Let's All Kill Constance by Ray Bradbury Page B
Authors: Ray Bradbury
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Biography & Autobiography, Private Investigators, Entertainment & Performing Arts, Actresses, Motion Picture Actors and Actresses, Older women, Hollywood (Los Angeles; Calif.)
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tenth bastard, out of Marie Dressier!"
We were higher now, in nosebleed territory.
We reached the top of the second balcony, Fritz raging at the altitude but happy to hear himself rage.
"Explain again," Fritz said as we continued climbing. "Up here. Then what?"
"Then we go as far down as we've come up. Basement mirror names. A glass catacomb."
"Knock," said Fritz, at last.
I knocked and the projection room door swung inward on dim lights from two projectors, one lit and working.
I swung my flash beam along the wall and sucked air.
"What?" said Fritz.
"They're gone!" I said. "The pictures. The walls have been stripped."
I played my flashlight beam along the empty spaces in dismay. All the dark-room "ghosts" had indeed vanished.
"Goddamn! Jesus! Christ!" I stopped and swore. "My God, I sound like you!"
"My son, my son," Fritz said, pleased. "Move the light!"
"Quiet." I inched forward, holding the beam unsteadily on what sat between the projectors.
It was Constance's father, of course, erect and cold, one hand touching a machine switch.
One projector was running full spin with a reel that looped through the projector lens and down, around, a spiral that repeated images again and again every ten seconds. The small door that could open to let the images shoot down to fill the theater screen was shut, so the images were trapped on the inside of the door, small, but if you bent close and squinted, you could see—
Sally, Dolly, Molly, Holly, Gaily, Nellie, Roby, Sally, Dolly, Molly—around about, on and on.
I studied old man Rattigan, frozen in place, and whether his grimace showed triumph or need, I could not say.
I glanced beyond to those walls now empty of Sally, Dolly, Molly, but whoever had seized them hadn't figured that the old man, seeing his "family" snatched, had switched on this loop to save the past. Or—
My mind sank.
I heard Betty Kelly's voice shrieking what Constance had shrieked, Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. And Quickly recalling, How do I get it back, back, back? Get what back? Her other self?
Did someone do this to you? I thought, standing over the old dead man. Or did you do it to yourself?
The dead man's white marble eyes were still.
I cut the projector.
All the faces still flowed on my retina, the dancing daughter, the butterfly, the Chinese vamp, the tomboy clown.
"Poor lost soul," I whispered.
"You know him?" said Fritz.
"No."
"Then he's no poor lost soul." "Fritz! Did you ever have a heart?" "Simple bypass. I had it removed." "How do you live without it?"
"Because . . ." Fritz handed me his monocle. I fit the cold glass to my eye and stared.
"Because," he said, "I'm a—"
"Stupid goddamn son of a bitch?"
"Bull's-eye!" Fritz said.
"Let's go," he added. "This place is a morgue."
"Always was," I said.
I called Henry, and told him to take a taxi to Grauman's. Pronto.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BLIND Henry was waiting for us in an aisle leading down to the orchestra pit and from there to the hidden basement dressing rooms.
"Don't tell," Henry said.
"About what, Henry?"
"The pictures up in that projection booth. Kaput? That's Fritz Wong's lingo."
"The same to you," said Fritz.
"Henry, how'd you guess?"
"I knew." Henry fixed his sightless eyes down at the pit. "I just visited the mirrors. I don't need a cane, and sure as heck no flashlight. Just reached when I was there and touched the glass. That's how I knew the pictures upstairs had to be gone. Felt all along forty feet of glass. Clean. All scraped away. So ..." He stared again at the sightless uphill seats. "Upstairs. All gone. Right?"
"Right." I exhaled, somewhat stunned.
"Let me show you." Henry turned to the pit.
"Wait, I've got my flash."
"When you going to learn?" Henry mocked, and stepped down into the pit in one silent motion.
I followed. Fritz glared at our parade.
"Well," I said, "what are you waiting for?"
Fritz moved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
"THERE." Henry pointed his nose at the long line of
We were higher now, in nosebleed territory.
We reached the top of the second balcony, Fritz raging at the altitude but happy to hear himself rage.
"Explain again," Fritz said as we continued climbing. "Up here. Then what?"
"Then we go as far down as we've come up. Basement mirror names. A glass catacomb."
"Knock," said Fritz, at last.
I knocked and the projection room door swung inward on dim lights from two projectors, one lit and working.
I swung my flash beam along the wall and sucked air.
"What?" said Fritz.
"They're gone!" I said. "The pictures. The walls have been stripped."
I played my flashlight beam along the empty spaces in dismay. All the dark-room "ghosts" had indeed vanished.
"Goddamn! Jesus! Christ!" I stopped and swore. "My God, I sound like you!"
"My son, my son," Fritz said, pleased. "Move the light!"
"Quiet." I inched forward, holding the beam unsteadily on what sat between the projectors.
It was Constance's father, of course, erect and cold, one hand touching a machine switch.
One projector was running full spin with a reel that looped through the projector lens and down, around, a spiral that repeated images again and again every ten seconds. The small door that could open to let the images shoot down to fill the theater screen was shut, so the images were trapped on the inside of the door, small, but if you bent close and squinted, you could see—
Sally, Dolly, Molly, Holly, Gaily, Nellie, Roby, Sally, Dolly, Molly—around about, on and on.
I studied old man Rattigan, frozen in place, and whether his grimace showed triumph or need, I could not say.
I glanced beyond to those walls now empty of Sally, Dolly, Molly, but whoever had seized them hadn't figured that the old man, seeing his "family" snatched, had switched on this loop to save the past. Or—
My mind sank.
I heard Betty Kelly's voice shrieking what Constance had shrieked, Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me. And Quickly recalling, How do I get it back, back, back? Get what back? Her other self?
Did someone do this to you? I thought, standing over the old dead man. Or did you do it to yourself?
The dead man's white marble eyes were still.
I cut the projector.
All the faces still flowed on my retina, the dancing daughter, the butterfly, the Chinese vamp, the tomboy clown.
"Poor lost soul," I whispered.
"You know him?" said Fritz.
"No."
"Then he's no poor lost soul." "Fritz! Did you ever have a heart?" "Simple bypass. I had it removed." "How do you live without it?"
"Because . . ." Fritz handed me his monocle. I fit the cold glass to my eye and stared.
"Because," he said, "I'm a—"
"Stupid goddamn son of a bitch?"
"Bull's-eye!" Fritz said.
"Let's go," he added. "This place is a morgue."
"Always was," I said.
I called Henry, and told him to take a taxi to Grauman's. Pronto.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
BLIND Henry was waiting for us in an aisle leading down to the orchestra pit and from there to the hidden basement dressing rooms.
"Don't tell," Henry said.
"About what, Henry?"
"The pictures up in that projection booth. Kaput? That's Fritz Wong's lingo."
"The same to you," said Fritz.
"Henry, how'd you guess?"
"I knew." Henry fixed his sightless eyes down at the pit. "I just visited the mirrors. I don't need a cane, and sure as heck no flashlight. Just reached when I was there and touched the glass. That's how I knew the pictures upstairs had to be gone. Felt all along forty feet of glass. Clean. All scraped away. So ..." He stared again at the sightless uphill seats. "Upstairs. All gone. Right?"
"Right." I exhaled, somewhat stunned.
"Let me show you." Henry turned to the pit.
"Wait, I've got my flash."
"When you going to learn?" Henry mocked, and stepped down into the pit in one silent motion.
I followed. Fritz glared at our parade.
"Well," I said, "what are you waiting for?"
Fritz moved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
"THERE." Henry pointed his nose at the long line of
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