“Good night, Father.”
Henri Vesalius sat alone in his parlor for some time after his son went to bed. He drank his Scotch slowly and with great deliberation, periodically looking at the chessboard, the wall paintings, the sleek model trains. Finally he turned off the lights and went up to his bedroom.
Early the next morning Henri Vesalius paid a call on the proprietor of the X-pert Music Shoppe out on Romford Road. He’d checked the address in the telephone book at coffee and was reasonably certain that the Romford Road address matched Lem’s general description. When he got to the place, he knew he’d guessed correctly when he saw that worthy’s name imprinted in gold lettering on the front door glass: Benedict Darrow, Prop.
He went in to the accompaniment of a string of harness bells which had been tacked above the door to warn the proprietor of a customer’s arrival. Apparently this system wasn’t working on that particular morning as Vesalius, unmet at the door, penetrated the musty store unmolested.
Like most other music shops, Darrow’s shelves were crammed with texts and cord- or staple-bound sheet music. The yellowed covers couldn’t help but arouse the curiosity, thought Vesalius as he scanned the packed rows. There was still no sign of Mr. Darrow or any customer for that matter, and Vesalius roamed at will. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a large loose-leaf folder tucked away on the next-to-the-top shelf. Its black leather edge bore no title but someone, probably a collector, had typed a piece of medical plaster on which the word “Playbills” was scrawled in thin hand.
Vesalius quickly rolled the traveling ladder into position and climbed up to retrieve the binder. He thumbed through it for a few moments while perched on the ladder, then, finding what he’d been seeking, called out to the still invisible proprietor.
“Mr. Darrow. Mr. Darrow, are you back there?”
Not even the floors creaked in the old shop. Vesalius clambered down, prize in hand, and went back toward the rear in search of the reticent Darrow.
He found him a few minutes later after searching some pitch black cubicles where, in better times, operatic singers had come to try out the new song publications.
Darrow had sequestered himself in one of these chambers. When Vesalius came upon him, that frail octogenarian was perched atop a tall stool; a pair of earphones bound about his head on top of which he wore a tall, embroidered skullcap. A Victrola was playing on a nearby desk and Darrow was listening rapturously, a beatific gaze affixed to his myopic face, to whatever it was that was playing.
Vesalius hated to disturb the gentleman, but the press of the business at hand compelled him to take overt action. He placed the binder on the desk next to the Victrola and tapped the old man gently on the shoulder. “Mr. Darrow!”
A minute or two passed, and when the proprietor finally opened his eyes, Vesalius was touched by the serene even vision of some personal destiny contained in their deep, if myopic firmament. Abruptly he pulled off the earphones, sending the crashing tonality of a symphony orchestra instantly from their open speakers. His spell broken, Darrow climbed off the stool, turned the Victrola down with resignation and faced his customer.
Vesalius continued. “Mr. Darrow, did you ever know this man?” He showed him a loose handbill that’d been included in the collection. It pictured a youngish, very handsome man, dressed in a tuxedo, seated at a large pipe organ, underneath which was printed the dates: March 20, 21, 22, and the place, Giffard’s Theatre, in small black letters. At the bottom of the sheet the performer’s name was printed in considerably larger letters that read: Anton Phibes.
Darrow squinted at the type, then screwed his face up toward Vesalius. “Giffard’s Theatre. That old barn burned down fifteen years ago. Some darned soprano dropped a cigarette in her dressing room.”
Vesalius was impatient. “Yes, of course, Mr. Darrow, but what about the performer? Did he ever buy any music here?”
Darrow put down the magnifying glass through which he’d been eyeing the handbill and began putting on the earphones again. He squinted at Vesalius a last time before retreating to his reverie and said: “He still does!”
Chapter 10
WHEN Henri Vesalius left the X-pert Music Shoppe, he had a slightly giddy feeling. He seemed taller, or at least the pavement rose in a different perspective. His walk was heavy, more resonant; his heels matched the curb in hardness. The late afternoon air was elegant, crisp, stiffening to his skin. Its pristine clarity gave the sun enormous volume; the large yellow disc plaqued to the air on a flat horizon.
The streets were strung in new prospect to Vesalius. He seemed to be walking above a flat dimension with the sun’s globe impaled above a single-layered surface. He was an observer, an air balloonist, floating along a checkered, angled matrix. He could see shadings, nuances, details in new contrast. He could see more, much more of everything, more, even, than he wanted to see.
Vesalius crossed several streets. Even though his head swam, he’d decided to walk home. Offices had not let out yet and the people who were about must have been on some particular errand. Besides, traffic was light, the grinding gears and squawking horns would come later. None of it bothered him now; in fact, the whispering tires added to his detachment. To Vesalius, the street, its occupants, its machinery fused into a syrupy flow where the components stayed motionless in regard to each other.
He passed through a green-planted square, moving onto the tailored lawn in relief from the pavement. The grass was matted and very thick in spots, excellent hiding for acorns dropped by the oaks that dominated the square.
Vesalius slowed his pace as he walked through the square. His giddiness left him, filtered out by the different air of the greenery. He could no longer hear his footsteps, but his sense of detachment, instead of increasing, was now strangely diminishing. Then it came to him. He’d ceased being an observer in the grim events of the past days and was becoming part of them. Shadings, values and positions all had changed. He was in process.
Vesalius grew amused at the thought. Like so many men of refined passions, Henri Vesalius learned at an early age to hold people and circumstances at a distance. He could not endure animation in others, in himself even less. Of course emotions were painful; he shunned their possibility as much as he could. Like a miser, he trained himself to measure what little reserve he possessed against any anticipation of satisfaction. A love affair at twenty had left him desolate. The lady was too pure, too unassailable. His family sent him to Italy to clear his thoughts and breathe the Renaissance air. Venice stank, the rat-infested canals clogged with Swiss and German housewives. Turin was a vulgar industrial wasteland, uglier under the southern sun than its bleak Midlands counterparts. At Ravenna he visited Dante’s grave—and fled. Rome, the Eternal City, was worst of all: by day its piazzas were staging grounds for hordes of religious petitioners, at night the panderers and their marks held sway. Most repugnant was the Sistine Chapel, its famed ceiling appearing to Vesalius like some clogged charnel house. He left Italy after only eighteen days of a proposed ten-month exposure to its “culture” and civilization, grabbing the first Mediterranean packet he could find out of Civitivecchia. He landed in Ajallid the next morning and, finding this inhospitable place to his liking, set out for the interior where he spent the balance of his trip earning the polished disinterest of the Corsicans.
Thus fortified by his prolonged exposure to indifference, Henri Vesalius returned to London, ostensibly a seasoned young man, newly ready for the rigors of his studies. He promptly met and seduced the young lady whose barrenness had caused his exile, only to equally rapidly discover that his earlier fervor was unwarranted. He left the seduction bed, if slightly dissatisfied, a confirmed ascetic.
But enthusiasm, or rather those circumstances that gave rise to it, on those rare occasions that it occurred in Henri Vesalius’ life, came very slowly indeed. He walked through the square now and recognized the symptoms: the giddiness, the attenuated concern, the prolonged animosity, were all part of a train of events which he would
shortly have to accommodate. His anticipation—for that was the central cause—came not so much from an eagerness to help snare the killer of his colleagues (he detested sentiment), but rather from his perception that a genuine emotion was at hand and, further, that he was about to permit himself to experience it. That emotion was fear!
By the time Henri Vesalius reached his apartments he was exhilarated. But rather than disturb Lem who was in the music room working on the new sonata, he decided to surprise the boy by whipping up an exotic supper. Father and son lived like bachelors and, the press of daily events being what it was, they dined out most evenings. But restaurant fare grew pallid after awhile, so periodically they treated themselves to a home-cooked dinner. Lem was more conservative, tending toward steaks and chops. His father had a penchant for bisques, pilaffs and omelettes. That night he would try his hand at sukiyaki, cooking it at the table in an iron skillet he had bought a week earlier especially for the occasion.
But first he would have to prepare the ingredients. He washed the rice and put it on the chromium-topped stove to steam. Then he washed the onions, beef, mushrooms and watercress, placing each separately on the wooden cutting block to dry. Then he unwrapped the beansprouts from the white paper the grocer had tied them in, washed them under the cold water and, liking their crispness, sampled a few. Still chewing the sprouts he chopped the other ingredients, transferring the piles to a breadboard with the edge of his butcher’s knife. When he was done, he brought the board out to a low table in the dining room, where he’d stationed the iron skillet. Then he lit a thick candle underneath, poured in a bit of peanut oil and, selecting a pair of long wooden chopsticks, called his son.
The sonata swelled fluidly from the other room. “Lem, this won’t wait. It’s sukiyaki, come eat and finish that later!” Vesalius stirred the watercress into the hot oil. The green leaves sizzled and sent up a pungent steam that served to sharpen his hunger.
The boy came into the room. “Hello, Father, that looks good. I’ve heard about sukiyaki but never really tasted it before. Where do you find all these great dishes?” The boy poked a chopstick into the crisp vegetables in the skillet in which Vesalius was expertly stirring the slivers of beef.
“From secret sources which I’m honor-bound never to divulge. Now spoon out some rice for us while I finish here.”
Lem measured two bowls full with a wooden spatula while his father continued stirring the sukiyaki which now, embellished of all its components, crackled fragrantly in the skillet. Vesalius added a final flourish by pouring a few drops of soy sauce from a crystal cruet onto the whole; then, inhaling the result for flavor, he began portioning the mixture into the rice bowls.
The result was absolutely delicious and they polished off the bowls without a sound. Lem was into his second helping when he was finally moved to comment: “It’s great!”
“Glad you approve. We’ll do this again, soon. But save room for dessert. I’ve bought some fresh pears.”
“And a game of chess after that, Father? I want to give you a chance to get back.”
“Let’s play tomorrow night, Lem. I’ve got an appointment at eight with our new friend, Inspector Trout.”
“Can I come with you, Father? I’d like to see the department at work.”
“I’m afraid not tonight, Lem. We’re going to meet at the Highgate Cemetery.”
“What on earth for? I didn’t think detectives went in for spooks and things of that sort.”
“But they do like to check the facts. Say, excuse me for a moment, will you?” Vesalius cleared the utensils and returned from the kitchen carrying a bowlful of large cornice pears, polished to a sparkling red and green. “I saw Mr. Darrow today.”
Lem selected a pear and started to bite. “Oh, I’m glad you did that, Father. He is a bit old, and I don’t think very many people come into his place. Interesting man, though, isn’t he?”
“Yes, quite sharp indeed.” Vesalius glanced at his watch. “It’s seven-thirty. I’ll have to hurry. Get back to the sonata now, Lem, it was coming along quite well.”
He scrambled up from the floor, knees scissoring from the low position and strode with unaccustomed speed toward the front door. He grabbed his raincoat, which he’d left on the hall coatrack to dry and, calling over his shoulder that they’d try bouillabaisse next week, was out before the boy could say goodbye.
It’d been a long time since Lem had seen his father so fired up. He hoped it would produce the desired results.
Trout was ready and waiting for him by the time Vesalius reached the vaulted entrance to Highgate Cemetery. The rain had stopped and the wind had torn enough holes in the clouds to let the thin moonlight through in intermittent bursts. Trout’s black limo glistened fitfully as Vesalius climbed the low rise to the stone arches. He could see Trout’s cigarette glowing out of the car’s interior. It looked very businesslike.
“Is that you, Dr. Vesalius?” Trout emerged from the car alone.
“Yes, Inspector, the caretaker is expecting us. I see you’ve come alone this evening. Where is Sergeant Schenley?”
He joined Trout and the two entered the wrought-iron gate together.
“He’s with his wife and family like any sensible man should be. Now what is it exactly this old man said?” The Inspector was brusque.
Vesalius could see that the detective did not like having his theories questioned. Stuffy peacock, he thought, looking slowly at the orderly rows of alabaster and granite obelisks, death angels, and plain slabs that spread in all directions from the gravel esplanade on which they were walking.
Their heels crunched the loose stones for several minutes. The wind had freshened and the sky was even clearer now. Of course the inspector was right. It was a far-fetched idea to come exploring acres of burial grounds after dark. They could just as well do it the next day. But there was something in the way old Darrow’s voice had wavered that lent urgency to the project.
“Mr. Darrow may be old but he’s not senile. He said the man buys music from him. It’s worth a shot. If he’s off-base, we’ll find out soon enough.”
“But the identification? Doesn’t it seem a bit contrived to pull a name out of a hat? How can you be sure it’s the same man?”
“Phibes is not a common name, Inspector. When I came across the name in one of my son’s bibliographies, it was a simple matter to crosscheck it. The packet of old handbills proved the point: Anton Phibes did give an organ recital at Giffard’s Theatre about fifteen years ago. Old Darrow knew him from the picture.”
Trout listened to the surgeon in silence. They came to a stand of cypresses and stopped. The gravel split into several smaller avenues beyond that point, each one leading off into more rows of Gothic memorials stretched taut in the moonlight. A late churchbell tolled in the far distance: nine slow bells.
They’d been walking for nearly an hour across that funereal landscape but it had seemed a much shorter journey, perhaps because of the permanance of the place. Now they’d have to wait for the groundkeeper to take them on the final leg of their search. The churchbell stopped and the silence resettled about them. Trout lit a cigarette and began pacing about. “Maybe he’s asleep somewhere,” he said impatiently.
“He said he’d meet us. These fellows are usually punctual.” Vesalius scanned the gravel aisles again. “Ah, that must be him now.”
A lantern bobbled along the path farthest to the right. This was narrower than the others and heavily overgrown with low branches and shrubs. The tiny light moved in a leisurely, serpentine fashion rather than holding to a straight course. Clustered along the avenues’ edges hidden behind the dense overgrowth were the tall granite monoliths and fluted stone crypts of an older period.
“Hello. You must be Dr. Vesalius. Come, I’ll show you to where you going. Although it’s a strange time to be visiting out here.” The caretaker whistled at them, his voice high and nasal from too many years of working close to the damp ground. He’d been a tall man once but was now bent
and gnarled from age. He held the lantern in front of him as they walked, the curvature of his body shielding the yellow candlelight. Shadows surged and swelled along the sides of the path, which was so heavily overgrown in spots it was dark as a cavern. Here and there massive rough-hewn boulders slanted up from out of the shrubbery, their iron nameplates worn and nearly obliterated from age. At longer intervals the shrubbery parted into sloping alleyways that led deeper into rotundas. These clearings contained eight or ten crypts huddled together under stands of birches or elms. They reminded Vesalius of the bleak dead houses that lined Pompeii’s crowded streets.
“It was good of you to come out, Mr. ——” Harry Trout broke the silence.
“Cadogan. Michael Cadogan’s the name, sir. ‘Twas no trouble at all. My little shack’s out yonder. The city fathers put me in charge here over twenty years ago after old Jarvis died. They told me to take good care of it and I could stay as long as I like. Even give me a little pension, they do.” The old man wheezed with a quiver of pride in his voice.
“But you must get some help here, Mr. Cadogan. This is a pretty big place.” Trout had to hurry to keep pace with the old man.
“Two hundred fifty acres. The old cemetery was opened in 1839. It was small, a tenth the size of what it’s grown to. We have a crew of gardeners that comes in during the day. They do all the pruning and cutting. Then, of course, there’s the diggers. Keeps the place pretty busy, it does. I just show people around, help them find the spots they’ve selected from the map in the main office.”
“Which part are we in now, Mr. Cadogan?” Vesalius ventured.
“The old part. This here’s one of the last sections completed. Mostly families who subscribed to buy the original piece of ground. Many folks moved their kin from the churchyards closer in to town. Hasn’t been anything opened up here in fifty years.”
“But there’s been burials since then?” Trout probed.
“Only if they was members of the family. Otherwise a person would have to use the new section.”
Dr. Phibes Page 10
