by Al Ruksenas
“You don’t have to tell me about precarious,” Caine retorted.
“Well…” his friend conceded.
“Look around, Al. This hall’s full of millionaires looking for prestigious tax breaks.”
“Yes, it is,” Carruthers replied longingly. “Although that’s not my department.” He seemed assuaged and no longer upset with his friend.
“Have you seen Victor Sherwyck?” Caine asked.
“I know he has an invitation, but I haven’t seen him. If you hadn’t insulted the Knowltons,” he said, resurrecting the moment, “maybe they could have told you something. They’re good friends.”
“I see,” Caine replied. “But it’s Sherwyck I want, not his friends.” “He’s also a donor. Just don’t insult him either. I have to be sure
everybody’s happy at these events.” “Well, make me happy, Al, and introduce me to the young lady.” “Ahh, yes, I figured,” Carruthers answered slyly. “It’s Laura,
Laura Mitchell. Dr. Laura Mitchell.” “How about if you first apologized to the Knowltons?” “For what?” Caine asked indignantly as he slowly and dramati
cally pulled back his jacket to reveal his pistol in a mock threat. “All right, all right. I’ll introduce you. But you’re going to owe me one.”
Chapter 6
She was facing away from them studying a mask in a display case
featuring an assortment of statues—all of them devils.
“Laura, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Carruthers said.
She turned to them champagne glass in hand. Caine stood transfixed.
A recurring vision flashed before him. He was in the midst of a confrontation on a dusty road in the outskirts of Beirut. A single shot from somewhere had provoked a firefight between some armed men in a crowd and a military patrol, to which he had been attached as an adviser. Caine was running for cover when he almost stumbled over a young woman lying near a building. She was on her back. Her black dress was hiked up to her thighs. The fall had disarranged her dress and the neckline revealed a soft, full curve of an uncovered breast. Caine impulsively stretched out his hand to help her to her feet, but she stared blankly at the sky with her lips barely parted. Only then did he notice a small, but steady trickle of blood flowing down her temple and mingling with her long, black, unbridled hair. She was dead. A deep feeling of rage overtook him. He felt awkward for extending his hand to a dead woman and dreamed evermore she was reaching out to take his.
She extended her hand. “Hello.”
Caine’s heartbeat quickened. He was thunderstruck. It was as if the girl had risen from the dusty street, just as Caine had willed over and over in his obsessive dreams. The resemblance was uncanny and sent a shudder down his spine.
She was medium height, but her high heeled shoes made her seem taller, stately. Her long auburn hair seemed to glisten in the lights. The young woman’s dress snugly caressed her body. Around her neck was a slim golden chain with a large amber pendant. Her eyes were large, round and green‐blue. Her lips, though closed, suggested a sensuous mouth. They seemed to be curving into a modest smile.
“Hello,” she repeated.
“Hello,” he responded robot like, looking at her intently.
“I’m normally flattered,” she said. “But you’re staring.”
“I’mmm... sorry,” he replied hesitatingly.
“My, my!” Carruthers intoned. “Have I finally seen Samson undone? He’s usually much more composed, Laura.”
“Please, Al! You’re embarrassing the poor man.”
“Thank you,” Caine responded.
“That’s all right. I did say I was flattered,” she replied with a disarming smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said slowly, regaining his demeanor.
“It’s nice of you to visit the exhibition,” she said sweetly.
“I noticed you admiring this mask.”
“Not so much admiring as minding,” she said, turning to the display. “I’m acting as an interpreter for this part of the exhibition.”
“I see,” he said. “And a lovely one at that.”
“Are you being flattering again, or do I remind you of someone?” Laura queried.
“I’m just describing what I see.”
She slowly took a sip of her champagne, smiled at Caine over the rim of her glass, and sauntered over to the other side of the display.
“What’s that you were looking at?” he asked, pointing his own glass towards a mask.
“It’s mid‐nineteenth century. The style is quite primitive. It’s carved from the bark of a tree and embellished with straw.”
“I see,” Caine said looking briefly towards her, then glancing back at the devil mask.
“It’s reminiscent of some primitive cultures in Africa and New Guinea.”
“You know a lot about devils,” Caine toyed.
”It depends on who they are.”
He looked playfully into her eyes and moved around the display case to be next to her. “And what about this one?” he asked. Her perfume now aroused his senses.
“This one?” She glanced at an intricate carving of an old man sitting on a tree stump smoking a pipe.
“It doesn’t look like a devil at all.” He peered intently at the light brown wooden figure, intrigued by his own question.
“Devils take on all kinds of disguises,” she explained. “Often human beings. Otherwise, we’d avoid them, wouldn’t we?”
Several passing guests lingered at the display to catch some of the woman’s explanation about its unusual exponents. Caine periodically darted his eyes towards the guests for a possible glimpse of Victor Sherwyck.
“For all the detail and intricacies of this carving, you’ll notice that this kindly old gentleman has no nostrils, even though he’s smoking a pipe.”
Some of the guests moved closer.
“People familiar with the folklore recognize that right away,” she said.
“I’m sure they do,” Caine replied as he studied other details of the statue. “I see that his feet take on animal form just as they disappear into his shoes.”
“Yes. The kindly old gentleman has cloven hooves.”
A lady onlooker curiously looked down at her husband’s feet in champagne induced humor that brought polite laughter from those around her.
“Reminds me of ‘Old Scratch’ where I come from,” Caine said. “We don’t hear much about him anymore.”
“Nowadays it’s more like grotesque science fiction monsters, aliens,” Laura emphasized, as much to Caine as to the several guests eyeing the display. “But folklore is still very much alive in Europe— particularly Eastern Europe. This exhibit is just a small part of an entire museum in the city of Kaunas in Lithuania,” Laura Mitchell continued, reverting to her role as docent of the display. “It’s devoted entirely to devils from folklore.”
“I think we’ve outgrown a lot of folklore here,” Caine responded.
“It seems we have,” she agreed. “And left behind some inherent wisdom with it.”
A thoughtful moment ensued in which the assistant curator noticed them looking at each other expectantly, while some passersby drifted to other exhibits in the vast hall.
“All right, then,” Alvin Carruthers intoned. He motioned to a passing server and scooped two more champagne glasses from his tray. He handed them to his friends who gave him their empty ones and turned to take one himself when the server lost his grip. A tray full of glasses clattered to the floor at their feet. There was a momentary hush around them as other guests stared at the result of the commotion. The server, a sullen looking dark‐skinned man, muttered something to himself and walked away.
“Are you skimping on professional help for these fancy affairs, Al?” the Colonel asked, remembering a similar sullen man at the entrance. “Here!” He handed back the glass Carruthers had just given him. “You could use this right now more than I can.”
Carruthers took a swift gulp.
“We don’t skimp, Chris. It’s in their contract. The Union has insisted for years that their members be involved in all phases of maintenance and service around the buildings. It’s like a little empire.”
The assistant curator looked around the hall for another attendant. None was in the immediate vicinity.
“I’d love to get some real professionals to cater these events, but the Union keeps harping that we’re taking work away from their people. And the Smithsonian Board doesn’t like controversy. So we take the path of least resistance. It’s really not worth the political fuss. And this kind of bungling doesn’t happen too often.”
“It could happen to anybody,” Laura Mitchell offered in a charitable vein. “I’ve seen one of the fancier caterers in Washington stumble over the wife of the British Ambassador. Anybody can spill a tray.”
“But not everyone has to act boorish,” Caine replied with a friendly eye to Laura Mitchell.
“I agree,” Carruthers interjected. “Our maintenance people are just not the types to interact with Washington society. They don’t display the social graces. It takes special training and sensitivity,” he explained in undisguised frustration.
“Our night crews should stick to taking care of the Smithsonian buildings. There’s plenty of work and satisfaction for all of them. Those who end up catering events like tonight seem ill‐at‐ease. It’s not the first time I’ve seen it. Outright unfriendly.”
Carruthers glanced down at some shards too close to his burnished shoes, stepped back and continued.
“Chris is right, Laura. But their Union has a stranglehold and keeps insisting on total control not only of maintenance, but other services associated with our buildings. It’s a long‐standing contract. I remember Victor Sherwyck had a big hand in lobbying the Board of Regents for it. They know he’s well connected, so the Board just leaves the labor contract alone.”
“Well, I’m sure some of these workers would appreciate a change,” Laura observed. “They really look like they’d rather be somewhere else.”
“The theme for the evening,” Caine muttered cryptically, thinking of the Presidential adviser he had planned to see. “Being somewhere else.”
Carruthers had noticed the palpable attraction between the two and saw his opening.
“Speaking of being somewhere else, I promised Laura a ride back to her car at the Library of Congress. I have some things to attend to at another building. I wonder if….”
“I’ll drive her back,” Caine offered instantly. “If it’s okay with you, Laura?”
“He’s a good friend of mine, a military officer,” Carruthers assured her.
“I’m fine, Al. I think I’m a good judge of character,” she said pointedly with an inviting look at the Colonel. “I’ll be happy to go back with you.”
The assistant curator was satisfied with his unexpected but apparently well placed match and excused himself. “I must circulate,” he declared. “The guests are waiting. Oh, and there are spilled trays to attend to. Now where did that wretched server disappear anyhow? ”
Christopher Caine and Laura Mitchell looked on in bemusement.
As the assistant curator walked away, Caine scanned the hall intently for Sherwyck.
“Well, first you stare at me like you’ve seen a ghost, now you look right past me, like I’m invisible.”
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “I could stare at you all night and forget to blink,” he said centering his attention on Laura whose alluring figure was accentuated by the flow of the elegant black dress draping her body.
“I was hoping to have a few words with Victor Sherwyck who’s supposed to be here. You know how it is—no Washington function is strictly social. They all have an ulterior motive: political advantage, entrée—” he paused—“intrigue.”
“Always intrigue,” Laura affirmed, taking another slow sip of her champagne. “So you’re here on official business, then?”
“Not strictly. Especially, not now.”
She accepted his flattery with a soft laugh. Their eyes fixed on each other for a longer moment.
“Intrigue, then?” She offered him her glass.
“Intrigue,” he said and took a slow sip from it.
“Hmm,” she intoned with interest.
“Tell me more about these devils.” He slowly handed back her glass and pointed to a statue directly behind her in the display case. “What about that one?”
She turned around. “That? That’s a very interesting one. It’s one of my favorites. It’s an imp. The pose first appeared in the late 19th Century. You can see by the hands both outstretched in a snubbing fashion in front of his nose, his tongue sticking out—he’s an independent and even frivolous character. Not necessarily malevolent, but mischievous. A rogue. You never know what he might do.”
“He seems quite predictable to me. All devils are.”
“You know the type?” She looked at him with a coy smile.
Caine acknowledged the verbal play with a lifted eyebrow. “And what do you do when you meet one of these imps?”
“Oh, I just shoo them away.” She hesitated, then said with emphasis: “Most of them are imp‐posters anyway.”
He contorted his face in a deliberately pained expression.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist that.”
“You should have some suitable punishment.” Caine motioned to a passing server with a tray of champagne.
“I’d like to, but I have to leave soon,” Laura told him, expecting the offer of another glass. “Actually, I have to finish preparing for some lectures I’m giving.”
“Old Folklore?”
“No, no,” she replied laughingly. “I teach French History at George Washington University.”
“What do French History and devil dolls have in common?”
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime,” she said anticipating they would see each other again. “Meantime, I’ll never get my lectures prepared.”
“Improvise,” Caine declared. “I can see that your intelligence is second only to your beauty.”
“I know a line when I hear one.”
“Can the truth ever be a line?” he retorted offering her another glass of champagne that he scooped from the tray of the passing server.
“I should say ‘no’…”
“Don’t say ‘no’, please,” he asked earnestly.
“Well... I suppose…”
They sipped their champagne, eyes engaging each other in wordless conversation, then gazed around the reception hall. Most guests had circulated through the various displays and were huddled in larger or smaller groups socializing.
Some were leaving. Colonel Caine took in the festive scene with a searching eye for Victor Sherwyck.
“I don’t think there will be much more traffic at this display,” Laura ventured. “Would you mind if we left now?”
“Not at all,” Caine replied, satisfied that Victor Sherwyck had not shown up.
They casually made their way towards the main door and passed within several feet of the Russian Ambassador’s circle. Mr. and Mrs. Knowlton were engaged in animated conversation with the Ambassador when Mrs. Knowlton noticed Colonel Caine and Laura Mitchell walk by. She gave Caine a dismissing glance.
Nearby, Mrs. Davis looked disapprovingly at him in the company of the shapely woman with the black dress and vowed to herself that he would have to explain himself before he comes calling on her Samantha.
And eyeing Caine very intently was one of the members of the Russian entourage. He was distinguished looking, but slightly fleshy—the result of a perceptible weight gain during the first of a two‐year assignment to the Russian Embassy as a consular officer. The man stroked back his full head of graying hair as he watched the Colonel and Laura Mitchell disappear through the main entrance of the Old Castle.
Chapter 7
Outside the Castle the long line of trees accenting the length of the Mall had become shadowy sentinels with a gathering wind hissi
ng through the leaves in the growing darkness. The wind carried the smell of fresh earth after a rain.
Amid an exchange of small talk Laura and the Colonel did not notice how fast they found themselves on the narrow, tree‐lined sidewalk along the west side of the Natural History Museum.
There were still signs of activity outside the Castle now farther across the Mall. Guests were leaving; some waiting for limousines, but this end was deserted in the darkness.
Caine’s senses instinctively peaked and his eyes darted back and forth surveying the area around them.
