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Roy Glashan's Library
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Amazing Stories, July 1946, with "The Man With Two Minds"
WATER-FRONT CHARLIE stood at the bar, his right elbow resting on it, huge hand grasping a dirty, half-filled beer glass. His head nodded back and forth like a man about to go to sleep on his feet. He wasn't drowsy, though. Through the sounds that filled the room, he heard two voices that held his attention. One, the guttural growl of a water-front bum, the other, educated but flat and emotionless.
Charlie tossed down the last of his beer and turned lazily, elbows behind him on the bar, right knee flexed with his foot on the rail. His broad, flat face turned red with a grin. His cheeks were covered with perspiration. He brushed a broad, flattened nose.
He studied the men at the table near him. One had a bewhiskered, wrinkled face. The man had been drinking too much. He was evidently excited.
"I'd like to get my hands on that guy's neck," he was saying. "How long does he think he can hide on the police. Rotten, low-life murderer."
The other man nodded. He held up a white, very long-fingered hand. His smile was disinterested, far away. Water Front Charlie could hear him clearly.
"Clubfoot Winkler's time is about up," he said. "They'll get him. He deserves it. The man's a filthy beast."
Water Front Charlie sighed. He was itching for a good argument. If it ended in a fight, so much the better. He studied the man who had just spoken. He was small and dried-up looking. Evidently a product of some side-street apartment close to the water-front. His forehead was very high. Dark, narrow eyes peered from beneath heavy brows. His skin was pale and stretched taut like parchment. You couldn't guess his business. The black bow-tie and dark coat might be worn by most anyone—artist—painter—crackpot writer.
The two of them talked for a while in low voices. Then the bum with the whiskers stood up.
"Be seeing you, Doc," he said.
So it was Doc, was it? Charlie's grin broadened. He crossed the floor toward the table with easy, cat-like strides, jerked out the empty chair and turned it around. He sat astride it with elbows on the back, long legs under the table.
"Hello, Doc," he said easily.
The man looked up. The narrowed eyes closed completely for an instant, then opened to study him carefully. The man called Doc looked him over. His voice, when he spoke, was still flat, but it betrayed certain interest.
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure," he said slowly.
Charlie stretched and yawned. This was a good way to pass the time. Horn in on a guy's private life. Kid him along. If he got tough, pop him. With Charlie, they seldom got tough.
"I'm Water-Front Charlie," he said, indicating by the tone of his voice that the name carried certain power.
Doc nodded.
"So?" he asked.
"Oh—nothing," Charlie admitted. "Heard you talking, about Clubfoot Winkler escaping from the pen. You sounded real mad at Clubfoot."
The fire that flashed in Doc's eyes revealed deep, intense hatred.
"I'd like to see him burned in Hell," he said in a low voice. "He's filthy—beastly."
Charlie chuckled. He was enjoying himself. He had found Doc's weak spot.
"Oh—I dunno," he said casually. "Winkler ain't so bad. Used to know him down in 'Frisco. He always minded his own business."
Doc started to rise. His face had turned deep crimson.
"I don't care to discuss...."
WATER-FRONT CHARLIE came to his feet. His arm swept out and
hit the little man hard—on the shoulder. Doc's words were
cut off abruptly. He sank back into his chair. He was breathing
hard. Charlie watched him closely, waiting for trouble.
"Don't hurry away, Doc," he said. "I like to hear you talk."
The man stared at him.
"I don't understand," he said at last. "What object do you have in fighting with me? We have nothing in common, I'm certainly not your match."
Charlie just grinned. His flat nose, the coarse, dark skin of his face, reflected stubbornness. It amused him in a drunken way, to play with this mouse of a man.
"How come you hate Winkler?" he asked.
The Doc shrugged.
"Because he's against everything decent," he said. "He murders and tortures his victims. He went to the pen for strangling his wife and kids. You can't forgive a man for things like that. His mind is a cesspool. The lowest type of mind one can imagine."
"How come you know all that?" Charlie asked. "How come you know what's in Clubfoot Winkler's mind? Maybe he didn't get a fair deal. Maybe they framed him. The papers play up that junk in a big way."
The Doc was silent. He stared at the beefy ex-fighter. There was bewilderment in his eyes. Deep anger forced him to clench his fists. After a while he said thoughtfully:
"Suppose you had Winkler's conscious mind? Suppose you had your own subconscious mind, so that you could live inside of Winkler and see what goes on in that stagnant brain of his? I wonder if you would change your mind about him?"
His voice was soft and had a dreamy quality to it. He didn't seem to be looking at or talking to anyone in particular.
Charlie frowned.
"I don't get it," he confessed. He bit his lip and decided that he didn't like the old goon very well. Somehow he felt as though Doc had dealt a blow below the waist. He didn't know why Doc worried him. For a moment he wished that he hadn't started making trouble with the old guy.
"You wouldn't," Doc said. "You're an overgrown, bullying lout. You haven't the brain to understand such matters."
He talked as though he wasn't afraid of Charlie any more. It was as though he sat alone, talking to himself. Water Front Charlie stood up slowly. He didn't feel like pushing Doc around any more. There was something in Doc's eyes that frightened him. Something dark and hateful.
"Forget it," he said, and turned away. "Forget it. I didn't mean nothing. Me, I'm always horning in where I ain't wanted."
At the bar, he wondered why he hadn't popped Doc for calling him names. He didn't feel like fighting any more. He could feel Doc's eyes, staring at his back as he ordered another beer.
"Damn him," he muttered.
He slopped the beer down, spilling it on his shirt. Doc's eyes made him feel prickly all over. He turned and tried to grin at the slight figure at the table.
"Be seeing you around," he said vaguely. He went toward the door, realizing that Doc hadn't answered—hadn't made a sign. He turned as he went out. Doc was coming. Suddenly a panic seized Charlie. He knew, somehow, that for some reason Doc was coming after him.
IT WAS warm and dark on First Street. He moved slowly along
the sidewalk, threading his way among the water front bums. At
the corner he turned slowly, trying to show no interest in what
was going on behind him. Doc was still coming.
He turned swiftly into an alley and started to run up the hill toward the center of town. Without looking back, he turned into the traffic on Second Street and tried to loose himself in the crowd. He walked two blocks, almost falling under the wheels of a turning truck. When he stopped again, he was panting—frightened.
Doc was still on his trail, a half-block behind, moving swiftly. Charlie stared about. Another alley led back down to First Street and into the dark district near the bay. He knew every fence—every corner down there. He had to get back—hide.
He turned and started to run down the hill into the pitch blackness of the alley.
He heard light footsteps behind him, coming closer.
Close to First Street, he stumbled and fell headlong, his head hitting a fence. Stars seemed to pop in his head. He tried to get up, stumbled and fell again. Someone knelt at his side. Through bleary eyes, he could see Doc's powerful black eyes staring into his.
"You're not so tough—now—are you?" Doc's voice was a whisper.
Charlie swore and threw up his arms, trying to ward off a blow. The power of those terrible eyes burned his head, made him throb with pain inside.
He felt paralyzed.
Hypnotized? Yes, that must be it. Doc's eyes seemed to bore into him with the burning power of two needles. They deadened his brain. The eyes grew larger, until he could see only the black, watery pools, larger—larger. Eyes that blotted out the world and concentrated unholy strength on him.
Then the eyes became pools of black water that rippled and faded away into a pool of velvet darkness.
WATER-FRONT CHARLIE awakened with a dull headache. At first he
wasn't sure what had happened. He didn't feel like himself. He
was weak and—somehow—smaller. Someone had played a
rotten trick on him. His face felt tight and the skin was
stretched tight and dry over his bones. He was in bed, clad only
in shorts. There was a cracked mirror and a green window shade
that had been drawn tightly over the window. He swore aloud and
even his voice sounded different—like someone else's
voice.
He just wasn't himself.
He sat up, placed his feet on the floor and stared at them and the floor with groggy eyes. A chill went up his spine.
It was true. The feet were not his own.
They were smaller, and blue, heavy veins ran through them. The toes were dry and covered with sores. The right foot was misshapen and turned in at a crazy angle. He was a clubfoot.
Then he remembered Doc. The tavern. He remembered the flight, and—last of all—eyes that grew so large that they swallowed up the world and fought their way into his brain. Eyes that hypnotized him and made him powerless to move. He struggled to his feet and by holding the edge of the bed, made his way to the mirror. He stared at the image in the glass and fell back, sinking to the bed, his hand over the ugly face he had seen. It wasn't Charlie he saw in the mirror.
It was the face of Clubfoot Winkler. He knew. He had seen Winkler's face in the paper—remembered him from the old days in 'Frisco.
The face in the mirror was old and wrinkled. The eyes were eyes of a murderer. Thick, ghastly lips curled into a snarl, betrayed the love of killing.
Thoughts flooded back to Charlie. Like bits of broken film projected on a grey screen—twisting crazily through his brain.
Doc—the tavern—he had pretended to sympathize with Clubfoot Winkler. He didn't really like Winkler. He had worked Doc up to a frenzy just for the love of an argument. Doc had followed him. Doc was responsible for this terrible thing.
"Suppose you had Winkler's mind.—I wonder if you'd change your mind about him?"
Words ran through Charlie's mind—Doc's words.
He stood up and went to the window. He opened the curtain and stared down on First Street. He couldn't go out there. Couldn't go anywhere. He returned to the bed and found a pair of trousers, a torn shirt and a pair of brown shoes. They weren't his clothes but he put them on. He tried hard to remember every word of Doc's conversation. That was very necessary. He had to remember all of it.
WATER-FRONT CHARLIE didn't know much about brains—and
minds. His life had been confined to drinking—and picking
fights. Yet he knew that Doc's eyes had somehow done the very
thing that Doc mentioned. He was in Winkler's body, but his own
subconscious mind was observing every move that Winkler's body
made. His own mind suffered because it was contained in the body
of a brutal murderer.
His mind was in control now. Doc has said there were two minds. The conscious and the subconscious. When would Winkler's mind take over? He hated Winkler. Hated him for the terrible things that were made plain by Winkler's face. Feared what Winkler might do, and what he, Charlie, might suffer.
Suddenly he stiffened. Someone was moving about in the hall. He was alert—ready.
A knock sounded on the door.
Panic sent him toward the sound. He was amazed at the animal reflex that made him want to protect himself. He would have to kill the person who came in. Like a cat, he was ready to spring. There was cunning in him now. Winkler's cunning. Passing the mirror, he knew that Winkler's face didn't frighten him this time. He seemed to be a man divided. Part of him was frightened—part of him was a filthy, polluted thing that wanted to kill.
He had to get out.
Another knock. He waited. The someone outside started to pound on the door. It sounded loud and hollow in the bare room.
"You gotta get out of here, Winkler," a voice said. "It ain't safe. The cops are closing in."
There was a terrible threat in that voice. He knew that whoever spoke might betray him. The door opened a crack. Charlie's hands—Winkler's hands—were opened wide, the fingers flexed. A man stood in the doorway. It was the whiskered bum who had been talking to Doc at the tavern. Charlie sprang at his throat, supple fingers closing about the dry, wrinkled skin. The man had yellow teeth that showed when he opened his mouth. He sank to the floor. His eyes were deep set and blue like pale flowers. They opened wide, pleaded for life, then stared at the ceiling without seeing it. They popped wide open and stayed that way.
Charlie had to get out fast now. He couldn't fight the cunning of Clubfoot Winkler. He went stealthily along the hall and down a flight of dirty stairs to the street. It was night, and the stairs ended in an alley close to the water-front. He went down the alley slowly, staying close to the wall. He had to find Doc.
With every ounce of concentration he could muster, he fought against Winkler. The mind of Water Front Charlie was powerful. It took command.
He had to plead for mercy with Doc. He waited in a hall-way across the street from the tavern where he had met Doc. He kept his head bowed so no one could see Winkler's face.
After a while Doc crossed the street on an angle and entered the tavern. Anger made Charlie forget that he was wearing the mask of a strangler. The face of a man that would bring death. He went across the street toward the lighted window. Before he realized what he had done, the light had betrayed him. Doc had been on guard. He heard the voice, shouting shrilly. Doc's voice.
"There's Clubfoot Winkler out there. Get him, boys. There's money on his head."
The door was flung open violently. Men ran out into the street. From the shadows, bums, his old buddies, started to close in on him.
Charlie went wild. The murderer in him took over. He slipped a knife from his pocket and flipped open the blade. He faced the men, and left a wide, bloody trail from the tavern across the street and into the shadows of the alley. There the fight stopped. Three men lay in the street, moaning and holding the bloody slits left by the knife.
FOR two hours, the subconscious mind of Charlie failed to gain
control. During that time, he wandered from one alley to another,
trying to avoid the sounds of police sirens that screamed through
the night. Once, almost trapped, he crossed a roof and hid in an
oil barrel in a junk yard. The cops searched for him there and
failed to find him.
Slowly, fear brought back the power of his crazed mind. He knew that he had condemned himself by fighting with Doc.
He saw the unclean thing that was Clubfoot Winkler's body and mind. He knew that as Winkler he was capable of murder—even happy when he was strangling or knifing a victim. He was frightened and miserable, and he needed Doc's help.
The subconscious mind must return to Doc. Would Doc give him back his body? He had no doubt of that. He dared not doubt. Faith was the one thing that kept him moving.
IT WAS after midnight. The murderer who was part Clubfoot
Winkler, part Water-Front Charlie, waited for a little man who
still sat in the tavern. The lights on First Street were yellow
and murky through the fog. He felt safer in the fog. It closed in
around him, hiding his face from the patrol cars that prowled
along the street. They wouldn't suspect him of daring to come
here again.
He stiffened when Doc came out into the fog and moved across the street. Only with the greatest struggle did he force the murderer in him to lie dormant. He wanted to strangle Doc, but he knew that he mustn't do that. Halfway up toward Second Street, Doc stopped and talked with the cops in a patrol car. Then he turned and went into a squat, brick-faced building. Charlie waited until the car pulled away. Then he followed. There was a sign above him, hidden in the fog. Doc evidently ran some kind of a business here, and lived in the rooms above.
Lights sprang on above Charlie, sending weird shafts of yellow into the fog.
He found a narrow alley that led to the rear.
He had to get to Doc's room.
The lower extension of a fire-escape hung a few feet above him, attached to the side of the building. He sprang into the air, caught the lower step and pulled it down. He went up the stairs on all fours, silently, like an animal.
It led him to the roof. He was in luck. His face was dry and very hot.
His face? No, the face of a murderer. He moved across the roof toward the wide skylight that sent brilliant white rays up from above. He kneeled and stared down through the glass.
The room below him was large—and very white. For a minute it blinded him. Then his eyes flickered wide with amazement. The room was equipped with stuff like he'd seen at City Hospital. Doc was wheeling a white cart into the center of it. Under the sheet he saw the outline of a man. Fascinated, the eyes of Winkler the murderer conveyed the message to Charlie's mind. Doc was pulling on rubber gloves. The sheet was drawn away from the lower part of the man on the table. Now the stomach was bare.
Charlie's hands gripped the edge of the skylight. He wanted to turn away but he couldn't. He wanted to break the skylight with his fist—to shout to Doc. He wanted to beg for his life.
He couldn't move.
Slowly his face went closer to the glass. His lips were drawn tight into a snarl, all trace of blood drained down his cheeks.
Doc was busy, working carefully with the certainty of a man who knows his job. Then the sheet started to slip from the table. It tumbled in a pile on the floor.
Water-Front Charlie didn't want to look at that face. More than anything in the world he wanted to avoid doing it. He knew that the face of the man on the white table was his face. That the man on the table was he.
There was a terrible struggle there on the roof. A struggle between a man who wanted to live, and the mind of Charlie who knew he must die.
The subconscious mind is all-powerful. With a hoarse scream, the man on the roof rose to his feet and plunged head first through the skylight.
THE cop at headquarters turned away from the phone. He had
just finished saying:
"Sure—sure Doc. We'll be right over. You're okay, Doc."
He turned to the Desk Sergeant.
"Call out the death wagon," he said. "We got Clubfoot Winkler—deader than a herring."
The Desk Sergeant looked interested. He pressed a button that rang the garage and spoke over the inter-office communication system. Then he sat quietly, looking at the cop who answered the phone. He waited until the siren died away around a distant corner. Then he said:
"How'd they turn the trick?"
The cop grinned. He liked to talk.
"A guy named Doc, lives over near First Street," he said. "Winkler hid on Doc's roof and tried to get through the skylight. Slipped and fell, hit his head on a tile floor—fell ten feet. Finish for Winkler."
The Sergeant nodded. He was studying the program for the Yearly Police Show.
"Yeah," he said. "Too bad the department can't get credit for the kill. You say this guy's a doctor?"
The cop shook his head.
"Nope," he said. "The boys call him Doc. Just a habit. He's an undertaker."
The Sergeant's eyes lifted.
"Pretties up the stiff, huh?"
"Yeah," the cop said. "He had a corpse laid out on the table when Winkler took his dive. Embalming a bum who died in a First Street alley last night."
The Sergeant fanned his face with the police show program.
"Nasty business," he said. "I wonder how Winkler felt up there, looking down at a stiff?"
"I wouldn't know," the cop said. "I wouldn't think a nice, clean embalming job would turn Winkler's stomach."
Roy Glashan's Library
Non sibi sed omnibus
Go to Home Page
This work is out of copyright in countries with a copyright
period of 70 years or less, after the year of the author's death.
If it is under copyright in your country of residence,
do not download or redistribute this file.
Original content added by RGL (e.g., introductions, notes,
RGL covers) is proprietary and protected by copyright.