Free The Collection by Fredric Brown Page B

the wailing, sighing, screaming notes, as he hurled pavement-ward,
the weird melody inspired by the whirling color scene of the street and
sidewalk and people watching in horrified fascination, watching him, Dooley
Hanks, and hearing The Sound, his sound, as it built into a superb fortissimo,
the grand finale of his greatest solo—the harsh final note as his body slammed
into the sidewalk and fused flesh, blood and splintered bone with concrete,
forcing a final, glorious expulsion of breath through the clarinet just before
it left his lifeless fingers. But he'd saved himself by turning back and running
for the exit and the elevator.
    He didn ' t want to die. He'd have to keep
reminding himself of that. No other price would be too great to pay.
    He was well into town now. In an old section with dark, narrow
streets and ancient buildings. The fog curled in from the river like a giant
serpent hugging the street at first, then swelling and rising slowly to blot
and blur his vision. But through it, across the cobbled street, he saw a
lighted hotel sign, Linter den Linden. A pretentious name for so small a
hotel, but it looked inexpensive and that was what he wanted. It was
inexpensive all right and he took a room and carried his haversack up to it. He
hesitated whether to change from his walking clothes to his good suit, and
decided not to. He wouldn't be looking for an engagement tonight; tomorrow
would be time for that. But he ' d carry his clarinet, of course; he
always did. He hoped he ' d find a place to meet other musicians,
maybe be asked to sit in with them. And of course he'd ask them about the best
way to obtain a gig here. The carrying of an instrument case is an automatic
introduction among musicians. In Germany, or anywhere.
    Passing the desk on his way out he asked the clerk—a man who
looked fully as old as the hostelry itself—for directions toward the center of
town, the lively spots. Outside, he started in the direction the old man had
indicated, but the streets were so crooked, the fog so thick, that he was lost
within a few blocks and no longer knew even the direction from which he had
come. So he wandered on aimlessly and in another few blocks found himself in an
eerie neighborhood. This eeriness, without observable cause, unnerved him and
for a panicked moment he started to run to get through the district as fast as
he could, but then he stopped short as he suddenly became aware of music in the
air—a weird, haunting whisper of music that, after he had listened to it a long
moment, drew him along the dark street in search of its source. It seemed to be
a single instrument playing, a reed instrument that didn't sound exactly like
a clarinet or exactly like an oboe. It grew louder, then faded again. He looked
in vain for a light, a movement, some clue to its birthplace. He turned to
retrace his steps, walking on tiptoe now, and the music grew louder again. A
few more steps and again it faded and Dooley retraced those few steps and
paused to scan the somber, brooding building. There was no light behind any
window. But the music was all around him now and—could it be coming up from
below? Up from under the sidewalk?
    He took a step toward the building, and saw what he had not
seen before. Parallel to the building front, open and unprotected by a railing,
a flight of worn stone steps led downward. And at the bottom of them, a yellow
crack of light outlined three sides of a door. From behind that door came the
music. And, he could now hear, voices in conversation.
    He descended the steps cautiously and hesitated before the
door, wondering whether he should knock or simply open it and walk in. Was it,
despite the fact that he had not seen a sign anywhere, a public place? One so
well-known to its habitues that no sign was needed? Or perhaps a private party
where he would be an intruder?
    He decided to let the question of whether the door would or
would not turn out to be locked against him answer that question.