Frances M. Deegan THIS CURSE IS FOR YOU (Amazing Stories January 1950)

Amazing Stories January 1950

Frances M. Deegan

THIS CURSE IS FOR YOU

"WHEN I was a child," Sibyl told me, "I used to put curses on people."

"You did?" I mumbled, chewing toast.

We were sitting at the breakfast table at the time. I had one eye on the kitchen clock and the other on the headline story about G. F. Grando.

"GRANDO ACCUSED OF BRIBERY," the headline said blackly.

"I guess I can still do it," Sibyl went on contentedly. "But of course it always costs something. The bigger the curse, the bigger the sacrifice I have to make. That's why I haven't done it for a long time. But I was so mad at Mr. Grando, I just did it."

"Huh?"

"He had no right to cancel our vacation plans at the last moment."

"Don't talk foolishness, baby. This is serious. G. F. has been accused of paying out half a million dollars to a bunch of politicians in order to corner all the highway construction the city is planning. It could ruin him."

"Then we can take our vacation," she said. "Don't forget to bring your Gladstone, bag home from the office."

"Darling, this is the reason why we can't go to Bermuda. I'm part of the Grando Construction Company." The clock hand slid past 8:30. I swallowed the rest of my coffee and got up. "I'd like to know how Sam Black engineered this little coup. Why, great Scott! If he can make the charges stand up, we might all go to jail!"

"Oh, no!" Sibyl wailed. "Not you! I didn't mean to do that!" I dropped the paper and caught her with a mouthful of coffee flavored kisses. She clung tighter and moaned: "Don't go. Never mind the Gladstone. I won't let you go!"

"Don't get so excited. I didn't mean to scare you."

"If I'd known I'd have to sacrifice you, I'd never have done it. Never!"

"Well, shame on you!" I humored her. "If I'd known I was marrying a witch I'd have taken a course in black magic myself. Look how late it is. I've got to get going. Stop it now, I..."

Fifteen minutes later I was on my way. I had forgotten the paper, and also my hat and briefcase. It was too late to go back for them. I was driving too fast, but I have never been a reckless driver. Even in my present state of confusion my reflexes were automatic and correct. That's why I was sure, even at the time, that the collision was not my fault.

This car cut into the boulevard traffic from a side street and rammed me as I applied the brake. Two more cars piled into it, and there I was in the middle of a clambake that might go on all morning.

I was badly shaken, but more or less intact when the other drivers got to me. They all looked ugly, probably because they were as shocked and scared as I was. There were four of them and I finally got them straightened out.

The two middle-aged business men were the two drivers behind me. They were bosses, taking their time getting down to the office.

The other two were the driver and passenger from the car that rammed me. They were fast talkers and looked too sharp to be legitimate. That was the first thing that registered. The second thing was the unnatural solicitude of the hard-eyed passenger. His name was Horn and he seemed much too concerned about my condition and my belongings. He wanted to put me into a taxi and see me safely home, or to a hospital, or to my place of business. Anywhere—just so I got into a taxi with him, and brought along whatever valuables I had in the car.

I told him I didn't have anything because I forgot everything.

That was when I remembered the estimates in my briefcase. I wondered uneasily how Sam Black could have known or suspected that I would be carrying them this morning. He could do a lot with them if he was behind the bribery charge.

There was nothing wrong with the estimates. They figured the amount of various kinds of material to be used in a certain type of highway construction. The figures were unusual only because of the large amounts involved. But Sam Black could make those figures look bad by showing how certain politicians would profit by the use of the kind of material specified. Sam Black knew as well as G. F. Grando which pies the politicians had their fingers in. But the general public did not know—unless somebody told them. And that seemed to be Sam Black's mission at the moment.

He had been fighting Grando for ten years, ever since they split up over a minor job. That was before my time, and I didn't know all the details; but Sam Black was the contractor, and Grando was bidding for the excavation work. They got into an argument and Grando took the whole job away from Black. He pulled the right strings, and Black didn't. Black had been snipping at Grando ever since; but this highway job was the first big construction in ten years, and it looked like Black was out to wreck Grando on this one.

All this was going through my mind as the hard-eyed Mr. Horn supported me. My legs were rubbery, but I could have leaned on something else if he had let go his hard grip on my elbow. The traffic squad arrived, but even then I couldn't get rid of him.

"This man is dazed," he told a young cop. "I think I oughta get him to a hospital. Get him checked over. He says he forgot everything."

"I did not!" I said wildly. "I didn't forget anything now. I said I forgot everything this morning!"

"This is still morning," the rosy-cheeked cop said reasonably. "Maybe you better sit down. You ain't been drinkin', have you?"

"I have not!"

Horn let go of my elbow suddenly and I wobbled and stumbled against the cop. When I got myself straightened out, I saw that Horn was examining the inside of my car. I didn't argue about it. I knew he wouldn't find what he was looking for. He didn't. He backed out of the car and eyed me sharply. I ignored him and went on giving the cop the essential data.

Horn insinuated himself again. "I'll take him home," he offered. "He's in no shape to—"

"You'll get the hell away from me," I said feebly, "before I flatten your nose! You wrecked my car on purpose, but that's all the good it did you."

"Never mind now, Mr. Drake," the cop said kindly. "You're comin' out of the shock. Just take it easy."

Just take it easy! I was already an hour late, and that damned briefcase was back at the apartment. If any of Black's hoodlums got there before I did...

I swung away from the cop and staggered out into the traffic with the idea of hopping a cab. The young cop was wonderful. He stopped the traffic and hauled me back.

"Hey, Mack!" he yelled at his partner. "This guy acts like a concussion."

''Somebody else is going to act like a concussion," I growled, "if you don't quit this fooling around—"

"Better gimme a hand, Mack. He's gettin' violent."

Mack came over and they dragged me up on the curb. A tall, handsome, gray-haired man eyed me impersonally, and asked: "What's your name?"

"None of your—"

"I'm Dr. Ramsey," he cut in smoothly, and fingered my scalp with firm pressure. "Where did you hit your head?"

I didn't answer him. I jerked my head away and looked around for Mr. Horn. All I saw was blank faces of total strangers gaping at me.

"Where's that Horn?" I demanded.

"That's a car going past, Mr. Drake," the young cop informed me. "You're out of the traffic now. They won't hit you."

He held onto me with both hands. He had saved my life. I was his personal responsibility. I think he felt the way a kid feels when he saves a drowning puppy. It made me furious.

"Mister Horn!" I shouted hoarsely. "That's his name."

"Can you tell me your name?" Dr. Ramsey asked coldly.

"My name is Drake," I said savagely, "but I'll be a dead duck if I don't get away from here in about two minutes. Let go, son. I'm saved. But don't expect me to thank you. Let go of me, damn it! My wife is in danger!"

"No she ain't," my lifesaver soothed. "She wasn't in the car, Mr. Drake. Hold onto him, Mack. He's all mixed up. He keeps tryin' to run right out in the traffic. I saved him once."

"Once was enough," I snarled. "Now let go of me. I've got important business—"

"He don't know what he's talkin' about."

"Bring him upstairs to my apartment," Dr. Ramsey ordered. "I can't do anything for him here."

"Be careful, Mack," my ardent rescuer cautioned. "Don't let him hurt himself fightin' us."

"Wait a minute, bud—I mean, officer. What's your name?"

"It's Burke, Mr. Drake. Joe Burke, that's me. And I'm your friend, see?"

"I know. That's the trouble. I wish you didn't like me so much. Look, Joe. There's nothing wrong with my head, but I am in one hell of a hurry. I've got to get back to my apartment before—well, before something happens. Now if you want to drive me there in a hurry, and see that I get inside all safe and sound, we'll both be satisfied—I hope."

"I can't do that, Mr. Drake. It's against regulations. I can't ride you around town in the squad car with your head all loose like it is. You got to have first aid. All I ask is, you just come upstairs with the doctor and me. And I'll see you're fixed up right. You wanta do that?"

"No! Blast it all, I haven't got time—" I looked at the coldly disapproving doctor. "Have you got a phone?"

"Naturally."

"Okay. I'll use your phone. Hurry up, will you?"

"Now you're talkin'," Joe beamed without loosening his grip. "Okay, Mack. You can stay here. I can handle him alone. He knows me now."

The doctor had a sumptuous duplex which seemed to contain everything but a telephone. The furnishings and fixtures of the high-ceilinged rooms were authentic Medieval castle, even to the stained glass windows and stone flagged floors. The modern comforts were there, but so thoroughly disguised as to be unnoticeable. The long, two-story library had a minstrel gallery at one end, and a balcony around the other three sides. We passed through the library to get to the doctor's office.

"The phone!" I croaked. "Where's the—"

"Sit there," Dr. Ramsey said tonelessly, and disappeared into a tiled laboratory.

"Look, Joe. I've got to telephone my wife. It's terribly important. There's a—a serious matter coming up any minute, and she can't deal with it alone. She's a helpless little thing, and—"

"Sure, sure. I know how it is. I'll telephone the little wife, Mr. Drake, and tell her to hold everything. Just as soon as the doctor fixes you up."

I muttered disparaging details about conscientious young cops, and started looking for the phone. The massive, carved oak desk was covered with neatly typed pages, and my eye automatically registered a heading: "Psychopathy in Relation to Witchcraft."

"Please sit down, Mr. Drake," Joe urged patiently. "The doctor—"

"He's not going to monkey with me. He's no medic. He's studying witchcraft."

"Aw, now—" Joe protested.

The doctor returned with a fizzing glass which he set down on his desk. He pressed a fat cherub that was climbing up the left hand side, and the phone slid out of its cubicle. I grabbed it and dialled my number. In the sound-proof silence of the room the glass fizzed insolently in one ear while the phone buzzed intermittently in the other. No answer... no answer ... no Sibyl!

My mind was shrieking her name, and I was shaking from head to foot. The doctor watched me with cool interest. I dropped the phone and whirled to the door, but Joe was there with brawny arms.

I fought. I think I howled some, too, but I was no match for Joe Burke. He might look like a choir boy, but he acted like a fullback. That was the first and only time I ever cussed a cop out loud. I was damn near crying when Sibyl walked in.

Joe was holding me down in the chair, and all I could do was gasp as she walked serenely toward me and leaned down to kiss me. Her arms were around my neck and I pressed my face against her breast, moaning with relief.

"You're not hurt, Denny?" she murmured anxiously. "I wanted to stop you, but I didn't want you to be hurt."

"Where—how did you get up here?" I asked suddenly.

She patted the side of my face and turned to the doctor. "Is he hurt, doctor?"

"I haven't been able to examine him yet." The handsome doctor was showing warm interest for the first time. "Are you Mrs. Drake?"

"Of course. Why haven't you examined him?"

"He has been in a state of acute hysteria. He may have a head injury."

"Oh, no! My poor Denny. What have I done to you?"

"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with me now except my briefcase—"

"Oh, doctor! Please take care of him. Shouldn't he be in bed?"

"Probably. If you can quiet him I'd like to have a look at his head."

"Of course. Be quiet now, Denny. We can't go to Bermuda unless your head is all right. Just let the doctor look at it."

"No," I said weakly, trying to pull myself together. "In the first place, this man is a witch doctor. In the second place, we're not going to Bermuda. And in the third place, I've got urgent business to attend to..."

"Oh, doctor! Maybe you can help me!" Sibyl had left me to confer with the attentive doctor.

Nobody was listening to me except officer Burke, who was still regarding me with a proprietary gleam in his kind blue eyes. He was prepared to go on saving me from myself indefinitely.

"Just sit still, Mr. Drake," he said. "I don't wanta have to fight you again, but we got to take care of you."

"You'll have to excuse my ingratitude, officer," I said stiffly. "I'm not used to having so many people all trying to take care of me at once. Especially when I don't need it. You have no idea how silly it seems. And now, if you'll excuse me—"

"You understand what I'm trying to do, Doctor," Sibyl was saying sweetly. "I haven't used the gift for a long time. I don't think it should be used indiscriminately, but I was so angry with Mr. Grando—"

"Sibyl! Stop it. You'll get us both committed."

"That's very interesting," Doctor Ramsey said pleasantly, ignoring me. "You have always been aware of this ability to affect the lives of others?"

"Since I was a child," Sibyl confided eagerly. "I think the first time I did it was when my nurse was bringing me a cup of orange juice with castor oil in it. I made her drop it. I knew it was a special gift, but I didn't know exactly what it was until I grew up. After that I was more careful. But Mr. Grando—"

"Oh, yes. The crooked contractor. I was reading about that in the morning paper. That is interesting. And you say your husband is involved?"

There was a hopeful note in his voice which infuriated me. I lunged out of the chair and started toward him.

"That'll be enough of that," I said firmly. "You can't call G. F. Grando a crook, or me either." I was glaring at him, and he seemed to be glaring right back at me with a pair of the keenest black eyes I ever saw. Then the lights went out.

When the lights came on again, I was sitting in the chair blinking at Dr. Ramsey who was making passes at me with a pair of long white hands. My head ached and I felt like a soggy mushroom, all top and no bottom.

"I feel like a mushroom," I said. "Somebody hit me on the head when the lights went out."

"You'll be all right now," Dr. Ramsey said confidently.

I didn't believe him. I felt terrible. "I think I'll lie down," I said, hoping somebody would roll a bed up close so I could get aboard without too much effort.

"You don't want to go to your office?"

"I should say not." I had lost all interest in the office.

"You're not worried about Mr. Grando?"

"Nope. He's a crook. You mind if I lie down?"

"From what you just told me about your business, I'd say it was very urgent. Don't you think you'd better get busy and take care of it?"

"Not now. Please, doctor. Just let me lie down... anywhere. Floor will do."

"I can't have you lying around on the floor," Dr. Ramsey said sternly. "If you must lie down, you'll have to go to bed properly."

"Thanks. That's wonderful."

"Drink this." He handed me a foaming glass that was fizzing deliciously. I drank it and felt pleasantly numb.

Somebody brought a wheelchair and I was conveyed swiftly and noiselessly to a pleasant room. There was a beautiful bed with smooth sheets opened invitingly. I slept. I had a wonderful sleep.

When I opened my eyes drowsily I knew it was late afternoon. It felt like late afternoon. I was glad the day had passed so pleasantly.

Sibyl came in with a tray. She looked charming and wifely. The tray held burnished silver and white damask and smelled delightful. It smelled like strong rich coffee, and bacon and eggs. I sat up hungrily and watched her pour the steaming black liquid.

There was a young man in a shaggy tweed suit who came in behind Sibyl. A very large young man.

"Hello, Mr. Drake," he said. "You remember me?"

"Oh. Oh, yes. You're Officer Joe Burke. Without your uniform. You get promoted for hitting me on the head?"

"No, I didn't. I didn't hit you on the head. And I didn't get promoted. I changed clothes when I went off duty. I just stopped by to see how you're comin' along."

"I'm coming along fine. Slept like a top." The bacon and eggs were delicious, but I paused long enough to inquire politely: "You have a good day?"

"Well, yes and no. I had to make a full report of your accident. Four times I had to make it."

"Sorry you had so much trouble, Joe. Sit down. You want a cup of coffee?"

"No thanks." Joe sat near the bed and regarded me with troubled blue eyes. Sibyl stroked my head and steadied the tray on my knees.

"I'm fine," I assured them. "This coffee is wonderful."

"Oh, darling," Sibyl cried softly. "I'm so sorry."

I stared at her. "Because the coffee is wonderful?"

"No. Be-because you are."

"You got the right spirit," Joe said solemnly.

Dr. Ramsey came in, looking immaculate and benign. "Is everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's wonderful," I assured him. "Thank you very much, doctor."

"Not at all. There is a gentleman here to see you."

"If it's G. F. Grando, tell him to go fly a kite. I quit. I quit this morning. Anyway I can't get out of bed."

"It isn't Grando. It's the State's Attorney."

"Well, I can't get out of bed for him either. Tell him to come back some other time."

"I'm afraid I can't do that. His business is rather urgent. It seems that Grando and Sam Black were killed today under peculiar circumstances."

"Serves 'em right," I said coldly. "Couple of highbinders. May I have some more coffee, honey?"

"I think you had better see the State's Attorney," Dr. Ramsey said gently. "Both men were found dead in your apartment."

"They had a lot of nerve!" I sputtered. "Turning my home into a slaughter house. What if my wife had been there? Who found them?"

"The neighbors called the police when they heard the shots. You can understand why the State's Attorney is here in person to talk to you."

"He'll have to talk to me in here then. I can't get out of—"

"I've already explained your condition," Dr. Ramsey said. "He understands that." He walked to the door and said: "Will you come in now, Mr. Grogan. I think we've got him awake for you."

Mr. Grogan was a thin man with a sharp face and dull black eyes. He had a short, fat man with him who was not introduced to me. This man sat down and produced a notebook and selected one of the six fountain pens clipped to his pocket.

Grogan said: "How do you do." And went right into his routine questionnaire with all the fiery emotion of a battered broomstick. Name, address, business, etc. It was tiresome and senseless.

Finally I said: "Ask me something hard. Ask me what they were doing in my apartment."

"What were G. F. Grando and Sam Black doing in your apartment?"

"They went there to get my briefcase. Now ask me what was in my briefcase."

"What was in your briefcase?"

"Don't tell me you haven't examined it."

"I haven't."

"You mean the police didn't find it?"

"Not to my knowledge. What was in it?"

"Estimates of various types of material to be used in highway construction. Certain special types of material. You know what I mean?"

He didn't answer that, but he knew what I meant. He began to show a little more life. He got tougher. We went around and around, covering everything that had happened up to the time of my collapse. Sibyl and Joe Burke and Doctor Ramsey all got in on it, and proved that I couldn't have gone back to the apartment for the briefcase.

"And after your collapse," Grogan said harshly, "you couldn't move at all?"

"I'm dead from the hips down," I said cheerfully. "As I understand it, there was injury of the brain cells governing the spinal nerves, and resulting in paralysis. I couldn't have gone back for the briefcase. And I couldn't have shot those two marauders. You must know what time they were shot."

"Sometime around noon," Grogan said grudgingly. "Your wife says you were sound asleep at the time. But there was somebody else in the apartment, besides the two dead men. There were two guns found, both .38 caliber. But somebody had fired several shots from a .32. That gun was missing."

"And so was the briefcase," I said. "I know one other guy who was after my briefcase. I think he was hired by Sam Black to get it. You've got the record, Joe. The guys that smacked me this morning. They were out to get me. When they didn't find the briefcase, they reported to Sam Black, and all went back to my apartment after it. That's the man you want, Grogan. He said his name was Horn. What name did the other fellow give you, Joe— the driver of the car?"

"Hall. Pete Hall" Joe said excitedly. "Horn and Hall. I've got the data. And I remember that Horn was trying to drag you off in a taxi when I came up. Lucky I got there when I did. I knew right away you were knocked out. You didn't even know you were hurt. You kept yelling you had urgent business to tend to."

"Did I?"

"Sure, you were in an awful big hurry. I guess you were in a hurry to quit your job after you read about Grando being a big crook."

'"I guess that must have been what it was. It's too bad about that briefcase, Grogan."

"Yes, it is," Grogan said sourly. "But if anybody tries to use that material for blackmail now, he'll be laying himself open to a murder charge. Meanwhile I'll get after those two men, Horn and Hall. You can help me on that, Burke."

"Yes, sir!" Officer Burke said happily. He got up at once, looking large and determined. "Keep your chin up, Mr. Drake," he admonished. "You got the right spirit."

THEY FOUND Horn and Hall, but they didn't find the briefcase. With both Grando and Black dead, the bribery charges collapsed. But I think quite a few people are still looking for that briefcase. I think certain politicians will be uneasy as long as it's missing. But they won't find it.

Sibyl and I stayed on at Dr. Ramsey's castle for two weeks. We gave up the apartment because of what had happened there. And Sibyl was packing for our trip to Bermuda. She kept coming to the bed with this and that, to ask me if I thought we'd need it. I was reading the paper and not paying much attention when she came and stood by the bed, and said in an odd little girl voice: "Denny, I don't know what to do with this."

I looked up and saw the briefcase. "Where'd that come from?"

"I brought it here, Denny. The—the day you were hurt. But after the State's Attorney was here, I didn't want to say anything about it. I thought—"

"Are the estimates in it?"

"Papers," she said, and pulled them out. "These?"

"Take them in the bathroom and burn them in the washbowl."

We took the briefcase to Bermuda and buried it in the white sand. Sibyl was wearing a two-piece white satin bathing suit. She looked like a bright angel in the sun. She covered the briefcase and patted the sand down tight.

"And now Denis Drake," she said, "you're going to get up and walk."

The sun blinded me for a moment, and she was a mystical, blurred shape standing over me.

"I'm going to walk down to the water and start swimming, and I won't stop until you come after me." She walked away from me with her back straight, and went into the water without looking back.

"Sibyl!" I called. "Come back— don't torment me!"

She started swimming, a flashing white figure in the blue swell. We had chosen a deserted beach to bury the briefcase. The wheelchair was standing there. It was no help in the water. Black panic swirled around me, darkening the sun, coming down like a cloud to shut out the tiny moving figure in the vast blue water. Frightful things went through my mind with violent speed. She couldn't be trying to kill herself! She had no reason... no reason...

"Sibyl!" I shouted, and the shout lifted me to my feet. I didn't walk, I ran to the water and shoved off, swimming strongly.

I brought her back. I pulled her up on the beach and shook her savagely until we both fell on the sand with our arms around each other.

That's all. I've told it just the way it was. I'm practical and reasonable. Always was. As far as I'm concerned there's a practical and reasonable explanation for the whole crazy business. When Sibyl discovered that I had forgotten my briefcase that morning, she dressed in a hurry and followed me in a cab. When she saw the wrecked car she got out and found out where they had taken me. There was nothing unusual about my injury. That sort of thing happens all the time. Temporary damage to the brain cells affects other part of the body. The only danger is that the victime is apt to get a fixed notion that the injury is permanent. Sibyl used shock to snap me out of it.

As for her ability to put curses on people, that was a bit of nonsense that she dreamed up. Dr. Ramsey cured her of that, during the time we were staying with him. She told me about it afterwards. He explained that she did have a gift, but there was no witchcraft about it. It was a gift of clairvoyance which enabled her to know in advance what was going to happen whenever she was vitally concerned. This was particularly strong in the case of accidents and misfortune. And the impression was so vivid that it affected her thinking, and led her to believe that she was responsible for the thing that happened.

You see? All perfectly reasonable, if you look at it sensibly. But of course, I'm taking no chances. I'm going to be very careful of my associates from now on. I'm going to be sure that Sibyl approves of them. Not that I'm afraid of anything, you understand. I just don't want any friction. Or accidents...

THE END