The Black Lizard Big Book of Pulps

“Explain the... the explosion,” Michelle Gorgon said to one of the men. And when the man he spoke to looked at me rather blankly, “You might say to the servants that Madame has caused a disturbance. That is all.” He watched them carry the woman from the room, even walked to the curtains and pulled the rug that covered her legs slightly closer about her feet, and held the curtains open as they passed from view. Then he turned to me.

“You might have killed me with that shot,” he said. “Absurd, of course — but I could swear I felt or heard the bullet pass very close to me. The newspapers evidently do not exaggerate your... your idiosyncrasies. You do not know it, Williams, but you took quite an advantage of me. I allow nothing untoward to happen in my house.”

He was talking more, I think to pull himself together. And one thing struck me. I hadn’t noticed it before. Maybe it was because he was disturbed, but when he threw a big word into his conversation he seemed to grope for it — feel for it, as if he tried it out first in his own mind before he spoke it. He walked up and down a bit as he talked, finally paused, looked at me a moment, and walking to the wall pressed a button.

The man who came to the door I had rather demolished was old, bent, and every inch the trained servant. Michelle Gorgon looked at him a moment, hesitated, then spoke.

“The No. 1 Sherry, Carleton — Carleton.” He repeated the name “Carleton” very slowly, as if he liked the sound of it and hoped that I would. Then to the man again, “Madame has had a spell. We are very fond of her, Carleton — very fond of her indeed. We must put up with a great deal.”

“Very good, sir. The No. 1 Sherry.” And the man left the room.

Michelle Gorgon had exaggerated, to say the least, when he told me the servants had retired.

“There, there, Williams.” Michelle Gorgon paced the room slowly as he talked. “You have made it a trying evening. I do not believe, though, that the shot was heard outside, or below. It was unfortunate, and I forgive you. I was angry of course, to see — to see Madame so.” He shrugged his shoulders and half extended his arms. “It is my burden, my cross, and I am afraid there are times when I do not bear it like a man. I hope you will need no further explanation. You are my guest. May I simply say that the lady is my wife and that she met with a very serious accident, which maimed her body and affected her mind. She has never seen her face since the accident. The shock might kill her. We watch her rather closely. As you see, there are no mirrors in this room. But the reflection in the glass of a picture, the highly polished surface of a cigarette case, and such objects, have given her more than a suspicion. But she does not know the whole truth. Only a mirror could tell her that.

“I have been advised to send her away — a private hospital. But she does not wish to go.” He looked dreamily at the ceiling, as if in reminiscent thought. “It would be better for her, of course, far better. But we cling to sentiment, Williams, almost childishly hang onto the subconscious allurements of the past. Indeed, she was a very beautiful, and a very accomplished woman. Like—” He paused, the door opened, and the servant entered with a tray.

“Like The Flame.” I helped him out. I don’t know why that was on my mind, but it was.

“Like The Flame — yes,” he said very slowly. He reached for a glass, lifted the bottle and poured me out a drink, and taking one himself, motioned Carleton to place the tray and bottle on the table.

“You, if you are a judge, will appreciate this wine,” he held the amber glass, with its long stem, before the lamp. “I have a friend who puts a seal upon it before it leaves France. It comes from the very cellars of the Marguery, in Paris. My own seal is placed upon each bottle before it is even moved from the shelf. It is very rare and—”

Michelle Gorgon paused and looked at a white card which lay upon the tray. He half bowed to me, stayed Carleton with a raised hand and said:

“You’ll excuse me, Williams.” And he turned over the card, read it through carefully, moved his eyebrows a bit, but did not permit his eyes to blink.

“I told him, sir—” Carleton started.

“Apologies are unnecessary, Carleton. He would not have come unless— You may tell him to come in.” A moment’s hesitation, and just before Carleton passed out the door, “A bottle of whisky. We must not be inhospitable.” And to me, “It is my brother, Joe. You do not object, I am sure.”

Maybe I did object. At least unconsciously, for I half came to my feet. Then I shrugged my shoulders but said nothing. Joe Gorgon had pushed himself to the top as a racketeer because of his speed with a gun. Yet, I don’t believe there’s a lad living today, or dead either for that matter, who can pull on me. But then, a lad with a gun hand like that wouldn’t be dead, which gave me the thought that Joe Gorgon was still alive.

“You will excuse me again, Williams.” Doctor Gorgon picked up a bit of paper beside the telephone on the table, studied it a moment, turned it face down and glanced at the clock on the mantel. It was eighteen minutes past two.

“It is almost like a play,” he went on. “Each scene set to intrigue the audience. Each scene—. But this will be my brother, Joe. An impetuous man, dynamic, invigorating. But let me know what you think of the Sherry.”