Collected Fiction, page 656
Something was wrong. This wasn’t what he’d wanted. He was still afraid, weak, failing—
He lurched against the desk, clawed at the paper knife, and, knowing failure, drove it into Vanderman’s heart.
“It’s a tricky case,” the forensic sociologist said to the engineer. “Very tricky.”
“Want me to run it again?”
“No, not right now. I’d like to think it over. Clay . . . that firm that offered him another job. The offer’s withdrawn now, isn’t it? Yes, I remember—they’re fussy about the morals of their employees. It’s insurance or something, I don’t know. Motive. Motive, now.”
The sociologist looked at the engineer.
The engineer said: “A year and a half ago he had a motive. But a week ago he had everything to lose and nothing to gain. He’s lost his job and that bonus, he doesn’t want Mrs. Vanderman any more, and as for that beating Vanderman once gave him . . . ah?”
“Well, he did try to shoot Vanderman once, and he couldn’t, remember? Even though he was full of Dutch courage. But—something’s wrong. Clay’s been avoiding even the appearance of evil a little too carefully. Only I can’t put my finger on anything, blast it.”
“What about tracing back his life further? We only got to his fourth year.”
“There couldn’t be anything useful that long ago. It’s obvious he was afraid of his father and hated him, too. Typical stuff, basic psych. The father symbolizes judgment to him. I’m very much afraid Sam Clay is going to get off scot-free.”
“But if you think there’s something haywire—”
“The burden of proof is up to us,” the sociologist said.
The visor sang. A voice spoke softly.
“No, I haven’t got the answer yet. Now? All right. I’ll drop over.” He stood up.
“The D.A. wants a consultation. I’m not hopeful, though. I’m afraid the State’s going to lose this case. That’s the trouble with the externalized conscience—”
He didn’t amplify. He went out, shaking his head, leaving the engineer staring speculatively at the screen. But within five minutes he was assigned to another job—the bureau was understaffed—and he didn’t have a chance to investigate on his own until a week later. Then it didn’t matter any more.
For, a week later, Sam Clay was walking out of the court an acquitted man. Bea Vanderman was waiting for him at the foot of the ramp. She wore black, but obviously her heart wasn’t in it.
“Sam,” she said.
He looked at her.
He felt a little dazed. It was all over. Everything had worked out exactly according to plan. And nobody was watching him now. The Eye had closed. The invisible audience had put on its hats and coats and left the theater of Sam Clay’s private life. From now on he could do and say precisely what he liked, with no censoring watcher’s omnipresence to check him. He could act on impulse again.
He had outwitted society. He had outwitted the Eye and all its minions in all their technological glory. He, Sam Clay, private citizen. It was a wonderful thing, and he could not understand why it left him feeling so flat.
That had been a nonsensical moment, just before the murder. The moment of relenting. They say you get the same instant’s frantic rejection on the verge of a good many important decisions—just before you marry, for instance. Or—what was it? Some other common instance he’d often heard of. For a second it eluded him. Then he had it. The hour before marriage—and the instant after suicide. After you’ve pulled the trigger, or jumped off the bridge. The instant of wild revulsion when you’d give anything to undo the irrevocable. Only, you can’t. It’s too late. The thing is done.
Well, he’d been a fool. Luckily, it had been too late. His body took over and forced him to success he’d trained it for. About the job—it didn’t matter. He’d get another. He’d proved himself capable. If he could outwit the Eye itself, what job existed he couldn’t lick if he tried? Except—nobody knew exactly how good he was. How could he prove his capabilities? It was infuriating to achieve such phenomenal success after a lifetime of failures, and never to get the credit for it. How many men must have tried and failed where he had tried and succeeded? Rich men, successful men, brilliant men who had yet failed in the final test of all—the contest with the Eye, their own lives at stake. Only Sam Clay had passed that most important test in the world—and he could never claim credit for it.
“. . . knew they wouldn’t convict,” Bea’s complacent voice was saying.
Clay blinked at her. “What?”
“I said I’m so glad you’re free, darling. I knew they wouldn’t convict you. I knew that from the very beginning.” She smiled at him, and for the first time it occurred to him that Bea looked a little like a bulldog. It was something about her lower jaw. He thought that when her teeth were closed together the lower set probably rested just-outside the upper. He had an instant’s impulse to ask her about it. Then he decided he had better not.
“You knew, did you?” he said. She squeezed his arm. What an ugly lower jaw that was. How odd he’d never noticed it before. And behind the heavy lashes, how small her eyes were. How mean.
“Let’s go where we can be alone,” Bea said, clinging to him. “There’s such a lot to talk about.”
“We are alone,” Clay said, diverted for an instant to his original thoughts. “Nobody’s watching.” He glanced up at the sky and down at the mosaic pavement. He drew a long breath and let it out slowly. “Nobody,” he said.
“My speeder’s parked right over here. We can—”
“Sorry Bea.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got business to attend to.”
“Forget business. Don’t you understand that we’re free now, both, of us?”
He had a horrible feeling he knew what she meant.
“Wait a minute,” he said, because this seemed the quickest way to end it. “I killed your husband, Bea. Don’t forget that.”
“You were acquitted. It was self-defense. The court said so.”
“It—” He paused, glanced up quickly at the high wall of the justice Building, and began a one-sided, mirthless smile. It was all right; there was no Eye now. There never would be, again. He was unwatched.
“You mustn’t feel guilty, even within yourself,” Bea said firmly. “It wasn’t your fault. It simply wasn’t. You’ve got to remember that. You couldn’t have killed Andrew except by accident, Sam, so—”
“What? What do you mean by that?”
“Well, after all. I know the prosecution kept trying to prove you’d planned to kill Andrew all along, but you mustn’t let what they said put any ideas in your head. I know you, Sam. I knew Andrew. You couldn’t have planned a thing like that, and even if you had, it wouldn’t have worked.”
The half-smile died.
“It wouldn’t?”
She looked at him steadily.
“Why, you couldn’t have managed it,” she said. “Andrew was the better man, and we both know it. He’d have been too clever to fall for anything—”
“Anything a second-rater like me. could dream up?” Clay swallowed. His lips tightened. “Even you—What’s the idea? What’s your angle now—that we second-raters ought to get together?”
“Come on,” she said, and slipped her arm through his. Clay hung back for a second. Then he scowled, looked back at the Justice Building, and followed Bea toward her speeder.
The engineer had a free period. He was finally able to investigate Sam Clay’s early childhood. It was purely academic now, but he liked to indulge his curiosity. He traced Clay back to the dark closet, when the boy was four, and used ultraviolet. Sam was huddled in a corner, crying silently, staring up with frightened eyes at a top shelf.
What was on that shelf the engineer could not see.
He kept the beam focused on the closet and cast back rapidly through time. The closet often opened and closed, and sometimes Sam Clay was locked in it as punishment, but the upper shelf held its mystery until—
It was in reverse. A woman reached to that shelf, took down an object, walked backward out of the closet to Sam Clay’s bedroom, and went to the wall by the door. This was unusual, for generally it was Sam’s father who was warden of the closet.
She hung up a framed picture of a single huge staring eye floating in space. There was a legend under it. The letters spelled out: THOU GOD SEEST ME.
The engineer kept on tracing. After awhile it was night. The child was in bed, sitting up wide-eyed, afraid. A man’s footsteps sounded on the stair. The scanner told all secrets but those of the inner mind. The man was Sam’s father, coming up to punish him for some childish crime committed earlier. Moonlight fell upon the wall beyond which the footsteps approached showing how the wall quivered a little to the vibrations of the feet, and the Eye in its frame quivered, too. The boy seemed to brace himself. A defiant half-smile showed on his mouth, crooked, unsteady.
This time he’d keep that smile, no matter what happened. When it was over he’d still have it, so his father could see it, and the Eye could see it and they’d know he hadn’t given in. He hadn’t . . . he—
The door opened.
He couldn’t help it. The smile faded and was gone.
“Well, what was eating him?” the engineer demanded.
The sociologist shrugged. “You could say he never did really grow up. It’s axiomatic that boys go through a phase of rivalry with their fathers. Usually that’s sublimated ; the child grows up and wins, in one way or another. But Sam Clay didn’t. I suspect he developed an externalized conscience very early. Symbolizing partly his father, partly God, an Eye and society—which fulfills the role of protective, punishing parent, you know.”
“It still isn’t evidence.”
“We aren’t going to get any evidence on Sam Clay. But that doesn’t mean he’s got away with anything, you know. He’s always been afraid to assume the responsibilities of maturity. He never took on an optimum challenge. He was afraid to succeed at anything because that symbolic Eye of his might smack him down. When he was a kid, he might have solved his entire problem by kicking his old man in the shins. Sure, he’d have got a harder whaling, but he’d have made some move to assert his individuality. As it is, he waited too long. And then he defied the wrong thing, and it wasn’t really defiance, basically. Too late now. His formative years are past. The thing that might really solve Clay’s problem would be his conviction for murder—but he’s been acquitted. If he’d been convicted, then he could prove to the world that he’d hit back. He’d kicked his father in the shins, kept that defiant smile on his face, killed Andrew Vanderman. I think that’s what he actually has wanted all along—recognition. Proof of his own ability to assert himself. He had to work hard to cover his tracks—if he made any—but that was part of the game. By winning it he’s lost. The normal ways of escape are closed to him. He always had an Eye looking down at him.”
“Then the acquittal stands?”
“There’s still no evidence. The State’s lost its case. But I . . . I don’t think Sam Clay has won his. Something will happen.” He sighed. “It’s inevitable, I’m afraid. Sentence first, you see. Verdict afterward. The sentence was passed on Clay a long time ago.”
Sitting across from him in the Paradise Bar, behind a silver decanter of brandy in the center of the table, Bea looked lovely and hateful. It was the lights that made her lovely. They even managed to cast their shadows over that bulldog chin, and under her thick lashes the small, mean eyes acquired an illusion of beauty. But she still looked hateful. The lights could do nothing about that. They couldn’t cast shadows into Sam Clay’s private mind or distort the images there.
He thought of Josephine. He hadn’t made up his mind fully yet about that. But if he didn’t quite know what he wanted, there was no shadow of doubt about what he didn’t want—no possible doubt whatever.
“You need me, Sam,” Bea told him over her brimming glass.
“I can stand on my own feet. I don’t need anybody.”
It was the indulgent way she looked at him. It was the smile that showed her teeth. He could see as clearly as if he had X-ray vision how the upper teeth would close down inside the lower when she shut her mouth. There would be a lot of strength in a jaw like that. He looked at her neck and saw the thickness of it, and thought how firmly she was getting her grip upon him, how she maneuvered for position and waited to lock her bulldog clamp deep into the fabric of his life again.
“I’m going to marry Josephine, you know,” he said.
“No, you’re not. You aren’t the man for Josephine. I know that girl, Sam. For a while you may have had her convinced you were a go-getter. But she’s bound to find out the truth. You’d be miserable together. You need me, Sam darling. You don’t know what you want. Look at the mess you got into when you tried to act on your own. Oh, Sam, why don’t you stop pretending? You know you never were a planner. You . . . what’s the matter, Sam?”
His sudden burst of laughter had startled both of them. He tried to answer her, but the laughter wouldn’t let him. He lay back in his chair and shook with it until he almost strangled. He had come so close, so desperately close to bursting out with a boast that would have been confession. Just to convince the woman. Just to shut her up. He must care more about her good opinion than he had realized until now. But that last absurdity was too much. It was only ridiculous now. Sam Clay, not a planner!
How good it was to let himself laugh, now. To let himself go, without having to think ahead. Acting on impulse again, after those long months of rigid repression. No audience from the future was clustering around this table, analyzing the-quality of his laughter, observing that it verged on hysteria, measuring it against all possible occasions in the past that could not explain its exact depth and duration.
All right, so it was hysteria. Who cared? He deserved a little blow-off like this, after all he’d been through. He’d risked so much, and achieved so much—and in the end gained nothing, not even glory except in his own mind. He’d gained nothing, really, except the freedom to be hysterical if he felt like it. He laughed and laughed and laughed, hearing the shrill note of lost control in his own voice and not caring.
People were turning to stare. The bartender looked over at him uneasily, getting ready to move if this went on. Bea stood up, leaned across the table, shook him by the shoulder.
“Sam, what’s the matter! Sam, do get hold of yourself! You’re making a spectacle of me, Sam! What are you laughing at?”
With a tremendous effort he forced the laughter back in his throat. His breath still came heavily and little bursts of merriment kept bubbling up so that he could hardly speak, but he got the words out somehow. They were probably the first words he had spoken without rigid censorship since he first put his plan into operation. And the words were these.
“I’m laughing at the way I fooled you. I fooled everybody! You think I didn’t know what I was doing every minute of the time? You think I wasn’t planning, every step of the way? It took me eighteen months to do it, but I killed Andrew Vanderman with malice aforethought, and nobody can ever prove I did it.” He giggled foolishly. “I just wanted you to know,” he added in a mild voice.
And it wasn’t until he got his breath back and began to experience that feeling of incredible, delightful, incomparable relief that he knew what he had done.
She was looking at him without a flicker of expression on her face. Total blank was all that showed. There was a dead silence for a quarter of a minute. Clay had the feeling that his words must have rung from the roof, that in a moment the police would come in to hale him away. But the words had been quietly spoken. No one had heard but Bea.
And now, at last, Bea moved. She answered him, but not in words. The bulldog face convulsed, suddenly and overflowed with laughter.
As he listened, Clay felt all that flood of glorious relief ebbing away. For he saw that she did not believe him. And there was no way he could prove the truth.
“Oh, you silly little man,” Bea gasped when words came back to her. “You had me almost convinced for a minute. I almost believed you. I—” Laughter silenced her again, consciously silvery laughter made heads turn. That conscious note in it warned him that she was up to something. Bea had had an idea. His own thoughts outran hers and he knew in an instant before she spoke exactly what the idea was and how she would apply it. He said:
“I am going to marry Josephine,” in the very instant that Bea spoke.
“You’re going to marry me,” she. said flatly. “You’ve got to. You don’t know your own mind, Sam. I know what’s best for you and I’ll see you do it. Do you understand me, Sam?”
“The police won’t realize that was only a silly boast,” she told him. “They’ll believe you. You wouldn’t want me to tell them what you just said, would you, Sam?”
He looked at her in silence, seeing no way out. This dilemma had sharper horns than anything he could have imagined. For Bea did not and would not believe him, no matter how he yearned to convince her, while the police undoubtedly would believe him, to the undoing of his whole investment in time, effort, and murder. He had said it. It was engraved upon the walls and in the echoing air, waiting for that invisible audience in the future to observe. No one was listening now, but a word from Bea could make them reopen the case.
A word from Bea.
He looked at her, still in silence, but with a certain cool calculation beginning to dawn in the back of his mind.
For a moment Sam Clay felt very tired indeed. In that moment he encompassed a good deal of tentative future time. In his mind he said yes to Bea, married her, lived an indefinite period as her husband. And he saw what that life would be like. He saw the mean small eyes watching him, the relentlessly gripping jaw set, the tyranny that would emerge slowly or not slowly, depending on the degree of his subservience, until he was utterly at the mercy of the woman who had been Andrew Vanderman’s widow.
