Curtain for a Jester Read Free

God!” The door opened, and a man stood before them, carrying his head under his arm. The carried head spoke, its lips moving. “Killed her, that’s what,” the head said. “Killed all of them.” Then the scream was repeated. “Do you want to come in?” the head enquired, and bowed at them. Arthur Monteath, again, said, “My God.”
    â€œMr. Wilmot is expecting us,” Pamela North told the head, which said, “Then I suppose you’ll have to come in.”
    The body which held the head stepped back and a plump man beamed at them across a small foyer. The plump man looked at three faces and laughed resoundingly. He held both hands against his chest and laughed. When he was able, the plump man said, “Gives you a start, doesn’t it?” The scream came again, and came from a portable record player on a table just inside the door. “Turn it off, Frank,” Byron Wilmot said. “Set it again.”
    The body put its head on a table, and moved to the record player. “Sees through his shirt front,” Wilmot said. “Quite an effect, eh?”
    He came across the foyer, then, holding out both hands. He said, “Delighted, Mrs. North, Mr. North” and then, heartily slapped Arthur Monteath on the back and said, as heartily, “Good old Artie.” Monteath, for an instant, looked as if he doubted it, doubted everything. “How’s the boy?” Wilmot demanded. “Good old striped-pants Artie?”
    Monteath made a sound without words. Then he said, “Nice to see you, Wilmot.” He paused. “Quite a welcome,” he added, and was told he hadn’t seen the half of it. Wilmot then seemed to encircle the three of them, absorbing them across the foyer, into a big, oblong room with three sides almost altogether of glass. There were many people in the room. Some danced to music which seemed to pour from the solid wall; others stood with drinks, sat with drinks. They were people to be met.
    They were met. They had names; they smiled; they were delighted—and Pam North was delighted, and Jerry charmed and Arthur Monteath suave. He’s remembering all the names, Pam thought, and I’m not and Jerry isn’t. There was a man named Jenkins (or Jameson?) who said to Pam, “I’ve heard of you, haven’t I?” and a pretty, dark girl in a strapless white dress-could her name really be Writheman?—who said, “Dear Mr. Wilmot gives such wonderful parties, doesn’t he?” But the man who might be named Jenkins did not wait to be told whether he had heard of Mrs. North and the girl said, “Oh Tommy, of course ” before Pam could agree that Mr. Wilmot seemed to, certainly, and was gone to Tommy for a dance.
    The man named Frank, who was now wearing his own inconspicuous head, was beside Pamela North with a tray of filled glasses and thrust it at her. Then as she said, “Scotch and water, please,” the tray seemed to slip from his fingers and the glasses cascaded to the green-tiled floor. But from the floor they merely bounced, their contents no more liquid than Frank’s carried head had been his own. Everybody laughed, except one gray-haired woman who gasped and seemed about to scream. But then she smiled instead.
    Mr. Wilmot laughed harder than anyone. His pink face became a red face with merriment. But he said, “Get some real drinks, Frank.”
    â€œGet ’em yourself, Wilmot,” Frank said, but that was funny, too, and Frank did get the drinks. Jerry’s was in a glass which, whatever one did, dribbled its contents to the chin and Monteath’s glass appeared to be melting drunkenly to one side. Both smiled politely and made the best of things.
    â€œTo all fools,” Wilmot said, holding up his glass, raising his voice. “‘Laugh and the world laughs—’”
    But the world did not laugh. There was the woman’s scream again, rising