The Investigations of Avram Davidson

by Avram Davidson

  There were scattered boos and hisses. The representative smiled broadly, expressed the Municipality’s respect for Tradition, and urged the Misses de Gray to get back into their house, please, before they both caught cold.

  Neither moved. The Mayor’s personal representative had not reached his position of eminence for nothing. He turned to the D.P.W. crew. “Okay, boys—no work for you here. Back to the garage. In fact,” he added, “take the day off!”

  The crew cheered, the crowd cheered, the trucks rolled away. Miss Louisa sheathed her sword, Miss Augusta unloaded her musket by the simple expedient of firing it into the air, the Mayor’s representative ducked (and was immortalized in that act by twenty cameras). The Misses de Gray then stood up. Reporters crowded in, and were ignored as if they had never been born.

  Miss Louisa, carrying her sword like an admiral as the two sisters made their way back to the house, observed Betty and her grandfather in the throng. “Your features look familiar,” she said. “Do they not, Augusta?”

  “Indeed,” said Miss Augusta. “I think he must be Willie Linkhorn’s little boy—are you?” Mr. Linkhorn, who was seventy, nodded; for the moment he could think of nothing to say. “Then you had better come inside. The girl may come, too. Go home, good people,” she said, pausing at the door and addressing the crowd, “and be sure to drink a quantity of hot rum and tea with nutmeg on it.”

  The door closed on ringing cheers from the populace.

  “Carruthers, please mull us all some port,” Miss Louisa directed. “I would have advised the same outside, but I am not sure the common people would care to drink port. Boy,” she said, to the gray-haired Mr. Linkhorn, “would you care to know why we have broken a seclusion of sixty years and engaged in a public demonstration so foreign to our natures?”

  He blinked. “Why … I suppose it was your attachment to the traditions of Saratoga Street, exemplified by the cobble—”

  “Stuff!” said Miss Augusta. “We don’t give a hoot for the traditions of Saratoga Street. And as for the cobblestones, those dreadful noisy things, I could wish them all at the bottom of the sea!”

  “Then—”

  The sisters waved to a faded photograph in a silver frame on the mantelpiece. It showed a young man with a curling mustache, clad in an old-fashioned uniform. “Horace White,” they said, in unison.

  “He courted us,” the elder said. “He never would say which he preferred. I refused Rupert Roberts for him, I gave up Morey Stone. My sister sent Jimmy Taylor away, and William Snow as well. When Horace went off to the Spanish War he gave us that picture. He said he would make his choice when he returned. We waited.”

  Carruthers returned with the hot wine, and withdrew.

  The younger sister took up the tale. “When he returned,” she said, “we asked him whom his choice had fallen on. He smiled and said he’d changed his mind. He no longer wished to wed either of us, he said. The street had been prepared for cobblestone paving, the earth was still tolerably soft. We buried him there, ten paces from the gas lamp and fifteen from the water hydrant. And there he lies to this day, underneath those dreadful noisy cobblestones. I could forgive, perhaps, on my deathbed, his insult to myself—but his insult to my dear sister, that I can never forgive.”

  Miss Louisa echoed, “His insult to me I could perhaps forgive, on my deathbed, but his insult to my dear sister—that I could never forgive.”

  She poured four glasses of the steaming wine.

  “Then—” said Mr. Linkhorn, “you mean—”

  “I do. I pinioned him by the arms and my sister Louisa shot him through his black and faithless heart with Father’s musket. Father was a heavy sleeper, and never heard a thing.”

  Betty swallowed. “Gol-ly.”

  “I trust no word of this will ever reach other ears. The embarrassment would be severe.… A scoundrel, yes, was Horace White,” said Miss Augusta, “but—and I confess it to you—I fear I love him still.”

  Miss Louisa said, “And I. And I.”

  They raised their glasses. “To Horace White!”

  Mr. Linkhorn, much as he felt the need, barely touched his drink; but the ladies drained theirs to the stem, all three of them.

  CAPTAIN PASHAROONEY

  “CAPTAIN PASHAROONEY” WAS published in 1967, when Davidson’s son, Ethan, was five years old. Avram Davidson loved children, and always spoke to them with grave respect. He regarded children as small people, deserving the same consideration as big people. This touching story captures the speech and thoughts of a child. Although the story has a neat plot twist, it was written right from Avram’s heart.

  —GD

  The great big Cadillac drew up in front of the school in the middle of the morning. A uniformed chauffeur was at the wheel, and a man all dressed up in striped pants and a derby hat got out from in front and opened the door of the back. Children in the schoolyard were already gathering and looking through the wire-mesh fence.

  “Hey, look at the Rolds-Royst!”

  “It ain’t a Rolds-Royst—it’s a Caddy.”

  “How much you wanna bet it’s a Rolds-Royst?”

  “Ah, you haven’t got anything to bet. And besides, a Caddy’s just as good as a Rolds-Royst.”

  The man who got out of the door held open for him was tall and broad-shouldered, though rather pale. A thin mustache rode his short upper lip. He wore a dark overcoat with a velvet collar and had an astrakhan cap cocked slightly to one side of his head.

  “Thank you, Jarvis,” he said.

  “Very good, sir.”

  The tall man trotted nimbly up the front steps of the school, vanished inside.

  “Gee, will ya look at the butler!”

  “Ah, hoddaya know he’s a butler?”

  “Lookit the way he’s dressed! Didn’tcha ever see a butler in the movies or television? And besides—and besides—didn’tcha hear him say, ‘Very good, sir’? That’s what butlers always say.”

  “Gee!”

  “Gee!”

  * * *

  A JANITOR LEANING on his broom looked up in surprise at the rapid, brisk sound of adult male feet. The man in the astrakhan cap tossed two words at him without slowing down.

  “The office?”

  “Yes, sir. Right to the left a them stairs as ya come t’the top, sir, right to—”

  The tall man nodded curtly, tossed something that glittered. The janitor lunged for it, “—the left a them stairs—” caught it. The tall man went out of sight, though not sound. Another, younger janitor, came up, bent over to look.

  “Whah did he give ya, Barney?” Barney held it up. “Hey, a silver dollar! I haven’t seen one of those in a long time … Who was he, d’ya know?”

  Barney nodded. “He was a gentleman,” he said. “And I haven’t seen one of those in a long time, either.…”

  * * *

  THE TALL MAN walked into the office, smiled at the squat ugly woman at the desk, bowing slightly as he did so, sweeping off the astrakhan cap. “I’m Major Thompson,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Yes. Why—”

  “I believe the Principal is expecting me.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, he is, Major.” She smiled back, blushed. “Mr. Buckley!” she called, trying to push back a recalcitrant chair. “Mr. Buck—”

  Major Thompson said, “Allow me, ma’am,” as he gave the chair a no-nonsense tug … and the lady a helpful hand under her elbow. She blushed again.

  The frosted glass on the door of the inner office quivered a second before the door itself opened, and a thin little man with pince-nez spectacles, a few strands of greying sandy hair combed optimistically over his bald spot, came bustling out. “Yes, Miss Schultz—what—Oh.”

  Very tall, very broad-shouldered, Major Thompson held out his arm straightly. “Major Thompson,” Miss Schultz said, in a loud whisper; and “Dr. Buckley,” said the Major, taking and pumping the hand of the Principal. “A pleasure, sir.”

  The thin little man beamed. Then his face
quivered. “It’s Mr. Buckley,” he said. “Of course, I have my M.A., and I always intended … but…”

  Major Thompson smiled. “Confidentially,” he said, in a lower tone. “Confidentially, I never even took my A.B.” He chuckled. “What do you think of that? Too much celebrating—Harvard-Yale game—my senior year—suspended me.” He laughed, a hearty laugh. Mr. Buckley laughed back. “I could have returned the year after that, but, well, it so happened that by that time I had other interests. Well, well,” he concluded, on a note neatly blending regret and satisfaction. “How’s the boy?” he asked, abruptly, seriously.

  Mr. Buckley cocked his head and raised his eyebrows. “Jimmy, hmmm, how shall I put it, Major—? Jimmy has, I think, I believe I am justified in saying, mmmm, a very considerable potential—”

  Softly, gravely, Major Thompson said, “But he isn’t realizing that potential; is that it, sir?”

  The Principal was almost distressed. He hoped that Major Thompson would not misunderstand him. He had discussed the matter with Mrs. Morley, very fine woman, Mrs. Morley, he had just hung up the phone on her call telling him to expect the Major the minute he walked in the door, almost. He had discussed the matter with Mrs. Morley once or twice, after all, she was the boy’s foster-mother in a way—

  Major Thompson said, “Have you met my sister?”

  “No. No, I never have. I wrote to her—”

  “But she never replied. I know. She never replies to my letters, either. If my wife were still alive…”

  There was a silence. Then Mr. Buckley, in some embarrassment, said, “You see, one of the difficulties about Jimmy, besides the matter of his schoolwork, is, well, humm, how shall I put it, his, mmm, tendency to exaggerate?”

  The Seth Thomas clock on the office wall ticked loudly. “Such as … for example?”

  Mr. Buckley’s thin face reddened ever so slightly. He looked down, he looked around. But the other man was implacable. “Such as what, sir?”

  The Principal took a deep breath. “Well … he told us he told everybody, his teachers, his friends, Mrs. Morley, me … that…”

  Major Thompson smiled. “Told you, perhaps, that his father had a ranch in South America with ten thousand horses … eh?”

  “Yes!” exclaimed Mr. Buckley.

  Still smiling, the Major said, “Mr. Buckley, I have no idea how many horses there are on my various South American properties.” The little man’s ear caught the plural, his eyelids fluttered with dawning understanding. “There may be well over that number, all told. We just don’t count them, down there. Horses. Now, as to cattle—I can give you without any difficulty—” he reached into an inner pocket “—the latest statistics on them … if you like…”

  Just as Mr. Buckley was assuring Major Thompson that it wasn’t necessary, wasn’t in the least necessary, the outer door opened and Miss Schultz came back in, shepherding a small and most reluctant little boy in front of her. The boy observed Mr. Buckley’s ear-to-ear smile with some misgivings, and started to turn away. But Miss Schultz blocked the way.

  “Do you know who this is, Jimmy?” she asked, pushing him forward. The tall man bent over, slowly, and slowly put his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. The boy looked up at him in utter astonishment. He opened his mouth, shook his head. Miss Schultz tittered, joyfully, gave him a friendly little shove forward.

  “Who is it that lives in South America,” asked Mr. Buckley, archly, “and has many, many horses—” The boy blushed scarlet. “—on several ranches; hey? Guess!”

  At first Jimmy would not lift his head. Then he did. His expression was almost defiant. He stared up at the tall man in front of him. Then his mouth opened. He pointed.

  “I remember you!” he cried. “Now I remember! At my mother’s! We had green ice-cream!”

  Major Thompson said, gently, “Yes. It was pistachio.”

  The strange word seemed to throw the boy off balance. “I don’t remember that … it was green.”

  Mr. Buckley said, still beaming, “Pistachio is green.”

  Angrily, Jimmy said, “Well, I don’t remember! How could I? I was only about four years old!” His voice had risen to a shout. He burst into tears.

  Major Thompson went down on one knee and took him in his arms.

  “I didn’t remember that you were my father,” the boy sobbed. “I didn’t remember it.…”

  His father patted him gently, while Miss Schultz blew her big nose and Mr. Buckley took off his glasses and wiped the inner corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger.

  * * *

  THE PRINCIPAL OF the school agreed, not only without reluctance, but even eagerly, that Jimmy might take the day off to be with his father. “Why, under the circumstances, certainly, Major, certainly,” he said. “I understand. Perfectly. What a shame, though, after all these years away, that you have to go back so soon.” He clicked his tongue. “I wish,” he said.

  “I wish, too. But I have to be in Washington very shortly; and then—well, back to South America. Things aren’t too well down there, as I’m sure you know.”

  Mr. Buckley did know. It was the heritage of Spain, he supposed. All those generations of fighting the Moors had made the Spanish so bellicose.… Jimmy came back with his coat and cap and an expression on his face both incredulous and self-important. “I gave the note to Miss Humphreys and she said Of Course. She said she hoped you’d be able to give the class a talk about South America. And I said: Maybe.” He looked up at his father rather uncertainly.

  Miss Schultz gave a little gasp and Mr. Buckley brightened. “That would be a wonderful thing, yes,” he exclaimed. Half-turning to his secretary, then turning back to his visitor, he said, “Perhaps at a special assembly—? It would be wonderful for the children and…” He stopped. Major Thompson pursed his lips, first cocked his head, dubiously, then shook it, remarking that he doubted there would be time.

  At a gesture from him, the boy began rapidly to button the coat. “What—you won’t mind my asking, I’m sure—what,” Mr. Buckley inquired, “is the educational system like down there?”

  The Major said that it left something to be desired. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve never sent for Jimmy.” (“Ahah, ah,” the principal made quick noises of understanding.) “Another was, that I wanted him to grow up in his own country. He’d always be a foreigner down there, why should he return and feel like one in the United States? Which is how it would be, you know? No, no. Much as I have missed him—and will continue to … Someday he’ll understand.”

  The corridors were crowded with children coming back from their recess, and Jimmy—holding his father’s hand—walked with head up, proud, darting looks from side to side. Major Thompson subdued his own long strides. Whenever he passed a teacher, he made a very short bow. Even the big boys of the sixth grade were impressed, and looked enviously at Jimmy.

  “That’s his father—”

  “—big black car with a shofer and a—”

  “He’s a major!”

  Jimmy’s head went higher. Automatically, he started to turn towards the small side door which the children generally used; but Barney, the short-tempered old janitor, saw them coming. Almost at a run, he reached the big front doors, gestured father and son onward, and swung the door open.

  “This is my father, Barney.”

  It was not an introduction but a declaration. Barney’s head went back, his mouth opened, closed, opened. “Now I know where you get them high spirits from!” he exclaimed. “Some a these people,” he said to the major, “are always crabby and complaining, but I tell ’m, I tell ’m, ‘It’s only high spirits.’ See, reason I understand, I used to be in the Service myself. Oh, yes. With General John ‘Black Jack’ Perzhing down in Mexico when we was chasing that guy Pancho Villa.”

  “But he ran too fast for you,” Major Thompson said. He and Jimmy went out the door.

  Barney’s laughter cackled behind them. He trotted to the top of the steps and called after them. “You come down to my room
there behind the furnace during lunch time or after school some day, young fella, and I’ll show you my pitchers and souvenirs!”

  Jimmy grinned with delight. “I will, Barney, I will,” he called back. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

  “Jarvis,” the major said, “This is James, Junior.”

  “Good morning, Master James.”

  “Gee!”

  * * *

  THEY FOUND MRS. Morley, assisted by a neighbor, struggling with her hair. “I was so excited,” she said, “that I just had to ask Mrs. Marks, here—she’s lived next door to me for years—I had to ask her to come over and make me some coffee and help me get dressed. My Lord! After all these years, not so much as a letter; Mrs. Gibson—”

  Major Thompson cleared his throat. “I hope you appreciate my sister’s situation, Mrs. Morley. Not that I excuse her. Do you know that she didn’t even inform me of her marriage?” Both ladies exclaimed at this duplicity. “But she is, after all, my sister. It’s her husband I must blame. That gentleman and I are going to have to have a little talk together, if I’m not much mistaken.”

  Mrs. Marks nodded her head firmly. “Lining his own pockets, I suppose. Keeping the money, not letting her visit the child—”

  “It’s not the food,” Mrs. Morley explained. “It’s not the room, either, nor the time. As far as money goes, it’s the clothes. But that was my problem. I managed. But—you know—what about the boy? What about Jimmy? How does it look, everybody has a family and he hasn’t got a family. His father is in some far-off foreign country, his mother passed away, his aunt never shows her face. How does it look? How do you suppose he feels? No wonder—”

  “Now, Lindy, don’t get so emotional,” Mrs. Marks said. “I always said, the father will turn up some day. Didn’t I? Blood is thicker than water. You do a good deed, you don’t do it for nothing. Was I right?”

  And Mrs. Morley had to admit that her friend and neighbor was right. “Your check was very generous, Mr.—Major Thompson,” she said. “It more than took care of everything.”