Fiction spectacular, p.50
Fiction Spectacular, page 50
“Not all of them. Most of them.”
“You had never seen these two men before then?”
“No . . .”
He paused and studied her face. He knew that the questions had all been routine up until that moment. Questions that the police had asked her over and over. And always the same answers. And now the important questions. The questions that would bring answers to decide her guilt . . .
“Miss Drake, did you ever see James Pratt outside office hours?” She stared at him and her face flushed for a moment.
“I, I don’t know exactly what you mean.”
“I mean, Miss Drake, did you ever see James Pratt socially—say, just the two of you?”
The flush, on her face deepened. “. . . Yes. We had dinner a few times . . .”
“Pratt was a married man?”
“. . . He was.”
“Was he in love with you?”
Her face was very red then. But not with embarrassment he saw. With sudden anger. And it showed in her voice as she replied.
“I don’t see what all this has to do with his death! Why must you try and make scandal. Do you think his wife would want it? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
There was a coolness to his voice as he told her:
“James Pratt was the one who suffered. He died.”
He saw her features relax under the bite of his words, and the anger faded from her face.
“Yes . . . I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “I’ll repeat the question. Was he in love with you?”
“He—he said he was . . .”
“Were you in love with him?”
“No!”
Her voice held a tense emotion in it and her eyes pleaded with him. He forced himself to return her gaze steadily, coolly.
“He wanted to marry you?”
“Yes—but I told him I didn’t care for him—I told him that I wouldn’t see him again.”
“Did you?”
“No—not socially.”
“If what you’ve said is true, why didn’t you quit your job and completely sever relations with him?”
“I told him I was quitting. But he pleaded with me to remain until he had time enough to find someone to take my place. That was just a few weeks before. . .”
“Before he was shot to death in his office. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Yes . . .”
BORDEN took a deep breath then brought up the final group of questions.
“On that day, it was June 5th; you say that two clients came to see Pratt, and that shortly afterward he called you into his office and told you to take the rest of the day off. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“I didn’t have anything to do at the time, so I went window shopping along the avenue.”
“Did you meet anyone you knew?”
“. . . No.”
That had been the key question. The one he had been waiting to ask. For if she had answered yes, and been able to prove she was with someone else during that time, she might have had a chance. At least an alibi that might stand up. But now she admitted she had none.
As he looked at her he knew that she was reading the same thing in his eyes. And he could see the look of defeat in hers. Defeat and hopelessness. And in that moment he hated to do what he must do next. For now he had to theorize, show her what the law said could have happened . . .
“Miss Drake, is it possible that before you left the office that afternoon, that you and James Pratt had a violent argument? Is it possible that he never had any visitors? Visitors who you can’t even name? Is it possible that during that argument you struggled with him and shot him? And is it not also possible that you left the office then and got rid of the murder weapon? Would that not account for your lack of an alibi? Isn’t it possible, Miss Drake that you shot and killed James Pratt just as I have outlined?”
He had bitten out each question with a sharp and caustic tone. But even as he spoke he knew deep within him that somehow he didn’t believe the accusations he hurled at her.
“No! It’s not true! I swear it’s not! I’ve told you everything I know! What more can I say? I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!”
Her voice rose hysterically and then she was sobbing, her head bent, her face hidden in a white handkerchief.
He sat quietly and hated himself while she sobbed. And then finally she raised her head and looked at him with trembling lips. There was a haunting accusation in her eyes as she looked at him.
“You said you would protect me if I were innocent! But you’ve already decided I’m guilty! I’ve told you the truth and you don’t believe me!”
He couldn’t answer her. There was no answer to give her that she would understand. He watched as she was led away . . .
And now he sat and thought about it. That first meeting with Nancy Drake. The first of many, And all had been the same, the same questions. The same answers. The same result:
He was district attorney. A man had been killed, Nancy Drake was the only suspect. Nancy Drake had a motive. A motive tied up in a jealous love affair. A motive that he could send her to the chair with.
But he knew he didn’t want to. For he kept seeing her face. Sweet, innocent. Not the face of a murderess . . .
He remembered how he had tried to bargain with her. If she would admit that she killed Pratt in a struggle . . . He knew she would have had a chance in court with a plea of self defense. But she refused to admit anything. She hadn’t killed Pratt. She kept saying it.
HE LOOKED at the papers on his desk. And a sigh left his lips. For he knew that the time for action was close now. The court date was set and he would have to prosecute.
Nancy Drake had been indicted for murder.
He would have to get up in court and ask the supreme penalty.
He would have to demand that she be sent to the electric chair.
Nancy Drake . . .
He saw her warm eyes again. And he knew that the papers on his desk were wrong. They had to be wrong I She hadn’t killed. She couldn’t kill . . . But that was his case. He hated it, but that was it. There were no other suspects. Only two hypothetical clients, And Nancy Drake . . .
“Mr. Borden, Are you busy?”
Harry Borden snapped up in his chair at the sound of his secretary’s voice coming from the intercom on his desk. He flipped a switch.
“What is it, Miss Dodd?”
“There’s a Mr. Toper to see you, sir. A Mr. Simon Toper . . .”
Borden frowned. Toper? He didn’t know any Simon Toper.
“I’m very busy, Miss Dodd, I—”
“He says it’s very important, sir. He says he wants to see you about the Drake case.”
The frown left Borden’s face and surprise took its place. He stared at the intercom for a moment, then said:
“Send him in.”
He flicked off the switch and sat back in his chair, his eyes on the door. Toper? Simon Toper? What would he want—what could he know about the Drake case? And then suddenly his eyes lighted. Toper! Now he had placed the name. The newspapers . . .
The door opened and a short man entered the room. Borden’s eyes took him in with an experienced glance. He was inclined to stoutness, well dressed in a pin-stripe tweed suit. There was an ingratiating smile on his full face, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with some hidden amusement.
“Mr. Toper?”
The fat man nodded and moved into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Borden. I trust I’m not inconveniencing you?”
Borden shook his head.
“Not at all. Please sit down.”
He waited until the fat man had seated himself in front of the desk.
“My secretary informed me that you wished to see me about the Drake Case.”
“That’s right,” Toper continued to smile. “I thought maybe I could be some help to you.”
Borden was watching the man closely, his mind speeding rapidly, placing the face he was now confronted with. He remembered reading about Toper in the tabloids. He hadn’t paid much attention to it, but he had scanned the stories in the papers. What had they been? Oh, yes, some thing about the uncanny insight of this man, almost prophetic, in predicting race results and stock market quotations. The papers had attributed an almost magical significance to the man. Sensationalism, of course.
Borden frowned slightly as he stared at the fat man.
“Help me? You mean you have some information on the case that the police haven’t discovered?”
Toper looked at him mildly.
“Oh, no, I have no knowledge of the case whatsoever. That is, nothing but what I read in the papers.”
THE FROWN left Borden’s face and when he spoke his voice was abrupt.
“Then I can’t possibly see what help you can be. I’m sorry, but I’m really very busy—”
Toper laughed.
“Oh come now, Borden, I didn’t come here in jest. I meant what I said. I’d like to help you on this case.”
A faint trace of irritation showed on Borden’s features.
“Look, here, sir, if this is some new publicity stunt of yours—”
“Ah,” Toper sighed humorously. “I see you’ve heard about me.”
Borden shrugged. “I’ve seen your writeups, yes. And that’s just what I mean. If you’ve come here for more publicity—”
“But I have read the papers too, Mr. Borden. And what is more important, I have seen Nancy Drake’s photograph in the papers. I do not believe she is guilty of murder. It isn’t in her face.
Borden sighed patiently. He knew now that he had made a mistake in letting this man in.
“That’s very gratifying, Mr. Toper. And of course, you’re entitled to your opinion. But what is in Nancy Drake’s face is not, I assure you, going to be the factor which will decide her guilt or innocence. Now, if you will pardon me . . .”
But Toper made no move to rise. Instead he smiled at Borden.
“As I said, Borden, I’m here to offer my services to you. Of course, not really to you, but to Miss Drake.”
Borden sat back in his chair resignedly. It was apparent that the fat man had no intention of leaving until he made his point clear, whatever it might be. He decided to see just what Toper had on his mind. He was, in fact, suddenly curious.
“And just what might your services be?” Borden asked.
Toper continued to smile.
“As you may have read in the papers did not state, did not, in fact, tell coming events. But what the papers did not state, did not, in fact, know about, is that I can also relate under the proper circumstances just what occurred in the past.”
There was a puzzled look on Borden’s face.
“I don’t see—”
“If you will allow me to clarify,” the fat man continued. “As I said, I can view the past, just as I view the future. And since there is somewhat of a mystery surrounding the intimate details of the Drake case, I thought you might like to know just what did happen in Pratt’s office that day.”
Borden straightened in his chair and his composure was now strained.
“Look here, Toper, this is a murder case, and a serious business. It has no place for frauds and publicity seekers. You force me to be more definite. I’m asking you to leave.”
For the first time the smile faded from the fat man’s face. In its place was a studied look of tolerance.
“You call me a fraud? And what if I were to prove to you that I can do just as I say?”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it? Take yourself for example. You have never seen me before. There is no possible way I could know of your activities of, shall we say, the past half hour. What if I were to tell you everything you did during the past half hour? Would you believe me then?”
BORDEN smiled for the first time.
The fat man had made a mistake. He had laid his own trap. What he said he could do was impossible, he knew. And he could easily prove it. For he knew that during the past half hour he had done nothing but sit and stare at the papers on his desk. He had done nothing but a lot of thinking. Toper didn’t know that. And Borden knew he could now make a fool out of the man to his face.
“Very well, Mr. Toper. I’ll challenge you to tell me every single thing I’ve done for the past half hour. If you can I shall be more than glad to speak to you further.”
Toper smiled and nodded.
“I shall do my best. It will only take a few moments . . .”
The fat man’s voice trailed off, and Borden saw him half close his eyes. Then, as he watched, a strange thing seemed to take place. Borden could not explain it, unless it was a sudden trauma of his eyes. For the figure of Simon Toper, sitting in the chair before him, suddenly seemed to waver, seemed to be enveloped in some scintillating aura.
For a long moment the very features of the fat man were indistinct. Were, in fact, almost transparent. And through them, Borden had the sudden impression that he could see the very wall behind Toper’s head.
It was uncanny. It shook Borden as nothing had ever done. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes, closing them for a fraction of a second.
When he opened them again the fat man was sitting placidly, staring at him, a smile pulling at the corners of his flacid mouth.
“You have spent a singularly uninspiring half hour, Mr. Borden. You have done nothing but sit and stare at those papers on your desk.”
Borden was aware that his mouth had dropped open. He was also aware that his self assurance had been shaken. He had decided that this man was a fraud, that what he had seen in the papers concerning him was nothing more than an attempt at sensationalism. He knew it was impossible for any man to foresee the future, let alone the past. And now he was facing this strange man. This Simon Toper. And Toper had told him simply, but definitely, exactly what he had done in the privacy of his office during the past half hour. It was weird. It was incredible—but it was true . . .
“You seem unduly surprised, Mr. Borden,” Toper said in what seemed to be apparent amusement. “Tell me, am I not correct?”
Borden nodded slowly. And now he looked at the fat man with a touch of near respect, “You are correct. And I will be frank in admitting that I am shocked—amazed. You couldn’t have guessed . . .”
“That is also correct. I could not have guessed. I saw, Mr. Borden. I saw you as plainly as I see you this moment. Now will you believe me? I will extend my offer once again to help in the Drake case.”
Borden’s face was a mask in that moment. But his thoughts were moving with a rapidity that startled him. For he was thinking, hoping desperately. If what this strange man claimed were true, then he might indeed be able to envision what had occurred in Pratt’s office that day.
And if he could . . .
“You have told me enough to temper my judgment, Mr. Toper. I must admit frankly that I am still skeptical, but . . .”
“Then you will allow me to help?”
“I must first of all have your assurance that this will not be utilized as a publicity stunt. You understand my position . . .” Borden said slowly. And he saw by Toper’s knowing smile that the fat man understood what he had meant. If news of an experiment like this were to leak out he would be laughed from office.
“Of course. You have my word. Now, if you care to go to Pratt’s office . . .”
Borden looked surprised.
“Why can’t you do it here?”
The fat man’s eyes were suddenly relied in a thoughtful look.
“As I said before, I can visualize the past and future, under certain conditions. The exact locality is one of those conditions . . .”
“I see . . .” Borden said thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll take you over there myself.”
THE MANAGEMENT of the Central Exchange Building had supplied a key to Pratt’s office, at Borden’s request. Now he opened the door and stepped inside, the fat man following him.
The reception room was plain, but adequately furnished. There were the usual filing cabinets, a large secretarial desk, a divan for visitors, and a closed door on the far side of the room leading into Pratt’s private office.
Borden crossed the room and opened the door.
This room was more lavishly furnished. There was a rich carpet, a magnificent mahogany desk, and matching furniture in dark leather. Borden motioned toward the desk.
“Pratt’s body was found slumped over the desk. He died in his chair.”
Simon Toper followed Borden’s gaze, and he slowly nodded. And as Borden looked closely at the man, he saw an eagerness on his features. Almost an expectancy.
“It will only take a moment . . .”
And as the words left Toper’s lips, Borden saw the same uncanny transformation take place that he had witnessed in his own office. And now he was sure that it was not a fault of his eyes. For he saw the fat man’s body waver, seem to shimmer with an aura . . .
And to Simon Toper, the room suddenly changed. It was such a simple matter. All he had to do was think. The delicate balance . . . And as he thought, he wondered again, as he had wondered months before in the hospital room. Where had the thought come from? Why? . . .
He was staring at the same desk. The same desk in the same room. And yet somehow the room was different.
There were three men in it.
One of them sat behind the desk. Two were standing in front of it.
The man behind the desk was looking at the two standing men with a sudden fear. He was staring at one of them in particular. A tall man. A man with hawkish features and thin, bloodless lips. This man was speaking in cold, methodical tones.
“Call in your secretary, Pratt. Tell her she can have the rest of the day off.”
Pratt hesitated. He licked his lips nervously. Then the second man, shorter, with a wizened face and sharp beady eyes spoke.
“Do what the boss says. Al Michaels wants it nice and private, see?”
Michaels nodded in agreement.
“That’s right. I want it nice and private. And just in case you don’t understand, Weber, here, has a gun in his pocket”
Pratt swallowed nervously but reached out and switched on the intercom on his desk.
“You had never seen these two men before then?”
“No . . .”
He paused and studied her face. He knew that the questions had all been routine up until that moment. Questions that the police had asked her over and over. And always the same answers. And now the important questions. The questions that would bring answers to decide her guilt . . .
“Miss Drake, did you ever see James Pratt outside office hours?” She stared at him and her face flushed for a moment.
“I, I don’t know exactly what you mean.”
“I mean, Miss Drake, did you ever see James Pratt socially—say, just the two of you?”
The flush, on her face deepened. “. . . Yes. We had dinner a few times . . .”
“Pratt was a married man?”
“. . . He was.”
“Was he in love with you?”
Her face was very red then. But not with embarrassment he saw. With sudden anger. And it showed in her voice as she replied.
“I don’t see what all this has to do with his death! Why must you try and make scandal. Do you think his wife would want it? Hasn’t she suffered enough?”
There was a coolness to his voice as he told her:
“James Pratt was the one who suffered. He died.”
He saw her features relax under the bite of his words, and the anger faded from her face.
“Yes . . . I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “I’ll repeat the question. Was he in love with you?”
“He—he said he was . . .”
“Were you in love with him?”
“No!”
Her voice held a tense emotion in it and her eyes pleaded with him. He forced himself to return her gaze steadily, coolly.
“He wanted to marry you?”
“Yes—but I told him I didn’t care for him—I told him that I wouldn’t see him again.”
“Did you?”
“No—not socially.”
“If what you’ve said is true, why didn’t you quit your job and completely sever relations with him?”
“I told him I was quitting. But he pleaded with me to remain until he had time enough to find someone to take my place. That was just a few weeks before. . .”
“Before he was shot to death in his office. Is that what you were going to say?”
“Yes . . .”
BORDEN took a deep breath then brought up the final group of questions.
“On that day, it was June 5th; you say that two clients came to see Pratt, and that shortly afterward he called you into his office and told you to take the rest of the day off. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you go?”
“I didn’t have anything to do at the time, so I went window shopping along the avenue.”
“Did you meet anyone you knew?”
“. . . No.”
That had been the key question. The one he had been waiting to ask. For if she had answered yes, and been able to prove she was with someone else during that time, she might have had a chance. At least an alibi that might stand up. But now she admitted she had none.
As he looked at her he knew that she was reading the same thing in his eyes. And he could see the look of defeat in hers. Defeat and hopelessness. And in that moment he hated to do what he must do next. For now he had to theorize, show her what the law said could have happened . . .
“Miss Drake, is it possible that before you left the office that afternoon, that you and James Pratt had a violent argument? Is it possible that he never had any visitors? Visitors who you can’t even name? Is it possible that during that argument you struggled with him and shot him? And is it not also possible that you left the office then and got rid of the murder weapon? Would that not account for your lack of an alibi? Isn’t it possible, Miss Drake that you shot and killed James Pratt just as I have outlined?”
He had bitten out each question with a sharp and caustic tone. But even as he spoke he knew deep within him that somehow he didn’t believe the accusations he hurled at her.
“No! It’s not true! I swear it’s not! I’ve told you everything I know! What more can I say? I didn’t kill him! I didn’t kill him!”
Her voice rose hysterically and then she was sobbing, her head bent, her face hidden in a white handkerchief.
He sat quietly and hated himself while she sobbed. And then finally she raised her head and looked at him with trembling lips. There was a haunting accusation in her eyes as she looked at him.
“You said you would protect me if I were innocent! But you’ve already decided I’m guilty! I’ve told you the truth and you don’t believe me!”
He couldn’t answer her. There was no answer to give her that she would understand. He watched as she was led away . . .
And now he sat and thought about it. That first meeting with Nancy Drake. The first of many, And all had been the same, the same questions. The same answers. The same result:
He was district attorney. A man had been killed, Nancy Drake was the only suspect. Nancy Drake had a motive. A motive tied up in a jealous love affair. A motive that he could send her to the chair with.
But he knew he didn’t want to. For he kept seeing her face. Sweet, innocent. Not the face of a murderess . . .
He remembered how he had tried to bargain with her. If she would admit that she killed Pratt in a struggle . . . He knew she would have had a chance in court with a plea of self defense. But she refused to admit anything. She hadn’t killed Pratt. She kept saying it.
HE LOOKED at the papers on his desk. And a sigh left his lips. For he knew that the time for action was close now. The court date was set and he would have to prosecute.
Nancy Drake had been indicted for murder.
He would have to get up in court and ask the supreme penalty.
He would have to demand that she be sent to the electric chair.
Nancy Drake . . .
He saw her warm eyes again. And he knew that the papers on his desk were wrong. They had to be wrong I She hadn’t killed. She couldn’t kill . . . But that was his case. He hated it, but that was it. There were no other suspects. Only two hypothetical clients, And Nancy Drake . . .
“Mr. Borden, Are you busy?”
Harry Borden snapped up in his chair at the sound of his secretary’s voice coming from the intercom on his desk. He flipped a switch.
“What is it, Miss Dodd?”
“There’s a Mr. Toper to see you, sir. A Mr. Simon Toper . . .”
Borden frowned. Toper? He didn’t know any Simon Toper.
“I’m very busy, Miss Dodd, I—”
“He says it’s very important, sir. He says he wants to see you about the Drake case.”
The frown left Borden’s face and surprise took its place. He stared at the intercom for a moment, then said:
“Send him in.”
He flicked off the switch and sat back in his chair, his eyes on the door. Toper? Simon Toper? What would he want—what could he know about the Drake case? And then suddenly his eyes lighted. Toper! Now he had placed the name. The newspapers . . .
The door opened and a short man entered the room. Borden’s eyes took him in with an experienced glance. He was inclined to stoutness, well dressed in a pin-stripe tweed suit. There was an ingratiating smile on his full face, and his eyes seemed to sparkle with some hidden amusement.
“Mr. Toper?”
The fat man nodded and moved into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Yes, Mr. Borden. I trust I’m not inconveniencing you?”
Borden shook his head.
“Not at all. Please sit down.”
He waited until the fat man had seated himself in front of the desk.
“My secretary informed me that you wished to see me about the Drake Case.”
“That’s right,” Toper continued to smile. “I thought maybe I could be some help to you.”
Borden was watching the man closely, his mind speeding rapidly, placing the face he was now confronted with. He remembered reading about Toper in the tabloids. He hadn’t paid much attention to it, but he had scanned the stories in the papers. What had they been? Oh, yes, some thing about the uncanny insight of this man, almost prophetic, in predicting race results and stock market quotations. The papers had attributed an almost magical significance to the man. Sensationalism, of course.
Borden frowned slightly as he stared at the fat man.
“Help me? You mean you have some information on the case that the police haven’t discovered?”
Toper looked at him mildly.
“Oh, no, I have no knowledge of the case whatsoever. That is, nothing but what I read in the papers.”
THE FROWN left Borden’s face and when he spoke his voice was abrupt.
“Then I can’t possibly see what help you can be. I’m sorry, but I’m really very busy—”
Toper laughed.
“Oh come now, Borden, I didn’t come here in jest. I meant what I said. I’d like to help you on this case.”
A faint trace of irritation showed on Borden’s features.
“Look, here, sir, if this is some new publicity stunt of yours—”
“Ah,” Toper sighed humorously. “I see you’ve heard about me.”
Borden shrugged. “I’ve seen your writeups, yes. And that’s just what I mean. If you’ve come here for more publicity—”
“But I have read the papers too, Mr. Borden. And what is more important, I have seen Nancy Drake’s photograph in the papers. I do not believe she is guilty of murder. It isn’t in her face.
Borden sighed patiently. He knew now that he had made a mistake in letting this man in.
“That’s very gratifying, Mr. Toper. And of course, you’re entitled to your opinion. But what is in Nancy Drake’s face is not, I assure you, going to be the factor which will decide her guilt or innocence. Now, if you will pardon me . . .”
But Toper made no move to rise. Instead he smiled at Borden.
“As I said, Borden, I’m here to offer my services to you. Of course, not really to you, but to Miss Drake.”
Borden sat back in his chair resignedly. It was apparent that the fat man had no intention of leaving until he made his point clear, whatever it might be. He decided to see just what Toper had on his mind. He was, in fact, suddenly curious.
“And just what might your services be?” Borden asked.
Toper continued to smile.
“As you may have read in the papers did not state, did not, in fact, tell coming events. But what the papers did not state, did not, in fact, know about, is that I can also relate under the proper circumstances just what occurred in the past.”
There was a puzzled look on Borden’s face.
“I don’t see—”
“If you will allow me to clarify,” the fat man continued. “As I said, I can view the past, just as I view the future. And since there is somewhat of a mystery surrounding the intimate details of the Drake case, I thought you might like to know just what did happen in Pratt’s office that day.”
Borden straightened in his chair and his composure was now strained.
“Look here, Toper, this is a murder case, and a serious business. It has no place for frauds and publicity seekers. You force me to be more definite. I’m asking you to leave.”
For the first time the smile faded from the fat man’s face. In its place was a studied look of tolerance.
“You call me a fraud? And what if I were to prove to you that I can do just as I say?”
“That’s impossible.”
“Is it? Take yourself for example. You have never seen me before. There is no possible way I could know of your activities of, shall we say, the past half hour. What if I were to tell you everything you did during the past half hour? Would you believe me then?”
BORDEN smiled for the first time.
The fat man had made a mistake. He had laid his own trap. What he said he could do was impossible, he knew. And he could easily prove it. For he knew that during the past half hour he had done nothing but sit and stare at the papers on his desk. He had done nothing but a lot of thinking. Toper didn’t know that. And Borden knew he could now make a fool out of the man to his face.
“Very well, Mr. Toper. I’ll challenge you to tell me every single thing I’ve done for the past half hour. If you can I shall be more than glad to speak to you further.”
Toper smiled and nodded.
“I shall do my best. It will only take a few moments . . .”
The fat man’s voice trailed off, and Borden saw him half close his eyes. Then, as he watched, a strange thing seemed to take place. Borden could not explain it, unless it was a sudden trauma of his eyes. For the figure of Simon Toper, sitting in the chair before him, suddenly seemed to waver, seemed to be enveloped in some scintillating aura.
For a long moment the very features of the fat man were indistinct. Were, in fact, almost transparent. And through them, Borden had the sudden impression that he could see the very wall behind Toper’s head.
It was uncanny. It shook Borden as nothing had ever done. He raised his hand and rubbed his eyes, closing them for a fraction of a second.
When he opened them again the fat man was sitting placidly, staring at him, a smile pulling at the corners of his flacid mouth.
“You have spent a singularly uninspiring half hour, Mr. Borden. You have done nothing but sit and stare at those papers on your desk.”
Borden was aware that his mouth had dropped open. He was also aware that his self assurance had been shaken. He had decided that this man was a fraud, that what he had seen in the papers concerning him was nothing more than an attempt at sensationalism. He knew it was impossible for any man to foresee the future, let alone the past. And now he was facing this strange man. This Simon Toper. And Toper had told him simply, but definitely, exactly what he had done in the privacy of his office during the past half hour. It was weird. It was incredible—but it was true . . .
“You seem unduly surprised, Mr. Borden,” Toper said in what seemed to be apparent amusement. “Tell me, am I not correct?”
Borden nodded slowly. And now he looked at the fat man with a touch of near respect, “You are correct. And I will be frank in admitting that I am shocked—amazed. You couldn’t have guessed . . .”
“That is also correct. I could not have guessed. I saw, Mr. Borden. I saw you as plainly as I see you this moment. Now will you believe me? I will extend my offer once again to help in the Drake case.”
Borden’s face was a mask in that moment. But his thoughts were moving with a rapidity that startled him. For he was thinking, hoping desperately. If what this strange man claimed were true, then he might indeed be able to envision what had occurred in Pratt’s office that day.
And if he could . . .
“You have told me enough to temper my judgment, Mr. Toper. I must admit frankly that I am still skeptical, but . . .”
“Then you will allow me to help?”
“I must first of all have your assurance that this will not be utilized as a publicity stunt. You understand my position . . .” Borden said slowly. And he saw by Toper’s knowing smile that the fat man understood what he had meant. If news of an experiment like this were to leak out he would be laughed from office.
“Of course. You have my word. Now, if you care to go to Pratt’s office . . .”
Borden looked surprised.
“Why can’t you do it here?”
The fat man’s eyes were suddenly relied in a thoughtful look.
“As I said before, I can visualize the past and future, under certain conditions. The exact locality is one of those conditions . . .”
“I see . . .” Borden said thoughtfully. “All right, I’ll take you over there myself.”
THE MANAGEMENT of the Central Exchange Building had supplied a key to Pratt’s office, at Borden’s request. Now he opened the door and stepped inside, the fat man following him.
The reception room was plain, but adequately furnished. There were the usual filing cabinets, a large secretarial desk, a divan for visitors, and a closed door on the far side of the room leading into Pratt’s private office.
Borden crossed the room and opened the door.
This room was more lavishly furnished. There was a rich carpet, a magnificent mahogany desk, and matching furniture in dark leather. Borden motioned toward the desk.
“Pratt’s body was found slumped over the desk. He died in his chair.”
Simon Toper followed Borden’s gaze, and he slowly nodded. And as Borden looked closely at the man, he saw an eagerness on his features. Almost an expectancy.
“It will only take a moment . . .”
And as the words left Toper’s lips, Borden saw the same uncanny transformation take place that he had witnessed in his own office. And now he was sure that it was not a fault of his eyes. For he saw the fat man’s body waver, seem to shimmer with an aura . . .
And to Simon Toper, the room suddenly changed. It was such a simple matter. All he had to do was think. The delicate balance . . . And as he thought, he wondered again, as he had wondered months before in the hospital room. Where had the thought come from? Why? . . .
He was staring at the same desk. The same desk in the same room. And yet somehow the room was different.
There were three men in it.
One of them sat behind the desk. Two were standing in front of it.
The man behind the desk was looking at the two standing men with a sudden fear. He was staring at one of them in particular. A tall man. A man with hawkish features and thin, bloodless lips. This man was speaking in cold, methodical tones.
“Call in your secretary, Pratt. Tell her she can have the rest of the day off.”
Pratt hesitated. He licked his lips nervously. Then the second man, shorter, with a wizened face and sharp beady eyes spoke.
“Do what the boss says. Al Michaels wants it nice and private, see?”
Michaels nodded in agreement.
“That’s right. I want it nice and private. And just in case you don’t understand, Weber, here, has a gun in his pocket”
Pratt swallowed nervously but reached out and switched on the intercom on his desk.
