“So I did,” said Brewster heavily, as if he now considered that a bad idea.
“And I want to be certain that we don’t make a bad situation worse. There’s no point in running this place into the ground if we don’t have to. It’s better to have them working for a little pay than on the welfare rolls, isn’t it?” Morton hoped that he could find a way to gain Brewster’s support. “If we can work out some kind of program for the whole town, it might mean the difference between staying afloat and going under.”
“Yes, yes,” said Brewster impatiently. “Well, it’s something to think about, isn’t it? The last thing we want is another one of those pity-the-poor-taxpayer stories on 60 Minutes. And this is exactly the kind of situation they’d love.” He paused, and Morton did not dare to interrupt. “Give it a couple of days, Symes, and call me again. Collect. I’ll see that some cash is transferred to the bank for you, but you’ll have to work out the vouchers when you get back, and we’ll do what we can to arrange—” He stopped abruptly. “Call me day after tomorrow, at this time. And in the meantime, don’t talk to anyone else about this – do you understand?”
“Yes,” said Morton, anticipating that Brewster would find a way to take any credit coming from this venture for himself, and attach any blame to be had to Morton Symes. “Sure, Mr Brewster.”
“That’s good,” said Brewster, turning cordial. “You’ll have that cash transfer tomorrow. I’ll see that it’s wired to the bank—”
“Pardon me, sir,” Morton interrupted. “Would you make the transfer to the bank in North Poindexter? I’ll drive over and pick it up; it won’t take long. I don’t know what kind of cash reserves are at this bank, or even if there are any. And there’s almost no staff.”
Once more Brewster considered. “All right, North Poindexter it is. I will tell them to expect you by noon: how’s that?”
“Fine. That’s great.” Morton looked down at his notes. “I haven’t seen many kids aside from the two clerks at the store. The school appears to be closed. I’m going to check that out tomorrow, but I’m afraid that it means several families have left town. I’ll try to get some figures on that tonight.”
“Do as you think best, of course,” said Brewster at his smoothest.
“Yes, sir,” said Morton, all but saluting. “I’d better get ready for this cocktail thing, and then try to arrange for dinner at the cafe. I’ll call you in two days, when I know more.”
“Make sure it’s all in your daily reports.” Brewster coughed. “Good luck, Symes.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Morton, and hung up as soon as he heard Brewster put down his receiver. He stood by the phone for a few minutes, curious about the innkeeper: how much had he heard, and what had he made of it? There was no way to ask him, but Morton felt he ought to try at some point to learn more about the man. As he made his way to his room, he decided he had better have a bite or two to eat before going to the Wainwright house, for drink on an empty stomach always made him giddy.
By quarter after seven, Morton was ready, his three-piece navy-blue pinstripe suit and pale blue shirt nicely set off by his discreet medallion-patterned silk tie. It would pass muster for all but the dressiest dinners in Boston and Washington, and certainly ought to do for cocktails in Jericho. He felt awkward that he had nothing to bring his hostess, but decided that on such short notice, he could be excused for not bringing flowers or candy or a bottle of French wine.
He saw that there were about a dozen people on the street, including the two policemen who served the village. As he opened the gate to the once-lavish and now-neglected gardens of the Wainwright house, he noticed that several of the people on the street were watching him covertly, almost – he smiled at the image – hungrily.
Hewlett Wainwright himself opened the door. “Please come in,” he said formally, standing aside for Morton. “Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you,” said Morton as he stepped into the dimness of the entry hall. He noticed the authentic Tiffany light fixtures and decided that the house had probably not been rewired since they were installed. No wonder the Wainwrights used low-power bulbs with them; anything stronger would be courting fire and disaster. Still, he thought, as he made his way toward the parlor Mr Wainwright indicated, it might be worth it; the place was positively gloomy, with all that heavy, dark wood and the low light.
“My wife will join us directly; she takes a nap in the afternoon, you know, so she will be fresh for the evening.” He indicated the parlor, which was an Art Nouveau treasure. “Go on in, Mr Symes. Make yourself comfortable.”
Morton said a few words by way of thanks, and stepped into the parlor, marveling at what he saw there. By anyone’s standards, every piece in the room was a valuable antique, and all kept in beautiful condition but for a fine patina of dust, one that could not be more than one or two days old. Aside from the Tiffany lamps, there were small statues of superb design, three of them most certainly tarnished silver. As Morton stopped to look at the largest of these – two lovers with attenuated bodies entwined like vines in an arbor – he heard a step behind him.
“Ah, there you are, my dear,” said Hewlett Wainwright.
The woman in the door was elegantly attired in heavy black damask silk topped with a bodice of heavy Venetian black lace. Her hair was abundant and of a glossy white, waved back from her face and caught in some sort of twist that emphasized her slender neck and high brow. Certainly she was not young, but she was magnificent enough to catch Morton’s breath in his throat. She smiled faintly, her full red lips turning up; she extended her hand to be kissed, not shaken. “Welcome to our home,” she said as Morton took her hand.
Though he felt incredibly awkward, Morton bent over and kissed her fingers, trying to appear more practiced at this courtesy than he was. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Wainwright.”
“I am Ilona,” she said. “That is one of the Hungarian variants of Helen.” It was an explanation she had made many times before, but she had a way of speaking that created a kind of intimacy with her guests such that each of them felt they were being offered a special secret: Morton was no exception.
“Mr Symes is concerned for our village,” Mr Wainwright told his wife. “He is from the Internal Revenue Service. You recall my remarks earlier?”
“Oh yes,” said Ilona, her dark gaze not leaving Morton’s face. “Those are the tax people, aren’t they?”
“Yes. They are worried because we are the only people in Jericho who still pay taxes.” He went to a gorgeous cabinet opposite the fireplace. “What would you like to drink, Mr Symes? I ought to warn you: we have no ice.”
“Oh,” said Morton with an effort, “whatever you recommend. I’m afraid I’m not an expert on such things.” He knew he should not be staring at his hostess, but there was something about her, and it was not her elegance or her beauty – not at all faded by age – that held him fascinated.
“Ah,” said Mr. Wainwright. “Well, in that case, I can recommend a Canadian whiskey; it isn’t much available in this country, but, living so close to the border, from time to time I pick up a bottle or two when I’m north on business.” He had taken out a large, squat glass with a hint of etching on it. “I’ll pour you a little, and if you like it, I’ll be happy to fill you up again.” He poured out the whiskey and brought the drink to his guest. “I see you’re captivated by Ilona. She is so lovely, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” said Morton, blushing with the admission.
“I don’t blame you for staring. I remember the first time I set eyes on her; I thought I’d die if I looked away. You were very sweet to me then, my darling,” Mr Wainwright said, addressing this last to his wife.
She lifted her shoulder; on her, even so mundane an action as a shrug was graceful. “And you were sweet to me. You had such savor then.”
Morton blinked, startled at her choice of words. Then he recalled that English was not her first language, and he supposed he ought to expect an occasional strange turn of phra
se from her. He tasted the whiskey and tried hard not to cough. “Very . . . unusual.”
Hewlett Wainwright took that as a compliment. “Thank you; let me give you some more. And in a short while, I’ll have Maggie bring in something to sop up the alcohol.” He winked at Morton. “Nothing special, just a little cheese and some crackers, but it’ll tone down the whiskey. Not that you have to worry about it tonight. The Inn’s close enough, and you’re not driving anywhere.” He chuckled. “Enjoy our hospitality.”
“What about you?” asked Morton, noticing that only he had a glass in his hand.
“Oh, Ilona never developed a taste for whiskey, and I’ve had to give it up.” Wainwright patted his stomach. “You know how it is: after a certain age, you must watch what you eat and drink, or your system takes revenge. You wouldn’t know that yet, but one day it will happen to you, too.”
“I feel awkward –,” Morton began, only to have Wainwright make a dismissing gesture.
“Don’t bother, Mr Symes. It’s a pleasure to be able to offer you our hospitality, and it would be very disappointing if you were not pleased with what we offer.” He indicated one of the rosewood chairs near the fireplace. “Sit down. Be comfortable. Ilona, persuade him for me.”
Mrs Wainwright looked directly into Morton’s eyes. “Please. Sit down. Have your drink. Be comfortable.”
A trifle nonplussed, Morton did as he was told, thinking that if the situation became too awkward, he could always make his excuses and leave. “Thank you.”
“Now then,” said Hewlett Wainwright, coming to stand in front of the hearth. “I told you I’d explain what has happened in this village to account for our change of fortune here. I imagine your superiors are going to wonder about it, no matter what you do here. In a way, that’s too bad; I hate to think of Jericho drawing attention to itself in its present state. However, I suppose we must accept our predicament as unavoidable. Eventually someone would notice our . . . absence.”
Morton was trying not to look at Ilona Wainwright, but was not succeeding. “Your absence,” he repeated as if the words made no sense at all.
“Certainly we have to contend with . . . many problems here. Once the mill closed, there was so little to hold on to, you must see. The mill, directly or indirectly, accounted for more than half the employment in Jericho, which meant that a sort of domino effect resulted from the closing. There have been some businesses that have been able to hold out, but generally we do not have a wide enough economic base to keep the town going. Which is why I’ve been extending credit to so many of the villagers through my personal fortune, which is quite extensive.”
“Hewlett is of the old school,” said Ilona with a fond glance at her husband. “I sometimes think that was why he wanted to marry me.”
“Oh dearest!” Hewlett Wainwright guffawed. “I didn’t care what you were or who you were or anything else about you; I cared only that you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” He paused and turned toward Morton. “It was a second marriage for me; my first wife died ten years ago. She – my first wife – was the daughter of my father’s closest business associate. You might say that our marriage was set from birth, and you would not be far wrong.”
“You’re worse than the old aristocracy,” said Ilona fondly.
“Be that as it may. The second time I married, Mr Symes, I married to please myself, and when I brought my wife back here to Jericho, I was the happiest man in the world.” He indicated the parlor. “It’s no Carpathian castle, but it’s not a hovel, either.”
“Carpathian castles are cold,” said Ilona. “More than half of them are in ruins.” She looked at Morton with a strange expression in her mesmerizing eyes. “You think this place has become lifeless – you know nothing of it. There are places in the mountains of my homeland that appear to be on the far side of the grave, so lost are they.”
“Don’t exaggerate, my dear,” Hewlett Wainwright asked with a playful grin. “Every part of Europe has some village or ruin that makes Jericho seem lively.”
“I suppose so,” said Morton dubiously. He had another taste of the whiskey, and hoped he could keep his head clear. “It must have seemed strange, coming here after living in Europe. There is so much history in Europe.”
Ilona smiled this time widely. “We make our own history, don’t we?” She turned her head as a small, shapeless woman bustled into the room with a little tray. “Here’s the cheese. I hope you enjoy it, Mr Symes.”
Morton looked at the hard yellow cheese and did his best to appear interested. “It’s fine.” He was glad he had had a little to eat before coming to this meeting and at the same time felt so hungry and uncomfortable in this strange company that he hardly cared that the cheese looked almost inedible.
“I’ll cut you a slice, if you like,” offered Hewlett Wainwright, motioning the maid away. He picked up the cheese slicer and set to work sawing “You’ll find this has a lot of character. Not many places you can get this kind of cheese today.”
“I see,” said Morton, accepting the long shard of cheese laid across a dry cracker “Thanks.” It was quite a job getting through the cheese and cracker; in the process he consumed most of the whiskey only to make the food swallowable. His head rang, but he did his best to smile as he set his glass aside. “You’re very gracious. Tell me more, will you, about how the town ran into financial difficulties? Wasn’t that two years ago?”
Hewlett refilled his glass as he embarked on a complicated tale that would have been hard enough to follow if Morton had had all his wits about him. As it was, he discovered that he was not able to make sense out of most of it, though he had a general description of a mill unable to keep up with modern big business, and a town that lived on its bounty; it was theme and variation on what he had already learned, but told with more convolutions. Still, with or without the embellishments, the story was basically a simple one: when the mill was closed, jobs and money disappeared, and most of Jericho was lost.
“My husband has made it more cut-and-dried than it is,” said Ilona when Hewlett at last paused. “He hasn’t mentioned his own role in preserving the place. His personal concern for the village has provided a livelihood for many of those who have remained here.”
“But . . . but they haven’t filed their taxes,” said Morton, doing his best not to slur this statement.
“They had no reason,” said Hewlett. “Most of them had very little income. There was nothing to report.”
“But you know better than that,” protested Morton, striving to keep his thoughts clear enough to continue. “We have to know when there is nothing to report, just as when there is. It’s the information that’s crucial – don’t you see? The government cannot provide needed assistance if there is no record of the need – don’t you see?” His head hummed like a shell held against his ear, the sound that was supposed to be like the sea and was not. “We have to be able to show that the circumstances have changed, that you are not . . . taking advantage, or . . .” He swallowed hard and tried again. “If you have new problems, there are other consequences than . . . Don’t you see: if you haven’t made money, then there are fewer penalties for not filing. But you have to file – don’t you see?” He knew he was repeating himself, but was unable to stop himself. That one phrase – don’t you see? – was stuck in his thoughts, persistent as allergy sniffles, and he could not rid himself of it.
“No,” said Hewlett. “Oh, I’ve read the publications, but I cannot see why it is essential for you to have paperwork for no reason, because we have no money to report. Why, even the police chief and his assistant are paid from my personal accounts, not from the village budget, because those coffers are empty. If you like, they’re the village’s private security force now, and as such are my employees.” He looked at Morton. “Would you like a little more whiskey?”
“Not right now,” said Morton, who was astonished when Hewlett nevertheless put a bit more in his glass.
“Just in case you change your mind,”
said Hewlett. “More cheese?”
The room grew darker as the three of them conversed. Morton soon began to lose track of what he was trying to say, and after a while that no longer bothered him. He noticed that his host and hostess hovered close to him, which he decided was flattering, since it was not typical of New Englanders. He could feel them bend over him, and he tried to think of an adequate apology for his bad manners, for he was more than pleasantly tipsy. He knew he ought to make an excuse for his behavior, but he could not string the words together sensibly. He was simply aware of stretching out on the sofa – unthinkable behavior! – and of Ilona Wainwright fussing with his tie to loosen it, her stare boring into him as she did.
“Not too much, my dearest,” Morton heard Hewlett say. “Not all at once, remember.”
Whatever Ilona answered was lost to Morton, who felt overcome by fatigue, unable to move or think. He tried to explain how sorry he was but, to his intense chagrin, he passed out.
He woke in the Ivy Room of the Jericho Inn, his clothes neatly put away and his pajamas on, the blankets tucked under his chin. It was mid-morning, to judge by the position of the square of light from the window. Morton rubbed his eyes, groaning as he moved. He started to sit up, but stopped as dizziness made the room swing; he lowered his head and sighed. He damned himself roundly for getting drunk, and he shuddered at what the Wainwrights must have thought. He moved again, more slowly and gingerly, and this time made it to his elbows before vertigo took hold of him “Damn it,” he muttered. “Damn, damn, damn.”
The few times he had drunk too much, he had been left with a thumping headache and a queasy stomach, but never before had he felt weak. As he made himself sit up, his arms trembled with the effort, and a cold sweat broke out on his chest and neck. “This is absurd,” he said to the wallpaper, embarrassed at how little strength he had, and how much work it took merely to drag himself to his feet. With a concentrated effort, he got out of bed and, steadying himself against the wall, he went toward the little bathroom, breathing as if he had just run two miles.
The Mammoth Book of Vampires: New edition (Mammoth Books) Page 41