The Prophetic Camera Read online

Page 3

edge and stared.

  It was impossible. One car was an old sedan. The other, a sleekconvertible. An old man with blood-spattered white beard half-spilledfrom the sedan and on the glistening pavement lay a woman in eveningdress, surrounded by dozens of pearls.

  * * * * *

  From habit, Joey took the picture of the accident and delivered it toNugent. By the time he had developed his picture, he was beginning toenjoy the knowledge that it was an exact duplicate of the photograph inEwing's album.

  Only he and Ewing realized the power of Formula #53. It couldn't becoincidence. The details were too exact. Ewing's explanation was theonly one possible. And that meant the old boy wasn't crazy. The formulawas all he insisted.

  Such a formula could be a great force for good, the old man had said. Inthe right hands. In the hands of Joey Barrett.

  Joey decided to keep his secret. This was not a power to be shared withLeslie Nugent or anyone else. So, when he faced his editor again, he wascareful to dismiss the Ewing interview with just the proper degree ofcasualness.

  "There's no doubt about it," he said. "Ewing's a crackpot."

  Nugent scowled impatiently. "Even so...."

  "I tell you, if we run the story he gave me, we'll be laughed out ofbusiness." Joey watched Nugent closely.

  "But surely as a human interest yarn," the editor protested, "we'd bejustified."

  Joey shook his head. "He's an old crank, trying to build up his ego withthese phony claims."

  Nugent leaned back. "There was absolutely no basis for his theory?"

  "None." Joey laughed easily. "You should have seen the obvious trickphotos he tried to pass off as evidence. My advice is: forget JasonEwing."

  There was a long pause. Then, Nugent nodded. "All right. Thanks, Joey."He picked up a glossy of the accident. "You outdid yourself on thisone."

  Joey sauntered to the door. "The master's touch," he called. "I'll hityou for a raise later."

  Satisfied that Nugent considered the Ewing story dead, Joey left thepaper and hurried to a pay-phone.

  When Jason Ewing answered, there was a note of near-hysteria in hisvoice. He seemed frightened by Joey's interest and was extremelyreluctant to give him another interview.

  "I don't blame you for being irritated," Joey said. "I was very rude.But look, Mr. Ewing, now I see I was wrong. We can't talk about it onthe phone. All I want is a chance to see you again. Maybe tomorrow?"

  There was such a long pause that Joey thought Ewing had broken theconnection. Then, he heard the old man sigh.

  "I ... I don't know what to say," Ewing faltered. "In the light of ...of recent developments, I think it would be unwise to involve you, Mr.Barrett."

  Joey laughed. "Listen, this is the break of a lifetime for me. How abouttomorrow morning at nine?"

  "Tomorrow." The one word was neither affirmation nor question.

  But Joey chose to interpret it as agreement. "See you in the morning atnine, Mr. Ewing," he said, and hung up quickly.

  * * * * *

  Joey slept little that night. He was up early, gulped a hasty breakfast,and stood on the steps at Ewing's house at five minutes to nine.

  Again, as on the day before, he had to ring the bell twice before thedoor opened and the wrinkled face showed itself. He was shocked by thechange in Ewing. The man seemed much older and there was a haunting fearin the blue eyes.

  "It would have been wiser," the old man whispered, "if you had not comehere again--for us not to have met."

  Joey was determined to be charming. He put his hand on the thin old armand gently pushed Ewing into the entry hall. "I don't blame you forbeing bitter," he said, closing the door. "I was a fool yesterday."

  Ewing pulled free and moved agitatedly into the living-room. Even themorning sun made no impression on the shadows there.

  The old man didn't look at Joey. "You were right," he said. "It would bebetter to forget the formula."

  Joey fought down his impatience. He tried to move smoothly, keep hisvoice calm. "No. You mustn't think that. You can't be selfish. You saidyourself, Mr. Ewing, that this knowledge could do great good."

  The quiet persuasiveness of Joey's approach seemed cause for furtheralarm. "I said that, but since then ... I ... I see that it might alsodo great harm."

  He tottered away from Joey and slumped tiredly into the chair by thetable.

  "Mr. Ewing," Joey said, following him, "yesterday I saw one of yourpictures come to life."

  Ewing did not look up. "I know. The accident at the corner. I was afraidyou had seen it."

  "Afraid!" Joey laughed. "That was the clincher." He leaned over the oldman. "Listen, Mr. Ewing, the second I saw that wreck, I realized what wehave in Formula #53. I want to help you make use of it--the proper use."

  The old man shook his head. "I'm afraid," he whimpered.

  Joey ignored the interruption. "We'll work this together. If we play itsmart, the sky's the limit. We can be millionaires. Name our ownprices." He laughed in his excitement. "They'll meet our demands whenthey see what we've got to offer."

  Ewing had slowly pushed himself to his feet. He regarded Joey with mixedapprehension and disgust. "You ... you can't commercialize mydiscovery," he protested. "I wouldn't permit the formula to be used forpersonal gain."

  "Not just MY gain. You and me together." Joey looked at the red-plushphoto album and rubbed his hands. "I'll bet we got pictures in thatalbum worth a hundred grand."

  Abruptly, Ewing stepped past Joey and seized the album. He cradled it inhis arms. "That's out of the question." He tottered toward thefireplace. "Mr. Barrett," he pleaded, "I beg you to go now."

  Anger simmered in Joey--anger and frustration. "All right," he said,forcing himself to be reasonable. "Those are your pictures." He facedEwing at the fireplace. "But if I take some, will you give me theformula so I can develop them?"

  Stubbornly, the old man shook his head.

  "What IS the formula?" Joey demanded.

  "I've never written it down." Ewing clutched the red-plush photo albumwith one hand and gestured imploringly with the other. "Mr. Barrett,every moment you stay here, you jeopardize us both. Leave now. Please.Forget we ever met ... that you ever heard of Formula #53."

  "Forget!" Joey's hands clenched and unclenched in mounting desperation."You can't start a guy on a thing like this, Ewing, and then tell him toforget it!" For a long second, they stared at each other. Ewing wasbreathing heavily and perspiration beaded the parchment face.

  * * * * *

  Joey tried another tactic: "Look ... if you don't want to give me theformula, at least let me have a few of the pictures in that album.Whatever I get out of them, I'll split with you." He reached outtentatively.

  Ewing shrank back. "Go away. Let me alone. There's nothing in the album.I burned the pictures."

  "You're lying!" The thought of the money the old fool had thrown awaycut into Joey like a knife. "You wouldn't do a crazy thing like that."

  "Only two left. Should have burned them."

  Panic seized Joey. He grabbed at the red-plush album. "I don't believeyou. Let me see."

  Ewing held onto the book with the tenacity of an aged crab. "Youmustn't," he croaked. "You're destroying yourself. Don't."

  But the old man's stubborn and futile resistance stoked the smoulderingfires of Joey's anger. He gripped one corner of the coveted trophy withhis left hand, and with his right, gave Ewing a vicious shove.

  With a rattling cry, the old man staggered back and fell with a clatterinto the fireplace.

  The book was in Joey's hand. He didn't look at Ewing. The clasp was notlocked. Feverishly, he opened the heavy cover. The truth took his breathaway. Ewing hadn't lied. The pages were empty. He had burned thepictures. The crazy old fool!

  But he had said there were two pictures left. Joey thumbed hastilythrough the empty album till he reached the first of the remainingpictures.

  He cried out.

 
It was a self-portrait of Ewing. He lay sprawled on the floor before thefireplace, blue eyes staring up at the ceiling, blood smearing histemple and one of the massive brass andirons.

  Joey dropped the album on the table and slowly turned. He closed hiseyes. "Oh, God!" he whispered. "No! No!"

  Like a sleep-walker, he moved to the silent figure, knelt, searched invain for pulse or heart-beat. There was none. Jason Ewing was dead.

  Joey stared at the