin' before you turn out to be a
mess on the lady's rug."_
"Hah!" Fleetwood snorted unconcernedly. "Go on and shoot a hole in the
wall, you big imaginary fathead. See if I care."
* * * * *
But even as he said it, the sensation came over him; it was the qualm
in reverse, a subtle drain on his reserve of resistance. Dermitt
retained more of a hold over him than he had believed. The terror of
this sudden realization compelled his attention to such a degree that
it was a moment before he realized that he had actually risen from the
divan and was moving toward the spot that would place him directly
in range of Mario's gun. With an almost superhuman effort he forced
himself to stop.
"No," he panted. "No, Dermitt, you can't make me do it. I won't." He
dragged himself heavily back toward the divan, as though struggling
against a powerful wind. But after only a few steps he slowed, then
stopped altogether, unable to move even an inch further. His will was
stalemated against Dermitt's.
Then, quite suddenly and most surprisingly, he felt himself released.
He fell forward, caught himself against the arm of the divan and swung
around into it. He leaned back panting and waiting. Dermitt hadn't
given up, he was sure of that; he had simply switched methods.