by P. N. Elrod
“Anyone see you on these walks?”
“I suppose so. I wasn’t paying much attention.”
“Did you go past the funeral parlor?”
“I did. It’s on the main street and I recall going down that way once.”
“Did you go into the parlor, like maybe to pay your respects?”
“No.”
“Did you want to?”
“Are you charging me with anything?”
Curtis ignored the question and hit him with a dozen more of his own, which Escott handled the same way; the truth, but not all of it. If I hadn’t been the missing body all the fuss was about, I’d be starting to believe him.
I wanted a look at Curtis and chanced taking a peek around the other end of the door. It was safe enough, one man was watching Escott and the other was out of sight.
Curtis was smaller and slighter than his help, but with the kind of tough stringy body that reminded me of tree roots. He had short gray hair, a narrow face, and wore steel-rimmed glasses that caught the light and hid his eyes. He looked like the kind of person who could spot a lie and be ready to deal with it before it was out of your mouth. Escott was in for a hard time.
The deputy glanced up and I ducked back behind the door. Talk lagged while he came across the room for a look. I vanished, sensing his close presence for a moment as he checked the cells and turned away.
“What is it, Sam?” asked Curtis.
“Thought I saw something.”
He’d left the door wide open so it was flat against the inside wall and I no longer had a place to hide and watch. I shifted to one of the cells and materialized on the lower bunk. Escott’s bag was still with me and I took care not to let the stuff inside clink.
Talk in the next room resumed. Escott stuck to his bad story, Curtis let him know in very precise terms just how bad the story was, and neither side gave an inch. Having been in the same situation only a few days ago, I was all sympathy. Too bad Escott couldn’t hypnotize his way out of this one. I seriously speculated on walking in the front door with a sad tale of concussion and a family history of catalepsy and amnesia. The consequences would have been amusing, but maybe not too productive to a low profile. I was distracted from further planning when the station door opened and another man entered.
“Well, Doc?” said Curtis expectantly.
“Brought ’em.”
A chair squeaked and bodies moved.
“Out with your mitts,” someone instructed, and there was a concentrated silence. I whisked from the cell and peered past the door with one eye, trying to be thin. Escott was standing at the desk having his fingerprints taken. He got a towel to wipe off the ink, but they ignored his request for soap and water. Curtis ordered him to be taken to the next room.
I jumped back into the cell, grabbed up the bag, and went away for the minute it took to lock him in.
“This is too bloody much!” he exploded as the key turned. “Am I under arrest? Answer me!”
I followed the deputy out as he shut the door, listening while they examined and compared. They were disappointed.
“Well, what did you think?” Curtis growled at them. “If he’s smart enough to move a stiff and not be seen, he’s smart enough to wear gloves. What about the others, Wally? Did McGuire take yours?”
“Yeah, and none of the prints match what we found on the table.”
I grinned invisibly. Any prints on that metal table would be mine.
The doctor continued. “I’d just like to know why he did it, if he did do it.”
“Who else? You said he threw a conniption when you started to cut.”
“People are like that, they don’t like to think about what we have to do. . . .”
“Like hell. This bird’s no virgin, he’s been in the business long enough. As for that religious scientist crap . . . he’s hiding something.”
“Then you try wearing him down. In the meantime I think you should see if there’re any students spending the weekend in the area.”
“Students?”
“As in medical. We got up to games in med school that would curl your hair.”
“Students?” Curtis repeated unhappily. He had badly wanted to pin it on Escott and now had a new distraction to trouble him.
“Where do you want this stuff?” asked Wally.
“In the file over there.”
Wally went over there and shuffled away the fingerprints.
“Now what?” asked the doctor.
“We let him wait and think. I’m going for my supper. I’ve been running my ass off since yesterday. Want to come?”
Curtis and the doctor left, and the two remaining men discussed their own dining plans. I drifted back to the cell, took the top bunk, and reformed.
“You all right?” I whispered.
He was standing at the locked door, less than two feet away. He whirled, drawing a quick breath. “Not just then. You should knock or something, I nearly had a cardiac.”
“Sorry.”
“Have you been here long?”
“With you all the way.”
“I thought as much when that deputy got cold and then started seeing things.”
“I just came from the other room. They were trying to match your prints with some from a table. I think it’s the one I’d been lying on at the parlor.”
“With little success. I imagine the prints they found were your own.”
“That’s what I figure.”
“I suppose I could suggest it to them. . . .”
“Don’t be funny. The chief’s gonna let you stew here for a while.”
“I expected no less. They’ll have to release me in twenty-four hours, though, or charge me.”
“Only if they’re nice about it. Some of these small-town cops can be regular dictators.”
“One can hardly blame them in this case, as they are very much out of their depth—”
The outer door opened and I got scarce fast.
“Awright,” said the deputy, “who you talkin’ to?”
“My lawyer, if I’m allowed the chance. Where is Chief Curtis? He can’t just shut me in here without . . .” He went on and on until the deputy left, slamming the door on his tirade.
“All clear,” he whispered.
I reappeared on the floor, next to the lower bunk with my back against the wall. He was still at the cell door, his fingers threaded through the bars. They weren’t the vertical type, but inch-wide iron strips in a latticework pattern that made the dark cell a claustrophobe’s nightmare. The walls and ceiling were metal as well and covered with institutional green paint marred by graffiti. It was thickest along the bunk wall, with the usual initials, scratches to mark off passing days, and a crude figure of a woman to remind inmates of what they were missing.
“Not too terribly cheerful, is it?” he asked, reading my face.
“I’ll get you out of here.”
“A jailbreak?” He shook his head.
“No, I’ll find Curtis and have a little talk with him.”
“I’d rather hoped you might. Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah,” I said, with some surprise. “It’s funny, but I think my disappearing act seems to help—like taking an aspirin.”
He was interested. “You do look improved.”
“Will you be okay here?”
“Safe as houses.” He removed his coat, folded it neatly, and stretched out on the lower bunk with a sigh.
“But aren’t you worried?”
“Over what?”
“If Curtis checks your story at the inn, Barrett could hear about it. You’re a sitting duck in this cell.”
“I’m aware of that possibility, but pacing and tearing my hair will not help the situation.”
“You still don’t think Barrett is behind any of this?”
“Before forming an answer, I need more data.”
I let it slide for the moment. “Speaking of which, you haven’t filled me in on what happened today.�
�
“What about Chief Curtis?”
“He’s having supper with the doctor. I can’t do anything until there’s a chance of getting him alone. I can catch him when he comes back.”
He nodded, approving. “That will be Dr. Evans, who is also the local coroner. He fancies himself to be a criminologist—”
“And nearly sliced me up for salami from what I’ve just heard.”
“Erm, yes. Well . . . the less said on that the better.”
“Sure, but thanks for heading him off. So, how did you spend your day?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. “I have the strangest feeling of déjà vu.”
“Maybe you could tell me how I spent my day instead.”
He jumped at the chance. “To summarize: you and Banks were discovered at about seven forty-five last night by a Mr. and Mrs. Malloy. Malloy was reluctant to leave the scene, tried to flag down a passing car for help, and succeeded on his second attempt. He sent the driver on to call the police. They arrived and the official investigation began.
“The two of you were pronounced dead at the scene and photos were taken. The hurricane delayed things and it was several hours before they could move the bodies. The worst of the storm hit around dawn. I was awake at the time along with a few other guests and beginning to wonder what happened to you. I thought you might have found it necessary to go to ground because of the weather, or that the car had broken down someplace. A deputy showing up to drive me to the funeral parlor to identify your body was the last thing I expected.”
“Did you think I was dead?”
“Not after I saw you, but I knew you weren’t at all well.”
“How so?”
“That horrible shrinking and aging had not set in, so it seemed likely you would recover, given time and a little help. I was then invited to aid the police in their inquiries—”
“How did they know to find to you?”
“They traced the registration of the car to its hire firm, then to our Manhattan hotel, and ultimately to the Glenbriar Inn. They were less than satisfied with my story of a vacation, but had to settle for it, as it was all the information I was pleased to give them. They released me and I returned to the parlor in time to begin the first arguments against your autopsy. Dr. Evans was exceptionally busy because of the aftermath of the storm, and that helped. All he managed to get into the record was that you were probably dispatched by a blunt wood instrument of some sort, and the odd fact that after a period of more than eighteen hours, rigor mortis and livor mortis had not set in. He was mightily puzzled over that.”
“We’ll just make sure we keep him that way.”
“I’m all in favor of—”
The door crashed open and the deputy bulled in. I barely squeaked out in time.
“Where is he?” he yelled.
“What are you talking about?” Escott’s voice was mild.
“There’s a guy in here, I heard you gabbing. Where is he?”
Escott didn’t bother replying to that one and the man tore the place apart, which didn’t take long, since it was pretty short of hiding places. In the end, he took Escott from his cell and locked him into another.
“Anything, Wally?” he called to his partner, who was outside beating the bushes by the jail windows. Wally came back distantly with a negative answer.
“What is the problem, Deputy?” Escott asked, with the polite blandness one reserves for idiots.
“You shut up,” he ordered, and marched out, leaving the office door hanging wide open.
I resumed shape in the most sheltered corner of Escott’s new cell. His face was grotesquely crisscrossed by the shadows cast from the bars, but he was silently and heartily laughing.
“Guess I forgot to whisper,” I murmured.
He recovered enough to say, “We both did. I never thought jail could be so amusing.”
“I’ll get going before we drive them nuts.”
“Good luck,” he wished, and I winked out, taking the fast way through the front. Both men were very quiet and still, probably listening for more conversation from the cells. Unless Escott decided to treat them to a Shakespearean soliloquy, they were out of luck.
It wasn’t late, but the streets were empty and had that post-midnight feel to them. Hard blue light from lamps around the station picked out broad puddles left by last night’s storm, and a cool wind made the water shiver and stirred fallen branches. Not feeling it even in my thin shirt, I stood motionless under the shadow of a tree. I had nothing to do but wait and hurt and think and grieve. Down the block the windows were still lit at the funeral parlor where John Henry Banks waited to be buried.
A slow hour passed before the chief’s car chugged up to its slot in front of the station. He was alone, which was exactly what I wanted. As he got out, I put myself on the sidewalk and called to him.
“Chief Curtis?” I used a light, friendly voice. I was someone with no real problems or gripes.
The car was between us. He shut the door and looked up. “Yes? Who’s there?”
That reminded me about my superior night vision. He was squinting to see my face against the harsh, inadequate light of the street lamps.
“I need to talk with you, if you have a minute.”
He didn’t know my voice and was trying to place my body shape, comparing it with others in his memory to identify me. I was familiar, but he didn’t know why.
“I got a minute, come into the station.” He remained on his side of the car, unconsciously on guard. Some deep instinct within had raised the tiniest of alarms. I rounded the front of the car—a natural enough move—but it put the light squarely behind me and kept my face in shadow. His glasses picked up the brightness and threw it back.
“No need to go to any trouble, sir, I just had a question for you.” I was almost close enough to start, but had to move to one side so he could see my face, half in light, half in shadow. He didn’t know me, but I was now very different from the rain-sodden corpse on the roadside under the glare of his flashlight.
“What is it?” He was expectant. In another second he’d be impatient.
“I want you to listen to me,” I said, focusing onto him.
Light flared over his glasses as I closed in.
The stone bench was cold and unforgivingly hard, but Escott cheerfully maintained its superiority over his padded bunk at the jail. His vest and coat were tightly buttoned and he was pretending not to feel the chill in the wind as we sat watching the Glenbriar Inn. The white Studebaker was still where Barrett had left it hours earlier.
My head had started its dizzy thumping again, adding to my worries. I hugged my precious packet of earth and longed for total rest deep in my quiet trunk. Chief Curtis had been less trouble than I’d anticipated, but it had been very draining.
A minute after I’d finished with him and faded into the night, he shook himself and completed the journey from his car to the station, unaware of its interruption. Escott was brought from the lockups and released, much to the puzzled annoyance of the deputies. Sometime tomorrow Escott would return to collect his car keys and my personal effects. I could have managed it all tonight, but didn’t want to push things too far or too fast. There was always the chance that Curtis could be talked out of my influence by some familiar, sensible voice.
“I’m going inside,” said Escott. His tone was relaxed and conversational, as though he’d only commented on the weather.
From this end of the place we could see the window of our room. If Barrett was up there instead of in the lobby, he hadn’t bothered with the lights. I could easily imagine him sitting very quietly in the dark, facing the door and waiting for it to open. Escott had made his mind up and nothing short of my hypnosis could change it. I wasn’t going to do that, but I couldn’t let him go up there alone, either.
“All right.” I stood up. Slowly. The nagging dizziness made the ground lurch. I’d used up a lot of precious energy dealing with Curtis.
“You don’t h
ave to, you know.”
“I know. Let’s get moving.”
We left the park, going the long way around to avoid being in direct sight of our window. I kept my eyes wide open as we approached the back door to the inn, scouting likely corners and shadows for his presence. The memory of that amorphous gray blob so invisible to human eyes was still with me.
If Barrett was in the room, he would hear us come up the stairs. He could distinguish us from other guests by the sound of two pairs of shoes, but only one pair of working lungs. Our door opened suddenly and he stepped into the hall to look us over with his candle-flame eyes. He nodded and stood to one side, inviting us in.
Damn few things ever ruffled Escott; he murmured a polite good evening and did so, turning on a light. It took me a little longer to follow.
Our room was undisturbed. If for any reason Barrett bothered to search it, he’d been careful. Without thinking, I went straight to my trunk and sat on it; the soil within tugged at me like a rope. Escott sank onto one corner of the bed nearest the door and Barrett took a hardwood chair next to the window.
“I read the paper,” he began. “I read all about the double murder and saw the name John R. Fleming, so I thought I should check it out and see if it was you. I’m glad you’re all right.”
My face must have been stone. “Are you?”
His lips thinned and his own expression hardened. “Yes, I see that you are. I’ll go now.”
“Wait.” Escott arrested his move to leave. “Something else must have brought you here as well.”
“It was the story in the paper,” he stated, his voice even.
“Indeed.”
Barrett didn’t like his look and started to rise again, and again Escott stopped him.
“The other man who was killed, John Henry Banks—what do you know about him?”
“Only what they said in the paper. Why should I know anything about him?”
“He was the man who chauffeured Maureen away from the Francher estate five years ago.”
The revelation did no more than raise one eyebrow. “He was?”
“We spoke to him at length. He remembered a small woman wearing a veiled hat who hardly spoke to him.”
