Pity Him Afterwards

To scare him? Could someone else be the agent of Doctor Chax, someone else instead of Sondgard? Could that be how it was done? And this was simply another of those meaningless and futile tests: Draw a picture of a man and a woman. What does this black blob look like? When I say a word, you say the next word that comes into your head. Read this story and then tell me about it: (A cowboy went to town and bought a city-type suit. His dog refused to recognize him, and actually tried to attack him, until he took off the suit and put his normal clothing back on.) “There was a cowboy, and a great big dog like a wolf, and he was named Wolf, and the cowboy and Wolf went downtown to the department store where they had the Santa Claus in the window that nodded his head and waved his hand...” And all at once it was a story about a dog that attacked a mechanical Santa Claus.

But why hadn’t Sondgard/Chax said anything about the other killing, the one last night? Was he trying to be clever again, was this more cleverness? They must have found him by now.

Even in the threats he didn’t make, Sondgard/Chax was dangerous.

If Sondgard was the agent of Doctor Chax. But that wouldn’t explain Bobby did it. And the only explanation of Bobby did it was that there really was an agent of Doctor Chax somewhere close, watching him all the time.

Sondgard closing in, narrowing in on him all the time. And now someone else, silent, watching him.

Who? How could he deal with Sondgard if he had to keep thinking about this somebody else? He had to find out who it was.

He looked at the faces. Ralph Schoen? The man had a vicious face, cruel enough certainly to be one of them. But he would be too direct, he wouldn’t be the type to tantalize this way. Not Schoen.

Not Alden March; too weak, and also too likely a candidate to be opposed to Doctor Chax rather than allied with him.

Not Arnie Kapow or Perry Kent; both were too obviously what they were, and nothing more.

Tom Burns? No, too cynical; Doctor Chax and his agents were all smugly and pompously sincere, sans any kind of humor.

An actor, then? The madman studied the faces, and his gaze came to rest on Mel Daniels.

Mel Daniels.

He was very young, yes, younger than the madman himself, but did that mean anything? They might have chosen someone so young purposely to allay his suspicions.

Mel Daniels had come here a full day late, as though they hadn’t known this was where to send him until after the madman had arrived here himself.

And it was Mel Daniels who “discovered” the body of Cissie Walker.

Yes! Yes! And it was Mel Daniels who “discovered” the writing on the kitchen table!

After writing it himself!

It all fit. Arriving late, “happening” to discover everything important. The madman nodded to himself, remembering last night; Daniels had stared at him while they were both with the group at the Lounge. Daniels had prodded him, asking questions about the false background, straining his memory of all that the dead actor had told him.

Daniels had been toying with him! Testing his “reactions,” the way they did, the dirty beasts! And testing his reaction again this morning, with this broad hint, this Bobby did it, this underhanded taunting.

So it was Daniels who had to be taken care of, Daniels and not Sondgard who was in direct league with Doctor Chax.

Well, both had to go. Daniels/Chax, because of what he had done and what he yet might do, and Sondgard, because he was coming too close.

And the sooner the better.

Karen Leacock, the skinny one, came to the door to tell them breakfast was ready. They all went to the room next to the kitchen where the long table was — the regular kitchen table, where the message had been “found,” wasn’t big enough for all of them at once — and the madman joined them there. He had made some discoveries while thinking things through, and he had come to some decisions. As a result, his appetite was very good. He took four pancakes for a starter, and set to.

Sondgard came in a few minutes after the rest of them had started, and sat down at the place they’d left for him, midway down the table, on the other side from the madman. From Sondgard’s tight and tired look, the madman knew he’d found nothing. Not even the wet clothing. The madman watched his persecutor — his two persecutors — watched them closely and covertly while he himself finished his first four pancakes and forked three more onto his plate.

Sondgard was eating slowly, grimly, plodding through the breakfast, just mechanically shoveling the food into his mouth at slow and regular intervals. His expression was dour; it was obvious he had no taste for the meal, but was trying in vain to put on a good show.

The madman was pleased. Sondgard had been bluffing about the fingerprint. The chances weren’t ninety-ten at all. They were probably fifty-fifty, maybe even worse. Otherwise, the failure of the search wouldn’t have depressed the policeman so much.