“I tell you what it is,” Clem said. “Kent Castwell has no consideration for others. That’s what it is. Yep.”
Bets were taken in town, of a ten-cent cigar per bet, on how long Laurel would stand for it. Levi Nickerson, the County Tax Assessor, thought he’d leave as soon as his rent was up. Clem’s opinion was that he’d leave sooner. “Money don’t mean that much to city people,” he pointed out.
Clem won.
When he came into Nickerson’s house, Levi, who was sitting close to the small fire in the kitchen stove, wordlessly handed over the cigar. Clem nodded, put it in his pocket. Mrs. Abby Nickerson sat next to her husband, wearing a man’s sweater. It had belonged to her late father, whose heart had failed to survive the first re-election of Franklin D. Roosevelt, and it still had a lot of wear left in it. Abby was unraveling old socks, and winding the wool into a ball. “Waste not, want not,” was her motto—as well as that of every other old-time local resident.
On the stove a kettle steamed thinly. Two piles of used envelopes were on the table. They had all been addressed to the Tax Assessor’s office of the County, and had been carefully opened so as not to mutilate them. While Clem watched, Levi Nickerson removed one of the envelopes from its place on top of the uncovered kettle. The mucilage on its flaps loosened by steam, it opened out easily to Nickerson’s touch. He proceeded to refold it and then reseal it so that the used outside was now inside; then he added it to the other pile.
“Saved the County eleven dollars, this way, last year,” he observed. “Shouldn’t wonder but what I don’t make it twelve, this year, maybe twelve-fifty.” Clem gave a small appreciative grunt. “Where is he?” the Tax Assessor asked.
“Laurel? In the Ashby Bar. He’s all packed. I told him to stay put. I told them to keep an eye on him, phone me here if he made a move to leave.”
He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket and put it on the table. Levi looked at it, but made no move to pick it up. To his wife he said, “I’m expecting Erastus and Gam Coolidge over, Mrs. Nickerson. County business. I expect you can find something to do in the front of the house while we talk.”
Mrs. Levi nodded. Even words were not wasted.
A car drove up to the house.
“That’s Erastus,” said his cousin. “Gam should be along—he is along. Might’ve known he wouldn’t waste gasoline; came with Erastus.”
The two men came into the kitchen. Mrs. Abby Nickerson arose and departed.
“Hope we can get this over with before nightfall,” the sheriff said. “I don’t like to drive after dark if I can help it. One of my headlights is getting dim, and they cost so darned much to replace.”
Clem cleared his throat. “Well, here ’tis,” he said, gesturing to the paper on the table. “Laurel’s confession. ‘Tell the sheriff and the D.A. that I’m ready to give myself up,’ he says. ‘I wrote it all down here,’ he says. Happened about two o’clock this afternoon, I guess. Straw that broke the camel’s back. Kent Castwell, he was acting up as usual. Stomping and swearing out there at the Peabody place. Words were exchanged. Laurel left to go out back,” Clem said, delicately, not needing to further comment on the Peabody place’s lack of indoor plumbing. “When he come back, Castwell had taken the biggest brush he could find and smeared paint over all the pictures Laurel had been working on. Ruined them completely.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Castwell had no call to do that,” the sheriff said. “Destroying another man’s property. They tell me some of those artists get as much as a hundred dollars for a painting.… What’d he do then? Laurel, I mean.”
“Picked up a piece of stovewood and hit him with it. Hit him hard.”
“No doubt about his being dead, I suppose?” the sheriff asked.
Clem shook his head. “There was no blood or anything on the wood,” he added. “Just another piece of stove wood … But he’s dead, all right.”
After a moment Levi Nickerson said, “His wife will have to be notified. No reason why the County should have to pay burial expenses. Hmm. I expect she won’t have any money, though. Best get in touch with those trustees who sent Castwell his money every month. They’ll pay.”
Gamaliel Coolidge asked if anyone else knew. Clem said no. Bob Laurel hadn’t told anyone else. He didn’t seem to want to talk.
This time there was a longer silence.
“Do you realize how much Kent Castwell cost this County, one way or the other?” Nickerson asked.
Clem said he supposed hundreds of dollars. “Hundreds and hundreds of dollars,” Nickerson said.
“And,” the Tax Assessor went on, “do you know what it will cost us to try this fellow—for murder in any degree or manslaughter?”
The District Attorney said it would cost thousands. “Thousands and thousands … and that’s just the trial,” he elaborated. “Suppose he’s found guilty and appeals? We’d be obliged to fight the appeal. More thousands. And suppose he gets a new trial? We’d have it to pay all over again.”
Levi P. Nickerson opened his mouth as though it hurt him to do so. “What it would do to the County tax-rate…” he groaned. “Kent Castwell,” he said, his voice becoming crisp and definite, “is not worth it. He is just not worth it.”
Clem took out the ten-cent cigar he’d won, sniffed it. “My opinion,” he said, “it would have been much better if this fellow Laurel had just packed up and left. Anybody finding Castwell’s body would assume he’d fallen and hit his head. But this confession, now—”
Sheriff Erastus Nickerson said reflectively, “I haven’t read any confession. You, Gam? You, Levi? No. What you’ve told us, Clem, is just hearsay. Can’t act on hearsay. Totally contrary to all principles of American law … Hmm. Mighty nice sunset.” He arose and walked over to the window. His cousin followed him. So did District Attorney Coolidge. While they were looking at the sunset Clem Goodhue, after a single glance at their backs, took the sheet of paper from the kitchen table and thrust it into the kitchen stove. There was a flare of light. It quickly died down. Clem carefully reached his hand into the stove, took out the small corner of the paper remaining, and lit his cigar with it.
The three men turned from the window.
Levi P. Nickerson was first to speak. “Can’t ask any of you to stay to supper,” he said. “Just a few left-overs, is all we’re having. I expect you’ll want to be going on your way.”
The two other County officials nodded.
The taxi-man said, “I believe I’ll stop by the Ashby bar. Might be someone there wanting to catch the evening train. Night, Levi. Don’t turn on the yard light for us.”
“Wasn’t going to,” said Levi. “Turning them on and off, that’s what burns them out. Night, Clem, Gam, Erastus.” He closed the door after them. “Mrs. Nickerson,” he called to his wife, “you can come and start supper now. We finished our business.”
THE IKON OF ELIJAH
AVRAM DAVIDSON TRAVELED far and wide, and his experiences provided inspiration for many lifetimes’ worth of writing. He was in Israel during the 1948 war of independence and afterward journeyed through Europe to London. His wanderings included Cyprus, where “The Ikon of Elijah” is set. Cyprus is a small island in the eastern Mediterranean where Greeks, Turks, and other ancient cultures live in a constant state of simmering conflict—and there are always opportunists who are ready to make a profit from conflict.
“The Ikon of Elijah” appeared in 1956 and was one of Avram’s first published stories. The editor at Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine commented: “Watch Mr. Davidson: he has the gift—the precious gift of words and insight.”
—GD
On a wet afternoon in early winter a small and mud-splashed automobile entered Nicosia through the Paphos Gate and made its way through Sultan Solyman Square, Queen Irene Street, Ledra Street, and, finally, through a back alley which had neither name nor paving to speak of. Very few people in Cyprus were feeling cheerful in the cold rain, and the driver of the car—a heavy-jowled man with snowy h
air—was certainly not one of them. He cursed the rain and the people thronging the narrow streets of the capital city, Greeks and Turks and Armenians and British, with superb impartiality, but in a low voice. Drawing to a stop about halfway up the alley, he blew two short, hard blasts on his car horn, and struggled out, breathing heavily.
A door opened in the stone wall to the right, and a man wearing the high boots and baggy black pantaloons still favored by Cypriotes of the older generation hurried out. He had few teeth and gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin.
“More floods in the foothills, Kyrios!” he said. “People and cattle drowned, houses washed away—”
“I wish the whole damned island would wash away. Be quiet. Park the car. I won’t need it again today.”
“Yes, Mr. Carpius.” The houseman folded himself into the little vehicle and maneuvered it slowly away, while Mr. Carpius entered the back garden of his house and closed the door behind him. The garden was not well kept, the interests of the master of the house presumably lying elsewhere; tiles clinked loosely under his rapid feet, unpruned shrubs grew to the size of small trees, moss was everywhere. The ground-floor windows were barred, as were the second-floor windows. There was no third floor, but if there were and if it had windows, they would certainly have been barred, too; for Mr. Carpius was a cautious man.
He let himself into the house with two keys, and passed through an enormous and shadowy kitchen, where an old woman dressed all in black was feeding chestnut wood into an ancient stove. She mumbled a greeting over her shoulder and Mr. Carpius, sniffing the aroma of lamb pilaf and stuffed grape leaves, permitted himself a little smile of anticipation, and blessed her fulsomely.
After unlocking and locking the doors of three more rooms, and passing through, Mr. Carpius came at length to a small shop fronting on a fairly busy street. His eyes flickered rapidly around it, looking for a moment with pleasure on the window:
and came to rest on a small, dark Maltese, who at once broke into a smile of obsequious welcome.
“What news, Paul?” Mr. Carpius asked, sitting in a rush-bottomed chair.
“Another terrible flood, sir—”
“Oh, damn that! Besides, I’ve already heard it from the houseman. What news?”
“Yes, sir, I understand, sir. Pray excuse me. Ah. Mr. Harari has bought the bronze camel-bells. All of them. He says he can use many more. Camel-bells are popular now—in Israel, he says. They hang them on the walls.… Why, sir?”
“Who cares why? Let them hang them around their necks, if they please, as long as they buy them. What else?”
“The parchment sanjek-map.”
“Good, good.” Mr. Carpius moved slightly a De Lusignan–period dagger which lay near the edge of a table. “What else?”
“And all six of the silver denarii of Tiberius, sir.”
“Ex-cellent! I am very pleased, Paul,” Mr. Carpius said benignly. Paul writhed in gratification. A sudden afterthought struck his employer. “At the prices marked?” he snapped.
“Oh, yes, sir!” Paul assured him, in haste. “Minus the usual ten per cent deduction for dealers,” he added nervously; but Carpius waved aside the usual ten per cent deduction.
“That’s all right.”
“And you, sir, Mr. Carpius? Did you have good luck?”
Mr. Carpius’s heavy, square face, usually pink, now darkened to a mulberry-red. He scowled, and clenched his teeth.
“No, damn it! I didn’t.” Paul backed away and began to arrange a trayful of strings of amber beads, the sort which pious Moslems use to recite the nine-and-ninety Attributes of the Almighty, beginning with His Compassion, a quality in which Mr. Carpius was lamentably deficient. “Let them alone!” Carpius barked. Paul dropped one, then fell to his knees.
After swallowing what seemed to be something large and dry, and beating his stubby-fingered hand on his knee several times, Carpius finally composed himself.
“I arrived there with the twenty pounds that Yohannides had agreed on,” he said, “although I was naturally prepared to go much higher. The situation appeared made to order: the chapel had been closed for so many years he’d had to break the lock to get in. The place hadn’t been entered since the Diocese leased the estate to the Agricultural Department before the First World War. Imagine it!”
Carpius leaned forward, furious, then went on: “An ikon of Saint Mamas riding his lion, Eleventh Century work, and the silver cover, showing details of his life, from the reign of Isaac Comnenus, the last Greek ruler of Cyprus! Fabulous! Priceless! One dare hardly estimate the value.… I should have forced him to let me take it away the first time I saw it. A petty clerk in the Agricultural Department, how dared he refuse to trust me? And what happened when I got back there, after driving to the end of the island? It was gone!
“I could have throttled him. ‘What do you mean, gone? You’ve sold it, you scoundrel!’ I said. But by and by I saw that he was telling me the truth. The Bishop took it! ‘For safekeeping’! For forty years the Bishops didn’t even know it was there, didn’t think about it, care about it—now, just when I take an interest, so does the Bishop.… What we need Bishops for at all is something I can’t see. It is just this sort of thing which causes anti-clericalism.”
Carpius sat back, breathing heavily, while Paul hardly breathed at all. Gradually the angry color ebbed from the antique dealer’s face.
“Tomorrow,” he said calmly, “I shall see what can be done about arranging to have it stolen. If nothing can be done—and, sometimes, alas, such is the case—I shall be obliged,” he sighed, “to offer to sell it on commission.”
He rose, flicked on the lights, and walked over to the windows. He removed a small painting of a meditative bull in a peeling gilt frame and replaced it with a set of ivory and ebony chessmen, and had just stepped back to consider the effect when two men arrived in front of the shop. Mr. Carpius muttered something short and rapid, then smiled broadly as the two men entered.
“My dear, dear Mr. Calloost Chiringirian!” he sang out. “And Major—Major—?”
“Parslow,” said the Major, a thick-set, ruddy-faced man whose bulging chest was covered with rows of ribbons.
“Hello, Carpius,” said Mr. Calloost Chiringirian negligently. He was a tall man in a gray astrakhan hat, and the same pelt showed at the cuffs and collars of his coat. He turned a clever, sallow, eagle-face to the shop owner. “I’ve brought you a customer. Major Parslow is his Regiment’s treasurer and he is looking for a piece of silver suitable for a farewell present to Colonel Eggerton, who is being retired. Something heavy and hideous—the Colonel’s taste leans towards the Edwardian, if not to say, the Victorian. Nymphs, with huge bosoms and massive buttocks, supporting an inkwell in the form of St. Paul’s Cathedral—that sort of rubbish, Carpius. Your sort of rubbish.”
“Mr. Chiringirian’s sense of humor is famous,” Carpius said bleakly.
“Quite,” said Major Parslow.
Carpius snapped his fingers. “Paul,” he said. Paul jumped, began to climb up a small ladder and take things down from shelves. Behind Carpius’s face various emotions seethed and bubbled. He hated the suave Armenian, who had got the better of him in many a deal, and he hated him none the less for now deriding him through his merchandise. And yet he envied him with all his heart for daring to speak before Major Parslow with a boldness which he, Carpius, would never dare employ.
“Offer him a fifth of what he asks, my dear Major,” the tall man was saying. “And certainly do not pay more than a third.”
“I am happy,” said Carpius, “to be of service to the Major. We British—”
“You?” the Major asked. Paul came up holding, or rather clutching, an object consisting of two silver Scotchmen in kilts, standing on a slab of marble, and supporting a clock with several dials on its enormous face.
“I was born, of all places, in Hong Kong,” Carpius tittered, “and, naturally, my being a British subject by birth is my most precious possession.”
&nbs
p; “Next, of course, to your virtue,” Chiringirian said. “Examine it well, Major. It is gruesome enough to please even Colonel Eggerton, and it tells the time, the day and month, the year, and the phases of the moon.… I have just returned today, Carpius, from a visit to Thallassaöpolis, where I paid my respects to the Bishop. A delightful man. He had me to tea.”
Carpius glared, quivering.
“He wanted my advice and counsel. Would you believe it, Carpius—an ikon of St. Mamas of the Eleventh Century, and a silver cover dating from the reign of the Emperor Isaac Comnenus … Lovely, lovely. He had removed it, on my advice, from a neglected chapel in the hills. We—ah—came to terms. It is now in a bank vault. How lucky I heard of it … dear me, Carpius, you are pale.” The Armenian smiled coldly.
Carpius stared at him, livid, but he soon composed himself.
Chiringirian gestured. “This sort of rubbish you have here,” he said, “would have sold well to the old Turks. They had an unfailing taste for the worst in Western Art—if, indeed, one may call it art. The Imperial Turks, the Imperial Russians, Major, they were faulty and even wicked—but when I recall the blood bath and holocaust which followed their overthrow—” He sighed deeply.
Carpius shrugged. He remembered the unrest in Russia and Asia Minor with affection. Business had never been so brisk, before or since. The loot of a thousand churches and monasteries passed through his hands. Perhaps those days might come again. Carpius gazed with sudden disgust around the crowded shop. It was rubbish—Chiringirian was right. He thought of jeweled crosses and golden communion spoons. One never knew what might happen, with half the peoples of Asia ready for one another’s throats.
He let Major Parslow have, with barely a struggle, and at only four hundred per cent profit, a silver snuff-mull in the shape of a ram’s head, with carnelian eyes: when the top was lifted a concealed music box played Rule, Britannia.
“Adio, Carpius,” Chiringirian said, with a crooked smile. “We shall meet at Philippi—though I, personally, prefer the Riviera. After you, dear Major.”
The Investigations of Avram Davidson Page 6
