Old Tin Sorrows (20 page)

“Ask Peters. I don’t know. My duties confined me to the house.”

“The draug that tried to get in the back isn’t accounted for. It didn’t go back to the swamp. Where could it hide out during the day?” Assuming, like story draugs, that it didn’t dare hazard daylight.

“In the outbuildings. I really must go, Mr. Garrett.”

“All right. Thanks for talking to me.”

He headed out, back stick-straight, unapologetic. He’d done what had to be done. He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t going to be talked out of leaving, either.

Another one down, I reflected.

Now there were six heirs. The cut for the minority people was up near a half million apiece.

Morley, Saucerhead, and the doctor awaited me beside the fountain. I didn’t approach in any hurry. I was trying to figure out how to launch a draug hunt.

Cook came out as Dellwood headed for the front door. They went into the entry hall arguing. She didn’t want him to go, either.

30

I joined Morley and the others. “What’s the verdict?”

Morley shrugged. “He didn’t shake enough or have trouble enough talking for it to be what I thought. He show any of those symptoms earlier?”

“Some shaking. No real trouble talking. What about the fit?”

“I don’t know. Ask the doc.”

I did. He said, “I don’t quite know. I should’ve had a closer look and a chance to interview the patient. But from where I stood it looked like you need an exorcist more than a doctor.”

“A what?”

Morley was as startled as I was. I’d never seen his eyes bug before. The remark had caught him from the blind side.

“An exorcist. A demonologist. Maybe a necromancer. Possibly all three. Though the first step should be a physical exam to make sure I’m not imagining things.”

“Start over. You’ve got me all turned around.”

“Between us, Mr. Dotes and I have a comprehensive knowledge of poisons. We know of none that produce the combination of symptoms the man shows. Not without affecting him more dramatically, physically, leaving him unable to control his speech and extremities—if he stayed alive at all. Disease is more probable than poison. Who knows what he brought home? I spent eight years down there. I saw a lot of strange diseases, though nothing quite like this. Is he taking any medication?”

“Are you kidding? He’d die first.” I had a thought. “How about malaria?” I’d been one lucky Marine. I’d never contracted malaria. “Or some kind of yellow fever?”

“I thought of that. A virulent strain of malaria, with massive quinine treatments, might produce most of the symptoms he shows. Tainted medication might account for the rest. But you said he’d die before accepting medication. I really must know his medical history before I hazard a guess.”

“Why that business about an exorcist?”

“My chief suspicion lies in the supernatural realm. Several varieties of malign spirit could produce the symptoms we see. My advice would be to examine his past. You might find something there to explain what’s happening. You might also look for an origin in unfriendly witchcraft. An enemy may have sent a spirit against him.”

Black Pete showed up in time to catch most of the discussion. I asked, “You make anything of that? The General have enemies who’d off him that way?”

He shook his head. “The answer is here, Garrett. I’m sure. He doesn’t have enemies who’d want to kill him. The worst ones he does have are the kind who’d send somebody like your friend.” He twitched a hand toward Morley.

“There’s no sorcerer around here. Unless you count Bradon, who’s gone. Doctor, could an amateur necromancer have sicked something on him, say accidentally, that would stick after the spirit-master died?”

“An amateur? I doubt it. Somebody really potent, maybe. If they stuck around themselves, as a ghost. Hatred is the usual force animating spirits that devour a man from within. And I mean hatred strong enough to bend the laws of nature. Hatred that wants its object to suffer for all eternity. But I’m no expert. Which is why I suggested a demonologist, an exorcist, a necromancer. You must discover the nature of the spirit, then banish it. Or raise it up, find out what animates its hatred and appease it.”

Peters said, “This is crazy, Garrett. The General
never
made that kind of enemy.”

“We’re talking possibilities. The doc says the whole thing could be physical. He needs to do a hands-on physical exam. And he needs a detailed medical history. What’re the chances?”

He looked at me, at the doctor, glanced at Morley and Saucerhead. “Better than you think.” His voice turned hard. “The old bastard can only threaten so much. We don’t have to give him a choice. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He strode toward the kitchen.

Morley settled on the fountain surround, in the shadow of the dragon’s wing. “Now what?”

“Let’s wait. He’ll talk to Cook. If she goes along, you’ll get to look at Stantnor.” Cook might not be mother to the world but she was queen of the Stantnor household. “Doctor. Can you suggest any experts who might help?”

“Let’s see if we get to examine the patient. If I find no physical cause, I’ll provide referrals. They won’t come cheaply, though.”

“Does anybody but me?”

Morley had a big yuk. “This is the man who paid cash for a house with the take from one case.”

“And for every one of those, I have fifty where I give Saucerhead half my fee to get them to pay up. You know anything about the art world?”

“That’s a change of subject. I know something about everything. I need to. What do you need?”

“Say I discovered an unknown painter genius whose work deserves display. Who would I see to get things moving?”

He shrugged, grinned. “Got me. Now if you had some hot old masters I could help. I know people who know morally flexible collectors. If you have something like you’re talking about, you should see your friend with the brewery.”

“Weider?”

“He’s got fingers in all the cultural pies. Honorary director of this and that. He has the contacts. You
don’t
have some old masters, do you?” He glanced around. I’m sure he’d been inventorying potential plunder.

“You won’t find anything here but portraits of old guys with whiskers who scowl a lot, all painted by people you never heard of.”

“I noticed the welcoming committee. I wondered how long it takes the Stantnors to train their young not to smile.”

“Might be hereditary. I’ve never seen Jennifer do more than fake it.”

“Your buddy’s coming.”

Peters was coming from the kitchen under a full spread of sail. I knew what he’d say before he said it. He said it anyway. “We don’t give the old man a vote.”

“He’ll cut you out of his will.”

“Ask me if I give a damn. Let’s go.” But he hung back, gave me a look that said he wanted a private word. I let the others move upstairs a flight.

“What?”

“That crack about the will. In all the excitement I plain forgot to tell you before. The copy the General burned wasn’t the only one. He always made two of every document. Sometimes three.”

“Oh?” Interesting. That meant nothing had changed, if the killer knew. “How many are there?”

“One for sure. He gave it to me to give to you. Like you asked. I put it in my quarters, then got distracted till I was talking to Cook and she said the same thing you did, about getting cut out.”

“It wasn’t that important to you?”

“No. I did you a favor, then forgot to carry through. Till it hit me what that copy could mean.”

“It could mean the killer won’t back off. If he knows about it. Who knows?”

“Dellwood and Kaid. They were there. And everybody else knows the General made copies of documents.”

“Where’d you put it? Give me your key. I’ll grab it now. You go ahead and get after the old man.”

He gave me a nasty look. I knew what he was thinking. I wanted to toss his quarters. I told him, “I don’t think you’ve got anything to hide.”

“You’re a bastard, Garrett. Put me in a spot where I’m damned whatever I do.”

“You do have something to hide?”

He glared. “No!”

“Then get it yourself. I’ll take your word.” I recalled the fire, for which he could have been responsible. I hung in there, taking a chance on my guts. “But hurry.”

He gave me the key. “In the drawer of my writing table.”

Cook came rumbling up, the stair shuddering to her tread. “We going to do this?” she demanded. “Or we going to gossip?”

Smart woman, Cook. The old man couldn’t dismiss her. If she went in and sat on him, all he could do was cuss and take it. “Thanks,” I told her.

She gave me half a sneer. “What for? He’s my baby, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.” I watched them hurry to overtake the others. The General would be in the worst tactical position of his life. He couldn’t do anything to Morley, Saucerhead, the doc, or Cook. And he’d be damned stupid if he did anything about Peters. If he ran Black Pete off, he’d be damned near out of help. He had to think survival in more than personal terms. He had to think about keeping the estate in shape.

I suspected its value was dropping fast.

I fingered Peters’s key, glanced around. I had the feeling I was being watched, but I saw nobody. My blonde again, I thought. I wondered where the others were. At work, presumably.

A vampirous spirit, eh? On top of draugs? What a lovely place to live.

31

Something wasnt right. Black Pete’s door wasn’t locked. He wasn’t the sloppy type.

It worked before, so I grabbed a shield and stormed inside. And didn’t find anything this time, either.

The damned place was haunted by practical jokers. I tossed the shield against the doorframe, put up my head-knocker, went to the writing table. The room was a mirror image of my sitting room. I sat down at an identical table.

I guess I heard a sole scuff the carpet. I started to turn, to duck. That’s all I did, started.

Something hit me like a monument falling. I saw shooting stars. I think I howled. I lurched forward. My face met the tabletop. It wasn’t a friendly meeting.

It’s pretty hard to knock somebody out. You either don’t hit hard enough, in which case your victim gets after you, or you hit him too hard and he croaks. If you have any idea what you’re doing, you don’t bash him up top the head. Unless you want to smash his skull.

This blow was aimed at my skull. I moved that much. It hit the side of my neck and bounced off my shoulder. It didn’t put me out—not more than ninety-nine percent. It paralyzed me. For half a minute I was vaguely aware of a shape in motion.
Then
the lights went out.

Got to stay away from the hard stuff, I thought as I came around. Getting too old for it. The hangover isn’t worth it.

I thought I was slumped over my desk at home. The truth dawned as I tried to get up. I saw unfamiliar surroundings. My head spun. I fell, banged my jaw off the edge of the table, curled up on the floor, and dumped Cook’s lunch. When I tried to move, the heaves started again.

Sometime during the fun somebody ran past, headed for the door. All I saw was a flash of brown. I didn’t much care.

Concussion, I thought. That scared me. I’d seen guys with their brains scrambled after getting hit on the head. I’d seen them paralyzed. I’d seen them go to sleep and never wake up.

Got to stay awake, Garrett. Got to stay awake. That’s what the docs say. Get up, Garrett. To hell with the heaves. Take charge, Garrett. Make the flesh obey the will.

Trouble was, there wasn’t much will left.

After a while I got my knees under me and crawled to the door. I fell down a few times during the trek. But the exercise did me good. I arrived so chipper, I was afraid I wasn’t going to die. I worked up so much ambition that I swung the door open and moved out a yard before I collapsed and passed out again.

Gentle, delicate fingers slid lightly over my face, feeling my features the way a blind woman once did. I’d turned over somehow. I cracked one eyelid a millionth of an inch.

My sweetheart in white had come to succor me. At least she looked concerned. Her lips moved but I didn’t hear anything.

Panic. I’d heard of guys who’d lost their hearing, too.

She jumped away. Not that she needed to. I was in no shape to run down a brigand snail. More, Black Pete’s door had closed on my legs. I was caught like a mouse. I managed a feeble “Don’t go. Please.”

The investigative mind was at work. It wanted to know.

She came back. She settled onto her knees, resumed massaging my head. “Are you badly hurt?” Her voice was the ghost of a whisper. She sounded concerned. She looked concerned.

“Only in my heart. You keep running away.” We investigator types are tough. We keep our eye on the prime objective. “You’re the loveliest woman I’ve ever seen.”

That put a light in her eyes. Strange how women like to be told they’re pretty. Strange like a rock falling when you drop it. She even smiled for a hundredth of a second.

“Who are you?” I thought about telling her I loved her, but that seemed premature. I’d give it ten more minutes.

She didn’t tell me. She just massaged my forehead and temples and sang something so softly I couldn’t make out the words.

Who was I to question the will of the gods? I closed my eyes and let it happen.

The song got a little louder. A lullaby. A hush-my-love kind of thing. Fine by me. The hell with business. This was the life.

Something brushed my lips, light as falling eiderdown, warm. I cracked my eye. She was an inch away, smiling.

Yeah.

Then everything drained out of her face. She jumped up and fled. Bam! Before I overcame inertia and turned my head, she was gone.

Feet pounded up the hallway, businesslike, then hurriedly. “Garrett! What happened?” Peters dropped to his knees. He wasn’t nearly as attractive as his predecessor.

I managed to croak, “Somebody in your room. Bopped me on my bean.”

He jumped up and shoved inside. I had smarts enough left to drag my legs out before the door closed. That’s all I did. Seemed like a good day’s work.

Peters bounded out. “They tore the place apart.” He had something in his hand. “Here’s the will. What else could they have been after?”