Read Online You're All Alone (illustrated) by Fritz Leiber - Free Book Online
Authors: Fritz Leiber
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drive, lawn and flowerbeds were a wilderness, the upper windows were blank and curtainless, most of them broken, those on the first floor were boarded up, pigeon droppings whitened the somber brown stone, and in the center of the lawn, half hidden by the weeds, was a weather-bleached sign:
FOR SALE
CHAPTER IX
It doesn’t do for too many people to come alive, brother. The big engine gets out of whack. And the mean guys don’t want any competition. They get busy and rub it out . . .
CARR PUSHED doubtfully at the iron gate. It opened a couple of feet, then squidged to a stop against gravel still damp from yesterday morning’s rain. He stepped inside, frowning. He was bothered by a vague and dreamlike sense of recognition.
Suddenly he recalled the reason for it. He had seen pictures of this place in popular magazines, even read an article about it. It was the old Beddoes house, home of one of Chicago’s most fabulous millionaires of the 1890’s. John Claire Beddoes had been a pillar of society, but there were many persistent traditions about his secret vices. He was even supposed to have kept a young mistress in this very house for ten years under the eyes of his wife—though by what trickery or concealment, or sheer brazenness, was never explained.
But the house had been empty for the past twenty-five years. The magazine article had been very definite on that point. Its huge size and the fact that it was owned by an eccentric old maid, last of the Beddoes line, who lived on the Italian Riviera, had combined to make its sale impossible.
All this while Carr’s feet were carrying him up the drive, which led back of the house, passing under a porte-cochere. He had almost reached it when he noticed the footprints.
They were a woman’s, they were quite fresh, and yet they were sunk more deeply than his own. They must have been made since the rain. There were two sets, one leading toward the porte-cochere, the other back from it.
Looking at the black ruined flowerbeds, inhaling their dank odor, Carr was relieved that there were footprints.
He examined them more closely. Those leading toward the port-cochère were deeper and more widely spaced. He remembered that Jane had been almost running.
But the most startling discovery was that the footprints apparently didn’t enter the house at all. They clustered confusedly under the port-cochère, then returned toward the gate. Evidently Jane had waited until he was gone, then retraced her steps.
He walked back to the gate. A submerged memory from last night was tugging at his mind. He looked along the iron fence. He noticed a scrap of paper lodged in the low back shoots of some leafless shrub.
He remembered something white fluttering from Jane’s handbag in the dark, drifting through the fence.
He worked his way to it, pushing between the fence and the shrubbery. Unpruned shoots caught at his coat.
The paper was twice creased and the edges were yellowed and frayed, as if it had been carried around for a long time. It was not rain-marked. Unfolding it, he found the inside filled with a brown-inked script vividly recalling Jane’s scribbled warning. Moving toward the center of the lawn to catch the failing light, he read:
Always keep up appearances.
Always be doing something.
Always be first or last.
Always be alone.
Always have a route of escape.
Never hesitate, or you’re lost.
Never do anything odd—it wouldn’t be noticed.
Never move things—it makes gaps.
Never touch anyone—DANGER!
MACHINERY.
Never run—they’re faster.
Never look at a stranger—it might be one of them.
Some animals are really alive.
Carr looked over his shoulder at the boarded-up house. A lean bird skimmed behind the roof. Somewhere down the block footsteps were clicking on concrete.
HE CONSIDERED the shape of the paper. It was about that of an envelope and the edges were torn. At first glance the other side seemed blank. Then he saw a faded postmark and address. He
FOR SALE
CHAPTER IX
It doesn’t do for too many people to come alive, brother. The big engine gets out of whack. And the mean guys don’t want any competition. They get busy and rub it out . . .
CARR PUSHED doubtfully at the iron gate. It opened a couple of feet, then squidged to a stop against gravel still damp from yesterday morning’s rain. He stepped inside, frowning. He was bothered by a vague and dreamlike sense of recognition.
Suddenly he recalled the reason for it. He had seen pictures of this place in popular magazines, even read an article about it. It was the old Beddoes house, home of one of Chicago’s most fabulous millionaires of the 1890’s. John Claire Beddoes had been a pillar of society, but there were many persistent traditions about his secret vices. He was even supposed to have kept a young mistress in this very house for ten years under the eyes of his wife—though by what trickery or concealment, or sheer brazenness, was never explained.
But the house had been empty for the past twenty-five years. The magazine article had been very definite on that point. Its huge size and the fact that it was owned by an eccentric old maid, last of the Beddoes line, who lived on the Italian Riviera, had combined to make its sale impossible.
All this while Carr’s feet were carrying him up the drive, which led back of the house, passing under a porte-cochere. He had almost reached it when he noticed the footprints.
They were a woman’s, they were quite fresh, and yet they were sunk more deeply than his own. They must have been made since the rain. There were two sets, one leading toward the porte-cochere, the other back from it.
Looking at the black ruined flowerbeds, inhaling their dank odor, Carr was relieved that there were footprints.
He examined them more closely. Those leading toward the port-cochère were deeper and more widely spaced. He remembered that Jane had been almost running.
But the most startling discovery was that the footprints apparently didn’t enter the house at all. They clustered confusedly under the port-cochère, then returned toward the gate. Evidently Jane had waited until he was gone, then retraced her steps.
He walked back to the gate. A submerged memory from last night was tugging at his mind. He looked along the iron fence. He noticed a scrap of paper lodged in the low back shoots of some leafless shrub.
He remembered something white fluttering from Jane’s handbag in the dark, drifting through the fence.
He worked his way to it, pushing between the fence and the shrubbery. Unpruned shoots caught at his coat.
The paper was twice creased and the edges were yellowed and frayed, as if it had been carried around for a long time. It was not rain-marked. Unfolding it, he found the inside filled with a brown-inked script vividly recalling Jane’s scribbled warning. Moving toward the center of the lawn to catch the failing light, he read:
Always keep up appearances.
Always be doing something.
Always be first or last.
Always be alone.
Always have a route of escape.
Never hesitate, or you’re lost.
Never do anything odd—it wouldn’t be noticed.
Never move things—it makes gaps.
Never touch anyone—DANGER!
MACHINERY.
Never run—they’re faster.
Never look at a stranger—it might be one of them.
Some animals are really alive.
Carr looked over his shoulder at the boarded-up house. A lean bird skimmed behind the roof. Somewhere down the block footsteps were clicking on concrete.
HE CONSIDERED the shape of the paper. It was about that of an envelope and the edges were torn. At first glance the other side seemed blank. Then he saw a faded postmark and address. He
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