by P. N. Elrod
“Couldn’t it just be some kind of crazy static or an echo? Some scratches on the record?”
They shook their heads in unison.
“But it’s not all that clear.”
“Clear enough,” said Bobbi. “I thought you’d be happy about this.”
“Happy?”
“For proof of Myrna being here.”
“We get proof every time she plays with the lights! Doesn’t mean I wanna—”
“Jack,” Escott said evenly. “Before you get yourself in worse trouble with our resident revenant, I strongly suggest you shut the hell up.”
I suddenly noticed the room was on the chilly side. For me to pick up on that meant it had to be freezing. However, neither Bobbi nor Escott commented on the temperature drop. No sign of goose bumps or shivering showed from them. This must be how it felt when I invisibly clung to some hapless person. I used to think it was funny.
Bobbi addressed the air above her head. “He’ll come around, Myrna. He’s just tired and upset about some other stuff that happened tonight. Don’t take it personal.”
We waited, but the lights didn’t return.
“I wanna go home,” I said. “It’s late. Even for me. And that means really late.”
Bobbi gave a sympathetic smile. “You’re right. You sleep on it, then we’ll listen again tomorrow and see what you think.”
I didn’t want to think about anything for the next few weeks, much less tomorrow, not about Dugan, Bristow, and in particular Myrna the ghost. To tell the truth, she scared me more than the other two and all their friends and cousins combined. Until now she’d been interesting, amusing, but safe. Now she had a voice and an opinion.
“Best to lock the recording away,” said Escott after a moment. “We’ve a full day ahead.”
Bobbi brought out a flat cardboard box. She carefully lifted the record from the turntable and slipped it inside a paper sleeve, then into the box. “Open your safe, would you, Jack?”
That woke me up a little from my nonthinking, but not by much; it took longer than usual to twirl through the combination.
“There’s just enough room if you move that stuff over.”
I shoved tonight’s money envelope and receipts out of the way. For a fleeting moment I considered making the bank run on our way out. Nah. It could wait.
Bobbi slid the box into the safe at an angle. I returned the money and clanged the door shut, spinning the combination, then locking its “desk drawer” facade into place. That had been what Dugan tried picking open with his burgling tools. Those were safely separated from him, hidden in a closet in the Gladwell house.
But I was determined not to think about him or anything else until tomorrow night at sunset.
And maybe not even then.
NOT that I remembered sleeping, but I did feel better upon waking.
It had been one hell of a long night, and chances were the day had been the same. I’d prepared for it, bathing and shaving before retiring to my sanctuary, dressed except for my coat. That I’d hung over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen a couple of yards above. I didn’t want to go to bed with it on, not so much to spare it from wrinkles but me from imagining that I’d look too much like a dead guy laid out ready for his casket. Why else would you lie down fully dressed in your best clothes? Of course, no one was around to see, but I just didn’t like the idea of it.
Escott was at the kitchen table, pot of coffee before him along with an egg nestled in an egg cup. He had the top third of the shell off and scowled mightily at the innards.
“I timed it,” he said, not looking up at my appearance out of thin air. “I bought a special timer in order to get it right. I got the water to a rolling boil, and I watched it like a hawk for the correct length of time. So why in God’s name did the bloody thing come out overcooked?”
He didn’t really want an answer, not that I had one. I’d given up trying to learn the mysteries of cooking back in my college days. My gut feeling was the egg had been on the small side, but this wasn’t a discussion I wanted to get into.
“Did Bobbi call? Did you see Gordy? How is he?”
“Yes she did, and no we didn’t. He’s about the same as he was last night, which is no worse, so we’ll have to take that as being in his favor.” Escott gouged his spoon into his hardboiled snack and left the handle sticking up like a flag planted by a mountain climber. “I talked with Shoe, and he passed on that Dr. Clarson was cautiously optimistic. So far there is no sign of either wound going septic, and Gordy has been awake—briefly—and cogent. He’s very weak and in pain. The soporific he gets for it keeps him asleep most of the time, which is likely for the best. Gordy’s not to be moved. No visitors for now. Only Strome and Miss Taylor.”
“I’m going to need Strome along with me tonight.”
“I made that known to the gentleman. He had no comment.”
“He talks even less than Gordy.”
“Which says much about him.”
“Eat your egg. What is that? A really late breakfast?”
He worked the spoon back and forth, and mined a crumbling mouthful. “More or less. I stole a couple hours of sleep this morning, then went to see Mrs. Gladwell and her subterranean guest.”
“How’s that going?”
He chuckled. “Extremely well.”
“What happened?”
“Around six this morning Gilbert Dugan woke from the clout you gave him and raised the most unholy row if one can trust the butler’s and chauffeur’s recountings. Apparently our intellectually superior gentleman went quite shriekingly berserk once he realized his predicament. Ten minutes or so of this tired him to exhaustion. He’s loud but no stamina. This upset Vivi—Mrs. Gladwell, but—”
“Oh, jeez, Charles. Drop the front and call her Vivian. I know you like her.”
“Oh.” His ears went red, and he didn’t do anything but eat his egg for the next minute. “Well. Then.” When nothing remained of the egg but the shell, he put the spoon down and poured himself some coffee.
“Vivian was upset?” I prompted. God, some nights he was so damned English.
“Yes. She’s had something of a sheltered life, and to hear that sort of unvarnished panic and rage coming from a grown man in such close physical proximity was quite frightening. But she held out. When it concerns the welfare of her daughter, she’s adamantine.”
That was a relief. Neither of us wanted her caving in.
“I was there when she went down to tell him the terms of his imprisonment. He got very foul with her, which we took to mean that he understood everything perfectly. He demanded to see first you, then me. I took care not to announce my presence, thinking he’d talk more freely. She said we were away on business and would be gone for an indefinite period. She said it in such a way that he’d know it to be false. He then complained piteously about the tightness of his bonds. She explained to him that they had to be snug because of the padding. If he tore that out, the manacles would still fit, only with more chafing from the rough edges. She warned him against that, being unable to guarantee the cleanliness of the metal. If he cut himself, he might get a case of lockjaw and die.”
“Would he?”
“I really don’t know. I only bought the things. I didn’t inquire if they’d been sterilized.”
“Where did you buy them?”
“From a blacksmith.”
“He just had manacles lying around?”
“Yes. Along with horseshoes for the local farriers, he makes props for the stage, which is how I came to know him. He also runs a lucrative under-the-counter business for gentlemen with certain eclectic tastes that I shan’t go into.”
Fine, I’d ask more about the subject later.
“I stayed until luncheon, and heard how the butler and chauffeur dealt with their charge. They worked out a method so they need not ever step into the room to deliver his meals and pick up the remains.”
“What’s that?”
“The butler
found a coal shovel, the broad, flat kind. He cleaned it off and now puts the plates on it and pushes it only just within Dugan’s reach. He’s able to pull the plates off with his fingertips.”
“Sounds good. But what if Dugan makes a grab for the shovel?”
“They tied a very stout rope to the hand grip on the end. If by some mischance he should get hold of it, he would be in a tug of war against the chauffeur and the gardener, who are fit specimens. They gave me the impression they’d enjoy seeing him make the attempt.”
“I hope they don’t test it.”
“Oh, no, they appreciate that the point of all this is to get Dugan’s confession. There will be no larking about.”
“Any sign of a confession coming?”
“Not for now. But this is only the first day.”
A little disappointing but not unexpected. I’d hoped Dugan would crack right away, saving us all a load of trouble. Well, you can’t have everything. Sooner or later he’d break. The packed heaviness, the ringing silence of those thick concrete walls would work away at him, along with not seeing any sky. I’d talked with guys who had been in solitary, and it left them scarred inside. They’d been in far worse conditions than Dugan, but the principles were the same. Isolation, silence, and nothing to do. I sometimes felt a hint of it myself while waiting for the dawn to render me unconscious.
“He’ll capitulate. Eventually.” Escott put his coffee cup in the sink, then cleared away the eggshell and wiped the table. He didn’t know much cooking but could keep things hospital clean. “The last time I spoke with Vivian, he was in a sulk. His evening meal’s to be a curry. The flavor should disguise the taste of the sleeping pills the cook is to mix into his portion. With what’s going into his sweet pudding, he should sleep the night through with no incident. I wonder how he’ll manage without eating utensils?”
“He say anything useful?”
“No, but he did try to warn the house that you were a mortal danger to them.”
“What?” My nape hair went up. We’d discussed the possibility Dugan might play that card. I didn’t think he’d show it so soon.
“Not to worry. As soon as he worked up to revealing that you were a blood-drinking vampire, it only confirmed to all of them that he was a raving lunatic. If you are worried that any might take him seriously, then I’m sure one of your little ‘talks’ will sort things to your satisfaction.”
It seemed that an awful lot of people, myself included, were taking my acquired talent too much for granted. I was glad to have it, though. “Heard anything from Brockhurst?”
“No, but I’ve not been to the club or my own office today. I thought he wasn’t due until nine.”
“Yeah, I’m just nerved up.”
“It’s far too early in the evening for you to start that. While I’m thinking of it, I should call my answering service. There must be a perfect avalanche of messages piled up from the last few days. Also, Miss Taylor passed on a list of things she wanted from her flat, and Miss Smythe promised to have them ready at the club when we got there. I rather think she will insist on delivering them herself on the chance she can persuade the doctor to allow her at least a look through the door. One cannot blame her.”
Hell, I wanted a look for myself. “Anything from Strome?”
“Shoe didn’t mention him.”
“I gotta talk to him, find out what’s been going on with Bristow.”
“Of course. My answering service can wait a bit longer.”
I dialed a private upstairs number for the Shoe Box, Coldfield’s nightclub, and interrupted his supper. He had no news of Gordy showing much improvement.
“Doc says he’s holding his own. Best he can do is keep on resting,” he told me. “That Miss Taylor’s been watching him close. Hasn’t budged since you brought him in.”
“Is Strome still there?”
A heavy sigh that was more than half growl. “Yeah. Like a blister. Sure can tell he hates where he is. I think he’s scared shitless but putting up a show like he’s not.”
“What’s scaring him?”
“Miles and miles of brown skin.” Coldfield chuckled. “I think he’s afraid it’ll rub off. Isham hasn’t helped much.”
“What’s he done?”
“Nothing serious. Just made sure Strome got a big plate of fried chicken three times today, along with some collard greens and such. Lord knows where he found those. If he could have located a watermelon this time of year, he’d have cut the guy a big, smile-shaped slice.”
“He’s not treating Adelle the—”
“Oh, hell, no. Isham’s got better manners than that, but if someone’s got a goat to get, he can’t resist the challenge. That lady’s so wound up about Gordy she’s not touched any food at all.”
That decided me about bringing Bobbi along. She’d be able to make Adelle take care of herself. “I’m coming by soon. Have to pick Strome up for some work tonight. You hear anything about Bristow today?”
“Nothing. I’ve got my people keeping their eyes open, made some calls, and I know Strome’s done the same. Bristow’s yanked the hole in after him.”
“If he’s still in town. I’ll be at Clarson’s in an hour or so.”
“Pull around back.”
“No problem.”
ESCOTT followed in his own car as I drove to Lady Crymsyn, parking next to my spot in the lot. No rain tonight. A few puddles lingered in low spots of the paving, gradually shrinking in the cold wind. I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. If I’d just checked things more carefully last night . . .
What had I expected to see? A shooter standing up, gun extended like a duelist? That he’d have an arrow-shaped neon light blinking over his head saying, “Look here”? I should have—
“Jack ?” Escott paused on his way to the front.
“Yeah, coming.”
Bobbi must have seen us arrive; she unlocked the door. Sober clothes and a somber face, a brief smile for my kiss hello. Before she could ask, I relayed Shoe’s latest report on Gordy.
“I’ll take you over to see him,” I promised. “Adelle’s going to need a break, but I was hoping you could fill in for her here tonight.”
“I thought of that already. If you get me back in time, I can do it, but I’m warning you I’m in no mood for singing. I talked to Roland and told him we had an emergency. He said he and Faustine could start their weekend show early. We can call it a sneak preview or something.”
“You’re a genius.” I kissed her forehead. “Charles will manage the place tonight.”
“Does it require doing that announcement?” he asked. “Introducing them and such?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll want some lines to say.”
“What?”
“Lines. To speak.”
“You’re an actor, make something up.” I moved toward the stairs.
“Actor, yes, writer, no.”
I stopped moving toward the stairs. “But you’re used to being onstage.”
“Indeed I am, but I always had lines. Usually written by Shakespeare.”
“You don’t have lines when you’re in disguise and working a case.”
“That’s quite different. I’m pretending to be someone else.”
This was making my head hurt, and I hadn’t hypnotized anyone. Yet.
Bobbi waved one hand in my direction. “Oh, Charles. It’s easy. Just pretend to be Jack.”
He rounded on her, looking relieved. “What an excellent idea. Thank you.”
“Pretend to be—now just a damn min—”
“No problem. I took your place in the window last night. Felt like a turkey in a shooting galley, I tell ya.” His precise English accent was gone, replaced by . . . I don’t know what. It sure as hell wasn’t me.
“I sound like that? You’re nuts!”
“Brother, it’s close enough.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, parked his duff against a wall, and crossed one foot over the other. Bobbi giggled.
&n
bsp; “Oh, for God’s sake, I’ll write you something to say, just don’t expect any Shakespeare. And don’t go putting on my new white tux.”
“Ya sure? I’d look pretty snazzy.”
“Yeah, yeah. Now stop doing that.” Jeez, it was creepy.
He straightened into his normal posture. “Very well.”
Red-faced, Bobbi snickered all the way up to the office.
SHE’D recovered by the time I set the brake behind Clarson’s building. The alley was barely wider than the car and full of potholes deep enough to make me anxious about breaking an axle, but we were hidden from the street. The hour was still early, and people were out despite the wind. It sliced through my overcoat, an icy, arctic knife with a serrated blade. Bobbi visibly shook and made brr sounds as we climbed outside stairs to the second floor, and she still had some shaking left even after we got inside.
“Anything this cold should be illegal,” she muttered.
Clarson had opened the door for us and smiled. “I got a gas fire in my office if you need warming up.”
“Thanks, Doctor,” I said. “How are you?”
“Thawed and ready for the oven. How ’bout yourself?”
“Worried about Gordy.”
“There’s no change. No talking, but you can see him if you don’t mind wearing a sterile mask.”
Neither of us minded. I put down the small suitcase that belonged to Adelle and unbuttoned my coat. Bobbi also kept hers on but removed her gloves, hat, and a thick wool scarf. Clarson gave us each a white square of gauze with thin ties dangling from the corners. We knotted them into place, and he took us along the hall to a different room from his improvised operating theater. This one was furnished with a high, hospitalstyle bed, all white enamel with crank handles. Gordy’s unmoving form dwarfed it.
He was almost as white as the bed and lay completely inert. It hurt to see him like that. He seemed flattened. Frail. Like he wasn’t Gordy anymore. I could still smell blood, tainted by the miasma of a sickroom. Despite the cold, I wanted to open the window wide and flush the place clear. Gordy’s head and shoulders were partially obscured by an oxygen tent made out of thick cellophane. Maybe it insulated him from the smell.
