He held up one hand. “I’ll stick with the shrimp-paste, if you don’t mind. The potted ham reminds me too much of Army food. We ate potted ham for dinner six days out of seven when I was in the Army.”
“As you like,” said Poppy, replacing the plate she held and exchanging it for the one with shrimp-paste, extending it in Loring’s direction.
Loring took the next-to-last one, nodding his thanks; he addressed Esther. “How long do you plan to be gone Miss Thornton?”
“Five to six months, weather permitting—it could be a bit longer,” she said. “I’m relieved that Poppy will be here in my absence.”
“No more than I am,” said Poppy.
“If I could persuade the National Geographic Society to lease me an aeroplane—I did so in Siberia—I could accomplish more than I can by taking boats up the river, but they’re worried I’ll crash and be stranded.” Esther snorted contemptuously. “They’re fools, all of them. As if I could not be stranded in a boat!”
Loring was about to say something, but changed his mind and had another sip of rum; then he said, “The Amazon is a long river: how far are you going?”
“I’d like to go to all the way to Iquitos, but that may not be possible, the way things stand now.” She stood up. “And I need to get back to working out the finances and supplies. It’s good to see you, Inspector. I trust your current inquiries will be successful. If you’ll excuse me?” Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.
“An astonishing woman, your Aunt Esther,” Loring said. “It must be the very devil to keep up with her.”
“I wouldn’t even try. I only hope I can be half so hale and hearty when I’m her age,” said Poppy, a hint of wistfulness about her.
“You’ll be marvelous at her age,” Loring told her, his ears turning red, and bit into his sandwich.
“Why, thank you Loring,” Poppy said playfully, as if she thought he had been teasing her, which she did not, but she could not bring herself to acknowledge the compliment in any other way.
The floor lamp flickered again, and this time both Poppy and Loring noticed it. For several seconds neither of them spoke.
At last Poppy said, “Spooks,” before she picked up her coffee cup, satisfied that she had, for once, been honest about Holte’s presence.
Loring stopped chewing. “If you say so.”
THIRTY-SIX
BLESSING WAS ON THE NIGHT-TRAIN FROM BUDA-PEST TO BRNO, LEAVING Bratislava at one-forty a.m. with stops at Malacky and Kuty before Brno; he had reserved an upper berth and was trying to stay asleep as the train made its way north; the man in the bunk beneath him was snoring vigorously, as if in hope of orchestral accompaniment. To make matters worse, portions of the track were in need of repair, and the train took those stretches slowly, swaying erratically; it would therefore arrive later than the posted 5:10 a.m. time, for which Blessing was grateful; he would be able to get breakfast without a long wait. The greatest difficulty was proving to be falling asleep in the swaying bunk. He wadded his pillow into a new shape and tried to get his mind to quiet—images of GAD in a cell worried at him like a dog at a bone, along with the problems that might well lie ahead—but so far had little success. Just as he began to doze, there was a gathering of what might be smoke at the foot of his bunk, and an ill-defined form took shape.
“Sorry to wake you,” said Chesterton Holte.
“What are you doing here?” Blessing grumped at him.
“I want to ride along with you, to find out if, and why, GAD Pearse is in jail,” said Holte.
“Sweet Jesus, spare me,” Blessing muttered.
“I understand that you and Inspector Loring have exchanged telegrams,” Holte said, paying no notice to Blessing’s annoyance.
“Yes,” Blessing said quietly. “I telegraphed the parents immediately afterward, informing them that I was going to Brno on a lead, and that if it proved accurate, I would telegraph them again by evening. Loring was right to suggest that I give them no additional information. I haven’t met Sherman Pearce, but I can tell that he is an absolutist, as many wealthy men are. He reminds me of Colonel Haycroft.” Ghost and investigator shared a shudder at the mention of Haycroft’s name. “Pearse is bad-tempered to boot,” Holte said when he had put the obnoxious colonel out of his thoughts. “Don’t mind my tagging along. I want to be able to keep Miss Thornton apprised of my progress, and following you will make it much easier for me to do that. I may even be of some use to you, incorporeal though I may be. For example, locked doors are no barrier to me, which might provide opportunities you can’t manage on your own.” He hung near the ceiling of the bunk compartment, hardly more visible than the pale shine emitted by the small night-light above Blessing’s head. “Miss Thornton is somewhat acquainted with GAD, and it may be that her name will be useful if you make direct contact with the lad; it would lessen the stigma of working for his father.”
This last awakened Blessing completely. “How does she know him?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice low; from the bunk below came a stentorian crescendo of snores, and Blessing motioned Holte to be silent.
“Only you can hear me,” Holte reminded him when the noise started to lessen. “If it helps, I won’t raise my voice.”
“But I can’t hear you over that.” Blessing waited until the honks and buzzes quieted, then repeated his question and waited for Holte’s answer. “That’s better. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me that couldn’t wait until morning?”
This abrupt question did not bother Holte. “Miss Thornton’s family socialized with GAD’s when they were children. Poppy is roughly six years older than GAD, and I understand he had a crush on her when he was a boy—may still do, for all I know. You should mention that she’s a reporter with the Philadelphia Clarion now, when you speak to GAD, and is in a position to plead his case publicly, if that’s what GAD wants. He might find a reference to her more reassuring than the knowledge that his parents are looking for him, which I would guess he knows.” He gave Blessing a little time to take this in, and then continued. “You might also want to mention GAD’s sister, Genevieve. She’s more like him than most of his family, and seems more sympathetic to his actions than some of the others.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” said Blessing, and yawned. “Is there anything else that you feel can’t wait, or may I—”
Holte rushed ahead with the last of his news. “The Pearses are going to be talking to Arnold Schultz; he recently retired from the American Department of State—and incidentally, is a friend of Poppy’s Aunt Esther. I’ve heard that he’s fluent in German; I don’t know about Czech, but apparently, he has had experience in this part of Europe, and will be set to twisting some arms come Monday morning. If he is as capable as most think he is, there may be ripples as far as Brno.”
“That could be inconvenient, if there is more going on than I’ve learned thus far; local police don’t like being interfered with,” said Blessing. “I’ll bear that in mind, too.” He moved his pillow so that he could raise his head. “Is there anything else?”
“I have a few questions for you, if it’s all right,” Holte told him, his manner pragmatic. “Your answers may make it possible for me to go ahead and…um… shorten the length of time you will need to gain access to GAD.”
“And how do you plan to do that? You’re noncorporeal, or have you forgot that?” Blessing yawned suddenly. “Pardon.”
“No, I haven’t,” Holte said amiably. “I plan to use it to my advantage. If I can discover where GAD is being held, I can provide you that information, so that if officials try to give you the run-around, you can cut them short; they may try to claim that they don’t know where he has been detained, and therefore require you to wait a day or two before speaking to him. You can tell them a colleague found out where GAD is, which, technically, is true.”
“That would be useful, I’ll admit,” said Blessing, yawning once again. “What do you need to know?”
“First,
do you know if GAD is still with the Living Spectres, the group around Ahram Avaikian, the Armenian Orthodox priest? In his last letter home, he said that he was.” It was moments like this when Holte missed the ability to take notes; he concentrated on Blessing’s answer in the hope of remembering it accurately.
“That’s difficult to say. I understand that some of the group has remained near Vienna—a few of them have work, and would rather stay where they can make a living than give up the little security they have. The rest, according to those left behind, are hoping to find work in the forests around Brno, logging and clearing brush, that sort of thing. Avaikian has said that he is certain they will be welcome there.” Blessing yawned again. “My translator wasn’t so sure about it. He thinks that Armenians will have difficulties in most places.”
“How do you rate your translator’s understanding of the Armenians’ situation?” Holte moved a little nearer the head of the bunk.
“He did his job well, and has had a fair amount of dealings with the Living Spectres; I gather he knows whereof he speaks; his German was quite good, his English a little less so. Assuming GAD is in Brno, that would suggest he’s connected to the group or has accompanied them this far, which provides a place to start. We must aspire to being worthy of the help of those in local government.”
Holte knew from his living experience that when Blessing’s speech got flowery, it meant that he was becoming nettled, so he asked only one more thing. “Is there any reason to suppose that GAD has left them?”
“Not that I know of,” said Blessing, and pummeled his pillow back under his head. “If you don’t mind? I’ll have to be awake in a few hours, and at my age, I need to rest before I undertake to address local officials.”
“Sleep well. I’ll see you at the station when you arrive,” said Holte, and slid out of the train to leave it behind him as he sped north, arriving in Brno a short while later; he circled the old part of the small city, trying to get the layout of the main buildings.
The Town Hall was fairly obvious, facing the largest church across a broad market-square, with formidable stone buildings flanking it. Four wide streets converged there; there was also a lattice-work of narrow alleys surrounding the old buildings. Surely, Holte thought, the jail must be somewhere in the vicinity, and he set himself to searching. By the time the clock in the steeple struck four, Holte had narrowed the possibility down to two buildings, one behind the Town Hall, isolated in a diamond-shaped tower of five storeys with narrow windows and a studded steel door, the other in what was probably the police barracks, between the church and what appeared to be the law courts. The second building being nearer, Holte went around the barracks and gained entrance through a heavily barred window; he found himself in a vaulted cellar lined with iron doors, three centuries more recent than the building itself; the air was still and dank. Four ceiling light fixtures spaced about fifteen feet apart provided scant illumination to the place; at the far end of the avenue of doors there was another door made of iron bars, beyond which a man in some kind of uniform dozed, a large ring of keys in his hand. Pleased at his discovery, Holte began a systematic search, flitting along the ceiling from cell to cell, taking stock of the occupants, and moving on. As he went, the light fixtures in the corridor ceiling flickered. Holte paid little attention, trying to make the most of his time so that he could finish his inspection of the cells and still be able to meet Blessing when his train got in.
The third time the lights failed, then brightened, the guard work up, crossed himself, and shouted something in Czech that Holte assumed was “Who goes there?” or some similar challenge as he grabbed the pistol in the holster on his belt; Holte did not bother to answer, but he dropped down almost to the floor in order to keep the lights burning steadily; he continued his search, seeping into cells through the doors. He took care to observe without disturbing, wanting only to be able to explain to Blessing what he had observed.
Of the eighteen cell doors in this room, Holte soon discovered that two cells on the east side of the corridor were empty, the others on that side occupied by three or four men each, all of them in working-man’s clothing, one of them with blood spatters on his hands and face; on the west side of the corridor only one cell lacked an occupant. The cell next to the vacant one held a single man, dressed for hiking in Jodhpur trousers and a canvas safari jacket over a hand-knit fisherman’s sweater; far from the dress of the Living Spectres. He lay on a thin, hard mattress in the lower bunk. Holte came to inspect this figure more closely: the man was young, with a short, fair beard, and curly hair that was below collar-length; there were a few fading bruises on his face and, on his left hand, scraped knuckles. Holte had seen the photograph of GAD Pearse that his parents had provided to the Clarion, and so recognized him at once. GAD was thinner now than he was in the photograph, Holte thought, and in need of a bath and some grooming, his skin tanned from a summer out of doors; as GAD turned on his bed, Holte could see that there were calluses on the palm of GAD’s left hand, Holte could not make out GAD’s right. He passed through the door, noting its number—16—and headed for the train station a few minutes after the clock in the steeple struck four-forty-five.
The train arrived half an hour late; the station-master announced its coming to a waiting room with only nine living occupants, most of whom were sleepy, but summoned the energy to gather their belongings and move out onto the platform beyond, into the tinted glare of sodium lamps that lined it, where they made an irregular line near its edge; most of them turned to the south, anticipating the train.
Holte drifted onto the platform behind them, watching the sky for signs of dawn. He found a place near the pass-through for arriving passengers, and settled in as the train came into sight, its headlight brighter than the moon.
Blessing was the fourth man into the pass-through, his overcoat unbuttoned over his rumpled traveling suit and navy-blue roll-neck pull-over, his hat set forward on his head, putting his face in shadow. He carried his duffle in his left hand as he trudged forward.
Holte fell in beside him. “How was the journey? Did you get any sleep?”
“No, I didn’t sleep, and not for want of trying. The track immediately south of here is a menace.” Blessing did not seem surprised to have Holte with him again. “Are there any taxis available at this hour, or do I have to walk to find a hotel?”
“I’m sorry; I didn’t notice,” Holte said as they emerged from the pass-through to the front of the station.
“Did you have a look around the town?” Blessing asked Holte while he cast about for a taxi.
“I did. There’s a nice hotel about four long blocks from here and not quite two blocks from where they’re holding GAD Pearse,” said Holte. “The hotel is the Vaclav IV, after one of the medieval kings. You can be there in ten minutes.”
“How far is it from here?” Blessing asked, almost whispering.
“Less than a quarter mile. I can guide you, if you like.”
“I guess you’d better. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to find a taxi until sunrise.” He set his jaw. “Lead on, Holte. Not too quickly; I have no reason to rush, and I’m tired.”
“As you wish,” said Holte, dropping down to street level and setting off into the warren of ancient streets.
“And what’s all this about you finding GAD Pearse?” Blessing demanded, a bit more loudly. “How did you manage that?”
“He’s in jail, as you’ve heard; the report was accurate, and Brno has only one jail. That jail is under what I think is the police barracks; GAD is in cell sixteen. He appears to be in fairly good shape, given the circumstances. It looks as if he has been in a fight, or mistreated I don’t know by whom. That’s all I’ve learned so far. I can’t tell you what he’s charged with, but at least we have located him, and that should make your work here easier.” Holte faded as he passed through an old wagon at the side of the street. “I don’t know if he’s wholly by himself, or if some of the other prisoners are part of Avaikian’s Livin
g Spectres; there are other men in other cells, but who they are, I can’t tell you. I don’t know if the Living Spectres wear special garments, or ordinary laborers’ clothing.”
“How did he look to you?” Blessing asked. “I mean GAD. You said fairly good shape, but what does that mean?”
“Worn. He’s lost weight from what I saw in his photograph,” Holte said, taking up his place three steps ahead of Blessing. “I saw a few signs of mistreatment, but he was fully clothed and under a blanket—”
“Any other signs of misuse? Bruises or cuts?” Blessing was beginning to pant. “Will you slow down a little?”
“Glad to,” said Holte, doing so. “A few bruises, but no serious cuts, or other indications of manhandling that I could see, but he was fully dressed, and short of sliding through the blanket and his clothes, there was nothing else that I noticed.”
“I’ll have to ask him when I talk with him.” Blessing’s breathing steadied at the slower pace. “Where is this hotel you mentioned?”
“Fewer than three more blocks. Not far at all,” said Holte. “How do you plan to get to see him? Do you intend to start with the jail, or with the courts?”
“As a foreigner here, I should start with the courts,” said Blessing. “Stop. My shoelace is undone.” Without waiting to see where Holte was, Blessing knelt down and retied his shoelace, then stood up. “Much better. These old cobbled streets demand a lot of shoes, don’t they? And old joints, for that matter.”
“I suppose so,” said Holte, reminding himself that Blessing was aging and was very much corporeal. “Veer right at the next intersection.”
“I will,” said Blessing, picking up his satchel and moving on.
The Vaclav IV was about two hundred years old, a handsome structure of the early eighteenth century with a mansard roof atop four storeys, a porticoed entrance and a large double door that, at this hour, was locked.
Living Spectres: a Chesterton Holte, Gentleman Haunt Mystery Page 42
