“I will need a little time to think about this.”
“Too much time is what created indecision. You have eight hours. The clan gathers at four this afternoon at the old house. It will be a formal show with lawyer, clerk, and notary present. You be there.”
“Yes, in any case I will be there.”
After Eugene Dalton had left, George Grimoire sat in his chair for a long while. He knew then that he had suffered another stroke. But he knew also that this one was not yet the killer. He arose after an hour or so and walked. But one foot dragged slightly and he understood that it would do so until the end. He thought about the false testimony that he should give to own the building, testimony that would be in one circumstance dangerously true. Then he went to have a talk with Doctor Land.
The formalities that afternoon were very formal, and George Grimoire was a tired man. He even slept through part, but he slept with one ear cocked. Eugene Dalton was setting the stage with a few little speeches, setting it so that Grimoire would either have to give the testimony, or stutter painfully backwards out of it. Eugene was counting on the tiredness and confusion of the recently-grown-old man. And there was a certain resentment and contempt in the whole bunch of them. They knew that something raw was being pulled, but they could not guess it yet.
“Mr. Grimoire,” said Mr. Banks, “please do us the favor of remaining awake. Mr. Eugene Dalton has made some rather amazing introductory remarks on testimony you are to give. You should be listening.”
“No need. I know what he is saying.”
Mr. Banks was a lawyer. Not the lawyer. There were several present.
“I think we should go directly into your testimony then, Mr. Grimoire.”
“Beginning where?”
“Beginning with the answer to the question: Did Donald Dalton come alive on your embalming table?”
“Oh yes.”
“But that is impossible,” said Betty-Jo.
“Why, you yourself were the only one who noticed the evidence, girl.”
“What?”
“That his expression had changed. That he had been serene before, and was not so after.”
“But you explained that. You said that there were sometimes mechanical spasms.”
“In this case a spasm in which he sat up and opened his eyes and was conscious.”
“I do not believe you,” said Lawyer Banks. “I believe rather that Eugene Dalton came to you with a dishonest proposition.”
“That's true. He did come to me with a dishonest proposition. And yet unknowingly he put the saw in the kerf. Part of what he wished me to swear to did happen.”
“This really does occur outside of macabre stories?”
“The man from whom I learned the trade (as also the saddler's trade) told me that it would happen once in my lifetime. And it has happened once to me as it happened once to him.”
“And did Dalton speak? Did he speak of the wills?”
“He spoke not a word. I believe that he wished to speak. I believe that if not prevented he would have spoken. But I prevented him.”
“Why? How?”
“I had suddenly the vision of the perfect murder, one absolutely not to be suspected and not to be traced, a work of art. Who would ever get wind of an undertaker killing a man already dead? How could it possibly be proven? How? Was this not perfection? That which had never been achieved before? No clue, no whisper, no inkling. How could there conceivably be a weak link in that chain? Yet there was a weak link that I overlooked.
“Well, briefly I opened his veins and killed him. And then I prepared him according to the details of the trade. But he did not speak.”
The good people among them recoiled with real horror, and the evil of them with simulated horror; and there was a harsh and angry grumbling. Only Lawyer Banks, who was neither one nor the other, did not recoil at all. But he was quite interested.
“But what was the weak link,” he asked. “I confess I can't see it. It looks to me as though it were foolproof, almost sublime in its perfection. It was a perfect murder if I ever heard of one. What was the weak link?
“It was myself. Some men are just not cut out to be murderers.”
“And why do you tell us this?” asked Carl J. angrily, “since you seem to have been in the clear and with no suspicion attached to you?”
“It is just that Doctor Land gives me a month to live,” said Grimoire.
“Want to bet?” asked Carl J. in a fury.
“The doctor would bet,” said Grimoire. “The doctor will always bet. He will bet that he does not miss it by three days.”
But the doctor would have lost. For they hanged George Grimoire after twenty-seven days, and it was a thirty-one day month.
Enfant Terrible
“Mr. McCarty, do you know a good way to get blood off a knife?” asked Carnadine. “That's an odd question from a nine year old girl,” said Mossback McCarty, the old cop.
“Going on ten,” said Carnadine.
“I would first have to see the knife.”
“It was a hypothetical question, you know, that kind. Besides, Eustace has the knife, not me.”
“Get Eustace and the knife here at once.”
“I don't know where he is.”
“Send one of your minions to find Eustace, and the knife.”
“I don't know what a minion is.”
“Fatty Frost there is a minion of yours.”
So they sent Fatty on the mission.
This was almost the only place on his beat where Mossback could sit down and rest, this vacant lot with the little ravine behind it. And on the lot was the clubhouse of the Bengal Tigers with the bench out in front. Mossback was too tall and too broad to enter the clubhouse itself, but he sat every day on the bench and rested.
“You do give us a bad name, though,” Carnadine Thompson told him. “All the other clubs despise us because a cop visits here. You know, we're cop killers by our constitution.”
“I didn't know the Bengal Tigers had a constitution, Carnadine. Is it a real written one?”
“Well, not exactly a written one. But it's a real one, with nineteen bylaws I think they call them. It has been transmitted orally from father to son and from mother to daughter since the club was founded.”
“And how long ago was the club founded?”
“Two weeks tomorrow.”
Fatty Frost brought Eustace, but without the knife.
“I understand you have a knife with blood on it, Eustace,” said Mossback.
“It belongs to me. I won't tell you where it is. Cops steal things from people. They call it impounding the evidence.”
“Papa says all cops are crooked,” contributed Carnadine. “I said ‘All but Mossback.’ He said, ‘That's right. He's not crooked, he's just dumb.’ ”
“Your father is not himself an unqualified genius, Carnadine. Now then, Eustace, small boys should not have bloody knives. Where is it and where did you get it?”
“I got it out of a man.”
“You should say ‘I got it from a man.’ Did he give it to you?”
“Not exactly. But he didn't say I couldn't have it.”
“Did he say you could have it?”
“No. He didn't say anything. I asked him but he wouldn't answer. I couldn't get him to wake up.”
Mossback began to feel funny.
“Eustace, you will show me the knife and you will show me where you got it or I will paddle your pog. I will not be flimflammed by an eight year-old boy.”
“Going on nine,” said Eustace. “I'm going to put the knife back where I got it. And then I'm going to wash my hands of it. With the reputation I got I can't afford to get involved with the law.”
Then he ran off.
Mossback followed the children heavily. He saw Eustace go up and down a tree like a cat. He had had the knife hidden in the crotch of a tree. Then the boy ran down into the ravine with the knife in his hand. But when Mossback came up to the scene he froze with horror
and his hair bristled.
For a shabby dead man lay there and a knife was prominent in the middle of his chest. And little Eustace had just risen from the dead man.
“Eustace, what have you done?” Mossback whispered.
“Oh, I put it back where I found it like I said I would.”
“And where are you going, what are you going to do now?”
“Why, I'm going to wash my hands of it just like I said.”
Mossback noticed for the first time that it was caked black blood and not dirt on Eustace's hands. And he realized, not for the first time, that the words of children should always be taken literally.
“You may be the stupidest patrolman on the force, Mossback,” said Captain Keil. “It's incredible that you should allow a man to be stabbed on your beat, and then allow a small boy to pull a knife from the body, run away with it, hide it in a tree, and finally return and plunge it back into the body again. Do you know who the dead man is?” “No.”
“Do you know who lives in all five of the houses that back onto the ravine?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Who?”
“In the first house, a man whom I have never seen except distantly — he only bought the house a week ago and moved in yesterday — a Silas Schermerhorn who is an ex-magistrate of some sort, and retired. In the second house is Tyburn Thompson, the father of Eustace and Carnadine here, and a terrible-tempered man in his own right. In the third is Carlos Rey who runs a tobacco store downtown and is a Cuban. In the fourth is Fred Frost, the father of Fatty here—”
“The boy has a given name, I'm sure.”
“Finnbar.”
“Very well, the father of Fatty here—”
“—who is a competent machinist and an incompetent inventor. What he makes at the one trade, he loses at the other. And in the fifth house is Hatchel Horn, an engraver.”
“Get them all here right now, men, wives, children and domestics; and let nobody else near. We will talk to them right here. It is a shaddy nook here by the dollhouse.”
“It is no more a dollhouse than you are,” said Carnadine with some resentment. “It is the clubhouse of The Bengal Tigers, a fraternal organization, and that other word where they have girls, too.”
“What, child?”
“Sororical, I think.”
“Oh.”
They began to arrive. “I am Silas Schermerhorn,” said a grey and polished man, “former judge, though not of this state. I understand there has been an accident.”
“And this lady is your wife?”
“Hellpepper no, that's mama,” howled Eustace.
“I could do worse,” said the lady. “In fact, I probably have. He seems quite a nice gentleman and should add tone to the neighborhood. But I'm Giddy Thompson.”
“Giddy doesn't seem like a proper name.”
“It's apt, though it may not be proper. My name is Geraldine Isabella Dorothy Doria Yseult, I being named after five aunts. You can see how this would be shortened to Giddy.”
“Yes, I can see how.”
“Mrs. Schermerhorn has been dead for many years,” said they grey polished man.
“This is Rose Rey coming in the bathrobe,” said Giddy.
“Hi honey,” said Rose. “It seems like a lot of fuss to make just because I ran into a parked car. Why do you have to gather all the neighbours to tell them about it? How did you find out it was me?”
“I don't think it's about that, Rose,” said Giddy. “This, Captain, is Annalee Frost, and this is her husband, Fred. My, you look frowsy in the morning, Fred. This is Tootsy Horn. Her real name isn't Tootsy. I was the one who started to call her that — I think it's cute, don't you? And all these children belong to some one or the other of us. Is it necessary to sort them out?”
“Perhaps not at present. Aren't there three men to be accounted for, Mossback? Where are they?”
“At work. They'll be here soon.”
“And the domestics. Where are the domestics?”
“You kidding, honey?” asked Rose.
“All of you children go into the dollhouse, and stay there for the present,” said Captain Keil. “I don't want you running around.”
“I explained once that it was a clubhouse,” said Carnadine, her jaw grim, “and besides, PeeWee Horn can't come in.”
“And why can't he?”
“He isn't an active member of the Bengal Tigers. He is delinquent in his dues.”
“This is a direct order from the Police Department,” said Captain Keil.
“Oh, all right then.” But they let PeeWee in with very bad grace.
Captain Keil took the Frosts aside a few steps. “Do either of you know anything about this?” he asked.
“I don't even know what it's about,” said Fred Frost.
“Did either of you hear any sort of a disturbance last night?”
“I was disturbed by our telephone a number of times,” said Fred.
“Who was phoning?”
“The neighbours. They complained about the noise of my power tools. I explained to them that the invention I've been working on for the last few weeks is a general purpose noise eliminator. Still, it is very hard to fabricate a sheet-metal model quietly. And some tempers were lost on all sides.”
“And what time did this particular disturbance cease?”
“Oh, they got tired and stopped phoning at two or three in the morning.”
“I mean, when did you abate the noise of your power tools?”
“Five o'clock maybe. Then I went to bed. It seems I had just got to sleep when you had me roused, but I must have slept a couple of hours.”
“Did you hear any sort of noise in the ravine last night?”
“I did not. And I'm willing to bet that no one else did. The noise I was making would have effectively drowned out any other sound in the neighbourhood.”
“Did you go out of the house at all last night?”
“Probably. I get absent-minded when I'm working on an invention. I believe I put my lathe on automatic once or twice and went out for a beer.”
“Did you walk in the ravine last night?”
“I don't remember it, but I may have. I often do. I never notice where I'm walking when I'm concentrating.”
“Did you talk to anyone last night?”
“I am just not sure of that, officer.”
“Ask him why he doesn't put the baffler the other way in his noise machine,” said Carnadine. “That way he could stop the up and down noises as well as the sideways noises.”
“Little girl, I told you to stay in that dollhouse.”
“It is as much as my life is worth to go back in that clubhouse. I have just been expelled from the Bengal Tigers. It's quite a comedown for me. I was First Stripe, you know.”
“No, I didn't know.”
“That's the leader. And now I go in fear of my life. As you know, we cannot allow any living ex-members. Our secrets are too horrible. What if the world should learn of them?”
“I shudder,” said Captain Keil.
“So now I can only await the hand of the assassin,” said Carnadine.
“Fortunately it will not be long.”
“In a way I hope not,” said Captain Keil. “But I believe we can offer you police protection against the worst assassins that the Bengal Tigers can muster.”
“A lot of good your police protection did that dead man in the ravine,” said Carnadine.
“What? What's this?” asked Fred Frost.
“You will learn in a minute,” said the Captain. “Now you, little girl, go back in that dollhouse and tell the rest of the Bengal Tigers to be quieter.”
“All right. But if they kill me I'll hold you personally responsible.”
A surly man came up to the Captain. “Why don't you quit picking on kids and send for a hacker to pick up that body in the draw?” he asked. “There's one on E Street, the only one left in the county. He makes dog meat out of carcasses. It's going to be offensi
ve as soon as the sun gets to it.”
“And just who are you?” asked the Captain.
“I'm Tyburn Thompson. This is my land you're standing on. That is my little girl you were hollering at. Try hollering at me like that and I'll peel you like a banana. Okay, folks, break it up, all of you beat it. Take that dead hobo with you, Mossback, and old gobble-mouth here, too. Why'd you phone me to come home anyhow?”
“I am giving the orders here,” said Captain Keil angrily.
“Not to me you're not,” said Tyburn.
Two other men came up.
“What's the trouble, Ty?” asked one of them, Hatchet Horn.
“Oh, there's a dead bum down in the draw, and the cops think they have to make a noise about it. Give me a cigar, Carlos, you get them wholesale.”
“Are you the other two neighbours?” asked Keil.
“We are neighbours,” said Carlos Rey.
“Then we all may as well go and view the body, as long as your mouthy friend has already let the corpse out of the shroud.”
They went down the incline and gathered around the dead man. Annalee Frost gave a gasp and a slight shriek, then paled and swayed.
“I shall faint,” she said.
“You always say that, but you never do,” said Tootsy Horn.
“Have any of you ever seen this man before?” asked the Captain.
“I've a dim impression that I saw him yesterday afternoon,” said Fred Frost. “Can't say just where or when. Maybe I'm wrong though.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Believe I said, ‘It's sure hot.’ Seems like I said that to someone yesterday. Does seem I saw that face somewhere.”
“Could he have been hanging around the ravine?”
“Could have been. Not sure. I'm absent-minded, you know.”
“Yes. You mentioned that before.”
“I don't believe I ever saw him,” said Tyburn Thompson. “I haven't noticed any hoboes around the draw for the last several days. I usually keep an eye open for them and size them up pretty well. On account of the children, you know. None of them ever met a stranger, and some of their best friends are hoboes. The ‘boes sleep in the draw sometimes as it's near the railroad. But I haven't seen this one before.”
The Man Who Talled Tales: Collected Short Stories of R.A. Lafferty Page 22
