Black Mask Magazine (Vol. 30, No. 2 — July 1947)
The Constant Shadow
by William Campbell Gault
Death is a shadow, living with us, waiting to envelop us — a disembodied, intangible thing. But Death has his agents, professional and amateur. It was these Dr. Randolph feared — and why he hired Mortimer Jones. For murder loves company.
Chapter One
Death Is Waiting
This Dr. Curtis Randolph was a nervous man. He wasn’t too tall, about my height, and he had a thin, unlined face with dark and probing blue eyes. He sat in my office, this hot summer afternoon, telling me his troubles, and chain-smoking cigarettes.
So far as I could tell, his troubles were mental, and I’m no psychiatrist.
He said: “You can understand, then, why I can’t take all this to the police. I’ve nothing definite. It’s as though a constant shadow travels with me, wherever I go.” He tried a self-deprecating smile. “I — have always had a rather irrational fear of death. That, no doubt, is what motivated my going into medicine.” He shook his head. “But the man with the scythe has never been such a constant companion as he has recently.”
The man with the scythe was rather hackneyed. I liked “the constant shadow” better. Because death is that, a shadow, living with us, waiting to envelop us, waiting for us to step in front of a truck, or go out without our rubbers. I thought of Mr. Saroyan’s tiger.
I said: “You’ve seen death enough, I guess, Doctor. You’ve no reason to think he’s closer now than he’s ever been?”
“Well—” Hesitation now in the smooth face, doubt, and the dark eyes covered my face thoughtfully. “Only this... this intuition.” He took in a lungful of air through his mouth. “As a medical man, as a scientist, Mr. Jones, I hesitate to speak of intuition. But my medical training hasn’t seemed to dull this sense I have, this superstition.”
I asked bluntly: “There’s nobody out to get you?”
Surprise in the smooth face now. Fear? I couldn’t be sure.
“I don’t quite — understand.”
“This death,” I said, “is an intangible thing. But he has agents, professional and amateur. Is there any one person you particularly fear, Doctor?”
He hesitated before he said no, and because he hesitated, I knew he was lying. He was a surgeon, one of the best in town and perhaps in the nation. He wouldn’t come way down to my grubby office on the wrong side of the tracks just on a hunch. There was nothing I could do about shadows, and I explained that.
He nodded. “Of course, of course— But I said, Mr. Jones, that I felt the presence of death.” He paused. “You spoke of agents, professional and amateur. I’m hiring you for that end, for the protection of your services from these, these — agents.” That mechanical smile again. “The boss, himself, I believe I can fight. I’ve been fighting him a long time.”
Outside, in the street, the kids were playing ball. Inside, in my office, it was quiet. I said: “What you really want, then, Doctor, is a bodyguard?”
He nodded. “Something like that.” He frowned. “Or perhaps, Mr. Jones, I want the knowledge that somebody else is always near, somebody friendly.”
“Twenty-five a day and expenses,” I said. “Rather expensive friendship.”
“Money doesn’t matter,” he said casually.
He paused, then went on. “You were highly recommended, Mr. Jones. This is, you understand, a job that will require a man of exceptional ethical standards. I was assured by Mr. Ziegler that you met those qualifications adequately.”
Ziegler was connected with a local insurance company for which I occasionally worked.
I didn’t like it. I didn’t like any part of it, but it was a job, a job for the trade I’d chosen, and there was no logical reason I could give for turning it down.
I said: “When did you want me to start?”
“Tonight,” he said. “About seven? I’ll be out of town until then. Shall I expect you at my apartment, at seven?”
I said he could, and he rose, and I accompanied him to the door. When he’d left, I went to the window; a compulsion neurosis of mine, this watching people leave the building.
His car, I saw, was a Cadillac coupe, a black, new one, and there was a kid sliding down the front right fender. That’s why I park a couple blocks away, because of the kids. My Duesenberg has long, sweeping fenders, being old.
The kid climbed off the fender as the doctor stepped into the Caddy. I didn’t see any shadow getting into the car with him, but in a car, the shadow’s always there. With thirty to forty thousand killed by cars every year, any motorist can tell you he’s not riding alone.
Well, he had this fear, this phobia, an exaggerated and irrational fear of death. There was a word for it, and I searched my mind. Thanatophobia — that was the word. All of us probably have it to some degree. But not like the doc, I hope.
I felt hungry, and it was nearly noon. I put what papers I had on my desk in my file and went out without locking the door. Down the steps, past the tobacco store, and I stood on the curb a moment, watching the kids. In this neighborhood, that was the only place they had to play.
After a while, I walked down the block to Mac’s.
Mac was talking to a customer, a fattish gent in a loud suit and an expensive panama hat. Mac said: “Mortimer Jones, shake hands with Ed Byerly.”
I shook hands with Ed Byerly, as directed. His hand was broad, but not soft.
“Used to know Ed,” Mac explained, “in the old days.” He winked. The old days, to Mac, meant Prohibition, when he’d really made money. To Ed, my boy said: “Mort, here, has an office over that cigar store.”
Byerly nodded. “Oh — a shamus, huh?”
I nodded, and decided to ignore him. “One beer,” I said to Mac, “and what have you got to eat?”
“Beans,” Mac said. “Good beans, with pork. Made ’em myself.”
“Some of those,” I told him, “with rye bread, with fresh coffee.” I took my glass of beer and went over to a corner.
I hoped, by this move, to discourage Ed Byerly. To no avail. He followed me right over, bringing his own beer along.
“Some life you must have,” he said, taking the chair opposite mine. “I mean, with those divorce cases and all. I’ll bet you’ve seen some sights, huh?” He smiled. “I mean — setting ’em up.”
“That work’s a little too raw for me,” I said. “That end of divorce and labor trouble I steer clear of.”
His broad face looked puzzled. “Yeah? What can a private eye do, besides that kind of work? I figured that’s all you guys did.”
“Not quite,” I said. “It’s all some of them do, I guess.”
He sipped his beer, and shook his head. “Beats me. What kind of work do you handle, then?” He made a wet ring on the table with the bottom of his been glass. “For instance, if it ain’t too personal, what kind of work you on, right now?”
How subtle, I thought. How deft. I waited until his eyes came up to meet mine. Then I asked: “Who you working for, Ed? Yourself? Or for pay?”
He knew what I meant, though he pretended he didn’t. “Why, I got a little racket of my own. I—”
I held up a hand. “Save it. You know what I’m talking about. Why’re you nosing into my business?”
His brown eyes glazed over. “Didn’t know I was.”
Mac brought by beans and bread then. Mac pretended he hadn’t heard the conversation. I said: “Nice friends you introduce me to. Got any more like him?”