The Intruder Read online

  Also available by Charles Beaumont

  The Hunger and Other Stories

  A Touch of the Creature

  THE INTRUDER

  CHARLES BEAUMONT

  with a new introduction by

  ROGER CORMAN

  VALANCOURT BOOKS

  First published by G. P. Putnam’s Sons in 1959

  First Valancourt Books edition 2015

  Copyright © 1959 by Charles Beaumont, renewed 1987

  Introduction copyright © 2015 by Roger Corman

  Published by Valancourt Books, Richmond, Virginia

  http://www.valancourtbooks.com

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the copying, scanning, uploading, and/or electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

  Cover by Ronald Clyne

  INTRODUCTION

  Long before The Intruder I was aware of Charles Beaumont as a unique writing talent. I had read with interest and delight his short stories and profiles in Playboy magazine, and, soon after, hired him to write several screenplays for me. The films were based on classic works by Edgar Allan Poe and Chuck captured the tone of each story beautifully. We developed an excellent working relationship and I was pleased when he gave me a copy of what he considered to be his first serious novel. I knew that Chuck’s interests covered a wide and varied spectrum; he knew about art and music, he read voraciously, he raced cars in his spare time. He always seemed to pack twice the amount of living into his days as anyone I knew. And then he would sit down and put it all into his stories, and especially into his characters.

  When I read The Intruder, I saw that Chuck had done something remarkable. He had written a socially conscious, “political” story, but he had managed to write it in such a way that it avoided the usual pitfalls that accompany these types of stories. Many socially­ oriented novels slip easily out of “story” and into “lecture;” that’s usually when most readers surrender to a yawn and close the cover, never to return. But Chuck had created characters that pulled you in and compelled you to live the story through them.

  The integration of schools in the South was a new and very dangerous idea back in the 1950s. There were so many tendrils of hatred and prejudice that it was extremely difficult to find a way into the subject that didn’t put up a wall of controversy between the reader and the story. But just as Harper Lee seduced an audience into a “political” story by creating Atticus Finch and letting him lead the way, Chuck created Adam Cramer; bright, charming, deeply caring and dangerously seductive. Cramer was a pied piper with a dark agenda hidden from view. He was a character so complex, so rich, so interesting that I couldn’t help but follow him wherever he went.

  I was impressed enough that I told Chuck I wanted to purchase the rights and turn the novel into a film. The subject matter was such a “hot button” that I couldn’t get financing from any of my usual sources, despite the success of my other films. So my brother and I mortgaged our houses and put up the money ourselves. I decided to shoot the film in Missouri, thinking it was far enough north to keep us safe. I was wrong. I learned that one didn’t have to go all the way to Alabama or Mississippi to feel the simmering racism that existed in the country at that time. We had to “shoot and run”—filming our scenes quickly and then moving to a new location before the locals learned the subject matter of our story. The danger was real and I remember telling the cast (which included Chuck as the High School Principal) and the crew to pack up early on the last day of shooting. I wanted to be ready to go as soon as we got the last shot. The scene was of a Ku Klux Klan rally through the streets of a small town and the residents were asking some very uncomfortable questions. The moment I yelled “cut!” “print!!” on that last shot, everyone raced to their car and drove, nonstop, all the way back to St. Louis!

  The movie turned out to be ahead of its time. It was a critical success—earning great reviews across the country—but not a commercial hit. We all learned how perilous it can be to hold a mirror up to the darker angels of our national character.

  But, financial success or not, I remain extremely proud of the film. We stayed very close to the structure and the characters of the novel, and the film worked just as well as I thought it would.

  It’s sad that, in many ways, the “political” subject matter of The Intruder still has resonance today, more than fifty years later. While some progress has indeed been made, racism and prejudice are with us still. But it is this reality that makes it all the more important that The Intruder is now being reissued, giving a new generation of readers a chance to experience Adam Cramer and the complex motives he so charmingly presents.

  I invite those readers to experience what I experienced all those years ago: the thrill of discovering a novel well written, and a cast of characters that illuminate the hidden corners of the human spirit.

  Roger Corman

  April 2015

  Roger Corman is one of the most influential filmmakers in cinematic history. Almost singlehandedly creating the low-budget and genre film, he has produced more than 400 films, the most famous of which are his Edgar Allan Poe cycle starring Vincent Price. In 2010 he received an Academy Award in honor of his filmmaking career.

  This book is gratefully dedicated to

  JOHN TOMERLIN

  What is it that makes a man reject reason and turn his face against the tide of history, enslave himself to a lost and discredited cause, rationalize his way into a course that can only shame his nation and leave for his progeny a legacy of ridicule? . . . How do you talk men into challenging the courts, the federal government and all the power that lies behind them, when these men know that they cannot win, because they tried it almost a century ago, when the battle was at closer odds, and they could not win?

  —Carl T. Rowan,

  Go South to Sorrow

  The Intruder

  Adam Cramer, Adam Cramer,

  A strong young man were he,

  He come from California

  To fight for Liberty!

  FRAGMENT OF A FOLK BALLAD

  1

  He couldn’t sleep on buses—he’d made up his mind about that long ago—but he was sleeping now and this annoyed him. There was something shameful in it (did Hannibal doze on the way to Saguntum?), something frightening, too. The movement of the bus, he told himself, was responsible. All this plunging and dipping, and the fact that he’d been awake for thirty hours or more. Still; it wasn’t right.

  The lids of his eyes came apart, snapped shut against the hot and burning light. He fought, sluggishly, but the heat pressed in and the giant black wheels kept turning beneath him and the seat kept rocking . . .

  “Caxton next!”

  He sat up, stiffly, in the seat and looked about. There were four other people with him. An old man in a stained gray suit, a woman of indeterminate age, a young boy, and the driver. The woman was smiling. She had been watching him. He returned the smile.

  Outside, the rolling blue-green mountains swept by, and soon restaurants and gas stations began to dot the road. A sign loomed up and disappeared:

  WELCOME TO CAXTON

  A GREAT PLACE TO LIVE!

  And then the bus crossed a small bridge, turned right off the highway, and slowed. At a restaurant, the big orange-and-white machine groaned wearily to a stop. Dust swirled around its wheels.

  “Caxton.”

  He lifted his suitcase off the rack, said “Thank you” to the driver and stepped out into the blazing afternoon. The bus groaned again, pulled
back to the street. Soon it was out of sight.

  He stood in front of the restaurant for a moment, his eyes roving across the drab, unlovely town, across the gray rows of grocery stores and cafés and cleaning establishments and offices and churches, all so quiet now; across the slowly moving people, also gray, also quiet.

  Then he transferred the cardboard suitcase to his other hand and began to walk.

  He asked a large man in overalls where a good hotel was. The man told him, “Up George to the tracks. The Union. It’s a nice place.”

  He thanked the man and walked to the rotting railroad-tan depot and paused. He brushed the lank strands of hair from his eyes and opened the glass door of the Union Hotel.

  Three women sat on a red leather couch. They glanced up without interest and returned to the television program they’d been watching. The sound was turned high, but the loudspeaker was bad and it was difficult to understand what was being said. In a chair by the wall sat a middle-aged man in a blue sports shirt, dozing.

  There was no one behind the desk. He set down his suitcase and peered into the long hall. It was empty.

  A big clock hung silent on the wall, its hands lodged at ten-fifteen.

  He cleared his throat loudly, but nothing happened, so he went to the couch. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said softly to one of the women, “I hate to interrupt you, but there doesn’t seem to be a desk clerk around.”

  The woman looked up. “You want a room?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well,” she said, nodding her head toward the sleeping man, “that’s Billy there. Give him a push.”

  He hesitated.

  “Never mind,” the woman said, “it’s the commercial, anyway.” She strained to her feet, walked over to the desk and brought the flat of her hand down on a rusted call-bell. “Billy!” The man mumbled something. “Billy, now. Well, that’s the way it is. You just hold on and I’ll get Mrs. Pearl Lambert.”

  The woman went into the hall and knocked on one of the doors. It opened, and there was a muffled conversation; presently another woman came out.

  She was extremely short, perhaps not quite five feet tall, and her face was parchmented and wrinkled, but there was a definite swing to her stride. She had on a thin kimono.

  “I’m Mrs. Pearl Lambert,” she said. “I was cooling off in my room, looking at the TV.” She smiled at the first woman, who had resumed her station on the couch. “Thank you, Luce. Billy I think would sleep through a three-alarm fire. But he’s a good boy, he helps me around the place a lot.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Well, now. I suppose you’re after a room.” The little woman stepped behind the desk and opened a drawer. “Our singles run three and a half dollars a night, depending how long you plan to stay with us.”

  “I think I’ll be here quite a while, Mrs. Lambert.”

  “Over a week?”

  “Oh, I think longer than that. Probably several months.”

  The woman’s eyes gleamed. “Then the charge is two-fifty. We always reduce it for our temporary permanent guests.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “It’s just fair, that’s all. We like to be fair in this town. Why should a temporary permanent guest have to pay as much as the people that just flit in and out?” She found a dusty registration card, pushed it forward.

  He wrote: Adam Cramer; paused; listed the Union Hotel, Caxton, as his address.

  “I’ll put you in number twenty-five. That’s upstairs.” The woman thumped her fist on the call-bell six times. “Billy!”

  The middle-aged man awoke with a start, looked around, got up. “Yes, Mrs. Lambert? I was just resting.”

  “I thought you’d taken root. Billy, this is Mr. Cramer. He’s going to be with us for a while.”

  The middle-aged man blushed. “I’m proud to know you, Mr. Cramer.”

  “Go on up to twenty-five,” the woman said, “and get it aired out. And see if Mabel dusted, too.”

  “Yes’m.”

  “That boy,” the woman chuckled. She plucked a key from the pigeonhole. “It’ll only take a minute; I wouldn’t want you to step into a dusty room. Mabel’s a good little old worker, but sometimes she gets forgetful. I have to keep after her. But then, I ought to have something to do around here.”

  The ladies on the couch laughed, suddenly, in unison. Through the blizzard of white specks on the television screen, a cowboy with a guitar bowed.

  “You’re welcome to come down here and watch the TV any time,” Mrs. Pearl Lambert said.

  “That would be nice.” The heat had soaked into his clothes now, and perspiration dripped into his collar.

  “I suppose you’re a salesman.”

  “No. Do I look like a salesman?”

  “Not exactly. But that and railroad men are about all we ever get in Caxton. And I know you ain’t a railroad man.”

  The little woman cocked her head to one side. “It’s not a solitary bit of my business,” she said, “but what line are you in, anyway?”

  “You might call me a social worker, Mrs. Lambert,” he said.

  The three women on the couch laughed again.

  “I’m here to do what I can for the town. I read about your difficulties.”

  “What difficulties is that?”

  “The integration issue, Mrs. Lambert.”

  “Oh?” The woman stared. “But that’s all over, I mean, they got twelve nigras enrolled at the school already, it says in the paper. Starting up Monday.”

  “Do you think it’s right?”

  “Right? You mean right? No, I sure don’t, and neither does nobody. But it’s the law.”

  “Whose law?”

  The little woman thought a while and shrugged. “I’m not too good on politics, y’see, but Mr. McDaniel says there’s nothing we can do about it and that’s that.”

  “Who is Mr. McDaniel?”

  “He’s the editor over to the Messenger. A fine man, too; his wife’s mother and I were best friends until she died. He thinks letting the nigras in is the worst thing that could happen, and it was him and Mr. Shipman and Mr. Satterly, who’s the Mayor, that got Mr. Paton and the other people on the school board to complain to the Governor. I mean, he’s against the whole thing, just like everybody, but the law is the law, he says, and so there ain’t no more to it.”

  The man called Billy appeared.

  “It’s as clean as a whistle, ma’am,” he said. “She dusted everywhere except behind the bed, and I dusted there myself, so it’s all right, I guess. He can go on up.”

  Mrs. Pearl Lambert began to walk quickly toward the staircase. “Just follow me, mister. You want Billy to tote your suitcase?”

  “No, it isn’t heavy. That’s all right.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They marched up the creaking stairs, up into an utterly airless landing. There was a table, buried under magazines, and a large pot with a fern growing out of it. The wallpaper was stained and faded to a neutral gray.

  “It ain’t too fancy, but we keep our rooms clean and you can open a window, if you like.”

  “It looks fine to me,” he said.

  They stopped in a black alcove; the little woman kept nodding as she fumbled for the doorknob. The door opened and they went into a large room.

  It was surprisingly light, with cream-colored walls and ceiling, a green rug, and two lamps with white cloth shades. The bed was huge and old; a thick, lumpy mattress on a foundation of iron, covered by a much-laundered bright yellow spread. There was a dresser and a steel closet that looked, somehow, like a filing cabinet.

  “This is your bath here. The shower doesn’t work, I don’t know why—I’ve had Crawford fix it a dozen times; but the tub is new calked and we have plenty of good hot water.”

  He started to put his suitcase on the bed, set it down on the floor instead. “It’s just fine, Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “Really.”

  “I’ll have Mabel put you in a radio tomo
rrow when that couple moves out of twenty-one.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take care of the room myself, though, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, I don’t see anything wrong about that, I guess. But what about your towels and sheets?”

  “When I need new ones, I’ll come downstairs and let you know.”

  “Mr. Cramer—” The woman looked at him closely. “I hope there ain’t going to be any trouble or anything like that.”

  “Trouble?” He smiled. “Absolutely not. I just want some privacy, that’s all.”

  “Well, don’t think Mabel’s gonna cry about it. You’ll be her favorite­ guest!”

  He took the old woman’s hand in his and smiled. “I really do appreciate it, Mrs. Lambert,” he said. “And if you’re up tonight, maybe we can watch the mystery together.”

  “I’ll be up. It’s too blame hot to sleep, anyway.”

  “Fine.”

  The woman nodded, checked the room with her eyes, and went out.

  He waited for the sound of the footsteps to disappear, then he turned the key in the lock, went to the window and pulled down the shades.

  The heat was stifling; not really moist, yet it permeated the room, drawing moisture from every pore of his body. He whipped his coat off, widened the loop of the military-stripe tie and lifted it over his head; tore loose his sodden blue shirt and hurled it onto the bed; scattered his clothes as if they were contaminated.

  The water pipes bucked loudly when he turned on the cold faucet, and for a while an orange fluid seeped out of the crusted metal; then the water flowed in a limp stream. He opened the cardboard suitcase and got out an electric shaver. He looked in the bathroom for a socket, but there was none; so he unplugged one of the lamps and connected the razor there.