Collected Short Fiction, page 486
“That is the law.” Now his voice had a ring of iron. “And the law must be upheld for the preservation of society. Yes, gentlemen, for the protection of your homes and your dear ones.”
On the wall, above Judge Prendick’s sleepy snarl, the hands of the courtroom clock crept toward five twenty-two. Ysobel Pickens was shredding her sodden handkerchief, with terror-stiffened red-nailed fingers. But Tanner stilt kept his shrewd rugged smile.
“You have heard the evidence,” Platt went on. “But let me recite to you once more the long catalogue of crimes, for which this unfortunate creature is doomed to pay. Let me paint the ugly picture—”
A disturbance interrupted him, in the rear of the courtroom. A newsboy was swiftly passing out papers. Judge Prendick woke and banged indignantly for order, and the sheriff started angrily after the intruding urchin. But then there was a sudden whispering stir among the newspapermen behind Platt, and flash bulbs blazed as he turned bewilderedly. Tanner came heavily to him, with a mocking challenge in his red perpetual smile, and thrust a damp extra into his hands. Platt read the screaming banner:
EX-WIFE ACCUSES D.A.
Mrs. Stella Flanders of Hollywood, former wife of District Attorney Platt, today filed suit in civil court for an accounting of the estate of her deceased father, Murray Staples, who was Platt’s law partner before his death ten years ago. Platt was executor of the estate, and Mrs. Flanders alleges that certain bonds, left in trust for her, were never accounted for. She is represented in this action by Tanner & Higgens. Tanner told reporters, this afternoon, that criminal charges against the district attorney are expected to develop from the civil case.
Platt crumpled the paper, in hands turned suddenly numb. Now he understood Tanner’s expectant smile. This paper was the Chronicle, controlled by the city hall gang. Tanner had seized upon Stella’s desperate story and fashioned it into a conscienceless trick to save his client and damage Platt’s reputation.
It was a lie. Platt wanted to shout out the truth. But the clock on the wall was only three minutes fast. Its crawling hands came to five twenty-two, and Platt felt a band of agony close around his chest. His protesting voice was choked. He swayed and fell sprawling toward the empty witness box.
Platt knew that he was dying.
Faintly, as he fell, he was aware of mounting confusion in the courtroom. People surged about him, but their excited voices faded swiftly into empty distance. Flash bulbs burned dimly through a gray, thickening haze. Judge Prendick was hammering with an angry gavel, but the sound was somewhere far away. Even Platt’s own chill and agony receded. A warm, numbing darkness blotted out all sensation.
But the crisis passed.
Platt could breathe again, and the clammy weakness was gone from his limbs. His head swiftly cleared. Somebody was helping him back to his feet—a trim, worried-looking stranger in gray. They pushed out of the noisy mob in front of the witness box, and the stranger guided him through the open door into the quiet of the empty jury room.
“Why . . . why, thanks,” Platt gasped uncertainly. “Must have had a little stroke.” He still felt confused and uneasy, and he clung to the gray stranger’s arm. “But now I think . . . I feel all right, now.”
“Then let’s go.”
The stranger made a hurried check mark on a little gray card, and put it back in his bulging brief case. He raked lean fingers through his thick dark hair, in a harassed combing gesture that seemed queerly familiar to Platt.
“Your call has come at a rather unfortunate time.” Now the worried voice was oddly familiar, too. “We’re working under a terrific load.” The stranger smiled a quick, one-sided smile—a smile that Platt had known. “But don’t be alarmed, William. Of course, the organization will do everything possible for you.”
Platt backed against the wall and stared bewilderedly. In spite of the troubled frown, this man looked young and fit. He wore a freshly pressed gray business suit. In the lapel was a curious pin: a tiny broom, made of yellow gold. Platt tried desperately to place him.
“Come, William.” He picked up the brief case and jerked his head in a confusing urgent gesture. “What’s the matter—don’t you know me?”
“I’m sorry.” Platt shook his head. “I don’t seem able—”
Then his searching eyes found the gold letters stamped on the side of the bulging brief case, Murray Staples, Deputy Advocate. He blinked, unbelievingly. He had been a pallbearer at Murray’s funeral ten years ago. And the old man had been bald as an onion—but Platt had seen him make that worried gesture to comb back imaginary hair, a thousand times.
“Yes, I was once your partner,” Staples told him. “I’ve been your advocate since I was called.” He made an irritated frown. “Now it’s time for us to go. I’m afraid your case is going to be a little difficult. You are to appear before Inspector Ballantine, and he is inclined to be severe.”
Staples tugged impatiently at his sleeve, but Platt braced his sweat-chilled palms against the wall behind him and continued to stare unbelievingly.
“You’ve been called, that’s all,” Staples urged fretfully. “Come along. I’ll explain as we go. The organization allows no dawdling.”
“But I’m not dead.” Platt’s voice rose in baffled anger. “I don’t feel dead.” He discovered, in fact, that all the slowly gathering unease and depression of the last several months had lifted. “I feel remarkably well.”
“That’s the rule,” Staples said. “Our organisation demands efficiency, and efficiency demands physical vigor. Come.”
“But I can’t come now,” Platt protested. “Just when Tanner’s trying to pull another crooked stunt, to save the Pickens woman. I’ll hang her yet. I’ll smash Tanner’s gang—and his rotten yellow paper. I’ll give Stella a lesson she needs.”
“I think you’ve been too harsh with my daughter, William,” Staples said sadly. “I tried to persuade you to call her back, today at noon—for both your sakes. But you didn’t hear me.”
Platt gulped at his astonishment.
“But I did,” he whispered. “I mean, I wanted to call her back—I thought it was just a whim of conscience.”
“That’s what conscience is,” Staples told him. “The influence of our organization. You’ve been my client for ten years, William. I’ve done my best to guide you. But you were often very deaf.”
He looked at the watch on his wrist with an anxious frown.
“Come, or we’ll be late at the Station,” he urged sharply. “Inspector Ballantine will be annoyed with any delay, and he already has an unfortunate bias against the legal profession.”
“I’m not dead,” Platt repeated. “I can’t believe it.”
Staples gestured impatiently toward the open courtroom door. Platt saw uneasily that photographers and jurors and the sheriff were still crowded in front of the witness box. There was something on the floor. He heard somebody calling an ambulance. Then a newspaper reporter snatched the telephone.
“The Cali!” His excited words blurred into Platt’s mind. “Gimme the desk. . . . Mack, the D.A.’s dead! A darb of a story. He keeled over when he saw the Chronicle extra—maybe it ain’t all Tanner’s imagination. Fuller’s got the pix—a honey of Platt falling, with the rag in his hands. Juries being human, this ought to save the Pickens gal her neck. . . . O.K., I’ll call back.”
Leaning weakly against the wall. Platt caught his breath and tried to get used to the idea. He didn’t know’ what to expect. Actually, he had regarded his church membership as nothing more than a speculative investment, a sort of insurance against an uncertain contingency. Several urgent questions crossed his mind, but he wasn’t sure just how to phrase them.
“You see?” Staples’ voice was growing sharp with vexation. “Now are you willing to come?”
“I guess I’m dead, all right,” Platt admitted heavily.
He peered sharply at his old partner. There was no evidence of any angelic transfiguration. Murray Staples looked as grimly preoccupied as he had always been when an important case was about to go to an unfriendly jury. Faintly apprehensive, Platt inquired.
“What . . . what do you want with me?”
Staples made his hurried, one-sided smile.
“Should have explained,” he said hastily. “I had forgotten how confusing this experience was for me. And I heard you affirming your belief in the existence of Heaven and our organization, just a few minutes ago. I suppose I was taking too much for granted.”
He frowned at his watch again and swung the heavy brief case nervously as he talked.
“You see, we are no longer in competition. The old rivalry was, no doubt, the natural outcome of a primitive culture; but any such arrangement must be too illogical and inefficient to survive in the modern world. The only practical solution, along the lines of efficient business co-operation, was a merger.”
“Merger?” Platt blinked. “Between Heaven and . . . and your organization?”
“Exactly.” Staples made a jerky nod. “Under the new arrangement, we have taken over a great many of the local activities that used to be handled directly from Above. In particular, we have charge of the functions of conscience and securing clearances—the old phrase for these activities was the salvation of souls.”
Platt gasped.
“You seem astonished,” Staples said. “Yet the arrangement is logical and efficient. We get a higher percentage of first clearances than our competitors ever did—no doubt because our organization has had a great deal of experience in handling the gravest cases.
“Also, our own working conditions are very much improved, under the terms of the merger—especially since the modern labor organizers began to be called, and our organization was forced to accept the union shop. Terms of service are shorter. In fact, our employees have been earning their clearances so rapidly, under the new contract, that the organization is very much understaffed.”
Platt nodded slowly, and made an uneasy little chuckle.
“Honoria’s going to be surprised!”
“I’m afraid she is,” Staples agreed. “Unfortunately, some excellent people are rather upset to discover that our organization is responsible for getting them into Heaven.”
“And you, Murray—” Platt hesitated, suddenly afraid that the question would appear in bad taste.
“Yes, my clearance was suspended,” Staples told him. “But I hope to earn it, eventually, by securing clearances for my clients. Your case is my first to be called.”
“You mean—” Platt gulped. “You’re my attorney?”
“The modern term is deputy advocate,” Staples said. “Eve worked faithfully on your case. I believe it is largely through my influence that you quit playing poker and joined the church.” He swung the brief case impatiently. “Now are you willing to come with me?”
“Of course.” But Platt licked his dry lips, and swallowed uneasily. “Do you think—” He peered anxiously at Staples. “I mean . . . do you think—”
“Frankly, I wish you hadn’t been so deaf to my advice.” That harassed combing gesture showed that Staples was worried. “But I haven’t had much experience, and it’s hard to tell how a case will come out. You see, they’re always changing the conditions of admission. Not long ago, for instance, it was practically impossible to clear a woman with bobbed hair; but now, since Veronica Lake, they say you can’t clear one who lets it grow. Ready?”
Platt turned back to the jury room door, for a final hasty look across the courtroom. Judge Prendick had recessed the court. Platt had a glimpse of Tanner helping Ysobel Pickens to her feet—and he wished uncomfortably that they had looked a little more sorrowful. Sheriff Dixon was escorting Dr. Venwick down the crowded aisle, followed by two men with a rolled stretcher.
“All right,” Platt agreed nervously. “Let’s go.”
With a hurried nod, Staples touched the little golden broom on his gray lapel. He gripped the brief case, and caught Platt’s arm.
“Better watch your step before Ballantine,” he warned. “The inspectors are a peculiar type. Mostly former policemen and judges. They’ve all earned their own clearances—that was stipulated in the contract—but they prefer not to use them. They’ve found paradise, right here on the job.”
Platt felt a sudden nightmarish certainty that his clothing had been left behind, on the courtroom floor. He shivered at the thought of appearing before Inspector Ballantine in nothing at all.
Looking down at himself, however, he was reassured as well as surprised to discover that he had on a crisp gray business suit, of the same cut and color as Staples’. It struck him, too, that his figure seemed trimmer than it had been for a good many years—the old double-breasted serge would hardly have fitted him now, anyhow.
“A small example of our efficiency,” Staples commented. “No doubt you will find customs very different Above. But our organization has adopted a uniform business suit, to be worn by every individual until clearance is secured.”
Platt was scarcely aware that they had left the jury room. But now he saw that they were on a wide flight of marble steps, before an impressive building. He supposed that it must stand on the summit of a high mountain, for the steps dropped into cottonlike mist, and white clouds stretched away in a bright, mysterious plain, under a sky turning gloomy with the dusk.
The building might have been designed by Norman Bel Geddes, for some super-colossal Hollywood production. Concealed floodlights painted its facade with garish color, and immense shining letters marched across the central tower, spelling: ETERNITY STATION.
A good many people were hurrying eagerly up the broad, golden-lit stair, and almost as many were hastening feverishly down again. Nearly all the men wore neat gray suits. The women had on uniform dark skirts, but he noticed that femininity had managed to express itself in a variety of bright-colored blouses.
“Come along,” Staples urged. “The inspector is inclined to be nasty about any delay.”
Platt followed him up the steps, into an immense waiting room. Hurried people were gathering into impatient queues. Many of them, both men and women, were burdened with heavy brief cases, and he supposed that they were devil’s advocates—no, the modern term was “deputy”—looking after the interests of their clients.
“There’s the ship.” Staples made an offhand gesture, but his dry voice held a note of frustrated longing. He took a quick look at his watch. “-There’s still time for you to catch it—if we get your clearance through.”
Platt gasped when he saw the ship, lying immense beyond a long row of guarded turnstiles. It was shaped somewhat like a blimp, but larger and much more substantial. It had a painful silvery shimmer; and some golden emblem, on the side of the hull, was so blindingly brilliant that Platt could not distinguish it. People were filing into the vessel, up long, gayly draped gangways.
Walking briskly, Staples made a wide, hurried gesture.
“All this is new,” he said. “Our design. Streamlined for service. Our contract covers everything at this end of the line.”
Platt followed him across the vast crowded floor. His whole life since babyhood—at least in theory—had been planned to fit him for this supreme approaching moment. Yet, as it drew near, he felt a shudder of reluctant dread. He squared his shoulders, and tried to quiet his hammering pulse.
Staples stopped outside a frosted glass door which bore a neat brass plate:
Petitions for Clearance
N to R
J.A. Ballantine, Inspector
In a moment the door swung open. Two young men in identical gray emerged hastily, one carrying the brief case of an advocate. He appeared crestfallen, and his client looked pale and shaken.
“Next case,” a deep voice boomed. “Eternity vs. William Platt.”
Staples led the way nervously into a small square office. Inspector Ballantine sat behind a formidable desk, with a telephone at his elbow. He was an immense, bull-necked man, with an ugly genial face and steel-colored eyes. He took a blue card out of a wire basket, and asked in a too-soft interrogative voice:
“William Platt, attorney, of Clifton? You want a clearance?”
Platt had been expecting to be asked some such question, since he was five years old. Even in early childhood, it had occurred to him that he would like to be a lawyer, so that he might be amply prepared to make his reply as fluent and convincing as possible. Yet now. when the awful question had been put to him at last, he was suddenly unable to utter any sound at all. He was mutely grateful for the presence of his advocate.
“Yes, inspector, this is Mr. Platt.” Staples stepped briskly forward, set his bulging brief case on the end of the desk, and took out a thick mass of papers in a blue folder. “Perhaps you remember me, inspector?”
The steel eyes shifted to Staples, and the genial mouth smiled.
“Staples.” the inspector recalled briefly. “Ten years ago. Clearance suspended—matter of bonds in trust. What progress are you making?”
Staples fumbled with his papers, visibly nervous.
“My first case, inspector.”
“Good luck,” Ballantine said curtly. “Proceed.”
“My client’s record.” Staples pushed the blue folder across the table. “In full for the ten years that I have been his advocate, with a summary of his previous record from the files of our organization.”
The inspector riffled hastily through the onion-skin pages. Staples caught his breath, and went on in a voice slightly too loud:
“You will see that Mr. Platt was a useful and respected citizen, a church member in good standing and a frequent contributor to worthy charities. He proved an enemy of evil in every guise. He was elected to the office of district attorney on a reform ticket, and only his calling prevented him from carrying out his campaign promise of a general clean-up.”
The inspector nodded and referred to his blue card again.
“Our own records show that the petitioner was exceptionally zealous in his attacks upon what he regarded as evil,” he said softly. “Yet I find that we have three very grave charges against him.”
