“You lied to me over the air on my program,” Dick Gibson said stubbornly.
“I’m a child, Mr. Gibson,” Henry Harper told him tragically. “I’ve a child’s emotions. Don’t expect self-control from me. Don’t look to me for emotional continence. I’m little and my passions are everywhere closer to the surface than in an adult. I’m small and may be bullied. It’s often difficult for a child to distinguish between pressure and the guidance his childishness requires. I warn you of this, for I know I will not be able to stand up to you. In any contest of wills between us yours is bound to emerge triumphant.”
“You lied,” Dick Gibson said. “I trusted you and you lied. Over the air. On my program. What’s your real name?”
“Very well then,” Henry Harper said. He was sobbing now and could barely catch his breath. “Very well then. My real name … my name … is … is Richard Swomley-Wamble. I live in Tampa, Florida.”
“How do I know that’s your real name?”
“It is.”
“How do I know?”
“I tell you it is.”
“How do I know it isn’t Edmond Behr-Bleibtreau?” It was thrilling to him to speak the name aloud. He listened for a reaction, some dead giveaway, but all he heard were the boy’s unbroken, now uncontrollable sobs.
“It’s what I said it is,” Henry Harper said, “and you’ll know it by the damage you’ve just done.”
A lady was on the phone. Her voice was familiar, though Dick was sure she had never called the program before. For one thing, she was shy and hesitant. Also her voice, though familiar, seemed altered.
Dick tried to help her out. “Take your time,” he said.
“Well, this is embarrassing to me.”
“Oh, come on,” he kidded, “we only go out to twenty-three states. There couldn’t be more than a million and a half people listening to you right now.”
“I was going to ask you a personal question.”
“Sure.”
“I don’t exactly know how to put it. I’m not really one of your regular listeners.”
“Win a few, lose a few.”
“I’ve only been listening to the program two weeks — since I’m on this case.”
“Are you a detective?”
“Oh, goodness no.” She laughed.
“That’s better. Well, since you’re not a detective, go ahead—shoot.”
The woman laughed again. “I’m calling from Ohio,” she said.
“How are we coming in up your way?” He was not as cheerful and expansive as he sounded, for Behr-Bleibtreau was on his mind. Ever since he had mentioned the man’s name on the air all his heartiness had been intended for Behr-Bleibtreau. He was showing the flag.
“Your station fades sometimes, but mostly it’s very clear.”
“Glad to hear it. Excuse me, let me just do a station break here. … WMIA, Miami Beach, the 50,000-watt voice of the Sun Coast. … I’m sorry, go ahead, ma’m.”
“Well, I was almost certain I was right, that’s why I called, but hearing you speak on the telephone, now I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what, ma’m?”
“Whether I know you.”
“Oh? Well, you know what? I was thinking your voice was familiar too.”
“I used to know somebody, oh years back. Gosh, if I’m right I’ll be giving away both our ages. He had [a voice something like yours, only your name is different. Marshall Maine?”]
Dick Gibson took her off the air. The six-second tape delay was enough to excise the passage.
[“I don’t use that name any more,”] he said into the phone while they were still off the air. [“Please don’t refer to it.”]
“That’s right,” he said easily when they were back on the air again. “Who might this be?”
“Well, I was Desebour then. Miriam?” He didn’t recognize the name. “I was working at the time in Morristown, New Jersey. A nurse? That’s why I laughed when you asked if I was a detective when I said I was on a case. Do you remember now? I don’t blame you if you forgot, me springing it on you like this. Why, it was only a few nights ago I was able to place you.”
Then he remembered the time they had lived together in the nursing home. “Well, of course,” he said. “How are you … Miriam, is it?”
“Miriam Kranz. You knew me as Desebour.”
“You’re originally from Iowa.”
“That’s right. Say, you’ve got a good memory. I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten me.”
“No, of course not.”
“Old friends are the best friends.” Her voice had losts its reluctant edge, and she had become genuinely jolly.
“Kranz, eh?” He was surprised to find that he was slightly jealous.
“I’m a widow. You know, now that I think of it, you knew Kranz.”
“I did?”
“I’m sure he was around during your time. Let’s see [this would have been ’38, ’39. I left Morristown in ’40. You and I knew each other when I first got there. Kranz was there that whole time. He was one of my patients, a little fella. He had to be fed.”
“The one who got a hard-on when you gave him his dinner? Him?”
“Marshall! That’s terrible! We’re on the radio.”
“No, we’re on a tape delay. I’ve taken this part off. Don’t call me Marshall. Is that the one?”
Miriam giggled. “It is,” she said. “I married him right there in the nursing home.] He was a very nice man, you know.”
Now Dick remembered Miriam’s strange effect on him, how her voice telling a story, going at its own pace, random as landscape, had worked its cozy hypnotic sedation on him.
[“Whatever happened to the old bastard who came when you gave him enemas?”]
“Gracious sakes, man, I’m an old woman now. Let’s not go into all that. Folks must think we’re terrible.”
[“I took that part off. What happened to him?”]
“Well, that was just prostate trouble was what that was. He had a preternatural prostate. You know — tee hee — at the end, I could get that same reaction by taking his temp or just sitting him up in his chair. He knew he was dying, and do you know what he said to me one time? ‘Noitch Miriam, I’m a family man. I have grandchildren. I always tithed my church and believed in my God. I am as convinced of Heaven as I am of Kansas, and though I know I’m dying I want to tell you that you have made me happier in these past months than I have ever been in my life.’ Those were almost his last words, and I’ll never forget them.”