Dagger of Flesh (3 page)

"The point is, we don't really see with our eyes; they're just the windows. We actually see with our brains, so trip the right trigger and you see the spider or whatever again. Your wino in Pedro did it unintentionally by the combination of liquor, lack of proper food, vitamins, and rest. But the spiders were real to him. Just as real as the voices were to Saint Joan of Arc, or the Lady was to Saint Bernadette. Or the parrot to your friend. What I'm getting at is that the same thing can be done with hypnosis."

I squinted at Bruce. "To anybody? Me, for example?"

"No." He shook his head. "Just about everybody's susceptible to hypnosis in some degree, but visual hallucinations require a deep trance and, usually, only about two out of five average subjects are able to cooperate that completely."

He smiled slightly. "And I guess it's just as well, because we're stuck with minor forms of hypnotic suggestion every day of our lives: radio commercials, advertising, political propaganda. When you get right down to it, all our prejudices, including the racial ones, are little more than conditioned reflexes. A good hypnotist can make you brush your teeth with soap, or believe a Communist prison camp is Utopia, or love your neighbor."

"Yeah. This deep-trance business, Bruce. What do you mean, cooperate?"

"Just that. Except when drugs are used or the subject has been previously conditioned, the success of any hypnosis is primarily up to the subject. Normally he has to cooperate with the hypnotist. Of course I'm talking about the usual clinical technique when both subject and therapist have the same end in mind. There are indirect techniques, and drugs have been used with Shelled success." He leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the desk. "That about what you wanted?"

I grinned at him. He was getting there, and as usual he was taking the long way around. When a guy's been making his money from the investigation of crime and criminals for several years, as I have, unless he's completely bald inside his head he's bound to start wondering why some of the characters who steal and kill get that way. I'd started wondering, and that's how I'd got to know Bruce Wilson.

For three years now, I'd been dropping in occasionally to say hello. Usually I wound up spending the day with him if I wasn't on a case, listening to him jaw or jawing myself. And always he took the long way around. I had an idea he just liked to hear himself talk.

"Okay," I said. "You think that's the trouble with my friend?"

"I didn't say that at all. I'd have to talk to him. But from what you said, it sounds as if it might well be that. You mentioned the hallucination occurs every day at the same time, lasts an hour, then disappears. Sounds like it."

"Suppose this bird is a posthypnotic suggestion. Assume that's it. Why the hell didn't Jay tell me he'd been hypnotized?"

He shook his head. "I thought you knew better than that. Don't you suppose a power that would cause a man to see a nonexistent animal could also make him forget he was ever hypnotized? As a matter of fact, when the subject's been in a deep trance there's usually no memory of the hypnosis at all. Posthypnotic amnesia it's called, and it's common. In any event, if the subject's in a deep trance, the operator or therapist—hypnotist if you want to use the slightly discredited word—can always remove memory of it. All he has to do is tell the subject he won't remember and that memory is erased from the conscious mind just as easily as words are erased from the tape of a recorder."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You mean it's possible that could have happened to my friend?"

"It's possible. And he wouldn't remember anything about it. The suggestions would take effect, and naturally he'd be puzzled if the suggestions were bizarre ones. If they were simple, normal things he'd probably carry out the suggestions without even thinking twice about them. If anybody asked him why he was doing that particular thing he'd probably make up a logical reason, one which he'd believe himself."

"I'll be damned. It's a little hard to believe." Suddenly a thought hit me. "Good Lord, Bruce. If a guy could be hypnotized, then told to forget all about it ..." I stopped. Bruce was smiling.

"Exactly," he said. He pulled his feet off the desk, scooted his chair forward and leaned on the desk top. "Once those particular manifestations of hypnosis sink in, that's a thought you're bound to come up with. Strange feeling, isn't it, to know that it's within the bounds of possibility that you, yourself, might have been hypnotized once or several times? Yesterday, last week, last year—today, even. Only you don't remember it. It could have happened to anybody. Anybody on God's green earth. And they wouldn't know a thing about it. It's conceivable that some of the things you've done were posthypnotic suggestions which you carried out even while you were rationalizing them as logical behavior."

"But that's silly," I said. "Hell, I know I've never been hypnotized. Why, that's ..." I stopped talking. The idea was frightening.

Bruce kept grinning. "Well, don't get excited about it. It is a possibility, of course, but it's not very probable. Except under certain conditions, the active cooperation of the subject has to be obtained—and there are very few people who'd keep such knowledge from the person who'd been hypnotized. There'd be no point in it, and it might cause serious mental conflict and even derangement. Want some more?"

I stubbed out my cigarette, thinking of Jay's pinched face. "What do you mean, except under certain conditions?"

"Oh, indirect techniques of hypnosis. They're all through the literature; recent experiments. And, too, we're developing the use of drugs in hypnosis—narcohypnosis. Lot of that during the war."

"Drugs?"

"Sure. Sodium Pentothal, for instance. Or Amytal. The drugs lower the subject's resistance; they're cortical depressants and their use makes the inhibitory centers less active—sort of paves the way to the subconscious mind and makes hypnosis much easier. Usually they're injected into the vein on the back of the hand or here at the crook of the arm." He tapped the inside of his arm at the elbow.

I shook my head. "Wow. I came in to ask you about a parrot. But, maybe that's the answer, huh? Posthypnotic suggestion?"

"It's possible. Might be something else, but the description dovetails neatly. It sounds as if this friend of yours might have been given suggestions in a hypnotic trance by someone—somebody showing off, probably—and then the suggestions weren't removed from his mind. Sounds like a serious mistake by a dangerous damned amateur playing around with something he knows nothing about."

I got up. "That's plenty for one day."

He grinned up at me. "Just a minute." He got to his feet and walked to a bookcase, took out a couple volumes and brought them back. He handed them to me and said, "These'll bring you a little more up to date, if you're interested. And let me know what happens with your friend. Bring him here if you want to."

"Good deal, Bruce. I'll drop in tomorrow. If he's game, I'll bring him along with me."

He nodded and I left. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and I headed for the office. I had an hour and a half to kill before I went down to see Jay at his store, and I figured I'd spend the time reading the books Bruce had given me. Might be I'd find out something else Jay would be glad to know about.

Besides, I wanted to know more about this thing that could make a man see a parrot that didn't exist—this thing that might, conceivably, have happened to anyone.

 

 

 

 

Chapter Four

 

 

AT FOUR-THIRTY I closed one of the books on hypnosis and shoved my chair back from the desk. My mind was spinning. I'd seldom run across anything so fraught with possibilities for good and opportunity for evil in my life.

I took my .357 Magnum out of the desk, strapped the spring shoulder holster on and checked the gun's cylinder. I looked at the five lethal cartridges thinking they were simply one other way, more direct and less subtle, of making men do what you wanted.

I stuffed the gun in its holster and went out.

Jay Weather was alone when I walked into the big store on Ninth Street. I felt ill at ease when I saw him, but I made myself act as if I felt normal. I walked in past a long row of suits and he nodded at me.

"Hello, Shell." He glanced at his watch. "Got about ten minutes—if they're on time."

I grinned at him and said lightly, "The faithful employee. I'm doubling your salary, Jay."

He smiled a little, but seemed preoccupied. "What'll we say to them?" he asked.

"I dunno. Just tell the guys there's no business. New owner—me. Probably they'll retire in good order."

A frown creased his forehead. "Afraid not. I've been—you know—not thinking too clearly, but these fellows are funny. Don't act like they'll take no for an answer."

"They'll have to. Sounds as if it might be a couple of tough boys trying to muscle in on your business—new gimmick on the old protection racket. Anyway, you probably won't see them again after today."

"I wish I could believe that. I don't think they'll like this."

"Who the hell cares if they like it or not?" I added casually. "By the way, I think I know where that big green parrot of yours came from."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"I talked to a psychiatrist a couple of hours ago." He flinched, but I went on, "He thinks it might be a case of posthypnotic suggestion."

"Of what?"

"Hypnotism. Suggestions given under hypnosis."

He smiled and shook his head. "Can't buy that."

"Why? Don't you remember ever being hypnotized?"

"Oh, yeah, once. But I gave a speech, is all. Didn't have anything to do with a damn parrot."

I said, "You wouldn't necessarily remember it, Jay. Believe me, I'm serious."

He bit his lip. "Well ..." Then he glanced up. "Here they come."

I looked toward the entrance. Two men, both husky, solid-looking guys, had come in and were walking toward us. One was about six-one with wide shoulders in a brown tweed coat. The other man was about two inches shorter and maybe twenty pounds lighter. The bigger man had a long, hooked nose in a heavy face. I wouldn't have looked twice at the second man if I'd met him on the street. The shorter of the two stopped a few feet from us and leaned on a glass showcase. The taller man walked up to Jay and me.

"Afternoon, Mr. Weather. We're right on time, you see." He spoke clearly and distinctly, with the too-precise inflection of a would-be radio announcer. He ignored me and said to Jay, "I can have the twenty-five thousand here fifteen minutes after you say the word. I hope you've made up your mind."

It shocked me a little. Up to this point I'd been inclined to regard Jay's story about two guys trying to buy the business for a song as exaggerated. But here it was.

Jay shook his head. "No. I told you I didn't intend to sell to you. I don't know what you're after, but I wish you'd leave—"

"Oh, come now. After all—" The big guy broke off and glanced at me. I'd been standing about three feet away from him, looking him over.

"You," he said. "Run along."

I smiled at him.

He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders slightly and shifted his feet a little so he faced me. He grinned back, pleasantly, flesh bunching at the corners of his mouth. "You didn't hear me at all," he said quietly. "This is private. Take a walk."

"Uh-uh."

He stopped smiling and took a step toward me. He balled his left hand into a formidable fist, placed it gently on my chest, and shoved. I went back half a step and his eyes got a puzzled look. I figured he'd felt the strap of the shoulder harness that held my gun. His eyes flicked to my left armpit, then back to my face. Then his lip curled and he turned his head slowly and stared at Jay.

Jay said hesitantly, as if he were wondering if this had been such a good idea after all, "Mr. Lucian, this is Mr. Scott. He's the new owner of Weather's."

Lucian frowned and looked at me again as Jay went on, "This noon I went to Mr. Scott's office and sold him the business. It's his. I don't have anything to do with it anymore. You'll have to talk to him."

I said, "That's right, Lucian. I'm the boss now. I'm in no mood for any more business talk today, or any day. Sell you a suit, though."

Lucian's jaw sagged an eighth of an inch and he gawked at me.

"Good-by," I said.

His face flushed and suddenly he reached out with his left hand, grabbed Jay by the front of his shirt and pulled him close. "Listen, bum," he began, but I stopped him.

I chopped at the base of his upper arm with the edge of my open hand. I didn't swing very hard, but it doesn't take much, and his fingers slipped from Jay's shirt. He grunted and wiggled his hand a couple times, opening and closing it; then he turned toward me.

I glanced at the other guy, standing erect now by the showcase, then stepped up close to Lucian. I said, "Look, mister. You've thrown your weight around enough. Beat it, and don't come back. I don't know what your angle is, but it's no good now."

He looked into my face and breathed, "You son of a bitch." I could smell garlic on his breath. The corners of his mouth were twisted downward. Moving so fast he caught me flat-footed, he slammed his open right hand hard into my chest again. I staggered back, stumbled and caught myself, then stood where I was, four or five feet from Jay and Lucian.

That settled it. When they'd first come in, all I'd wanted was to convince the boys there'd be no business done today or any other day. Now it was different. My heart was slamming at my chest and I could feel the muscles in my arms starting to tighten. I made myself relax, and peeled open the fists I'd made of my hands, as Lucian started toward me. The guy was damned sure of himself.

The other man had laughed loudly when I stumbled backward, but he didn't make a move toward us. He was lounging on the glass counter again as if there weren't a chance Lucian might need any help with just me.

I said, "That was a mistake, mister."

Lucian grinned and kept coming toward me, moving gracefully, with all the confidence in the world; it was a safe bet he knew how to handle himself. He was poised, ready to block anything I might throw at him. So I waited for him.