Highways in Hiding
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George Oliver Smith >> Highways in Hiding
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The elevator stopped at Nine and I walked the corridor that was familiar
from last night. I rapped on the door of Room 913.
The door opened and a big stubble-faced gorilla gazed out and snarled at
me: "Are you the persistent character?"
"Look," I said patiently, "last night a woman friend of mine registered
at this hotel and I accompanied her to this door. Number 913. Now--"
A long apelike arm came out and caught me by the coat lapels. He hauled
and I went in fast. His breath was sour and his eyes were bloodshot and
he was angry all the way through. His other hand caught me by the seat
of the pants and he danced me into the room like a jumping jack.
"Friend," he ground out, "Take a look. There ain't no woman in this
room, see?"
He whirled, carrying me off my feet. He took a lunging step forward and
hurled me onto the bed, where I carried the springs deep down, to bounce
up and off and forward to come up flat against the far wall. I landed
sort of spread-eagle flat and seemed to hang there before I slid down
the wall to the floor with a meaty-sounding Whump! Then before I could
collect my wits or myself, he came over the bed in one long leap and had
me hauled upright by the coat lapels again. The other hand was cocked
back level with his shoulder it looked the size of a twenty-five pound
sack of flour and was probably as hard as set cement.
_Steve_, I told myself, _this time you're in for it!_
"All right," I said as apologetically as I knew how, "so I've made a bad
mistake. I apologize. I'll also admit that you could wipe up the hotel
with me. But do you have to prove it?"
Mr. Horace Westfield's mental processes were not slow, cumbersome, and
crude. He was as fast and hard on his mental feet as he was on his
physical feet. He made some remarks about my intelligence, my
upbringing, my parentage and its legal status, and my unwillingness to
face a superior enemy. During this catalog of my virtueless existence,
he gandy-walked me to the door and opened it. He concluded his lecture
by suggesting that in the future I accept anything that any registration
clerk said as God-Stated Truth, and if I then held any doubts I should
take them to the police. Then he hurled me out of the room by just sort
of shoving me away. I sailed across the hall on my toes, backward, and
slapped my frame flat again, and once more I hung against the wall until
the kinetic energy had spent itself. Then I landed on wobbly ankles as
the door to Room 913 came closed with a violent slam.
I cursed the habit of building hotels in dead areas, although I admitted
that I'd steer clear of any hotel in a clear area myself. But I didn't
need a clear area nor a sense of perception to inform me that Room 913
was absolutely and totally devoid of any remote sign of female
habitation. In fact, I gathered the impression that for all of his brute
strength and virile masculinity, Mr. Horace Westfield hadn't entertained
a woman in that room since he'd been there.
There was one other certainty: It was impossible for any agency short of
sheer fairyland magic to have produced overnight a room that displayed
its long-term occupancy by a not-too-immaculate character. That
distinctive sour smell takes a long time to permeate the furnishings of
any decent hotel; I wondered why a joint as well kept as this one would
put up with a bird as careless of his person as Mr. Horace Westfield.
So I came to the reluctant conclusion that Room 913 was not occupied by
Nurse Farrow, but I was not yet convinced that she was totally missing
from the premises.
Instead of taking the elevator, I took to the stairs and tried the
eighth. My perception was not too good for much in this murk, but I was
mentally sensitive to Nurse Farrow and if I could get close enough to
her, I might be able to perceive some trace of her even through the
deadness. I put my forehead against the door of Room 813 and drew a
blank. I could dig no farther than the inside of the door. If Farrow
were in 813, I couldn't dig a trace of her. So I went to 713 and tried
there.
I was determined to try every -13th room on every floor, but as I was
standing with my forehead against the door to Room 413, someone came up
behind me quietly and asked in a rough voice: "Just what do you think
you're doing, Mister?"
His dress indicated housedick, but of course I couldn't dig the license
in his wallet any more than he could read my mental, #None of your
business, flatfoot!# I said, "I'm looking for a friend."
"You'd better come with me," he said flatly. "There's been complaints."
"Yeah?" I growled. "Maybe I made one of them myself."
"Want to start something?" he snapped.
I shrugged and he smiled. It was a stony smile, humorless as a crevasse
in a rock-face. He kept that professional-type smile on his face until
we reached the manager's office. The manager was out, but one of the
assistant managers was in his desk. The little sign on the desk said
"Henry Walton. Assistant Manager."
Mr. Walton said, coldly, "What seems to be the trouble, Mr. Cornell?"
I decided to play it just as though I were back at the beginning again.
"Last night," I explained very carefully, "I checked into this hotel. I
was accompanied by a woman companion. A registered nurse. Miss Gloria
Farrow. She registered first, and we were taken by one of your bellboys
to Rooms 913 and 1224 respectively. I went with Miss Farrow to 913 and
saw her enter. Then the bellhop escorted me to 1224 and left me for the
night. This morning I can find no trace of Miss Farrow anywhere in this
fleabag."
He bristled at the derogatory title but he covered it quickly. "Please
be assured that no one connected with this hotel has any intention of
confusing you, Mr. Cornell."
"I'm tired of playing games," I snapped. "I'll accept your statement so
far as the management goes, but someone is guilty of fouling up your
registration lists."
"That's rather harsh," he replied coldly. "Falsifying or tampering with
hotel registration lists is illegal. What you've just said amounts to
libel or slander, you know."
"Not if it's true."
I half expected Henry Walton to backwater fast, but instead, he merely
eyed me with the same expression of distaste that he might have used
upon finding half of a fuzzy caterpillar in his green salad. As cold as
a cake of carbon dioxide snow, he said, "Can you prove this, Mr.
Cornell?"
"Your night crew--"
"You've given us a bit of trouble this morning," he informed me. "So
I've taken the liberty of calling in the night crew for you." He pressed
a button and a bunch came in and lined up as if for formal inspection.
"Boys," said Walton quietly, "suppose you tell us what you know about
Mr. Cornell's arrival here last night."
They nodded their heads in unison.
"Wait a minute," I snapped. "I want a reliable witness to listen to
this. In fact, if I could, I'd like to have their stories made under
oath."
"You'd like to register a formal charge? Perhaps of kidnapping, or maybe
illegal restraint?"
"Just get me an impartial witness," I told him sourly.
"Very well." He picked up his telephone and spoke into it. We waited a
few minutes, and finally a very prim young woman came in. She was
followed by a uniformed policeman. She was carrying one of those
sub-miniature silent typewriters which she set up on its little stand
with a few efficient motions.
"Miss Mason is our certified public stenographer," he said. "Officer,
I'll want your signature on her copy when we're finished. This is a
simple routine matter, but it must be legal to the satisfaction of Mr.
Cornell. Now, boys, go ahead and explain. Give your name and position
first for Miss Mason's record."
It was then that I noticed that the night crew had arranged themselves
in chronological order. The elderly gent spoke first. He'd been the
night doorman but now he was stripped of his admiral's gold braid and he
looked just like any other sleepy man of middle age.
"George Comstock," he announced. "Doorman. As soon as I saw the car
angling out of traffic, I pressed the call-button for a bell boy. Peter
Wright came out and was standing in readiness by the time Mr. Cornell's
car came to a stop by the curb. Johnny Olson was out next, and after
Peter had taken Mr. Cornell's bag, Johnny got into Mr. Cornell's car and
took off for the hotel garage--"
Walton interrupted. "Let each man tell what he did himself. No
prompting, please."
"Well, then, you've heard my part in it. Johnny Olson took off in Mr.
Cornell's car and Peter Wright took off with Mr. Cornell's bag, and Mr.
Cornell followed Peter."
The next man in line, at a nod from the assistant manager, stepped
forward about a half a pace and said, "I'm Johnny Olson. I followed
Peter Wright out of the door and after Peter had collected Mr. Cornell's
bag, I got in Mr. Cornell's car and took it to the hotel garage."
The third was Peter Wright, the bellhop. "I carried his bag to the desk
and waited until he registered. Then we went up to Room 1224. I opened
the door, lit the lights, opened the window, and stuff. Mr. Cornell
tipped me five bucks and I left him there. Alone."
"I'm Thomas Boothe, the elevator operator. I took Mr. Cornell and Peter
Wright to the Twelfth. Peter said I should wait because he wouldn't be
long, and so I waited on the Twelfth until Peter got back. That's all."
"I'm Doris Caspary, the night telephone operator. Mr. Cornell called me
about fifteen minutes after twelve and asked me to put him down for a
call at eight o'clock this morning. Then he called at about seven thirty
and said that he was already awake and not to bother."
Henry Walton said, "That's about it, Mr. Cornell."
"But--"
The policeman looked puzzled. "What is the meaning of all this? If I'm
to witness any statements like these, I'll have to know what for."
Walton looked at me. I couldn't afford not to answer. Wearily I said,
"Last night I came in here with a woman companion and we registered in
separate rooms. She went into 913 and I waited until she was installed
and then went to my own room on the Twelfth. This morning there is no
trace of her."
I went on to tell him a few more details, but the more I told him the
more he lifted his eyebrows.
"Done any drinking?" he asked me curtly.
"No."
"Certain?"
"Absolutely."
Walton looked at his crew. They burst into a chorus of, "Well, he _was_
steady on his feet," and "He didn't _seem_ under the influence," and a
lot of other statements, all generally indicating that for all they knew
I could have been gassed to the ears, but one of those rare guys who
don't show it.
The policeman smiled thinly. "Just why was this registered nurse
travelling with you?"
I gave them the excuse-type statement; the one about the accident and
that I felt that I was still a bit on the rocky side and so forth. About
all I did for that was to convince the policeman that I was not a stable
character. His attitude seemed to indicate that any man travelling with
a nurse must either be physically sick or maybe mentally out of tune.
Then with a sudden thought, I whirled on Johnny Olson. "Will you get my
car?" I asked him. He nodded after a nod from Walton. I said, "There's
plenty of evidence in my car. In the meantime, let's face one thing,
officer. I've been accused of spinning a yarn. I'd hardly be demanding
witnesses if I weren't telling the truth. I was standing beside Miss
Farrow when she signed the register, complete with the R.N. title. It's
too bad that hotels have taken to using card files instead of the old
registration book. Cards are so easy to misplace--"
Walton cut in angrily. "If that's an accusation, I'm inclined to see
that you make it in a court of law."
The policeman looked calm. "I'd take it easy, Mr. Cornell. Your story is
not corroborated. But the employees of the hotel bear one another out.
And from the record, it would appear that you were under the eyes of at
least two of them from the moment your car slowed down in front of the
main entrance up to the time that you were escorted to your room."
"I object to being accused of complicity in a kidnapping," put in the
assistant manager.
"I object to being accused of mental incompetence," I snapped. "Why do
we stand around accusing people back and forth when there's evidence if
you'll only uncover it."
We stood there glaring at one another. The air grew tense. The only ones
in the place who did not have chips on their shoulders were the
policeman and the certified stenographer, who was clicking her silent
keys in lightning manner, taking down every comment as it was uttered.
Eventually Olson returned, to put an end to the thick silence. "Y'car's
outside," he told me angrily.
"Fine," I said. "Now we'll go outside and take a look. You'll find
plenty of traces of Miss Farrow's having been there. Officer--are you
telepath or perceptive?"
"Perceptive," he said. "But not in here."
"How far out does this damned dead area extend?" I asked Walton.
"About half way across the sidewalk."
"Okay. So let's all go."
We traipsed out to the curb. Miss Mason brought her little silent along,
slipping the stand high up so that she could type from an erect
position. We lined up along the curb and I looked into my car with a
triumphant feeling.
And then that cold chill congealed my spine again. My car was clean and
shining. It had been washed and buffed and polished until it looked as
new as the day I picked it out on the salesroom floor.
Walton looked blank, and I whipped a thought at him: #Damned telepath!#
He nodded perceptibly and said smoothly, "I'm rather sorry we couldn't
find any fingerprints. Because now, you see," and here he turned to the
policeman and went on, "Mr. Cornell will now accuse us of having washed
his car to destroy the evidence. However, you'll find that as a general
policy of the hotel, the car-washing is performed as a standard service.
In fact, if any guest parks his car in our garage and his car is not
rendered spick and span, someone is going to get fired for negligence."
So that was that. I took a fast look around, because I knew that I had
to get out of there fast. If I remained to carry on any more argument,
I'd be tapped for being a nuisance and jugged.
I had no doubt at all that the whole hotel staff were all involved in
Nurse Farrow's disappearance. But they'd done their job in such a way
that if the question were pushed hard, I would end up answering formal
charges, the topmost of which might be murder and concealment of the
body.
I could do nothing by sitting in jail. This was the time to get out
first and worry about Farrow later.
So I opened the car door and slipped in. I fiddled with the so-called
glove compartment and opened it; the maps were all neatly stacked and
all the flub had been cleaned out. I fumbled inside and dropped a couple
of road maps to the floor, and while I was down picking them up I turned
the ignition key which Olson had left plugged in the lock.
I took off with a jerk and howl of tires.
There was the sudden shrill of a police whistle but it was stopped after
one brief blast. As I turned the corner, I caught a fast backwards dig
at them. They were filing back into the hotel. I did not believe that
the policeman was part of the conspiracy, but I was willing to bet that
Walton was going to slip the policeman a box of fine cigars as a reward
for having helped them to get rid of a very embarrassing screwball.
IX
I put a lot of miles between me and my recent adventure before I stopped
to take stock. The answer to the mess was still obscure, but the
elimination of Nurse Farrow fell into the pattern very neatly.
Alone, I was no problem. So long as my actions were restricted to
meandering up and down the highways and byways, peering into nooks and
crannies and crying, "Catherine," in a plaintive voice, no one cared.
But when I teamed up with a telepath, they moved in with the efficiency
of a well-run machine and extracted the disturbing element. In fact,
their machinations had been so smooth that I was beginning to believe
that my 'Discoveries' were really an assortment of unimportant facts
shown to me deliberately for some reason of their own.
The only snag in the latter theory was the fact of our accident.
Assuming that I had to get involved in the mess, there were easier ways
to introduce me than by planning a bad crack-up that could have been
fatal, even granting the close proximity of the Harrison tribe to come
to the rescue. The accident had to be an accident in the dictionary
definition of the word itself. Under the circumstances, a planned
accident could only be accepted under an entirely different set of
conditions. For instance, let's assume that Catherine was a Mekstrom and
I was about to disclose the fact. Then she or they could plan such an
accident, knowing that she could walk out of the wreck with her hair
barely mussed, leaving me dead for sure.
But Catherine was not a Mekstrom. I'd been close enough to that satin
skin to know that the body beneath it was soft and yielding.
Yet the facts as they stood did not throw out my theory. It merely had
to be revised. Catherine was no Mekstrom, but if the Harrisons had
detected the faintest traces of an incipient Mekstrom infection, they
could very well have taken her in. I fumed at the idea. I could almost
visualize them pointing out her infection and then informing her bluntly
that she could either swear in with them and be cured or she could die
alone and miserably.
This could easily explain her disappearance. Naturally, being what they
were, they cared nothing for me or any other non-Mekstrom. I was no
menace. Not until I teamed up with a telepath, and they knew what to do
about that.
Completely angry, I decided that it was time that I made a noise like an
erupting volcano. With plans forming, I took off again towards
Yellowstone, pausing only long enough at Fort Collins to buy some
armament.
Colorado is still a part of the United States where a man can go into a
store and buy a gun over the counter just like any other tool. I picked
out a Bonanza .375 because it is small enough to fit the hip pocket,
light because of the new alloys so it wouldn't unballast me, and mostly
because it packs enough wallop to stop a charging hippo. I did not know
whether it would drill all the way through a Mekstrom hide, but the
impact would at least set any target back on the seat of his pants.
Then I drove into Wyoming and made my way to Yellowstone, and one day I
was driving along the same road that had been pictured in Dr.
Thorndyke's postcard. I drove along it boldly, loaded for bear, and
watching the Highway signs that led me nicely toward my goal.
Eventually I came to the inevitable missing spoke. It pointed to a
ranch-type establishment that lay sprawled out in a billow of dead area.
I eyed it warily and kept on driving because my plans did not include
marching up to the front door like a rug peddler.
Instead, I went on to the next town, some twenty miles away, which I
reached about dark. I stopped for a leisurely dinner, saw a moving
picture at the drive-in, killed a few at the bar, and started back to
the way station about midnight.
The name, dug from the mailbox, was Macklin.
Again I did not turn in. I parked the car down the highway by about
three miles, figuring that only a psi of doctor's degree would be able
to dig anything at that distance. I counted on there being no such
mental giant in this out of the way place.
I made my way back toward the ranch house across the fields and among
the rolling rock. I extended my perception as far as I could; I made
myself sensitive to danger and covered the ground foot by foot, digging
for traps, alarm lines, photocell trips, and parties who might be lying
in wait for me.
I encountered no sign of any trip or trap all the way to the fringe of
the dead zone.
The possibility that they knew of my presence and were comfortably
awaiting me deep within the zone occurred to me, and so I was very
cautious as I cased the layout and decided to make my entry at the point
where the irregular boundary of the dead area was closest to the house
itself.
I entered and became completely psi-blind. Starlight cast just enough
light so that I could see to walk without falling into a chuck hole or
stumbling over something, but beyond a few yards everything lost shape
and became a murky blob. The night was dead silent except for an
occasional hiss of wind through the brush.
Esperwise I was not covering much more than my eyes could see. I stepped
deeper into the zone and lost another yard of perception. I kept probing
at the murk, sort of like poking a finger at a hanging blanket. It moved
if I dug hard enough in any direction, but as soon as I released the
pressure, the murk moved right back where it was before.
I crouched and took a few more steps into the zone, got to a place where
I could begin to see the outlines of the house itself.
Dark, silent, it looked uninhabited. I wished that there had been a
college course in housebreaking, prowling and second-story operations. I
went at it very slowly. I took my sweet time crossing the boards of the
back verandah, even though the short hair on the back of my neck was
beginning to prickle from nervousness. I was also scared. At any given
moment, they had the legal right to open a window, poke out a
field-piece, and blow me into bloody ribbons where I stood.
The zone was really a dead one. My esper range was no more than about
six inches from my forehead; a motion picture of Steve Cornell sounding
out the border of a window with his forehead would have looked funny, it
was not funny at the time. But I found that the sash was not locked and
that the flyscreen could be unshipped from the outside.
I entered a dining room. Inside, it was blacker than pitch.
I crossed the dining room by sheer feel and instinct and managed to get
to the hallway without making any racket. At this point I stopped and
asked myself what the heck I thought I was trying to do. I had to admit
that I had no plan in definite form. I was just prowling the joint to
see what information I might be able to pick up.
Down the hall I found a library. I'd been told that you tell what kind
of people folks are by inspecting their library, and so I conned the
book titles by running my head along a row of books.
The books in the library indicated to me that this was a family of some
size with rather broad tastes. There was everything from science fiction
to Shakespeare, everything from philosophy to adventure. A short row of
kid's books. A bible. Encyclopedia Brittanica (Published in Chicago), in
fifty-four volumes, but there were no places that were worn that might
give me an idea as to any special interest.
The living room was also blank of any evidence of anything out or the
ordinary. I turned away and stood in the hallway, blocked by indecision.
I was a fool, I kept telling myself, because I did not have any
experience in casing a joint, and what I knew had been studied out of
old-time detective tales. Even if the inhabitants of the place were to
let me go at it in broad daylight, I'm not too sure that I'd do a good
job of finding something of interest except for sheer luck.
But on the other hand, I'd gotten nowhere by dodging and ducking. I was
in no mood to run quivering in fear. I was more inclined to emit a
bellow just to see what would happen next.
So instead of sneaking quietly away, I found the stairs and started to
go up very slowly.
It occurred to me at about the third step that I must be right. Anybody
with any sense wouldn't keep anything dangerous in their downstairs
library. It would be too much like a safe-cracker storing his nitro in
the liquor cabinet or the murderer who hangs his weapon over the
mantelpiece.
Yet everybody kept some sort of records, or had things in their homes
that were not shown to visiting firemen. And if it weren't on the second
floor, then it might be in the cellar. If I weren't caught first, I'd
prowl the whole damned place, inch by inch--avoiding if possible those
rooms in which people slept.
The fifth step squeaked ever so faintly, but it sounded like someone
pulling a spike out of a packing case made of green wood. I froze, half
aching for some perceptive range so that I could dig any sign of danger,
and half remembering that if it weren't for the dead area, I'd not be
this far. I'd have been frightened to try it in a clear zone.
Eventually I went on up, and as my head came above the level of the
floor, everything became psi-clear once more.
Here was as neat a bit of home planning as I have ever seen. Just below
the level of the second floor, their dead area faded out, so that the
top floor was clean, bright, and clear as day. I paused, startled at it,
and spent a few moments digging outside. The dead area billowed above
the rooftop out of my range; from what little I could survey of the dark
psi area, it must have been shaped sort of like an angel-food cake,
except that the central hole did not go all the way down. Only to the
first-floor level. It was a wonderful set-up for a home; privacy was
granted on the first floor and from the road and all the surrounding
territory, but on the second floor there was plenty of pleasant
esperclear space for the close-knit family and friends. Their dead area
was shaped in the ideal form for any ideal home.
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