Authors: Lloyd Biggle Jr
“So I’m a coward,” Baque said. “No, Baque.” Lankey shook his head slowly. “You’re a brave man, or you wouldn’t have got into this. Trying something there would have been foolishness, not bravery. It’s my fault, for thinking he’d move first against the restaurant. I owe Denton something for this, and I’m a man who pays his debts.” A troubled frown creased Lankey’s ugly face. He looked perplexedly at Baque. “She was a brave and beautiful woman, Baque,” he said, absently caressing his flat nose. “But I wonder why Denton let you go.” The air of tragedy that hung heavily over Lankey’s that night did not affect its customers. They gave Baque a thunderous ovation as he moved toward the multichord. As he paused for a halfhearted acknowledgement, three policemen closed in on him. “Erlin Baque?” “That’s right.” “You’re under arrest.” Baque faced them grimly. “What’s the charge?” he asked. “Murder.” The murder of Marigold Manning.
Lankey pressed his mournful face against the bars and talked unhurriedly. “They have some witnesses,” he said. “Honest witnesses, who saw you run out of that alley. They have several dishonest witnesses who claim they saw you fire the shot. One of them is your friend Hulsey, who just happened to be taking an early-morning stroll along that alley—or so he’ll testify. Denton would probably spend a million to convict you, but he won’t have to. He won’t even have to bribe the jury. The case against you is that good.” “What about the gun?” Baque asked. “They’ll have a witness who’ll claim he sold it to you.” Baque nodded. Things were out of his hands, now. He’d worked for a cause that no one understood—perhaps he hadn’t understood himself what he was trying to do. And he’d lost. “What happens next?” he asked. Lankey shook his head sadly. “I’m not one to hold back bad news. It means life. They’re going to send you to the Ganymede rock pits for life.”
“I see,” Baque said. He added anxiously, “You’re going to carry on?” “Just what were you trying to do, Baque? You weren’t only working for Lankey’s. I couldn’t figure it out, but I went along with you because I like you. And I like your music. What was it?” “I don’t know. Music, I suppose. People listening to music. Getting rid of the Coms, or some of them. Perhaps if I’d known what I wanted to do—” “Yes. Yes, I think I understand. Lankey’s will carry on, Baque, as long as I have any breath left, and I’m not just being noble. Business is tremendous. That new multichord player isn’t bad at all. He’s nothing like you were, but there’ll never be another one like you. We could be sold out for the next five years if we wanted to book reservations that far ahead. The other restaurants are doing away with visiscope and trying to imitate us, but we have a big head start. We’ll carry on the way you had things set up, and your one-third still stands. I’ll have it put in trust for you. You’ll be a wealthy man when you get back.” “When I get back!” “Well—a life sentence doesn’t necessarily mean life. See that you behave yourself.” “Val?” “She’ll be taken care of. I’ll give her a job of some kind to keep her occupied.” “Maybe I can send you music for the restaurant,” Baque said. “I should have plenty of time.” “I’m afraid not. It’s music they want to keep you away from. So—no writing of music. And they won’t let you near a multichord. They think you could hypnotize the guards and turn all the prisoners loose.” “Would they—let me have my record collection?” “I’m afraid not.” “I see. Well, if that’s the way it is—” “It is. Now I owe Denton two debts.” The unemotional Lankey had tears in his eyes as he turned away.
The Jury deliberated for eight minutes and brought in a verdict of guilty. Baque was sentenced to life imprisonment. There was some editorial grumbling on visiscope, because life in the Ganymede rock pits was frequently a very short life.
And there was a swelling undertone of whispering among the little people that the verdict had been bought and paid for by the sponsors, by visiscope. Erlin Baque was framed, it was said, because he gave the people music. And on the day Baque left for Ganymede, announcement was made of a public exhibition, by H. Vail, multichordist, and B. Johnson, violinist. Admission one dollar. Lankey collected evidence with painstaking care, rebribed one of the bribed witnesses, and petitioned for a new trial. The petition was denied, and the long years limped past. The New York Symphony Orchestra was organized, with twenty members. One of James Denton’s plush air cars crashed, and he was instantly killed. An unfortunate accident. A millionaire who once heard Erlin Baque play on visiscope endowed a dozen conservatories of music. They were to be called the Baque Conservatories, but a musical historian who had never heard of Baque got the name changed to Bach. Lankey died, and a son-in-law carried on his efforts as a family trust. A subscription was launched to build a new hall for the New York Symphony, which now numbered forty members. The project gathered force like an avalanche, and a site was finally chosen in Ohio, where the hall would be within easier commuting distance of all parts of the North American continent. Beethoven Hall was erected, seating forty thousand people. The first concert series was fully subscribed forty-eight hours after tickets went on sale. Opera was given on visiscope for the first time in two hundred years. An opera house was built on the Ohio site, and then an art institute. The Center grew, first by private subscription and then under governmental sponsorship. Lankey’s son-in-law died, and a nephew took over the management of Lankey’s—and the campaign to free Erlin Baque. Thirty years passed, and then forty. And forty-nine years, seven months and nineteen days after Baque received his life sentence, he was paroled. He still owned a third interest in Manhattan’s most prosperous restaurant, and the profits that had accrued over the years made him an extremely wealthy man. He was ninety-six years old.
Another capacity crowd at Beethoven Hall. Vacationists from all parts of the Solar System, music lovers who commuted for the concerts, old people who had retired to the Center, young people on educational excursions, forty thousand of them, stirred restlessly and searched the wings for the conductor. Applause thundered down from the twelve balconies as he strode forward. Erlin Baque sat in his permanent seat at the rear of the main floor. He adjusted his binoculars and peered at the orchestra, wondering again what a contrabassoon sounded like. His bitterness he had left behind on Ganymede. His life at the Center was an unending revelation of miracles. Of course no one remembered Erlin Baque, tunesmith and murderer. Whole generations of people could not even remember the Coms. And yet Baque felt that he had accomplished all of this just as assuredly as though he had built this building— built the Center—with his own hands. He spread his hands before him, hands deformed by the years in the rock pits, fingers and tips of fingers crushed off, his body maimed by cascading rocks. He had no regrets. He had done his work well. Two ushers stood in the aisle behind him. One jerked a thumb in his direction and whispered, “Now there’s a character for you. Comes to every concert. Never misses one. And he just sits there in the back row watching people. They say he was one of the old tunesmiths, years and years ago.” “Maybe he likes music,” the other said. “Naw. Those old tunesmiths never knew anything about music. Besides—he’s deaf.”
page 53
Leading Man
(Introduction)
For two years I taught a creative writing course at a nearby state hospital for the mentally ill. It may or may not reflect on my teaching ability when I say that I learned more than my students, though not about writing.
One afternoon my class ran overtime, and I found myself locked in the building. A staff member happened along and opened the door for me; and then, as I started to leave, she asked, “May I see your ground card?”
She had mistaken me for a patient, and that points up a common problem at mental hospitals: How do you tell the doctors and staff members (and, in my case, the volunteer workers) from the patients?
In William Seabrook’s classic account of life in a mental institution, Asylum, he describes a dance where one rule was strictly enforced: patients could not dance with other patients. Almost every dancing couple consisted of a patient and a staff member, and one might suppose that with the problem thus simplified one could pick out the patients with a high degree of accuracy. Seabrook could not even attain the fifty per cent that the law of averages would seem to guarantee. On his first ten tries he guessed wrong seven times.
“Another fox trot began and I tried to improve my average. There were several I was sure I couldn’t be wrong on—a microcephalic, giggling hatchet-faced blonde with her hair bobbed like Joan of Arc, an openmouthed young man with adenoids and steel-rimmed spectacles who looked like the village idiot after he had set fire to the barn in a way-down-east melodrama, and an elated, screen-conscious young creature with Diesel engine eyes who labored under the hallucination that she was Greta Garbo.
“I indicated them discreetly to Miss Pine, and said that at any rate anybody could recognize them as patients.
” ‘Yeah,’ she said, Veil, you’d better not let them hear you say so. The first is a graduate nurse from Bellevue, the man is a student nurse planning to be a psychiatrist and your Garbo is a superintendent in the diet kitchen.’
Add one more ingredient, Shakespeare’s famous lines; from As You Like It: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.
Editor Horace Gold interpreted this perfectly when he published the story: “There was one thing wrong with all the world being a stage … so many grudging people had to be bit players and stagehands!”
• William Seabrook, Asylum. Copyright © 1935 by Harcourt, Brace & Co.
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CHAPTER TWO
LEADING MAN
He wandered aimlessly down the long corridor, opening doors and closing them, feeling a growing frustration as each room stretched its yawning opulence before him. He was hungry and he wanted food. He wanted to find a single fireplace where no fire crackled cheerfully. He wanted to find one door that failed to open at his touch. He knew that his every move was being watched, and he wanted something to happen; but most of all he wanted food.
He tried another door, thrusting it open impatiently, and froze with his hand on the doorknob.
A man stepped forward, plump, elderly, silver hair crowning his solemn face. His black coat made a most amusing, bulging V over his white shirt. He bowed humbly. “Did you ring, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Did you hear me ring?”
“Then I didn’t ring.”
“No, sir.”
He backed away and closed the door firmly. “I’ll count doors,” he told himself. “That should do it.”
He moved on down the corridor, his feet sinking noiselessly into the plush piles of the carpet. “One!” He slammed open a door and glanced in at the flickering fire. He moved on. “Two!” he shouted. “Three!” He was approaching the end of the corridor. He threw open another door. “Four!”
The silver-haired man stood before him, bowing humbly. “Did you ring, sir?”
He gazed thoughtfully at the bulging V and pointed a finger. “You—are—a—butler.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I didn’t ring.”
He closed the door quickly and hurried on. “Five!”
At the end of the corridor he paused to look out of the multipaned window and saw only his own face reflected back at him. He turned angrily and started back down the opposite side of the corridor, savagely opening and slamming doors.
“Six! Seven!”
The butler’s face was blandly innocent. “Did you ring, sir?”
“No!” He slammed the door, pushed it open again. “Did you hear me ring?” “No, sir.” “I didn’t ring.”
He stood for a moment by the closed door, scratching an itching ear thoughtfully. He was beginning to wonder if some fumbling director had given his cast the wrong briefing. It had been known to happen.
“Eight!”
The ninth door opened before he reached it and the butler stepped forward. “Breakfast is served in the Green Room, sir. The Duchess is waiting.”
“Oh.” He took three quick strides along the corridor, hesitated, and turned back. “You’re sure it’s the Green Room?”
“Yes, sir. If you would be so good as to follow me, sir—”
Keeping his eyes on the sedate blackness of the butler’s broad back, he followed meekly.
As they entered the Green Room, the Duchess scrambled to her feet—a bit ungracefully, he thought—and hurried toward him, her flowing gown lightly brushing the carpet. He winced when her dry lips touched his cheek.
“Good morning, dear,” she said. There was a brittle eagerness in her bright voice.
“Morning,” he said curtly.
She returned to her chair, and the butler escorted him to the other end of the long table and seated him. He glowered distastefully at his egg cup.
“Ham?” he asked hopefully.
“I’m sorry, sir, but the doctor—your stomach, you know.”
“I’m hungry’”
“Would you like two eggs, sir?”
Sadly he reached for a spoon and jabbed at the egg.
The Duchess was picking delicately at her breakfast. He watched her curiously, wondering where he had seen her before. Joan of Arc? No, that girl’d had a thinner face. A thinner figure, too. The Duchess was actually good-looking. Cleopatra—that was it, but he hadn’t been Julius Caesar for more than a month. Odd that she would still be around.
She glanced up at him, and his searching gaze triggered her face into an instant smile. “Did you sleep well, dear? I hope the speech isn’t worrying you.”
He dropped his spoon, and it clattered dully. “Speech?”
“You have just three days left, and Parliament will be in a frightful stew if you don’t have it ready. You will work on it this morning, won’t you, dear?”
The butler whisked away his egg cup and returned it with another egg. He looked around for the salt and saw none. “Salt?” he asked.
Tm sorry, sir, but your doctor—”
“Damn the doctor! I’ll get another doctor! I haven’t had a decent meal since Waterloo!”