Prelude to Peril

By Jerry Sohl

Chalmer Scott gets the best assignment any journalist could want: An in-depth story of the day's most popular musicians, Celia Peerson and Tony Duwaye.

But the moment he joins the couple on their tour, strange and violent things begin to happen...

From a master writer for TV (star trek, outer limits, twilight zone, Hitchcock presents...)

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReAnimus Press
• Release date: Oct 23, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370737574

Jerry Sohl

Jerry Sohl is best known for the numerous scripts he wrote for Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, The Outer Limits, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, etc. He wrote over two dozen books, mostly, science fiction and horror but spanning all genres, including several acclaimed mainstream novels (e.g. THE LEMON EATERS), romance, and humor books such as UNDERHANDED CHESS.

Book preview

PRELUDE TO PERIL

by

JERRY SOHL

Produced by ReAnimus Press

Other books by Jerry Sohl:

Costigan s Needle

Night Slaves

The Mars Monopoly

One Against Herculum

The Time Dissolver

The Transcendent Man

I, Aleppo

The Altered Ego

The Anomaly

Death Sleep

The Odious Ones

Point Ultimate

The Haploids

The Resurrection of Frank Borchard

The Lemon Eaters

The Spun Sugar Hole

Underhanded Chess

Underhanded Bridge

Night Wind

Black Thunder

Dr. Josh

Blowdry

Mamelle

Kaheesh

© 2013, 1957 by Jerry Sohl. All rights reserved.

http://ReAnimus.com/authors/jerrysohl

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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~~~

For Jennifer

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Table of Contents

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

1

It was one of those informal get-togethers after the concert, where the real informality comes only at the very end, and when latecomer Chalmer Scott stepped into the carpeted hall he found the participants at the halfway point and was awash in the clink of glasses, shrill laughter, smoke haze, the tinkling of a piano and the low rumble of many voices. The only way to go to one of these things, he thought as he handed his coat and hat to the maid, is to be one of the contenders at the starting line. Otherwise you get hopelessly outdistanced.

He remembered Grace Parmentier’s Chicago South Shore house well, having been there on business and pleasure before, though not in two years. He stepped from the hall to view the first room, a larger hall with doors at the sides and a white spiral staircase at the end, knowing where he could find the sideboard, buffet table, bar, and most of the guests, a few of whom were visible now: a couple talking agitatedly six feet away at one of the doorways, a young man leaning his chin on his hand on the newel post at the stairs and looking up at a pretty girl posed like a model on the third step smiling down at him, two disgruntled-looking older men with cocktail glasses standing in embarrassed stiffness on the other side of the hall. It surprised him a little that he knew none of these people.

Scott stood where he was, willing to let the sights and sounds bring it all back, and reluctant to move into it and embrace it again because of how it once was, fearing a little that it might become more real than he’d like, thinking of course I don’t know everyone a lot of changes take place in two years and it wouldn’t be the same ever without Sara.

And then she was there, radiant Sara, in a gold sheath, gliding from one doorway to another, looking as if she belonged to all this, a lovely woman, fair of face and skin, smiling and glowing, causing heads to swivel to get a better look at her, people looking at him, saying with their eyes what a lucky man Chalmer Scott was. And then Sara saw him and her eyes brightened with the inner light that was her love for him.

Stop it, he told himself. But he couldn’t wipe away the mist in his eyes. It was always like that when he thought of her. And he ought not think of her, shouldn’t remember how she looked here.

Because Sara was dead.

Hell, he thought, maybe I shouldn’t have come I could have done something else why did I have to pick the Duwaynes to do why did I have to talk it up why did I have to get myself into this? But his good sense told him he had to do it because the Duwaynes were hot and he had to do it because it was his job. Yes, he’d do it even if it meant covering some of the old territory, some of the tender spots, places where he and Sara had been.

Forget Sara, he told himself sharply. And he did manage to forget her a little, the sounds returning, the people coming into focus again, and he said that’s better and was on the point of starting to the doorway when Mrs. Parmentier came through one on the opposite side in a hurry. When she saw him she stopped short, a large, blonde, graceful woman attired in a striking blue gown with a too-large diamond cluster where she should have worn a flower, and she stared at him in disbelief for a moment before her face thawed to a warming smile and she said, Scotty! as if she had reached the object of a long and arduous search.

Grace, he said without feeling, nodding, making no move toward the approaching outstretched arms.

How nice to see you! she said, abandoning her move toward encirclement in the face of his coolness, only grasping his upper arms and looking up at him raptly. Her flushed face was so close he could see the brown flecks in her glistening gray-blue eyes. Where in the world have you been?

He undid her hands, saying, Lots of places. Where’s the bar?

She cast a hasty glance at the entrance hallway. Anyone with you?

No. He knew she sensed his inner twinge.

I mean— she covered, making it worse.

The bar, he said gruffly, remember?

Same place. Grace found his steady gaze disconcerting and looked away, but when he moved to go she stopped him with a hand on his arm. There’s better in the kitchen. Her look was an entreaty.

I’m not working, he told her. Except for myself.

I didn’t mean that. I just want to talk and if you go in there I’ll never see you again.

And if we go to the kitchen you might miss a lot out here. Besides, I have a job to do even if it doesn’t involve the Chicago papers any more. He made another move toward the doorway.

The Duwaynes? she guessed shrewdly.

He nodded, a little taken aback. A try, anyway. Might not work out. But how’d you know?

Intuition. Or horse sense. Take your choice.

Know much about them?

She smiled, confident of him now, her even, white teeth glinting in the bright light. You might try me.

They’re here?

Of course. Nobody stands me up. You know that.

You’re not inviolate. I know a baritone who did.

He thought we lived on the North Shore. You will note he dropped out of sight afterward. Interested?

He stood looking down at her thinking how much like a child you are Grace a mischievous child a rich child with everything all the toys you want but still you’re trying to get me to the kitchen why? I’m sure you don’t know anything about Celia and Tony Duwayne that I don’t already know.

All right, Scott said, taking her arm and turning her toward the doorway to one side and beneath the staircase.

That’s more like it, Scotty, she said gaily as they went through. The door closed, they were in a quiet, narrow passageway, and Grace swung around at once to face him, head up, lips parted expectantly, eyes glowing.

You’re blocking the way to the kitchen, he said brusquely, annoyed that she should have made a stand so quickly and obviously.

Aren’t you going to kiss me? she said.

No. I came back here for something else.

Still thinking about her? she said, hurt.

He said cuttingly, I was never a member of the wife-trading set.

She gasped, stepped back, eyes narrowing. What a filthy thing to say!

Just lay it on my trauma.

It doesn’t excuse you.

Then don’t let it. He turned, reached for the doorknob.

Wait. She put her hand over his, and when he turned to her, she said, I just thought that after two years... I know it was awful, Scotty, but I didn’t think you’d still be so bitter about it.

Bitter? I’m not bitter.

You sound bitter.

Well, I’m not. They stood awkward for a moment, both mindful of the doorknob, his hand hard and cold on the metal, hers warm and soft on his, each reluctant to release the other. Then Scott withdrew his hand and hers fell away. He said, Look, is this what you got me in here for or did you really have something to tell me about the Duwaynes?

I’ve never seen you so edgy. You’ve changed.

Laughing Boy is no longer.

I’m sorry. I liked Laughing Boy.

You only like excitement.

Is that all?

Big names, too.

She said bitingly, While you’re at it, don’t forget money.

And money. Otherwise you’d have never married George Parmentier.

Her face hardened a little, the lips were drawn in. "God, you have changed. You’re actually crude."

Candid is a better word.

Grace took a breath and said, I don’t know if I like you like this.

Nobody’s asking you to like me. Any way.

She frowned, shook her head. I don’t understand you. But then I guess I never did. She brightened. You need a drink and so do I. Maybe that will thaw you out. Come on. She led the way to another door, a swinging door, opened it and went into the kitchen, letting him catch the door on the flat of his hand.

About the Duwaynes, he said, letting the door swing closed behind him.

One-track mind, she said, disappearing into a pantry at one side of the brilliantly lighted kitchen. You always had a one-track mind, Scotty. Her muffled voice came from inside. Did you know that?

Uh-huh. Look, you don’t need to get anything special for me. Just plain bourbon will do.

She reappeared saying, Are you sure? I know there is some champagne, some good champagne, back in there somewhere if I could only find it. Maybe Shepperle could.

No. Just any old thing, Grace, please.

But this is a special occasion.

I’m nothing special.

It’s not every day I get insulted.

We can drink to that just as well with bourbon.

At that moment a white-clad enormous man Scott remembered as Shepperle came into the kitchen. Grace asked him to find a bottle of whisky, which in the manner of the efficient, dedicated servant he was, he did.

I’ve read some of your articles, she said as Shepperle prepared highballs and set them on the cutting table for them. You’re good. Your style has improved.

So has my pay.

What are you going to do with the Duwaynes?

Profile. Maybe a book, if the article goes. I don’t know.

I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t. You’ve done some fine things. She nodded at Shepperle, who left the room now for other duties. Especially those interpretive things of yours.

Slick paper is more demanding than newsprint. He lifted his glass in a perfunctory toast.

To the Duwaynes, she said before he could think. Particularly Celia. She smiled wryly. Your newfound love.

What the hell do you mean by that?

I forgot for a moment how touchy you are. But then every man is in love with Celia Duwayne.

She is a beautiful woman.

Grace said dryly, So was Sara.

Scott winced, scowled into his glass. Leave Sara out of this.

Sorry. Forgot about your trauma.

He looked up, said firmly, I’m not kidding.

How long does a thing like that last?

What?

A trauma.

Cut it out.

Why, Scotty?

Because there will never be another woman like Sara and if I go on thinking about her there’ll be nothing left of me.

The world is full of women.

Not like Sara.

‘I’ll Never Love Again,’ by Chalmer Scott. In this issue. Read all about it, how the heart never heals—

You’re tight.

No, it’s you who’re tight. Your nerves are hopelessly wound around a dead woman who can do nothing for you.

"Damn you, Grace, shut up!"

Grace looked at him, opened her mouth to say something more, closed it, then said, All right, all right. Defensively, she took a large drink.

Scott sighed. I’ve heard women don’t like Celia.

Ha!

What does that mean?

Double ha!

What do you have against her?

Only that I know what you and every man would like to have against her.

Now who’s being filthy?

Am I? she said archly. Maybe I’m only trying to be candid, too.

Bitchy is a better word.

Filth is only a male prerogative?

For God’s sake, Grace, what is it you don’t like about Celia?

I’d rather not say. She’s a guest.

The poor girl couldn’t help herself there. You saw to that.

You just don’t know her, Scotty.

I will soon. He swirled the liquid at the bottom of the glass, drank it.

Grace stared at the rack of shiny copper kettles of graduated sizes and said, as if to no one in particular, She’s a cool one.

You probably don’t understand her.

I suppose you do?

Hell, I don’t even know her. All I know is what I’ve read about her. Why all this stuff about the woman? What about him?

Tony? Grace shrugged. I don’t know. I’ve never been able to see him because of her. She looked at him sharply. What put you on their trail? Or shouldn’t I try to guess?

They’re an American phenomenon.

Sex is a phenomenon, I’ll admit, but I didn’t think the United States had a monopoly.

Scott put his glass down hard on the cutting table. Is that all you think of, for heaven’s sake?

She put her glass beside his and pushed it a little. What else is there, Scotty?

Ambition, maybe, he said, looking down at the smooth expanse of her back. You might try looking at it from that angle for a change. And his mind moved to ponder the interesting relationship of George and Grace Parmentier, but with effort, since he had pondered the same thing many times before, he wrenched his thoughts away to consider the problem at hand, the enigma of Celia Peerson and Anthony Duwayne, the puzzle of how a husband and wife piano team could rise from obscurity and a routine Town Hall debut to such a commanding position in the musical world. He had seen it happen before, when all the factors of the equation that made up musical success fell in place to yield maximum opportunity, but he had never seen it happen to a duo-piano team. With comparatively little critical encouragement and in spite of the fact that most agency two-piano teams are hard pressed for concert bookings, they had not only run away from all pursuit but were able to demand top prices for their appearances. Such a twosome would, in a matter of time, become a feature attraction at the Parmentiers’.

"Life gave them three pages, Grace was saying, and two and a half of them were devoted to the Peerson derriere."

They should have photographed her musical interpretation instead.

Don’t be funny. But Tony is just as important as Celia, don’t you think?

Then quit talking about her.

Have you ever heard them play?

Only on TV. Scott recalled Mrs. Duwayne’s youthful air, the way her white fingers were so light and sure with Mozart, so savage and vengeful with Khatchaturian, which perhaps was as it should be but was nonetheless unexpected in view of her appearance, but he could recall very little of her husband’s technique or manner, Anthony Duwayne’s visage receding before that of his wife’s. Visually, he was forced to admit, it had been Celia’s show: she had worn a simple dark gown that boldly emphasized her figure, the white of her skin, and television lighting had brought out the delicate planes of her face, the fullness of her lips, the swell of breast. It was no wonder the beholder forgot her partner.

He found Grace eying him amusedly, and she said, Must have been a good show to send you back to it like that.

It wasn’t bad. He looked away, beyond her to one of the doors to the other rooms, then glanced at the kitchen wall clock. Twelve forty-five. He had come to meet the Duwaynes, not to talk all night with the hostess in the kitchen.

Knowing what he was thinking, and abandoning any effort to hold him any longer, she sighed and said, Since you haven’t had the pleasure, and she put a hand on his arm, it becomes my bounden duty to lead you to her—and thereby lose you forever.

2

Grace took his hand and Scott reluctantly allowed her to lead him like a child out into the bright room where people were, the sounds that had been muffled in the kitchen suddenly real and harsh and dissonant again: someone trying to make like Andre Previn on the Parmentier Steinway in the music room, an unsettling roar of laughter from another room, woman talk nearby, high and artificial. They snaked their way through the crowd, Mrs. Parmentier knowing where she was taking him and determined to see him there, elbowing and shouldering her way through, breaking up a tete-a-tete here, setting in dangerous motion hands bearing glasses there, causing heads to turn, cigarette ashes to fall to the bright coral rug the thick pile of which Scott could feel even as he answered greetings with a nod and what he hoped passed for a smile.

At the door to another room Grace paused to look over her shoulder to see if he was still there and Scott squeezed her hand hard to prove his hand had not come off at the wrist. It made her wince. Then they were through the door and its bone-white trim, into the room, a less brightly lighted room and one less peopled.

Scott would have known Celia Peerson even if he hadn’t been pulled directly toward her. She stood, the focus of attention of a group of men (and Scott thought I suppose she is always the center of such a group but why shouldn’t she be a woman as richly endowed as she a woman with whom most every man had at the