Nine Times Nine

by Anthony Boucher

“To begin with, of course, there are the usual bequests to servants and several to charitable and religious institutions, including the Sisters of Martha of Bethany. Do you wish the detailed list of these?”

  “No.”

  “You are a direct and efficient man, Lieutenant.” Joseph beamed. “The residuary legatees are naturally the deceased’s children—in other words, Mary and Arthur here.”

  Marshall frowned. “That’s all?”

  “Yes. If it seems strange to you that my sister and I are overlooked, let me point out that we shared the family fortune with Wolfe equally many years ago. There is no reason why any part of his share should now revert to us.”

  “How much will this residue amount to?”

  “That it is impossible to say exactly at the moment. I am certain, however, that each share will run well into six figures.”

  The Lieutenant whistled. “On a policeman’s salary, that sounds like plenty. How’s it to be administered?”

  Arthur made an undefinable but certainly not friendly noise.

  Joseph chose not to heed him. “The residue is to be divided into two equal trust funds. One of these is to be held for my niece until her twenty-first birthday or her marriage, if that should take place with the consent of the trustees after her eighteenth birthday. After the twenty-first, of course, she is free to marry as she chooses.”

  “Who are the trustees?”

  “Myself and T. F. Randall—the broker, you know. A client of mine and an old family friend.”

  “And the other half?”

  “That is to be held, under the same trustees, for my nephew until his twenty-fifth birthday. At that time, he is to receive the whole of the capital if either trustee thinks it wise. If, however, both trustees deem it inadvisable to give him the full sum, he will receive the half thereof, the rest continuing in the trust fund. This judgment of fitness is to be held thereafter, if need be, every five years. At the end of each such interval, he is to receive the half or the whole, as the trustees see fit, until his fortieth birthday, when the entire capital shall be his without questions.”

  “It isn’t just,” Arthur burst out. “It’s a hell of a way to treat your own son!”

  “Arthur!” Aunt Ellen reproved.

  “Well, it is. If he didn’t have any faith in me, why couldn’t he just disinherit me or cut me off with a shilling or something? Why keep me dangling around Uncle Joe and sucking up to him so I’d get the full capital? And why make me wait four years to touch a cent of the principal? Doesn’t he think I want to make anything of my life?”

  “Maybe,” said Concha, “that’s just what he did think.”

  “You can talk. As soon as you’re eighteen you can marry Greg Randall and get your whole capital, while I’ll have to come around to you begging for crumbs.”

  “I’m afraid,” said Marshall drily, “I can’t waste much sympathy on a young man who’s starving on the income from a six-figure trust fund. Maybe we don’t look at these things the same way—Those are all the provisions, Mr. Harrigan?”

  “Yes …”

  Marshall noticed the hesitancy. “Something else?”

  “There was … that is, I believe I heard Mr. Duncan mention a codicil appointing him as literary executor?”

  “Yes,” said Matt. “Mr. Harrigan made it out late Saturday night.”

  “Did you see it for yourself?”

  “No. He told me about it.”

  “Hmm. It was not given to me to deposit with the will, but then, of course … Lieutenant, perhaps you found it among these papers?”

  “No. Did you come across it, Duncan?”

  Matt shook his head. “No personal papers in this lot—just notes on the work.”

  “Then I fail to see what can be done about this reported appointment. There is no provision in the will as it stands for a specific literary executor; my position as executor of the estate would naturally embrace those duties as well. However, I should be glad, young man, of any assistance which you could give me in this difficult task, concerning which you doubtless know more than I do. Probably a salary for your efforts can be arranged from the estate.”

  “It’s funny,” Marshall wondered aloud. “Nothing else seems to have been taken from this room, except possibly one set of notes. And if that codicil vanished between the time Duncan left your brother and the time of the police search, then it must have been taken by—”

  “Come in,” said Ellen in answer to a rap.

  For the first time Matt saw Bunyan perturbed. “There is an exceedingly strange individual here to see you, sir,” he informed Joseph. “He also asked particularly for you, officer.”

  “We can’t be disturbed at a time like this,” said Joseph. “Who is this fellow?”

  “He says,” Bunyan announced hesitantly, “that his name is Ahasver.”

  The man in the yellow robe entered the room with a quiet effect of underplayed power. His muscles were well-trained; his body movements displayed a minimum of effort and a maximum of grace. Pausing by the door, he bowed to each of the company in turn: first to Ellen, then to her niece, then to Joseph, Arthur, and so at last to Matt and the Lieutenant. The bow was simple, but seemed in effect ceremonial.

  “Will you kindly,” Joseph exploded, “cease this mumbo-jumbo, sir, and tell us why the devil you have come to plague this household again?”

  Ahasver looked around the room and smiled. “I should hardly recognize the place, Lieutenant, after your squad has been so thorough.”

  “As though,” Marshall snorted, “you’d have recognized it anyway!”

  “You are still skeptical? How much must a man suffer from the arrogant incredulity of the modern mind! For is it not written in the eleventh chapter of the Gospel according to Joseph:

  Seeing, they shall see not; and hearing, they shall hear not. Yea, from all their senses shall no sense enter into them.

  And even so it is.”

  “All right,” said the Lieutenant. “When you were in here before our search, how many piles of papers were on the desk?”

  “Three.”

  There was no hesitation. Ahasver gave the answer as coolly and directly as though he had been asked, “What’s one plus two?” Matt and the Lieutenant exchanged a glance; three was right.

  “And where,” asked Matt, “was the box of darts—before the search?” Ahasver smiled. “You think to trap me so easily? Well do ye know that it was even where now it is: on the desk near the edge at the right hand of the chair.”

  “You’re wasting time, Lieutenant,” Joseph snapped. “Can you still have any doubt that this man is my brother’s murderer? Stop worrying as to whether he did it. The question is how?”

  “A little eager, aren’t you, Uncle Joe?” Arthur murmured.

  “And a little eager to point out the eagerness, aren’t you?” Marshall countered.

  “One moment,” Aunt Ellen interposed. “It would seem to me that the question before us at the moment is not what this man may have done in the past, but why he has dared to come here now. Come, sir, what is your reason for this affront?”

  “Affront? My dear madam, you do me an injustice. I have simply come here to make my most sincere apologies for my necessary act. Out of all good must come sorrow, even as sorrow itself ever brings forth good. This we learn from the Ancients. And thus the good accomplished for Truth by your brother’s death brings with it the concomitant sadness of your loss. For that I wish to extend to you my sympathy.”

  This was a little different from Ahasver in his own Temple. He was no longer dominating, rousing, hypnotic; but this quiet suavity, this perfectly finished performance, carried its own peculiar conviction. So rich was his voice, so persuasive were his intonations, that for a moment Matt found himself all but believing in the sincerity of this nonsensical apology.

  Concha rose. “Lieutenant,” she announced, “ever since childhood I have had a phobia about beards. No, if I must be technical, a fetishism might be better. My nurse used to hav
e to slap my little pink hands, because they just would reach out and grab a nice beaver. I haven’t had a spell like that in years, but I feel one coming on now. And I wonder if you’d stand by the door while I indulge myself?”

  The Lieutenant chuckled. “Gladly, Miss Harrigan. I belong to the modern school: No Repressions; Never Let a Fetish Fester. And if your idiosyncrasies should drive you on to such perverse acts as pulling off gloves and playing with ink-pads (you’ll find one there on the desk), I’d be much interested in the results.”

  Still grinning, he moved to the door. Matt rose and covered the French windows. The family sat complacent while Concha advanced slowly upon the man in the yellow robe, her fingers twitching.

  Ahasver stood still until she had nearly reached him. Then he spoke, softly but forcefully. “I should advise you, Lieutenant, to restrain this young lady.”

  “And why?”

  “Because I drove out to this house under police guard. Naturally a man in my position must take precautions against unthinking revenge, even upon such a mission of mercy as this. Certain friends of mine at the City Hall arranged for an escort, which is now waiting outside and doubtless chatting with your own guards. If, under these circumstances, they were to report that I was manhandled by this family under your very eye, I fear that the report would not greatly improve your standing on the force.”

  Marshall stood for a moment irresolute, then advanced and took Concha by the arm. “Your round,” he muttered, gently thrusting the girl away. “And now, my beloved Master, will you kindly get the hell out of here? Or will your guard report me for using language unbecoming an officer?”

  “There is no trust in mankind,” sighed Ahasver plaintively. “I come here with more-than-Christian love in my heart—the love of the Ancients—and I meet only with resentment, threats, and abuse. But I accept them even as I accept this yellow symbol of degradation. For is it not—”

  “You heard the Lieutenant!” Joseph barked. “And whether my sister likes my language or not, I am going to repeat his order: Get the hell out of here!”

  Slowly and regretfully Ahasver repeated his ceremonial bow, this time in reverse order ending with Ellen. With dignity he departed, moving as smoothly as he had entered.

  “Nuts!” observed Arthur indolently.

  “For once,” said Marshall, “I’m with you. But there’s something about this visit that isn’t strictly kosher. He didn’t come here just to … May I use the phone?”

  At Ellen’s nod, the Lieutenant sat at the desk and snapped off rapid orders. The nearest radio car was to establish contact at once with one of the guards at the Temple and have him phone this number immediately.

  “I knew,” said Joseph heavily, “that such rapscallions usually had political connections, but I had never dreamed that they extended so far as to such wanton corruption of the police force.”

  “I don’t know,” said Marshall. “You can’t blame whoever gave him that escort; in a way it was a reasonable request. But it certainly played hell with your niece’s bright idea.” He gazed at Concha with open admiration. “Smart child, Miss Harrigan.”

  Concha seemed not to resent the term from him. “I just thought you’d like to know,” she said.

  Ellen shuddered and rose. “The presence of that man will not depart from me. I tell you he is evil. There is something not of this world about him, nor of God’s world either.”

  “Come, my dear,” Joseph bumbled. “He is evil, I grant you; but thank God, it is no evil beyond the power of the Lieutenant and myself to combat.”

  “I hope you are right, Joseph; I pray that you are right. … You will excuse me?” She went into the chapel.

  “The solution of all woes,” Arthur sneered. “A little wear-and-tear on the knees, a spot of polite mumbling while your thoughts stray free, and there you are. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Joseph did not explode this time. He spoke levelly and coldly. “Arthur, if nothing else in your stupidly misguided life has taught you any reverence or respect for your elders, I must at least ask you to keep in mind the terms of the trust which you have heard tonight.”

  Arthur rose. “The hell with that. And the sweetest hell, my most revered uncle, with you. I can look after myself.” He crumpled his cigarette, tossed it into the fireplace, and sauntered out of the room. As he spoke his defiance, Matt thought (or was he imagining things?), his eyes had flicked for one instant to the case of files.

  Marshall hastily answered the ringing of the phone, asked a terse question or two, and listened to the report. Then he slowly replaced the instrument and turned to the others.

  “Ahasver,” he announced, “has not left the Temple tonight. Moreover, he is at this moment personally conducting a service, which has been going on in his presence for the past hour.”

  Involuntarily Joseph crossed himself. Concha sniffed the air.

  “Lieutenant,” she asked, “do you smell brimstone?”

  Chapter 12

  Despite the invitations of the Harrigan family, Matt did not attend the requiem mass on Tuesday morning. This was not, as he gathered, the actual funeral mass; burial could not take place until after the inquest, which had been postponed till the latter part of the week. (He imagined that Marshall was reluctant to lay before a coroner’s jury such a tangled mess of improbabilities, and optimistically hoped that a few days’ more work might show him a way out.)

  He would only feel embarrassed, Matt decided, in the midst of family mourning and incomprehensible ritual; he could best show the very real sadness which he felt at Wolfe Harrigan’s death by staying home and carrying on Wolfe’s work. So while the Dies Irae was chanted and the censers were swung in a solemn high mass, Matt stayed at his dead employer’s desk and labored in a fashion which he hoped was not too unworthy of its former occupant.

  The file on Ahasver particularly engrossed his attention. It was taking shape excellently; he had already at least enough material for a feature article which should prove at once destructive and non-libelous. But he was exasperated by one gap and one superfluity. The gap, of course, was Wolfe’s lost conjecture as to the identity of Ahasver and of the power behind him. The superfluity was Matt’s own note, hastily jotted down in the Temple of Light, concerning the mammon of iniquity. How that phrase fitted into the picture he could not determine; and yet it had seemed somehow to strengthen Wolfe in whatever his hypothesis had been.

  Throughout this work he examined carefully every last scrap of paper, far more thoroughly than he had been able to do in the rapid going-over with the Lieutenant. Hopefully he searched for two things: the codicil to the will, and those most secret notes on the identity of Ahasver’s backer. In both matters, he was forced to confess ruefully, his search was absolutely futile.

  At last, weary of this persistent futility, he leaned back in the chair and picked up a dart His first toss went wild, hit the wall, and clattered on the floor. The second struck the edge of the board and hung there quivering. Matt felt encouraged. A few more tries … Perhaps Wolfe was right about this dart business as a relaxation in the midst of work. Matt himself, unimaginatively, had always used solitaire.

  The third dart was no better and no worse than the second, and the fourth repeated the fiasco of the first. Matt held the fifth poised for what he swore would be a really perfect toss, when a light rap at the door interrupted him.

  It was Concha who obeyed his shouted command to come in. “Hello,” he began cheerfully, then paused and looked at her. “What’s the matter?”

  She sat down on the couch. “I’ve been crying. Isn’t that silly?”

  “I don’t know. Sometimes it helps.”

  “I knew you’d say that. Men always think that no matter what’s wrong with a woman, a good cry will fix things.”

  “And doesn’t it?”

  “That’s the worst thing about it—you’re perfectly right. Only usually I can’t cry. It sticks here, and I can’t breathe or feel anything, but I can’t cry. Only today at mass …
Oh, I must be wrong. I must be, Matt. Please tell me I’m wrong.”

  “About the theory of crying? I’m hardly an expert, of course, but—”

  “Don’t treat me like a child You know what I … No. You don’t. Of course you don’t. I’m sorry. You must think me very foolish.”

  “Not at all.”

  “Now you’re being indulgent. Goodby!”

  The door slammed behind her. Matt shrugged and tossed the fifth dart, which barely touched the outer rim of the paint. That was better. As he rose to collect the darts for another try, the door opened again.

  “What I came in here to say was,” Concha announced, as formally as Bunyan, “Sister Ursula came back from church with the family and she wants to know if you’re too busy or can she speak with you.”

  “With me? What on earth for?”

  “I didn’t presume to ask. Will you see her?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll tell her.” Concha paused in the doorway. “Please. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

  “Yes,” said Matt flatly.

  She smiled—a smile as bright as it was unexpected. “Good,” she said.

  It was odd, Matt reflected, that you always thought of Sister Ursula in the singular but she existed, so to speak, in the plural. You never saw her alone; there was inevitably Sister Felicitas, who did nothing, who said nothing, but whose presence presumably satisfied some regulation of the order.

  Matt rose as the nuns entered and seated themselves on the couch. “Please sit down, Mr. Duncan,” Sister Ursula began. “I take it you are wondering why I should so expressly want to see you?”

  “I’ll admit I am.”

  “Then let us waste no time on courtesies. I want to see you because I understand from the family that you are acting as a sort of unofficial aide to Lieutenant Marshall. Is that true?”

  “If you lay plenty of stress on the unofficial, yes.”

  “Good. I should have liked to approach the Lieutenant himself, but I fear that the Mother Superior might not consider that a suitable mission. However, it was natural that we should attend the funeral, and if I can talk with you on the same visit … You see, Mr. Duncan, I am going to find the murderer of Wolfe Harrigan.”