Prescription for Chaos (36 page)

"Before I got started, he explained his reasons."

"That took the edge off it?"

"Yes. And incidentally left the impression that he had just recently discovered tact, and was determined to give it a fair try."

Kenzie laughed. "That could explain quite a lot."

Allen nodded. "In some ways, Muir reminds me of Doc. He has Doc's trick of answering not what you say but what he deduces from what you say. I'm just wondering if he also has Doc's quirk of assuming anyone who misunderstands him does it on purpose. It made trouble enough with Doc, as you remember."

Kenzie winced. "Let's hope not. At any rate, he has the touchstone?"

"Right."

"Then, for now, that gets the impossible damned thing off our necks. There isn't another invention of Doc's lying around, is there?"

"Not that I know of. Anyway, one mess at a time."

"That leaves Gloria herself. Even if it isn't any of our business."

Allen said exasperatedly, "But what can we do?"

"Well, the touchstone's apparently on its way back out there. That should confuse matters a little."

"I tried to argue with her yesterday. She thinks that bearded fake is a genius."

"Genius? That confidence artist!"

"But what can we—?"

"If it weren't for Doc, I'd say, forget it! A woman can fall in love with any slick conceited fraud."

"I don't think," said Allen, frowning, "that it's actually love."

"She's going to marry him, isn't she?"

"I think it's a sense of duty. Remember, she has some serious little problems."

Kenzie nodded moodily. "True enough." He walked around the desk and sat down in his chair. "If it's not love, then, at least, if she should fall in love with someone else—"

"With Gloria, who knows? She may even feel it's her duty to Doc. After all, she can't handle the situation alone. And, just incidentally, who but a confidence artist would stick around?"

Kenzie shook his head. "We shouldn't be spending our time on this. But, damn it, the company was built on Doc's ideas! We can't just toss his widow to the wolves!"

Allen said exasperatedly, "The fellow uses the situation to present himself in a favorable light. But you'd think even he would have his limits."

Kenzie sighed.

"Well, let's hope Muir makes some progress with the touchstone."

Muir slowed, rounded the remembered sharp turn, and soon was looking at Doc Griswell's colonial house set back in the shade of big maples. To the left of the house, a shiny black Cadillac was parked in the graveled drive. Muir pulled in behind it, got out, and closed the car door loudly. He stood still, to listen.

In the warm sunlight, there was a sigh of wind in the trees, and a buzz of insects—but no sound of people. Leaving his attaché case locked in the car, Muir followed a shaded walk of flat stones toward the front of the house. The only new sound was the whine of a passing mosquito that came back for a closer look.

Muir paused opposite the front door, heard no one inside, stayed a moment to settle with the mosquito, then followed the walk to the side of the house. From somewhere in back came sounds of an argument, then of running feet. Muir paused, to cough loudly.

A small boy burst around the rear corner of the house, sobbing, and raced along the walk toward the front.

Muir stepped aside. The boy stubbed his toe, tripped, and Muir, moving fast, caught him before he hit the stones.

The boy, sobbing desperately, threw his arms around Muir's neck.

Beside the rear corner of the house appeared a young auburn-haired woman who called angrily, "Marius!"

"No!" cried the boy, his face buried in Muir's shoulder.

Just behind the woman strode a man with a black mustache and beard, wearing a black suit, black shoes, a black cape lined in red, and carrying a black attaché case and a straight black cane with a shiny metal tip. He spotted Muir, and stepped in front of the woman, as if to shield her from contamination.

Muir grunted. "Now what? Count Dracula?"

The boy twisted around, looked at the black-caped figure, glanced at Muir's expression, and grinned. He murmured, "Mommy's would-be inamorata."

"Wrong gender."

"No, it's an insult."

After a moment glaring at Muir, the caped figure came striding up the walk, the metal tip of the cane striking the stones rhythmically.

The boy kept a tight grip around Muir's neck. "Watch out for the cane. He's tricky."

The approaching figure studied Muir with distaste. "And just what do you flatter yourself that you're doing here?"

"I'd like to talk to Mrs. Griswell."

"Mrs. Griswell isn't free to talk to you."

"I'll ask Mrs. Griswell, if you don't mind."

"I do mind. My name is Vandenpeer. You are asking to speak to the future Mrs. Vandenpeer. I refuse permission."

The boy said, "Mom won't marry you! I'll die if she marries you!"

Down the walk, the woman put her hand to her forehead.

Muir said politely, "I appreciate your feelings, Mr. Van Damper, but I'll ask Mrs. Griswell herself."

"Vandenpeer." He pointed the cane at Muir, then flicked it toward the driveway.

"Get out."

Muir turned toward Gloria Griswell, as she wearily brushed back her hair, looked in faint puzzlement at Muir, and turned to approach. As Dr. Allen had told him, she was beautiful. Muir had seen beautiful women before, but this was the first time he found himself unable to look away. The sun, shining at intervals through the trees, lit her auburn hair with a warm glow, and Muir suddenly realized how much he liked auburn hair. Her movements, too, though slow and weary, were indescribably graceful.

Vandenpeer's voice pierced Muir's trance.

"Set that boy down and get out!"

Muir tore his gaze from Gloria Griswell. The boy tightened his armhold on Muir's neck. Muir said, "I came to ask Mrs. Griswell about something important—"

"Important to my fiancée or important to you?"

"I won't know until I've had a chance to speak to Mrs. Griswell."

"Then my advice is, get out. You aren't going to get a chance."

"I don't mean to be disagreeable," snarled Muir, "but I didn't ask your advice. And keep that stick out of my face."

Vandenpeer smiled contemptuously, and swung the cane so that he was holding it against his thighs, horizontally, apparently negligently, in widely spaced hands. He was holding it, Muir realized, in such a position that if he, Muir, were to step forward, Vandenpeer could hit him across the midsection with the end, and move on from there.

Muir tried to set the boy down. The boy clung tight. "No. He'll get you with the cane."

"Has he used that thing on you?"

"Not yet. He wants to marry Mommy first. Then he'll have the right. He'll call it 'good discipline.' He's already stolen my magic carpet. He calls that 'good psychology.'"

Muir turned to speak to Gloria Griswell. He looked at her, but immediately forgot what he was going to say.

Vandenpeer straightened menacingly.

From down near the corner of the house, there came a high-pitched scream, a sob, and the rapid patter of small feet.

Vandenpeer turned furiously. "I told you she'd get out, Gloria! You've got to put something over the top of her playpen!"

A small girl burst around the corner of the house, sobbing hysterically, "Mommy! Mommy! Don't leave me! I'm afraid!"

The boy leaned away from Muir's ear, to shout, "Watch the stones, Mom! I'd have broken my neck, but the man caught me!"

Vandenpeer cast the boy a venomous look.

The girl stumbled, and Gloria Griswell caught her, and the girl threw her arms around her mother's neck and sobbed. As her mother picked her up, she stopped crying to glare over her mother's shoulder at Vandenpeer; after a truly nasty look, she went back to sobbing hysterically.

It occurred to Muir that there was something here he didn't understand; but as he glanced at Gloria Griswell, the thought evaporated.

Vandenpeer stared at his fiancée's small daughter, shook his head, reached for a handkerchief, and mopped his brow.

Muir said in a polite voice, "I don't mean to intrude, Mr. Vandenpeer, but—"

Vandenpeer stared at him incredulously.

Muir went on, "but I'm curious about the boy's 'flying carpet.' Did you really take it?"

"By what right—"

"There!" cried the boy. "It's sticking out of his case!"

Muir noted an edge of worn blue cloth protruding from the attaché case. "It might be a good idea to just open up that case and show what you've got there."

"Oh, for—Why, you impudent pipsqueak! If you don't want to intrude, get out! Set the boy down, get back in your car, and go!"

The boy tightened his arm around Muir's neck. "He's got more right here than you have! All you do is threaten me and steal my things! Daddy gave me that magic carpet! You've got no right to it! Give it back to me!"

Gloria Griswell, holding her daughter, was looking with an unreadable expression at her son clinging tightly to Muir.

Muir said to Vandenpeer, "I don't claim it's any of my business. But since you are neither the boy's father nor his stepfather, whatever your intentions, it strikes me you have no right to his things. Suppose you just hand over what belongs to him, and I'll leave for now. But . . ."

The boy said, "He'd just take it back as soon as you left."

"But," said Muir, unaware that his manner suggested a gun turret turning toward a target, "unless Mrs. Griswell says no, I aim to be back later today, or tomorrow, or just as soon as she will speak with me."

Vandenpeer studied Muir alertly, then shrugged. "Get it over with now. Speak your piece, and get out."

"What I have to say," said Muir, looking at Gloria Griswell, and he was again struck dumb. After a stretch of time somewhere between a few seconds and eternity, he recovered enough to finish, "could only be said privately."

She looked back at him, and he didn't think to look away. Time drifted pleasantly past.

It dawned on Muir that the boy had dropped free, grabbed the attaché case, and was now yanking out what looked like a worn pale-blue blanket.

Vandenpeer, clearly surprised, made a grab at the boy, missed, and snarled, "You damned little sneak!"

Gloria Griswell looked around in astonishment.

Vandenpeer noted the look. "That blanket has to be gotten away from him, Gloria! He's dependent on it!"

Muir said, "What of it?"

Vandenpeer snarled, "Who spoke to you? What do you know about it? Are you a psychologist?"

"Are you?"

The boy had returned to Muir, who absently picked him up, and then felt the blanket pressed hard against his fingers. Embedded in the cloth were what felt like fine wires.

Gloria Griswell said angrily, "I don't see why Marius can't keep his blanket!"

"We won't discuss it now."

"Oh, yes," she said, "we
will
discuss it now!"

"Not in front of outsiders."

"Will you stop telling me what to do! And how dare you call Marius a sneak!"

The little girl twisted around in Gloria Griswell's arms, and favored Vandenpeer with a sickeningly sweet smile. The face of the boy was invisible to Muir, but not to Vandenpeer, who looked jarred, and suddenly said, "Now I will leave!"

Muir said helpfully, "I'll move my car."

As they walked around to the front of the house, Vandenpeer cast a murderous look at the boy, then glanced curiously at Muir. "I hope, for your sake, that you know what you're getting into."

"Frankly, no. But if you feel that way, shouldn't you be glad to get out?"

Vandenpeer began to speak sharply, then scowled. "As a matter of fact, that is a damned good point. There's a limit to the price anything is worth!"

Muir got into his car, and backed onto the grass beside the drive. Out on the road, a car accelerated past, followed a moment later by another.

Vandenpeer started to back his car down the drive, then paused opposite Muir, and his window slid down. Vandenpeer raised his left hand, and peeled back a flesh-covered bandage. He said, man-to-man, "Watch out for Sally. She bites."

Muir blinked. "Thanks." He hesitated. "Careful on the way out. Some of those cars speed up going by."

Vandenpeer nodded. "They come fast." He backed out, and left with a roar.

Muir parked, and glanced sharply at the boy. "What did you do to yourself?"

"Rubbed spit on my face."

"Why?"

"It makes him sick. I almost made him throw up once."

Muir handed over his handkerchief. "
Does
Sally bite?"

Marius wiped off his face. "Well, she's just a girl. There isn't much she can do. But it helps. He can't suck around Mommy when he's in the emergency room."

"H'm." Muir got out, and started down the walk. The something here that he didn't grasp plainly related to Marius and little Sally. Could it just be Doc Griswell? Doc had been regarded as a genius, but a curmudgeonly genius capable of defying authority and standing opinion on its head. Possibly the children took after their father?

This train of thought was interrupted as Muir discovered he was again carrying the boy. They went to the corner of the house, saw no one, then, from inside, came a sound of quick footsteps. Muir turned toward the front door.

Gloria Griswell looked out. "Won't you come in, Mr.—"

Muir's pulse speeded up. "Muir," he said. "My first name, I'm afraid, is Felix." He started to let the boy down, but the boy declined to get down, so he went up the steps carrying him, and stepped through a hall into a large cool living room. The boy said, matter-of-factly, "You can't make anything good out of 'Marius,' either." He dropped to the floor, and looked at his mother. "I'll go watch Sally while you talk to Felix, Mom."

Gloria Griswell turned to stare after her son as he ran, clutching his blanket, out of the room. She turned back toward Muir, who now experienced the pleasant illusion that the room was far from anywhere else, with just the two of them there, alone. After basking in this illusion for a lengthy stretch of time, he recovered the use of his voice.

"I'm afraid I've interrupted your whole day. What I started out to ask about was one of Dr. Griswell's inventions."