The Night Visitor (37 page)

“Forget it,” Parris snapped.

“Okay. Just tryin' to be helpful.”

There was a long silence.

Moon leaned on the window frame and took it all in. The autumn sky was cornflower-blue. The dead leaves on a Russian olive rustled in a light breeze. A hawk circled lazily. The day that was so dismal for his friend was bright and beautiful to the Ute. “They say the rainbows are biting anything up at Yellow Fork. George Blackhair swears he caught a threepounder on a wad of bubble gum.”

The white man snorted. “Bubble gum?” Sounded fishy.

“So you want to go wet a hook?”

Parris sighed, and shook his head.

Moon frowned thoughtfully at his friend. This was serious.

He was in his western home, which sat precisely astride the tropic of Cancer. It was a more convenient place to receive the British visitor than his eastern palace, being a mere two hours' drive south from the modern airport at
Al Madinah.

The ardent collector of man's most ancient and precious artifacts was alone in a large, circular parlor that was a penthouse atop his mountain sanctuary. The room was elegant in its austerity. The wall was a rim of thick plate glass, interrupted at three-meter intervals by stainless steel supports. The uncarpeted floor was polished Canadian oak, the circular ceiling paneled with alternating triangular spokes of rosewood, mahogany, and maple. A chandelier of antique Belgian crystal was suspended from the precise center of this disk. Directly under this crystalline pendulum were the only pieces of furniture in the room. A simple round table of varnished maple. A straight-backed, uncushioned chair.

In the chair sat the Arab, his manicured hands flat on the table.

It was dusk. The thirty-six electric lamps in the chandelier were not energized. The vast circular room was lighted only by the blood-red disk that was already half-sunk in the Red
Sea—and a silvery full moon rising from behind the bone-dry heights of the
Harratt Rahat.

He heard the droning hum of the elevator. The tapping sounds of hard-soled shoes in the hallway.

There was a light tap on the south door.

It would, of course, be Anthony Soames. The collector tolerated no surprises in his home. The Arab hesitated, then spoke in a voice that was surprisingly deep for such a thin man. “Enter.”

The door opened smoothly; there was no squeak of hinge.

The Brit stood in the doorway, hat in his hand. A small parcel tucked under his arm.

His host smiled thinly. “Come in, Mr. Soames.”

Tony Soames marched across the polished floor, the sharp clicks of his footsteps echoing off the plate-glass walls. He paused before the table. “Good evening, sir.”

His host nodded indolently. The Arab did not bother to look at Soames' eager face. The collector's hawk-like eyes were focused on the parcel under the man's arm. “You have it.” It was not a question. This Englishman had spent his money… not a fortune, but four hundred thousand American dollars was not a paltry sum. If Soames did not have the treasure, he would not have come.

“Yes sir.” Soames placed the box in the center of the round table.

Unconsciously, the collector licked his lips. He removed a miniature remote-control device from his shirt pocket, pointed it at the ceiling, pressed a black button. The chandelier lit up, casting a dazzling light on the table. The Arab pulled the box to him with an eager, possessive gesture.

Soames managed not to smile. But he thought his thoughts.
Like a kid with a birthday present.

The Arab looked up through narrowly slitted eyes as he spoke to the Brit. His tone was soft, amiable. His eyes, which spoke louder, were not. “Mr. Soames—you have spent a great deal of my money to acquire this item. Let us hope that I will not be disappointed.”

Soames swallowed hard. He did hope. There was a rumor about an Austrian citizen who was merely suspected of cheating
the Arab. He had been buried upside down in the dunes. While still alive …

The wealthy man opened the box. And removed the object, which was folded in silk. Very slowly, he unwrapped the treasure.

The visitor clenched his hands behind his back. And held his breath.

The Arab took the flint blade in his hands. He caressed it, feeling the sharp corrugated edges, the smooth, hard surface. It felt cold in his fingers. He held the thing up to light streaming from the chandelier. And drank in the colors, which were pink… blue-gray… with tiny veins of scarlet. Like arteries in a translucent fish. He looked up at his nervous guest. And smiled.

Tony Soames returned the smile. Unclenched his hands. And began to breath again.

The doorbell rang.

Anne, who had been sitting by the telephone, hurried to the door.

But the man standing on the porch—with a clump of wilted flowers in his hand—was not Scott Parris.

“Oh, tansy-asters,” she said. And accepted the sad-looking blossoms.

“You like 'em?”

She nodded. And sniffed at the light purple petals. “The frost has already killed most of them. But I still have a little bunch out by the garage.”

He grinned. “Not anymore you don't.”

She shook her head. Worlds may collide, but Charlie Moon would always be the same.

The Ute policeman removed his black Stetson, and turned it in his hands. “You don't seem too pleased to see me. You was hoping it was somebody else?”

“If you mean your bosom buddy, no.”

He looked over her head. “Can I come in?”

She turned away. “I suppose so.”

Well. Not exactly a warm welcome. He followed her meekly into the parlor. Anne sat on an overstuffed stool, and stared at the fireplace. A few wisps of smoke curled around blackened logs. The fire had almost gone out. Almost.

Without waiting for an invitation, Moon plopped his massive frame onto a brightly flowered couch. “So how've you been?”

“Better,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Me too. Gout's been kicking up lately.” That should get at least a smile.

It did not.

She turned to give the dark man a closer look. Even sitting down, Charlie Moon looked tall. “You've never come to visit me before.” Must be a reason.

“Well,” he said, “I sorta heard you was… well …”

Her eyes narrowed. “You heard I was
what?”

“Without a man,” he said quickly.

“What?” she screamed.

“Well, Scott …”

“Don't you dare mention his
name
in my presence.”

“Okay. I heard you and What's-His-Name had called it quits.”

She paled. “Did
he
say that?”

“Who?”

She closed her eyes and clenched her fists. “Charlie Moon, you are the most infuriating man I ever—”

“Anyway, I thought about it. Such a waste. You're not all that bad-lookin', not for a woman your age.”

Her back stiffened. “And just how old do you think I am?”

“Hey, not too old for me. Among the Utes, age is respected.”

She rolled her eyes at the ceiling.

“And,” he continued, “you're smart as a badger. Make good money, too. At least that's what What's-His-Name tells me.”

“Please stop. I'm overwhelmed by your compliments.”

“See, I'm kinda unattached too, since my last girlfriend sent me packin'. So I kinda thought maybe I'd come courtin'.
See if you wanted to go down to the corner drugstore and share a chocolate ice cream soda. Two straws.”

She smiled, and threw a pillow at him.

He shrugged sadly. “So I'm not your type.”

She got up from the stool and sat on the couch beside him. “So what're you
really
here for? As if I didn't know.”

“Well, it's about that guy whose name I daren't mention in your house.”

“Naturally.”

“See, What's-His-Name's been hangin' around my office. Cryin' in his beer.”

“Good. I'm glad to hear it.”

“That's cold.”

She turned on him, blue eyes blazing. “Look, Charlie Moon—don't you come around here with your soft soap, thinking you can smooth things over. I know what you and… and What's-His-Name have done.”
There. I've finally said it.
“I was at the Iron Kettle.”

Moon smiled easily. “Your pictures come out okay?”

Her eyes were big as blue saucers. “You
know?”

He chuckled. “You think a pale-faced town-woman can sneak up on an honest-to-God Indian?”

“You actually saw me …?”

“Sure. That red hair kinda stands out. I kept an eye on you for quite some time, while you was stumblin' along the ridge trail. Watched you set your camera up on that little tripod.”

She blushed. “Then your friend… he knew I was there?”

Moon shook his head. “What's-His-Name had way too much on his mind. You coulda come ridin' over that ridge on a two-humped camel and he wouldn't have noticed.”

“You didn't tell him?”

“Nope.”

“But why?”

“Figured it was better to let you tell him.”

“Well, I haven't. And that is not the point. The point is,” she jabbed at his chest with her finger, “you and Scott …”

“I thought we wasn't s'posed to say his name out loud …”

“… helped Ralph Briggs sell the flint blade from the mammoth site.”

“That we did.”

“You admit it—just like that?”

“Sure.”

“But Charlie—it's unethical to sell other people's property. Not to mention against the law.”

He gave her a wide smile. “Shoot, I know that. I'm a lawman—remember?”

She was dumbstruck.

“Understanding what the law's all about,” he said earnestly, “takes a lot of interpretation.”

She felt oddly like Alice. Stranded in Wonderland. Chatting with a tall, dark version of the Mad Hatter. “Interpretation?”

“Sure. Like you said, a fella can't just go around selling another guy's property.”

“I sense that you are going somewhere with this.”

“Ask yourself this question: who owns that flint blade those scientists found with the mammoth bones?”

“Why… Mr. McFain, I suppose.”

“He's dead,” the Ute said.

“His daughter Vanessa, then.”

“I don't think so.”

“The paleontologists?”

He shook his head.

“The Southern Ute tribe?”

“Wrong answer again.”

“What's the right answer?”

“The person who owns the thing—is the person who made it.”

“But Charlie, he's been dead for some thirty thousand—”

“Most everybody sees it like you do. The scientists find it, so for a while it kinda belongs to them. Then Nathan McFain decides it's really his, so he grabs it—and as long as he can hold onto it, it's his property. The Southern Ute tribe suspects Nathan has moved his fence onto tribal land, so maybe the elephant bones—and everything that's found with 'em—belongs to the People. Then Nathan reports the thing stolen. I find out that Ralph Briggs has it, and he's about to make a sale.”

“How did you find out about Briggs?”

“Somebody told me. How about you?”

“There have been rumors for years that he peddled… let's say… questionable merchandise. And I thought it odd that he'd hung around the mammoth dig for so long. So I was keeping an eye on him. And then this British fellow shows up in town. I check on him with my contacts in London and find out he has a rep for dealing in stolen artifacts. When Briggs drove out to the Iron Kettle, I knew something was up. But it seems like you were a step ahead of me.”

“Yeah. Guess I was. Anyway, because Briggs is a citizen of Granite Creek, I called on my buddy—can I say his name now?”

She sighed. “You may.”

“I called GCPD and asked for my pardner, Scott Parris. The evening dispatcher up here is Clara Tavishuts—she's my third cousin—says the chief of police is best man at Piggy Slocum's wedding and has left strict orders that he is not to be disturbed till after the reception is over. I tell her this is important police business. Clara says the chief especially don't want to be bothered by no police business. Not unless somebody he is very fond of is stone cold dead or about to become that way. So I headed up here, got to Scott's place around midnight. Found him snoozing on his couch—still decked out in his fancy duds. I brewed him some strong coffee and told him what was up. See, Briggs was about to make his move early the next morning so we had to leave in a hurry over to his place …”

“Oh… that explains the tux.”

“… and play our hand before the antique dealer had time to close his deal.” He grinned at the memory. “Me and Scott, we back Briggs into a corner and tell him the way things are. Scott lets him know that if he don't play ball with us, his future around Granite Creek ain't worth a pitcher of warm spit.”

“That,” she said with a grimace, “is a horribly mixed metaphor. And disgusting.”

She evidently hadn't connected “pitcher” with “play ball.” “Anyway,” Moon continued, “we pull on Briggs' chain some, and finally he sees the light. He admits he has an appointment the very next day with his foreign contact—to sell the artifact.
We tell him how it is. He can go on with his sale—even keep his ten percent broker's fee. As long as we get the rest.”

She shook her head with dismay. “But you're both police officers—sworn to uphold the law. You can't just go around making deals with crooks!”

“Ha,” Moon said, “you shoulda seen us.”

“I believe I did.”

“Oh yeah. I forgot.”