Clay Hand

by Dorothy Salisbury Davis

  The cat purred.

  There was a light in Margaret’s room, and as he came near the house he could hear the radio blaring. The kitchen was darkened. The back steps creaked as he went up them. Laughter came through the living room window, the long, dry laughter of a stunt-hypoed radio participation audience. He fumbled for the back-kitchen door, and opening it, felt the presence of light where there was no light. The spring door closed behind him, nudging him in.

  A giant green figure stood in the corner a few feet from him, all shimmering and aglow in the darkness, and seeming to move toward him. He leaped away from it to the kitchen door, and looking back, realized that movement was part of the illusion. He flung the kitten into the house and went back, catching the uncanny figure in his arms. It tangled on the washtub and crashed it to the floor. The substance went out of the figure and he found his arms enmeshed in a weblike cloth that glowed only sometimes, like a firefly on a summer night. He pulled the candescent cloth into the house after him. There was no doubt in his mind that he had found Nat Watkins’ lady with green wings.

  He went directly to the living room. The two boarders looked up at him stupidly, angrily, and the radio blared on. “Shut that damn thing off,” he shouted.

  “Who are you giving orders?” The widow got up on her cane.

  He held the gauze illusion up. It was no more than a flimsy green rag in the full light of the room—a rag daubed with fluorescent paint. “Where did this come from?”

  “Anna found it in the tool shed this afternoon—one of the chicken’s been hiding her eggs…”

  “Where’s Anna now?”

  “She’s home to her bed. Are you drunk, man? What’s the matter with you?” She turned and waved her cane at the two boarders. “Go up to your beds and stop gawking. Will you turn that blasted thing off?”

  The men got slowly to their feet. They had to wait at the foot of the stairs, for Margaret was coming down. The widow strung out her abuse of them… “Sitting here, night in, night out, their mouths gaping like guppies. I’m the unfortunate woman to be burdened with the likes of them in my poverty…”

  Phil was examining the illusion. Beneath the cloth was a large, doll-shaped balloon, deflated now. It had collapsed when it caught on the tub. Inflated, it would give buoyancy to the whole thing, and hooked in its back was a short string. A sickening realization came to him that Fields had found the rest of it in the room where Kevin Laughlin died.

  “Phil, what’s wrong?” It was Margaret, in the room now, doll-like herself, in a quilted housecoat.

  “He’s losing his reason,” Mrs. O’Grady said. “What’s that thing at all? It near frightened Anna out of her wits.”

  Phil flung it on the couch. “When were you last in the tool shed, Mrs. O’Grady?”

  “I haven’t been near it for months. Do you think I’ve the legs…”

  “Who has been there?”

  “The scraper’s there for the chicken droppings. It’s three weeks since the place was cleaned till today. I made Anna go…”

  “Who cleaned it last?” he interrupted again.

  “The dear one that’s gone. He was always helping me round the place.”

  “Do you keep the shed locked?”

  “Why would I lock it when there’s not a key to the house?”

  Phil lit a cigaret and turned his back on them. In his mind’s eye was the picture Rebecca Glasgow had painted, the one hanging over the fireplace, with the little lights in it. A fool could see what might be made of it. Jerry Whelan would be carting the story to the pub, or telling it there this minute. He wheeled on the widow. “Did you ever see Dick with that?”

  “I never laid eyes on it,” she spat. Her voice changed then to the crooning tones. “Is it some of their magic, Philip? It looks like something you’d use on a stage.”

  “Do you remember the youngster at the inquest? Do you remember his lady with green wings everybody laughed at? It wasn’t the church angel he was imagining. This is what he saw in Dick’s arms.”

  Margaret laid her hand on his arm. “What does it mean, Phil?”

  He drew away from her touch. “All I know is that it means trouble.”

  The widow’s eyes darted from where she had been watching Margaret’s hand to his face. He met them. “Why didn’t you send word to the sheriff?”

  “For what? It’s a harmless rag in the daylight.”

  “Then you’ve seen it in the dark?”

  “Wasn’t it in the back kitchen when I went out a few minutes ago for a drink? Are you making me out a liar?”

  “Do you have a bag I can put it in? I’m going down to the sheriff now. I’d lock the door if I were you tonight, Mrs. O’Grady. The men are flaming mad.”

  “I’ve seen them flame and sputter and die,” she said with contempt. “What caused the explosion?”

  “They don’t know yet.”

  The kitten came into the living room and stretched out beneath the stove. The widow pointed her stick at it. “Where did that come from?”

  “I brought it up to you from Lavery.”

  “Is that what he expects to catch mice?”

  “You can train it.”

  “It’d be a sight easier training the mice… There’s a bag back of the breadbox you can put that magic in, and get it out of the house.”

  Phil didn’t move. “Mrs. O’Grady, what do you think caused the explosion?”

  The widow cocked her head. “Wasn’t it the gas?”

  “Then why did you ask me what it was?”

  She grinned. “You’re coming to life now, are you? The shaking up you got down there must of stirred your brain. I’m asking because of the one blast. There was never a gas explosion there yet didn’t go off like a bucket of firecrackers all through the place.”

  Margaret stretched lazily. “Poor Phil,” she said, drawling the words with a silken patronage.

  This time he checked the angry retort.

  Chapter 29

  FIELDS EXAMINED THE ILLUSION carefully. He turned off the lights, and saw it glow in the darkened room. Lighting them again, he took the piece of string from his desk and compared its texture with that hooked onto the cloth. He glanced at Phil once or twice, but whatever was going through his mind he kept to himself.

  “It’s us have the imagination, and not the kids,” he said finally. “And me thinking I was so damned smart figuring that angel. The closed mind is a sprung rattrap. It don’t catch a damn thing.” He put the string back in his desk. “It wasn’t any accident Laughlin was in that room. He got lured there.”

  He put on his coat and called up the stairs to Krancow that he was going out. In the front, two boys of twenty or so were playing casino in the light of the funeral parlor night lamp, the blessed St. Veronica kibbitzing over them from her gilt frame, Phil thought irreligiously. Immediately it occurred to him that a death in Winston now would be an inconvenience to more than mourners. He shook his head at the weird, grim humor that had overtaken him.

  Fields must have been pondering the same thing. “We’d be in a fine way here if Krancow was to get a sudden business call. Jimmie!”

  The boys looked up.

  “For your deputy’s pay,” the sheriff said, “I’d like you to keep an eye on McNamara’s. One of you go down there every fifteen minutes. Mind now. You’re responsible if there’s a disturbance there. We’re going from here to Watkins’ and then out to Clauson’s. Call Krancow if you need him. Otherwise let him be. Somebody needs to get some sleep around here.”

  There was the one light in Watkins’, the father sitting beneath it, his feet on the fender of the kitchen range. He, at least, was one man not at the tavern, Phil thought. They went to the back door.

  “I’d like to talk to Nat, Mr. Watkins,” the sheriff said. “I know it’s late, but something just come up.”

  “Come in and close the door then. What’s he done now?”

  “Nothing at all,” Fields said. “He’s a fine, observing lad.”

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nbsp; Watkins made a noise of disgust. He went to the hall and roared the boy’s name at the top of his voice. The hell with whoever else in the house might be sleeping, Phil thought.

  Fields warmed his hands over the stove. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he grew up to be a policeman,” he said, trying to ease the father’s annoyance.

  “He’s going down with me as soon as they’ll take him. That’ll take the starch out of him.”

  Or put it in, Phil thought.

  The boy came in, a sweater pulled over his underwear, his eyes full of sleep, and then of apprehension. “Go and put on your pants,” the father roared.

  “I don’t think there’ll be any women around,” Fields said. But the boy had already fled. He returned in a moment tucking the sweater into his overalls.

  “You’ve brought us a fine piece of trouble, haven’t you, with your smoking and hookying?” said Watkins.

  “Don’t yell at me, Pa.” He was learning to fight back. He would not be bullied much longer.

  The father lifted his hand, but dropped it again, and slumped into the chair.

  Fields got to the point immediately. “Nat, you told us at the inquest of seeing Mr. Coffee with a woman that looked like she had green wings. Did you see a face on her?”

  “No sir. It was almost dark. I wasn’t very close.”

  “How did you know it was Coffee then?”

  Nat thought about that. “It’s funny, I can remember seeing him just as plain.”

  “Was that under the cliff?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Which way was he going?”

  “He went down to the road and across it, back of Lavery’s, only I couldn’t see him any further than that.”

  “Could you say the way he was coming?”

  “He came around the cliff. I was looking that way.”

  “Now Nat, tell me, was the woman walking?”

  “He was sort of helping her.”

  Fields brushed his hand across his mouth thoughtfully. “Now think about this careful, lad. Can you try and remember the day that was.”

  The boy screwed up his mouth, as though that might help him think. “It wasn’t a school day,” he said finally, “and I had my old pants on. I wasn’t afraid of squatting down on them. So it must of been a Saturday.”

  “Was it before or after Laughlin’s death? Do you remember that?”

  “It was after. Pa wasn’t working.”

  “Are you sure of that, Nat?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “How can you be so sure when you can’t remember from the school to the house what page your homework’s on?” the father said.

  “You were rolling your own cigarets then, Pa,” the boy said quietly.

  “You’d of remembered if it was last Saturday,” Fields said. “You found Coffee the next morning.”

  The boy nodded.

  “Then it was a week last Saturday. Good boy. Go back to your sleep now. You’ve been a great help. My thanks to you and your father.”

  In the car, Fields entered the information in his notebook without comment. He let the car slide into gear, and started across the town. Passing McNamara’s, he lowered the window. The tinkle of the piano rose for an instant above the sound of the motor. They could see the crowd of men in the smoke-clouded bar.

  “As long as they keep that piano playing, I’ll feel easier,” Fields said.

  He slowed down at Clauson’s driveway, and then stopped when one of the deputies signaled. “I’m colder than a blue monkey,” the man said at the car window.

  “I hope you don’t get a chance to warm up.” Fields handed him his flask. “You and Pekarik can have this. It may help. If it looks calm I’ll pick you up at midnight.”

  “That’s over two hours, Sheriff.”

  “I know. Just tell stories to one another and stay awake.” He ran the window up and drove to the house.

  Clauson came to the window at the sound of the car. Phil could see him straining to see who it was. “Poor old devil. I walked up here tonight. After Glasgow and the daughter went upstairs he sat there crying. It’s a terrible thing to see an old man cry.”

  Fields turned off the ignition. “It’s a worse thing to see a young man die.”

  Gainsay that, Phil thought. Sentiment be damned.

  Clauson had the door open, waiting for them. The many lines had deepened in his face these last few days. His eyes were bloodshot and his hand shook as he motioned to them to sit down. “I have a little wine, gentlemen?”

  “No, thanks just the same,” Fields opened his jacket but did not take it off.

  “Do you want my daughter and him?”

  “You don’t like him very much, do you?” Fields said.

  The magician did not answer. He sat down and folded his hands in his lap. Fields was studying the picture above the fireplace. “Your girl’s got some real nice color there, Mr. Clauson.”

  “She does good work,” Clauson said.

  “Ever do any of that stuff on cloth?”

  Clauson looked at him. “Yes. She paints all my things. Some illusions, though I sell few of them. Women are great illusionists, but women do not travel into these hills in search of a manufacturer.”

  Somewhere above them, a board creaked.

  Fields merely straightened up in the chair. “Did you ever talk with Coffee about that sort of thing?”

  “Oh yes. Several times. We talked a great deal about spiritualists and so-called mediums. In my youth, I conducted a considerable expose of fakers. Then we talked about an opera called The Medium. Richard had seen it last year. I will tell you something. There it is on the table. It came this morning.”

  Fields got up and went to the table. He picked up an album of records.

  “That was the way he was,” Clauson explained. “We talked about it, and he wrote away and had it sent to us.”

  Fields returned to the chair.

  The magician touched the records lightly, almost affectionately.

  “McGovern, would you mind going to the car and bringing me that package, please?” Fields spoke curtly and thrust the keys into Phil’s hand.

  By the time he returned, Rebecca was coming down the stairs in her bathrobe. Glasgow was already standing in the room, his hands on his hips, a scowl on his face as heavy as his mustache. Whatever he had said, Fields was on his feet. “I haven’t accused you of anything yet, Mr. Glasgow. If I do, you won’t be standing in this room arguing with me. Now I want to know if you were home a week ago last Saturday.”

  “I went to work at a quarter to five.”

  “Couldn’t you just as well told me that civil?” Fields turned to Phil and took the bag from him. Without explanation he drew the green cloth from it and shook it out. Phil, watching Rebecca, saw her eyes narrow. A little pulse began throbbing in her throat.

  “Mr. Clauson, do you recognize this piece?”

  The old man nodded that he did.

  “When was the last time you seen it?”

  Clauson cleared his throat. “One night a few weeks ago. I cannot name it exactly.”

  “You better tell me the whole story,” Fields said quietly. He motioned to Glasgow to sit down.

  “There is no story,” he began scarcely audibly. He glanced up for a pained instant at his daughter and then down at his hands again. There was a little, tight grin on Glasgow’s face. “We were talking one night about effects on a blacked-out stage…”

  “Who was with you?”

  “Rebecca and Richard. I sent Rebecca to the trunk for it to illustrate.”

  “Did you ever see it before, Glasgow?”

  “Ha! Where the hell should I see it? Do you think they’d show their precious treasures to a dumb bastard like me?”

  “I asked you if you saw it,” Fields repeated harshly.

  “No. I never laid eyes on it.”

  “Go on, Mr. Clauson.”

  “What more is there to say? Afterwards Rebecca put it away. Didn’t you, my dear?”


  “I did. I put it away.”

  “But here it is now,” Fields said, draping it across the back of a chair.

  “Maybe it got up and walked out,” Glasgow said. “It’s a lively looking thing.”

  “It’s a deadly thing,” Fields said. He went to Rebecca’s chair then and looked directly into her face. She met his eyes evenly. “Mrs. Glasgow, you know the testimony given at the inquest. You know you were seen entering the drift mouth over behind that cliff with Coffee…”

  “And I say it’s a deliberate lie,” she said, the veins standing out in her neck.

  “It don’t look like a lie to me,” Fields said. “Coffee was seen carrying that bloody thing, and I say bloody, because I found a string matching the piece on the back of it. I found it where Kevin Laughlin died. He died in maybe the one room in that whole section where there was enough gas to kill a man. Something lured him in there. Richard Coffee told you about that gas. He even marked the room…”

  “If he did it was for Laughlin…”

  “Then you know he marked it?” She did not answer, and Fields went on relentlessly. “I’m telling you now what’s in my mind, and what’s going to be in the mind of the coroner’s jury when they meet again next week: You had a neat place there for meeting Coffee. It was dark, but you didn’t need any light. Then the old loon came on you, poor old daft Laughlin, and you thought you’d get rid of him.”

  “It’s you that’s out of your mind,” she said into his face. “Richard Coffee was a decent man, the only decent man I’ve ever known. He was kind. I think I could kill if I had to. But he couldn’t.”

  Fields straightened up. “Right now, I’m talking about you, Mrs. Glasgow.” He turned abruptly on Glasgow. “You were with the 118th Engineers in Europe after the war. Where were you stationed?”

  “In Stuttgart,” he said immediately. “But we were a lot of places on reconstruction.”

  “Have you ever been in the mines here?”

  “Never.”

  “Did you know Kevin Laughlin?”