The Pied Piper of Death

by Forrest, Richard;

  “I think the damn thing was loaded with grape,” Lyon said.

  “Then it wouldn’t have hurt us,” Paula said. “It was firing like they do in riots when they shoot rubber bullets.”

  Lyon shook his head. “Not hardly. In the Civil War and before, grapeshot was used as a close-range antipersonnel weapon. A number of iron balls were sealed in a flimsy canister that disintegrated when the cannon went off. If they were short of iron balls, they just stuffed old nails, or pieces of metal of any sort, in the barrel and fired it off. This junk probably made a pattern like a gigantic shotgun blast that took out a large swath of enemy troops standing in the way.”

  “So if you hadn’t knocked Paula down she would have been blown apart?” Rabbit said.

  Lyon nodded. “At this range, yes. We were lucky it passed over our heads.” The rag-a-tag metal missiles had probably passed harmlessly over Rabbit’s head. The canister shot would have torn into Lyon and Paula while missing the small man.

  “It would have missed me, huh?” Rabbit said, as if in response to Lyon’s thought.

  “Yes.”

  “I had nothing to do with this. I was behind you guys when the damn thing went off.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Wait a minute. How come Mr. Super Reflexes here was able to hear a cannon fire and take cover? Sounds to me like a scare-the-shit-out-of-the-troops bit is at work here.”

  Lyon examined the breach and touch hole of the ancient fieldpiece. He felt for powder residue leading up to the small aperture. “I heard the fuse powder train sputter. It was probably laid a little longer than usual and took slightly more time to explode. Those moments allowed me to react. I think that whoever set it off needed a little extra time. He knew how to load this thing, and therefore realized that Parrots had a habit of blowing up when fired. This might be particularly true with a weapon that hadn’t been used in a century. Whoever it was also needed a long fuse to give them time to get away.”

  “Get away where?” Paula asked as she stared across the empty cemetery. “I don’t see anyone now, and I didn’t notice anyone after the explosion.”

  “I think Rabbit knows where he went,” Lyon said.

  The short man frowned at Lyon. “You’re a smartass. How do I know that?”

  “Because you grew up around here and would know.”

  “You’re talking about the passage?”

  Lyon nodded. “There has to be one into the mausoleum. There’s no other possibility.”

  “My grandmother loved the story about Bridgeway and the Underground Railroad. Pipers helping slaves escape was something that really got to her. She was proud that a Welch had helped build the station.”

  “How does it work?” Lyon asked.

  “I never knew anything about that stuff,” Paula said, “and I grew up here.”

  Rabbit gave her arm a pat. “Your mom died when you were young. If Katherine knew about it she would have stored her secret supply of vodka out here.”

  “The person who fired that cannon used the passage,” Lyon said. “There was no other way to disappear so quickly.”

  Rabbit walked around to the side of the small building. “It’s been so long, I’ve nearly forgotten how it works.” He knelt by the mausoleum and ran his hand lightly over the stone wall. He twisted a loose stone near the base of the wall. A small door three feet high slid sideways to reveal the dark interior. As Rabbit stepped through the opening, the door swung back to re-form the stone wall.

  “Now you see me, now you don’t,” they heard his muffled voice shout from the interior of the crypt.

  “What’s in there?” Lyon called as he searched for the protruding rock release. He found the lever, and the door swung open again.

  Rabbit scurried out. “It stinks like a musty grave in there.”

  “Any signs of activity?”

  “The dead don’t move around a hell of a lot, Lyon.”

  “How about our cannoneer?”

  “If you want to explore around a bunch of ancient bones looking for a guy who just tried to kill us, be my guest!”

  “We have to do it,” Lyon replied.

  “Why?” Rabbit asked.

  “Because I want to find out what’s happening,” Paula said directly to the small man.

  Rabbit sighed. “God! Am I a sucker for young blond big people. Let me at least run home and get a couple of flashlights and maybe a length of good rope.”

  Rabbit trotted off in the direction of his cottage. Paula and Lyon sat on the raised walk in front of the mausoleum and leaned back against the wall. A bright sun warmed them. Paula grasped Lyon’s arm with a tight grip. “I guess that cannon did a number on those trees, huh, Mr. Wentworth?”

  “It would seem that way.” He sensed a note of near hysteria in her voice.

  “Joyce Kilmer wouldn’t care for that.”

  “No. I don’t expect that she would.”

  “I don’t want to die! I know I’ve talked a lot about death, but maybe that’s because I’m so frightened. That cannon was meant for me. Swan was right. Someone is trying to kill me, and I haven’t the slightest idea why.”

  There wasn’t any answer to that. They continued to sit near the cannon and look out over the river. It took Rabbit twenty minutes to return, burdened with a water bottle, a heavy rope looped over his shoulder, and three large flashlights.

  “Loaded for bear,” the little man said, “and I hope to God we don’t find any animals down there.”

  “I hate snakes,” Paula said.

  “I really do not want to go in there again,” Rabbit said.

  “Neither do I,” Lyon agreed but he twisted the protruding stone to open the recessed door anyway.

  They all stooped to enter the crypt. The door swung noiselessly shut behind them. Their flashlight beams played across the narrow enclosure, causing shafts of light to intersect in constantly changing patterns. Two large stone esophagi were located near the walls and were covered with a thin layer of pure white dust. A similar layer on the floor was swirled and eddied in odd configurations. It seemed obvious that the dust had been purposely disturbed to hide footprints.

  “It’s spooky,” Paula said.

  “Who’s buried in here?” Lyon asked.

  “The original colonel, Caleb Piper, and his second wife, Lavinia,” Paula answered. “The funny part is that it was wife number one who built this place. Mary’s the one who decided to go swimming off the parapet after dinner one night and never returned.”

  “The body was never discovered,” Rabbit added. “They say she haunts the place.”

  “We don’t need her to haunt,” Paula said. “I’ve got a stepmother who is perfectly adequate in that field.”

  Rabbit bristled. “You know, Paula, you are damn unfair to Katherine.”

  “I know she’s your drinking buddy.”

  “Only when necessary.”

  “You two knock it off,” Lyon intervened. “Let’s find out who tried to blow us up before we settle family problems. You’re the one who used to play in here as a kid, Rabbit. Where to now?”

  “Mary Piper had this place built before there was anyone to plant in here. It was designed to hold up to five or six runaway slaves at any given time. The escapees were brought here by boat and landed at the base of the cliff right below us. They would remain hidden for several days until they could be moved to the next stop on the railway that led to the Canadian border.”

  Paula looked around the narrow confines and shivered. “It would be horrible to stay in here for more than a few minutes, much less days.”

  “Is there still a way to get down to the river?” Lyon asked.

  “I knew it when I was a kid,” Rabbit said. He ran his hands along the far wall until they struck another protruding rock. He applied pressure until it slowly turned. A section of wall, built a century and a half ago by skilled artisans working with precision, slid open to reveal a narrow tunnel. The passage was barely wide enough for them to proceed single file.

/>   Rabbit led the way. Lyon took the second position but had to hunch over to keep from colliding with the low roof. The passage twisted to the right and angled toward the river with a marked downward slope.

  “My cousin and I used to play in here,” Rabbit said with a voice that echoed down the stone corridor. “My cousin was a big person, but was family and used to me.” He stopped abruptly and turned to face them. His flashlight canted up at an angle that turned his obliquely illuminated face into a macabre grimace. “I should have been grateful that a big person let me play with her, right?”

  “Oh, Rabbit,” Paula said. She pressed past Lyon to put her arms around the small man. “Now stop that.”

  It took several seconds for the anger to seep from Rabbit. “Okay, let’s go,” he said hoarsely and continued down the tunnel. “This passage is cut through solid rock right to the cliff face. That took a hell of a lot of work.”

  The corridor came to an abrupt halt at a dark hole in the floor.

  “I’m not sure I want to go down there,” Paula said.

  “There are metal ladder rungs in the rock that go down about fifty feet to the river level,” Rabbit said as he uncoiled the rope wrapped over his shoulder. He tied one end securely around his waist and handed the looped remainder to Lyon. “Feed it out to me. I’ll test the rungs as I go down. If anything has rotted and I fall, you can belay me.”

  “I understand,” Lyon said as he tied one end of the rope around his own body. He looped the remainder over his shoulder and through his hands in such a manner that he could feed it out gradually as Rabbit descended. “Ready?”

  “Here goes nothing,” Rabbit said as he stepped into the darkness.

  Rabbit had fastened his flashlight to his belt so they could watch the bobbing light swing back and forth against the narrow walls as he slowly climbed down the rungs. The small man’s baritone echoed up the passage.

  “Lay me down and do it again,” they heard him sing in an off-key rendition.

  “What’s that?” Paula asked.

  “An ancient maritime sea ditty,” Lyon answered.

  The light stopped its pendular swing. The beam shifted and swung up to point directly at them. “I’m down and it’s safe and clear,” Rabbit called to them.

  The short passage at the bottom of the shaft ended at a small cave located on the edge of the riverbank. The narrow entrance was covered with heavy brush growing across the opening. Lyon could see watermarks on the cave walls where it had flooded during the times of a high river rise. They pushed through the brush to stand on a narrow ledge overlooking the river, which lapped at their feet.

  A small rowboat bobbed at anchor fifty feet offshore. The security guard, Barry Nevins, held a fishing rod in one hand and a can of beer in the other. He turned to face them as they lined up along the shore. “Lousy fishing,” he called.

  “How long have you been there?” Lyon called back.

  “About an hour.”

  “See anyone come out here?”

  “Yeah. A while ago someone was standing where you guys are.”

  “Who was it?” Lyon asked. “Can you give us a description?”

  “How the hell should I know? I’m off duty and not being paid for that crap.”

  “Damn liar!” Rabbit said in a low voice that the wind carried across the water.

  Barry stood up in the rowboat. “What did you say, you dopey dwarf?”

  “You’re dead meat, Cro-Magnon,” Rabbit said as he plunged into the water and began to swim awkwardly toward the rowboat.

  Barry picked up an oar and held it over his head. He was ready to strike as soon as the small man was close enough. “You’ve had it, dwarf dork. You are going to be fish food!”

  “I didn’t really feel like swimming just now,” Paula said.

  “Me neither,” Lyon agreed as they made racing dives into the water. They stroked rapidly to intercept the swimming man.

  EIGHT

  When Lyon drove through the front gate of Bridgeway House without stopping at the security guard’s signal, he knew all hell would break loose. A piercing alarm went off before he reached the end of the drive. Harry, the chief of security, was glowering on the stoop’s second step with arms akimbo when Lyon braked the car to an abrupt halt near the door.

  “I can’t let you in, Mr. Wentworth. We got strict orders that no one sees the girl.”

  “Where is Paula?” Lyon asked innocently.

  “In her room. She’s not allowed any visitors,” the guard said firmly.

  “Ten to one she’s not there,” Lyon said. “In fact, I can guarantee she’s not on the grounds.”

  Harry blanched. Opposing emotions flickered across his face as he took a moment to decide if he should believe Lyon. His instincts came down on the side of belief. He bolted back inside the house.

  Lyon’s shoes squished as he uncomfortably marched through the door to the living room, and then up the stairs to the balcony. He heard Harry’s frantic calls for assistance over the phone in Paula’s empty room.

  The Connecticut River had not yet warmed for the summer, and he shivered from his recent swim. His shirt had dried on his back, his pants were damp, and his shoes were waterlogged. The swimming Rabbit had been determined to reach the rowboat and engage Barry in mortal combat. It had taken Lyon and Paula’s combined efforts to tow the enraged man back to shore.

  Before Lyon had returned to the mansion, they had escorted Rabbit home. He had managed to escape their grip twice and had started back for the river, but his short legs had been no match for Paula’s long ones. Finally they had delivered him into Frieda’s firm clutches.

  Lyon had ordered Paula to stay at the Welches’ where he thought she would be safe for the next two hours. He telephoned Bea from the small cottage.

  “You remember the security guard who coshed the lady protester?” he said to his wife on the phone.

  “He was fired,” Bea replied.

  “He’s back and turning up in strange places,” he said as he explained about Barry and the rowboat. “Can you have the state police and FBI run a quick background check on him?”

  “Sure,” Bea answered. “You think he’s into things?”

  “Up to his neck. Thanks much.”

  Paula had told him that her stepmother’s room was two doors down the hall from hers. He stopped at the proper door and slipped out of his wet shoes, squirming his toes against the thick hall carpeting before he knocked. No answer. He knocked again.

  “Amscray,” was the muffled reply from the other side of the closed door.

  “Mrs. Piper, it’s Lyon Wentworth.”

  “Stuff one of your kiddie books under the door and scurry away. Tell your supercompetent wife to vote Communist.”

  “I don’t think there’s much of a Communist party left anymore,” Lyon said to the dark wood of the door panel.

  “No more Commies? God, what a blackout that was,” was her muffled reply. “Go away, Lyon. I am busy weaving gold cloth to keep that nasty little man away.”

  Lyon turned the door handle and found it unlocked. He stepped inside the bedroom and quietly closed the door. Katherine was standing on a small balcony looking toward a distant ocean. She wore a long transparent nightgown partially covered by a full-length silk housecoat. A tray with a sandwich and a small glass of milk was centered on a table by the side of the bed.

  She turned to face him and raised a stemmed glass. “It’s good pepper vodka, best taken neat. Care for some?”

  “Perhaps if you have some Dry Sack sherry?”

  “Pity. I’d love to drink the afternoon away with you and see where it led.”

  “Is that your usual luncheon invitation?”

  “Of course. Didn’t Peyton tell you that as a fallen Piper I give land mines a bad name? After all, I committed the worst possible sin for his class. I enticed one of his employees to my bed. You do not work for us, but as an uninvited guest from the wrong side of the river, you are nearly in the same category. Gener
ally, I have found that most men have deliciously rotten intentions, of which I fully approve.”

  “Like Markham Swan?”

  “Oh, yes. Rarely do intentions get more rotten. He was not only an employee, but a true bounder in his own right.”

  Lyon laughed in spite of himself. “That’s a word I haven’t heard in a decade. Are there really any bounders left? I would have thought that territory had been usurped by modern morality.”

  “Markham Swan gave the term entirely new dimensions. Not only was he a lecher of wide capacity, but he seemed to view the feminine half like that mountain climber. Markham wanted to possess all women merely because ‘they were there.’”

  “Tell me about your relationship with him.”

  She looked at him a long moment over the rim of her goblet before turning away to wave the glass over the low balustrade of the small balcony. “Do look at my very special river view.”

  Lyon moved to her side and looked down. The patio parapet was directly below the balcony, and below that the cliff fell in a sheer drop down to the river. It was a straight fall of two hundred feet.

  “Mary Piper jumped to her death from the patio just below this window,” Katherine said. “I can understand her fascination with the fall, and since she was married to a Piper, I understand her reasons.”

  “Why did you marry Peyton?” Lyon asked.

  She finished the contents of her goblet and poured more from a nearly empty bottle secreted behind the window drapes. “When I knew him in college and while he was married to Helen, he seemed suave, charming, kind … and rich. That’s an unbeatable combination.”

  “What happened to change that?”

  “Living with him. I found him to be cruel, pompous, overbearing, but still rich.”

  “And Markham Swan was not any of those things?”

  “He certainly wasn’t rich, but he could make love like a God. That makes up for a lot.”

  “Including his leaving you for another woman?”

  “My dear Lyon. I never had him completely enough for him to leave me. He always had other women. Not only his wife but others. The man was constitutionally incapable of monogamy. I knew that.”