Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (3 page)

 
          
“You
make my people sound like parvenus,” said Manco.

           
“No, no, your earliest Americans
came from the Asiatic mainland, like the Japanese, like the Australians.”

           
“And perhaps like my European
ancestors,” put in Thunstone. “I mean the first modem men in
Europe
, the Cro- Magnons. They may have come from
Asia
or even
Africa
, but they got there.”

 
          
“I
greatly admire the Cro-Magnon paintings,” said Shimada. “But to speak of the
supernatural, it’s a prime factor in Japanese religious beliefs. I’m here to
discuss that when I make my speech.”

           
“And you, Mr. Thunstone?” asked
Grizel Fian.

 
          
She
leaned toward him above the table. Her low-cut gown slid away from the upper
slopes of her pale breasts. Her green eyes probed at him.

 
          
“Do
you believe in what they call the supernatural?” she asked. “Is it possible?”

 
          
“If
it’s possible, it’s not supernatural,” he replied. “I believe in what I’ve
experienced, in the work I’ve done all my life. People talk to me about
impossibilities and possibilities, but I feel that the old saying fits in
somehow, that a likely impossibility is always preferable to an unconvincing
possibility.”

 
          
“Whoever
said such a thing?” inquired Pollock.

 
          
“Aristotle
did, for one,” said Manco, before Thunstone could speak.

 
          
The
waiter took away their plates and brought back slices of
Black Forest
torte and a pot of coffee. As they ate
their dessert, they continued to talk of various beliefs and their influence.
At last they were finished. Pollock and Grizel Fian and Shimada lighted
cigarettes. Thunstone and Father Bundren produced briar pipes, and Manco
brought out an Indian pipe of dark red stone, carved to resemble an elephant.

 
          
“How
interesting, your pipe,” said Grizel Fian to him. “An elephant shape to it.”

 
          
“It
was made by my ancestors, long before
Columbus
came to
America
,” he told her.

 
          
“But
an elephant?” she protested. “There weren’t any elephants in
America
then.”

 
          
“Thousands
of years before
Columbus
, there were elephants in
America
,” Manco said.

 
          
“True,”
seconded Father Bundren.

 
          
Again
Grizel Fian leaned herself toward Thunstone, giving him another glimpse of her
bosom.

 
          
“Mr.
Thunstone,” she said, “do you remember a man named Rowley Thome?”

 
          
“I
remember him very clearly,” he answered her.

 
          
“You
do? And where is he now?”

 
          
“As
to that, I can’t really say. The last time we were together, I saw him vanish.”

 
          
“
Vanish
?” repeated Pollock, interested. “Into thin air, you
mean?”

 
          
“I
don’t know where he vanished to, but he was gone,” said Thunstone evenly. “He’d
failed at something he tried to do, and the things he had summoned didn’t have
any use for failures. They went back to whatever place they’d come from, and
apparently they took Rowley Thome along, and I’ve heard nothing of him since.”

 
          
“You’re
having fun with us!” Pollock almost cried at him.

           
“No,” said Thunstone. “I’m telling
what seemed at the time to be the truth.”

           
“
Vanish
?”
said Pollock again. “You don’t know where. What sort of man was this Rowley
Thome?”

 
          
“Physically
he was a big man, as big as I am,” Thunstone said.
“Bald-headed,
or perhaps closely shaved all over his skull.
Strong,
prominent features.
That’s what he looked like. As for the rest—perhaps
you’d like to describe that, Ms. Fian.”

 
          
“Very
wise,” she said, almost prayerfully.
“Very deeply versed in
strange sciences.”

 
          
“But
where did he go?” persisted Pollock. “Into some other dimension, are you trying
to say?”

 
          
“Science
recognizes other dimensions,” said Thunstone patiently. “Mysticism recognizes
other planes. I don’t pretend to be fully informed about these things, but”—he
fixed Grizel Fian with his eyes—“I’m relieved and glad that he’s gone.”

 
          
“Maybe
he’s not gone,” she said, so softly that he could barely hear.

           
“Well, all this is strange, it’s
very interesting,” vowed Pollock. “Now, does anyone here wish anything else I
can get for you?”

 
          
“For
myself, I’d be glad to be excused,” said Manco, rising. “I’m to be on the panel
with you others tomorrow morning, and later I must speak all alone, and I want
to go over the things I must speak about.”

 
          
They
all got up, smiling at each other. They thanked Pollock for his hospitality and
promised to see him the next morning. Then they started away into the lobby and
through it. Grizel Fian walked along with Thunstone. Her shoulder touched his
briefly.

 
          
“You’re
so sure that Rowley Thome vanished,” she whispered conspiratorially.

 
          
“I
saw him vanish,” said Thunstone. “He vanished like an image from a screen when
the light goes off.”

 
          
“Where
did he go?” she asked. Her eyes were like green lamps.
“Where?”

 
          
“One
lesson I’ve learned from the life I’ve led, is not to inquire too importunately
into things like that. What are you trying to say? Do you think that he’s
returned from wherever it was?”

 
          
“I’ll
want to talk to you again.”

 
          
She
turned away and crossed the lobby toward a door on the far side. She winnowed
as she walked. Watching, Thunstone thought he saw her make a motion to a man
beside the door.

 
          
That
man was powerfully built, big-nosed. He wore a checked sports coat. His head
was as bald as a great egg.

 
          
Then
Shimada was at Thunstone’s elbow. “Chief Manco and I, we have rooms on the
fourth floor,” he said. “Would you like to come with us? I look forward to more
discussion with you.”

 
          
“Perhaps
in a little while, Professor,” said Thunstone. “I have some things to note down
in my own room. What’s your number?”

           
Shimada looked at the tag of his
key, “Room 412,” he said.

 
          
They
went up together in the elevator, Thunstone got off at the third floor, strode
quietly along the corridor to his room. As he unlocked the door, he heard the
telephone ringing. He entered swiftly and picked up the instrument. “Hello,” he
said.

 
          
“Hello
yourself,” said a gentle voice he knew at once. “You’re hard to find at home.
I’ve called and called.”

 
          
“
Sharon
!” he almost shouted. “Where are you calling
from?”

 
          
“Why,”
said Sharon, Countess Monteseco, quite easily, “right here in this
Inn
. I’m about two doors away from you.
Room 316.”

 
          
“Come
here to 312 at once.”

 
          
“You
make that sound rather like an assignation,” she said, “but I’ll come at once.”

 
          
She
hung up. John Thunstone hung up, too, and sat and thought about her. They had
not seen each other in years, but she was vivid in his memory.

 
          
Countess
Monteseco, who once had been the golden girl called Sharon Hill. Who had been
drawn to Thunstone but had been a trifle afraid of his strange adventuring, who
had gone abroad and had married Count Monteseco of
Italy
. Count Monteseco’s title had been only an
empty one in that nation which had become a democracy after Mussolini, and
Count Monteseco had been a troublesome, sinister man who, when he had died, had
not seemed to die too soon. Monteseco was still her name but once she had been
Sharon Hill,

 
          
A knock at the door.
“It’s open,” he called, and in she
came.

 
          
Sharon,
Countess Monteseco, was pleasantly handsome. Her hair was blond, with a touch
of red, what some called strawberry blond. She wore a tailored suit of
brown-and- green-checked twill, with a scarf at her throat. Her figure was
compactly symmetrical; she had a fine arched nose and wide curved lips and eyes
a trifle bluer than sapphires. If she was beautiful, it was not the beauty of a
doll or of a siren. She smiled as she entered, with the closed-lipped smile
associated with the Mona Lisa and the Empress Josephine.

 
          
She
held out her small, strong hand to Thunstone. He took it and kissed it.

 
          
“For
God’s sake, what are you doing here?” he asked at once.

 
          
“Why,
the
New
York
papers said that you’d be the principal speaker at this meeting.’’ She smiled
back at him. “I came to hear you, to be with you. Why? Aren’t you glad to see
me?’’

 
          
Her
smile waited, but he frowned.

 
          
“
Sharon
,” he said, “there’s never been a time when
I wasn’t glad to see you. But if you’re here, you’re in danger. Remember Rowley
Thome?”

 
          
“Yes,”
she said, “yes, but isn’t he gone?”

 
          
“I
have a notion that he’s here.” He motioned to a chair, and she sat down. He sat
on the bed and leaned toward her. “Time after time I’ve had to save you from
things the world doesn’t believe can exist. I’ve always wanted you to keep
clear, stay out of danger.”

 
          
Now she frowmed, a tiny crease between her brows.
“Well,”
she said after a moment. “I hadn’t expected this sort of a reception. Am I
wrong in remembering that you used to say you loved me?”

 
          
“I
do love you, this minute I love you,” he fairly burst out. “I’ve always loved
you, since first we met, since before you went abroad and married your Italian
count.”

 
          
“That’s
all I want to know,” she half whispered.

 
          
She,
too, leaned forward, put her small hands on his big shoulders and met his mouth
with a strong, swimming kiss.

 
          
Thunstone
took her close in his arms and returned the kiss with a burning hunger. But
then he released her and stood up, away from where she sat.

 
          
“There,”
the countess said. “Maybe I was a trifle shameless, but didn’t I convince you
that I can love, too?”

 
          
“Yes,”
he said, rather gruffly. “But I say again, you’re in peril here. That always
happens when you’re with me. I mentioned Rowley Thome.”