The Cuckoo Clock Page 2
developments you take iteasy, too. Don't let yourself get overworked. Stay out of the sun. Solong now."
"So long, Jim."
* * * * *
It was cool in the Warrenburg city hall, though outside the streets weresizzling.
"Sorry, Mr. Blair," said the stout, motherly woman with the horn-rimmedglasses. "We've no record of a Helen Simmons. Nothing whatever." Sheclosed the file with resolute finality.
Jim stared at her. "Are you sure? There must be something. Mightn'tthere be a special file for accident cases? She was here in Warrenburg.She died here."
The woman thinned her lips, shook her head. "If we had any information,it'd be right where I looked. There isn't a thing. Have you tried herlast address? Maybe they could tell you something. We can't."
"I'll try that next. Thanks a lot."
"Sorry we couldn't help you."
He went out slowly.
* * * * *
872 Maple was a rambling frame house dozing on a wide flower-borderedlot. There was nothing sleepy about the diminutive woman who opened thedoor to Jim's knock. Snapping black eyes peered at him from a maze ofwrinkles. A veined hand moved swiftly to smooth down the white hair thatframed her face.
"Looking for someone, young man?"
"Just information, Mrs.--"
"Collins, and it's Miss. Don't give out information about guests. You abill collector?"
"No, Miss Collins. As a matter of fact, I'm trying to check up on an oldfriend I lost track of. Helen Simmons. She lived at this address for awhile."
"Sure did. Well, come on in. Mind you, I don't usually do this, Mr.--"
"Blair." Without any fanfare a bill changed hands.
"Mr. Blair. Well, I can't tell you much. Try that green chair for size.What do you want to know?"
* * * * *
Jim studied the toe of his right shoe. His eyes were veiled. "I heardshe was hurt, and hard up, and I was worried. My wife and I were friendsof hers back east."
"Hurt, hard up? Humph! Not likely, spendin' all her time drivin' thatEnglish car around. Takin' trips. I'm not sayin' she didn't mind hermanners, though."
"Did she have any close friends?"
"She was chummy with Edith Walton, the girl that works for Doc Mendel.He's county coroner in his spare time. No men. Didn't fool around atall. I'd a known."
* * * * *
Behind Jim's stony eyes the pattern took clearer form, as if a mosaicapproached completion. A mosaic of carefully planned events thattotalled horror. He shivered as the outlines of his hunch filled in.Helen--what creatures were these? Helen--not dead, not poor,--carefullyplanting ostensible proof of her death and going on to a new role, a newlife, in London or Paris or Rome. A free, untrammelled life. And herchild--if child was the word--in his home, repeating the pattern.Eliminating competition as her mother undoubtedly had done. Thecompetition--his and Jean's children! Changeling, changeling-- No, notthat. Incubus! He shivered again.
"Rabbits on your grave, Mr. Blair?"
He looked up slowly. "Sorry. I was just wondering. Did Miss Simmons havea job while she was here?"
"No, she didn't. One thing she did do was rent a place. Used to beBlands Hardware. Paid a month's rent, too. Said some friends of herswere plannin' to open a mortuary. Seemed like a funny way for people todo business, but then, no affair of mine."
Funny? No, not funny at all, but icily, eerily logical. There had to bean undertaking parlor where he could send the funeral expenses. Hewondered if Helen had laughed when she opened the letter. Everyone his,or her, own undertaker. And the carefully cultivated friend in thecoroner's office. For stationery.
He got to his feet. "Thanks a lot, Miss Collins. You've been a greatdeal of help." He almost smiled as he asked, "I don't suppose she left aforwarding address?"
The old head shook decisively. "Not a thing. Just packed and left, oneMonday morning."
All the loose ends tied up tight on a Monday morning. Nothing to causesuspicion. Nothing to worry about. Only a woman's almost paranoidhysteria,--and a glance at a clock. Not very much to unmask--incubus.And what could he do? What _could_ he do? Start talking and land in aninstitution? Well, there was one thing.
"Thanks again, Miss Collins."
He went out.
* * * * *
Swanson didn't look like the general conception of a small-townnewspaperman. One knew instinctively that his beard wouldn't have beentobacco-stained even if he'd cared to grow one. And he didn't have abottle of bourbon in the file marked Miscellaneous, or if he did hedidn't bring it out.
"That never came from my paper," he said precisely. He handed theclipping back to Jim. "We don't use that type, for one thing. Foranother, Miss Simmons, so far as I know, wasn't killed here or anywhereelse."
"You knew her?"
"I knew of her. I never met her."
"What about this report of her death?"
Swanson shrugged; tented manicured fingers. "It's a hoax. Any jobprinting shop with a Linotype could do it. In all likelihood it was someplace in San Francisco. That's closest. It would be very difficult tocheck." His curiosity was showing.
"I see. Well, thanks for your time and trouble, Mr. Swanson."
"Not at all. Sorry I couldn't be of more help."
One thing to do. One thing that must be done.
Motors over the mountains. And riding with them, the numb resolve.Motors over the salt pans, the wheat lands, the corn belt.
The stewardess stops again. "Coffee, sir? A sandwich, perhaps?"
"I beg your-- Oh, no. No, thanks."
She watches him covertly, uneasily, longing for the end of the run.
Motors in the night.
And the dull determination growing, strengthening.
The airport, baggage, the ancient taxi with the piston slap, and at lastthe dark, familiar street.
"Jim, you're back! Oh, Jim, darling. Next time they send you west I'mgoing too. I am!"
"Okay, Jean, sure. Why not?"
"What's the matter, dear? Oh, you're tired, of course. I should haveknown. Sit down, Jim. Let me get you a drink."
"In a minute, Jean." Do it now _now_ NOW! "Where's Joanna?"
"She's in bed. Hours ago. Jim, has something--?"
"Nothing, dear. I just want to look in on her. And freshen up a bit, ofcourse."
"Jim--"
He smoothed away the worried frown with his forefinger.
"In a minute, dear."
She smiled uncertainly. "Hurry back, Jim."
* * * * *
The stairs unwind irrevocably, slow motion in a nightmare. The bedroomdoor opens, the hall light dim on the bed and the child's face. Incubusin the half dark.
For a moment Jim remembered wondering somewhere, sometime, what strangepowers of protection might be implicit in such a creature. As thethought came into his mind, Joanna stirred. She opened her eyes andlooked at him.
He took one step toward the bed.
The little girl eyes over their dusting of freckles slitted. Then theyopened wide, became two glowing golden lakes that grew, and grew--
There was the feeling of a great soundless explosion in his mind. Wavesof cool burning in his brain, churning and bubbling in every unknowncorner, every cranny. Here and there a cell, or a group of cells,blanked out, the complex molecules reverting, becoming new again. Readyfor fresh punch marks. Synapses shorted with soundless cold fire, andwaited in timeless stasis for rechannelling. The waves frothed, becameripples, were gone. He stood unmoving.
What was it he was supposed to do? Let's see-- Tuck Joanna's blanketaround her. But she was covered up snugly. Sleeping soundly, too, andfor a few seconds he'd thought she was awake. And Jean was waitingdownstairs, Jean and a cool drink.
Oh, yes, stop in the bathroom.
The stairs wind up again. It is good to be with one's family, relaxed inth
e well known chair. Not a worry in the world.
He sat there, his mind at ease, not caring much about anything. Hedidn't even look up when the clock on the mantel whirred, and theridiculous bird popped out of its nest to herald a new day.
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from _Amazing Stories_ March 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.