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Roy Glashan's Library
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Amazing Stories, March 1944, with "Crossed Wires"
A comet of swirling light waves rushed past me, dazzling me to near-blindness.
The world was blotted out, leaving only prismatic footsteps
and comets that followed unseen roads. What did it mean?
JIM GARFIELD sauntered from his office and hesitated between going outside for a cigarette or entering the projection room. He chose the latter. He wandered down the hall to the door marked, Keep Out. Projection Studio, and went in. The room was dark. Walter Marsh leaned over a small scanning machine in the far corner, a single bulb lighting his face.
"Walter," Garfield said cheerfully, "why in hell don't you get out for a little sunshine once in a while."
Marsh straightened quickly, startled by Garfield's voice. He had been intent on the film.
"Hello, Jim." Marsh turned off the machine and pressed the switch that lighted the small studio. He blinked under the brilliance of the light. "Taking another look at that Jap film. The Government thinks it's pretty important."
Garfield sauntered down the short aisle of the studio and flopped into an easy chair.
"But why use the scanning machine?" he protested. "That film was one of the finest sound jobs I ever made. Spent six months in Japan, before the war, filming it. What can you get out of it without hearing the sound track?"
Marsh shrugged. He admired Garfield for his six feet of poise and easygoing handsomeness. He wondered, however, how long it would take to pound a point into Jim's head.
"Our old argument coming up again, I see," he said. "I've told you a hundred times that I don't need to hear the sound track. If I see it in the scanning machine, that's enough."
Garfield place a long leg over the arm of his chair and scowled.
"Wait a minute," he said. "Might as well settle this myth of yours for all time. Prove it."
"Prove what?" Marsh asked.
"That you can tell every sound, every bit of conversation by scanning the track. Brother, I've got to be shown, and it'll be worth a free lunch for the man who can show me."
Marsh grinned. It was a good-natured grin that marked him as the lover of a joke. Marsh had the ability to laugh at himself as readily as at the next fellow.
"All right," he said. "I haven't seen the film for a couple of years. Suppose you start the machine, cover the image with your hand and let me tell you 'what goes' on the sound track?"
Garfield frowned, got to his feet a little reluctantly and went to the scanner. While he started the motor, Marsh switched out the studio light once more. The projection-room was warm and the running film sent up the pleasant odor of hot celluloid. Garfield masked the picture with his hand.
"Go ahead, master mind," he invited. "I'm ready."
Marsh leaned close to the machine, squinting at the wavering sound-track on the edge of the film. He chuckled.
"This is a scene of Mount Asama erupting," he said. "Lots of lava, smoke, and all that."
The studio was silent for several seconds. The film clicked along rapidly.
"Try again," Garfield invited. Marsh glanced up. His smile was gone.
"I don't get it," he admitted. Garfield laughed. "Give up?"
Marsh leaned over the machine again.
"Don't get me wrong," he said. "I can read the track all right. I just don't understand where this scene came from. It has nothing to do with the Japanese takes. Seems to be a conversation between a couple of old settlers. I'd say from the track that they're somewhere in Alaska."
Garfield removed his hand quickly.
"How the hell—?" His eyebrows lifted.
Walter Marsh stared at the exposed film. It was an Alaskan scene. Two trappers were standing before a snow-drifted store. He stepped away from the machine and turned on the lights.
"Does that prove anything?" he asked.
Jim Garfield was completely overwhelmed.
"You're damned right it does," he admitted ruefully. "It proves that I tacked that northern scene on just to catch you. It didn't work. By golly, Walter, you're a whizz."
Marsh was already busy rewinding the film.
"I've been in this game for a long time," he said. "I don't know what good it does me to read that track, but it wins bets and buys dinners."
Garfield started slowly up the aisle toward the door. He turned his head.
An awkward silence"Which reminds me," he said. "I'm hungry. Leave the film until we have time for a bite of lunch. I guess it's on me."
REX HUNTER, gray-haired and in his fifties, stared with admiration at the girl across the table.
"Kid," he said admiringly, "every time I take you out, you manage to dress more stunningly. Who buys your clothes?"
Phyllis Hunter's eyes twinkled.
"I ought to slap your face for that remark, Dad. You picked this outfit yourself. It is nice."
Hunter picked up his cocktail, took a long swallow and placed the empty glass on the cloth.
"A beautiful girl of twenty-three, slim as a pursuit plane and covered from neck to foot with silver sequins. Girl, you're more like your mom every day. There was a doll."
Phyllis' eyes grew misty.
"She must have been lovely, Dad."
Rex Hunter's face grew a shade more solemn. The crow's feet in the corners of his gray eyes deepened.
"Two of the grandest women in the world." His hand crept across the table and dropped on Phyllis' slim fingers. "Two from the same mold."
Phyllis broke the spell.
"Come now, enough dreaming. You were going to tell me about Uncle Sam and all the money Talking News is going to make."
Hunter frowned.
"Take it easy, kid." He lowered his voice. "About that money. I've decided to skip the cash deal and make the Government a present of that film."
Phyllis looked almost relieved. She leaned across the table, lips parted in a pleased oval.
"Oh! Dad, I'm glad. They could have demanded the film for nothing, but they offered you lots of money for it. It's darn near noble of you to turn the money down."
Rex Hunter flushed.
"Not noble," he said. "Just my way of buying bonds. You see, Uncle Sam needs that film. The pictures were taken during peace-lime. It shows almost every strategic coastal spot, city and town in Japan. Jim Garfield took it several years back and there's a lot of money tied up in it. It's been locked up since the war started. If Uncle Sam needs it, we'll deliver it free of charge."
Phyllis' eyes lifted suddenly toward the door of the Silver Grill.
"Speak of the devil," she said in a pleased voice. "Jim's coming in now with Walter Marsh, old 'darkroom dynamite' himself."
HUNTER turned and caught sight of the pair. He held up his hand, waited for Garfield to see him, then motioned them both to his table. Jim Garfield's eyes flashed with pleasure. The two men came toward them through the maze of tables.
Hunter turned to his daughter.
"You lay off Marsh," he said threateningly. "He may be quiet and all that, but he's okay."
Phyllis shrugged.
"Any man who can stay in that projection room with me when a feature length picture is running, without trying to wolf a kiss, isn't a man." She shrugged, a devilish grin on her lips. "He's part of the film, that's all."
Hunter chuckled.
"Part of the film?" he said. "Yes, I guess Walter is almost a part of the film."
"And a mighty dull part at that," Phyllis had a parting shot as Marsh and Garfield reached the table.
"Sit down, fellows," Hunter said.
"Say, Marsh, do you think the original of that Japanese masterpiece is in good shape?"
"I like that masterpiece business," Jim Garfield interrupted. "That couldn't be a crack against your best photographer?"
A laugh went around the table, and Marsh answered Hunter.
"It will do," he said. "I'd suggest that we make a copy and keep the original. Might be a good idea to lock it in the morgue."
Hunter's brows lifted slightly and Phyllis chuckled. She turned to Garfield.
"Isn't that just like Walter?" she asked. "He'll protect your film. I didn't know you were that good."
If Walter Marsh noticed the sarcasm in her voice, he ignored it.
"I'll feel better if it's locked up," he said. "I looked that film over carefully this morning. I find it's even better than I remembered. Jim didn't miss one point of military importance. The coastal scenes—the Tokyo layout—are all perfect. It's just possible that the Japs themselves might like to get hold of the film."
Hunter swore softly.
"I had thought of that." He leaned forward. "The F.B.I, will pick up the original tonight. Meanwhile I'll call them and tell them what you're doing. Run off another copy of the entire film, pack it carefully, and lock it up."
Jim Garfield had started a private conversation with Phyllis.
"Probably the prettiest dress I've ever seen," he was saying. "Say, have you two business men finished your conference? If you have, let's eat. I owe Walter the best meal money can buy."
Phyllis Hunter looked surprised.
"You owe Walter?"
Garfield nodded.
"I'd like to tell you about it."
"Jim," Walter Marsh protested quickly, "you promised it was between you and me."
Phyllis looked displeased and Hunter himself wondered what it was all about.
"Now, now," he chided. "No secrets in the organization."
"Yes," Phyllis pouted, "tell us, Jim. Walter can't have all the fun."
MARSH reddened. He had admired Phyllis Hunter for years. From the first, he had never quite been able to figure her out. Why did she so often go out of her way to bait him?
"Please forget it," he begged. "Just a little bet between Jim and myself."
"It's not the bet that's worth mentioning," Jim Garfield said. "It's the way he won it. How many people do you know who can read a sound track?"
"Read—" Phyllis gasped. "You mean—without a speaker?"
"Right," Jim said. "And to prove that Walter's a whizz I'll tell you why he's going to eat a free steak."
Marsh lapsed into silence. Nothing would stop Jim Garfield until the story was told.
"And that business about the Alaskan scene convinced me," Garfield finished. "I've never seen anything like it."
"But what possible good can it do?" she said. "Unless Mr. Marsh is getting to the state where he can't even stand sound."
Her father shot her a warning glance but it was too late.
"My idea exactly, Miss Hunter." Walter Marsh stood up. "Some sounds annoy me a great deal. If you'll excuse me, I'll leave."
He turned and left the table.
Phyllis half rose, then sank down again, bewilderment on her face.
"Why the poor child," she said. "He's easily hurt, isn't he?"
Rex Hunter winced.
"You've been after him pretty steadily for a long time now," he said quietly. "He may be easy-going, but you'll see a different side of Walter Marsh from now on. The completely frozen side."
"As if I cared," the girl snapped. "Let him sulk if he wants to."
The waiter came and, as Jim Garfield ordered, Phyllis drew out her compact hurriedly. With the mirror she could see Marsh's back as he left the restaurant. Then she caught her father staring at her, a steady grin on his face. She dropped the compact hurriedly into the bag once more.
"These silent men are hard to get around, aren't they, kid?" he said. "You're mother chased me for months before I caught her."
PETER FALLOW stepped from the car, tossed away a cigar butt and climbed the broad steps to the entrance of the Talking News building. He had orders to see Rex Hunter at six-thirty. Fallow never missed a date by more than half a minute, nor did more than that amount of time ever pass without a cigar between his thin lips. He adjusted his hat carefully, made a mechanical gesture to brush his coat lapels, and rang the night bell. Somewhere in the darkening hall he heard a bell ring clearly.
As he waited, Fallow lighted a fresh cigar and checked the address with the notebook he drew from his pocket.
"Talking News, 1145 Lockwood," he mumbled. "Right place, all right."
He rang again, then turned toward George Wicker, his companion, who waited in the coupe.
"Can't get a rise out of 'em," he called.
Wicker, a dark-faced, slightly plump young man with a scarred lip, grinned from behind the wheel.
"If at first you don't succeed," he yodeled. "Try it again, Fallow."
Fallow applied his thumb to his nose and then to the bell again. He left it there for several seconds.
Suddenly he stiffened. The shadow of a man was visible against the frosted glass of an inner window. Then it vanished. Fallow had that sixth sense that tells a man when something is amiss. He knocked loudly against the plate glass door, then pushed against it. To his surprise the door opened. He stepped inside quickly, his hand sinking into his right pocket. He moved along the carpeted hall on his toes, fingers tight on the grip of his automatic.
Somewhere ahead of him a door slammed.
Fallow moved on. At the far end of the building, the hall turned right to a small door at the side wall. That door was just closing. Fallow, sure now that something was wrong, started to run. He reached the door, pushed it open and stepped out into a small flower-garden. A high wall hid the alley. Fallow ran along the flag-stone path, reached the gate and pushed it open.
He started to run into the alley, then crouched flat against the wall. A dark sedan roared past him, throwing gravel into his face. The wheels missed him by inches. Before he could regain his balance, the car careened into the street on two wheels.
He had one good look at the man behind the wheel, and he was sure that he'd recognize that face again if he ever saw it
Fallow wiped his forehead and retraced his footsteps into the studio. He had first seen the shadow in an office toward the front of the building. He reached the door, and read the legend aloud.
REX HUNTER.
Fallow frowned.
"Now that's funny—damned funny."
He wasn't knocking any more. He Twisted the knob and walked in.
GEORGE WICKER grew tired of waiting in the car. He climbed wearily from behind the wheel, adjusted his trousers to a less binding position and ambled up the steps. He reached the door as Peter Fallow shot through it. Fallow's face was twisted with anger.
"We got business for ourselves this time," he said. "Real business. There's a dead man lying across the desk in there. I think it's Rex Hunter."
"Cripes!" Wicker's face turned an ugly red.
"Cripes is right." Fallow said sourly. "And I let the murderer walk out right under my nose. He damned near killed me too. Wait till I get my hands on him."
WALTER MARSH was aware of a dull pounding in his head. He groaned, rolled over and sat up. He moistened his lips with his tongue. With his hand he tried to rub away the pain, but it came again, pounding through his entire nervous system.
He passed his hand over his eyes. Although they were wide open, he couldn't see.
Yet there was something.
A fleeting mass of light passed across his eyeballs. First a flash of bright red, and a roar in his ears as though a comet were flashing past him. Then a low crackling sound, and more flashes, this time, pink and yellow in quick succession.
He shook his head violently from side to side, trying to regain some feeling or movement that was familiar. It was useless.
From the texture, under his finger tips, he knew that he was lying in deep grass. He felt the grass between his fingers. His body was stretched out on the side of a steep slope.
Marsh leaned back slowly, arm over his eyes, and everything was silent. Dead silent. The lights continued to flash, playing like rainbows across the inner side of his eye balls.
"Can't understand," he murmured. "Rex dead—hit on the head... Can't—understand?"
He didn't attempt to move again for a long time. The lights continued to flash, even though his eyes were covered. He removed the hand from them. Once, when he moved his arm quickly, he was sure that a quick shower of yellow sparks arose. He had brushed his fingers across a pebble, sending it scuttling downward. He could feel that—yet not see it.
Everything he felt with his hands was normal. Yet he saw or heard nothing that he could understand. With his hand away from his eyes, a series of popping sounds exploded in his eardrums. He covered his eyes and the sounds stopped.
Puzzled, he sat up again, and repeated the performance a number of times, each time with the same result.
It was evident that he had undergone a shock that had unbalanced him in some manner. Although he could sec lights, evidently he was not actually seeing them. At least not with his eyes. He saw the light even though his eyes were closed.
Still, those sounds.
"Maybe," he said. "It's just poss—"
He placed two fingers tightly inside his ears, shutting off all chance of hearing.
At once the lights went out.
No longer could he see, but the jumbled sounds kept coming through. So many sounds that he could make no sense from them.
"Got to get out of here." He stumbled to his feet and a flash of red and yellow burst from below him as he slipped forward and fell into the bottom of the ditch. He lay panting, frightened.
Gradually the new world he was in seemed to come to life. If the lights and sounds he had experienced before had bewildered him, now the strain was terrible. Lying flat on his back, Marsh made no attempt to move. He was too exhausted, too bewildered.
GRADUALLY his ear-drums became accustomed to the noise, and his brain started to sort out the colored images that came and went in his new field of vision.
It was as though a silent symphony started to play, and color instead of music came to him. First the low, steady vibration of deep purple and blood red, giving away slowly to little jagged lines of yellow, green and lighter shades. Occasionally, he was startled by flashes of solid color or flying sparks that blotted out everything, and were gone.
During all this explosion of color, the sounds that came to him grew more and more powerful. Sounds that could be sorted into thousands of vibrations. Whistles, the roar of the surf, the steady pounding of a hammer. The sounds grew and grew in crescendo, at first tiny, like the sound of a flute, gradually louder as other tones added themselves, until at last he had to hold both hands over his eyes and blot out the roaring, upheaval of noise in his head.
Still, Walter Marsh had no clear understanding of what had happened. He got to his feet. As he moved forward struggling up a steep incline, he saw more sparks and heard new sounds. The quick flash of red accompanied by an exploding rocket.
Could he be dead? Was this the new way of life beyond the ken of men?
His feet struck something smooth and he walked more easily. Now his feet sent up a steady shower of green at every step.
Another flash of light and another rocket, crashing closer to him this time. Grimly he moved forward, both hands outstretched before him.
Then his eyes caught a rocket flash as it slowed down and seemed to move slowly past him. It returned, pausing in front of him. There came a steady sputtering of green light, blotting out the rest, vibrating with color. The sounds in his ears were regular—like the noise of a telegraph key sending a single word over and over.
Then something familiar, the first thing Walter Marsh had yet understood, flashed across his line of vision.
The wavering, black line of a movie sound track.
"What's wrong, mister? Can't you see?"
Marsh uttered a cry of relief. At last, when he had given up hope of ever finding a thing he could grasp, he knew what had happened.
The track quivered and pulsated amid the color that was in his eyes.
He didn't hear the voice.
There was no sound to it.
He read it. Read it from the tiny sound-line that came into that field of color.
"I'm—I'm blind," he managed to cry out. "An—accident..."
He couldn't hear his own voice, but he could see it.
"I'm—I'm blind..."
It was all there, recorded momentarily amid the mass of light. A single, wriggling line of black. A line that he had learned to read years ago.
"We'd better get off the road." There was a person standing before him, he knew. "I'll give you a lift. Where are you going? I'll take you there."
Marsh read the line of sound again, but he didn't dare tell the truth. He couldn't tell anyone the truth.
But he knew now.
"I'd like to get back into town," he said. "Talking News studio."
His own voice, and the answer was visible almost at once.
"Let me help you into the car." A strong hand on his arm. He stumbled toward the exploding mass of green light, struck something that caused a smaller shower of yellow, and climbed into a car.
"What the hell happened?"
Marsh leaned forward, knowing he must interrupt every word and answer each question carefully. He couldn't afford to slip now, at least not for the present.
"Car hit me and I was stunned," he said. "I'll be all right."
HE SAT very still, waiting, wondering. He had to get back. He remembered now: the film—Rex Hunter dead—he was sure they had stolen the film.
What chance did he have? He had never seen the person who attacked him. He'd have to make sure the other film was safe, that Rex's death did not go unavenged.
He had a new, a baffling problem to face.
He would be able to interpret the lights, the sound track, by studying them carefully. Much of it he already knew. How could he learn to understand the sounds in his ears? The sounds that came from what he saw?
He remembered that, as he faced the man on the road, there had been a tiny series of high pitch notes, like repeated blasts on a tiny whistle. A person's eyes were bright. Perhaps a bright blue light would give that sound. He'd remember that. The next time he faced anyone, he'd listen. That would be a way of telling when he was looking at another man or woman. Perhaps the sounds would vary in pitch. He might even learn to tell who he faced.
The rockets, Marsh thought, were automobiles passing him on the highway. Their motors grew noisy, then faded quickly in a distance. That caused the sudden flash of light, varying in shade according to the speed at which they passed. The crashing, sputtering sounds were caused by the colors of those same cars.
He had been stretched out in a ditch. At first it had been quiet, and the colors had been even and light. The sounds had risen until he could hardly stand the volume. Then the rockets (or cars) had passed in a steady stream.
Sunrise?
He had witnessed a sunrise, and the gradual growth of traffic along the road. He had struggled to his feet, climbed out of the ditch and moved across the road. The motorist had seen him and stopped, backed up and picked him up.
So excited was Marsh at deciphering this chain of events, that he almost forgot what was happening.
Not once since he entered the car had the sounds or the lights vanished. They varied from second to second, and gradually, because he was most familiar with the sound track, he managed to decipher an occasional color that recorded itself in his eyes.
The far-away quiver of a factory whistle—the widely arranged see-saw lines of a rumbling train.
His ears recorded a sound that went with every color.
The train, evidently passing across the road before them, sent out showers of sound that splashed his vision with deep purple. It's burnished steel and painted freight cars sent a changing set of whistling noises into his ears. Then its whistle blew again, and he studied the wavery line once more, recognizing it at once.
He was conscious of that same tiny whistle sent by blinking eyes—and knew the driver was staring at him. Marsh wondered if it were man or woman. He couldn't be sure, although he felt it was the first. Marsh smiled.
"I wonder if you really want to return to Talking News?" the unsteady sound-track asked.
Marsh frowned, then nodded.
"If you don't mind," he said.
The same warning signal of the flashing eyes, perhaps a little louder, then a new tone. Marsh was to learn the sound that white teeth made when a grin parted a person's lips. Then a little flash of pink light as the driver chuckled.
"Incidentally," the sound track said, "I haven't introduced myself. I'm Pete Fallow of the F.B.I. I'm taking you in for the murder of Rex Walters!"
THERE was a thick rug on the floor of the hospital waiting room, with green lines woven from end to end. Up and down these lines Pete Fallow moved in an endless march. The cigar hung forgotten between his lips. He stopped once in a while to fire another sentence toward the pair who watched him impatiently from the divan.
"Either the guy is blind, or he's a good actor," Fallow said sourly. "And no more cracks about my sight. He's the one I'm after, all right."
Phyllis Hunter, dry-eyed but looking as though she hadn't slept for a week, stared at Jim Garfield. Garfield sat thoughtfully, his knees crossed, crease carefully smoothed in his trousers.
"We can't reason with him," he nodded toward Fallow. "Better leave him alone. He'll come to his senses eventually."
"But—Walter didn't kill Dad. We know that."
Fallow stopped his pacing and slumped down wearily at her side.
"And just how do you know it, lady?"
Phyllis shrugged.
"Walter Marsh didn't want that film," she said stubbornly. "He could have made a dozen copies of it. Why would he shoot Dad and run away with something he could have stolen without any of us knowing?"
Fallow shook his head.
"There was some other reason," he said. "Marsh got rid of your father, all right. He's the boy I saw drive away when I ran out the back way. Damned near killed me."
"But—"
"No buts about it, lady. The doctor's taking a good look at Marsh right now. When he's finished, I'm taking him down town for a nice question and answer party."
A nurse appeared at the inner door. As she stood there, waiting for Fallow to stop talking, Phyllis could see Walter Marsh leaning on an intern's arm, walking slowly toward them. Phyllis was on her feet in an instant. Garfield arose more slowly. The nurse drew Pete Fallow to one side.
"You are to let Mr. Marsh go free for the time being. He's in no condition, to be hounded."
"You mean the Doc said he ain't to be arrested?" Fallow demanded.
The nurse's fingers closed tightly on his arm.
"Be quiet," she said sternly. "The poor boy has suffered a terrible shock. There isn't a doctor in the hospital who understands just what happened to him. I believe hell work it out by himself in a few weeks. There's nothing we can do. Meanwhile you are to let him go free."
Fallow swore under his breath.
"Playing nurse-maid to a blind man, and I'm not even sure he's blind."
The nurse's lips closed tightly.
"Doctor Hallgrove wants to talk with you," she said. "Mr. Marsh can return home with his friends. I think you'll be glad to leave Mr. Marsh alone when you know the entire story."
FALLOW followed the nurse through the door into the room Marsh had just left. He tried to avoid Marsh, but Walter put a hand on Pete Fallow's shoulder.
"You're Peter Fallow, aren't you?" His voice was faltering.
Fallow stared into Marsh's eyes, blinked a couple of times and caught himself.
"That's all right," Marsh went on. "You are the same man who picked me up on the road. I know about Rex's death. You'll have my co-operation. Let me know when I can help you."
Fallow gulped.
"How in hell—"
"—can I tell you who you are when I'm blind?" Marsh smiled a little sadly. "I've learned the sound your eyes make," he said. "They're bright blue the nurse says. Blue makes a high pitched whistle. I'll have no trouble recognizing you from now on."
Fallow stepped back, amazed.
"See what I mean," the nurse said, and led the detective into an inner office.
Behind him, Marsh chuckled. Fallow didn't hear the conversation that followed because the door closed and he faced Doctor Hallgrove.
WALTER MARSH had straightened out a number of things during the hours he had talked with Doctor Hallgrove. A case of crossed wires, Hallgrove called it, and tried to explain.
Marsh was with Phyllis and Jim Garfield now. They were talking to him eagerly, yet slowly, realizing how difficult communication was, and hoping to help him in every way possible.
Marsh pushed Phyllis away gently when she tried to lead him down the steps to the car. Garfield, knowing the blind man would resent any intrusion into his strange new world, talked as matter-of-factly was possible, ignoring the difficulty Marsh had in finding his way into the car.
"I have the only key to the film morgue," Marsh said, when they were seated in the car. "It's hidden at the studio. I imagine the F.B.I. will ask for it. Ill let them in."
An awkward silence followed. Garfield started the car and they slipped out into traffic.
"Probably ought to lock that film in a vault somewhere," Garfield suggested.
Marsh nodded.
"Let me know what they want. Ill be on hand when they ask for it."
He wondered if they'd try to kill him now, because he knew how to get at the second film. Probably not. There was no way for an outsider to know that a copy had been made.
"Phyllis." Marsh's voice was low, a trifle bitter.
Her hand touched his arm.
"I—I want you to know I didn't kill Rex," Marsh said.
He felt her shiver slightly and take away her hand. When it returned, her fingers were moist She was crying.
The girl's voice on the sound track was uncertain, quivering.
"I know you didn't, Walter."
Marsh tried to unravel the sounds and colors he was receiving.
The car stopped often at intersections. He knew when the traffic halted and when the lights changed. Green, amber and red produced steady, widely varied sound signals and the sound of moving cars produced simple, easily understood color signals.
"It's odd," he said finally. "Fallow working on the case, and finding me out there in the country. God knows how I got there."
He was aware of movement at his right and wavering, unsteady lines on his vision track. It was the voice of the sobbing girl.
"I'm sorry, Phyllis," he added quickly. "I don't mean to sound matter-of-fact. I know what Rex's death meant to you."
"Fallow says you killed him."
Movement of color and the blinking, low-pitched sound of Phyllis' brown eyes as she stared into his. The steady sobbing on the sound track.
"Mr. Fallow," she said uncertainly, "was at the studio. He saw a man escape through the rear door. He ran after him and saw him drive away. He said the man was you. When he went back, Dad—" the line broke.
He reached out carefully and touched her arm.
"I—didn't..."
"I know," she said. "I told him he was mistaken. He found the car, the one you drove away in. It was wrecked in the ditch near where he found you, Walter. I can't believe you did it, but who—who?"
MARSH was stunned. He turned to Jim Garfield, and Garfield's voice track read:
"I know, Marsh, but it points your way. We'll do the best we can."
"So I'm left free until I'm trapped," he said bitterly. "Is that why Fallow left you with me?"
Phyllis' sobbing stopped.
"Oh, Walter, no!" Blankness, then more words: "We—that is Jim—thought you should stay with him until you can get around alone. The real murderer will turn up, I know he will."
Marsh's lips tightened in a straight, bloodless line.
"You have my apartment number, Jim." he said. "I'd walk there if I could. I'd appreciate it if you drove me there now."
"But, Walter—"
"Unless," Marsh asked sarcastically, "Fallow did ask you to keep an eye on me. In that case I'll have to stay with you. A blind man hasn't much choice."
No more words. His sudden bitterness silenced them both. Marsh caught the increased light and sound as the car picked up speed and made several turns. He stared straight ahead, his mind in a turmoil. Rex Hunter had been the finest friend he had ever had. They thought he murdered Rex. One thing he was sure of. Hunter was dead when he went into the office. He had not killed him.
The flashing lights stopped and the idling engine sent popping green across his path of vision.
"Can I help you to the door?"
It was Garfield's voice, low, expressionless.
"Ill make it," Marsh said grimly. He knew that Phyllis was out of the car and holding the door for him.
He climbed out, felt her fingers on his arm and drew away from her.
"Tell Fallow I can't go very far this way," he said. "I wondered why your dislike for me could turn to friendship so easily, Miss Hunter. Don't worry'. Fallow can pick me up any time."
He turned and started across the walk.
He knew the car was moving away because the flashing comet-light passed across his eyes. Although he knew where the steps were, he stumbled a little as his foot hit the first one and green sparks flew up in a shower.
Ahead of him the red bricks of the building sent a steady roaring sound into his brain.
"Crossed wires," he whispered to himself and started groping his way upward. "Sound and light. Murderer and murdered. You've got two problems now, Walt. Not much help for you, not until you get the new scoreboard figured out."
PETE FALLOW climbed out of the car, found Marsh's bell and pressed his finger tightly against it. He waited, adjusting his coat collar and changing cigars. The buzzer sounded and Fallow stepped inside the dark apartment hall. The building was a six-story affair with elevator service. From the row of mail boxes, Fallow found that Marsh's apartment was on the third floor. He entered the automatic elevator and pressed the button marked 3.
Marsh met him at the door. Three days had passed since the morning he had awakened in the ditch. In those three days he had learned a great deal.
"Mr. Fallow," Marsh said, holding the door open. "Come in."
Fallow gulped.
"My blue eyes give me away again, huh?"
Marsh laughed and led him inside. He pointed to a chair near the window.
"Sit down. No, I'm not exactly blind, Fallow. In fact with a little more practice, I think I'll see as well as the rest of you. Have to adjust myself. If I'm to be a fugitive from the law, I'll have to get around pretty fast."
His last words were bitter. Fallow frowned thoughtfully. He found himself liking Marsh. Perhaps part of it was pity.
"Suppose I told you that so far as Rex Hunter is concerned, I have evidence that may clear you?" Fallow said.
Marsh's eyebrows moved upward. "You're not setting another trap?" Fallow grinned.
"Look, Marsh," he said. "Let's get this thing straight. I know what you're up against. Just the same, if you murdered Hunter, I'd get you if you were blind and had no legs or arms. I've been talking to Miss Hunter."
Marsh started.
"Has Phyllis been mixed—?"
"Let me finish," Fallow said shortly. "Miss Hunter is a peach. She and Garfield have been on my trail ever since they dropped you here at the apartment. They realize you have to fight this thing out alone. However, Miss Hunter tells me that her father gave you instructions to copy that film, deliver the original to him and lock the copy in the morgue. Is that right?"
Marsh nodded and Fallow continued.
"Whoever killed Hunter was after the film, and the film alone. None of his personal valuables was touched. I must have been mistaken when I thought I saw you drive that car away."
The room had grown warm. Marsh arose, walked to the window and pushed it up a foot or two. He stood very still, his back to Fallow.
"That's the funny part of it," he said. "I was driving that car."
FALLOW sprang to his feet.
"You admit—?"
"Nothing." Marsh turned, a puzzled, almost pleading expression on his face. "Something hit my head. I went crazy. I came around and found myself unable to think clearly. I heard someone ringing the front bell and I thought I had to run away. I went out the back way, found the car there and got in. The engine was running. I drove out of the alley and kept on driving until all that crazy fear had gone out of me. I can't remember beyond that until I awakened and—and my senses were—"
Fallow nodded eagerly.
"You think that car was left there for an escape? That you stumbled across it?"
Marsh looked puzzled.
"How else?"
Fallow grunted.
"Yeah, how else?" he said. "Well, I'll tell you. I traced the license and found out the buggy belongs to a Japanese importer. He closed shop months ago and took his family to one of the inland camps. The car was supposed to be locked up. We broke into his house last night. Found about eight feet of film in a waste basket that I think might interest you."
"Go on."
"This film is locked up at the office," Fallow said evenly. "But Jim Garfield said you'd know all about it. It's a scene taken in Alaska. A couple of old settlers are standing in front of a store chewing the fat."
"Good lord!" Marsh said hoarsely. "That's the scene Jim tacked onto the Japanese film. But how—?"
"That's what I want to know," Fallow said. "How did it get there? My guess is that Kari Mutso, the Jap I'm talking about, killed Hunter, then hid when you came in. Somehow that blow on the head crossed your wires. At the time I knocked on the front door. Kari Mutso sat tight in the closet, then escaped while I chased you into the alley. You grabbed his car, drove until you went out of your head and then got out and wandered around until you passed out. In all events, Mutso has the film."
"But," Marsh protested, "surely he can be caught?"
Fallow looked sour.
"His nibs. Kari Mutso, was smuggled aboard a fishing schooner last night, and left for parts unknown. I'd hazard a guess that a submarine was waiting off shore to take him to a safer spot, maybe Tokyo."
"About that film." Marsh suggested to Fallow before he left. "Do you want me to get it for you?"
Fallow gave the subject proper thought.
"It's safe where it is?"
Marsh nodded.
"Locked in a fire-proof and—I hope burglar-proof morgue. I have the only key and it's carefully hidden."
"Good," Fallow said. "I'll ask the chief when he plans to take it to Washington. We may as well leave it where it is until then. You can go down and get it when it's needed."
Marsh said he would; they exchanged a few more words and Fallow departed.
A WEEK had passed since Walter Marsh first struggled from the ditch and walked into a strange new world of nerve-shattering sound and color. In those few days he had become familiar with the signals his brain received. His earlier experience with reading sound tracks had a lot to do with this quick
re-education.
Marsh forced himself to go out alone for hours. By walking the streets day after day, he picked up a certain knack of getting around that in some ways made him feel safer than the average pedestrian.
Exactly one week after Rex Hunter's death, Marsh stepped out of his apartment, pocketed his key and went grimly to work on the murder case. Until that time he had forced himself to think of nothing but himself. To concentrate on learning his new self.
Quite pleased, Marsh walked directly to the elevator, guided by a steady, low tone-beam caused by the dark elevator door set into a light wall. He descended to the lobby and at once, two separate sets of blinking whistles warned him that two people were standing before the elevator door staring at him. He nodded, stepped to one side, and said: "Excuse me."
The lobby was familiar now. He knew every sound that the various shades of paint made. The dark desk was a low rumble. The peach walls were high-pitched and steady.
The rug sent up small patches of yellow sparks as his shoes rubbed against it. That was sound, transmitting itself into light. The desk-clerk's voice greeted him in wavery black lines.
"Good morning, Mr. Marsh. Going out?"
Marsh answered the greeting and went down the steps to the sidewalk. Here, he was also sure of himself.
The sidewalk sent up a steady, green shower of sparks as his shoes clicked lightly against it. Cars rushing by, pedestrians—all sent out their own color-pat terns and sounds.
He reached the corner. Traffic was halted. He knew that, because the idling motors and the motionless cars made an entirely different group of sounds. The light was green. Red, amber, or green, he had learned the separate whistle of each color.
Marsh walked swiftly, dodging each pedestrian, chuckling at the various little sounds the colors of their eyes made. He was getting a huge kick out of the fact that, at last, he had conquered that first terrible fear within him.
He reached Lockwood Street (he had counted the blocks carefully) and turned south. The studio exterior was of bright stucco. It stood out among the darker buildings of the neighborhood, sending forth a high-pitched sound-beam that Marsh could follow easily.
He approached the front door with mixed emotions.
He must face the staff, Rex's daughter, and Jim Garfield. Marsh wondered just how much blame still lay on his shoulders. Had Peter Fallow been telling the truth when he said Marsh was cleared?
"Walter!" Marsh stopped abruptly in the hall, Phyllis Hunter's voice weaving its signal in his eyes. "I didn't expect you. I—I—"
She was standing before him, and he knew that she was blinking rapidly, because of the unsteady signal her eyes made.
"I get around pretty well now," he said a little stiffly. "Thought I'd drop in and see how things were going."
HER hand was on his arm, shyly, as though she would draw it away if he gave any sign that it annoyed him. Marsh had longed to talk with her since that night he stumbled out of the car, blinded, sick with anger. He wanted to say that he was sorry and that he'd been a damn, unreasonable fool. Now he was so choked up that he couldn't say anything that made sense.
The girl drew him into her own office. She always kept a huge bowl of goldfish on the window sill. Now the darting red fish, the sun-sparkling bowl made a definite set of sounds that were proof of his surroundings.
She pushed him into a chair, pulled another one up close, and sat down. She started talking eagerly.
"Walter, please don't be angry with me."
"That's all right. We all make errors."
"But about Dad," Phyllis went on hurriedly. "Did Pete Fallow tell you about the Japanese importer?"
Marsh nodded. This was more like it. He had come for one purpose. The job of finding Rex's murderer had been going too slowly. He was ready now to do his part.
"I understand this Jap was supposed to have been hiding when Fallow came in?"
"Yes," Phyllis answered eagerly. "But, Walter, how did the man—Kari Mutso, that is—know about the film?"
Marsh smiled, but there was no humor in the expression.
"That's the question that's puzzled me for a week," he said.
"Someone who works here must be in touch with Mutso. Otherwise, how did he know that I'd be taking the film to your father at the approximate time the murder happened?"
"Walter." He saw the little sound line widen into a gasp. "It—wouldn't be Jim?"
Marsh shook his head.
"Jim Garfield got into trouble the last time he was in Japan. They tossed him out of their country on his ear, and damned near drowned him. Fortunately he had sent his films home ahead of him. By the time Jim found a river boat to cling to, swam half a mile to a freighter and came borne in rags, he didn't have much affection for the Japs. It isn't Jim. He hates their guts."
A sigh of relief.
"You thought Jim was one of the few people who knew about the film," Marsh said comfortingly. "I don't blame you for suspecting everyone."
"But—who else knew?"
"I don't know," Marsh said slowly. "You, your father, Jim Garfield and I. No, I'm afraid Mutso must have had another source of information."
He saw the quick flash of changing color as Phyllis stood up.
"They murdered Dad," she said in a steady voice. "But we've still got the film—at least a copy. They won't get that."
Marsh's eyes narrowed. "No," he said. "They won't get that without killing me."
"MR. FALLOW," Marsh said into the phone. "I wonder if you're going to be busy this evening?"
"No," said the voice at the other end of the wire. "This is Marsh, isn't it? What's on your mind?"
Walter Marsh smiled.
"A trip to Kari Mutso's home," he said. "I'd hardly get that far alone. I'd like you to go along."
Fallow's voice was deeply interested.
"If you think you know anything I don't," he said. "I'll be damned glad to get your help."
Marsh denied any special knowledge.
"I just want to look around over there," he said.
"Look?"
Marsh chuckled.
"Can you pick me up here at the apartment about seven this evening?"
SHARPLY at seven o'clock, Pete Fallow halted before the apartment building. Marsh was already out front. He waited until Fallow's voice flashed into his vision screen, and hurried to the curb. The trip across town and down the hilly streets to the water front took forty minutes. Fallow stopped at last, rounded the car to help Marsh out, and found him already standing on the sidewalk.
"By golly," Fallow said with respect in his voice. "They can't hold you down, can they? You know how to get around."
Marsh shook his head.
"I'm not much good in the dark," he said. "Otherwise, I can get along if there's plenty of time, and someone to help me."
Fallow took his arm and they went up a sandy path. It was a dark, dismal neighborhood. The sounds and colors were low and some of them strange. As they walked along, Marsh recognized the purple sparks that fell around his feet as the sounds of his pants legs against high weeds. In a distance the wavery line of rolling surf registered on his vision screen.
Fallow let go of his hand and there came a wavery message of a key turning, the flash of an opening door. Once inside, Fallow turned his flashlight around the room and the beam of the light varied in sound as it moved close to Marsh and then away again.
"Don't quite know how this trip can do you any good, Marsh," Fallow said apologetically. "I've been over this ratty dump half a dozen times. Nothing but a big shack, two floors high."
He had turned around and was looking at Marsh.
"This Kari Mutso?" Marsh asked. "You say he returned and was evidently living here last week when he got the film and left in a hurry?"
"Yeah, that's as near as we can figure out," Fallow said. "The place was in pretty good shape. Half a dozen people in the neighborhood said Mutso had been around for quite a while. We checked with a little Italian down by the wharfs. He said Mutso went out on a fishing boat the night Hunter was killed. He hasn't come back since."
Marsh moved slowly around the room. He felt the top of a small desk that was in the corner of the room, then went through the drawers.
"Ain't nothing around that will help you," Fallow said. "We found that film in the kitchen. Cut off and tossed in a grocery bag."
Marsh took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. They were rough and gritty with dust.
"I guess I'm on the wrong track," he said. "I was feeling pretty good. It made me sure of myself and I decided to get Hunter's murderer right away. Guess I'm not so smart as I thought. Shall we go?"
Fallow chuckled.
"You leave the detective work to me, Mr. Marsh," he said. "I'm paid for it."
Marsh started moving toward the door. Suddenly he stumbled and fell directly into Pete Fallow's arms. He swore.
"What the dickens," Fallow protested. "I thought you could see me. Guess you'd better take it easy for a while, before you run into a car or something, walking around blind this way."
Marsh apologized. He didn't understand what had happened. Fallow had been facing him, and yet he hadn't caught any of the signals.
Was it possible that the few senses he had left were failing?
JIM GARFIELD was in the projection room when Marsh entered. Jim left the scanning machine, came over and sat down beside Marsh. They were silent for some time. Finally Garfield broke the silence.
"It's been a week now, Walt, and they haven't got poor Rex's murderer."
Marsh didn't answer. He was trying to find some small point, some clue that would point to anyone but Jim Garfield. Jim just wasn't a murderer. Garfield had no more reason for killing Rex than he, Marsh, did. Jim could have made a hundred copies of the film during the past few months, or he could have stolen the original and no one would have suspected. It had to be an outsider.
Or did it?
There was one possibility none of them had considered. Jim could have had another reason for killing Rex. A reason entirely aside from the obvious one. Jim knew Rex would be alone. He knew the chance would be perfect.
"I'm damned if I know what to say," Marsh sighed. Then for a reason that wasn't even clear to him at the time, he added: "I'm going to get that film out of the morgue tonight. I want it locked in a bank vault or turned over to the F.B.I at once. I don't think any of us should take further chances with it."
Garfield stood up quickly.
"That still isn't finding Rex's murderer. Marsh, just what the hell were you doing that night? Fallow wasn't kidding when he said you drove away in the car."
Marsh felt his temper start to rise. He stood up, facing Jim, cold irony in his voice.
"The only thing I'm sure about that night. Jim," he said, "is that Pete Fallow made a mistake when he said that car belonged to Kari Mutso. I've driven that car before. Jim. It belongs to you!"
WHY Jim Garfield didn't lose his temper, Marsh wasn't sure. It had been Jim's car. He had known that even in his crazed fright. He had kept it as an ace card from the first. Now his own foolish temper had given him away.
"So what?" Garfield's voice recorded itself evenly.
"Damned if I know," Marsh said. "But I'll find out. I came around after that crack on the head and the first thing I thought of was to run away. I ran out the side door and into the alley. Your car was there and the motor was running. I climbed in and almost ran Fallow down getting away."
"And you think Fallow was ignorant enough to trace the wrong license number? To find the wrong owner?" Marsh frowned.
"No—I don't," he said, and wondered just what in hell he did think.
Garfield's voice didn't register for some time. Then it was clipped and short.
"Well, Sherlock, I've as much right asking questions as you have around here. You can go straight to hell."
Sparks flew from the rug in the narrow aisle. Sudden explosions of light and the darkness again, darkness like night. Marsh was left alone in the darkened studio. He sat alone bewildered. Whether the lights were on or off made little difference. He couldn't see them anyhow.
AT FIVE in the afternoon, George Wicker, Pete Fallow's companion, called Marsh at the studio. Phyllis came to the projection room for him.
"He says it's urgent," she said. "Mr. Fallow is busy somewhere on work concerning that Kari Mutso."
Marsh went into Rex Hunter's office to take the call.
"Hello—Mr. Marsh?"
Marsh said it was.
The chief wanted Mr. Marsh to get that Japanese film ready and he, George Wicker, would pick it up late in the evening. He was going to be busy until after nine, and Fallow was somewhere down around the water front looking for the Jap. Seems that someone had seen Mutso around town again. Would Mr. Marsh get the film out of the morgue and have it ready at nine-thirty?
Marsh said he would, and George Wicker thanked him and hung up.
Marsh thought it over. There were a few points he hadn't cleaned up yet on the murder of Rex Hunter. Only a few.
He went into Phyllis' office. He could tell by the blinking tone of her eyes, the flash of her teeth, that she was staring at him as he came in. She was smiling.
He went straight to her desk and leaned over it.
"That's a pretty jade pin you're wearing," he said with a smile.
Phyllis' eyes showed how the remark had startled her, and Marsh laughed aloud.
"The pin," he said, "makes a nice steady whistle. The sound that green always produces."
She relaxed then, laughing at herself.
"For an instant I almost thought you could see it," she said. "What did Mr. Wicker want?"
Marsh didn't answer directly.
"Could you stay for a while this evening?" he asked. "I'm turning that film over to the F.B.I. I'd like you to witness the act."
"Surely." Her voice, at first cool, was suddenly filled with a torrent of emotion. "Walter, what are we going to do? We can't go on without knowing about Dad. Without doing something for you I—I...."
"You're sorry we fought so often—before?" Marsh asked softly.
"I'm sorry I've been a little fool most of my life," she whispered. "Dad used to say I was cruel just for the love of seeing people run away from me. He was right. But now—Walter—I'm fed up with myself."
Marsh leaned far over the desk.
"I'm not fed up," he said. "I'm just getting started."
He planted a firm kiss on her lips, turned and walked swiftly out of the office. He didn't have to get any sound signals to know that his own face was a fiery red.
THE HALL was dark. Marsh made sure that not even the single night-light was burning when he came into the building at eight-thirty. He had gone out for an hour and returned in time to open the morgue before George Wicker appeared.
He knew that Phyllis was in her office, because the office light signaled him clearly. He thought that Jim Garfield was in. Jim's light was on as he passed. Marsh walked as quietly as possible on the deep hall-carpet. He entered the projection room, moved carefully down the aisle and sat in the darkness.
It was important that every nerve be alert.
He sat motionless for half an hour. Once, he felt sure that someone had opened the door behind him. A tiny flash of light, then darkness again.
At last he arose. He was startled to find that perspiration was standing out on his forehead. That his fingers were moist. That wouldn't do. His nerves had to be calm.
The place where he had hidden the morgue key was as simple as it was safe. Marsh felt his way to the rear of the room. He counted down eight rows and over toward the scanning machine ten chairs. He slipped his fingers under the chair, felt up under the torn upholstery and drew out the key.
All was silent now. There were only the sparks that he himself made in walking across the floor and brushing against objects.
The morgue had two doors, both opened by the same key. He found the first one, opened it quickly and stepped into a cool, short hall. It was carpetless and his shoes clicked loudly, making wide, green sparks as they moved. The second floor. He took a deep breath and went in.
The morgue was a long, narrow room. The cement walls were reinforced by three inches of steel. Air-conditioning made the place cool and slightly moist.
Echoes were loud and his eyes caught shattering flashes of bright colors as he moved about among the film containers. There were two racks against the walls. On these racks, large film cans had been stacked.
He knew exactly where to go to the Jap film, but he had no intention of giving himself away that easily.
Marsh went to the far end of the morgue. He stood still in the darkness, as though deep in thought. Then he moved close to one wall and started moving the cans about. The noise produced violent light-signals in his eyes. There was no actual light in the morgue. Therefore, no sound to register in his ears.
Suddenly a small flash of green sparks caught his eye.
EVERY nerve in his body snapped to attention. Casually, slowly, he turned away from the rack and went to the opposite wall.
Those green sparks were caused by a shoe hitting the cement in the outer hall!
Marsh waited.
"The fool," he thought. "I'm not blind. Why doesn't he, or she, realize that?"
Still, he was puzzled by something.
He received no other signal than the green sparks. They were spaced cautiously, far apart, indicating that the person was coming toward him slowly.
Marsh waited for the series of light dashes that the human eye produced.
Green flash—green flash—then faster, running.
Marsh dodged to one side and a violent orange flame spread out close to his elbow. Some one had struck at him. He had dodged just in time, and the object had hit one of the film cans, producing the orange light.
In that instant Marsh whipped around, reached swiftly into his pocket and brought out a stocking. In the foot of the sock was a heavy plaster book-end.
The green flashes withdrew swiftly.
Now the eye signals were visible.
Long, almost uninterrupted whistles came from the eyes. Someone there in the dark, ready to strike again, straining his eyes to see.
Marsh knew then it would be easy. He had every advantage over a normal person. The other could see nothing in the dark.
Marsh could see every sound.
Green flashed, close. The eye signal was stronger. Then the high pitched tone of teeth—white teeth, visible, probably, between snarling lips.
Marsh moved ever so slightly and a wide vibrating black line appeared in his vision screen.
He knew that vibration. A gunshot!
He fell forward, rolling over quickly as he did so, then came to his feet silently.
The room was quiet. The green flashes came, not two feet from him. The signal of the eyes turned straight at him. The beam of sound was close—too close. Marsh brought the sock with the plaster book-end down with all his weight. A violent shower of red sparks.
"Uh-h-h-h!"
The broken moan gave Marsh a clear impression of his attacker. His mind was suddenly drunk with relief that the person stretched on the dark floor was the one he expected it to be.
Pete Fallow wouldn't have to spend any more time searching for Kari Mutso.
Fallow was out cold on the floor of the dark morgue!
THEY were seated in Rex Hunter's office. Phyllis Hunter was on the arm of Marsh's chair. Jim was behind Rex's desk, legs across the edge of it, completely relaxed for the first time since Hunter's death.
"I don't know whether Fallow was ever really connected with the F.B.I. He had cleverly forged credentials, but I'm quite sure he'd never fool anyone in authority for any length of time. Remember that Rex said he'd call the F.B.I. My guess is that he never had time to; that Fallow shot him before he put the call through. Fallow heard through private sources that we had the film."
"But how—where?" Phyllis protested. "Neither Jim nor I—"
"No," Marsh admitted. "Fallow was connected in some way with Japanese spies."
"Kari Mutso?" Garfield asked. Marsh chuckled.
"Pete Fallow was Kari Mutso," he said.
Garfield's feet slipped from the desk and hit the floor with a bang. "Impossible!"
"It's true," Marsh insisted. "I don't know just when I started to suspect Fallow. He seemed all right. Hut look at it this way: I refused to believe either you or Phyllis was responsible for Rex's death.
"That left only Fallow. Fallow must have known about the film. We placed all our trust in him. The story wasn't in the papers. Fallow made sure it didn't get out to the public.
"He came here late in the afternoon. He got into Rex's office, killed him to prevent Rex from getting in touch with the real F.B.I."
"But how can you be sure?" Phyllis asked.
"Because I called the local F.B.I. office this afternoon. They said they had no one working for them by the name of Fallow. He's a private detective, and not a very good one."
"George Wicker?"
"Works for Fallow, and isn't as bright as Fallow. Wicker was completely fooled. He didn't know why they came here, or that Fallow had already made one visit that afternoon to the stud in
"Fallow thought he might pin the murder on the person who ran out and escaped in the car. Of course I was so groggy that I left the film can laying there. He must have slipped it into a closet and came back for it late in the evening."
"But Kari Mutso?" Garfield protested. "Fallow chased around after him for a week."
"He pretended to," Marsh admitted. "What Fallow actually did was this: He saw that everyone was against him when he tried to pin the murder on me. He had already turned the film over to certain spies. Well never know them or where the film went.
"After he saw the condition I was in, and learned that there was a copy of the film, he had to treat me right and wait for a chance to get at the copy. He made up the story of Kari Mutso and said he traced your car to the Jap."
Garfield swore.
"I'm to blame for a lot of the trouble," he admitted. "I know I had left the car out back. The motor was running while I came into the dark-room; I forgot a couple of negatives I'd made that afternoon. I must have been in the dark-room when you rushed out and drove away."
"That explains it," Marsh agreed. "Fallow told the story about Kari Mutso to satisfy us. If we'd grown curious and reported to the police or the F.B.I., he'd have been In trouble. As it was he had to pay heavily to get the doctor who examined Rex to sign a certificate of natural death."
Phyllis gasped in astonishment.
"I checked up on that to," Marsh admitted. "The good doctor is in jail at this moment. Fallow took me to Mutso's place. He said Mutso had been living there and yet the place was covered with dust. Ruined a handkerchief just wiping my hands."
"But you went into the morgue when you knew he would follow?"
It was Phyllis, her voice filled with admiration.
"I had to do that," Marsh said gravely. "Remember that I thought it was Fallow. Wicker called and said he would pick up the film. It was then that I had time to check with the F.B.I. and the doctor. I went home and prepared a little weapon."
HE drew the sock filled with broken plaster from his pocket and tossed it on the desk.
"When I entered the morgue, I couldn't be positive it was Fallow. I had to prove he was the one who stole the film. I knew Fallow had the film because I had convinced myself that Kari Mutso didn't exist, and yet Fallow brought that Alaskan scene to us, claiming he found it in Mutso's house.
"When those footsteps came toward me, I was waiting for certain signals. I even had a horrible fear for a minute that I might get more than I asked for."
Phyllis clasped her hand over the jade pin she was wearing.
"Yes," Marsh said calmly. "It could have been you, or Jim. I had to take that chance. Then something happened that made me sure it was Fallow. After that I waited my chance and got him. The poor sap didn't have a chance in the dark."
"But—what? What made you sure it was he?"
"When Fallow and I were in the house down near the waterfront, I ran into him in the dark. He was quite surprised. He made a remark about thinking I could see him. I could have seen him if he hadn't closed his eyes. I thought about it afterward, and decided that Fallow, standing there in the dark, had deliberately closed his eyes to see if I had any other way of recognizing him. He tried the same trick when he first entered the morgue. However, he forgot that I could follow every step, by the sparks of sound from his shoes." Phyllis sighed.
"I still think you took too many chances," she said.
Marsh had saved his biggest triumph for this moment. He turned in his chair and smiled at the girl.
"Phyllis," he said. "I think the blue dress, the new hair-do and that tearful expression in your eyes are the most wonderful things I've ever seen."
He put both arms around her, drew her down to him and kissed her lips.
"No blind man in the world could find a pair of lips that fast!" Jim Garfield shouted.
Phyllis tried to struggle, to break away so that she might question him. Marsh held her tightly, staring straight into her eyes.
Finally she managed to break loose and there was complete happiness in her voice.
"Walter Marsh, the devil was shining in those eyes just then. You—you can see—really!"
Marsh chuckled.
"It must have been the excitement in there," he said. "Alone with Fallow, fighting for my life, I realized that the lights and the sounds in my head were ended. I struggled around after I knocked Fallow down, but I was as blind as he was. Bumped my head half a dozen times trying to get out."
"And when you got to daylight?" Garfield asked.
"Why—I could see again," Marsh said. "And from now on, I'm going to keep both eyes on a certain girl who used to cause her father no end of worry."
"Poor Dad," Phyllis said, and there were tears in her eyes. "I'll bet he'd be happy to know how things turned out."
Marsh nodded silently and the girl stared out the window, a far-away look in her eyes.
"Dad once said that I came from the same mold that mother did. I wonder if, where they are now, he still thinks that."
Marsh held her close.
"If he doesn't," he said slowly, "I'm ashamed of him."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
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