NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the
publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for
this "stripped book."

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book
are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coinci-
dental.

NOW YOU SEE IT...
Copyright © 1994 by RXR, Inc.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions
thereof, in any form.

Cover art by Roger Loveless

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherly Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New Yoric. NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web:

http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN:0-812-548H-6
Library of Congress Card Catalog Number 94-4107

First edition: February 1995
First mass market edition: August 1996

Printed m the United States of America
0987654321

To my dear friend Robert Bloch,
who created magic in all our lives

Magician's Choice: A technique in which
two or more choices are supposedly
offered for free selection by tile spectator
but a predetermined one actually is
imposed upon him.

1011113 S.UKIUGNI

chapter 1

U aresay you've never/ in your life, read a story written by a
vegetable. Well, here's your chance. Not that ifs a story. It
happened; I was there-
Your narrator and humble servant, Mr. Vegetable.

My name is Emil Delacorte. When all this occurred, I was
seventy-three.

You've probably never heard of me, even though I was a
headlining magician in the 30's, 40's and 50's; called The
Great Delacorte—a title I passed along to my son. I'm sure
you've heard of him.

I was doing very well until I had a "cerebrovascular acci-
dent" in 1966. Thafs a "stroke" to you, though I'm more
inclined toward "apoplexy"; sounds more colorful. The ex-
perience itself/ of course, was not so colorful. Though it was,
God knows, plenty dramatic.

To me, anyway.

I was on me verge of being sealed into a boiler tank (one

12   Richard Matheson

of my better escapes) when a blood vessel in my brain
popped, depriving said brain of oxygen supply. Hemiplegitt
(paralysis) took place, commencing the process which con-
verted me into the aforementioned vegetable.

Quite a vision to my audience, I gather- From charming,
urbane Delacorte (The Great) I was suddenly reduced to a
dizzy, vertigo-locked, nauseous reeler. No doubt startling
to the assembled folks. Disgusting too, as a violent head-
ache and vomiting set in.

Not exactly the highlight of my showbiz career.

Soon atterward, permanent paralysis began, the loss of
speech, and my one-way ticket to Vegetable City. Sudden
death from stroke being rare, I was not permitted the grace
of taking my final bow and exiting me stage of life.

Instead, the best fate could offer me was a doctor's in-
struction to reduce physical and emotional tension while I
waited for as much recovery as possible.

Fourteen years later, when these events transpired, I was
still waiting.

By dint of my son's loving kindness, I was not dispatched
to some asylum but permitted to reside in his home, a mo-
tionless figure customarily located in the study—or, as I
prefer to call it. The Magic Room.

There I sat ensconced in my wheelchair, a staring obelisk,
an effigy of what I'd been, a statue entitled Impotence (in
more ways than one) or, better still. Up On the Shelf for Good.
A voiceless, torpid lump, ostensibly brainless.

There, you see, is the rub. For the real torment was that in
mat dumb shell I existed in, an active and observant brain
was struggling for the means to express itself. That is the
horror of a stroke, believe me.
Perhaps if mis had happened ten or twenty years later,

Now You See K...   13

there might have been some medical-surgical procedure by
which I could have ended my night- (and day-) mare.

Then again, perhaps not. Even my son, devoted as he was
to, me, might have found it inescapable to A&F (Accept and
Forget). Who could have blamed the man? I had become
more a piece of furniture than a family member. Not hard to
take a piece of furniture for granted.

I go on at length about my plant-kingdom persona so you
will understand how all these strange events could have
taken place in my presence without a single person in-
volved giving it a second thought that I was mere. But then,
do we concern ourselves with me observational capacities
of a turnip?

Anyway, Maximilian (my son) had enough problems of
his own, as you will discover.

A few more explanatory comments before I launch into my
account of that fateful day.

Because of Maximilian's loyalty to me, I had a nurse (one
Nelly Washington) who stayed with me constantly (in the
beginning, anyway), providing those attentions I could not
request but obviously required—eating and elimination to
the fore.

Nelly was no Venus but she had an inner beauty of com-
passion, a good deal of patience, and (luckily for her as well
as for me) an abundant sense of humor. Most of all. God
bless her giant heart, she never allowed me to remain de-
feated or helpless. She was a rock of reassurance on which I
wobbled constantly until some semblance of hope oozed
back into my brain—along with a few restorative drams of
blood.

I'm glad she happened to be absent on the day it all took

14  Richard Mathenm

place/ although in retrospect, I realize that it probably was
no accident

After all. she would have been an obviously sentient wit-
ness to the mania which occurred.

One thing about residing in a useless body in the sole com-
pany of one's brain: it gives one time to appraise said brain,
appreciate its true capacities, and, eventually, train it to per-
form. In this way I was able to educate my brain to remem-
ber everything I saw around me, thus enabling me to write
down this event in full detail.

This is fortunate because the events I will describe took
place fourteen years ago. I will explain, in due course, why I
had to wait so long to disclose them-

But first, let me sketch in me environment for the play,
or—most appropriately—Ihe setting for the magic show.
For magic is me dark thread which binds together me tapes-
try of mis crazed and homicidal episode, this lethal interval
of time.

This period of total lunacy.

This happened in the home where my son had lived for
thirty-seven of his fifty-two years. My wife Lenore gave
birth to him in 1928, dying ten years later giving birth to our
second (stillborn) son.

As indicated, Maximilian had been (since my "accident"
made it impossible for me to perform) The Great Delacorte.
He had been my assistant since he was seventeen, and knew
my act as weU as I did, performing on his own as well as
continuing to help me, reaching full theatrical bloom when
he was thirty-seven and assumed my stage name.

Living in this house were two other people, not counting
the houseman and cleaning woman, who were also not pre-

Now You See It-    15

sent on that day. Coincidence? My aged, wrinkled ass it
was.

The first of these two people was Max's wife Cassandra,
forty-one, a woman of uncommon beauty, intelligence, and
nastiness. She had been married to Max for nine years/ his
assistant in the act for eight-
Cassandra had two goals in life. One was to get my an-
cient bones out of the house and into a distant vegetable
farm.

The other was.., well, that must wait, or we have no tale.
The third resident of Delacorte Hall (exclusive of Nelly
and the two servants, o£ course) was Cassandra's brother
Brian, thirty-five, an employee of my son's.

The house was (still is) in Massachusetts, standing in the
center of a twenty-two-acre plot of woodland, set back ap-
proximately a quarter of a mile from the road. (Forgive the
exactitude of detail, ifs a habit I'm unable to overcome.)

Described briefly (I'll try, anyway), Delacorte Hall was (is)
French Provincial in design, a truly splendid two-story
structure which I'd had built in 1943, a choice earning year
for me.

The house had (has) seven bedrooms and baths, a modest
theater, a swimming pool below, a large kitchen, formal
dining room, a large living room, and the rooms in which
the hours of insanity took place—my study and, later,
Max's.

The Magic Room.

Why do I call it that? Because it was a masterpiece of
prearrangements, a cornucopia of gimmicks and arcana. ]
had begun the process in 1945 for my own pleasure. Later
Max had added to it; so much so mat, at the time of thes<
events, even I was unaware of what he'd done to the room
my earlier years of invalidism having been spent in my bed

16  Rickarri Mathnon

room. It was only m the late sixties that Max saw to it that
Nelly brought my wheelchair on a daily basis to TMR,
knowing me pleasure I had always taken in it when I was a
real person instead of a two-eyed potato.

The study men; The Magic Room.

Thirty feet in length, twenty in width^ many-windowed
with one particularly large picture window affording a
spectacular view of me countryside behind the house, a
small lake in the distance, a gazebo on its shore.

The study had always been luxuriously appointed. Built-
in shelves lined two walls, many filled with leather-bound
scrapbooks: my reviews and news dippings, and Max's.
The remainder of the shelves were filled with books almost
exclusively devoted to magic history and/or methodology.

On a third wall hung framed lobby posters of my and
Max's more notable appearances.

A fieldstone fireplace (quite massive) stood against me
fourth wall, on its mantelpiece a collection of relics, souve-
nirs, and objets d'art which Lenore and I—and, later. Max—
had collected through me years- Also standing on it was a
silver candelabra with three black candles, next to it a silver
matchbox.

Fret not, dear reader, these details are of consequence, all
of mem a valid part of the account-
Where was I?

Yes, me fireplace. Above the mantelpiece hung several
items.

Two were large oil paintings, one of my lovely Lenore (I
blessed my son for leaving it there), the other of an equally
lovely (perhaps stunningly beautiful would be more accu-
rate a description) young woman: Adelaide, Max's first
wife, who died in 1963,

Also mounted above said mantelpiece was a set of En-


Now You See H...   17

glish dueling pistols, circa 1879; a pike from the nineteenth-
century Spanish Army; and an African spear and blow-
gun—all to play their roles in the murderous exploits soon
to commence.

Near the fireplace was my (then Max's) desk, eighteenth-
century French, its glossy surface seven feet by four feet, on
it an arrangement of relics, souvenirs, and objets d'art from
my (our) collection. A telephone and a silver-plated de-
canter (with glass) completed (he articles on me desk. Be-
hind it was a high-backed revolving chair, upholstered in
black learner.

Other items to be mentioned: a handsome brass-and-
teakwood bar, glasses and silver ice bucket on its top; two
red learner easy chairs with end tables; an extremely large
(two feet in diameter) antique world globe.

Finally, a quintet of items vital to the narrative.

One: a standing lobby display poster—a life-size photo-
graph of Max in top hat and tails; a placard reading:

THE GREAT DELACORTE
"In Touch With the Mysterious."

Two: an ornately decorated Egyptian burial case, stand-
ing upright, its lid open.

Three: a suit of armor (sixteenth-century German), its
faceplate shut.

Four: a lever-operated guillotine (a miniature version of
the one used during the French Revolution), its blade raised
to the top as though positioned to decapitate some doomed
marquis.

Five: set upright on its lever-operated base, a mahogany
casket with a window to reveal me head and shoulders of
the deceased.

Inside the casket were what appeared to be the head and
shoulders of my son—Maximilian Delacorte, handsome

18   Richard Mattieson

(got my looks), vandyke-bearded (an ostentation I es-
chewed), eyes shut, expression imperious, the very image
of a Spanish grandee lying in state.
How's that for memory?

Anyway, dear reader, mark these things.

All were integral to the madness.

How shall I typify what happened? Passion play? Some-
what. Weird tale? Indubitably. Horror story? Pretty dose.
Grotesque melodrama? Certainly. Black comedy? Your
point of view will determine that. Perhaps it was a combi-
nation of them all.

Suffice to say that the events which took place in the
home of my son on the afternoon of July 17,1980, were, to
say the least, singular.

So to the story. A chronicle of greed and cruelty, horror
and rapacity, sadism and murder.

Love, American style.

ctapterZ

By shifting my eyes to the utmost, I could read the small
dock on Max's desk. Eleven fifty-seven A.M- A gray and
windy morning, outside sounds—wind, rustling foliage,
distant thunder rumblings—harbingers of an approaching
summer storm. Nature herself conspiring to set the scene
for that turbulent afternoon? Who knows?

I was seated in my usual place, a location chosen by my
son from which I could, by (as noted) shifting my eyeballs,
get a panoramic view of The Magic Room. 1 had break-
fasted, been changed, and now was in position to observe
the many doings about to occur-

Which began, as I recall/ at noon. And if it wasn't exactly
noon, to hell with it, I'm going to say that it was exactly
noon.

At noon, the cabal began.

I heard a voice shout, "Cassandra?"

That of Brian (Crane), calling from the entry hall. My eye-
balls shifted; pretty much the extent of my physical dexter-
ity, I might add.

20   Richard Matheson

There was silence for a few moments. Then Brian called
again, more loudly/ "Cassandra!"

Somewhere upstairs, a door was opened (my hearing,
too, was unimpeded) and Cassandra answered with her
usual imperious tone, "What?"

"Come down to Max's den!" he shouted. "I've got some-
thing to show you!"

"Brian, I am really busy!" Cassandra shouted back.

Brother persisted. "You can spare a minute! Come on!"

"Brian!" a protesting cry now.

He would not back off. "I guarantee you'll love it!" he
shouted.

Reluctant submission from Cassandra. "Oh, all right."

I heard the clicking of a woman's shoe heels on the
wooden floorboards of the entry hall—

—and Cassandra entered The Magic Room, tall, blonde,
alluring. Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt,
brown, high-heeled shoes.

I would have frowned if my facial muscles had been up
toil

How did Cassandra get here first when she was upstairs and
Brian down?

I tried to see more clearly as she crossed to the bar and,
stooping, opened me door of the ice maker. I heard her start
to ladle ice cubes into the silver bucket.

I would have frowned again—in spades—if I'd been able
to.

For, down the staircase and across the floorboards of the
entry hall, I heard me clicking of a woman's shoe heels—

—and Cassandra entered TMR, tall, blonde, alluring.
Long-sleeved pink blouse, light brown skirt, you know the
rest.

"What me hell?" I would have said if my voice had been
attainable. I certainly thought it. What the hell is going on?

Now You See It-   21

Was I hallucinating now, a new (and lower) stage of stroke-
dom?

The moment the second Cassandra had entered the room,
the first Cassandra had stopped putting ice cubes into me
silver bucket.

I watched the second Cassandra as she looked around,
her gaze passing me, as usual, with non-reception- Does one
take notice of a plant?

Then the first Cassandra rose from behind the bar and
thrumped down the bucket on the counter.

The two Cassandras eyed each other, doppelgangers to
the detail. I closed my eyes; mat I could manage. When I
open them, I thought, I'll see only one of them.

1 did. I didn't. There they were, the Cassandra twins. Did
I begin to get the message at that point?

If I did, it wasn't because I was helped by either of mem.

The first Cassandra smiled.

The second Cassandra smiled—then shook her head with
a chuckle.

As did the first.

The sounds they uttered were identical as the second
Cassandra indicated amusement, then me first.

There was no way, let me assure you, mat I could tell
them apart. It could have been double vision. My mind's
eye knew otherwise but my skull's eyes didn't.

Now the second Cassandra approached the bar and
stopped, peering closely at the first. The first peered like-
wise.

The second made a sound of appreciative recognition.
The first made me identical sound.

The second gave the first a chiding look. Received it back,
identically. The game was getting on my nerves; patience
was not one of my virtues at that time, though obviously no
one knew it.

22   Richard Matheson

Irritatingly, these two were clones in manner as well as
appearance.

The second gnawed at the edge of her right index finger,
smiling/ making noises of amusement. So, too, did the first.

Then the second spoke.

"All right," she said.

"All right," echoed the first.

Their voices were identical.

Damn it, will one of you crack? 1 thought.

The two Cassandras eyed each other saudly, smiling the
same smile, affecting the same expression; an uncanny
sight, I'm forced to admit.

The second ran fingers through her long blonde hair. So
did the first, laughing throatily—as did the second. When
will this damned burlesque conclude? I wondered.
. It had a few more stages to go.

The second Cassandra raised her right hand. The first one
raised hers, the movement a duplicate.

With a repressed smile, the second suddenly produced a
scarlet handkerchief from me air—a minor "appearance";

sleeve concealment.

The first Cassandra stared at her. The second chuckled,
on the verge of triumph.

At which the first, with a duplicate chuckle, produced the
same scarlet handkerchief.

The second threw her head back with a startled laugh. So
did the first.

Impasse, me twins regarding one another.

Until the second Cassandra tossed her handkerchief into
the air.

As did the first.

The second, though, grabbed at hers abruptly as it fell,
causing it to vanish.

Despite her efforts to do likewise, the first Cassandra was

Now You SeeH...   23

unable to prevent her handkerchief from fluttering to me
floor.

The second made a sound of victory and pointed at the
first—who made a sound which might have been translated
as, "Oh, well, you can't win them all."

The second clearly examined the first. "Not bad," she al-
lowed.

"Damn perfect," said me first, still with Cassandra's
voice.

The smile of the second Cassandra disappeared. "Are
you sure he's still out walking?" she demanded.

"Would I be doing mis if he weren't?" asked me first,
now in his own voice.

'^Well, we can't take any risks," Cassandra told him
disapprovingly. "You'd better go upstairs and change."

By now, a chill had begun to settle in my stomach as I
stared at mem.

What are they up to?

"I have to set it up first," Brian was saying, gesturing
vaguely toward the room,

Cassandra frowned. "You should have done chat ear-
lier," she said.

"With all I had to do?" he answered; again, the coldness in
my vitals.

Cassandra grimaced with impatience. "Well, get it over
with/ but/asf," she ordered him.

She started to turn away when Brian grabbed her arm,
restraining her. Cassandra looked around in irritation.
"What?"

"You're determined to do this?" Brian asked.

Now I really felt disturbed.

"Brian, we have gone through this already—endlessly."
Her tone was coldly critical, making it obvious that what-
ever was going on, it was her idea, not his. "Now come on,"

24   Richard Mathesofl

die said. "You have to get out of here." She looked around
uncomfortably. "Harry could get here any moment/'

"All right." He looked at her/ a distressed Cassandra ap-
praising her calmer twin.

Seeing this, Cassandra put her hands on his arms and
smiled with reassurance. "Brian. Darling," she said. "It's
going to be all right. Fear not!"

He did not respond, and she looked concerned now. "I
can depend on you, can't I?" she asked.

His look and voice were gravity itself.

"Haven't you always?" he said.

She squeezed his arms. "Get on with it men," she told
him.

She turned and moved to me doorway, shoe heels click-
ing on the oak floor.

There she turned. "And if you hear Harry's car drive up,
or the doorbell rings, for God's sake, get upstairs right
away."

"All right/' he said. He sounded almost angry now. It
was the most he could manage with his sister. Anger, he
could not permit himself.

He loved her too much.

Before she left, Cassandra did something which intensi-
fied me chill inside me.

She looked at me directly—something she never did—
and stuck out her tongue. A childish gesture which dis-
mayed me far more man a scowl or a snarl might have
done,

"Why don't you leave him alone?" Brian said.

She didn't reply, only gave him a look.

Then she was gone, and Brian was picking up his fallen
handkerchief and moving to me fireplace. As Max's assist-
ant, he was expected to complete the preparation of the
room. No detail could be overlooked.

The feeling of gratitude I had for Brian's sympathy was

Now You See H...   25

undone by the coldly venomous look he gave to Max's rep-
lica as he passed me upright casket.

Cassandra and he had some dark plan with regard to my
son. I knew it clearly.

And I could not'do anything about it. Do you want to
know the sum and substance of true frustration? It was
what I felt as I sat there, watching Brian at the mantelpiece
while he lifted me silver box, raised its lid, and removed a
single match from its interior. Striking the match on the bot-
tom of the box, he began to light me first black candle.

Startled, then, I looked toward me doorway. There had
been no car sound and no warning doorbell.

Yet Harry Kendal—Max's booking agent—was striding
into the room.

chapter:

I stared at him, a burst of formless hope inside me. Could
this be an answer? I thought. A solution to a problem about
which I have no knowledge whatsoever?

Let me describe Harry Kendal; it may help you under-
stand.

He was in his upper fifties/ tan, lean and treadmill-fit, his
hair profuse and silvery. A distinguished-looking man, but
less in the manner of a college don than a Mafia one.

It being July, he wore me accredited New York showbiz
uniform—a lightweight, white and blue pinstripe suit, a
white shirt and a dark blue tie; nothing but the best in qual-
ity of course.

Carried in his right hand was a tropical-weave summer
hat, in his left a monogrammed leather attache case, list
price $450 at me very least. Harry Kendal was a man who
always did well for himself.

His first words were, "Here I am, babe."

The expression of alarm on Brian's (Cassandra's) face as

Now You Soe It..   27

he whirled gave me renewed hope- Not knowing, as I've
said, what Brian had in mind to do with Cassandra, I hoped
that this unexpected surprise might, at least, undo what
seemed to be a part of it—his imitation of Cassandra.

So I watched, smiling (inwardly, of course), as Harry,
grinning (outwardly), cried, "Whoa! Sorry! Didn't mean to
startle you!"

"I—" Brian broke off instantly. Obviously, he knew this
wasn't going to work beyond a first brief space of time. He
cleared his throat and reproduced his sister's voice again,
saying, "I didn't hear your car drive up."

'Took a cab," Harry told him (her). "Walked in from the
highway. Just opened the door." His sleazy smile was now
in evidence. "Thought I had that privilege."

As he spoke, he placed his hat and attache case on the
chair nearest him and, glancing toward me briefly, raised a
limp hand in salute to my irrelevant existence.

I did not return the greeting.

Now he moved toward Brian, who—very abruptly—
turned back toward the mantelpiece, his heartbeat no doubt
accelerated markedly. (The realization did my heart good.)
Brian tried to ignite another match, his mind probably fish-
ing for a quick way out of this dilemma.

Harry reacted with a frown of surprise to "Cassandra"
turning her back on him and stopped to look at her quizzi-
cally. "How you doin'?" he inquired.

I saw Brian swallow nervously; Harry couldn't see it
from his vantage point. "I'm fine," he said. Cassandra's
voice, of course-

"Where's me Marster?" Harry asked.

"Walking," Brian answered. Was he feeling breathless,
giddy? Lord, I hoped so.

"Glad to hear it," Harry responded-

1 may have imagined it but I think that Brian tightened

28   Richard MathesoR

even more, hearing Hanys tone of voice with its intimation
of "'moving in" on Cassandra now mat he knew her hus-
band was not about

Brian glanced across his shoulder, and I felt a rare glow of
pleasure as I saw that he saw mat, indeed. Harry was mov-
ing in on him.

Heart in throat (I trust), he moved quickly to me picture
window overlooking me lake and corded shut me drapes.
Instant gloom pervaded the room; to Brian's advantage, of
course, I realized with a twinge of frustration.

Harry grunted. "That certainly makes the room a lot
more cheerful," he said. He watched Brian return to the
mantelpiece for another try at lighting those candles. Then
he added, "However, it does make me room a lot more inti-
mate."

I wonder if he heard the faint groan which I heard in
Brian's throat. Had Brian made it even worse for himself?

Noting Harry "on the move" once more, he hastily lit the
three black candles and, as though he didn't notice Harry's
stalking approach, moved swiftly behind me desk and
turned on the lamp, the illumination of which was cast only
downward.

Harry stopped again, now looking piqued; I enjoyed the
sight- "Whafs wrong?" he asked.

A quick and trembling breath in Brian's lungs. "Nothing,"
he said.

Then an idea obviously occurred to him; a rare occur-
rence, I believed at that time. "Listen, I have to go upstairs
for a minute—"

His voice broke off in utter shock as Cassandra (who had,
fortuitously, put on a pair of noiseless slippers since the
shoes she'd been wearing—always too small by dint of van-
ity—had been pinching her feet) started into the room, a
bottle of champagne in her hands.

Never have I seen a faster reaction- Catching sight of

Now You See H..   29

Harry, she whirled with the skill of a dervish and vanished
in an instant. Harry never noticing; he was moving toward
the desk now, saying, still piqued, "Wait a minute, babe."

He stopped in his tracks as Brian, growing desperate,
moved around the other end of the desk and headed for the
entry hall.

"Y/ait a minute," Harry told him (her). He was more man
piqued now, he was positively pettish-
Brian stopped, not turning; I enjoyed an imagined vision
of his heart expanding and contracting like an overdriven
bellows.

"What is wrong?" demanded Harry.

"Nothing," insisted Brian.

'''Well then, turn around for Christ's sake," Harry or-
dered her (him).

Brian hesitated, doubtless tearing that the game was
ended before it could start; whatever the game was. Then,
slowly, he turned to confront the stem-faced Harry.

"Look, I don't like this, babe," said Harry. "I took a cab
here all the way from Boston just-because you asked me. I'm
not here to sell encyclopedias." Daresay he thought that
was a telling sting.

Brian's spirits must have been flagging by men. "I
know," he said. "I'm sorry. I—"

Again he broke off as a panel in the wall behind Harry
opened soundlessly (a frippery I'd had installed when the
house was built) and he saw—as I did—his sister signaling
to him frantically.

Brian, by now, was too rattled to hide his reaction, and
seeing Brian's eyes shift. Harry turned to see what he was
looking at. Eureka, I thought.

Then I scowled (although my face remained the same) as
Cassandra closed the panel instantaneously; Harry saw
nothing. Scowling (visibly), he turned back to Brian, really
angry now. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded.

30  Richard Matirson

Brian dearly had no glimmer as to what he should say or
do. Harry starting toward him seemed to petrify his limbs.

Until, as Harry nearly reached him, a fit of frenzy seized
his bones and he moved—lunged might be more the
word—to the display poster of THE GREAT DELACORTB and
picked it up. "Have to move mis," he muttered, barely in
Cassandra's voice-

"Oh,for Christ's sake," Harry said, observing Brian carry
the poster to the area in front of me moving panel. Abruptly
then, he turned away, disgusted. "Screw it, babe," he said.
"I'm going back to Boston."

"No," said Brian.

Hastily, he stepped behind the poster. Harry couldn't see,
but I could; as tile panel was reopened quickly, Brian and
Cassandra made the switch and Brian shut the panel
Damn! I thought.

Cassandra (now the real) picked up the poster and
returned it to its original place. "No," she said, "Max
wouldn't want it over there."

That Harry's feeling, at that moment, was no greater than
disgruntiement tells you how essentially identical Cassan-
dra and the made-up Brian looked. No doubt a close ap-
praisal would have revealed discrepancies but, from the
distance Harry had been—the distance Brian had made
sure to keep him at—the similarities far outweighed what-
ever minor differences in appearance there might have
been.

Further, Harry had no notion that Brian could imitate his
sister. Accordingly, it would have taken a glaring inconsist-
ency on Brian's part for Harry to even have conceived of it,
much less noticed that inconsistency.

Even further. Harry had been so thoroughly ego-ag-
grieved by Cassandra's snub of him that he'd been in no
state of mind to consider physical replication.

For God's sake, me man was so fundamentally obtuse

Now You Sea It-   31

mat he never even noticed how Cassandra's footwear went,
in one fell swoop, from high heels to slippers!

Cassandra obviously knew those things, because her tone
of voice was totally unruffled as she moved to the drapes
and opened them. "He really doesn't like the drapes shut
either," she remarked, turning back to Harry with a confi-
dent smile. Oh, density, thy name is Kendal!

"Finished with your little game now?" he inquired sar-
castically.

"Sweetheart," said my faithful daughter-in-law.

Turning off the desk lamp, she moved to Harry, slid her
arms across his shoulders and planted an intense and lin-
gering kiss on his Ups. (Do you require any further evidence
that my existence was, to her, no more substantial than the
presence of an artichoke?)

Harry's instant physical response was thoroughly pre-
dictable and Cassandra knew it, pressing loins and stomach
to his calculable groin, his Achilles crotch. I had never
known before that moment mat Cassandra had been inti-
mate with Harry, but, I must say, the discovery came as no
bombshell explosion in my mind.

Cassandra allowed the breathless grinding to go on for a
while, then pulled free with a labored exhalation, feigned, I
have no doubt. She drew back, grasping his hands in hers.
"How are you, darling?" she asked.

His response was to glance uncomfortably at me. "Are
you sure—" he began.

"He's brain-dead, love," she assured him.

"But his eyes—"

"—perceive nothing; he's no more cognizant than a head
of lettuce."

If you had only known, Cassandra.

"How are you, darling?" she repeated.

32   Richard Maltmon

"Provoked," he answered.

"Did I behave badly?" she asked.

"I'd say dementedly," he answered.

"I'm sorry, I just—" She broke off and I thought: You
aren't really going to say it, are you? But she did! "—haven't
been myself today," she finished.

She kissed Harry on the lips again, lightly this time to
prevent further excess groin provoking. "I'm sorry, love,"
she said- "Ifs everything that's going on here. You under-
stand, I know you do."

A grumbling "I suppose" from Harry, anxious to pre-
serve his macho image even though he'd obviously suc-
cumbed to her already.

Another peck to his pouting lips, an imploring look. "I've
been so upset," she said.

He patted her back, his ego restored. "All right, all right/'
he said. He looked around, shaking his head. "This whole
room," he went on- "It's too damn much. That casket, for
God's sake. When did he put the figure in it?"

"He wants to know what he'll look like at his funeral,"
she answered.

"That's sick/' he muttered.

Her smile was cold. "Thafs Max," she amended.

He looked at her again. "You said he was walking?" he
asked.

Cassandra hesitated, then realized mat Brian must have
said it. "Yes, he is." She nodded.

She reacted as, with an anticipating (ever sleazy) smile,
he moved at her again. "He could be back any moment
though," she told him quickly.

He frowned, then sighed, accepting. "All right," he said
reluctantly.

She took his hands again. "Thank you for coming," she
said.

Now You Soe It..   33

"How could I resist?" he replied. "Your request as well as
Max's?"

Cassandra stiffened noticeably. "He asked you to come as
well?" she asked, clearly taken by surprise.

Displeased, uncomfortable surprise.

lou didn't know?" asked Harry.

"No/I-—" She could not complete her remark. All she
could do was repeat the word "No," her face a mask of dis-
concertment

"Well, that's good news, isn't it?" he asked. "It means
he's probably changed his mind."

"You really think so?" asked Cassandra. For a moment
mere, she sounded almost optimistic; about what I had no
idea—but then you already know the sum total of my
knowledge of events transpiring: zero.

Harry gestured as if to comment. Why not?

"Babe, he could have said 'no' on the phone," he told her.

When she failed to respond, he added, "Why ask me all
me way up here just to rum me down?"

She remained unconvinced; that was easy to see, even for
a head of lettuce.

"I'm sure thafs what it is," persisted Harry. He assumed
his "serious" mien. "What about Vegas, babe?" he asked.
"Can he handle it? Even with you?"

Now You See It-  35

"I don't know," she murmured. 1 could tell she was con-
versing with him and dealing with her thoughts at the same
time, a skill she'd carefully developed.

"Was Baltimore as bad as I heard?" he asked.

She was back now, in control; it hadn't been a serious un-
hinging. She looked at Harry with an expression of deep
distress; it almost seemed real—was it? "You can't imag-
ine," she told him quietly.

Harry put his arms around her and she leaned her fore-
head on his shoulder. He stroked her back and told her he
was sorry. "It must have been a nightmare," he said.

Vlhat is this? I wondered.

"God," Cassandra sobbed, and damned if it didn't sound
perplexingly genuine. "To stand there on me stage with
him, watching him drop things."

Oh, now wait a second, my mind protested.

'^Watching him miss verbal dues ... visual dues—obvi-
ous ones," she went on. "Watching him bungle hand
manipulations he could do in his sleep a few years ago.
Flounder through his performance. Flounder, Harry! Him!
The Great Delacorte! The most gifted—"

She began to cry harder.

K I hadn't been already speechless, I would have been
speechless.

Could this be true?

Max floundering? Bungling hand manipulations? Missing
dues? My son, Maximilian, The Great Delacorte?

K had to be impossible. I didn't think I could endure me
pain of it being true.

Harry obviously felt helpless before her grief- (I felt helpless
myself; it seemed so real.) All he could do was pat her dum-
sily on me back and murmur, "Easy, babe, easy."
"It broke my heart to watch him," Cassandra said, able to

36   Richard Matbeson

speak once more. She drew in a lengthy, trembling breath/
then raised her head and shook it slowly. "Followed by
three long months up here, watching him sink a little
deeper into despair every day."

I felt myself swallow. Max had seemed very gloomy in the
past few months. His attentions and words to me had been
dispensed with enervated melancholy- I had equated it
with his unhappy marriage.

But his career?

Now Cassandra clutched at Harry's arms so tightly that it
made him wince.

"You're his best friend. Harry," she told him. (There she
lost me.) "You're his only friend." (Lost me double!) "M you
can't talk him into this..."

She sobbed/ began to cry again. If it was an act, it was of
Tony, Oscar, and Emmy caliber.

"Easy, babe/' he said. "I think he's changed his mind,
mat's why he asked me here today. Ifs gonna work."

She looked at him uneasily. "Did he say anything in par-
ticular that makes you think that?" she asked.

"No, but why else would he ask me here?" he counter-
questioned. "Like I said, if he wanted to say no, he could
have done it on the telephone."

"I suppose." She still didn't sound convinced.

"Has he been to a doctor?" Harry asked.

A doctor, for God's sake? Now what were they talking
about?

Cassandra's sigh had been a heavy one. "He won't go to a
doctor," she said.

"You mink he's afraid of what he might find out?" Harry
asked her.

She shook her head- "I just don't know."

Harry grimaced. "He's not that old," he said. "What,
fifty-one?"

Now You See H...   37

"Fifty-two," she answered.

"That's not old."

"His father wasn't that old either," said Cassandra.

That sent a chill right through me, let me tell you. Had
Max also suffered a stroke, albeit a mini? Enough to dimin-
ish his physical and mental capabilities?

The thought was shocking to me.

Cassandra had walked to the picture window and was gaz-
ing out. "It's going to rain," she murmured. She sighed
again and looked toward the desk chair as though Max
were sitting there. Another sigh. Moving to the chair, she
pushed idly at its high back, making it revolve-

She men began to pace the room, her expression one of
mounting anguish. (I hated the ambivalent emotions she
was arousing in me.)

"I remember every detail of the night I first saw him," she
said. "The Orpheum in London. God, he was magnificent!
The most majestic-looking man I ever saw on stage!" Of
course, she'd never seen me. "The way he moved. The
grace—the flow—me total, overpowering magnetism of
him! It was awesome! The audience was his slave. And so
was I,"

She was at the fireplace now, staring into its shadowy
depths. She shook her head, a smile of bitter self-reproach
on her Ups. "But I'm living in the past," she said. "All I see
now is a crumbling edifice. A parody of what he was." (This
was more in keeping with the Cassandra I knew; or, the
Cassandra I thought I knew.)

Harry moved to her and put his arms around her once
again. She leaned against him wearily.

"He's going to let you do it, babe," he said.

"I don't know that. Harry," she responded.

38   Richard Matheson

"Babe, he isn't going to let the whole act die/' he said.
"He's not a stupid man." (That much Harry had correct at
any rate.)

"I hope so," Cassandra murmured-

She straightened up, a look of grim determination on her
face.

"I can do it. Harry," she declared. "I've worked for years!
I'm not saying I'm as good as he is." How modest of her.
"But I can do magic. I can do it."

"Shh. Babe. Easy." Harry was patting her back again.
"Am I arguing with you? I want to see you make it too; you
know that. I want to see you playing the best clubs and the-
aters in me country—hell, in the world! The first really im-
portant female magician!"

Using the act that I—then Max—developed over the past half-
century, I thought, a bile of angry resentment adding my in-
sides.

"It's gonna happen/ babe," Harry told her confidently.
Bastard, I thought

"I can do it. Harry!" she said/ her tone a fierce one now.
Max really had a battle on his hands, I saw.

"Sure you can," said Harry. "That's why I'm here- To
make it happen."

Cassandra visibly calmed herself. She looked at him al-
most pleadingly. "You're my last hope. Harry," she said.
'Tf it doesn't happen today..."

What was going to happen mat day was eons beyond
what any of us could have imagined in our wildest flight of
fancy-

"IfU happen," Harry said though, unaware. "Take my
word for it."

She looked hopeful for a moment. "It would be so simple
to update me act," she said.

Ah-ha, I thought. So that was it.

Now Yw Sn It..  39

"The basic effects are there, as good as ever. All they need
is modernizing; we could do it easily."

Poor Max, I thought

"We could be on top again," she said. "He could be on
top again. Where he belongs." Was she, in fact, sincere then?
"That's what I want—for both of us." No way.

"Come on now, babe," Harry reassured her. He bussed
her lightly on the cheek. "It's in the bag."

She managed a sound of amusement. "If you can manage
this, I'll toast you with me best champagne in town."

He ran a hand down her back and across the curve of a
buttock; a Kendal move if mere ever was one- "Well, I
might want just a little more," he said.

He had begun to kiss her when she stiffened, looking to-
ward the desk chair. My eyeballs struggled to the task of
seeing what she saw.

In pushing me chair she had caused it to stop moving
when it was reversed. (Or had it been reversed when none
of us was looking?)

A puff of gray-white smoke was rising from the chair
now.

Cassandra jerked away from Harry, looking stricken;

mat's me word.

Noting her expression and the fixed direction of her gaze,
he, too, looked toward me chair. (That made three of us.)
They stared at it in choked silence.

At last the chair turned slowly to reveal me final principal
in me murderous drama about to unfold.

My son, Maximilian Delacorte.

Max was still a very handsome man. His hair, though
streaked with gray, was full and dark. His vandyke beard
set off the perfect cut of his features. Like me/ he was tall
and well-proportioned, his presence something to behold.
(As in all modesty I say it—mine was too.)

He wore a wine-red smoking jacket over his white shirt
and four-in-hand tie. Around his neck hung a gold chain
with a pair of glasses dangling from it. m the fingers of his
left hand/ he held the thin cigar he was smoking.

He blew out smoke and smiled at mem. "Good after-
noon/' he said. His tone was mild. He must not have heard
them plotting, I thought He sounded too benign.

Cassandra and Harry could only stare (perhaps gape is
the word) at him, so caught off guard were they. Uke my-
self, they were clearly wondering how long he'd been sit-
ting there and what he'd heard. Unlike me, they were (I
hope) ridden with guilt and dreading that he'd heard it all.

Max looked across the room at me and signaled, smiling.
"And good afternoon to you. Padre," he said.

Now You See It..   41

How I wished I could return his smile and signal. Lord
above, how I wished I could blow me whistle on those two;

those three if I included Brian with his most suspicious fac-
simile of Cassandra-
It now became apparent that Harry, at least, was wonder-
ing more man whether Max had heard his plot or no.

He was also wondering where in God's name Max had
come from in the first place. The chair had been empty, and
it stood behind me desk with no proximity to any wall Max
might have popped from.

It then became evident that Cassandra was wondering
the same thing.

Unlike Harry, however, she meant to use me puzzle as a
means to—hopefully—gloss over what Max might have
heard of their conversation—or, for that matter, seen of
their physical adhesion.

She pointed at the chair. "When did you build tfut?" she
asked, her tone indicating a chiding amusement she could
not possibly have been experiencing.

Max smiled pleasantly. "When you were in Bermuda,"
he said. (Would I ever forget those three lovely weeks of her
absence?)

"Well, you really caught us by surprise," she said, trying
to retain mat gloss of amusement in her voice.

"Did I?" Max sounded almost childlike in his gratifica-
tion at having succeeded with me illusion. I knew the feel-
ing of course, but I wished mat he didn't feel it at that
particular moment.

Cassandra made a sound of amusement again. "You've
been saving that for the perfect moment, haven't you?" she
accused.

"You like it?" he asked.

"Do I like it?" she responded scoldingly. "You know very
well I like it- Ifs a wonderful effect."

He smiled and nodded, gratified again. "It is," he agreed,

42  Richard MatfceuR

Harry began to speak in an attempt to parallel Cassan-
dra's pose that nothing was amiss. But Cassandra spoke
first "You came in through there," she said, pointing to the
floor beneath the chair.

Max nodded. "Trap door—indistinguishable, of course."

"It's marvelous/' she told him.

Harry broke his silence with a burst of (excessive) enthu-
siasm. "Marvelous?" he cried. "Ifs dynamite! Hey, Max!"

He moved behind the desk, where Max stood to greet
him. Was I the only one to note how labored Max's move-
ments were? No, at least one other person noted it as well.

Max took Harry's thrust-out hand in both of his.

"How are you, pal?" asked Harry.

"Very well/ old friend," Max answered. "And you?"

"Not complaining," Harry replied.

Max smiled at him; a tired smile, I thought. "You've been

lying in the sun," he said.

"You know me. Max," said Harry with a grin. "A little
sun, a little run. Keeps the blood in motion."

Max reached up to touch Harry's hair. "Plugs flourish-
ing, I see," he teased.

Harry chuckled, obviously not pleased to have his im-
plants mentioned. I wished I could have laughed aloud. I

hadn't known about them.
"Not bad, anh?" said Harry, pretending that he wasn't

displeased.

At which point in the procedure, who should stride into
the room but Brian? As himself now naturally, hair dark,
male clothes, his resemblance to Cassandra nonetheless ap-
parent "Hi," he said to Harry, smiling.

"How you doin', kid?" Harry responded. He extended
his right hand and Brian squeezed it in momentary greet-
ing.

"Fine," said Brian. "How are you?"

"Couldn't be better," Harry said.

Now You See It-  43

"Good," said Brian.

Their politesse was total sham. Harry had nothing but
contempt for Brian, whom he regarded as a no-talent leech,
a gofer to the bone. Brian, in turn, loathed Harry for a num-
ber of reasons which will presently emerge; I have to follow
the rules of proper story-telling, don't I?

At any rate, they smiled and spoke most pleasantly to one
another. Absolute hypocrisy.

It was going to be that kind of day.

Brian removed a slip of paper from his shirt pocket and
handed it to Max. "Everything you want on here?" he
asked. Everything I have to gofer? I added in my mind.

Max put his glasses on and perused the list. He nodded.
"I believe so. Aren't you a little late departing, though?"

Brian shook his head. "Train doesn't leave for thirty min-
utes."

"You off?" asked Harry, totally disinterested, I knew, but
maintaining his pose of sociability—an agent's skill.

"Have to pick up props in Boston," Brian told him.

"Ah-ha." Harry nodded. "Have a good trip, then."

Brian nodded. "Thank you." He turned to Cassandra.
"We'd better go," he said.

"Be right with you," she replied. "Wait in the car."

"All right." Once more, Brian smiled at Harry. "Nice to
see you again," he said.

"The same," said Harry, reciprocating the lie.

"See you later. Max," Brian said.

Max did not reply but raised one languid hand. I didn't
really know what he thought of Brian. I had always as-
sumed that, however kindly disposed he might be to his
young brother-in-law, he could not have had too much re-
spect for him. How little respect I found out later.

44   Richard Matbeson

Brian walked to the doorway and exited into the entry

hall.

As he did/ Cassandra turned to Max with a look of grave
concern. "Harry told me you asked him to come here," she
said. "I hope—"

She broke off, sighing. "Well, you know what I hope,"

she added.

Moving to Max, she kissed him on the left cheek, men re-
garded him anxiously. "It can all be what it was," she said.

Max smiled at her. "Let's see what happens," he told her.

Never had a harrowing event-to-be been heralded with
such offhandedness.

Cassandra looked at him as though she hoped to pene-
trate his eyes and see into his very thoughts. Then< with an
evanescent smile, she turned toward the doorway. "See you
in a little while," she said. She glanced at Harry. "I've driv-
ing Brian to the station," she explained.

"Good." He nodded. "Give me boss and me a chance to

talk."

Another fleeting smile from her. "Will you still be here
when I get back?" she asked.

"How long?" he responded.

"Less than an hour."

"I imagine so," said Harry. "Though I do have to get back
to Boston by early evening." (The well-laid plans...)

Cassandra nodded and left, closing the door. Harry and
Max watching her departure.

After she was gone. Harry smiled at Max. "Quite a gal
you've got there," he said.

"Quite a gal," repeated Max. For several seconds he
looked at Harry, face expressionless. What is he thinking? I

wondered.

Then he smiled. "Well< old friend," he said, "I thank you
for coming."

"My pleasure, pal," Harry replied expansively.

NowYouSMH...  45

Max gestured toward the chairs. "Shall we?" he inquired.

Harry's smile was wry; at least, he thought it was. "Thafs
what I'm here for," he responded-

He moved to me chair, where he had set down his attache
case and hat, which he picked up and placed on the table.

m the meantime. Max had headed for the bar. Glancing
over. Harry noticed (as I did, worriedly) his sluggish gait
and grimaced to himself.

"Your usual Scotch?" asked Max.

"No, no, just a diet soda if you have it," Harry answered.
'Too early for the hard stuff."

Max peered beneath the bar and came up with a can of
Diet Coke. "Are you hungry?" he asked.

Harry shook his head. "No. Had my little health-food
breakfast before I left Boston."

Max pulled the can tab free and asked, "Why Boston?"
He picked up the silver tongs to put ice cubes in a glass.

"Opening tonight," said Harry. "Client of mine."

"Sounds exciting/" commented Max.

"It is—for him," said Harry. "His first play. A murder
mystery."

"Never can believe them," Max replied; it was a remark
immersed in irony, considering what was about to happen.

"Neither can I," fawned Harry. "But the public likes 'em
if they're well done. This one is."

"Glad to hear it," Max responded, starting over with the
glass of Diet Coke on ice cubes. Harry hesitated, then appar-
ently telt compelled to say, "You're movin7 kind o' slow,
pal."

"Am I?" Max reached me chairs and handed the drink to
Harry.

"Thanks, Max," Harry murmured, watching Max settle
into the other chair with a faint, but unmistakably weary,
groan- What's going on? I thought; I've never seen him look so
bad.

46   Richard Mathecu

Harry winced at the sight but managed a smile as Max
looked over at him. He held me glass up toastingly. "To the
best," he said.

Max appeared amused as Harry took a sip of Diet Coke,
then set the glass down on me table. Max lifted a cigar box
from the table and raised its lid, holding it out to Harry,
who gestured no. "That stuffll kill you/' he remarked; an-
other inadvertently ironic statement.

"The least of my problems at the moment," Max replied.

His voice sounded so tired that Harry nearly commented
on it, I noted. Then/ changing direction/ Harry gestured to-
ward the casket, grinning. "Love that figure in mere," he
said- "A new gimmick maybe?"

Max shook his head. "]ust wanted to see what I'd look
like."

"Jesus Christ." Harry made a face. "Cassandra told me
mat, but I couldn't really believe her."

"Why not?" asked Max in mild surprise.

Harry looked askance at him. "Max," he said.

"My future home inside my present one," Max said.
"Seems logical to me."

"Come on." Clearly, Harry still had trouble believing it;

but men, he was unable to approach me thinking of a Dela-
corte.

Max smiled tiredly, flexing his fingers with effort, winc-
ing as he did. Again I noted Harry on the verge of saying
something, then discarding the idea. He took another sip of
Diet Coke and set the glass back down. "All right," he said.
"Shall we get on with it?"

The lid of Pandora's box was about to be raised.

N

o, wait. Before we do," said Harry. I saw him brace him-
self. "You know Cassandra's really worried about you."

"She's said so," Max acknowledged.

"Said so?" Harry frowned. "You don't believe her?"

Max did not reply. Stubbing out his cigar on an ashtray,
he reached down beside himself on me chair and picked up
a red billiard ball; I hadn't noticed it mere. (Well, my obser-
vation powers weren't perfect, you know, as you will see.)

Tossing the ball into his left hand, he dropped it back into
his right.

"Max, you know she's on your side," said Harry.

Max did not respond. Again, he tossed the ball into his
left hand, letting it drop to his right once more.

A third time, he made me tossing motion, but me ball
now disappeared. (Palmed in his right, of course, the ele-
mentary Throw Vanish.)

"Max, she wants the best for you," Harry told him.

His features hardened as Max continued playing with the
billiard ball, causing it to Reproduce, then Reproduce again,

48   Richard Matheson

his face intent as he performed "Twirls" with his thumb
and forefinger to prove that what was actually a shell was
another solid billiard ball.

An attempted "Acquitment" (transfer of the ball from
right to left hand) to create another "Vanish" failed/ and the
billiard ball fell to his lap. Angrily, he picked it up again.

"Max, come on," said Harry, trying to sound patient—in
vain.

Max said nothing but began again, the billiard ball
becoming two/ then three. He waved his right hand up and
down, the ball between his first and middle fingers' 'hinged
back" into the shell. Now you've got it. Sonny boy, I thought.

At which/ he dropped the ball again. It bounced off his
lap to hit the carpeting and roll away. Max slumped back
and closed his eyes. "Tada," he muttered, a forlorn fanfare
to his faltering hands- (I felt his despair; only another magi-
cian could truly say that.)

"Let it go, pal," Harry told him, revealing unmistakably
with those words mat he could not possibly understand.
"We have Vegas to discuss." He was unable to conceal the
edge of irritation in his voice.

Max opened his eyes. "Yes," he agreed. "We have Vegas
to discuss."

Rising from his chair. Harry retrieved me fallen billiard ball
and set it on me table. Then, reseating himself, he opened
his attache case and removed two copies of a contract,
handing one to Max, who put on his glasses to read it.

Noticing the lenses. Harry asked, "A little thick, aren't
they?"

"One step removed from a Seeing Eye dog," Max an-
swered.

Harry did not attempt to conceal his grimace. "Can't you
get contacts or something?"

Now You See H...   49

"Hadn't thought about it," Max replied.

"Well, think about it," Harry said. "I have another client
who had bad eyesight, cataracts. Implants gave him back
his vision better wan it ever was." Another grimace. "How
long has this been going on?"

"Some little time now."

Harry whistled softly. "That's no good. Max. Have you
seen a doctor?" Since he already knew me answer to that, I
presumed he wanted to hear Max's version of the situation.

"What for?" Max responded. "\ know what the diagnosis
. would be. 'You're going blind, Mr. Delacorte.' Who needs
to hear it?"

"Blind, Max?" Harry stared at him, appalled; but not half
as much as I was. When had all this started?

"Well, not quite," Max said. "It's coming, though."

Harry swallowed, looking at his client, not his friend, I
know. As it turned out, he was doubtless wondering if his
visit and intended conversation were pointless now.

He drew in a straining breath Aen, Oh, well, he thought
(my guess). May as well go on with it. If it turns out to be
pointless, let it happen when I'm somewhere else-1 think I
read his mind correctly. One-dimensional at best, con-
nected directly to his facial muscles.

"Okay," he said. "Let's move on."

Max cupped a hand behind his left ear. "Pardon?"

Harry stared at him, expression pained. (It looked
pained, anyway.) "Your hearing, too?" he asked.

Max didn't answer.

"Have you tried a hearing aid?" asked Harry.

Max shook his head.

"Have you considered trying a hearing aid?" Harry per-
sisted.

"I've considered everything," Max said. "Including sui-
*•   dde."

50   Richard Mattiexon

Oh, Sonny, no! my mind cried out. I would have wept if
tears could flow.

Harry had twitched at Max's words. "Hey. Max," he said.
"I don't want to hear you talk like that." (He didn't want to
hear it!)

Max said nothing, looking at the contract.

Harry swallowed, took a sip of Diet Coke, paused, then
went on. "About the act itself," he said- Back to business;

that was Harry.

Max directed a warning look at him.

"Max, it's got to be discussed," said Harry. "You're playing
a game with yourself by ignoring it."

Max started to speak but, sensing a power position,
Harry cut him off. "Look," he said, "you're a performer in
the grand tradition." He knew about grand tradition? What
a shock. "You always have been. No one's ever going to
take mat from you. You made magic into an art form."

"My father made it into an art form," Max corrected him.
"I merely sustained the tradition." God bless you for that. Son.

"Whatever," Harry said, disinterested. "Thafs not the
point. The point is, you're closing your mind to the facts of
life.

"Ifs not nineteen-thirty anymore—or the forties or me
fifties; or the sixties. What was good enough for your father
and you doesn't cut it anymore. By me way, does he have to
be in here?"

"Yes," said Max. "Ifs his favorite room. Are you con-
cerned about what he might hear?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Harry.

"Nothing," Max said. Something, I thought. "Go on."

Harry bared his teeth, then continued. "Ifs nineteen-
eighty, pal. Las Vegas. Lake Tahoe. Reno. Theaters in places
that were the sticks when you started out. Television. Cable-
Pay-per-view. Video cassettes.

"Look at Henning; Copperfield. Everything they do is

Now You See It..   51

now, Max! Now! Quick. Smart- Vivid. State of the art. Ifs no
accident they're where they are. Ifs not the effects. Ifs not!
Your effects are still the best. But what you're doing with
them is behind the times, passe. You aren't up to date,
you're out of touch. Can't you see mat? Cassandra can."

Max stiffened noticeably at that, but Harry, sensing his

position strengthening, pressed on.
"She knows what's going on. Max," he said. "Let her help

you."
He braced himself; that was easy to see. "Especially now

that your health is ... giving you problems." I'm sure he
was about to use the word "failing," then didn't have the

guts.
Even so, I saw the skin drawn tight across Max's cheeks.

"All right, I shouldn't have said mat," Harry retreated.

"But you did," said Max.

Harry's features tightened then. "Yes, I did," he said.
"Ifs said. And—" He gritted his teem. "Well, damn it, ifs

the truth, isn't it?"
Max said nothing, gazing at his agent with unblinking

eyes, intimidating him-

"All right," Harry said. "I'm sorry. Shall we forge on?"

He flipped over the first page of the contract- "You're in
luck," he said. "The casino still wants you. Which, under
the circumstances..." He let the sentence hang.

"Baltimore?" asked Max.

Harry's gesture said. What else? (My God/ how bad had it

been? I wondered.)

"Word travels quickly," Max observed.

"As quickly as a phone call," Harry said. He flipped
more contract pages. "The figures are on page six. And, I
might add, lots more bucks than they cared to be parted

from."

Max only stared at him.
Harry was about to go on when he heard me same faint

52 Richard Mtfcum

sound that I did and looked around. "What's that?" he mut-
tered.

Max cupped a hand behind his right ear. "Pardon?"
"I-heard-a-noise," Harry said, exaggerating his pronun-
ciation.

Max gestured vaguely. "I didn't hear anything," he said.
(If he hadn't, he really was going deaf; I'd heard it clearly.)

Harry nodded disgnmuedly. "Okay." He looked back at
the contracts. "Never mind. You on page six?"
"Page six," Max said.

'^ou see what it is then," Harry told him. "Ten weeks.
Two shows a night. Seventeen-fifty per. You understand
the conditions?"

Max remained silent, and I saw how Harry tensed. Max
always could get on his nerves—those gray-blue eyes, the
autocratic demeanor; like faAer, like son.

"Do-you-understand-the-conditions?" Harry asked,
once more verbally exaggerating.

When Max still didn't reply. Harry continued quickly,
curtly. "Co-billing for Cassandra. Your policy regarding
partial nudity to be dismissed. I'm talking topless at the
very least. Not Cassandra, of course." His smile was per-
nmctory-

They gazed at one another and, like Harry, I began to
wonder what my son was thinking; his expression was un-
revealing, a face carved from stone.

"Well?" asked Harry.

As though in response to his words, the sound occurred
again, not faintly this time. Very distinct. A chuckle.

Coming from the direction of the globe.

Harry scowled. "That I know you heard," he said. "I
know you made it happen, too."

The smile on Max's lips was somewhat more guarded
than that of the Mona Lisa.

Harry stood and moved toward the globe. Max rose to

Now You See It.   53

follow. "Its a new illusion," he said. "I'm not prepared to
show it yet"

"You shouldn't have used it on me, then," said Harry
with a tight smile.

"You may not like it," Max warned.

"111 take me chance," said Harry.

Reaching the globe, he examined it, finding no special

feature.

He ran his hand across tihe curved surface.

Then he jerked it back abruptly as the outer layer of the
globe rolled downward, revealing a glass globe under-
neath. I reacted with surprise; to what extent I could.

Harry positively twitched, so startled was he by the sight
that he could not prevent a gasp from pulling back his lips.

Inside the globe was a head.

His.

cftapter7

H

any gasped at the head. There was no denying it was his-
It looked real in every way.
Its eyes were closed.

"Jesus H. Christ/' said Harry. Bending over, he took a
closer look.

The head was larger than lifesize, I now saw. Still, it
looked completely real. When did Max do this ? I wondered. It
had to have been at night when I was sleeping; when every-
one was sleeping-

"What the hell—" muttered Harry.

He twitched again, shuddering this time and jerking
erect.

The eyes of the head had opened and were looking up at
him.

"Holy Jesus," Harry muttered.

Then a grin of pleasure creased his face and he turned to
Max.

"You son of a bitch," he said in delight. "You tricky son
of a bitch."

NgwYwS—H- 55

"You like it?" Max inquired.

"LQce it? Law if" Harry exploded. He squinted at the
head. "But what the hell is it?" he asked.

''Laser-produced, holographically processed, stored im-
agery/' Max answered.

Harry gave him a hooded look. "Yeah, thafs what I
thought it was," he said. He peered at the head/ which
peered back. (Two Harry Kendals in the same room; a true
example of superfluity.) "A Three-D movie, right?" he

asked-
Max repressed a smile. "A bit more involved than that,"

he said. I felt awed pride in him. He'd carried magic into the
technological age. God bless him.

"Controlled by—" Harry regarded him questioningly.

Max removed a small remote-control box from the left-
hand pocket of his smoking jacket and held it up. Harry
beamed. "You son of a bitch," he said fondly.

He tapped the globe. "Now thafs what I've been talking
about," he said. "This is today."

"Indeed it is," said Max, meaning something other than
Harry did (we soon discovered).

Harry was enthusing now. "Audiences are going to love
it, pal! It's state of me art! Las Vegas will—"

"Forget it. Harry," interrupted Harry's head. "Las Vegas
is out. Max didn't ask you here to talk about Las Vegas."

Harry and I were born astonished, staring at the head. He
began to laugh, then stopped as the words he'd just heard

registered.
'   "I don't get it/' he said, the edge of irritation in his voice

again.
He looked back at the head as it began to speak once

more.

"Allow me to explain," it said. "The Great Delacorte has
been a star for almost twenty years—as ha father was
before him. The Great Delacorte springs from a half-century

56   Riekard I

tradition of art and craft. Like his father. The Great Dda-
corte has been honored before crowned heads of Europe.

"Yet you ask him now to entertain a herd of sheep. A
gathering of dolts whose greatest passion lies in feeding
coins to slot machines- The Great Delacorte has been ac-
claimed. Respected. Celebrated. World renowned."

The voice of me head was venomous now, charged with
hatred.

"Did you really think," it said, "mat The Great Delacorte
would display his wonders on the bottom of an ornamented
garbage can?"

It may have been my most frustrating moment in those
fourteen years—a desperate yearning to applaud with
hands mat lay like sides of beef on my lap.

Harry had been stunned into silence; even anger was un-
available to him, he was so shocked.

Then anger started rising.

"Did you ask—" He broke off, furious; he had begun to
ask a question of me head.

Turning sharply to Max, he demanded, "Did you ask me
all the way up here to have mis goddam gizmo tell me off?"

"m part," said Max.

The answer drifted over Harry's head as he stormed on.
"You knew before I came mat you were going to say no,
didn't you?"

Max didn't answer. He depressed a button on the remote
control and me outer layer of the globe glided back into
place. Max returned me box to his pocket.

Harry was in a rage now. '"You had no intention of taking
me Vegas job!" he railed. "Of letting Cassandra even try to
help you, much less share co-billing! Or of improving your
goddam act one goddam little bit!"

With a grimace of disgust, he turned abruptly for me
table by me chair. "Thanks to you, I've got a nice long, time-
wasting ride back to Boston now/' he snarled.

Now Yw See It.  57

"What you, euphemistically, refer to as 'the Vegas job'
consists of second billing in a downtown burlesque show,"
said Max.

"We take what we can get, babe," Harry muttered, start-
ing to return the contracts to his attache case.

"Like Magic Max, me half-wit host on me TV kiddie
show?" Max asked. (That would have made me groan if I
could have; I'd never heard about it.)

"It was good money," Harry snapped. "If you had any
brains, you'd have grabbed it."

"Uke 'Delacorte's Dandy Magic Kif for preschool tod-
dlers?" Max responded.

"It was good money, pal." (Dear God, hit him. Max! my brain
cried.)

Harry slammed shut his attache case, then tossed it on the
chair, turning to confront Max.

"I've got news for you," he said. (The man actually
sneered as he spoke.) "Maybe you haven't figured it out yet,
but The Great Delacorte has had it. m touch with the nicking
mysterious has had it. People wanna laugh today. Have fun.
Be entertained."

"Yucks?" asked Max.

"You got it."

"Shtick?"

"Right on."

"Razzmatazz ?"

"Now you're talking." Harry was still sneering.

"How about changing the name of the act to Necromancy
and Knockers?" Max suggested. "Bewitchment and Boobs? In
Touch with the Mammaries?"

"Right!" Harry shouted.

"Wrong!" Max shouted back.

"Well, set me straight, 0 Great and Glorious Delacorte,"
Harry derided.

58   Richard Matbesm

Max had to smile at Harry's words. "That, I fear, would
take an act of God," he said.

Harry made a contemptuous sound and started for the
desk. Max moved to block his way—with an energy unex-
pected by me as well as by Harry. "Usten to me!" he said.

Harry looked at him suspiciously but wouldn't stop to
listen; he started to move by Max/ who clamped a hand on
his arm with a grip so strong it made Harry wince. "Listen to
me, I said," Max told him.

"J thought you were sick," Harry said.

"That is me effect I have created, yes," Max responded.
(My attention/ now, was really caught.)

Harry's eyes had narrowed. "What?" he said.

"Here is me reality/' Max went on/ pointing at Harry. "I
have no intention of degenerating with the marketplace. I
will not 'do' downtown Vegas, playing a buffoon in a
breakaway tuxedo while surrounding chorus girls display
their silicone-enhanced protuberances.

'Neither will I 'do' moronic kiddie shows on television. I
will not create and market magic kits for second-graders. I
will not perform at fairs or conventions or the openings of
supermarkets. I will not 'do' witless commercials,

"m brief, I will not despoil an act which I have nurtured
carefully for fourteen years—which my father nurtured for
fifty years. Failing eyesight, hearing on the wane, dexterity
declining, I am still The Great Delacorte and I will not dis-
honor that most honorable of names!"

I felt a double-edged reaction in my vitals.

On the one hand/1 felt utter agony mat Max had been
confronted by such humiliating offers.

On the other hand, I felt utter pride in his response to
mem, more pride than I had ever felt for him before.

Harry, needless to say, felt neither emotion—if he felt
emotion at all, which I doubt. He gazed at Max with a bale-


Now You Sea ft...   59

ful expression. "Sorry," he said. "I thought you needed
money. My mistake."

He started by Max, who grabbed his arm again, restrain-
ing him.

"If I wanted money," Max informed him, "I'd sell my
blood. My soul is not for sale."

Bravo, Sonny! If only I could have shouted it aloud.

Harry regarded Max with cold amusement. "Big words,
my friend," he said.

Pulling loose, he walked around Max and headed for the
desk again.

"True words," Max told him. "And you are certainly not
my friend. Not anymore."

"You're breaking my heart," said Harry.

Reaching the desk, he picked up the telephone and
punched out a number, placing the receiver to his ear.

Max followed him. Among the items on his desk was a
long Arabian dagger in an ivory sheath. Max picked it up.

"Do you have any notion whatsoever how demanding it
can be to function as a stage illusionist?" he asked.

Harry ignored him but I paid dose attention, feeling a
warmth of nostalgic pleasure. These were words I'd spoken
to Max many times in the past.

Harry spoke into the mouthpiece. "This is Kendal," he
said. "Put Linda on."

"A skilled illusionist must also be a skilled actor," Max
continued.

"Linda? Harry," he told his secretary. "Call Resnick and
tell him mat I'm on my way back to Boston; I'll probably be
late."

"The actor makes us look at something, the magician
makes us not look," Max told him at the same time.

"Yeah, right; okay," Harry said into the telephone. "Call
him now."

60   Richard Mathesofl

He put down the receiver and gazed apathetically at
Max, who was saying/ "Two sides of the same coin. The il-
lusion of reality versus the reality of illusion. The magic of
drama versus the drama of magic." (He remembered every
word, bless him.)

Harry's cheeks puffed out as he exhaled, a look of bore-
dom on his face- He started back toward me chair on which
his attache case was lying.

"Do you know how I became The Great Delacorte?" Max
asked, following again. Harry didn't even look at him. "I
wasn't born The Great Delacorte, you know," Max con-
tinued. "I had to work to perfect the character. Just as my
father had to—"

"Well, it's me vmmg character, old boy!" Harry cut him
off, pointing an accusing finger at him. "That highfalutin'
bullshit may have been hot stuff when Roosevelt was in the
White House, but it doesn't sell a nickel's worth today! You
need something different now! Something—"

He broke off in disgust and moved to the chair- "You
don't want to listen to advice. You know it all," he said.

Picking up his attache case, he opened it and searched in-
side.

"Sit down. Harry," Max told him.

"I don't have time to sit down, pal/' said Harry, his face
distorted by animosity, then by fury. "Where in me fucking
hell is the fucking number of that fucking cab company?"
he raged.

"Sit down, Harry," Max repeated.

"I don't haoe time—"

His voice stopped as he heard the (chilling) sound of the
dagger blade being snatched from its sheath.

Heavy silence. Harry stared at Max incredulously. (So
did I.)

"Are you threatening me?" Harry finally asked.

Now You See K...   61

Max did not reply. The dagger, pointed upward in his
right hand, lowered.

Thinking he had won the point. Harry checked his gold-
banded Rolex. "All right," he said. "You have five minutes,
and get rid of that fucking knife."

"Dagger," Max corrected.

And he jerked his right arm up as though to hurl it
straight at Harry's chest.

H

ley!" cried Harry, alarmed and angry at the same time.

Several moments more of threat, Max's gray-blue eyes
unblinking as he looked at Harry.

"Hey!" said Harry again, thoroughly intimidated.

Max stared at him.

Then, turning, he hurled me dagger at me lobby display.
Harry (and I, it felt like) jolted as the blade pierced me fig-
ure of The Great Delacorte.

"How appropriate," Max observed- "Right through the
heart."

A rumble of distant thunder made Harry shudder—as
though me gods had Just declared their displeasure.

Max and Harry stared at one another. Finally, Harry
found his (labored) voice. "You're crazy. Max," he said.
"You know that?"

"There is that possibility," Max answered calmly. "Mad-
ness is afoot in mis house. Don't you feel it?" I saw that ha
smile was unnerving to Harry. "The very air tingles with
it."

Now You See H..   63

He was right; it did.

Max turned abruptly for the fireplace. "And now," he
said, "sit down."

"Max, I have to go," said Harry. His tone was not aggres-
sive anymore, but mollifying.

Moving swiftly. Max took down the pair of dueling pis-
tols, put one on the desk and, carrying the other, returned to
Harry, who watched him in uneasy silence. "What are you
doing?" Harry murmured.

Max cupped his right hand behind his ear. "Pardon?"

"Vfhat are you doing?" Harry repeated.

"I loaded mem this morning/" Max replied, his answer
an apparent non sequitur.

"What?" asked Harry.

"1 said—"

"I heard what you said," Harry interrupted. "What do
you mean, you loaded mem?"

Max extended the pistol with his right hand, pointing it at
Harry's heart. "I loaded them for use," he said. "Now will
you kindly sit down?"

"You can't be serious about this," Harry protested. But
neither he nor I had any doubt regarding Max's seriousness.

Which was proven as Max extended his arm all me way,
me dark eye of the barrel quite dose to Harry's chest now.

With a swallow dry enough for me to hear across me
room. Harry sat down in the chair, placing his hat and at-
tache case back on me table.

"Do you really want your father here?" he asked, his tone
weak.

"Oh, yes, definitely," Max replied. "I want him to hear it
all. I only hope to God that, somewhere in his brain, he's
capable of understanding and appreciating what I'm
doing."

Oh, Sonny, Sonny, yes I am. My brain the only part of me
mat really functioned then-

64   Richard Matheson

''Look, I don't know what the hell you are doing here,"
said Harry nervously, "but lefs not be impulsive. Lefs talk
about this. I think you need help, pal."

'The kind of help I got in Chicago?" Max asked softly.

Harry's face went blank.

"The kind of help I got in Des Moines?" asked Max. "In
New Orleans? hi Tampa?"

"What are you—"

"It took a little research on the last three," Max cut him
off. "But Chicago dropped right on me in the middle of an
afternoon this May. A phone call from a Mr. Charlie
Haines—"

"Wait a second," Harry said.

"—inquiring why you'd turned down his generous offer;

was I sick or something?" Max was glaring at Harry now,
the pistol aimed at his head. This is true? I thought.

"Max/ put that down," said Harry, trying in vain to
sound authoritative.

"Is that the kind of help I need?" asked Max.

"Max, I only did it to help," Harry said. My God, it is true,
I thought

"Curious help—pal/' responded Max. "Rejecting four
well-paying engagements without consulting me,"

"All right, I was wrong—"

His voice broke into a gasp of horror as Max abruptly
jammed the barrel against his forehead. "Yes, indeed you
were," said Max. "The question is, old friend... why?"

Harry tried to take in breath. He wasn't too successful at
it, and his voice wheezed as he replied, "Is the answer
worth killing me for?"

Max said/ "Absolutely."

With ha left hand, he drew back the pistol hammer.

Harry hissed, completely terrified, and closed his eyes,
his face a mask entitled Total Dread.

When nothing happened, he opened his eyes and peered

Now You See It.   65

up at my son, who towered over him, looking down with
godlike disdain.

Words tumbled from Harry's mouth as he said, "I
thought it would make you realize sooner that you needed
help, real help. I wasn't trying to hurt you'"

He positively whined as Max pressed the barrel end
tighter against his forehead. Good, I thought.

"Is that why you let that man look through my devices
while I was on stage that night in Philadelphia?" Max
asked.

"What?" asked Harry. What? asked my mind.

Harry groaned as Max pushed the pistol even harder
against his skull.

"All right, all right," said Harry, his voice thin and shak-
ing. "I was trying to get you some money."

"By letting that man steal my magic?" said Max. Oh, blow his
goddam brains out. Sonny! I thought.

Harry's Ups were trembling. Swallowing again, he
managed, "Nothing happened; Max."

"Nothing happened because it's not that easy to steal
Delacorte magic." (I'd seen to that.) His voice grew hard.
"But you were going to take a crack at it, weren't you?"

His finger tightened on the trigger. Harry whimpered, his
eyes shutting once again. "Dear God," he whispered.

Well, maybe this is not too good an idea after all, I thought.

Nothing happened.

Harry opened his eyes a crack to peer up at Max-
He reacted. I reacted.
Max was smiling.

"How tempting," he said, "to pull the trigger and ob-
serve your brains go flying- Every black, dismal shred of
them."

66   Richard Matheson

Another sound of dread from Harry, followed by a sound
of scoffing from my son.

"Everyone talks about how tough you are," he said.
"Toughest agent in the business. Harry Kendal. Made of
tempered steel."

He snickered- "Made of cottage cheese," he said. "Tough at
selling clients down the river, yes. At life, however—?"

He chuckled and shook his head. "—a total wimp."

He turned and walked away, headed toward the desk. I
must admit I felt a great relief. Whatever Harry had done—
and it must have been a lot—I didn't want to see my son a
murderer.

Obviously, he didn't want it either.

"What a blithering idiot you are," he said, tossing the pis-
tol onto the desk. "To even think that a man of my degree
would be capable of such barbaric murder. And in front of
my father!" His words shamed my original urge that he do
Just that.

Harry watched him blankly, wondering what Max was
planning next. I confess that I wondered, too.

The answer was immediate in coming as my son pulled
out the top middle drawer of the desk and removed a vial.

Holding it up for Harry to see, he set it down and lifted
the silver thermos decanter, pulled off its top and poured
water into a glass. Putting down the decanter, he un-
screwed the cover from the vial and shook four red capsules
into his palms. Oh, now what. Sonny? I thought uneasily.

Max tossed the capsules into his mouth and, with the
water, swallowed them.

"There," he said, "that should do it. Give me five min-
utes. Maybe ten."

Son! My mental voice was anguished.

Harry was still numbed by fright. He stared at Max un-
comprchendingly.

"What are you doing?" he muttered.

Now YOM Sea tt.   67

The hand behind the ear. Max inquired, "Pardon?"

"What are you doing?" Harry asked again, more loudly
now.

'Tast tense, old friend," Max answered- "What you
should say is, what have I done?"

Harry still didn't understand. I understood only too well.

Max tossed the empty vial to Harry—who tried to catch
it/ but missed; it fell into his lap. He picked it up and studied
it. There was no label- He looked back at Max in confusion.
Then he smelled the opening of the vial, wincing at the
odor.

"Bitter almonds," Max informed him.

Arsenic, I thought in horror.

"Arsenic," said Max.

"Oh, my God." Harry labored to bis feet. "You're crazy."

"I believe we've already established mat," said Max-
Harry rushed to the desk, his legs appearing somewhat
rubbery. He snatched up the telephone receiver.

"A waste of time," Max told-him calmly. I felt ill. "I'll be
.dead long before anyone can get here."

Harry looked^t him in agitation. "What the hell do you
expect me to do, just stand by and watch you die?" he de-
manded.

Why not? My thought was stricken. It's all 1 can do. Except
that I'll be sitting by instead.

"Just stand by," said Max, "and offer me the courtesy of
listening with attention for the last few minutes of my life."

"Ohy God," said Harry—and my mind—and stared at
Max.

Then he said, impulsively, "I'll drive you to the hospital
in your car!"

"There isn't time," Max told him quietly. The calmness of
his tone was chilling to my blood. "I have five to seven min-
utes left at most. Sit down."

"Jesus, Max!"

68   Richard Mathexon

"Sit down," said Max. His smile was thin. "And, for once
in your life/ listen to me."

"Jesus," Harry mumbled.

There's nothing I can do to stop this. There was utter, help-
less horror in my mind. Nothing!

Harry didn't sit; he couldn't. (I could do nothing but.) He
watched Max with a pained expression as my son began to
pace around the room-

'"Ihe more I get my circulation going, the less time it will
take," he said.

"Jesus, Max!"

Max raised a silencing hand.

"I never told you about Adelaide/ did I?" he asked. "My
true love. My only love. My wife. My friend. My treasure."

Not that, my mind pleaded. Adelaide had always been an
angel to me.

"I was married to her before you came along," continued
Max. "Before Cassandra came along."

Harry twitched (I may have done the same without sen-
sation) as Max's right leg seemed to buckle momentarily
and he staggered slightly. Harry made a sudden move to-
ward him, then stopped as Max walked on, a look of
haunted recollection on his face.

"Those were the best years of my life," he said. "We
loved each other deeply. I was happier than 1 have ever
been."

I closed my eyes and prayed to weep. I always knew that
Max adored her; I could see it in his every word and action,
in bis face. My son adored her as I'd adored my wife, and
both of us had lost those magic, wonderful relationships.

Max started to go on and/ for several seconds, his voice
grew thick. I saw him struggle to prevent its happening
again before he'd finished what he had to say.

"My Joy was her beside me," he continued, pacing once
again. "Her love unquestioning. I idolized her/ Harry. I'm

Now You Seed...   69

sure you think that such an emotion was never possible for
me. He knew though," he added, pointing at me. "He saw it
all"

I did, my son, I thought, agonized, opening my eyes again.

"She was, to me, everything that was good. Everything
that was pure and beautiful and innocent."

His last word was emphasized involuntarily, accompa-
nied by a wince of pain. Harry went stiff with apprehen-
sion.

For several moments. Max stood motionless, eyes hood-
ed, breathing slowly.

"Max, let me call an ambulance, for God's sake!" Harry
cried.

Max waved him off and started pacing once again, his
movements uneven now.

"She was carrying our child when die accident occur-
red/" he said, his voice tormented. I wished, in vain of
course, that I could, by closing my eyes, shut away the en-
tire scene.

"She was tired," Max said. "\ insisted mat she stay at
home- She wouldn't hear of it. She had to be on stage with
me. Helping me. Supporting me.

for God's sake, stop the self-torture! I thought.

Max stopped and leaned against the frame of the picture
window, breath erratic as he looked out toward the gazebo.
"Getting dark," he said. "A storm is coming."

He turned from the window, his expression rigid as
though to hold away the pain.

"It was too much for her," he said, beginning to pace
again, weaving now. (I stared at him in anguish.) "She mis-
judged. She didn't move quite fast enough. A piece of
heavy equipment fell."

He stopped, throwing a hand across his eyes as though to
blot away the memory of that hideous night.

70   Richard Mattcun

"My wife," he murmured brokenly- "Our child." He
threw back his head. "All in one dread moment!"

He clenched his teem, pushing his left hand to his stom-
ach.

"Max," said Harry.

Max paid no attention to him. Hand pressed hard against
his stomach, features set in a grimace of pain, he began to
pace again. I can't bear this, I thought.

"She's been dead for twelve years now/' he said. "Yet
still I love her—only her. My darling and my angel- There's
never been another like her. There never could be; never."

With a breathless cry of pain, he fell toward one of the
chairs, hands shooting down to brake himself on the chair
back.

He struggled to a standing position as Harry ran over, a
look of hapless dread on his face. Max reached out a trem-
bling hand to pat him weakly on the arm.

"This is the best way out. . . old friend," he mumbled,
sounding very weak. It's not the best way out/or me, my mind
screamed, half in terror, half in rage.

"It's not only Adelaide who's gone," Max continued. He
drew in a straining bream- "Everything is gone—you know
mat as well as I."

I'm not gone! I thought I may be useless, but I'm still arwnd!

Max groaned and clenched his teeth again, hand pressed
to his stomach. "God," he murmured.

He forced a smile; there was no amusement in it. "Yes,
everything is gone," he said. "My hands, my eyes, my ears,
my marriage, my career." He paused. "And now my life/"
he finished.

I'm not gone. Sonny, my thought, admittedly, one of
wretchedness.

With a brief, hollow cry. Max dropped to his knees beside
the chair, twisting in a paroxysm of pain, eyes staring, face a
mask of agony.

Now You See It...   71

Harry managed to help him into the chair, and Max
slumped back, his breathing labored. "God," he said again.
He began to gag, unable to breath. His mouth opened, and
his tongue lolled out for several moments.

Then, with a wheezing moan, his body convulsed, jerked
a few times, and went limp, his eyes falling shut.

I felt my heartbeat thudding heavily, an old drum in the
cavity of my chest, beaten with a slow and weary stroke. I
wondered why it hadn't split in two.

Harry gaped in silence at my son. Finally, he spoke.
"Jesus/" he said. "Oh, Jesus. Jesus H. Christ."
Bending over/ he pressed his right ear to Max's chest/ lis-
tening intently, trying to hold his shaking breath long
enough to hear the beat of Max's heart—or, more likely, the
absence of it.
Which is what he heard; nothing.
He Jerked erect and looked at Max in shock.
Then—incredibly—injury.

Spewing out words which, to my dying day, will typify
tile man for me.

"You lousy son of a bitch," he said. "Now I'll never get to
Boston by tonight."

The shriek of horror he emitted was that of a woman as
Max leaped up, eyes wide and glaring, and grabbed him by
the arms.

Now You See It-   73

Harry tore loose from Max's grip and, losing balance,
flopped down on me carpeting.

Sprawling there, breath barely functioning, he gaped up
at my son.

"Surprise!" said Max-
Silence then as Max walked over to my wheelchair and
laid his right hand on my shoulder,

"1 apologize for frightening you. Padre," he said. "But I
wanted you, of all people, to see the effect. It VMS a grand
one, wasn't it?"

Leaning over, he kissed me on the cheek, then turned
away and walked back to Harry. Sonny, Sonny, I was think-
ing, what is happening in your mind?

Reaching Harry, he began explaining—in a positively
cheerful voice.

"Let me anticipate your questions," he said. "One, tile
capsules; B-complex, I added the smell of bitter almonds to
fool you. Two, the lack of heartbeat as you listened: A skill I
learned in India from one Pandit Kha), a fakir of surpassing
knowledge."

Pandit Kha}! Of course! I thought. How could I have forgotten
that?

"Three, my heartrending performance," Max was saying.
"Have I not told you that a magidan is, first and foremost, a
skilled actor?"

Skilled indeed, I thought. Enough to almost finish me off,
Sonny boy.

Harry found his voice then.

"You bastard," he said. "You dirty, miserable, shit-faced,
mother-fucking, cocksucking son of a bitch!"

"Kudos," Max responded. "You appear to have incorpo-
rated all tile major profanities in one sentence. I shall forth-
with notify The Guinness Book of Records."

Ambivalence raged within me. I wanted to bop my son
on the head for putting me through such an ordeal.

74  Richard Math—on

I also wanted to laugh aloud. (I've always yearned for the
unreachable.)

Harry, on the other hand, was obviously not experienc-
ing ambivalence at all. The emotion he felt was singular
and pure-
Revulsion.

With a shake of his head, he pushed to his feet and moved
unevenly to the chair. Peking up his attache case. and hat,
he started for the entry halL

Max strode quickly to the desk and reached beneath it.

As Harry approached the door, I heard a click in the
latching mechanism. Harry turned the knob and tried to
pull the door in. It would not move.

Harry didn't turn, I saw his face gone hard- m a low-
pitched voice, trembling with anger, he said, "Unlock the
door. Max."

Max did not reply. Harry waited, then spoke again, his
tone more vehement. "Unlock the door. Max," he ordered.

No response.

Harry whirled, cheeks flushed with rage. "Unlock the
fucking door!" he shouted.

Max did not reply or move.

With a teeth-clenched grimace. Harry lunged toward the
desk.

Max picked up me pair of dueling pistols and stepped
aside as his frothing agent searched for me button which
would unlock the door.

"All right, where is it7" he demanded. He kept groping
underneath the desk in vain. "Damn it!" he cried. He glared
at Max.

Then a vengeful smile pulled back his lips. "All right," he
said. "I'm calling the police."

Max shifted one of the pistols to his left hand, extending
the other in his right, pointed at Harry's chest

"I wouldn't," he said.

Now You See ft...   75

Harry's snarl was soundless. "Another of your frigging
little tricks?"
Max's smile was barely visible.
"Care to test that supposition?" he inquired.
Harry wasn't sure anymore; Max was behaving too er-
ratically.

He did not pick up the telephone receiver.
Still, his fury bubbled over, uncontrollable.
"You went through all mat shit before—the arsenic, the
phony death—just to get back at me?"
"m part," Max answered quietly.

"All that crap about your precious Adelaide?" Harry
sneered.
Mistake.

He twitched with a grunt of shock as Max's face went
rigid and his arm abruptly levered out, pointing the pistol
at Harry's head-
Harry cried out in stunned dismay as Max pulled the trig-
ger and uie pistol fired with a deafening report.

On the mantelpiece, a vase exploded like a bomb, shoot-
ing terra-cotta shrapnel in all directions, making Harry gasp
and fling his arms up automatically. In his agitated state,
he'd failed to notice Max's wrist cock to the left an instant
before he fired. I'd noticed, but it hadn't relieved my state of
mind—I was still distressed (is it overly flippant to say: to
the max?) by my son's behavior.

Harry stared at Max in total apprehension now. Max
stared back with deep malevolence.

"Everything I said about my Adelaide stands uncon-
tradicted," he said softly, vengefully. "Except for my
mower and father, she was the only genuine person I ever
had in my life."

Harry shuddered as Max put the fired pistol on the desk
and shifted the other one to his right hand. He smiled at
Harry.

76   Ricfeard Matheson

It was not a reassuring smile ... to either of us.

"I take it back," he said. "That pistol ball was also genu-
ine. You demean me/ Harry, by suggesting that I deal in
nothing but 'frigging little tricks.' "

"What do you want?" asked Harry in a faint voice.

My question exactly.

"Well, I had considered a duel/' said Max, "for a number
of reasons. Honor. Revenge. Whatever."

His expression of regret was a mocking one.

"Thafs now impossible, however," he continued, "since
I had to fire your pistol to prove that both weapons were
really loaded."

His face went hard now, and he gestured toward a chair
with me pistol, "Sit," he said.

Harry tried to tough it out; his voice was not exactly con-
vincing as he muttered, "No."

"Very well," said Max.

He extended the pistol toward Harry.

"This time I will not destroy a vase," he said. "Farewell,
old chum."

"All right," said Harry quickly. He hurried to the chair and
sat.

"Now put down your little hand-stitched, learner, mono-
grammed-in-gold attache case," Max told him.

Harry swallowed dryly, placing his attache case and hat
on the table beside him.

"Very good," said Max.

Harry drew in a shaking breath. "What the hell do you
mink you're doing. Max?" he asked.

"Wrapping up loose ends," Max answered. "Pal."

Keeping his eyes on Harry, he edged over to the desk and
pulled out its Huddle drawer. Removing two folded sheets
of paper, he unfolded one of them.

Now You See It-  77

"Found in Cassandra's raincoat pocket," he explained.

Harry swallowed again. I actually heard me crackling of
membranes in his parched throat. He watched uneasily as
Max returned to the chair and began to read the letter he
was holding in his left hand.

" 'Sometimes, I wonder why J bother anymore. God knows, he
doesn't make me more than petty cash these days. He's washed up
but too stubborn to admit it. If he keeps making a fool of himself on
stage, I'm going to drop him from the agency or let some flunky
handle him.'

"Shall I go on?" he asked.

Harry stared up at my son, his eyes like cold stones; the
look which, I am certain, paralyzed untold numbers of busi-
ness contacts.

"It's a hard world. Max," he said. "Nobody's out there to
do you favors."

"Dog-eat-dog, eh, Harold?" Max responded.

"You got it, pal," said Harry. Clearly, he was vowing not
to let Max see any further signs of weakness in him- He ges-
tured toward the letter with contempt.

"Is that why you're doing all this?" he asked. "Because I
wrote an unflattering note?"

Unflattering? 1 thought. Insulting, you bastard!

"No, there's a bit more," Max replied

In spite of his obvious vow. Harry could not restrain a
shudder as Max shook open the second folded sheet of
paper. Perhaps I shuddered, too; who knows?

"One sworn affidavit, duly notarized," he said- "Signed
by one Emmanuel Farber, night porter at The Essex House.

"Statement: 'Yes, 1 saw that man'—identifying a photo-
graph of you, dear Harold—'and that woman'—identifying a
photograph of guess who, Harold?—'enter Room 525 on the
night of April 28—'"

"All right, I fucked her!" Harry interrupted, with desper-
ate bravado. "So what? I didn't start it! She did! She wanted

78   Richard Matheson

it, I gave it to her! Big deal! What do you expect? You can't
even get it up anymore!"

If I had been my son and held mat pistol in my hand, I
would have blown out Harry's brains exactly then.

It was a compounded fury I was feeling at that loathsome
toad of a man. The crimes?

One, a snarling admission that he'd gone to bed with Cas-
sandra.

Two, a casual dismissal of the incident.

Three, a weaseling out from all responsibility. It was her
fault, her desire, her demand. All he'd done was accommo-
date the bitch.

Four, the final insult, mocking my son as impotent.

Kill him, 1 thought.

But Max did not respond as I did. Did not raise the pistol
to fire. Merely gazed at Harry in regret. (Regret!)

'The irony of ironies," he finally said, "is that I trusted
you completely, considered you my friend."

"That was your mistake," said Harry. I saw him flinch as
though in shock at his suicidal reply.

Still, he couldn't stop himself. "If you're looking for an
apology, forget it," he added.

Madness, I thought.

I myself flinched as Max raised me pistol, aiming it be-
tween Harry's frozen eyes.

"There is only one thing I'm looking for," Max said.
"That is revenge. And I am about to exact it."

R any braced himself. Death was coming now. He was cer-
tain of it; I could see it in his face.

And yet, instead—maddeningly now!—Max said, "You
never understood me for a moment, did you? Never under-
stood me endless time and work I expended to perfect my

skill."
What tangent now? I thought. Is he going to shoot Harry or

not?

Harry was dearly wondering the same thing. He stared
at Max uncertainly, anticipating death, yet wondering at the
same time when it was due.

"I have been the best," Max was saying. "As my father
was before me. The best.

"And why? Because I saw to everything. Everything. Con-
sistency of attitude- Consistency of detail."

m an eerie way, it was like hearing myself speak. Max
and I resembled one another. Our voices (when I had one)
were alike.

80   Richard Mathexon

And certainly the words he spoke, I had spoken—if not
word for word then, surely, feeling for feeling.

"Consistency of detail," he repeated- "Speaking clearly to
die last row as to the first. Speaking to my audience as
though the words are coining for the first time instead of
being repeated verbatim as they've been for twenty years."

Dear Lord, an echo of my own repeated declarations.

"Preparing monologues not only for the audience to
hear," said Max, "but for myself to think as well. Soundless
lines for me to think between the words I speak aloud- De-
tails."

Was I smiling? Surely not; I couldn't. But inside I was. In-
side I felt a warmth of sweet nostalgia.

Max had lowered the pistol now and begun to pace again.
I saw Harry watch him with suspicion. And knew that he
was thinking. Now what?—for I was thinking it as well, de-
spite my pleasure at the words my son was speaking.

"Details," Max said, gesturing with his left hand.

"You must not surprise an audience. You must 'stage-
surprise' them. An audience loathes to be truly surprised,
because it is unexpected, therefore unenjoyable."

The inner smile again. These words, like benedictions
from the past. I wonder if he knew the pleasure they were
giving me.

"The 'stage-surprise' is different," he continued. "Open-
ly announced in advance. The magician declaring: 'My
friends, I am going to surprise you. Are you ready? Prepare
yourself carefully. Here it comes.'"

I was not a hunching cabbage in a wheelchair now, not a
worthless lump of detritus. I was back in the world I knew
and loved, and Max, my son, had taken me there.

"Details," he said again.

"The choosing of a volunteer. One who will cooperate-
Bright outfit, never drab. Eye-catching. Preferably female.

Now You 8— It.   81

Not overly attractive, though. If she's too attractive, she'll
draw excess attention from the act."

Quite so, I thought; absolutely right.

'Tf a male," said Max, "someone with a physical odd-
ity—skinny, fat, protruding ears, whatever. Someone to
amuse me audience. Distract it.

"And look before the need," he added. "Let them be al-
ready chosen when the time arrives to use them."

Absolutely, 1 reacted.

Max was coming to life now, as I was (well, relatively)—
his eyes bright, his posture alert, his voice increasingly ex-
cited as he spoke; and why not? Wasn't this his kingdom?

Hadn't it been mine?

"What will these volunteers be used for?" he asked. The
question was academic, of course; he already knew die an-
swer. "Helpers? Subjects? Subjects must be credulous, not
doubtful, not distrusting."

Harry would have made a lousy Subject, it occurred to
me.

- "Lenders of objects?" Max was adding further academic
queries. "Watches? Keys? Pens? Lenders must be chosen
for appearance of integrity- The same for inspectors of de-
vices. The audience must trust their judgment."

How well I had taught him; I basked in me knowledge.

Now Harry tensed as Max moved to the desk and set the
pistol down, then began to use both hands to gesture as he
continued pacing, is that a good idea? I fretted. What if Max
moved so far from the desk mat Harry could make a rush
for the pistol? Surely he would do it There was no other
way out for him.

It seemed as though Harry listened now with one ear (as
they say), keeping himself prepared to move should the op-
portunity arise. Vfatch it. Son, I thought. Don't get so carried
away by your rhapsodizing that you overlook basic caution.

82  Richard Matheun

"As for me, the magician/' Max was saying; he seemed to
have completely forgotten the pistol. "I must show no sign
of strain or stifmess in the hands, the elbows, or me shoul-
ders- Gestures must be practiced to perfection—even the
smallest one/'

He demonstrated some. 'Their length," he said. "Their
speed. Never more than one at a time."

Watch it. Sonny boy, I thought.

"Time," said Max, so loudly mat it made Harry twitch.
"Pauses. Counts and rhythms. Root out everything which
might distract. Useless movements- Pointless jewelry-
domes that call attention to themselves.

"And always an alternative ending; always," he said- "One
must look ahead. Things can go wrong."

Yes, they can, I thought. Lite an agent rushing to a desk and
snatching up a pistol.

It disturbed me to see mat Max's gaze was so inward
now. I'm not sure he even knew that Harry was in the same
room with him. And I saw mat even wooden-witted Harry
sensed this and was readying his move.

"Consider every detail," Max was saying (or was it
The Great Delacorte, father and son, who spoke?). "Light-
ing. Music. Apparatus. Stagehands. Posture- Footwork; one
kind for a cross, another for climbing steps. Another for
moving upstage, yet another for moving down."

He began to demonstrate as to a class of novices. Ambiva-
lence tore at me. I loved what he was saying but feared that,
in saying it, he had become too incautious. I saw Harry edg-
ing forward on the chair. Oh, God, to have a voice! my mind
exploded with lamenting rage.

"The eight positions of the body," Max was saying,
demonstrating as he spoke. "Full back. Three-quarter right.
Right profile. Quarter right. Full front. Quarter left. Left
profile- Three-quarter left- Return to full back."

Harry started up, men sank down hurriedly as Max

Now You See It..   83

turned back. Was it possible mat Max was playing with
him? If so, he was taking greater risks than were prudent.

"The six positions of the feet," Max told him, smiling as
he demonstrated. (He was lost in his kingdom!) "Feet to-
gether, side by side, pointing forward. Either foot one step
sideways so the feet are twelve to twenty-four inches apart.
One foot perpendicular to me other, the heel of me perpen-
dicular touching the arch of me other."

Despite uneasiness, I could not but be awed by me de-
tailed lengths to which Max had gone to perfect his act.
Even I had not gone so far, I admit (with contrition).

"The perpendicular foot one step forward," he was con-
tinuing, "one foot pointing forward, the other at a forty-
five-degree angle to it, the heel of me angled foot touching
me toe of the first.

"The same, but with the angled foot a step forward in the
direction it points."

Look out. Max, I was thinking anxiously. Harry's arms
were rigid as he pressed down on the armrests, preparing
himself to lurch up. How could Max not notice?

"Never more than three steps at a time," Max was saying,
transported, words falling quickly from his lips. "Quick
steps. Slow. Exaggerated strides." He demonstrated each
with delicate precision. "Details, always details."

Harry was leaning forward now, muscles quivering. Any
moment now, I thought. For God's sake, Max, wake up!

"How to take applause," Max said. "Never beg for it, but
never bully either. When to stifle it. When to encourage it.
Never let it die completely as you bow."

Max, that's fascinating information, but don't you see that
Harry is drawing in quick, strengthening breaths?
Apparently not. He kept on speaking, demonstrating.
"The art of taking bows. Face front for small ones. Eyes
on the audience, never missing anyone."
Max! Harry's body was starting to rise.

84  Richard Mathnofl

"They will increase their applause if you look at them di-
rectly," Max said, all unaware- "Bow to the center. Bow to
the left. Bow to the right."

Harry's gaze was fixed on the magician. My gaze ping-
pong-balled between the two of them-

"Bow from the waist for loud applause," Max said.
" "Thank you! You are very kind!'" His eyes were posi-
tively glazed. " 'I'm very pleased to—' "

Three things happened simultaneously (four, if you
count the painful leap of my heart).

Harry jumped up from the chair and started quickly for
me desk.

I heard the sound of the front door closing in me entry
hall.

And Max, brought back abruptly from his dreaming
state/ saw Harry and moved quickly to the desk, grabbing
up the pistol. If I was not already slumped, I would have
slumped.

Harry froze in his tracks, staring at my son-
Footsteps moved across the entry hall: me giveaway
clack of a woman's heels.
Harry opened his mouth to cry out.
The sound strangled in his throat as Max extended the
pistol toward him, his expression threatening.

"Damn!" whined Harry, in an agony of frustration, I be-
lieve. Should he cry out anyway? Risk being shot?
He couldn't. He was too afraid.

Both men stiffened (I did too, albeit unnoticeably) as tile
doorknob turned and someone tried to enter.

"Max?" said a voice—Cassandra.

Max did not respond, and, from his menacing look and
gesture, he made it clear to Harry that he was not to speak
either.

Now You See tt..   85

"Why is me door locked?" Cassandra asked.

No response. (Least of all from me.)

"What's going on in there?" Cassandra demanded, voice
rising.

Max cleared his throat. His voice was calmly affable.

"Nothing's going on," he said. "Come back in a few min-
utes. I'll have something interesting to show you."

Moments passed. Despite his dread. Harry almost spoke.
Only Max's repeated brandishing of me pistol stopped him.

"All right," said Cassandra.

Her footsteps moved away.

Max smiled (not the kind of smile I'd like directed at me).
"Something interesting to show you," he repeated.

The masking smile fell away. "Your lover's corpse," he fin-
ished.

He walked toward Harry, pistol still extended.

"You're not going to shoot me," Harry said with uncon-
vincing bravado.

"I'm not?" said Max. "I don't--"

He broke off as Harry's gaze leaped to one of the other
windows. My gaze did likewise; the only part of me that
could leap. Max whirled, reacting.

Cassandra was standing at the window looking in, an ex-
pression of shock on her face.

Suddenly, she turned away and rushed out of sight. To
call the Sheriff? I wondered. To get a pistol she owned?

Max turned back.

"Well, dear Harold," he said, "it's about mat time."

"She'll call me police," Harry warned.

"The Sheriff," Max corrected. "But I doubt it. Why
should she? Because of you? She never cared for you- You
were, like me, merely a stepping-stone." His smile grew
iced. "Or should I say a sleeping-stone?"

He pointed the pistol at Harry's chest.

"Max, don't do it," Harry pleaded,

86  Richard Mathnofl

The front door slammed shut loudly. Cassandra's shoe
heels clacked rapidly across the entry hall. She threw her-
self against the door.

''Max'" she cried.

'Tarewell, old friend," said Max.
He fired.

I would have cried out if I'd had the power. As always/
however, I remained a soundless squash.

It was Harry who cried out in hoarse amazement as a
gout of blood erupted from his white shirt. Stumbling back,
he slipped and fell.

Cassandra screamed. "Max!"

She pounded on the door as Max watched Harry.

Harry was slouched on the floor, staring down at his
shirtfront. He might well have been dead, he was so com-
pletely motionless.

He lived, however. Stunned and breathless, in a state of
shock.

But quite alive.

"The pistol ball was hollow," Max informed him. "Wax.
Rubbed with graphite."

He raised his left hand, thumb elevated. "Filled with
blood from this very thumb," he said.

His smile was mirthless, cold. "The other pistol ball was

88   Richard Matheson

real," he said, "to throw you off. Misdirection, don't you
know. My business."

And he winked at me.

I did not return it. I would not have done so even if I
could. Sonny, I was thinking with exasperation. My heart is
not constructed of steel, you know.

"I hope I didn't frighten you again," he said as though
reading my thought.

Harry had not spoken a word. Now he was staring at
Max uncomprehendingly. I think that, had his heart been at
risk as well, what Max had just done to him might have fin-
ished him off.

m uie meantime, Cassandra continued to pound on the
door and scream Max's name.

Finally/ she added, "Open the door!"

Max moved to the desk and tossed the empty pistol on its
top- Then, reaching underneath, he pushed the hidden but-
ton.

The locking mechanism clicked, the knob was quickly
turned, the door flung open, and Cassandra rushed in.

"What the hell is—" she began.

She stopped, aghast, catching sight of Harry on the floor,
his shirtfront drenched with blood.

"Oh, my God," she murmured shakily, and ran to him.

Kneeling beside him, she looked at his chest, shuddering
at the sight. "My God/' she said.

"All right," Harry muttered, scarcely able to speak. "I'm
all right."

"All right?" She stared at him incredulously. "How—"

"Scotch," said Harry, interrupting.

"What happened?" she asked.

"Scotch, some Scotch!" he ordered in a rasping voice.

"Yes." She struggled to her feet and hurried toward the
bar, glancing apprehensively at Max, who was sitting on
the edge of the desk now, quietly observing—as I was,

Now You See It...   89

though my quiet was the consequence of a stroke. God only
knew what lay behind my son's calmness.

Harry was looking down at his shirt again.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. With a palsied hand, he
tugged a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed
weakly at his shirt.

"What is this?" Cassandra demanded of Max.

It was as though she hadn't spoken. Max kicked one foot
casually as he sat there. V/hat is in his mind? I thought.

Cassandra finished pouring Scotch into a glass and
turned from the bar. Returning to Harry, she knelt beside
him. Harry took the glass and swallowed half its contents in
a single gulp-
He started to cough, eyes watering, and drew in wheez-
ing breaths. Then he downed the rest of the Scotch, shud-
dering convulsively.

"Can you get up?" Cassandra asked.

He nodded, a feeble stirring of his head. Setting down the
glass, he tried to push up, thudding down as his arms gave
way.

Grimacing, he rolled to me right and struggled to his
knees. "God damn," he muttered.

Cassandra helped him to his feet. He stood unevenly, ex-
pression almost blank.

"What?" he muttered.

Abruptly, his legs lost strength and he tell to one knee,
pulling loose from Cassandra's grip. He twitched, looking
startled as he wavered to his left.

"What is it?" asked Cassandra.

"I don't. - ." His voice faded as he lost all balance and
toppled to one side, crying out in pain as his left elbow
banged on the hardwood floor, bearing the brunt of his
weight.

He collapsed onto his back, clutching at his elbow, look-
ing dazed.

90   Richard Matheson

"What's happening?" Cassandra cried.

She knelt beside him hurriedly and tried to help him up.

She couldn't; he had virtually no muscle control remain-
ing. And, newly shocked, I knew exactly what had hap-
pened.

Cassandra sensed it too, because she looked accusingly at
Max.

"What's happening?" she demanded in a low/ trembling
voice.

"Nothing much," Max answered cheerfully. "He's dying,
that's all."

Oh, Max, I thought. Son.

Harry was now too groggy to speak. He tried to sit up. It
was impossible. His body was a dead weight, uncoor-
dinated.

"What have you done to him?" Cassandra shrieked.

Max smiled.

"Ah, there's the lovely irony, you see," he told her. "I
haven't done a thing."

The smile vanished in an instant, leaving his face a mask
of implacable venom.

"You did," he said.

The smile again, now—terribly—accompanied by a
chuckle.

"And he asked you to," he finished.

Her gaze jumped to the empty glass.

"Right on," said Max.

Cassandra strained to pull Harry to his feet. "I'll get you
to a doctor," she muttered.

"You'd only be driving a corpse into town," Max told
her.

She looked at him, appalled. "You bastard," she said.
"You absolute bastard."

She saw the impossibility of getting Harry up and, with a

NowYnS—lL.. 91

sudden movement, she pushed to her feet and strode
quickly toward the entry halL

Max leaned back and reached beneath the desk. My God,
it isn't over yet! I thought in dismay. (How little I knew.)

The door swung shut, slammed hard into its frame, and
locked itself.

Cassandra stopped in front of it. She tried to open it, men
turned, a look of fury on her face.

"And now—" said Max.

Sliding off the desk, he circled it and moved to the man-
telpiece/ taking down the African blowgun.

"—me coup de main," he finished me sentence. "Surprise
attack."

He lifted me blowgun to his Ups and pointed it at Cassan-
dra.

She shrank back against the door, a look of panic on her
face.

Max blew.

Cassandra jolted and gasped. (Inside, I did the same.) She
looked down at her chest.

A small feathered dart was protruding from her right
breast.

With a sickened noise, she jerked it out and looked at it in
disbelief.

A sudden numbness struck her and she dropped it, wa-
vered, slumping back against the door-

Both of them. Max? I thought in horror across me room.
Harry was emitting tiny, breathless sounds.

Max set the blowgun back in place above the mantel-
piece, men looked at Cassandra.

"\ wanted born of you together when I did this," he told
her. "Terrorize Harry first, of course. I needed that for my
soul's sake.

92 Ric—rd Mttiesm

"But the two of you together for this moment. This most
rewarding and fulfilling..."

His voice trailed off; he didn't look rewarded or fulfilled.
He looked completely desolated.

"... and tragic moment," he finished in a broken voice.

Cassandra tried to remain erect, but couldn't.

As though her limbs had been reduced to jelly/ she slid
downward on the door and landed in a crumpled heap,
eyes staring, mouth ajar; a hideous sight. Despite my feel-
ings toward her, I would never have wished this for her.

Harry made a gagging noise, and Max and I looked over
at him.

Max walked around the desk and moved to where his
agent lay, slowly writhing, eyes—like Cassandra's—staring
glassily, breath a failing sibiiance.

"So, dear friend," said Max.

Harry tried to lift his head—could not. He stared up
sighdessly.

Then his head fell back, thumping on the floor, his eyes
closing.

Max knelt to check for a heartbeat.

Satisfied, he stood and moved to where Cassandra half
sat, half lay against the door, eyes now dosed.

He knelt and pressed a finger underneath her left breast.

"Done," he said, "and done."

Standing quickly, his expression grim, he moved behind
the desk and reached beneath it.

The door lock clicked in opening.

Max returned to the door, bent over and, taking hold of
Cassandra's arms, pulled her to one side, leaning her body
partially against the wall-
He then walked over to me.

"Well, Padre/' he said. "Had enough for now?"

Could he see in my eyes the pain I felt?

Now You See It-  93

He must have, for he said, "I know; it's terrible." He
squeezed my shoulder. "But necessary," he added.

He began to push my wheelchair toward the door.

"Let's get you cleaned up and changed," he said, "Maybe
a little lunch."

His tone was so matter-of-fact that I felt more dread than
ever.

Just before he opened the door, a distant flash of light-
ning bleached the shadowy room.

"A storm is on its way/" he said.

How was I to know that the nightmare was barely half
concluded?

io« you see it

ctapter12

Max took me upstairs on the elevator, wheeled me to my
room/ and gently cared for me—which meant removing my
domes, cleansing my withered body and re-dressing same.

Throughout all this, he never said a word. I kept looking
at his face, hoping that he'd seen the question burning in
my eyes.

Why?

If he saw the question—and he must have, being the ob-
servant son he always was—he did not elect to answer it.
Leaving me to wonder, pained.

Two murders?

Him?

Presently, he took me downstairs once again and rolled my
wheelchair to me kitchen. There, he fed me like the child I
had become in my eating habits—bib around my neck,
spoon scooping up what food I dribbled from my mouth.

98  Richard MrthueB

All this he did without a word, his expression unread-
able—even to me, who had always read him so well.

When I was finished eating, he finally spoke.

"I'm going to leave you in the kitchen for a little while,"
he said. "I'll be back."

He kissed me on the cheek and left.

I think I felt a tugging at the corners of my eyes; a hint of
tears?

Why had he done all this?

Had his need for revenge on Harry and Cassandra been
so rabid that he'd been driven to kill them both?

It seemed hard to believe. Max had never been a violent
man- Certainly, to me, he had been nothing but a loving
son.

Then why?

So there I sat in the stillness of the kitchen, bathed,
changed/ and fed—like the physical infant I'd become. Only
my brain remained alert.

Wondering and suffering.

How long was it before he came for me? I would estimate
me time as half an hour or so, perhaps a little longer.

When he returned to the kitchen/ he rolled me back to
The Magic Room without a word and set my chair in its cus-
tomary spot, patted my shoulder, and said, "I hope you'll
understand in time. Padre."

With that, he left me there alone ... as I had been before
the nightmare had commenced.

I looked at the desk clock.

It was 2:33 P.M.

A random flicker of lightning continued in me distance,
an occasional rumble of thunder. They seemed closer now.

The storm was still approaching.

I looked around the room.

Now You See It...   99

Everything was back in order except for a single detail-

The bloodstains had been wiped up.

The fragments of terra-cotta had been garnered and
removed.

The pill vial was gone, presumably returned to the center
desk drawer.

The African blowgun was, as noted, restored above man-
telpiece.

The pair of dueling pistols had been similarly returned to
their places.

The Arabian dagger lay on the desk in its original posi-
tion.

Four changes had been made.

On the bar, the silver bucket was filled with ice, a bottle of
Dom Perignon protruding from its top.

The globe had been covered with a red silk scarf.

The casket was closed.

The Egyptian burial case was dosed.

Only one detail deprived the room of orderly appear-
ance.

Still in the same position, crumpled and immobile, lay the
body of Cassandra Delacorte.

This I did not understand at all.

Not that I truly understood the reasons for Max's brutal

actions.

But this was downright confusing.
Why commit a double murder, hide one body, dean up

all me evidence, then leave the other body untouched?
It made no sense-
But then, very little of what happened that day—what

had already taken place and what was about to take place—

made sense.

100   Richard Matheson

At which point—with me utterly perplexed—the lunacy
resumed.

In the entry hall/ the doorbell rang.

There was no response.

Where is Max? I wondered.

The doorbell rang again.

No response-
Then, as though the person at the door felt that the door-
bell wasn't loud enough, he (or she) began to knock.

No answer.

The knocking grew louder.

Soon became a pounding-
Causing a response.

My nerve ends (what was left of them, at any rate)
jumped as Cassandra made a feeble sound.

My eyeballs rolled with startled speed.

Her right hand was stirring on the floor.

Now wait a second, said my mind.

The pounding on the front door stopped.

Cassandra moaned a little. Turned her head.

My eyeballs rolled again. (They were to get a real work-
out mat afternoon, let me tell you.)

Outside the house, a man had appeared.

He was in his middle fifties/ stocky, dressed in the hat
and uniform of the local constabulary, a bolstered pistol
belted at his portly waist.

He peered into the room, shading his eyes with his left
hand.

At first, he only looked around TMR/ a frown of curiosity
on his thick features.

Then he started, mouth gaping in surprise, as he caught
sight of Cassandra.

Immediately, he charged back toward the front door.

Cassandra opened her eyes.

Now You See h...   101

Confusion reigned in me. She wasn't dead—or even in-
capacitated that I could see.

She had pushed up on one elbow.

As she did, the front door of the house was flung open,
crashing against the entry-hall wall.

Cassandra gasped in stardement and looked around.

There was a rapid fall of boots across the entry-hall floor.

Cassandra twitched in alarm as the door was thrown
open and me heavy man came bursting in.

He ran to Cassandra and knelt beside her hurriedly.

She stared at him in bewilderment as he helped her to a
sitting position.

"Who are you?" she asked. I noticed that her voice was
thick, the words slurred; an aftereffect of whatever drug
had been on the dart, I assumed.

"Easy," was all the man replied.

He assisted Cassandra to her feet, where she evidenced
some difficulty with her balance and the focus of her eyes.
"Easy, easy," said the man.

"Who are you?" she persisted.

"Sheriff Plum," he answered.

"Plum?" She stared at him for several moments, then
pulled away; she immediately began to stagger.

Plum made a sudden move to prevent her fall. "Easy," he
said.

She blinked her eyes, grimacing, clearly struggling to re-
gain the use of her senses. She swallowed, and it made a dry
sound in her throat.

Disengaging herself once more/ she stumbled toward the
bar and fell against it/ clutching at me top for support.

She stared at me bottles of chilling champagne as though
me sight of them was baffling to her.

Then/ shaking her head, she moved around the bar, hold-
ing on to its top to keep from falling.

102   Richard Matheson

Reaching the sink, she turned the faucet arm; cold water
splashed down into the stainless-steel basin- Holding on to
tile sink's edge with her left hand/ she cupped her right be-
neath the fall of water, caught some, and began to wash her
face.

At this point. Sheriff Plum, glancing around the room,
caught sight of me. "Oh, my God," he reacted.

Cassandra, face dripping, looked over at him hurriedly.

"Good afternoon," the Sheriff greeted me.

"He can't answer," Cassandra told him. "He's like a veg-
etable." (What did I tell you?)

"A vegetable?" asked Sheriff Plum in a surprised voice.

"He had a stroke many years ago," she explained, her
voice still slurring words. "He can't talk or move; ignore
him."

Which was pretty much my status in her mind.

"But—" Sheriff Plum gave up on me and looked back at
Cassandra, who was drying her face with a bar towel.

"What's going on here?" he asked.

She looked at him, men turned her head and scanned the
room.

Each sight she saw appeared to puzzle her further- She
rubbed her forehead hard as though to activate the gray
cells underneath her skull. Ran her hands across her breasts
as though to verify their presence.

"Are you all right?" the Sheriff asked.

Cassandra looked at him, disoriented. "Where did you
come from?" she asked.

"What?" The question seemed bewildering to him.

She repeated it more demandingly-

"From town," he said, still looking puzzled.

"I mean—" she broke off with an angry grimace "—who
let you in?" she finished.

He looked more confused than ever.

"No one let me in," he said. "The front door was un-

Now You See tL..   103

locked. I came in by myself because I saw you lying on the
floor in here and thought you were tile 'one'—"
He stopped as though perplexity was overwhelming

him.

"Who got murdered, then?" he asked.

Uassandra did not reply at first. She stared at him/ her fea-
tures very nearly blank.

Finally, she asked, "How did you know about it?"

"Someone telephoned my office," he replied.

"Telephoned your office?" (She was totally confounded
now. So was I.)

"Yes—"

She interrupted him abruptly.

"My husband's agent," she declared.

"Your husband's agent telephoned my office?" asked the
Sheriff.

"No!" she cried in agitation. "My husband's agent is the
one who got murdered!"

"He's me one..." Plum's voice faded as he watched her
curiously.

She'd begun to pace around, shaking her head and blink-
ing hard.

"You want me to call for an ambulance?" he asked.

Now You See h...   105

Cassandra stopped, wavering, and turned to face him

"My husband did it." she told him.

"Your husband—"

"—did it," she cut him off.

He stared at her as though devoid of comprehension.

"Did you hear me?" she demanded.

"Yes," he answered. "You said..."

His voice trailed off again as though he hadn't inkling-
one regarding what she'd said.

Cassandra ground her teeth together. She did mat when
she was furious.

"My-husband-murdered-his-agent/' she said slowly, spac-
ing each word evenly, enunciating clearly.

Plum's eyes narrowed. "You witnessed it?" he asked.

"Yes! Of course I did! Why else—"

Suddenly, she stopped and looked around the room.

"No, wait," she said. "He wouldn't do that. It wouldn't
make sense."

The Sheriff was as nonplussed as I was, except mat he
could verbalize it.

"What wouldn't make sense?" he asked.

Cassandra threw off momentary confusion with a willful
scowl.

"I want you to arrest my husband," she told the Sheriff.
"I'll testify to what I saw."

The Sheriff's expression did not, in any way, reflect a bulb
turning on.

"Which was what?" he asked. (Rustic idiot, I thought.)

"I just told you!" snapped Cassandra, teeth grinding
again. "My husband murdered his agent. Poisoned him!"

"Poisoned?" said the newly startled Plum; dearly, he
could only deal with one brief bit of information at a time.

"Yes," said Cassandra. "Yes. Yes. Arrest him and 111 tes-
tify against him."

106   Richard Matheson

"Regarding what?" he asked as though trying very hard
to get it straight in his brain. Who elected this dolt? I won-
dered.

"You still don't understand?" Cassandra said, incredu-
lous.

Her insulting tone made him bristle.

"I mean, regarding how it happened," he responded
sharply. "Where it happened. When it happened. And if you
have any notions about it, why it happened."

The demands, though scarcely a barrage of them, seemed
too much for Cassandra now. Shaking her head fitfully, she
returned to the bar, lifted a handful of cracked ice to her face
and rubbed it over her forehead as though to chill alertness
and perception into returning.

Plum and I observed. I didn't know what the worthy
Sheriff was thinking, but as for me, I was trying hard to
fathom why Max would commit murder (down to one
now), then notify the law and have it show up at his house.

I had to assume mat it was done in a desire to pay for his
crime.

Boy, was I wrong.

Done, Cassandra dumped me ice back into the bucket, blew
warm breath on her palm, then turned to the Sheriff.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Apparently I'm still drugged."

"Drugged?" the Sheriff echoed, perplexity renewed.

She couldn't hold her tongue. (I wonder if I could have.)
"Did you think I was taking a nap on the floor?" she asked.

"Now see here—" Sheriff Plum looked grievously of-
fended.

"All right, I'm sorry," Cassandra said. "Forget it. I want
you to arrest my husband for the murder of his agent."

"Where did this happen?" the Sheriff asked.

"m this room," Cassandra answered.

Now You See It..   107

He gazed at her—much like a cow, it occurred to me—
obviously waiting for elaboration.

She pointed across the room.

"My husband's agent was sitting on the floor there. I
thought he'd been shot—"

She broke off, wincing. "No, forget that," she said, "it's
not important."

"Not important?" Plum looked shocked.

"I'll explain it later," she responded tightly. "The point is
that my husband's agent was sitting on the floor over there
when I brought him a glass of Scotch."

"Wait a second," Plum objected. "You brought him a
glass of Scotch? I thought you said—"

"I didn't know it was poisoned!" Cassandra cried. "Ob-
viously, my husband had poisoned me Scotch! His agent
was upset by what had happened—I'll explain it later!" She
cut Hum off. "Anyway, his agent asked me for a glass of
Scotch, so I gave it to him. 1 had no idea it was poisoned."

Sheriff Plum was rubbing his chin, his expression making
it clear that all this was unclear to him.

"Do you get it?" Cassandra pleaded, looking at him with
an expression halfway between appeal and contempt.

"Listen—" he started.

She couldn't, and rushed on. "Where did it happen? In
mis room. When did it happen?" She looked at her wrist-
watch, bunking exaggeratedly to make the tiny numbers
come into focus. "Approximately two hours ago. Why did
tt~"

"Two hours?" Plum was aghast. "Why wasn't I told

sooner?"

"I was unconscious!"

"What about the man who called me?"

"I have no idea who called you! It must have been my
husband, but why should he call you?"

My question exactly. I thought-                         ;

108   Richard Matheson

Cassandra's voice had gotten very shrill, and the Sheriff
gestured to calm her down.

'Take it easy," he cautioned.

"How. can I take it easy when my husband is a mur-
derer?" she cried.

"Okay, okay," said Plum. "Let's get some evidence
going, then."

He gestured toward the room. "Where were you located
when it happened?"

"Lying on the floor over there," she answered, pointing
toward the entry-hall door.

He winced as though reluctant to ask for elucidation lest
it bring back confusion. But he had to know.

"And why were you... lying over there?" he asked.

Cassandra's sigh was heavy. She must have seen no end
to this; f didn't. Still, it had to be dealt with eventually.

"Because I'd been shot," she told him.

Seeing the flare of eye-glazed bewilderment on his face,
she added quickly, "Not with a gun! With a Mowgun!"

He stared at her.

"Oh, God," she murmured.

Still, trying, she pointed toward the fireplace.

"You see me African blowgun hanging over me mantel-
piece?" she asked.

Sheriff Plum looked in that direction. His expression did
not indicate dawning perception.

"That thing hanging on the wall above me fireplace?" she
asked. "Over the two dueling pistols?"

"Dueling pistols," he muttered, still no glimmer in his
eyes.

'That long thing?" she said, voice rising, "like a tube? A
wooden tube?"
"Oh, yes," he said.
"Thank God," she murmured.
"Now, see here, ma'am," he began.

Now You SeelL..   109

"Thafs what I was shot with," she informed him, cover-
ing his words with hers. "It had a poisoned dart in it. No,
no, I take that back! I don't mean poison!" she added des-
perately, noticing a new confusion on his face. "Obviously,
it wasn't poison or I'd be dead. It must have had some kind
of drug on its point. Something that paralyzed me, knocked
me out. Thafs why—"

She stopped, staring unbelievingly at the blankness of his
expression. Local politics are at a very low ebb, I thought.

"This is going to last forever," she mumbled.

You know, by now, how little regard I held for this
woman. It is the measure of Plum's density mat I actually
felt sorry for Cassandra.

She was watching as the Sheriff walked to the fireplace
and took down the blowgun. He held it up to me window
light to peer through it. "No dart," he said.

"Do you actually think he'd put it back in there?" she
snapped.

"Mrs. Delacorte, you're giving me a lot of things to digest
all at once," me Sheriff said; he was beginning to sound a
little grumpy now. "Let's try to be polite to one another,

shall we?"
Maybe there is a brain inside there somewhere, I thought.

Deep inside, of course.

"You're right, I'm sorry," Cassandra repented. "It's just
that I'm so upset."

"Of course you are." He nodded. "Very well men. You
were hit with a blowgun dart mat had some kind of drug in
its point—is that what you're telling me?"

"That's what I told you," she responded, watching him
return me blowgun to its spot above the mantelpiece.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he said.

I saw Cassandra cast an imploring look to the heavens
just before Plum turned back to her.

"Where did it hit you?" he asked.

110   Richard Mathesod

"Does it really matte-?" she retorted.

"I'd like to know, yes," he told her.

"Here," she said. prodding an index finger at her right
breast (Was that a wince of embarrassment I saw on Plum's
face?)

He swallowed. "You're lucky it didn't hit you in me eye."

Cassandra chose not to respond to mat. What could she
have said? "That's a really stupid remark. Sheriff'?

"And your husband shot this—blew this dart at you?"

"Yes. Yes. To keep me from leaving the room after he'd
poisoned Harry—"

She broke off as the Sheriff raised his hand as though to
stop the traffic flow of new information-

"Harry?" he asked.

"My husband's agent," Cassandra answered.

"You never told me his name before," he said.

"Oh/ yes. All right. I'm sorry."

"Okay," he said. "Lets get this straightened out/ then."

I know he heard her pitiful groan but decided to ignore it.

"Harry was sitting on the floor over there. You gave him
the poisoned Scotch. Did he die right away?"

"No. I tried to get him on his feet to take him to the hospi-
tal. I couldn't though; he had no control of his limbs."

"All right." Plum nodded gravely. "Now we're getting
somewhere."

Was that a pitiful groan I heard in my own throat? Proba-
bly imagination. But tile man was driving me nuts, along
with Cassandra.

"You tried to leave the room—"

"To call your office," she interrupted.

"It was you who called my office?"

"No!" she cried. "1 said I was going to call your office! But
before I could, my husband hit me with the dart!"

"Got you," he said. "And that paralyzed you."

"Yes. And I fell down."

Now You See It..   Ill

"And saw this Harry—"

"Kendal. Harry Kendal."

"Harry Kendal, right." He nodded. "Now I'm getting the

picture."

Harry's words flared brightly in my brain. Jesus H. Christ!

"You saw this Harry Kendal die before you lost con-
sciousness?"

"Yes!"

"Okay." He tried to mollify her with a gesture. "I've got it

now."

He frowned. "Except—"

A look of pained vexation took her face.

"—you said before, you thought this Harry Kendal had

been shot."

"Oh." She nodded. "Yes. Apparently what happened
was that my husband terrorized Harry with—"

Terrorized?" he broke in.

"I said apparently because he fired one of those dueling

pistols at him."

"Then—"

"Let me finish," she demanded, begging. "The pistol ball
was obviously a fake one—made of wax, hollow, filled with
blood. A magician's gimmick."

"I see," said Plum. "And why would he do that?"

"I told you—to terrorize Harry."

Plum's voice seemed suddenly—surprisingly—aware as
he inquired, "And why .would he want to do that, Mrs.
Delacorte?"

cta|ter14

Bassandra didn't—couldn't—speak at first. Then she an-
swered/ "I don't know." Of course she did; we both did
now. But she had no intention of letting the Sheriff know.

"No idea?" he asked; much as though he suspected die
truths although he obviously couldn't have.

Cassandra tried deflection.

"Look, does any of this really matter?" she demanded.
"My-husband-murdered-his-agent. Arrest him."

"Please," said Plum, "let me decide what matters and
what doesn't matter."

She could only sigh in response. Heavily.

"All right." He looked around. "Where is your husband
then? I'd like to talk with him."

"Talk with him?" She looked insulted. "What is there to
talk about? He murdered Harry Kendal. Period!"

"Mrs. Delacorte," he said, "these things have to be done
in a certain way. I can't just arrest a man because—"

"—some stupid woman tells you that he murdered some-
one," she broke in coldly.

Nftw You See ft-   113

"That's not what I was about to say," he told her.

He blew out a cheek-puffing bream. ,

"Assuming mat what you say is true—" he began.

"Assuming?" she raged.

"—do you have any idea where this agent's body might be?"
he finished strongly.

She was taken aback by the question. So was 1.1 hadn't
even thought about it.

"No," Cassandra told him as though the thought had just
occurred to her as well. "I don't. I just—"

She stopped with a scowl. "How could I possibly know?"
she asked, affronted. "I've been unconscious."

"All right," he said. "Is there any place we might begin to
search for it? For him," he amended.

Cassandra was about to answer when she held back, nar-
rowing her eyes.

She looked around the room, a curious expression on her
face. I wondered what she was doing.

Plum also wondered- "Why are you looking around the
room?" he asked.

She didn't reply, her gaze moving slowly around TMR.

"Mrs. Delacorte?"

"I can't believe—" she started.

She twitched at a rumble of thunder.

Now Plum was looking around the room. So was I—as
best my eyeballs could manage; I wasn't a damn iguana
though, with a hundred-and-eighty-degree vision in each
eye.

"What are you thinking?" the Sheriff asked. "That me
body's in here?"

He looked at one of me walls.

"Are there secret panels or something?" he asked.

"It wouldn't make sense," Cassandra murmured to her-
self.

/

114  Richard Matheum

Her eyes focused on Plum. "What?" she inquired. "Secret
panels?"

"Yes. I thought maybe—"

The Sheriff's voice broke off as Cassandra moved
abruptly to the wall panel she'd used earlier to get rid of
Brian when he was made up as her.

Pressing at a section of molding, she caused the panel to
open. (In a way/1 hated mat this stranger should be privy to
a secret I'd created in this house almost forty years before.)

Cassandra had moved through me opening to look in-
side. Plum moved to the opening as well and peered in.

He jerked back as Cassandra came out, looking angry (at
herself).

"Of course he wouldn't put Harry in there," she said.
"That would be ridiculous."

"Is this the only secret panel?" asked Plum.

"As far as I know/' she said, dosing the panel.

That surprised me. Had Max made other alterations to
this room that I didn't know about? The notion was disturb-
ing to me.

"What do you mean, as far as you know?" Plum was ob-
viously thinking along the same lines. "Isn't mis your
house?"

"My house/ yes. My private study, no. My husband calls
it his Magic Room. As far as I know, he could have had it
gimmicked in a dozen different ways without my knowing
it."

Disturbing, I thought.

"I guess it's time I talked to him, men," Plum said. "Do
you know where he might be?"

She looked newly aggravated. "Sheriff," she said. "How
many times do I have to tell you? I was unconscious'"

"How do you expect me to arrest him/ then?" he charged.
"If we don't even know where he is!"

She thought about it for several moments, then replied,

Now You Sea It..   115

"Wouldn't it be better if we found Harry's body first? Until
we do, my husband is just going to deny everything."

"You think he'll deny it," said Plum.

"Well, you don't imagine he'll confess, do you?" she de-
manded.

Yes, I do imagine that, I answered silently. He's not a man to
shirk responsibility.

Sheriff Plum was losing patience now.

"Mrs. Delacorte," he said, "I don't know your husband.
He might do anything, as far as I'm concerned."

Touche, you clod, 1 thought.

Cassandra looked apologetic. "You're right. I'm sorry/'
she said.

Her features hardened then.

"Well, believe me, he will deny it," she said. "He didn't
set this whole cabal up only to admit his guilt."

"Cabal?" asked Plum.

"Pht," she told him. "Secret plan. Conspiracy. Maneu-
ver—"

"Got it!" cried the Sheriff. "Lwdamighty!"

Lordamighty?

"I'll take your word that he won't confess," Plum went
on. "So what do—"

She cut him off. "We have to find Harry's body," she
said- "If we can only—"

She stopped, looking across the room.

At the burial case-

The Sheriff asked, "What's that?"

"An Egyptian burial case," she told him.

"From Egypt?"

"Well, maybe ifs from Yugoslavia, I don't know," she
snapped.

"There's no need to be smart," the Sheriff told her.

Especially/or you, I thought. (Max, where are you ? is what I
was thinking behind that thought.)

116   Richard Matheson

Cassandra had exhaled wearily. "Sorry," she said- She
didn't sound it.

"I think/ before we start searching for a body—I'll proba-
bly need a warrant anyway—I'd better speak to your hus-
band," the Sheriff decided.

"It's always kept open," she said.

He squinted at her. "What?" he asked.

Cassandra walked across the room and opened the burial
case.

"Yes, it would have been terribly clever of him to hide the
body in here," she said, scowling at the empty interior.

Neither of them noticed what was happening behind
mem.

On the right glove of the suit of armor.

A large drop of blood was about to drip from one of its
fingertips.

"Where might I be likely to find your husband, Mrs. Dela-
corte?" the Sheriff asked.

Her smile was bitter. "After committing murder?" she
said- "On a flight to Europe, probably."

No, I thought; not Max. But it was only half a thought.

The bulk of my attention was on the suit of armor as the
hanging drop of blood disengaged itself from the fingertip
of the glove and dropped to the floor, splashing delicately.
They did not react.

Can't you hear that? I thought incredulously.

"You think he's left, then?" the Sheriff asked. Obviously,
he hadn't heard.

"Sheriff, how am I supposed to know?" Cassandra re-
plied. "How could I know?"

Obviously, she hadn't heard either.

Now a second drop of blood was collecting at me tip of
the glove finger. I watched with a kind of sickened fasdna-

Now You Sw IL..  117

tion as it stretched downward, quivered, broke away, then
fell to me floor, where it splashed on me damp spot left by
the first falling drop of blood.

Are the two of you deaf? screamed my mind.

Apparently so. Plum was walking over to the casket now.
"This a trick?" he asked, pointing at it.

"No, it's real," Cassandra said. "At least he says it is."

"Real?" He looked repelled. "A real coffin in your hus-
band's office?"

Magk Room! I cried out. Minus sound, of course-

"Thafs me kind of man he is," Cassandra answered him.

Folks! 1 thought.

Plum peered in through me glass top, twitching in shock
as he saw what he thought was Max.

"Is this him?" he asked, aghast.

"Of course not," she said, frowning. "Ifs a quarter-size
dummy."

Plum grimaced, looking ill. "Sure looks real," he said.

He turned to ask her something else and saw her staring
at the suit of armor. God bless us all, I was thinking—

—as a third, large drop of blood was disconnecting from
the fingertip of the glove.

They both winced simultaneously as it splattered on the
floor. Now you hear it, I thought, at last.

"My God," said Plum.

Cassandra's expression was one of disbelieving horror.

"He wouldn't," she said.

Plum started toward the suit of armor.

"It wouldn't make sense," Cassandra murmured shakily.
I had to agree.

But who was in the suit of armor, then?

"Why do you keep saying that?" asked Plum.

"Because he's a magician," she explained. "He'd never be
so obvious."

That, at least, she understands, I thought.

118   Rictcrd Math—M

But she wasn't certain enough to not watch apprehen-
sively as Plum reached the suit of armor and stopped.

A fourth drop of blood was collecting at the fingertip.

Plum winced again—as Cassandra did—when the drop
fell, enlarging the scarlet splash-mark on me floor.

Gingerly, he reached up toward the faceplate, his move-
ment slow, almost diffident. Cassandra watched him with a
sickened gaze.

Plum's fingers moved closer to the faceplate.

Closer.

chapter 15

slonishment!

Plum recoiled, crying out involuntarily as the suit of
armor sprang open, its hinged halves stopping with a loud,
metallic clang.

Cassandra Jerked back, gasping.

And I recoiled and jerked back inwardly, my mind crying
out—

—as The Great Delacorte stepped forth.

He was attired in full illusionist regalia—white tie and
tails, a top hat accordioned shut in his hands. His smile was
broad, theatrical.

He was, in fact, not standing before us so much as making
an appearance, his expression that which a generation of
magic devotees had come to know so well—genial, urbane,
and welcoming.

"Good afternoon, my friends!" he said- The Great Dela-
corte saluted them.

Despite my startlement and general disconcertment, it
warmed my heart to see him like that.

120   Richard Matheion

This was a far different Maximilian Delacorte from the
man who met with Harry Kendal—had it only been a few
short hours ago?

That Delacorte was wan and understated/ soft-spoken
until righteous anger came. That was a hurt, embittered
Delacorte/ a man nearly broken by inner pain.

The man who stood before us now was, indeed. The Great
Delacorte.

And more.

This man was on. Keyed up. Imbued with energy. One
might put it/ in the current lexicon, that he,was wired.

There was an undercurrent of almost crazed ebullience in
his look and manner which transcended even his usually
effusive stage persona-
But then, something more was going on beneath me sur-
face.

Frozen by surprise, both Cassandra and the Sheriff
twitched as Max popped open his top hat, set it on his head,
and tapped it into place-

"It will be my pleasure this afternoon," he said high-
spiritedly, "to entertain you with some minor whimsies of
illusion. -. some larger feats of prestidigitation... and some
exploits of darker magic which will place each one of you—
whether you will or not—In Touch with the Mysterious."

Crystals of icy dread began to assail my inner warmth.

This had been the opening speech of his act (virtually the
opening speech of my act, too) for fourteen years.

At the conclusion of which (as he did now), he tossed up
a cloud of golden dust which crackled brilliantly, men van-
ished into thin air.

Plum had twitched at this- He stared at Max, mouth open.

Max swept off his top hat, bowing regally.

"I do not believe we've met, sir," he observed.

Now You See h...   121

Plum was speechless. So was I. (Well, I always was.) I
could not escape a chilling premonition that Max had truly
gone insane. Under all the circumstances, wasn't it a possi-
bility?

Max tilted his head inquisitively toward the Sheriff.
"Sir?" he said.

Plum swallowed quickly, clearing his throat. "Grover
Plum," he said. "Sheriff, Medfield County."

"Well, Sheriff, Medfield County," Max replied. "So good
to meet you."

His expression became that of a man savoring some new,
delightful knowledge.

"Grover Plum," he said. "How musical a name."

He beamed. "I am/ of course, Maximilian Delacorte,
known professionally as The Great... Delacorte."

He confused me further by gesturing expansively in my
direction, adding, "And mis, of course, is my beloved fa-
ther, the original Great Delacorte, a magician of worldwide
distinction and renown."

"I... met him," mumbled Pluih.

"Glad to hear it. Sheriff," Max responded.

Offhandedly, he gestured toward Cassandra, who was
looking toward him with a dark, despising disdain. (How's
mat for alliteration?)

"You've already met Miss Crane," he said.

"Who?" the Sheriff asked.

Max pointed at Cassandra as though at me target for a
firing squad. "That woman," he said. "Her maiden name
was Crane."

His cheeks puffed outward noticeably as he made a
sound of sardonic amusement.

"Maiden," he said, "a title nonapplicable to her for many
decades."

Cassandra tightened and began to speak. He cut her off.

"What brings you here so soon?" Max asked me Sheriff.

122   ftichani Mathacon .

"It was you who telephoned my office, then," said Plum.

"Of course," said Max. "I didn't expect you so promptly
though."

"I'm not surprised," the Sheriff said, "since you didn't
mention murder in your call."

Max's smile was evanescent. "No, I didn't," he admitted.

"Why did you kill him. Max?" Cassandra asked.

He did not reply. Reshutting the suit of armor with care,
he strode to the bar, placed his top hat on its surface and
gave the chilling bottle of Dom Perignon a few quick turns
between his palms.

"Champagne, Sheriff?" he offered.

"I hardly think this is me time for champagne," re-
sponded Plum.

"Oh. Too bad," said Max.

He glanced at Cassandra. "My dear?" he asked. His tone
became cajoling. "Your favorite brand."

"I don't drink to murder," she'told him in a throaty, ma-
lignant voice.

He smiled. 'Too bad," he said again. "Not the comment
though. That was very good." He pointed at her with ap-
proval- "Telling."

"Mister Delacorte—" Plum started.

"We'll have the champagne later, then," Max said.
"When we're ready."

"Mister Delacorte—" Plum began again.

"Perhaps with'caviar," Max said. "Oh, I'm sorry. Sheriff.
Did I interrupt you?"

"I'd like to remind you—" said the Sheriff.

"Uno momenta/' Max broke in.

Moving briskly to the Egyptian burial case, he shut the
lid, then turned back with a smile-

"Uke to keep a tidy household," he said cheerfully.

Max, whit is going on in your mind?! I thought in deep dis-
tress.

Now You SM It..  123

The Sheriff had begun to bristle now.

"See here. Mister Delacorte," he said, "I'm not here on a
social visit. My office gets a call, I drive out here and find
your wife lying on me floor over there."

"You do?" said Max. He turned to Cassandra with a look
of innocent curiosity. "Why were you lying on me floor,
darling?" he asked.

"Where is he. Max?" she cried.

His tone was bland as he inquired, "Who's that, my
dear?"

Her cheeks were whitening with rage- (Clearly, he was
still exacting vengeance on her.) "Stop the stupid game,
Max!" she demanded. "We're not playing! Where is he?"

"I think you'd better tell us. Mister Delacorte," the Sheriff
added.

Max looked at him.

"Your wife claims you're the one who committed the
murder," said Plum.

Max's expression became one of "hurt" bewilderment.

"What a dreadful thing to say/^he responded.

He looked at Cassandra, ducking with reproach.

"How awful," he said.

She looked at him with disbelief now.

"You asked him here to kill him," she said, a look of gen-
uine pain on her face- "To kill him."

Max's mouth was opening to reply when Sheriff Plum
said, "Let's get down to details now, shall we. Mister Dela-
corte?"

He removed a pad and stubby pencil from me breast
pocket of his shirt. Max looked at it approvingly.

"By all means!" he said; he actually sounded enthusias-
tic. "I'm a detail man myself; always have been. Nothing to
compare with details, is there? Without details—"

"Stop it," Cassandra cut him off, her voice low-pitched,
almost murderous,

124  Richard MathMOH

Max looked at her, then made a casual noise which I in-
terpreted as asking, "What on earth is bothering you, my
dear?"

As the Sheriff began to question him. Max removed four
playing cards from his left trouser pocket and started to
perform a back-and-front palm with them. The sight made
me uneasy as I recalled the difficulty he'd had with me bil-
liard-ball replication earlier.

"This Mister—" Plum began.

"Kendal. Harry Kendal," Max provided, one of me play-
ing cards between the thumb and forefinger of his right
hand.

He made a slight downward movement, followed by an
upward movement which allowed me card to fall across the
back of his first, second and third fingers, the little finger
rising to the edge of the card. (Despite my uneasiness, the
magician in me was absorbed completely by his hands.)

Rapidly, his forefinger replaced the thumb, his fingers
were extended, and the card vanished from the palm, all in
me space of a second. Seeing this, I felt a sense of relief for
him.

"K-e-n-d—" Sheriff Plum was writing down the letters
with laborious effort.

"—a-L" completed Max. "Kendal. Very good."

As he turned back his hand, he dosed his fingers into the
palm and gripped the center of the card with his thumb,
opening me four fingers outward until the card was
gripped against the two middle fingers and vanished from
the back of his hand as well. Good, Max, I thought automati-
cally.

"What time did he get here?" the Sheriff asked.

Max was repeating the back-and-front palm, the cards
appearing, disappearing, then appearing once again.

"Who's that?" he asked in a distracted voice-

"Don't let him do this to you, Sheriff," warned Cassandra.

U assandra's remark made Max almost drop the card.

He winced, then directed a forced smile at the Sheriff.

"Does this bother you?" he asked. "It's just a habit."

"I said, what time did Harry Kendal get here?" Plum re-
peated the query.                                  •

"Darling?" Max inquired sweetly. "You were here when
he arrived. I was out walking, you recall."

As he spoke, he fanned the four cards with his right hand,
then let them drop into his palm.

Cassandra regarded him balefully.

"Just past noon," she told the Sheriff.

"Thank you, precious," said Max, bringing up his right
hand to his left as though to transfer the cards, then palm-
ing them in his nght and closing his left as though they con-
tained the cards.

"You murdering bastard." Cassandra glared at him. "If
you think you're going to get away with this..."

Max made a sound of disapproval at her language,
quickly grasping the comers of the cards with his right

126   Richard Matheson

thumb and bending them over so he could pass the hand,

fingers open, across the back of his left hand.

All of this took place in rapid order as the conversation

progressed; a skilled magician's feat.
"Why did he come to see you?" asked Plum.
"Well—" Max dropped his left hand casually, displayed

me empty left hand, men produced the card with a fan from

behind his right knee "—he came to talk about business,"

he said. "An engagement in Las Vegas. Wasn't that it,

babe?" He smiled falsely at Cassandra.

She didn't answer, watching him with hooded eyes.
The Sheriff watched with displeasure as Max repeated

the card manipulations.

I watched Max with a coldness in my stomach/ wonder-
ing what he was up to, what he had in mind, what plan. I
knew there had to be one.

"Second method," Max was saying as he demonstrated.
"Hold the cards between the right forefinger and thumb
and pass the left hand across the front of me right as though
taking hold of them. Under cover of the left hand, quickly
back-palm them behind the right. Your audience—"

"I'd prefer you didn't do that/ Mister Delacorte," the

Sheriff told him.

"Really?" Max sounded surprised. "You don't like it,
Grover? You don't think it's jolly? Legerdemain? Sleight of
hand?"

"Air. Delacorte—"

Max rumbled, almost dropping me cards.

With a scowl, he made them vanish, slipping them into
his trouser pocket. He looked at Plum with a goading ex-
pression.

"I'm all ears, Grover," he said in a hardened voice. "Hit

me.

'Why did you have to kill him. Max?" Cassandra asked.

Now You Sea H..   127

There was an aching in her voice now which made him
look at her strangely.

"Did Mister Kendal leave the house?" the Sheriff asked.

"I've already told you!" Cassandra's anger burst out.
"Harry Kendal was murdered!"

The Sheriff tried to curb his irritation.

"I would like to hear what your husband has to say,
Mis.—"

"He'll say anything to throw you off!" she interrupted,
raging.

Again, she looked at Max, her tone despairing.

"You didn't have to kill him. Max/' she said.

Max, admit it, I thought. Be done with this.

Cassandra turned and walked to the picture window,
looking out at the gazebo by the lake, her features taut.

"To repeat the question. Mister Delacorte," said Plum.
"Did Harry Kendal—"

"Harry Kendal vacated these premises—under his own
power, I might add—I will add—I did add—at approxi-
mately a quarter after one."

"He's lying," Cassandra said without turning.

He was lying- But why?

The Sheriff was writing in his pad. "One . .. fifteen," he
said.

"Another way of putting it, but just as good," Max said.

The Sheriff threw him a frowning glance. "I'm not
amused/ Mister Delacorte," he said.

"Nor should you be," concurred my son.

Cassandra turned abruptly and walked to the spot where
Harry had been lying after drinking me Scotch-
Kneeling, she began to examine the floorboards.

"Looking for something, darling?" Max inquired.

128   Richard Mathexu

"You'll know when I find it/" she answered coldly.
"Looking forward to it, snookums," Max responded.
He watched Plum writing on his pad.
"Did you know," he said, "that when one is blindfolded,
one can see past one's nose?"

Plum glanced at him with disinterest, Now what? I
thought.

"But," continued Max as though the information must be
absolutely fascinating to the Sheriff, "until one needs that
sight, one keeps one's eyes shut, don't you see? In that way,
one need not feign blindness during that period, because
one is genuinely blind. N'est-ce pas?"

I felt a sense of melancholic pain, remembering the very
day I'd told that to my thirteen-year-old son-
Plum had frowned at the remark. "What has that got to
do with what we're talking about?" he asked.

Max smiled benignly. "Nothing," he said. (Does he have a
plan7 I wondered.)

The Sheriff drew in a tight breath.
"I'm getting tired of this. Mister Delacorte/' he said.
"Here's an intriguing item, Grover," said Max, raising his
right index finger as though testing the wind. "The magi-
cian, dressed in blue, rides a horse onto the stage/ accompa-
nied by a number of attendants dressed in white."

His next words faded from my hearing as, abruptly, I was
on the stage again, on horseback, dressed in blue. A screen
was raised for several seconds, then removed. Voila! I'd
vanished into thin air, the attendants running the horse on-
stage. Applause; delighted laughter-

The answer was, of course, simplicity itself. While behind
the screen, I jumped from the horse, ripped off my paper
costume and stuffed it into a pocket. Underneath, I was
dressed in white, like the attendants. No one ever noticed.
"Pourqwi?" Max's final words grew audible to me. "In

Now You Sw K...   129

the ensuing rush of movement, no one takes me time to
count the number of attendants."

The Sheriff was glaring at him now; mat made a pair of
glares. (You know where the other one came from.)

"You understand?" asked Max. "Leading your audience
into seeing what you want mem to see."

Cassandra looked up from her rapt perusal of the floor-
boards.

"How long are you going to let him do this. Sheriff?" she
asked, standing.

"Listen, Mister Delacorte," Plum started to say.

He broke off, tightening resentfully as Max began a rapid
single-card production, speaking as he worked.

"Back-palm ten cards in the right hand. Bend the ringers
in. Reach across with Right One, press against the top
card."

"Mister Delacorte—"

"Disengage me card from me pack by pressing down and
in with thumb pad as you straighten out the fingers."
' "Damn it," said the Sheriff.

"Wait," Max said. "Let the card slip down between Right
One and Right Two, through Five, until all the cards have
been produced."

He started to do the same thing with his left hand. "Back-
palm ten cards in the left hand," he began.

"Delacorte." The Sheriff's cheeks were getting pink.

"All tricks must be done in threes, you know/' my son
nonsequitured, the expression on his face not entirely sane
now, I saw with dismay.

"Card tricks. Coin tricks. Ball tricks. All tricks." The cards
kept appearing one by one in the fingers of his left hand.
'Tear paper three times. Tap tables and containers three
times. Announce illusions three times. This creates a deep
response, you see. Beginning, middle, end." His eyes were

130   Richard Mthesm

positively glittering. "Father, Mother, Holy Ghost Eter-
nal—damn it!"

I started inwardly as his voice flared when he lost hold of
die cards, which scattered to the floor like falling birds. He
kicked them aside m a burst of fury.

Cassandra looked delighted by his failure.

"You have just enjoyed the privilege of seeing The Great
Delacorte in performance," she said. "Thrilling, wasn't it?"

Max gave her a quick, acerbic look, then turned back to
Plum as tile Sheriff spoke, his voice antagonistic.

"Would you rather we continued this at my office?"
Plum asked.

"No," said Max immediately. "I prefer to be here."

"Let's do it then," snapped Plum.

Max gestured loosely. (Was he back again, or farther
adrift? I couldn't tell.)

"What can I tell you?" he inquired. "That my wife is
loony? It's a fact. There's been no murder here."

"Uar!" Cassandra shouted. "You killed Harry right in
front of me!"

Max looked bemused. "I did?" he said. "Maybe I should
reevaluate. Maybe I've got amnesia."

He was still playing me game, then. Dementedly per-
haps, but in control of his faculties-

"For God's sake, take him in!" Cassandra told me Sheriff.
"I'll testify against him."

"Wives can't testify against their husbands, darling,"
Max reminded her. "I must say, you're behaving most er-
ratically."

"1 think we'd better take a drive into town," the Sheriff
said- "If you want to get a coat or something..."

Max looked at him without expression.

Abruptly, a red ball appeared in his right hand, and he
tossed it into the air. Plum lowered his eyes involuntarily as
it fell to the floor and bounced. So did Cassandra.

Now You See h-   131

"See how his gaze followed me ball, my friends," said
Max, addressing an unseen audience. "Unexpected move-
ment, you see."

"Never mind me—" started Plum.

He stopped, eyes shifting suddenly as Max produced a
burning match in his left hand. (I remembered teaching him
that.)

"Again,"" said Max, "his gaze caught by me movement,
by the flame."

The Sheriff grimaced and was about to speak when Max
turned quickly to his right, gasping as he looked upward.
Plum glanced at the same spot-

"Again." Max smiled. "His line of sight directed."

His arm shot out as he pointed across the room. "There!"
he cried.

The Sheriff began to turn, then looked back willfully, his
face a mask of anger. "Damn it, Delacorte!"

"You see," said Max, striding toward Cassandra, "I can
decide, at any moment, what he will or will not look at."

Cassandra drew back in alarm as Max walked up to her.

Reaching down. he jerked apart the front of her blouse,
revealing her large, brassiere-cupped breasts. Max! I
thought in shock.

Cassandra gasped and snatched at me blouse to cover
herself, her face hardened with fury.

A startled Plum was gaping at the sight.

"How's that for misdirection, Grover?" asked my son.
"At the moment you got an eyeful of my wife's knockers, I
could have walked a purple elephant past you without you
seeing it."

He glanced at me. "Forgive me. Padre," he said. "I was
only making a point."

Cassandra was fastening her blouse now, an odd expres-
sion on her face, no longer furious, but grimly thoughtful.

"You didn't have time, did you?" she asked.

132  Richard Mth—on

Max elevated his eyebrows. "Pardon?"
"You didn't have time to put the body anywhere out-
side/" she said. "It has to be in the house."
Plum stared at her in confusion.
And Harry's voice was heard.
"Well, it took you long enough to guess that, babe," he said.

chapter 17

T

he Sheriff looked around in startlement.

"Who said that?" he asked.

Cassandra moved abruptly to me globe and snatched off
the red silk scarf.

She jolted with shock (as, somewhere in my dead bod, I
did too)/ grimacing exaggeratedly.

Plum stared at the globe in revulsion.

Inside was Harry Kendal's head, now hacked off at the
neck, veins and arteries dangling/ features gray and blood-
less, eyes staring.

"What the hell is that?" asked Plum-
He twitched as the head responded.

"Hi there. Sheriff," it said. "Harry Kendal here. Well, not
exactly here. Part of me is elsewhere. My body's cabbing
back to Boston with a different head on it. Plastic. Stuffed
with shredded contracts—Delacorte's, of course; all can-
celed. Head looks pretty good. First class. Hat fits perfectly.
I doubt if anyone will notice."

134   Richard Mathecon

The head turned. Harry's dead eyes seemed to look di-
rectly at Cassandra.

"Hi, babe," he said. "Remember the Essex House? Room
Five-twenty-five? Hanh? Hanh? Did I give good head or
didn't I?"

The head emitted a hideous, gargling laugh, the gray lips
drawn back sharply. Oh, Max, I thought.

Then the eyes fell shut, the face of the head went still.

"You filthy, sadistic son of a bitch," Cassandra said.

I almost agreed with her-

Max smiled at Plum and gestured toward the globe.

"Holography," he said, "A wonderful invention. En-
abling us to bring new life to old illusions."

He looked at me. "H only you could have had it. Padre!"
he said.

As Cassandra and the Sheriff stared at him in silence, he
removed the remote control from the pocket of his smoking
jacket (odd name for the apparel of a man who didn't
smoke, it occurred to me) and pressed a button.

The globe cover slid back into place, and he lay me re-
mote control on top of the desk.

Plum turned and walked toward me entry hall.

"Don't leave the premises," he ordered- "I'll be back in
less than an hour with a warrant."

"Warrant?" Max looked taken aback.

"To tear your goddam house apart," the Sheriff said.

"No need," Max told him instantly. "I confess. I did kill
Hairy Kendal."

My reaction was mixed. Surprise at his sudden, unex-
pected confession. Relief that it was over with.

After he spoke, a peal of thunder sounded, not too far
away.

"How's mat for timing?" Max inquired, pleased. "I even
work the weather into my act"

The Sheriff looked repelled.

Now You Sea It-   135

^
4-

"Your act?" he said-

"Don't misunderstand," responded Max, his pleased ex-
pression gone. "I really did kill Harry Kendal."

Plum gestured toward the entry hall.

"m mat case, we'll be on our way to town," he said.

Cassandra smiled, but Max looked disconcerted.

"No, no, please," he said. "That's not me plan." There
was a plan, then! "The plan is to announce a murder to our
good, staunch representative of law and order—thafs you,
Grover—then announce that he—you—will never ever—
what's me phrase?—'pin the rap' on me, because he'll—
you'll—never find the body."

Plum stared at him impassively.

"Let's get (his straight," he said. "You're admitting to
me—of your own free will—that you murdered Harry Ken-
dal?"

"Of my own free will," said Max.

"And is your wife correct?" The Sheriff gestured toward
Cassandra. "Is the body still in the house?"

Max's eyes lit up.

"Grover, in this room," he said.

Why did you want me here, Max? Why? I wondered deso-
lately.

Cassandra and Plum were looking at him in amazement.

"However," Max continued, "if you take me in, I will—
naturally—deny me murder. And without a signed confes-
sion, and without the corpus delecti, well..."

He gestured vaguely with his right hand.

"You just confessed in front of two witnesses," the Sheriff
said.

"One of them my wife?" asked Max. "With me denying
my confession? Sans corpse? The evidence not terribly in-
crunmating?"

He waggled a chiding finger.

"Grover," he scolded, parent to child.

136  Richard Mathmon

The Sheriff was silent. Thinking. (I presume; can't prove
it.)

"Take him in," Cassandra said. "You heard his confes-
sion. That's enough."

Max ignored her, addressing the Sheriff.

"I claim," he said, "that the worthless remains of Harry
Kendal are in this room and that no one—no one—will ever
be able to find mem- Even though he may be no more dis-
tant from us than a few scant yards."

His smile was wicked. "Possibly inches," he said.

Despite the dreadful aspects of it all/1 must confess that
Max's challenge intrigued me- After all, wasn't he me prod-
uct of my somewhat askew rearing?

I blinked (I think) as he made a sudden, broadly flourish-
ing gesture with his right hand.

"I take it back!" he cried. "I didn't murder Harry Kendal!
I vanished him!"

He smiled again, "m the parlance of me trade, mat means
I made him disappear, Grover." (I wished that he wouldn't
keep calling Plum by his first name, and with such barely
disguised disrespect.)

Max looked toward the fireplace.

"Perhaps I stuffed him up the chimney," he confided.

The Sheriffs head fumed slightly—and involuntarily—
toward the fireplace.

"Sheriff—" warned Cassandra.

"Or perhaps I dissected him into several hundred pieces,
which are now distributed about the room in boxes, vases,
urns, what have you."

"Delacorte—" said Plum.

"Or I may have disguised him as one or born of the easy
chairs," Max interrupted. "Or had him pancaked under a
steamroller so mat he lies beneath that large rug over
there."

NowYeuS—H...  137

"Give it up," Cassandra told him.

"Or—" Max cut her off grandiosely—"I disassembled his
integral atoms so mat—even as I speak—he hovers in me
air before our very eyes, an effluvium of cosmic dust."

He scowled theatrically.

"Or should I say cosmic garbage?" he amended.

"You're wasting my time, Delacorte," me Sheriff snarled.

Max made a face of boyish abashment (He can still do
that? I thought, amazed.) "Sorry," he murmured.

Plum turned to Cassandra-

"You think he's telling me truth?" he asked,

"Gro-ver." Max sounded wounded. You're getting in
deeper and deeper. Son, I thought.

Cassandra began to answer Plum, men hesitated, looking
at Max as though she sought a confirmation in his face-
Then she looked around the room as if searching for poten-
tial evidence.

"What think?" Max asked her.-

She paid no attention to him, looking at the Sheriff.

"Yes, I do mink he's telling the truth," she said. "I think
he's gone so crazy mat he's hidden Harry's body in mis
room. ..to torment me and to make a fool of you.

"To prove he's still The Great Delacorte, even though me
world at large knows he isn't anymore."

She glared at Max, still speaking to the Sheriff. "Get your
warrant," she said. "Tear the room apart."

"Oh. Come on now, Grover," Max said in a pouting voice.
(He still has that at his command as welU I thought, incredu-
lous.) "Don't do it that way. What fun is it to tear a room
apart? That's no challenge."

He pointed at Plum, a look of provocation on his face.

"But to find it yourself," he said, "with your own wits."

138   Richard Matheson

He threw down the gauntlet.

"Come on/ Grover/" he said, "be a sport. How hard can it
be to find one measly agent in a room this size?"

The Sheriff stared at Max. Remarkably/ he seemed to be
considering the offer.

"\ have always dared my audience to find me out," Max
said. (True; for both of us.) "I dare you now." He actually
looked exdted. "He's here, Grover," he promised. "I guar-
antee you."

The Sheriff remained quiet, regarding Max without ex-
pression.

"You wouldn't want to deprive my fattier of watching
you meet the challenge, would you?" asked Max. "If you
take me in, he has nothing."

My mind was split. Max, I'd rather have nothing, half of it
said.

Go/or it, Sonny! the other half was shouting. Shamefaced,
but shouting.

"Sheriff, get the warrant/' Cassandra said. She stared at
him in disbelief-

"You aren't actually considering—"

She could not complete the statement.

"All right," said Plum- "As long as you realize that be-
cause of your confession to me, you're already in deep
shit"

Max beamed.

"A predicament not unknown to me," he said-

"Sheriff—" Cassandra looked astounded,

Plum held up his right hand to stop her from speaking.

"I like a puzzle as well as the next man," he told her.
"And it's a slow day at the office, nothing going on in town.
They'll telephone if anything important comes up." He
looked at Max.

"I accept your challenge," he said-

chapter 11

N

ax looked euphoric.

"Capital!" he cried.

His ebullience was not transferable. True, I did feel a
sense of anticipation regarding what was about to happen.
At the same time, however, the deep-set apprehension re-
mained fixed in place. After all, he wasn't speaking about
giving a show, he was speaking about murder.

'Tm going to find that body," Plum was telling him
white I was ruminating- "And when I do—" his voice hard-
ened "—I'll see to it personally mat your ass is nailed to a
cross."

Max looked at him with mocking admiration—but he
must have felt at least a twinge of uneasiness.

Obviously, Cassandra still didn't believe that this was
really taking place.

"I can take him in anytime, Mrs. Delacorte," Plum told
her, "and I must say, I don't understand your objection.
You're tile one who said we should find the body first."

Touche, Graver, I thought.

140   Richard Matheson

Cassandra's teeth were bared. "All right," she said. "Play
his stupid little game, then."

"I'll need your help," said Plum.

"Oh, now wait a mo," objected Max. "That's not fair. She
knows this room better than you do."

'That's right," said Plum. His smile was thin and smug.

Cassandra looked at Max with sudden, vengeful plea-
sure.

"You think you're going to get away with this, don't
you?" she said. "You know very well that mis room is al-
most as strange to me as it is to him."

She pointed at Max, smiling now. Or was it leering?

"I'm not without means, however/' she told him.

"Not without means at all!" cried Max.

He clapped his hands three times quickly as though an-
nouncing the commencement of a toumey.

"C'est merveilleux!" he cried. "What fun we're going to
have!"

Thus the nightmare continued.

Visualize the scene, dear reader. (Assuming that anyone
ever reads mis.)

A wager had been made.

For money? Not so simple. Far more deadly and bizarre.

The location of a corpse.

Sheriff Plum and Cassandra Delacorte engaging in a chal-
lenge—he concedingly, she with resentful anger.

Puzzle?

Where was Harry Kendal's body in The Magic Room?

Remember the description now,

The room was twenty by thirty, high-ceilinged, many-
windowed, including me picture window affording a view
of the lake. Luxurious appointments, built-in bookshelves,
a fieldstone fireplace and wall, the French desk, seven feet

Mow You See It-   141

by four feet The brass-and-teakwood bar, two easy chairs
with end tables, the large antique g,lobe, the display poster,
the Egyptian burial case, the suit of armor, the casket, the
guillotine; you remember all that, don't you?

Where would you begin to search for a corpse?

Play detective with Cassandra and Plum (unholy she and
roly-poly he).

With the prior knowledge that no matter what solution
you come up with, you will almost certainly be wrong.

Searching for a dead man.

My son's idea of "fun" (God help him).

What was he thinking as he crossed to the desk and sat on
it, legs dangling while Cassandra and die Sheriff began
their search?

Cassandra first examined the walls, of course; the obvi-
ous choice. She knew about one secret panel at least. Per-
haps there were others she didn't know about; I didn't know
about.

Plum, meantime, had moved to the Egyptian burial case
and opened it.

"My wife already looked in there," Max told him with a
smile.

"How do you know?" countered Plum. "You weren't
here."

"Of course I was," Max said. He pointed, "m the suit of
armor."

Plum grunted, checking the interior of the burial case
anyway.

"Thoroughness," said Max. "I love it." He smiled gen-
. ially. "Search every spot twice," he said. "Who knows what
was missed the first time."

"You closed it up," says Plum. "I'm wondering why."

Max looked impressed; I knew he wasn't. "Good think-
ing, Grover," he said. "Wrong, but good."

Cassandra, by then, had looked behind the drapes and up

142  Richard Math—M

the fireplace; elementary steps. Now she was examining the
chairs and end tables.

"You think he's in the end tables/ love?" Max inquired/
chuckling.                      '

She glared at him. "Be amused," she said. "We'll find
him."

Max bowed, smiling.

^Tell you what I'm going to do, Grover," he said to Plum.

"Sheriff," Plum reminded him.

"Yes, of course," Max said. "Tell you what I'm going to
do. Sheriff. While you're searching, I'll describe some of my
various escapes to entertain you. I'll even tell you how they
work."

It is me measure of me, I confess, that I felt as much con-
cern over that as 1 did about Harry Kendal's body.

Reveal how they work?

My effects? The ones I'd labored so long to develop and
perfect?

Profanation.

"No loss," Max was saying, making it even worse for me.
"I'm never going to use them again anyway." (Until that
moment, I hadn't known the full extent of his hopelessness.)

"At any rate, they're too outdated, aren't they, Cassan-
dra?" he said, his smile gone dead. "They're not today."

Cassandra only pressed her lips together- She would not
respond.

"The Paper Bag Release!" cried Max. (Don't do it. Son, I
thought.)

"A man-sized bag shaped like a giant fool's cap, a
gummed seal at its top.

"I get inside, they seal it carefully and place a screen in
front of it. Impossible to escape from without tearing the
paper, you say?"

He cupped a hand behind his right ear as though an-


NowYouS—H...  143

ticipating a reply from them. They said nothing. I watched,
heartsick.

"You don't say," Max went on. "Nonetheless, I'll tell you.
(Max!)

"All I have to do is slit me bag along me top with a razor
blade, conveniently hidden on my person.

"I pop out and make a new flap with gum and brush, also
conveniently secreted on myself- The screen is removed—

"—et voila! The bag appears untouched, pristine.

"No one ever notices, you see, that the bag is two inches
shorter. They don't look for that sort of thing."

Well, that trick's shot to hell now, I thought gloweringly.

The Sheriff had, while Max was speaking, left me
mummy case behind and approached me lobby-display
poster to look behind it.

Max snickered at that.

"He's not back there," he said. He stroked his chin reflec-
tively. "Although I might have laminated him into the
wood, I suppose."

The Sheriff touched the heart area of the poster figure.

"Someone's thrown a knife in here," he said.

"Oh," responded Max in a voice of pseudo-awe, "I can
see why you're the Sheriff of Medfield County, Grover."

Plum turned to him with a smile most icy and atypical, I
thought.

"You think this is a grand game," he said.

"Completely grand," Max agreed.

"Well, what you don't know," the Sheriff said, "is that
I'm going to nail you good."

Max extended his arms to each side, head dropped for-

ward-

"To the cross, don't forget," he reminded Plum.
Then he lifted his head, grinning.
"The only fitting expiration for a saint," he said.

144   Richard Matheson

"A snake, you mean," Cassandra told him.

Max clucked and shook his head. "How disparaging," he
muttered.

He put both palms down on the desk behind him and
leaned back with a contented sigh. (I could not believe he
was really contented, though.)

"Both of you are cold, you know," he said. "Virtually
North Polish, if you want to know the truth."

"You really believe we're not going to find him, don't
you?" Cassandra asked with a cold smile.

"You're not," he replied. "You especially, you're border-
ing on the frigid."

"Only with you, lover," she jeered.

That blow hit home. I saw it dearly as Max regarded her
with malignance.

Then he turned from her to observe the Sheriff, who was
at me fireplace, patting and running his hands over me
stonework as though in search of another hidden panel.

Max watched with hooded eyes.

"Having a good time, Grover?" he asked.

The Sheriff did not reply; he continued what he was
doing.

"The Iron Box Escape!" cried Max. (Not again, I thought,
despairing. How can he do this?)

"The box is heavy—solid—riveted—the lid held down by
bolts."

My stomach sank. He really was going to do it.

"I'm locked inside," he described. "The box is bolted
shut. The good ol' screen is set in place for several minutes.

"I appear. The screen is withdrawn. The box is un-
touched, all bolts secure. Impossible, you say?"

I saw myself on stage performing me trick. To reveal its
secret was unthinkable to me!

NowYwS—lL.. 145

f.

i
x

The Sheriff was by the picture window now, looking out
at me lake.

"Whafs that out there?" he asked.

"That is a gazebo, Grover," Max told him.

"I don't mean that," said the Sheriff.

Cassandra joined him quickly. "Where?" she asked.

"Grover," scolded Max. "I told you; he's in this room."

"\ou told me a lot of things," Plum said in a deprecating
voice. He pointed. "That thing out there. Like a mound."

Cassandra blew out a bream disgustedly. "It's just a pile
of stones," she told the Sheriff.

"It was there before?" he asked.

"Yes." She turned away,

"Good try, Grover," said Max. "My respect for you is
mounting by the moment."

"Why don't you just shut up?" snapped Plum.

"Haven't finished my description of the Iron Box Es-
cape," Max responded cheerfully. (Oh, for God's sake. Max, I
thought.)

"The bolts I pushed out from me inside to have the nuts
fastened to mem are not the original bolts, you see; the ones
examined by me judges. (Damn you. Max!)

"These bolts—secreted on my person, of course—have
nuts on the inside of me box as well.

"I remove these inside nuts, push out the bolts, emerge,
replace me original bolts with me expeditious use of
string—that's the tricky part—ef voila!"

Thanks a lot, Son, I thought. Another pile of years and effort
down the tube.

While Max was talking. Plum had gone to check one of
the built-in bookcases, running his fingers along the decora-
tive moldings to see if anything occurred.

Occur it did.

As the Sheriff touched what appeared to be a scalloped

146  Richard Matfaewn

inlay on the molding, he (and I—and Cassandra, I imagine)
heard a clicking sound.

The bookcase section hinged out by several inches.

"Ah "the Sheriff said.

C

assandra hurried over as the Sheriff tried to pull the
bookcase open. "Now we're getting somewhere," he said.

Has the search already ended? I wondered.

Plum hissed as he broke a nail. "What is this, anyway?"
he demanded.

"Nothing, Sheriff," said Max. He looked disturbed.

"Nothing, Max?" Cassandra goaded.

Seeing how the bookcase edge had sprung open several
inches, she made a sound of vengeful satisfaction.

"Now we've got you," she said.

"I'm telling you. Sheriff, it's nothing," Max insisted.

"You hear?" Cassandra said. "He wouldn't say that if it
was really nothing."

She looked at Plum.

"What were you doing?" she asked. "What did you
touch?"

"This molding here," he answered, pointing.

Cassandra pressed her thumb along me molding designs.
I felt my heartbeat thumping. What was behind there?

148 Rtetart Matfcewn

When Cassandra touched the scalloped Inlay, she said ex-
dtedly, "It's going in!"

She looked at Max accusingly -

'"Now we've got you, you son of a bitch," she said.

She held the scalloped inlay in and quietly, with well-
oiled gears, the bookcase section started to revolve.

Cassandra and the Sheriff stepped back quickly, and I
braced myself (as much as that was possible) for what I
might see. Harry's corpse?

The bookcase section turned all the way around and
stopped.

No Harry's corpse.

Books.

On the reverse side was another bookcase filled with
them.

"What the hell is this?" me Sheriff asked.

Max smiled cutely (that smile again), a small shrug
hunching up his shoulders.

"I told you it was nothing," he said. "I wish I could tell
you that I'd fooled you, but I can't. It's just a protected place
where I keep my more valuable books on magic."

So that's where they are, I thought. I'd noticed they were
gone, but had assumed they were upstairs in Max's bed-
room.

"For Christ's sake," muttered me Sheriff. He bit off the
shredded nail's edge and spat it out in disgust.

"Good moment though, you must admit," said Max. (It
was, 1 thought.)

He looked at Cassandra disdainfully.

"Better luck next time," he said.

He slid off me desk and walked to the bookcase, pressing
in me scalloped inlay.

"Wait a second," said Cassandra.

Now what? I thought.

149

Max kept me inlay depressed with his thumb. Cassandra
grabbed his arm and pulled it from the molding.

"I said wait a minute," she told nun.

"What is it?" asked the Sheriff.

"Why is he so anxious to dose it up?" she demanded.

Max made a weary sound.

"Give it up, Cassandra," he said. He depressed the scal-
loped inlay/ and the bookcase started revolving again.

"Stop him. Sheriff," said Cassandra.

"Hold it," ordered Plum.

Max looked aggrieved. "For God's sake, Grover," he
complained.

"I said hold it," said the Sheriff.

Max removed his thumb from me inlay.

"I'd like to know why you're so anxious to dose it, too,"
said Plum.

"I told you," Max replied, a little testy now. "I like to keep
a tidy household."

He jerked around, a look of anger flaring on his face as
Cassandra shoved him aside and pressed at me scalloped
inlay once again.

"Don't try to stop her," the Sheriff warned.

Motionless, Max watched as the bookcase dosed all the
way; then, as Cassandra kept the inlay depressed, it re-
volved once more. Again, the collection of Max's more
valuable volumes of magic (my volumes, really) faced out-
ward.

"Now," said Cassandra.

"Leave it alone/' Max told her. All geniality had vanished
from his voice now; he was deadly serious. Is this it? I won-
dered.

Cassandra began to examine the bookcase.

Max moved to stop her.

Sheriff Plum stepped forward and restrained him.

150   Richard Matbeson

I sat/ lumplike, watching.

Max glared at the Sheriff. "This has nothing to do with
Harry Ken—"

His voice broke off as Cassandra found a middle joint on
the bookcase and began to pull open one side of it.

"Damn it!" said Max.

Both bookcase halves started to glide apart on rollers.

"No!" said Max. He tried to pull away from Plum, but
couldn't.

He stared at the opening bookcase halves, his expression
harried.

I couldn't see—or feel—my expression, but I wager it was
no less distraught.

Cassandra hitched back with a gasp, and Plum's grip
tightened reflexively on Max's arm.

I wanted to gasp, but couldn't

What we were looking at was Adelaide Delacorte.

Adelaide's back was turned to us, her hair and dress exactly
as they looked in the painting above the fireplace.

"Holy God," Plum muttered.

"God damn it!" Max snarled.

He jerked loose from the Sheriff's grip and moved to
close the bookcase halves.

Too late.

Cassandra had already touched Adelaide's right shoul-
der. Adelaide began to turn. Slowly. Uke a lifesized doll on
a revolving base.

Which stopped.

We all stared at her face.

There was no face.

It was a faceless mannequin, wearing the dress and a wig.
I felt a sense of dreadful pain for my son-

What had been exposed was a sanctuary to his wife, her

Now You See It..   151

dresses and belongings lovingly displayed. Her jewelry.
Her hats. Her books-
Total silence in TMR. Immobility.

Then Max, breath strained, said in a quiet (bating) voice,
"Are you both satisfied now?"

Hands shaking, he began to close the bookcase again.

Cassandra grabbed his arm and jerked him around.

"You made a shrine to her?" she asked, infuriated. "A
shrine?"

Max looked at her in blank surprise (as I did) as she
shoved the bookcase halves apart again, so violently that
the mannequin began to topple.

With a hollow cry. Max lunged for the figure to prevent
its fall. He stood it up again.

Cassandra smiled now. It was not a wholesome smile.

"To the only woman you ever loved?" she asked.

"Whafs going on?" asked Plum. I would have asked me
same question had I been able to speak.

"And she loved you, of course/' Cassandra said- "Adored
you. Worshiped you."

Max's face looked carved from stone. Again, he tried to
dose the bookcase halves to shut away what clearly was a
shrine to Adelaide. Again, Cassandra stopped him.

It was impossible to believe mat these two had ever loved
each other, so rabid were their exchanged looks. I felt em-
barrassed to witness it. Plum seemed to feel the same.

"Time for a little truth. Max," said Cassandra. "Time to
set things straight."

He started to speak. She cut him off.

"You never loved her/or a second," she said.

He tensed. I tensed (I think). Plum tensed (I guess).

Cassandra's smile was ruthless.

"How could you love her," she said, "when you loved your-
self so much?"

152   Richard Mathexon

It seems accurate to say that Max was on the verge of
leaping at her, probably to throttle her.

But somehow, he managed to hold back, his expression
suddenly confused. What does that mean? I wondered.

"Oh, you thought you loved her/' said Cassandra. "Why
not? She never asked for a single thing."

Her face went hard- "Except a baby," she added.

•"Stop it," said Max. His voice was weak and vulnerable
now.

"She spoke to me. You never knew that, did you?" said
Cassandra. "During mat engagement in New York. The
night she died."

Her shiver seemed genuine enough.

"Or should I say the night she was killed?" she added.

"Stop it," Max commanded- He seemed to be losing con-
trol.

"Oh, no," Cassandra said through clenching teem. "Not
now. I'm sure the Sheriff will be fascinated by what I have
to say. I'm sure your father would be too if he weren't a liv-
ing sponge." (Gradas, Cassandra.)

"I'm warning you," Max told her

"Warn ahead," she said, defying him.

She turned to the Sheriff.

"My brother and I were performing at the same theater,"
she said. "I got to know Max's wife. She was pregnant. Oh,
so happy to be carrying their first child."

"God damn you." Max's hands began to flex into fists.

''And oh, so exhausted because Max wouldn't let her
rest," Cassandra continued, looking at Max as though dar-
ing him to try and stop her.

"She should have been in bed that night," she went on.
"She was afraid she might miscarry. But did mat mean a
thing to Max? No. Not him. He didn't want the baby any-
way."

"God damn you," Max broke in again.

Now You S— It.   153

"He couldn't stand the idea of Adelaide loving any other
person m the world but him."

"Stop it!" shouted Max; it was the agonized protest of a
man who knew he was hearing the truth. (A genuine shock
tome.)

"You knew she shouldn't have been working that night!"
Cassandra shouted back. "You didn't give a damn, though!
You made her work, regardless! She miscalculated, had the
accident—and you're the one who killed her!"

M

lax lunged at Cassandra, hands clutching for her throat.
Only Plum's alert move prevented him from succeeding.
"You didn't want a wife!" Cassandra raged at Max. "You
wanted a slave' A smiling, bowing/ scraping, worshiping
slave! That's why Adelaide was your dream woman! Be-
cause/ unlike me—"

She broke off breathlessly and turned away from him
with a convulsive shudder.
"Let me go," Max told the Sheriff quietly.
"Not if you intend to harm your wife," said Plum.
Max replied, "My wife is dead."
My eyeballs shifted as I looked at Cassandra.
Not surprisingly, she was staring at Max with as much
pain as venom.

Once again, I was compelled to sympathize with her.
Whatever she'd done to harm Max—and it was considera-
ble (she'd certainly gone beyond me bounds in her accusa-
tions)—she did not deserve his last remark. Good God,
what a murk of hate and counter-hate befouled that room.

NowYwSoetL..  155

Enough to make a person ill.

Max had pulled loose from the Sheriff's relaxing grip and
was now closing Adelaide's shrine, returning me bookcase
to its original position.

He looked around in startlement as Cassandra suddenly
lurched toward the fireplace.

She stopped in front of it and put a trembling hand across
her eyes.

"Why did you rush over there?" the Sheriff asked.

She didn't answer.

"Mrs. Delacorte?"

"No reason," she said, struggling for composure.

Plum looked at her in disbelief. It was a wonder the man
believed anything by men, there'd been so much deception
since he'd arrived.

He moved to where she was standing.

"Is mere something over here?" he probed. "A hiding
place or something?"

"No," she muttered.

"Why did you come over here, then?" he asked.

"No reason!" She was still fighting to regain herself. "No
reason at all," she said.

Clearly/ Plum was not convinced. Who could blame him?

He ran his hands across the uneven surface of me field-
stone wall above the fireplace. He looked carefully at me
mantelpiece.

"If I knew where the body is," Cassandra said, "do you
think I'd have been searching with you all this time?"

"frankly, I don't know," the Sheriff said disgustedly. "I
don't know whether to believe either one of you at this
point."

Bravo, Grover, I thought gloomily. So far, this had been a
little less than the happiest day of my life.

Hum could find nothing. With an irritated sound, he
turned toward the entry hall.

156  Richard Math—on

"That's it/' he said. "Tm^not wasting any more time
here."

"I'll show you the body," said Cassandra.

Plum whirled to glare at her. "You just said you don't
know where it is!" he cried.

"I don't!" she responded. "But I know how to find it with-
out wasting any more time!"

She started toward Max, a vengeful look on her face.

"I told you I'm not without means," she told him.

"Get away from me," he muttered.

"You'd best cooperate. Mister Delacorte," Plum said, "or
I'll take you in right now."

Ambivalence flickered on my son's face, indecision;

should he go or stay?

It wasn't much of a contest, as it turned out-

"What do you want?" he asked Cassandra,

Her answer was to grab his right wrist.

He jerked it free-
She grabbed the wrist again. Again, he pulled away.

"Make him do it. Sheriff," she said.

Plum looked agitated. "Do what?" he demanded.

"Lead me around the room while I'm holding his wrist."

The Sheriff scowled. "Why? Whafs that supposed to
do?"

Her smile was cruel. The woman had a cruel smile, mat
was certain. Now I wondered just how much of what she'd
said about Adelaide was true and how much concocted.

"When we reach me place where Harry Kendal's body is
hidden," she told the Sheriff, "my husband's pulse beat will
speed up."

So mat was it; I should have known.

The Sheriffs scowl had not abated. "I'm tired of—" he
started.

"Sheriff," said Cassandra. "I'm telling you. It will work."

Now You See H...   157

The Sheriff sighed. He looked at Delacorte and nodded
once.

With a smile equally cruel. Max extended his right hand
and Cassandra grabbed the wrist again, squeezing as hard
as she could. Max winced a little, men chuckled softly.

"Where to?" he inquired.

"Just lead me around the room," she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied.

He led her to the globe and stopped. "Here?" he asked.

"Go on," she muttered.

"Yes, ma'am."

He led her to the fireplace and then along the fieldstone
wall. He gestured toward me fireplace with his left hand.

"Here?" he asked.

She gestured irritably for him to keep on moving.

"Yes, ma'am/" he said.

"I'm not going to wait too long on this," the Sheriff told
her.

"Hold on," she said.

Max led her to the desk and gestured toward it.

Cassandra grimaced and shook her head.

He led her to the suit of armor, stopped.

She shook her head.

He led her to the guillotine.

She shook her head.

With a bored sigh, he led her to the casket, stopped.

He waited, then began to move again.

She released his wrist, a look of sweet revenge on her
face.

"I knew his pulse beat wouldn't change," she told me
Sheriff. "He's too good at controlling it. He forgot his mus-
cular reaction, though."

She is clever, I thought uneasily.

158   Richard Matbason

As she finished speaking, a roar of thunder sounded in
the distance. Lightning flashed.

The storm was getting closer.

"Mrs. Delacorte/' said Plum.

She pointed at the casket.

"He never keeps it closed," she said.

"But you can see inside," Plum told her.

Cassandra's pointing finger shifted toward the lower
portion of tile casket.

"Not down there," she said.

Max spluttered with contemptuous amusement. His dis-
tress at the uncovering of his shrine to Adelaide seemed
ended now; he had his equanimity back.

"You can't be serious," he said.

He looked at Plum.

"I could conceal the body in a dozen different places,
Grover," he said. "But in a casket right in front of you?"

He directed a hooded-eyed smile at Cassandra.

"Norn de Dieu, ma petite," he said.

His voice grew harsh.

"I'm referring to the size of your brain/ of course," he
added-

Cassandra was trying in vain to open the casket.

"Make him unlock it," she said to Plum-
Plum looked at Max as though he really didn't see the
point in this but felt compelled to try it anyway.

"You have the key. Mister Delacorte?" he asked.

"Ah, it's Mister Delacorte again," said Max. "Things are
picking up."

"Will you just unlock it, please," Plum told him.

"Sheriff/' Max explained/ "mat casket is my final resting-
place-to-be. It has a deep significance—"

Plum didn't let him finish.

"If you force me to get a warrant," he said, "I swear to
God I'll break it open with an axe."

Now YM See It,   159

"You-will-not," said Max/ offended.
Even so/ he hesitated for several moments more before re-
moving a key from the right-hand pocket of his smoking
jacket and tossing it to Plum, who, startled, was barely able
to snatch it from the air.

Was this it, then? I wondered. Trepidation held me tight.

Cassandra edged closer to the casket.

"Anxious to view your lover's remains?" asked Max.

The look she gave him was now as apprehensive as ma-
lign. I could not believe that he could sound so casual if this
was really it. Unless he had surrendered inwardly already.

They watched (I watched) as the Sheriff unlocked the cas-
ket's upper lid and opened it.

Reaching in. Plum lifted out the partial replica of Max
and set it on the floor, then rejoined Cassandra, who was
looking down into me casket.

Their reaction made it obvious that they were seeing
nothing.

Max chuckled again. "I told you," he said.

Moving to the Sheriff/ he removed the key from Plum's
fingers and dropped it back into his pocket.

Cassandra had backed off, frowning, but me Sheriff still
looked down into the interior of the casket-
Max looked inside with him.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

Does he feel as sick inside as I do? I wondered. I'm sure he
did.

The Sheriff remained silent, peering into the casket.

"All right if I put my quarter-duplicate back in?" asked

Max.
Plum did not respond. He reached down into me casket,

. feeling at the padding.

"Grover?" Max put his hand on the Sheriff's shoulder.
Plum shook it off.
Abruptly men, he raised the bottom lid of the casket,

160  Richard MatbewR

hinging it aside. He poked at the interior padding once
again. What is he looking/or? I wondered.

Max wondered, too.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his tone a rattier obvi-
ous attempt to sound casually curious.

Still the Sheriff didn't speak. He began to press both
hands against the padding now. He was on to something, I
could see.

Also seeing it, Cassandra returned. "What is it?" she
asked.

"Sheriff?" Max inquired.

Plum remained quiet, pressing harder at the inside pad-
ding of the casket, poking it and plucking at it.

The approaching thunder rumble sounded ominous to
me. Like a dnunroll prior to some explosive finale.

Now Plum reached into his right-hand trouser pocket
and removed a folding knife.

"What are you doing?" Max asked quickly.

Plum opened the knife.

"What are you doing?" Max repeated, now more urgently.

Phun reached into the casket, the open knife in his right
hand.

Max grabbed his arm. "You aren't going to do this," he
declared.

"Let go of me." Plum said. His tone was threatening.

Max swallowed and withdrew his hand. "You'll regret
this," he said.

Ignoring him. Plum began to cut away the padding on
the bottom of the casket.

"You're going to pay for mis," Max told him.

Cassandra watched in silence as the Sheriff hacked at the
casket padding, pulling it up in handfuls.

Suddenly, Cassandra looked inside the casket in shock.

"Oh, my God," she murmured.

What is it? cried my mind.

Now You See H-.   161

The Sheriff was pulling something up from an apparent
cavity in the bottom of the casket.

Something heavy.

Oh, no. Max, no, I thought.

The Sheriff hauled up what appeared to be a cloth sack.

Cassandra (and I) choked on breath as the Sheriff yanked
the heavy bag up higher and it toppled from the casket,
landing on me floor with a soggy thump.

Dripping blood.

c

assandra made a sickened noise; somewhere in my vege-
tated bowels/1 did alike.

The Sheriff swallowed, throat dry.

Bracing himself, he reached down with both hands and
cut open the sack with his knife.

He pulled apart the edges.

And cried out hoarsely—simultaneously with Cassan-
dra—as a giant paper moth flew upward from inside me
sack, flapped around in erratic circles, then performed an
abrupt nosedive to me floor.

"I told you you'd regret it/" Max reminded the Sheriff.

What was that hollow sound inside my chest? Could it
have been a chuckle? I felt like chuckling. From relief. From
(damn my magidanly hide!) appreciation and delight at a
trick well done.

"The weight is dirt," Max told them. "The blood is fake."

Both looked at him with virtually the same expression—
one of incredulous revulsion.

"I also told you it was my casket," Max continued

Now You See tt.   163

blithely. "It is. 1 had a few small gimmicks put in, that's all.
To entertain the audience at my hmeral. Why let them sit
there morosely when I can do a postmortem performance?"

"Morosely?" Cassandra responded, glaring at him.
"Don't you mean joyously?"

"Only you," said Max-

To their surprise (and mine, need I add?) he started
climbing into the casket.

"Let me demonstrate," he said. He dosed the lower lid,
locking it into place.

"You'll get a boot out of this, Grover," he told the Sheriff.

He lay back against the padding, his head on me sewn-in
pillow.

"I'm in my casket, see?" he said. "Laid out in my finest
bib and tucker, hair combed, beard trimmed, teeth all
brushed; why not?

"The service is near conduded. Get the picture? Lights
are dimmed. All heads are lowered reverently."

"Murderer!" Cassandra snarled.

Lunging at the casket, she slammed shut the upper lid,
locking it. Max cried out. Max's father felt a surge of dread.

Cassandra seemed to be uncertain as to whether she felt
shock or elation. She trembled visibly as she watched Plum
attempt to open the casket.

"You bitch!" screamed Max. His voice was muffled.

"Where's the key?" the Sheriff asked him loudly.

"m my pocket, you idiot!" shrieked Max, furious and ter-
rified at the same time.

Oh, my God, she's done him m, I thought.

Plum was staring blankly at me casket.

He looked at Cassandra, stunned, as she emitted a sound
of half-mad pleasure.

"I'm going to smother in here!" Max shouted,

'^our breath is steaming up the faceplate, darling," Cas-
sandra said, smiling.

164   Richard Matheson

"Mrs. Delacorte," said Plum, aghast.

"I hope his death is slow," she said-

Which concluded my appraisal of Cassandra Delacorte.

Not a positive one-

The Sheriff was staring at her as though he couldn't be-
lieve what he'd heard.

I stared at her with no difficulty at all in believing what
I'd heard.

Max started pounding on the inside of the lid (unbreak-
able glass), screaming with enraged terror-

The Sheriff looked around/ gaze settling on the trophy
board above the mantelpiece-
Running there, he grabbed the African spear-
Seeing mis/ Cassandra quickly levered down the casket
to a horizontal position.

"What are you doing?" Max shouted; he sounded de-
ranged now.

When me Sheriff started to return with the spear/ Cassan-
dra pushed me rolling-casket base away from him.

"You mustn't touch his casket. Sheriff," she said breath-
lessly. "You heard him."

It was a manic chase/ my friends. A farce enacted in a
madhouse.

Visualize: Cassandra Delacorte shoving the casket around
the room (no Magic Room now; rather, an insane asylum)/ a
look of unhinged amusement on her face.

Max inside, howling, pounding.

Plum—me Kikuyu spear clutched tightly in his right
hand—gasping/ "Mrs. Delacorte!"

And Potato Familias ensconced, unmoving, in his wheel-
chair, watching like me helpless tuber he was.

"Mrs- Delacorte!" Plum cried again.

"No/ no, it's his final resting place!" she protested. She
was insane; I note this in retrospect.

A frenetic giggle pulled back her lips as she yawed the

Now You Sw tt...   165

casket around the guillotine, turning so fast that it "did a

wheelie," as they say.
"Damn it!" cried the Sheriff.
He put on a burst of speed and managed to catch up to

her/ forcing her to stop.
Immediately, she backed off, panting.
Plum attempted to pry the spearhead under the lid.
Max's pounding was weaker now. He sobbed with

dread.

"Get me out of here!" he begged. "For Christ's sake, get
me out of here!"

The glass plate, I could see now, was completely steamed
up by his breath.

"Damn!" Plum was grimacing angrily. He couldn't seem
to force the spear in to open the lid.

I wanted to dose my eyes. The sight was unnerving me;

and my nerves were half dead, remember.

Plum struggled harder. Finally, he forced me point in and
-started pulling down on the shaft.

Which promptly broke.

"Oh," Cassandra said, her tone nine steps below sincer-
ity. "Drat."

She smiled benignly at the casket. "Sorry, Max," she said.

"You bitch!" he shrieked.

Cassandra ducked and shook her head. "How disparag-
ing/" she said, leaning across the casket as Sheriff Plum ran
back toward the fireplace.

"Now you'll pay for killing Harry," she said. "Whether
we find him or not."

"Damn you!" cried my son/ his voice sounding faint.

The Sheriff snatched the Spanish pike from the trophy
board and started running back, gasping for breath.

"He's going to try me pike now/ Max/" Cassandra told
my son. "If that doesn't work/ well send out for some dyna-
mite."

166  Richard Matbeui

"Look out," said Plum.

Cassandra jumped aside as the Sheriff reached the casket,
brandishing the pike to drive it at the casket lock.

"Avaunt!" cried Max.

My heart jumped (it was nice to have something mat could
Jump) as me casket side sprang open and my son stood up/
arms raised to halt the Sheriff's move.

"Don't do it!" he ordered.

They stared at him in shock; while my body considered
indulging in a second stroke.

Max gestured toward me casket.

"It is, of course/ an apparatus," he confessed. "An inte-
rior release making possible solid-through-solid penetra-
tion."

He looked at Cassandra darkly.

"Although mis person didn't know that/' he said-
He looked over at me. "Had the apparatus built by Need-
lebaum," he told me. "He's still the best, at eighty-four."

His expression softened as he saw (or sensed) my dis-
tress. He came over to me.

"I know, I've made you suffer again," he said. "I regret
that. Padre, but I wanted you to see these things and not be
shut away from them. This is still your home."

He laid his hand on my right shoulder and squeezed it.
Dear, oh, dear, my muddled brain remarked. My emotions
were dangling at me end of a yo-yo, moving up and down,
out and in, in circles, winging, spinning, penduluming.

Turning, Max went back to Cassandra and Plum. (Good
name for a vaudeville team, it occurred to me.) They stared
at him, still—I took it—recovering from the shock of his un-
expected appearance-
He chuckled at their expressions.

"Now I ask you," he said. "Would I have a real casket in
my father's home? Do I strike you as the morbid type?"

He addressed the Sheriff.

Now You See It-   167

"As you know," he said, "—or maybe not—a magician
always provides an alternative ending to an illusion in the
event something goes wrong."

Again, the icy look at Cassandra.

"Like some person slamming down the lid of one's casket,
locking one inside with me key."

He smiled at her, the smile as icily malignant as the look
had been.

"Well, it was worth it," he declared. "Now I know ex-
actly where your head is at."

He made a sound of derisive amusement.

"Even if you don't know where Harry's is at," he said.

The Sheriff finally found his voice; the casket effect
seemed to have rendered him temporarily speechless.

"You let us think that you were suffocating just to play a
trick on us?" he asked, appalled.

"Just to play a trick?" echoed Max. "Sang-de-boeuf, what
greater achievement is there?"
[     His expression hardened suddenly.
^     "Speaking of that," he went on, "you've been fooled
completely. Sheriff. Utterly deceived.

"Harry Kendal isn't here. He left at twelve-fifteen. I have
been playing a game with you. Not a stupid game, as this
person described it, but a game nonetheless."

The Sheriff's expression was as hard as Max's now, his
lips pressed together so tightly they were barely visible.

"If you'd like to call a lawyer. Mister Delacorte," he said,
"I advise you to do it now. I'm taking you in."

Max looked taken aback. "But I just told you—" he

began.

The Sheriff cut him off. "I know what you told me," he

said,

„,     He moved to the chair in which Harry had been sitting
^   and reaching into the narrow opening beneath it, slid out an
f-   attache case-

168   Richard Mathexon

"I also know that this is here," he said.
He pointed to the monogram, "And that H.K. doesn't
stand for Maximilian Delacorte."
My son looked blank. He'd overlooked that?
"How long have you known it was there?" he asked.
Plum's smile was arctic.
"I can play a game too. Mister Delacorte/' he said.

N

ax mumbled, "Nom de Dieu."

He nodded, impressed, then said, "I don't suppose I
could convince you that Harry left the case behind, could
I?"

"I don't suppose you could," said Plum coldly.
"Hmm." Max looked uncertain. He seems to have lost focus,
I thought- ^ appear to be at a loss here," he said- "Although
I might remind you that you haven't found a body yet,"
Weak, Max, weak. The thought oppressed me.
Throughout this brief exchange, Cassandra had been gaz-
ing fixedly at Max, a look of bewilderment on her face.
Clearly she had little notion of what was going on at the
moment. Neither did I.

Sheriff Plum reached into his back pocket and removed a
pair of handcuffs.

My son protested. "Oh now, wait a moment—"
Plum did not reply. Walking over to Max, he tucked the
attache case under his left arm and deftly snapped the cuffs
into place around Max's wrists.

170   Richard Matheson

"I don't usually put these on people," he said. "It humili-
ates them too much."

Max recognized the dig and nodded once in mute appre-
ciation. Js li over now? I wondered. What, in fact, had actu-
ally been accomphshed here?

As Cassandra (and I) watched in confusion, the Sheriff
started to lead Max toward the entry hall, holding the at-
tache case with his left hand.

"I'll be back with a warrant, Mrs. Delacorte," he told her.

He glanced at Max in disgust. "At which time, we will
tear this room apart until we find the body. And if the body
isn't here, well tear the goddam house apart."

"Grover, I told you it was in this room," said Max. Is he
already backing down ? I thought.

The Sheriff didn't respond.

"Wait a second," said my son as though a bulb had just
been switched on in his brain. "It's the body you want?"

Plum's face tightened—as did his grip on Max's arm,
making my son wmce.

"Well," said my son, "if that's all you want—"

He made a sudden twisting movement, and before Plum
knew what was happening, he was staring down the barrel
of his own pistol, which Max had, with great celerity, jerked
from me Sheriffs holster. (Despite everything, I had to ad-
mire Max's still-impressive dexterity.)

Plum held out his right hand.

"Hand it over, Delacorte," he said.

Max edged back. "You said you wanted the body," he re-
sponded.

"Delacorte." The Sheriff advanced a step.

Froze in his tracks as Max thrust out me pistol threaten-
ingly.

"What have I got to lose, Grover?" Max asked. (Was it my
imagination, or was mere a crazed sound in his voice?)
"Can they execute me twice for two murders?"

Now You Sfl« H...   171

Cassandra shrank away from him as he passed nearby—

—backing toward me Egyptian burial case.

"You made me nervous before, looking at it a second
time," he said to Plum. "1 thought for sure you'd find out
how the reversal gimmick works."

He pressed the side of the burial case, his voice suddenly
becoming that of The Great Delacorte addressing an audi-
ence.

"I sense a gathering of forces, my friends," he said. "Can
you feel it?"

Thunder crashed in the distance- (By God, he really does
work the weather into his act! I thought.) The Magic Room was
gloomy with shadows by now.

The Sheriff and Cassandra watched him, mute and mo-
tionless. (I was M&M too, of course.)

"Very dose now," said The Great Delacorte. "Can you feel
it? Feel the presence? The still, cold presence . . of the
dead?"

He flung open the cover of me burial case.

Cassandra screamed. The Sheriff gasped. I almost filled
my pants.

Harry looked exactly as he had m the globe, features gray
in death, a dark, blood-clotted gash across his throat

"Behold your lover!" cried The Great Delacorte

Max scowled.

"And the crummiest agent I ever had," he added pet-
tishly.

Oh, Max. I thought. Oh, Son.

The scene was frozen; a tableau: Max immobile, the pistol
in his hand; Cassandra and the Sheriff looking toward the
burial case, their features and bodies as unmoving as stone;

me immobile (same old thing), my heartbeat thudding, my
heart breaking for my son's atrocity.

Harry staring, throat cut, dead.

172   Richard Matheson

"Don't you want to take a closer look, Cassandra?" asked
her husband.

She averted her face with a choking sob.

'Take a closer look, Cassandra," Max urged.

"Give me the pistol, Delacorte," the Sheriff told him.

He twitched back as Max thrust out his arm, pointing the
pistol at him-

"Take a closer look, Cassandra," Max ordered.

The Sheriff swallowed with some effort. With an attempt
at professional demeanor, he suggested, "Better do as he
says, Mrs. Delacorte."

"Good advice, Grover," my son complimented him.
"You're a pip of a lawman, has anyone ever told you that
before?"

The Sheriff did not reply. (I didn't blame him.) He edged
slowly toward the burial case as Cassandra approached it,
gaze averted.

Max backed off several paces, eyeing them with guarded
care. And all I could mink was: Why did you want me here,
Son? To see this?

The Sheriff stopped, peering closely at Harry's face, gri-
macing at the sight—the bluish Ups; me glassy, staring eyes;

me deep, blood-rimmed indsion across his throat.

Then he cocked his head, a look of curiosity on his face.

"Can I—" He gestured toward the body.

"Be my guest," said Max.

The Sheriff took a few steps closer to me burial case and
laid me palm of his right hand against Harry's gray cheek.
What's he doing? I wondered.

Noting the Sheriff's movement, Cassandra raised her
eyes, emitting a sound of sickened pain at the sight of
Harry's face.

She tensed as me Sheriff reached up to me top of Harry's
head and took hold of his hair.

Now You See It-   173

"What are you doing?" she asked in a faint voice. What
are you doing? I thought.

He did not respond, but started to tug upward at Harry's
hair.

Cassandra looked aghast. "What are you doing?" she de-
manded again, this time in a breaking voice.

"We are about to surprise you, my friends," said Max,
once more The Great Delacorte addressing his audience.
"Are you ready? Prepare yourselves. Here it comes!"

Plum pulled up hard at Harry's hair.

With a sound of revolted anger, Cassandra moved to stop
him.

Suddenly, a skintight rubber mask—fastened loosely at
the back—tore free from Harry's head, revealing him
gagged but quite alive, making tiny sounds of protest—
which the Sheriff had heard, I assumed.

Cassandra cried out with intense relief.

"Restoration, my friends'" cried The Great Delacorte.

He held out the pistol.

"Here's your weapon, Grover," he said.

Plum turned, regarding Max with a blank expression.

Max made a rapid, blurring movement with his hands
and held out the handcuffs to Plum-

"And your little manacles, too," he said, sounding like
the Witch of the North.

He looked at me.

"Sorry again. Padre," he said. "Hope it wasn't too much
of a shock."

fust how much do you think this battered old heart of mine can
take. Son? I thought. I was relieved that he wasn't a mur-
derer. Resentful that he'd forced me over the jump like that.

174   Richard Matheson

Cassandra, crying, was removing Harry's gag by then.

"You're alive," she said, incredulous. "Alive."

"Yes, isn't that a nice surprise?" said Max. "A lot more
bedding to be savored now."

She didn't even look at him.

The Sheriff took me pistol and me handcuffs from him.

"Never, in me fifty-four years of my life," he said, "have I
ever met anyone as sick as you."

"Probably not," my son agreed; and so, unhappily, did I.
Max was not amused, though. It was simply a statement of
fact as he (and I) saw it.

"I'd like to shoot you dead where you stand," said Plum
in a most unSheriffly way.

"Oh, now you're talking," said Max, nodding with som-
ber approval. "That would be a lovely, charitable thing to
do. Relieve me of my rapidly dwindling reason d'Stre. Please
do. I encourage it."

He pressed me tip of his right index finger to the heart
area of his chest.

"Right here," he said.

"Don't tempt me," said the Sheriff, surprising me again.

Harry's gag was off now. Raging, he exploded. "If you
won't do it, I will! Just give me the fucking gun'

"Ah," said Max, "our sweet-tongued Harry is among us
once again."

"You son of a bitch!" shrilled Harry. "You lousy, stink-
ing, heartless son of—"

"Enough!" Max roared, shutting Harry up, causing him
to twitch in startlement. "Be grateful mat I didn't fire a real
pistol ball into your heart! That the Scotch was merely
drugged! It would have been a simple matter to dispose of
you, and I have every reason in the world to wish you dead!
So, shut up. Just don't push your luck! I'm not—"

He broke off with a groan of angry despair.

Now You See h...   175

"Oh, whafs the use?" he said. "Why bother? What's the
point in going on?"

He looked around in restless torment, as though search-
ing for some quick and simple exit from this life-

Abruptly then, with a sudden, crazed look on his face, he
lurched toward the guillotine and, kneeling quickly, thrust
his head through the lunette, under the glinting blade. No, I
thought

"All right. Harry. Pal," he said, his tone born hating and
anguished at once. "Here's your opportunity. Your big
chance. To get revenge, get even. Get Cassandra. Get every-
thing."

Harry's bindings had been untied by Cassandra now. He
started toward Max, trembling with fury.

"You think I couldn't do it, you bastard?" he snarled
ferociously. "You mink, if the damn thing was real, I
wouldn't do it in a second?"

"But it is real. Harry," said my son. A chill around my
heart again.

"Sure it is, you prick," snapped Harry.

"Harry, get away from there," Cassandra said. My God, it
isn't real, is it? I thought in sudden dread.

"Do it. Harry," Max urged him. "Go ahead—to coin a
phrase."

"YOU miserable son of a bitch," said Harry.

He reached for me lever.

"Harry, no!" Cassandra cried. No/ my mind cried with
her.

Too late. Harry was jerking down the wooden lever, the
wide blade was hurtling downward, and Cassandra was
screaming.

As Max's head dropped heavily into the basket.

chapter B

0

h, my good God," muttered Plum.

Harry resembled a man who had just been kicked in the
testes by a mule.

He turned to Cassandra, barely able to speak.

"It's not a trick?" he murmured shakily -

"I told you to get away from there!" she cried.

Harry was staggered; petrified.

"I thought everything in this room was a trick," he whim-
pered.

"Well, you were wrong!" she responded.

Jabber away, I thought in agony. Meantime, my son has been
decapitated.

Harry turned and stumbled toward the bar, avoiding the
sight—as they all did but me—of Max's motionless body
lying on the trestle of the guillotine.

Reaching the bar, he picked up the bottle of Scotch and
unscrewed its cap.

He started to pour himself a glassful, then abruptly be-
came conscious of what he was doing and lost his grip on

Now You See H.   177

the bottle, which clattered into the sink but didn't break; (he
noise made all of us twitch.

"Jesus, I was pouring Scotch," he said. He stared at them,
a broken man. "Jesus Christ Almighty. Scotch."

Clouds were thickening now. The room was filled with
long, dark shadows- Rumbling thunder continued. Periodic
lightning flashes bleached the sky, making me blink. (I
think... but then, I don't really know if I twitched either.)

Harry had picked up a new bottle of brandy and was
opening it.

As he did, the Sheriff began to edge toward the guillotine^
features set, bradng himself for me sight of Max's severed
head (perhaps twitching, the awful image presented itself)
in the basket. Oh, God, please let it be an effect, I begged. Not a
real guillotine.

Harry poured himself a glass of brandy and lifted it to-
ward his lips wifh a palsied hand.

As Cassandra cried out hoarsely, the glass jerked in his
grip and he flung the brandy across his shirtfront-

The Sheriff had lurched back with a hiss of astonishment

I felt rage and relief (and bowel stress) simultaneously.

Max had just stood up.

His head, need I add, intact.

"You were quite correct 'old friend,' " he said to Harry,
smiling thinly. "Everything in this room is a trick."

His soft laugh was a chilling one. It faded as he looked at
me.

"Mea culpa once again. Padre," he said. "I simply couldn't
resist one more go at him. After all, remember what he did
... not only to me, but to you."

I didn't know if that was adequate motivation for what
he'd done to Harry, but I said nothing. (As per usual.)

Harry seemed beyond rage now, so traumatized by

178  Richard Mathewn

everything he'd experienced that he was unable to even ad-
dress my son-

Instead, he turned to Cassandra.

"Get your things," he said in a strained voice-
Cassandra started. "What?"

Harry grimaced, his teeth on edge.

"I presume you aren't planning to stay here with this ma-
niac," he said.

Cassandra looked caught off guard (I wondered why.)
"TO be all right "she said.

"All right?" Harry gaped at her, incredulous- "The man
is insane!"

Yes, I think he may have been.

Cassandra tried to answer Harry, but he cut her off, his
voice agitated.

"You can't possibly intend to stay here with him after what
he's done!" he cried.

"I agree with him," me Sheriff broke in.

"I—" Cassandra looked confused. I didn't understand it;

then.

"Come on, get your things," Harry interrupted. "You
can't stay here. That would be ridiculous."

All of us were looking at Cassandra now. Was Max as
perplexed by her reluctance? Was Plum?

"Come on, babe," Harry insisted. "You know you have to
leave."

"I really mink you'd better, Mrs. Delacorte," me Sheriff
told her. Sheriffly again.

"All right." She turned toward the entry hall.

"Wait/' said Max.

She turned and looked back at him.

He sighed, surrendering.

"All right," he said. "I give up. I'll do the Vegas show
exactly as you want."

Now You See It..   179

Somehow, all the shocks I'd been exposed to in the previ-
ous hour diminished before the shock of this.
After all that, he was actually selling out the act?

"Well talk about updating the set." he was continuing,
twisting this new knife in my heart. "We'll simply—"
He broke off suddenly with a sound suspiciously like the

birth of a sob.

Turning away, he walked to the picture window over-
looking the lake, his movements infirm, those of a defeated
old man. And that I hated to see.

Standing before the window, he shuddered with a deep

breath.

"Just don't leave me," he said- "Try to understand."

He nibbed his eyes slowly, tiredly.

"I know I can't undo this afternoon," he said. "But blame
it on me weakness of a man who sees his life disintegrat-
ing."

He turned back, his expression one of total pleading.

"Please," he said. "I need your help."

Son, I thought, despairing. I would almost rather that you
murder than lie down and die like this.

Cassandra was looking at him, no less confused man
Harry or, I thought, the Sheriff. She couldn't seem to deal
with this new perplexity.

Neither could she walk away from it-

"AU right," she finally said, her voice extremely quiet.

Incredible, I thought. They're going to be together again ?

Harry stared at her with unbelieving eyes.

"You're staying?" he asked.

"I'll be fine," she responded. (Madness.' I thought.)

She looked at the Sheriff.

"You'll be keeping an eye on him, won't you?" she asked.

180   Richard Matheson

The Sheriff didn't answer. (I could well believe it.) He
looked at Max, then at her again, as though attempting
(with obviously limited means) to penetrate this new
enigma: Cassandra, prepared to remain with her dearly de-
mented husband after everything he'd done to her and
Harry—and to the Sheriff/ for that matter—in the past hour
or so.

"For God's sake—" Harry started.

"Harry, I'll be fine," she cut him off.

"You believe him?" he asked. "You actually believe the son
of a bitch?"

She didn't answer that; she probably couldn't.

Harry made a sound of total incredulity. "Jesus Christ,"
he said.

He gestured with both hands, giving up.

"Okay," he said, his mild tone obviously belying the
sense of utter disgust he felt. "Fine. To hell with it. Stay with
him!"

Seeing his attache case still in Plum's left hand, he took it
from the Sheriff and looked around.

"Where's my hat?" he asked.

Immediately, he made a sound of angry indifference.
"Fuck it," he said.

He turned to give Cassandra a good-bye kiss.

She turned away and walked to the picture window.
"Good-bye, Harry," she said.

And she'd been so upset by his disappearance and probable
murder, I thought, dumbfounded. What in the merry Hell is
going on?

Harry had stopped in his tracks to stare at her, no doubt
equally dumbfounded by her contradictory behavior.

He stared at her for several moments, then turned
abruptly for the entry hall.

"Let me out of this frigging nuthouse," he muttered.

Moving, he glanced at Cassandra.

Now Y—See ft-.   181

"So long, babe." He directed a cold farewell at her.

'TU mail you your hat/' Max told him.

"Don't bother," Harry responded-

The Sheriff spoke quickly.

"Are you going to press charges, Mr. Kendal?" he asked.

Harry stopped and looked around. He gazed at Max, and
I could tell mat he was sorely tempted.

Then he gestured with a scowl.

"No, let him have his stupid tittle victory," he said. "Ifs
all he'll have to live on for the rest of his loser life."

He glared at Max.

"You're nothing to me anymore," he said. "Not a client.
Not a friend. Not even a human being. We're quits. Fm-

ished."

Max's smile was nearly imperceptible.

"We were finished years ago," he said.

Harry directed a final, glacial look at him, then exited.

They stood motionless and silent as his footsteps moved
across the entry hall. The front door opened, shut.

Harry Kendal was gone.

And then there were three.

Four, if you (compassionately) include Mr. Cauliflower.

Harry, we discovered later, walked to the highway,
found a phone booth, and called for a taxi.

The Sheriff turned to Max.
"Before I go," he said, "I want you to know that your

wife is right—

"1 am going to keep an eye on you from now on.
"If I wanted to, I could take you in now for what you've

done.
"But I'd rattier you were on the outside, knowing that I'm

watching you, whatever you do."
His expression altered to one of contempt.

182   Richard Mathason

'Tf you took pleasure in fooling me, you take your plea-
sures pretty cheaply," he continued.

'Tm the Sheriff of a small New England county. You're a
professional magician.

"Do you really think it was some grand accomplishment to
makeyour magic workonme?

"IS you do, if that's really how you earn your sense of
pride, you have no real pride at all that I can see."

He smiled at Max; a faint, derisive smile.

"Good-bye, Great Delacorte," he said.

He changed his mind.

"No, not good-bye," he said. The derision turned to ani-
mosity. "Until we meet again," he finished.

Max could only lower his head, me criticism uncontested.

I was glad he had the decency to do mat, anyway.

The Sheriff gave Cassandra one more extended, search-
ing look.

Then he turned and walked toward the doorway.

His footsteps moved across me entry hall.

The front door opened, closed.

And then there were two.

I say there were two now. Of course, there were three, but
you may just as well consider me invisible in this account.
Except for an occasional apology from my son, I pretty
much was invisible. Fortuitous^ I suppose. If it hadn't been
for my ignored presence, none of this would have ever been
recorded.

Where were we?

Max and Cassandra standing motionless, the Sheriff hav-
ing just departed; me sitting motionless, as usual.

It was Cassandra who finally spoke.

'Tm sure they're gone," she said.-

Not exactly what I might have expected to hear.

Max did not reply but moved to the bar with a look of
undisguised hostility on his face.

Walking to one of the easy chairs, Cassandra sank down
on it with a weary groan and slipped off her shoes.

Sighing, she began to wiggle her toes.

184   Richard Matheson

At the bar. Max had picked up the fallen bottle of Scotch
and begun pouring the remainder of its contents into the
sink, flushing it down with water from the faucet. He
dropped the empty bottle into the wastebasket.

I watched him, curious, as he opened a cabinet door
above the bar, removed a bottle of private-stock brandy, un-
sealed and thumbed off its cork, then poured some into a
snifter.

He downed it with a swallow; sighed.

Poured himself a second drink and sipped it slowly.

"Oh, yes/' he said, pleased.

What's going on? I wondered.

I was not too long in finding out.

Cassandra chuckled.

"I thought I'd have a stroke when he decided to kiss me
good-bye," she said.

"You made precious little effort not to leave with him,"
Max countered.

What was going on?

"He caught me off guard, what can I say?" said Cassan-
dra.

She chuckled again.

'That would have been priceless, wouldn't it?" she
asked.

She threw back her head with a laugh.

"Especially at bedtime."

Her amusement vanished abruptly, and she looked at
Max with bleak distaste. My mind was churning, trying to
understand what was happening.

"You prevented my departure most convincingly," she
said. "I almost believed you."

Max finished his second drink of brandy, poured himself
a third.

He walked over to the easy chair, looking at Cassandra
with distaste.

Now Yoy Sea tt.   185

"A wonderful performance," he said scornfully. "Abso-
lutely wonderful."

Performance?

"What do you want from me?" Cassandra asked.

"Nothing I received, thafs certain," Max responded.

He pointed across the room. "What in me bleeding hell
was that performance over there supposed to mean?" he
asked. "Who told you to show Adelaide's shrine to mat
clod?"

His features stiffened with fury.

"And how the hell did you know it was there in the first
place?" he demanded.

"I didn't." Her voice was tense. "I was only playing the
game—as per instructions."

What the hell are they talking about? My brain was totally
muddled now.

"Almost ruining the game, you mean!" Max was ranting.

He pointed toward the fireplace.

"Bad enough that fool almost stumbled onto me truth by
himself' You had to go over mere and arouse his suspicion a
second time! Were you insane?"

Her expression was now as hard as his. "Just angry," she
muttered.

"I see." He regarded her, disgusted. "Well, ifs fortunate
for you your little snit didn't give it all away. Otherwise,
you'd be in jail by nightfall."

My mind howled: What is going on?!

Max sank down on the other easy chair; he looked ex-
hausted. He took another sip of brandy.

"God, I needed this," he said.

He sighed heavily, then managed a contemptuous smile.

"I can't believe that idiot Sheriff finally found the attache
case I'd hidden so ineptly," he said. "I thought we'd be here
for a week before he did."

He sighed again, rubbing his eyes.

186  Richard MaftesoR

"However, as he said," he went on, "it was no grand ac-
complishment to fool him. I felt rather sorry for him, actu-
ally. He tried his futile best."

By then, my mind had fallen back in submission. Was it
me stroke's aftereffects, or had I just gone stupid in my old
age?

Max's momentary good humor was terminated with a
look of anger.

"I cannot believe," he said, "that, after all the careful
preparations we made, your performance could be so pa-
thetically incompetent Apparently, me minuscule talent I
gave you credit for does not, in fact, exist."

Oh, now wait a second, said my brain. A glimmer had ap-
peared in the mist.

Verified as Cassandra stood abruptly, her expression one
of resentment.

Reaching up, she peeled away a wig, revealing dark hair
underneath, an unmistakably male haircut.

Pulling free her blouse, she reached up underneath it, un-
fastened a front-hooking brassiere and yanked it down. The
brassiere, I saw, was augmented by rubber pads.

She tossed it onto the chair.

But, of course, I can no longer say she.

For it was Brian Crane who stood before my son, his
voice hoarse with anger as he snarled, "Up yours, Max."

With that, he strode into the entry hall, slamming the
door behind him.

Then there was one.

Multiple questions crowded my mind, pounding for atten-
tion.
All quickly reduced to one, however.

Why had it all been done7
What was behind it?

NowYouS—h...  187

It was maddening to me that Max did not come over to
me and explain. I was there because he wanted me present,
that was clear. But for what reason? He didn't explain the
situation to me. What conceivable purpose could there have
been in my being present throughout me entire mad cha-
rade?

Yet Max did not explain.

He didn't even look at me.

Instead, he stared at the door to the entry hall, his face
impassive.                           /

Leaving me immersed in drowning questions, none of
them answerable.

After a while, he pushed slowly to his feet and trudged to
the fireplace, his movements those of a man who more than
felt his age and despair. Despite the agitation of confusion
in my mind, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sorrow for his
obvious distress.

He stood before the portrait of his long-dead wife.

The illumination in the room was so gloomy now that he
switched on the light above the portrait.

The soft glow was cast down over Adelaide Delacorte's
exquisite face.

Max stared at it, his expression one of suffering.

"It isn't true," he said. "I always loved you, Adelaide. Al-
ways."

He drew in a trembling bream.

"I didn't know you were too ill to work that night," he
told her. "I should have, but you know how I always am
before a show, aware of nothing but the performance I'm
about to give."

True, I could not help thinking.

Max twitched as a peal of thunder sounded. His face was
whitened momentarily by a flash of lightning.

"Please," he said, "believe me. You should have told me. I
would never have asked you to work if I'd had any idea

188  Richard MathecM

how ill you were- You know that's true. Curse me for an
oblivious fool, but it was an accident. An accident. I swear
it."

He was unable to restrain a sob.

"Adelaide," he murmured. "Please. Forgive me."

He leaned against me fireplace for several minutes, lost in
the agony of his remembrance and his guilt.

Then he straightened, teeth clenched, and switched off
me light above me portrait.

Stepping over a pace/ he reached up to one of the fire-
place stones me Sheriff had examined visually, even
touched.

He began to push on the stone.

Then he drew back his hand and turned to me.

He regarded me for several moments before walking
over.

"It isn't right that you should see mis. Padre/' he said.
"I've shocked you enough."

He began to push my wheelchair toward me entry hall.

My God, I thought, after all this, are you going to withhold the
goddam punch Une?

I wonder if I made a noise of protest, some faint sound
which indicated me angry frustration I felt.

I'U never know.

All I do know is mat Max stopped pushing me and gazed
down at me, obviously thinking.

Tell me what is going on! pleaded my mind.

Did he pick up the plea telepathically? Who knows.

But he did change his mind.

"No/" he said. "Shock or no shock/ you have a right to
know whafs going on. Ifs only just, considering every-
thing."

Was that a smile? It was extremely faint/ and yet I could
have sworn...

"Besides/" he said, "I really want you to see the effect"

Now You Seek..   189

He turned my wheelchair toward the picture window.

Son, I thought, aren't you going to tell me why you wanted
Sheriff Plum to think that Brian was Cassandra?

Not so. He left me sitting there as he returned to the fire-
place. To mat particular stone.

Which he pushed in all the way now.

I felt myself tighten (or did I?) as I heard a sound of ma-
chinery by the window overlooking the lake.

My God, I thought. Blast my unseeing eyes. I've been a blind
old fool. Taken in! And me The Great Delacorte before he was!

Houdini performed the trick with much success. He
called it The Country Girl.

It involved the impossible disappearance of a small girl
sitting at a table near a window.

m Max's version of the effect, what appeared to be a win-
dow view of the gazebo by me lake wasn't that at all.

It was, in fact/ a reflected view, created by double-sided
mirrors in an addition built onto TMR.

For now, as the apparatus functioned, the view was alter-
ing, the gazebo and the lake disappearing from sight.

To be replaced by a freezer area approximately four feet
wide and three feet deep, its height that of the window.

Inside the freezer area, suspended from a rope around
her chest, was Cassandra Delacorte.

Her features stiff and white in death-

ctapter25

11 was, of course, coincidence that, precisely at the moment
Cassandra's corpse appeared to me, a roar of thunder can-
nonaded in the sky and lightning turned tile awful sight
into a tableau of blinding whiteness.

Max was unable to resist toasting the sky.

"Good timing!" he cried.

Outside, a torrent of rain began to fall, so heavy mat it
was, immediately, a curtain of descending water-
Max regarded the corpse of his wife.

There was no sense of triumph or of pleasure in his look.

"So," he said. "It worked."

It did not require the intellect of a Rhodes scholar to
know what he meant.

With the help of Brian's talent at impersonating his sister,
they had successfully fooled Harry.

And, more important, me Sheriff.

With all the tricks and counter-tricks occurring. Plum
completely missed the main illusion of them all- (I missed it,
too.)

Now You SM h...   191

The person he'd assumed to be Cassandra Odacorte
wasn't her at all.

Max drained his glass of brandy and set down the glass.

He returned to me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

I know I shuddered then, for he felt it.

"I'm sorry, Father," he said- "Don't think I'm unaware of
what I've done. I know that I've committed murder. Per-
haps the motivation wasn't strong enough."

His voice hardened.

"I thought it VMS, though," he said.

He exhaled heavily.

"Now the final phase begins," he told me.

"The conclusion of me trick-

"I'll continue with me act Not in Las Vegas, but in vari-
ous other locations, jobs 111 arrange for myself. Las Vegas is
too conspicuous. But lesser whereabouts will be in order.

"Where Brian's continued imitation of his sister will go
unnoticed-

"The falling-out with Harry was, of course, essential.

"If Harry was around, he'd inevitably see through the
pretense-

"Now he won't."

"And," he went on, "Sheriff Plum 'keeping an eye' on me is
equally essential.

"His value consists of the fact that he will, at the same time,
be keeping an eye on the person he believes to be Cassan-
dra, a witness to her ongoing existence."

And I thought he'd lost focus, the chilling idea came. How
wrong I'd been. The discovery did nothing but dismay me
further.

Did I wince as my son chuckled? I wanted to.

192  Richard Mth—m

"Brother Brian's going to be a busy boy from now on," he
said. "His 'gofer^ days are over." He rubbed his eyes; he
must have felt drained. "A busy boy, but not a happy one,"
he said.

He knelt beside my wheelchair.

"Not that he deserves to be happy," he said. "He has a lot
of paying back to do for all those forged checks."

So that's it, I thought. That's his hold on Brwn.

Max hissed scornfully.

"He was never very bright, was he?" he said.

"You know what I have in my safe. Padre? A contract
signed by Brian.

"An agreement to assist me in the killing of his sister."

I closed my eyes to shut it all away. I couldn't bear these
dreadful moments.

Max didn't notice.

"I had to insist on it, of course," he said-
He made a sound of dark amusement-

"After all," he went on, "could I trust me word of a man
who'd help murder his own sister?"

Oh, God, Max, God. I wanted to weep.

Max made an odd sound, and I opened my eyes to look at
him-

He was blinking his eyes. He dosed them hard, then
opened them again.

"I should have eaten something today," he said. "That
much brandy on an empty stomach isn't good. But then, I
have no appetite for food.

"Only for revenge," he finished.

Now he saw the look on my face; I guess I wasn't totally
without expression.

"I know you mink it was horrific what I did. It is. I admit
it.

"But you never had this kind of motivation in your life.

"This kind of betrayal."

Now You See h...   193

His right hand jerked up as though he meant to strike
Cassandra, even dead.

"You don't know what she did to me," he said.

"Made me think that it was because of illness that my
eyesight was failing, my hearing failing, my hand dexterity
failing, my ability to concentrate on stage failing.

"Even my ability to perform in bed/' he finished in a low,
venom-ridden voice.

His breath was quickening, his teeth on edge.

"Illness," he said. "That's what she had me believing.

"When all the time it was her.

"Slowly poisoning me."

I stared at him in sickened dread. Not that he could see it,
but I felt it.

Poisoning him?

Max shuddered with rage.

"She thought she could do it indefinitely," he said. "That
I'd never find out.

"A soupQon of arsenic in my tea each day. A smidgen of it
in my soup, my wine, my salad dressing.

"Just enough to keep me functioning, but weak enough
so she could get control of the act. Dispose of my resistance
without actually becoming a murderess."

He shouted at her suddenly, making me twitch.

"That's what you planned, wasn't it?" he said. "You stu-
pid bitch! You'd have to have a live-in pharmacist to man-
age that! You were killing me, pure and simple!"

He shuddered again. "Control," he murmured "Con-
trol."

The keystone of our professional and personal life.

How many times had I drummed The Delacorte Motto into
his head?

194  Richard Math—on

"Do you understand now why I did it. Padre?" he asked,

his voice controlled now.
I understand but can't condone, I thought. You could have

told the authorities. Poisoning is still a punishable crime.

But that was overlooking pride, and pride's need for re-
venge.

And, being honest with myself, I could not say that. had

the same thing been done to me in every respect, I would

not have murdered for revenge also.
Uke Adelaide, my Cara was an angel.
Had I been married to Cassandra, though...
I was taken from my darkened fantasy by Max's voice.
"Well, now you know," he said. "I regret, more than I can
say, that you may have lost respect for me. But I do not re-
gret the elimination of this adulterous, covetous, murder-
ous bitch."
Pushing to his feet, he walked to the fieldstone wall and

pushed in the stone.
The machinery hummed, the freezer area began to dose,

As it did, he glanced at it.
Stiffening with surprise, he started forward, then

abruptly turned back and pushed in the stone again.

The machinery reversed itself; the freezer area began re-
opening.

Max moved over to it and stared at Cassandra,

What had he seen?
She hung motionless, her face a rigid, gray-white mask.

Max put on his glasses to look at her more dosely.
What had he seen? My heartbeat slowly, heavily, was pick-
ing up momentum.
Max put his face closer to Cassandra's.
An icy hand damping hard over my pulsing heart.

And Max recoiling with a gasp of shock.
I      Cassandra's right hand had twitched.

Now You See h...   195

"No," said Max. I doubt if he was aware of speaking as he

stared at her.

The hand was still. Cassandra hung immobile.
No, I thought, my mind-voice like my son's: incredulous,
denying. It had only been a physical reaction. An involun-
tary muscle spasm caused by the contrast in temperatures
between the room and the freezer.

It had to be.
Max swallowed dryly. Leaned in doser. Time stood still.

"If she isn't dead yet," he muttered.

He grimaced in fury.

"That idiot, Brian! If he's bungled this!"

Outside, the storm was increasing now, the sound of
rainfall like that of heavy wind. The room was sunless,
filled with shadows. Turn on the light, said a voice in my
mind. A voice I hadn't heard for almost seventy years, that

of a frightened boy.
Max was leaning in close. He had to know; I saw that,

Closer and closer. He was very near the corpse's face now.
A strangled gasp tore from his'throat as Cassandra's right
hand, like a bloodless spider, jumped up, clutching at his

jacket lapel.

I felt paralyzed by more than stroke effects now. I felt par-
alyzed with horror.

Max was slowly being drawn toward the corpse's face.

Closer.
Closer.
Hitchingly, Cassandra's head raised up. No/ a voice

screamed in my mind.

Eyes staring, a gagging rattle in his throat. Max gaped at

her.

The gray hand pulled him closer. Closer. Now his face

was only inches from hers.

196   Richard Matheson

His breath choked off (with mine) as Cassandra's blood-
shot eyes sprang open.

For an instant, they were staring at each other (as I felt
death by shock approaching).

Then, with a demented cry. Max yanked back, tearing
free of the leprous hand-
He lost balance and staggered backward, crashing down
with a cry of pain as his elbows struck the hardwood floor.

A frozen observer, I watched in terror.

Cassandra had begun to twitch, her mouth working like
that of a fish out of water.

Max tried to stand, but couldn't.

He pushed backward, staring at her.

Cassandra began to thrash against the rope like a frenzied
animal.

Max watched, openmouthed, moans of impending mad-
ness pulsing in his throat.

The storm was increasing, thunder exploding in the sky,
the darkened room sporadically illuminated as though
blazing floodlights were being turned on, then off, lighting
the hideous sight of Cassandra, eyes mad, pitching back
. and forth against {he ropes.

Max tried again to stand. His legs would not support
him.

Suddenly, he cried out, horrorstruck, as the rope pulled
loose from one of the hooks and Cassandra's body flung
forward, toppling from the freezer area onto the floor in
front of Max. He jerked back with a hollow cry.

He had to stand or lose his mind. Straining every muscle,
he pushed up to his knees, then wavered to his feet.

He had barely made it when Cassandra, her face a stiff-
ened, frost-caked mask, lurched clumsily to her feet and
came at him.

Crying out again. Max twisted around and staggered to-
ward the entry hall, barely able to move, his balance failing-


Now You See *&..   197

He reached the door and fell against it, turning the knob
witih a shaking hand.

The door was locked.

With a sob of mindless dread, he jerked around to face
her.

She was walking toward him like a poorly controlled
marionette, her movements )erky, her head flopping from
side to side.

The storm was at its peak now, thunder crashing deafen-
ingly, lightning bleaching the frozen whiteness of Cassan-
dra's face, her staring and unblinking eyes.

Shrieking with dread. Max lurched to his right to avoid
her dutch, barely capable of movement

He could go no more than several yards.

There, he collapsed to me floor/ crying out in pain and
horror.

He tried to stand, but couldn't.

Glassy-eyed, he lay on his back as Cassandra moved at
him, expressionless and staring.

Max had trouble breathing. He made choking noises in
his throat as he gaped up at the hideous figure looming
over him.

With the last of his strength, he summoned forth a shriek
of maddened fright, then lay there mutely, staring up at
Cassandra, beyond response.

She stopped and looked down at him.

Thunder detonated. The room was blanched by light-
ning-
Then the hall door was unlocked, and Cassandra entered.

I

ou've read the phrase: His brain reeled, haven't you?

Ifs a literal description, friends.

My brain reeled. The world had been upended. I could
not think, only stare. Blankly.

As she'd come in, Cassandra had said (to Cassandra!),
"That's enough."

And the corpse had looked around.

"Thafs it?" she said. "You didn't give me much time."

"There was enough," said living Cassandra.

"For you, maybe," responded corpse Cassandra.

And pulled off her wig.

Brian in white makeup.

Max, unable to move, stared up at Brian.

As Cassandra exploded at her brother.

"What the hell was me idea of leaving me unconscious on
the floor like that?" she demanded.

NowYouSfteH...   199

My brain mumbled Vfhat? Hadn't that been Brian made
up as Cassandra?

Brian had exploded back at his sister.

"What the hell else could I do?" he cried. "Obviously, he
put too much drug in mat dart. I tried to bring you around,
but I couldn't!

"And there was no time!" he ranted on. "I had to hide
Harry in the cellar underneath me burial-case apparatus!
Put mat rubber mask over his head! Telephone the Sheriff!
Make sure you were ready! Get into makeup and your
clothes again! Be ready to be hanging in that goddam
freezer! I hardly had all afternoon, did I?"

She did not relent

"I thought Harry was really dead!" she raged.

"Why?" He looked confused. "You knew Max's plan! I
told you every bit of it!"

"Well, I didn't know that!" she responded. "I thought—"

He cut her off, twisting around to look at me. "Can't we
take him out of here?" he asked.

"Forget him!" she snarled. "He's a cabbage!"

"He's a helpless old man!" Brian cried.

"Wrong!" she said- "He's a goddam encumbrance, and I
can't vwit to get him out of here!"

(Merd, Cassandra. Stay as sweet as you are.)

"Jesus God," she muttered angrily. "I had to go through
mat whole fucking charade thinking all the time mat Harry
was really dead."

Her voice was loud again.

"It threw me off completely!" she stormed. "It was a
nightmare! I did everything wrong! If it hadn't been for Max's
failing eyesight and hearing—"

Brian scowled.

"What the hell's the difference?" he said. "All's well that
ends well, right?" His tone was bitter-

200   Richard Matheson

Cassandra regarded him tensely, then managed to con-
trol her temper.

With a forced smile, she moved to him and kissed him
several times on the lips, her hands on his cheeks.

They were not sisterly kisses.

Which, doubling my bafflement, added (in a moment's
time) an entirely new dimension to the lay of me land (if I
may so refer to my daughter-in-law).

"Pool," she said to him in a chiding voice.

She slapped him lightly on the cheek.

"Now put him in the freezer, then get out of here."

He blew out a surrendering breath.

"Yes, ma'am," he murmured sadly.

Cassandra frowned at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said. "Everything is peachy."

"You're not going to fall apart on me now, are you?" she
asked. She gave him a Cassandra look.

"No, I'm not," he murmured.

"Well, do what you're told, then/" she said.

"Sure."

She smiled and kissed him again. Definitely not a sisterly
kiss.

Or a sisterly dutch at his groin-

"Tonight," she said.

Oh, what a tangled web, I thought as Brian turned away
from her, Cassandra laughing softly -

He knelt beside Max and started to lift him up, Max's
weight was dead, his limbs completely flaccid.

What have they done to him? I wondered.

"I can use that champagne now," Cassandra said.

She crossed to the bar as Brian, grunting from the effort,
managed to lift Max to a standing position and began to
half-drag, half-lead him toward the freezer.

He's still alive, I thought.

Now You See It..   201

But completely helpless.

At the bar, Cassandra twirled the champagne bottle in the
bucket, lifted it out and tore off its metallic neck wrapping.

Then she stopped and looked at the bottle.

Made a sound of grim amusement.

"What?" gasped Brian, using every bit of his strength to
get Max to the freezer.

"If we could drug his private-stock brandy, chancing that
he'd drink it of his own accord—as Harry did with me
Scotch—how do we know Max didn't do the same thing
with this bottle of champagne—so conveniently placed in the
ice bucket? He could have used a hypo-needle, just as we
did."

She dropped the bottle into the wastebasket.

"Good try. Max," she said.

The -woman has no trust in anyone, I thought.

Opening me doors beneath the bar, she lifted out a new
case of champagne and tore it open, removing one of its bot-
tles. Tearing off its metallic seal, she started to thumb out
the cork.

"Better to drink safe champagne on the rocks, eh Padre?"
she said mockingly to me.

if I could only move, came the thought. I would be able to
kill.

Hearing the pop of the cork and the brief gush of escap-
ing liquid from the bottle, Brian looked around.

"Celebration time," he said glumly.

"Of course, love," she answered. "We have a lot to cele-
brate."

"Of course," said Brian-

"Oh, cheer up, for Christ's sake," Cassandra told him,
pouring champagne into a glass of ice cubes.

Lifting the glass, she jiggled it for several moments, then
drained it; sighed.

202   Richard Matheson

"Not as good as chilled/' she said, "but ifll do."

Brian had Max to the freezer now and was putting him
inside.

I watched, in pain.

"You really think he poisoned that champagne?" he
asked, breathing hard.

"He could have," she answered, pouring herself a second
drink. "He always planned ahead."

"What a twisted mind you have," he muttered.

"Twisted, but surviving," she told him, taking a sip of her
second drink.

She raised her glass toastingly toward the freezer.

"You're right. Max," she said. "It is my favorite brand.
Not the exact bottle of it that you'd planned on. However—
as brother Brian put it—all's well mat ends well."

Oh God, I'd be able to fall! I thought, enraged.

Now Max sagged in the same spot where he'd thought
his dead wife had been hanging minutes earlier.

I felt myself grow tense as his lips stirred laboredly.

"The brandy?" he asked in a faint voice.

"Oh, you didn't hear me, darling?" Cassandra said
lightly. "Yes, of course. The brandy."

"The same stuff she's been putting in your food for thir-
teen months," Brian added-

"Shut up," Cassandra told him.

"A lot more of it, though," Brian said.

"Shut up," she ordered.

I dosed my eyes. If I could only vanish from this awful place,
I thought. Be an Effect-—be gone in a flash. I hated what was
going on and what had gone on. All of it was sickening, dis-
maying- How could it have gone so far?

Finished with Max, Brian bowed toward my son.

"Salud, Great Delacorte/' he said. "You should have
given me more credit than you did."

"Get out of here and change," Cassandra told him.

Now You Sen h...   203

"Yes, ma'am."
Turning on his heel, he crossed to the entry hall and left.

I watched Cassandra as she gazed at Max.

Is this the end, then?

Of me as well as Max, it occurred to me. She'd want me
out of the house now. Out of her life.

More than likely, out of the world.

What was one less vegetable to her?

Now she spoke- Did it bother her that I could hear—or
did she want me to hear?

Maybe my presence didn't even occur to her as she spoke
to Max.

"You should have given him more credit," she said.

She shook her head in disbelief.

"Did you really think he'd help you murder me?

'7ust because you had those forged checks?

"The way he feels about me?"

She drained her glass and sighed with pleasure, smiling.

Lewdly, let me make it dear.

"But then, you never knew about that, did you?" she
said. "Never knew it wasn't only Harry I was 'bedding,' as
you so slyly put it."

She made a sound of contempt.

"I had no intention that you'd know, of course," she told
him.

Returning to the bar, she poured her glass full of cham-
pagne again. And I began to feel a kind of dark peace,
knowing that Max and I would soon be free of this defile-
ment.

nother sound of contempt from Cassandra now, this one
more intense.

''You were so certain it was Brian imitating me in order to
fool the Sheriff," she said.

"True, the poison had weakened your eyesight and your
hearing.

"But it was more than that. We both know that, don't we?

"It was your ego.

"Your damned, incredible ego.

"You'd planned it that way. Ergo, it must be happening that

way.

"The Great Delacorte never makes a mistake."

A scoffing laugh-

"Even though I gave myself away a dozen times," she
continued, "lost control completely when I saw that god-
dam shrine to goddam Adelaide."

She pointed a shaking finger at him.

"You can bet your dying ass I'll soon get rid of that," she
told him fiercely.

Now You SeeH...   205

She shook her head, amused again.

"You didn't notice it." she said. "Even though I had to
wear a wig over a wig over my hair. My God.

"Even though I had to wear a pair of falsies over my own
taped-down tits."

She glanced at me, grinning. "Sorry, Daddy," she said.
"Didn't mean to offend."

She looked back at Max again.

"I couldn't have been more transparent," she said. "But
you were sure that it was Brian, so you saw Brian, you heard
Brian."

She hissed. "Idiot," she muttered.

She glanced at me again. "Your son is an idiot!" she cried.
"Padre."

She walked over to the freezer, taking the bottle and glass
with her.

"Sorry your little plot didn't work," she said. "But, the
well-laid plans—" Smiling, she took a long sip of cham-
pagne.

"And now the final phase of my scenario," she went on.

"Maximilian Delacorte—the Great—takes a trip to the
Caribbean to recover from an illness which was ruining his
career; lots of witnesses to that.

"He charters a yacht, starts drinking heavily, then one
night falls overboard and disappears."

She snickered.

"And Brian swims for a while until I pick him up."

Another snicker.

"You didn't know that he can imitate you, too. Not as
well as he can imitate me, but good enough to fool some
strangers into testifying to Maximilian Delacorte's unhappy
demise. Was it suicide? Perhaps."

She grinned. "The poor man was so depressed about his
failing career," she said.

She chuckled.

206   Richard Matheson

"Then, of course, I might not pick up Brian after all/' she
said. "Z might just let him drown."

She is a hellhag, 1 thought. I understood exactly why my
son had wanted to kill her.

I would have wanted the same.

"If I do pick him up," Cassandra was continuing/ "I'll
damn well keep him in his place, the same way you were
doing it—with those forged checks, that murder contract."

She chuckled again; again, lewdly.

"Not that he'd ever turn on me," she said. "I've handled
him all my life."

Her eyes hooded sensuously.

"In more ways than one," she said.

What is Max thinking about all this? I wondered,

Or was he still capable of thought? Had the poison de-
prived him of all capacity by men?

Cassandra had taken another drink, and she sighed con-
tentedly.

"Anyway, what matters is that I have your effects now,"
she said. "I can do what I please with them. Create a new
act. A today act. One that will sell."

She giggled softly. Yes, dear reader, giggled.

"I may even let Harry be my booking agent," she said.

She bared her teeth.

"And screw him when I feel the urge," she added.

If only I could move, I thought.

Pathetically.

Max was looking at her, his expression one of (almost
gentle!) condemnation.

"Don't look at me like that," she said.

"This didn't have to happen.

"We could have worked together. Or, at least, I thought
we could have, until I saw mat shrine.

"I couldn't believe the anger it made me feel—the pain.

"Yes, pain! I thought you'd lost the power to hurt me

Now You SB« h...   207

long ago. The power to make me care about anything mat
had to do with us."

I felt my body tightening as Max replied.

"I would... hardly... think you cared... at all... when
you were . . . poisoning me for ... thirteen months," he
managed to get out.

"You're right," she agreed, trying to act as though the
sound of his voice had not unnerved her.

"I never cared for you," she said, "only for your success.

"And now I've got it/'

She poured herself another glassful of champagne and held
it up.

"To me/' she said. "The New Great Delacorte."

Never! I thought, absurdly.

Cassandra emptied me glass, men walked over to the
desk, set the bottle and glass on top of it, and moving to the
fieldstone wall, pushed in the stone. The apparatus began to
close.

Cassandra looked at her dying husband.

"See you in hell," she said-
Max smiled. (How could he?)

"It's o date/' he responded.

With his remaining strength, he chuckled as the freezer
folded m on itself until, once more, I saw only the picture
window overlooking the gazebo by the lake.

The storm was decreasing now, moving off, die rain
slackening, thunder and lightning almost negligible. A co-
incidence?

Or had Nature taken notice and reduced its accompany-
ing violence as the violence in the room subsided?

Cassandra looked at me.

"We'll deal with you anon," she told me. "Maybe put
you in me freezer with your son."

208  Richard Math—on

A dazzling smile. "We'll see, old man," she said.

She started toward the entry hall.

She was almost to the doorway when from a comer of her
eyes, she saw (as I did) a movement on the surface of the
globe.

She stopped and turned around, looking in that direction-'

The outer layer of the globe was rolling downward, re-
vealing the glass globe underneath. Harry's head again? I
thought. What would be the point of that?

Max's.

His lips drawn back in an amiable smile

"While I realize," he said, "that the chance of your ever
seeing mis is small indeed, at the same tune, I have taken
the precaution, as a good magician should, of preparing an
alternative ending."

Despite my grief, I felt a glow of warmth at that. He'd
never forgotten.

"Accordingly, I have in)ected through the cork and wrap-
ping of the apparently unopened bottle in the ice bucket a
tasteless, slow-acting but extremely efficacious poison."

Cassandra started. Then her lips jerked back in a barking
laugh of triumph.

"You really did poison it, you son of a bitch," she said.

"m addition," Max's head went on, "I have also injected
the same poison into every champagne bottle under the
bar—resealing the cases, of course.

"This in the event that you suspect the bottle in the ice
bucket and use another one."

Cassandra stiffened with dread. While in the heart of the
ancient vegetable, a cheer erupted. Bravo, Sonny!

"I know you love your favorite champagne after any kind
of personal triumph," Max's head continued.

He paused.

"Not that you will ever have the chance to drink it," he
said. "You'll be hanging in the freezer, dead. Still—"

Now Y— S— tt..   209

The head smiled cunningly.

"—who knows?" it said.

It was either a choice coincidence or (more likely) the
burst of shock which had flooded her system mat caused
Cassandra to feel me poison for the first time at that very
moment.

She began to weave, one hand pressed against her stom-
ach.

"No," she said.

She stared in unbelieving shock at Max's head as it com-
pleted its statement.

"If it comes to it, however," it said, "bw voyage, Cassan-
dra. Despite your wondrous machinations—whatever they
have been, and I'm sure they were impressive—you have
lost the game, as well as I."

As Cassandra gaped at me head, the outer layer of the
globe rolled back up, and once again it was an antique
image of the world.

Cassandra tried to make it to the telephone.

She couldn't. Her legs began-to lose the power to support
her.

"Brian!" she called. "Brian!"

She lurched toward the desk, but never reached it, in-
stead pitching forward to me floor.

There she lay gasping, legs drawn up, agony stabbing at
her insides. (It seemed apparent by the way she clutched at
her stomach.)

I doubt if, in all (hat pain, she could have summoned a
single thought about her husband's final victory.

And I doubt that I could ever have killed her. I felt too
sorry tor her,

And her wasted life.

What else could I do?

It was over. Nothing more could possibly take place.

And yet it did.

210  Richard MathMM

Both Cassandra's eyes and mine moved to the desk chair.
It was turning by itself.

It stood mere, reversed, for several moments.
Then a curl of white smoke drifted upward from behind
its back.

Cassandra gaped at it. I gaped at it,
How could Max possibly be alive?

The chair turned back.

My brain felt numb.

Sitting in it, smoking a cigar, was Sheriff Plum.

Cassandra made a sound of dazed confusion. She could
make no sense whatever of me Sheriff's appearance. Nor
could I.

Still, he might save her lifel

"Help me," she asked in a feeble voice.

The Sheriff only stared at her.

"Guess you won't be going back to Harry Kendal now,"
he said, "or letting your brother drown at sea."

She obviously didn't comprehend what he was saying.
"Please," she begged.

"Looks like you and me Mister have killed each other
off," he said.

His eyes were like stones.

"Leaving everything to Padre," he said. "And to whoever
takes care of Padre."

He rose from the chair and walked around me desk.

Cassandra gasped.

From the waist up, he was wearing Sheriff Plum's
clothes.

From the twist down, Cassandra's.

Her mouth tell open as she understood.

Too late.

Now You See It..   211

Brian came over and, kneeling, checked for her pulse
beat.

There was none; she was gone.

He put her hand back down on me floor and stared at
her.

Then sobbed.

"Did you ever care for anyone?" he asked.

He pressed his left hand over his eyes and began to cry
harder.

I don't know how long he wept. It was a good while,
though.

Finally, rubbing dry his eyes and cheeks, he drew in a
long, bracing breath of air and stood.

Moving to the desk, he picked up the telephone and
pressed the Operator button. ,

As he waited, he began to peel away his Sheriff disguise.

"The Sheriff's office, please," he said. "This is an emer-
gency."

He continued peeling off the disguise while he waited
again.

Finally, me Sheriffs office answered. Brian asked for
Plum and was connected.

"Sheriff Plum," he said. "My name is Brian Crane. I'm
calling from the house of Maximilian and Cassandra Dela-
corte on Medfield Road- Can you come here right away?"

He looked, stricken, at his dead sister,

"There's been a tragedy," he said.

chapter 28

N rian sat in silence for at. least ten minutes, idly picking at
the remainder of his Sheriff Plum facial disguise. He
seemed to stare into his thoughts; never had I felt more in-
visible.

Rising finally, he took off the Sheriff's shirt/revealing, un-
derneath, Cassandra's pink blouse, which he also removed,
revealing a sweat-laved T-shirt underneath. He took off the
skirt he'd worn, me shoes and stockings. Beneath me skirt,
he wore me trousers of Sheriff Plum.

Still, he did not look at me, his face expressionless. What-
ever thoughts he had were so buried, they were not re-
flected, even for an instant, on his face.

Barefoot, he moved to where Cassandra lay and looked
down at her.

Abruptly, his face revealed all: incredulous sorrow, an-
guish so complete it appeared as though he might lose con-
trol.

He slumped to his knees beside her, taking hold of her

Now You SeeH...   213

limp right hand. The sob that broke in his chest wracked his

entire body.

"Why?" he asked, scarcely able to speak me word.
His head bowed and he wept again; for the sister he had

loved so deeply, yet had made no effort to save.

At last he raised his head and looked at me, eyes glistening.
"You never knew about us, did you. Padre?" he said.
"You only knew what Max told you and what little you

saw."
Slowly and gently, he stroked his sister's hand as he

spoke.
"Our father was an alcoholic," he said. "A failed vaude-

villian who didn't mellow with inebriation but turned vi-
cious instead. Abused our mother and us." He bared his
teeth momentarily. "And, in Cassandra's case.../'
He didn't finish, but he didn't have to; I understood.
"When I was ten, my mother hanged herself," he went
on. "Cassandra took her place in my life, the only person in

me world I could trust.

"She took me away from our father when she was sixteen
and I was thirteen- By then, she'd made up her mind to fol-
low no rules but to do anything she could to get ahead.

"I didn't blame her; I don't blame her now. We were two
of a kind—angry, vengeful, pitted against a world which

had g?ven us nothing but pain.

"So we became what you saw and heard about from
Max—a pair of icy opportunists. Not that he knew it at first.
Cassandra was too good at pretending to allow him to see
what she—and I—really were."

214  Richard Mathnon

He stopped speaking and lowered his head again; I thought
he was finished.

He wasn't. Rising, he retrieved the skirt he'd removed
and lay it across Cassandra's still features.

Then he moved to the picture window and stared out at
the lake, a faint smile on his lips. Js he thinking, I wondered,
that the view he sees is only a reflection? I had no way of know-
ing-

Finally, he turned and walked to the desk, sitting on its
edge.

"We have a little wait, don't we?" he said.

"Where was I?"

He stared at me bleakly; then, after several moments, he
spoke again.

"She had an affair with a stage magician when she was
seventeen. She used him to leam his trade and she taught
me what she'd learned.

"Then she dropped him, and it was the two of us again,
together in ... every way," he murmured.

His smile was bitter.

"Several other 'status-enhancing'—as she called mem—
relationships followed before she met Max and set her cap
for him. Moving in after Adelaide's death. With me, as al-
ways, trailing behind, her faithful lapdog ... slavish to her
every demand."

He sighed heavily.

"Things changed after they were married," he said. "My
closeness to her gradually deteriorated. She was—without
my knowing it—scheming toward a future which did not
include me.

"I tried not to notice it. I'd been trained to trust her to-
tally, believe her every word. I loved her. Padre—" His voice
broke, and he had to pause to regain himself.

"But in spite of that," he said, "I had to recognize, even-


Now You See It..   215

tually, mat I was living—in her life, at least—on borrowed
time."

"It all came to a head when Max demanded that I help him
eliminate her because of what she was doing to him."

The bitter smile again.

"How clever she was," he said. "Until that moment, I'd
had no idea that she was plotting either Max's dissolution
as a performer or—if that didn't work—his death.

"Discovering that was a traumatic blow to me. Padre," he
went on. "Putting aside everything we'd meant to one an-
other, she was planning to betray me.

"I saw the cabal; Cassandra and Harry versus Max, with
me completely out of the picture.

"It was then that the lapdog planned his revenge."

"I pretended to agree with Max. Even signed that stupid

murder contract with him; of course, I planned to destroy it

later.
"Then I told Cassandra what he was planning to do: drug

her with me blowgun dart and have me hang her in the

freezer to die slowly—as she planned to let him die slowly

from arsenic poisoning."
Once more, mat bitter smile,
"She pretended, of course, that she'd always intended to

tell me what she'd been doing," he said.
He turned his head and looked at Cassandra's body, his

expression once again unreadable. He stared at her for more

man a minute-
Then he murmured, "Right," and moved behind the

desk. Sitting, he took a sheet of paper from the drawer and

began to write on it.

216   Richard Mathexon

"They all misread me. Padre," he said. "Brian the pathetic
gofer. Nothing but a pawn to be moved around their mur-
derous chessboard."

His expression was hard now, his voice angry.

"They should have given me more credit," he said.

"I made fools of them both.

"Pretending to help each one separately, I played my
game and stood by while they contrived to murder one an-
other."

He shuddered.

"Not that I intended for her to die," he said. "Max sur-
prised me there. And my own anger at what I heard her say
while I was behind the wall panel—that she might let me
drown at sea—so enraged me that -.."

His breath faltered.

"I might have saved her," he said. "Then again, maybe
mere wasn't time; I'll never know.

"So—in my total rage—I let her know what I'd done.
Then I let her die."

Another faltering breath. He had to stop writing, his
hand shook so badly.

A minute later, he put the pen back into its holder.

"Why have I told you all this?" he inquired.

He made a sound of dark amusement.

"Probably because you're the only audience I'll ever
have.

"The perfect audience in one respect; you can't fidget in
your seat or walk out. You have to listen to every word.

"At the same time, the worst audience I could ever have
because you can't react, you can't respond in any way. Ap-
plause? Forget it. A cheer? No way. The audience participa-
tion of a cabbage is limited. Forgive me for saying so. Padre.

Now YON See K...   217

I always liked you, and respected you for what you'd done
with your life. But as an audience..." He shook his head.

Uttle did he know.

There was complete reaction. And response, if only in-
wardly.

No gofer he. Instead, a diabolically clever man who'd
played a two-sided game against Cassandra and my son.

Neither of them conceived/ you see, that he was capable
of such an ingeniously sinister plot against them. Blinded
by their confident assumptions, they never noticed mat,
while each of mem was involved in his (and her) intricate
scheme, Brian was outmaneuvering them both.

He had even dared to call attention to himself by portray-
ing me Sheriff as a slow-witted rustic!

Did he experience some sense of dreadful glee at that
deception?

Brian stood and walked to the bar.

Removing the champagne bottle from its ice bucket, he
poured a glassful and drank it in a swallow.
I wondered if my face betrayed the utter shock I felt.
"Don't worry. Padre," he said. "I've left a written confes-
sion on me desk."
He chuckled.

"Not that it's likely they'll mink you did it all. Still..."
He winced as the poison began to take effect.
Face set, he poured himself another glassful, raised it to-
ward me in a final toast.
"Prosit, Padre," he said. "And farewell."
He drained the glass and put it back on the bar.
Moving to where Cassandra's body lay, he stretched him-
self out beside her and took her hand in his. He made a
sound of pain- Then, chillingly, he laughed.

218   Richard Matheson

"The real Sheriff Plum has got a lot to deal with here," he
said.
He dosed his eyes.
"Good luck. Padre/' he murmured.
Then he, too, was gone.

I complete the tale as expeditiously as possible.

Sheriff Plum arrived soon after—looking more like an un-
bearded Abraham Lincoln than me portly figure Brian had
presented—and took over. Unlike Brian's characterization
of him, he was a man of sharp perception.

The case was dosed in due time. Later on, I caught up
with the months of newspaper, magazine, tabloid, and tele-
vision coverage of me case.

The court allowed me to retain me full estate/ me servants
remaining to take care of me.

Then an odd—and wholly unexpected—thing occurred.

The vegetable made a comeback,

Medical opinion varied, but the consensus was that me
shock of witnessing the horrors of that afternoon—while
being totally unable to stop them in any way—had trauma-
tized my system.

Whether this is true or not, I'll never know.

All I do know is that for some fortuitous reason, my arter-
ial blood flow discovered an alternate route to the damaged
area of my brain, effecting a gradual but definite recovery.

Not complete, of course. I won't be vying in future Olym-
pic Games.

Still, I'm well enough, at eighty-seven, to get about a lit-
tle, feed myself, manage bathroom matters unassisted
(there's a pleasure, let me tell you!), and write about what
happened that day.

NowYouSMh...  219

A minor coda to the story.

My son's estate was not extensive, most of it being in-
vested in the house.

Accordingly, in order to acquire living funds, I had to sell
me house.

I did so with little reluctance; it was filled with too many
painful memories. I sold it furnished. And to whom?

How utterly ironic—

Harry.

He had always coveted the place, you see. No doubt he
thought it grimly satisfying to be able to possess it after the
way Max had tormented him there.

His offer was me highest among a scarce few bidders.

So I had to sell it to him.

Before I left, however, I called in a local handyman and
had me entire place rewired so mat every time Harry
turned on a lamp or pushed up a light switch or tried to use
an electric appliance, breaker switches were thrown. My
one regret was that the housedidn't still use screw-in fuses.

Better still (I had to pay the handyman a tidy sum to keep
his mouth shut on mis), I had every screw in every door and
cabinet hinge in the house removed, the screw holes in-
jected with hydrochloric add, then the screws tightened
back in place-

1 will carry to my grave me heartwarming vision of that
amoral sleazeball having every door and cabinet face fall
off, one by one, in his hands as the add did its work!

Me?

I live in St John. Always loved the place since my wife
and I had stayed mere on numerous vacations.

A jolly Irish woman named Endira Muldoon (thrice wid-
owed, with nine children and seventeen grandchildren

220  Richard Math—oil

scattered about the globe) comes every day to my cottage to
cook and provide for me.

Each day she drives me to the beach—unless there is a
hurricane, of course, in which case I remain at home.

I've collected a group of young children who gamer
around me on the sand while I perform minor hand
manipulations for mem. Colored balls and handkerchiefs,
disappearances and replications, mostly.

They seem to enjoy it.