Castle Murders

by John Dechancie

  “Nevertheless, I still think magic’s the key.”

  “Anything behind that bit of brilliant deduction? And please don’t say it’s elementary.”

  “I wasn’t going to. Well, old boy, let’s take a walk, shall we? Look around the place.”

  “Fine.”

  “We’ll deal with alimentary matters later.”

  “Shameful.”

  Peele Castle was interesting in a quaint way. The furnishings were in various styles, ranging from the very old to the merely antiquated. The place was a museum. Unicorn tapestries draped the walls, suits of armor stood in corners. It was in many ways much more homey than Perilous. Proportions were on a human scale. Rooms were not overpoweringly large, and there were enough comfy chairs, ottomans, carpets, settees, lamps, and trivet tables to make anyone feel at home.

  The lords and ladies were being served drinks in the drawing room. At the sight of so many disgruntled and resentful aristocrats, Thaxton and Dalton demurred and sought refuge in the library.

  Dalton browsed the shelves while Thaxton sipped sherry.

  “If only I could question them on my own,” Thaxton mused. He clucked and shook his head. “Not bloody likely.”

  “Interesting books,” Dalton said. “They look more readable than Osmirik’s stuff, though there’re a lot of foreign — wait a minute, here’s some English. Good God.”

  Thaxton broke out of his reverie. “What?”

  “Here’s a book that’s got to be mighty strange.”

  “Eh? What’s that?”

  “The Moswell Plan, by Dorcas Bagby.”

  “Aside from the unlikelihood of running into the name Dorcas twice in one day, what’s strange about it?”

  “It shouldn’t exist. I was a literary agent, but I’m a bibliophile, too. I actually like books, especially obscure and interesting ones. This novel’s somewhat of a legend in the obscurity department. Matter of fact, I once tried hunting it down, and my assessment of the whole matter was that it was a hoax concocted by a young fantasy aficionado out in the Midwest. But here it be. I guess I’ll be up tonight reading this.”

  Thaxton got up and looked over the selection. Most of the books looked old, and some were falling apart. He inclined his head and read the lettering on the spines.

  “Ever seen magic spelled M-A-G-I-E-K?”

  Dalton looked. “Mageek?”

  Thaxton pulled the volume out. It was old but in good shape, its sturdy boards covered in fine leather. He opened it to the title page. In spidery print it read:

  YE BUK OV MAGIEKAL DIVERSHYNS

  beeng divers discorses on Ye emploiment ov wichrrye forr Ye delectashyn & eddifycashyn ov gentil fohkk

  Ye athor beeng wone

  Baldor o’ Ye Cayrn

  “Weird spelling but it’s English all right,” Dalton said. “I like ‘wichrrye’ especially. Those capital Y’s have a th sound. So it’s just the word the. I make the author out to be Baldor of the Cairn, or something like that. A cairn is a pile of Celtic rocks.”

  Thaxton thumbed through it. He found something of interest.

  “Not what you call page-turning action, but you can make it out,” Dalton said, looking over Thaxton’s shoulder. “What’s it on? Parlor tricks?”

  “Interesting,” Thaxton said. “Interesting. I think I’ll be up reading, too.”

  A servant appeared at the door.

  “Gentlemen, dinner is served.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dutchtown

  “Slowly, slowly run, O horses of the night.”

  Tony Montanaro glanced at the passing carriage and chuckled. They were almost out of the park and into the uptown district on the west side of the city.

  “Boss, I don’t get it. What do they got up in Dutchtown that you need?”

  “The seltzer trick is only going to work once. The old stuff gets stale eventually. I need something different, something new.”

  “And you’re going to get it off some melanzana?”

  “Maybe. We’ll see.”

  They rolled out of the park and into uptown. The streets were still busy, a steady stream of patrons flowing in and out of the speakeasies. Expensive cars cruised the streets, pulling over now and then to engage tightly dressed women in conversation.

  The majority of faces on the street were dark, but there was a substantial white representation. Some of the best clubs were in this part of town, and some of the very best music.

  “You know where the Djinn Mill is, Tony?”

  “Yeah, I been there once or twice.”

  Tony wheeled left and slowed to let a group of laughing bar-hoppers cross. “The place is always jumpin’,” he said.

  Tony made a right, then a left. He drove straight for six blocks, then went left again.

  “I like Dutchtown,” Velma said. “I need a drink. Are we going to stop awhile?”

  “Yeah,” Carney said. “Right here.”

  The Djinn Mill’s front was not imposing. There was no sign, just a green-painted door with a light over it. Tony pulled up to the curb.

  Carney opened the door. “C’mon, Velma. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “Sure.” She smiled prettily at him.

  “Tony, no disappearing act.”

  “Don’t worry, boss, I’ll be close by. Take your time.”

  The peephole opened in the green door and a black face appeared.

  “Carney, John Carney. Is Biff Millington here tonight?”

  “Evenin’, Mr. Carney. Yessuh, I do believe he’s here.”

  The door opened. Jazz came through, hot jazz, but served with a dollop of cool urban sophistication, a baked-Alaska of sound. They entered. A broad-shouldered, nattily dressed bouncer looked them up and down, smiled, and took a long drag on a rolled cigarette. Carney recognized him, and winked. The man nodded.

  The maitre d’ said into Carney’s ear, “He’s in the back.”

  Smoke was a swirling fog in the main room. Fake palm leaves hung from the pillars, “jungle” vegetation abounded everywhere. The dance floor was large but crowded. The stage held a ten-piece band and King Elmont at the piano, doing a fast, syncopated rendition of “Shake That Thing.” The dance was a fast two-step. There were a lot of pale customers; the club catered to a largely white clientele, but there were some brown faces: celebs mostly, entertainers, along with prosperous Dutchtowners, the odd hood, and a politician or two.

  They crossed the sea of tables. Friends and acquaintances shouted greetings along the way, their invitations to sit and drink reluctantly turned down.

  He did stop to ask of one city councilman, “Where’s Mayor Speranza?”

  The councilman shrugged. “You haven’t heard the latest. Three councilmen are missing. We’re all worried.”

  “Tweel, do you think?”

  “That’s what’s on the grapevine. There were dengs all over City Hall today, hanging around, looking like they owned the place.”

  “Maybe they think they do, now.”

  “We gotta do something to clean up this town,” the man said, lifting his bathtub-gin martini. He took a drink. He smiled. “Present company excepted, John. If some ganglord has to run things, I’d rather it be you.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence, Stanley.”

  Delivering a reassuring pat on the shoulder, he moved on.

  They crossed in front of the stage to get to the other side of the room. King Elmont took his left hand from the keyboard briefly, to wave. Then the hand dropped to sound an augmented ninth chord.

  “Is there anyone in Necropolis you don’t know?” Velma said.

  “Long ago I learned how to win friends and influence people. Read a book on it.”

  “It must have been a good book.”

  The back room was busy, the craps table surrounded three-deep, the roulette even deeper. Blackjack dealers slapped cards down in front of the apprehensive players. Private poker games were over in one corner.

  Stately, plump Biff Millington was se
ated at a green-felt table holding a pat hand, Caribbean cigar clamped securely between his teeth, one eye shut against smoke drifting back. His skin was a little darker than café au lait. His suit was custom-tailored and his nails were manicured, the white carnation on his lapel so fresh it could have been cut moments before and rushed from the hothouse with sirens wailing. Slowly, one end of his lip curled up, then down. His was not the best of poker faces. But he made up in luck what he lacked in skill.

  One dark eye found Carney.

  “Be with you in a minute,” he said around the cigar.

  “I call,” said the player beside him.

  “Straight, ten high,” Millington said, showing him.

  “Damn!”

  “I should have stayed in,” said another player. “I was working on a flush. But despair’s my greatest sin.”

  “Ego te absolvo,” Millington said. “Nil desperandum.”

  “No capeesh. I flunked that subject, along with others.”

  Millington rose and picked up his cash. “Gentlemen, deal me out.”

  Carney and Velma had taken seats at the bar. The bartender was setting a gin-and-tonic in front of Velma when Millington arrived.

  “John, nice of you to drop by.”

  They shook hands. “Biff, meet Velma.”

  Velma flashed her small even teeth.

  “Hello, Velma. That’s on the house.”

  “He’s paying.”

  Millington blew more smoke into the smoky air. “Have a drink, John. On me. Then get the hell out.”

  Carney grinned. “Still sore about that brewery in Melville.”

  “I liked that little operation, and I didn’t like having it salamandered.”

  “Your insurance paid off. Business, Biff, just business. Nothing personal. The profit margin didn’t allow our dropping prices to match the competition. It was either fold up our tents or carry out a preemptive strike.”

  “Oh, I understand.” Millington grinned back. “I simply didn’t like it.”

  “I’ll get, but first you might think about doing the unthinkable and helping me.”

  Millington laughed. “Oh, you lead a rich fantasy life, my friend.”

  “Don’t rule it out just yet. Tweel’s dengs are muscling in on everyone in town. Somebody has to put a stop to it.”

  “You, I suppose. Alone?”

  “It’s best. The other way would just kill off eighty percent of my boys. I’d win that way, too, but it’d be messy.”

  “You’re mighty confident.”

  “I can’t be anything else. Half the battle is the approach, the frame of mind.”

  Millington nodded. “True. Psychological considerations are paramount, especially in some sort of showdown. But I think you’re overstretching yourself. You’re a hell of a sorcerer, but maybe not enough to go up against Hell itself.”

  Carney munched some peanuts. “Funny the way you put that.”

  “Am I hinting that Tweel’s dengs might be running him instead of vice versa? Yes, I’m hinting. They seem to have an agenda all their own.” Millington puffed thoughtfully on the long green cigar. “In which case, it’s inevitable that they’ll be calling the shots in this town. Because if Tweel can’t control them, neither can you.”

  “Maybe so,” Carney said. “But I think I’ll take a shot anyway. I have some experience.”

  Millington was dubious. “Where? When?”

  “Another time, another place.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, there is this longstanding rumor about you, a bit of latter-day folklore, which says you’re from another world. Just what other world is vague. Are you telling me it’s true?”

  “I’m not telling you it isn’t. But forget that. You really think it’s inevitable that they’ll take over?”

  Millington frowned. “I don’t know. I hope not. But … not everyone can be big wheels. Some of us must be cogs. I know my limitations. I figure I’m a little wheel at best. But tell you what, I will think about your proposition.”

  “The dengs might shift gears and leave you spinning. If they run Necropolis, they won’t need humans at the middle-management level. Or even lackeys. They have all the personnel they need. They are legion.”

  Millington regarded the ceiling, contemplating its painted stars and crescent moons.

  “You have a point, much as I hate to admit it.” He let out a sigh. “What do you want, John?”

  “What spells are you using?”

  Millington chuckled. “What fo’ you wanna mess wit’ colored, boss?”

  “A fresh approach. An unusual angle. Unexpected.”

  “Yeah.” Millington chuckled again. “Unexpected. Well, I’m not going to let you tap into my connection, that’s for sure. You learn my charms and it’s not just breweries on Great Isle that I’ll be losing. But there are other consultants open for business around here. I can give you a name and an address.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Millington took out a pen. Carney gave him a business card to write on. Millington thought first, then wrote.

  “I think that’s the number. Anyway it’s on One Hundred Thirty-fourth Street next to a greasy spoon called Darby’s Cafe.”

  “Much obliged,” Carney said, taking the card.

  “You’re quite welcome, sir. I have a game to get back to. Be well, and if I don’t see you in here again, it will be too damned soon.”

  The big man wheeled around and walked off a few steps before stopping and turning his head to say, “Oh, and good luck.” He blended back into the crowd.

  “Thanks.”

  “Nice music in there,” Velma said.

  “Yes. Want to dance?”

  “Love to. You have the time?”

  “One spin around the dance floor on our way out. Finish your drink.”

  She downed most of it and gave him a serious look. “You can’t win against dengs. Who do you think you are? God?”

  “There are those who cast out dengs in His name.”

  “Stow the sermons, parson.”

  “Not until I pass the plate. Drink up and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Graving Dock

  “How’s it coming, Luster?”

  Gene was on his knees, peering under the bell-shaped craft.

  “It’s comin’,” Luster answered. On his back underneath the Voyager, spanner in hand, he was wrestling with a stubborn lug-nut. Dolbert was helping, manning a crescent wrench.

  Gene got up. He had changed from the garb of Cyrano to something befitting a NASA astronaut: a sky-blue jumpsuit with velcro-sealed pockets.

  Jeremy said, “At least the communications repairs are done. We’ll be able to keep in touch by modem.”

  “Can’t you rig voice communications some way?”

  “Sorry, but there’s only one channel.”

  “What about using magic?”

  Jeremy scowled. “Hey, sending data via modem without a phone line or a radio relay is magic. And getting the signal from one universe to another is big-time magic. Whaddya want, miracles?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be in constant communication. That’s an improvement over the way we’ve done things in the past.”

  Linda was eating a sandwich at a table laden with luncheon food. She had switched outfits too, dressed now in a futuristic silver-lamé two-piece utility suit with matching boots. The costume evoked 1930’s-40’s movie serials.

  Snowclaw was sitting beside her, dipping citronella candles in ranch dressing. He had decided to try something new.

  “Aren’t you guys hungry?” Linda called. “Come and get it before it turns into pumpkins.”

  Gene came over with Jeremy. “I guess I should eat,” Gene said, sitting down. “No telling when we’ll get the chance next.”

  Linda said, “Jeremy, what about the locator spell?”

  “Osmirik sent one down, and I fed it into the Voyager’s computer. Whether or not it’s gonna wor
k, I don’t know. But it’s like radar. You punch up the display on the screen, and when you see an echo, you know you’re getting close to the target.”

  “The target being Melanie.”

  “Right. But of course, the problem is, what’s the spell supposed to look for exactly? How is it supposed to identify the target?”

  “Her old clothes aren’t enough?”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with ’em. If this were just plain magic, I guess you’d just throw an old sock into the brew, or something — like for a love potion or something corny like that. But we’re using a little bit of magic and a lot of technology. That makes it tricky.”

  “We need a bloodhound,” Gene said. “You’d just let it get a whiff of the stuff and off it’d go, sniffing away.”

  They all sat thinking. Then their gazes intersected.

  “Why not get a bloodhound?” said Gene.

  “Yeah,” Jeremy said. “Could you whip one up, Linda?”

  “A dog? Well, I can conjure almost anything. I’ve cloned Gene and Snowclaw, but that was working with a known model. I don’t even know what a bloodhound looks like.”

  “That’s never stopped you before,” Gene said. “You can conjure stuff you’ve never laid eyes on.”

  “Okay, but wait a minute. Say I do produce a bloodhound. How’s that going to help? We don’t know what universe she’s in.”

  “It’d have to be a bloodhound with very unusual talents,” Gene said. “He’d have to be able to sniff out whole universes.”

  Linda shook her head. “That’s a tall order. I don’t know how I’d program an ability like that into anything I conjure. The best I could do would be a standard bloodhound — whatever that is.”

  Gene ruminated. “I seem to remember something about the castle having a hunt aspect.”

  “A hunt aspect?”

  “Yeah. Riding to hounds. Fox-hunting, for the gentry. If so, there has to be a kennel. Royal hounds. Now, they’d be your basic hunting hounds — there are number of breeds — but they could certainly follow a human scent.”

  “But they’d still be just ordinary dogs,” Linda said.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Gene took a bite of the sandwich he’d made. “But there’s a kernel of an idea here somewhere. We need a natural-born tracker. A hunter.”