by W.S. Lacey
In the courtyard below, a shadowy figure was seated alone. It looked up at him and helloed and he waved down. Whether it was something about the shadowy man or the peculiar way Fletcher felt, he at once decided to go down and be sociable.
At length he got down the stairs and into the courtyard where he painstakingly approached the man, who was seated at a small wrought iron table just beside the brick wall of the building.
“Hello,” Fletcher said as he sat down.
“Hello again,” the man said.
“Fletcher, Alard.”
“Holroyd- just Holroyd.” He had been tamping a pipe with his thumb and he now struck a match, the flare of which illuminated his face. Fletcher saw that he was middle aged with pale blue eyes and had two Heidelberg scars on his temple and jaw. Holroyd puffed at his pipe, drawing the flame down into the bowl and bringing a red glow to the tobacco. “Up late, yes?”
“I write plays,” Fletcher said. He thought he sounded foolish but was in no state to sound otherwise.
“Now why do you do that?” Holroyd said gently.
“I like making things happen,” Fletcher said. “I think things up and people do them.” This was surprising because, normally, he hadn’t really thought of it in this way.
“You’re a creator of worlds, you might say.”
“I suppose so.” There was a sort of flower that crept up the wall and it was particularly fragrant that night. The moon also seemed quite friendly and deserving of a bit of poetry or something and Fletcher was lost for a short time in contemplation of these. When he came to himself, he was holding a card and the shadowy Dr. Holroyd was rising. “Are you going, then?” Fletcher said. “Good evening to you, sir.”
“Good evening to you, Mr. Fletcher. I look forward to seeing you when you visit.” Although he didn’t recollect any promise to visit, he was sure that he must have said something. Some elusive thought, a vague memory nagged at him as he climbed the stairs to his rooms. He fell onto the bed fully clothed and slept; and as he slept, he dreamed.
#
He had once gone to the park with Cecilly Fitzmorris and, in a fit of high spirits, had stolen a kiss whilst in a secluded spot. She had turned red and stopped him from stealing another. The next week he had heard of her engagement to Arthur Spender. From that time he had tried to vilify her in his own mind. At times he fancied that he had quite succeeded but there were always the dreams. At first, they were incessant and even though they eventually came with less regularity, they never stopped entirely. Often, they were shades of that day in the park, with cool and green and the voltaic thrill of her lips. Sometimes he dreamt that she was his and sometimes he dreamt of losing her and the bitter disappointment that followed.
That night he dreamt that he was in a garden. She was there as well and it was not so unlike that park. It was lush and beautiful and he could feel the thrum of her life as she walked beside him. He turned to her but she had gone from his side and was standing on a side path that he hadn’t noticed before. She was with Spender. Treacherous; both of them treacherous. He had a knife and he leapt at Spender and stabbed him. Spender fell and Cecilly threw herself over his body. Fletcher felt a horrible rage and he reached out to her.
He awoke, tumbled out of bed, and was sick. As he cooled his cheek on the windowpane, he saw that he had left Holroyd’s card on the sill. He gingerly picked up the card and turned it over. There was writing on the back in a minute and slightly slovenly scrawl.
“When respite is needed from the backs of theaters and the barbs of newspapermen:” An address in the country followed. Still feeling strange and shaky from his nightmare, he crossed unsteadily to his desk and tucked the card away among his papers.
Fletcher couldn’t remember ever having had a dream of that sort before and stayed up most of the night nursing a headache. It was not until dawn had begun to creep across the sky that he nodded off in an armchair.
#
Over the next month, Fletcher labored ineffectively over a play that expressed the choler he had inexplicably begun feeling. In it, plenty of tragic things piled one on another and nearly everyone died by the end. Under some circumstances, this is not necessarily a bad thing as far as plays go, but even Fletcher admitted that his latest work had few redeeming qualities. When he had finally dragged the ungainly thing to its conclusion, he was almost entirely out of money and no theater manager would touch the script. A Mr. Clemens, owner of the Hephaestion, had looked at him gravely over his cluttered deal table.
“Parts of this are frankly appalling,” he said. “People don’t want to see a man blinding himself out of remorse any more.”
“I know it’s not particularly good.”
“Can’t you write more about humorous misunderstandings and things like that?”
“I can; I will.”
Fletcher now stood at his own window and counted his money. What he had in his pocket (and that was all he had) would not get him through the week. He paced around the room, sat at his desk, and pushed some papers around. Quite suddenly, he came across Dr. Holroyd’s card. “When respite is needed…”
#
The sea voyage had been stultifyingly uneventful. The moment Spender and North debarked, they were swarmed by half a dozen Tunisians, who laid hands on their luggage, carried it about twenty feet, and began demanding six rials with outstretched hands. When Spender claimed that they didn’t have anything that they could give them, the ersatz porters began to look mutinous and they were obliged to flee to the Hôtel de France. The cabman took five rials and the bellboy another two.
“They certainly aren’t very oblique,” Spender said once they had gotten to their room.
“I suppose the heat makes them awfully direct,” North said. “I think that if I spent a week here I’d begin telling people what I thought of them on a regular basis.” It was hot; so hot that they spent the day in the room where they slouched listlessly on a pair of couches and watched the ceiling fan as it rotated lazily. Even after the sun set, the air was warm and close and smothering. In such weather one’s shirt sticks to one in an aggravating fashion and it was somewhat reluctantly that Spender and North roused themselves and went downstairs.
The concierge was a Frenchman and the first truly pleasant person that they had met since they arrived.
“If there is anything you need, gentlemen,” he said, “please do not hesitate to ask. If it is appropriate, may I inquire what brings you to Tunisie?”
“We’re looking for an Englishman, a doctor.”
“His name is Holroyd,” North said.
“I’m afraid that I am not familiar with anyone of that name. I understand that the police keep a list of all known expatriates; perhaps there will be an officer who will be able to oblige you.”
They thanked the concierge and, for four rials, were driven through the narrow streets of the city to the police station. They were received by one Inspector Duchamp, who had impeccable side whiskers and very proper moustaches. He listened, or seemed to, at least, as Spender and North spoke. When they had finished, he rose without answering and left the room.
“Did he understand us?” Spender said.
“I don’t-” The door opened and the inspector returned to his chair.
“It is as I suspected;” he said, “there is no Dr. Holroyd in Tunis. Of the expatriates we have knowledge of, only two are doctors. One is Dr. Hollis. He is quite young and lives with his wife not far from the embassy. The other is Dr. List.”
“Did you say List?” North said quickly.
“Yes, he is an old man with the-” the inspector motioned at his own face, “the scars. He lives alone in les taudis; I would not recommend going there at this hour.”
“It’s somewhat urgent,” North said.
“Very well. There is a man who can take you to him. Please follow me.” He led them through a hallway and out into the balmy night. They had come out by an arch just behind the police station and
lingering under it was a man in white cotton duck and a chechia. “This is Syed; he will guide you.”
#
Neither Spender nor North knew what a taudis was, but it seemed to them that, whatever it was, it was in a distinctly seedy part of the city. Syed took them in a cab and then on foot through increasingly strait alleys where there were furtive movements in dark doorways and they remembered all the absurdly xenophobic things their fellow passengers had said on the voyage over. According to one of their more opinionated countrymen, Tunisia was home to death, disease, and a particularly shiftless type of native. They had not for a moment believed this, but a long hot day and the bleeding of their money had left a marked impression on them that the aspect of the neighborhood did little to ameliorate.
“Are we nearly there?” Spender said. Syed forged on without a word. North, who had been hanging back ever so slightly, caught up and spoke in Spender’s ear.
“Spender, I think we’re going to narrowly avoid being robbed.” Syed stopped and said something in rapid Arabic.
“Is the doctor nearby?” Spender asked. Syed held out his hand. After a moment’s grappling with the lack of a common language, North gave him several rials. Syed nodded and kept nodding until he had eight rials in hand, at which point he turned and slipped away.
“What should we do?” Spender said. North looked around wildly.
“Yell something.”
“Dr. List! We apologize for the late hour! Might we have a moment of your time?” Spender’s voice bounced down the alley.
“Well you’ve scared the thieves away.” Lights flickered in several windows and someone shouted something irate and unintelligible.
“Dr. List!”
“By all means, come in before someone fetches the gendarmerie.” A door had opened and a slightly shoddy figure in a dressing gown and slippers stood at the threshold, silhouetted by yellow light.
Chapter Eighteen
The doctor’s house was small and weirdly opulent. Red and gold damask paper covered the walls of his sitting room and the floor was hidden beneath a profusion of orientalist rugs. A censer depended from the ceiling and emitted both a tendril of grey wispy smoke and the overpowering smell of incense. The doctor, it seemed, was fond of comfort as there were a great number of pillows, too many to anyone with a sense of propriety, strewn on every chair and divan. The room was, at first glance, all arabesques and tassels, cushions and vapor.
The doctor shuffled across the room and sank onto his divan, beside which was a strategically placed hookah.
“Do you appreciate the aesthetic?” he said.
“Oh-yes-very-nice,” North and Spender said in unison.
“I’m sure you’ll enjoy it more if you take off your shoes and recline somewhere.” The doctor bubbled contentedly while they made themselves sufficiently bohemian. “Are you familiar with the hookah?”
“No, sir, not really,” Spender said. The doctor uncoiled the tubing that hung like a black and quiescent snake around the body of the hookah and proffered it to them.
“It’s highly medicinal; good for the lungs.” Spender took it hesitantly.
“Sir, are you Dr. List?”
“Sit there, please. Yes, just there.” The doctor looked at them with pale blue eyes. “Far more interesting than who I am is the question of who you are. What could bring two young men such as yourselves to a back street in Tunis at this late hour? You’re not with the police are you?”
“No, sir; not at all. We’ve come looking for someone,” Spender said.
“For Dr. List?” the doctor said.
“Have you ever been to the asylum at Quartersoake?” North said impulsively. The doctor looked blandly surprised.
“I admit that I had hoped to tempt someone here with my name but I must honestly say that you are not they.”
“What do you mean?” Spender said.
“I think you had better tell me who you are. What are your names?” He continued looking directly at them with his vaguely unsettling eyes.
“Lewis Spender.”
“North, Roger F.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Mr. Spender, yes? I have heard the name before-” the doctor smiled. “Oh yes. I think I know who you are and I can only imagine what has brought you here.”
“We’re looking for a Dr. Holroyd,” Spender said.
“Regarding what?”
“A Door and the man who made it.”
“A Door you say?” The doctor, who had been feigning indifference, dropped his pretenses for a moment and a slightly avaricious look came into his eye. “Tell me something; did you go in?” A clock on the wall ticked off the seconds and fragrant smoke curled up to the ceiling.
“Yes.” The doctor, who seemed to have been holding his breath, leaned forward on the divan.
“And was it wonderful?”
“Excuse me, doctor,” North said, “do you know Adelard Odd?” The doctor, who had been looking intently at Spender, glanced over at North and his eye patch.
“Know him? I should say I do- or did. I am, as you were already aware, Dr. Holroyd. I live under the name of List, partly to avoid the indignity of extradition should any of my past misdeeds come to light and partly as a message should anyone come inquiring in this part of the world. You see, List was a name that I and several of my acquaintances used when use of our own would have been- how to put it- imprudent. It was when I heard of the disappearance of Dr. List at Quartersoake that my suspicions were all but confirmed.”
“I beg your pardon?” Spender said.
“I was still traveling when news caught up to me about the girl. I heard that he had been taken and wondered if he had had time to complete- but then she was gone so he must have. I thought it all too piquant that, at the moment of his escape, he was seized. Shortly after that, he died, or seemed to, and it seemed a shameful waste. The amount of time and effort it must have taken him to get everything just so in there must have been astronomical- if you’ve never made one, I can assure you it is no easy thing, even in the best of circumstances.” Spender and North listened with little comprehension to Holroyd’s recollection.
“Then, when I heard that Dr. List had gone through and disappeared, I knew that he, that Odd, had played his game well. I had watched him grow in his abilities for some time and this, I saw, was his master stroke. I could have had him dug up, but I knew what would be found- or rather, what wouldn’t. The physician who attended him on his deathbed had vanished. It was really quite impressive.”
“What do you mean ‘if you’ve never made one’?” Spender said.
“Of course you’ve never made one; very few people ever have. And none have ever made one like he did. Do you know how very special your mother was?” Spender flinched and looked pained.
“We’d like to know more about Odd,” North said.
“To what end, Mr. North?” Dr. Holroyd laid back and occupied himself with his hookah.
“In order to destroy him,” Spender said, rather more fiercely than he intended. Dr. Holroyd showed no surprise.
“I’m sure I can tell you more about Adelard Odd than anyone living. It is, however, quite late and I need time to collect my thoughts. I should like to begin tomorrow.”
“Do you know how we might get back to our hotel?” Spender said.
“I wouldn’t hear of it. I’ll send a boy over in the morning to get your things and bring them here. Until then, I think I have enough to keep you relatively comfortable for the night.”
“We wouldn’t want to trouble-”
“Of course you wouldn’t; and I wouldn’t dream of sending you back to the Hôtel de France.” Looking around the exotically furnished room and at the doctor himself, Spender was struck by the feeling that something sinister dwelt beneath the surface of this placid old man. He would have very much liked to get away, but the doctor was perhaps the best chance at learning about a man whose past was obscure at best.
Later that night, as Spender lay sleepless on a divan and stared at the ceiling, he wondered how one created a Door. He wondered, further, if Dr. Holroyd had ever ‘made one’, as he had put it. When sleep finally did come, it was filled with uneasy dreams.
#
The next day, the doctor chatted at them over melon and eggcup and asked them about their studies and families and favorite places until he had put them more or less at ease. After their luggage arrived, he appeared in a rumpled linen suit and fedora and demanded that they accompany him to the souk. The souk, as it turned out, was a rowdy and vibrant sort of open air market that in every way lived up to Spender’s and North’s expectations of what an exotic market should be. Shouting men aggressively attempted to sell them trinkets and rugs and spices and Spender would have had his pocket picked had not North seen the whole thing well ahead of time. Dr. Holroyd seemed to take special note of this and could be seen on occasion stealing looks at North and his eye patch with no little interest.
That evening, Dr. Holroyd took them to his rooftop. The other rooftops lay before them all in a jumble, some with laundry drying on lines. As the sky darkened, a voice could be faintly heard calling out a sort of song.
“What is that?” Spender said.
“It’s a call to prayer;” the doctor said, “there’s a mosque not far away.” They listened to the song as it rose, fell, and lilted to its close. Holroyd knocked and refilled his pipe. “I really am a wicked old man,” he said, “as you’ll see sooner or later. I was once a wicked young man and, before that, a wicked boy. It comes of being perverse and of doing as I like no matter the cost. As I sit here in my dotage, living out my last years in comfort, I am possessed of an urge to reach back into the past and deal a blow to someone I once knew. Being wicked, I shall.
“I came across it in Cairo. This was in the eighties, mind, before all the Egyptologists had trampled in and sucked the place dry. In those days, they sold priceless relics and worthless trinkets side by side on the street. It was not uncommon to buy some filthy little reliquary and find that the dirt hid solid gold. The Egyptians often had no idea of the value of the things they were selling and objects of uncommon value could be got for next to nothing. As you may imagine, I bought all I could and planned to smuggle it all home.
