by Gene Wolfe
Much later, when we had both slept for some hours and the morning sun had come to supplant my dying fire, I was able to admire her delicate oval face and long black hair. My admiration held more than a little curiosity, as you may imagine. Who was she? Where had she come from? How had she gotten into the house?
How, for that matter, did Emlyn and his brother do it?
Why had she chosen to give herself to me?
It was not until I saw my own clothing, folded and stacked beside my shoes, that I thought to wonder about hers. A few glances showed clearly enough that it was nowhere in the room.
She woke, opening her eyes and smiling; her smile (how well I recall it!) was gentle, sly, and utterly enchanting. Elfin, George. You do not know what that word means, but I do now.
"So nice . . ." It was a whisper, and her whisper is enchanting, too.
"So beautiful," I said. "You're lovely. Yes, truly lovely, and I knew you would be."
She giggled, and her little hand stroked me beneath the blanket; I tried to explain that I could not cooperate, although I hoped to later.
"It was nice . . ."
"Thank you. For me it was quite wonderful."
"So nice we tore the mattress. Did you see?"
"Did we? I don't care."
"The stuffing leaked."
"Did it? I hadn't noticed. It's an old mattress, however. It must have been in the attic for a very long time, and I'm afraid that some structural weaknesses are to be expected."
"This leaked out. See?" She held up a handful of currency.
I accepted it from her, and when I had counted it, she gave me another. "Are you going to wash?"
"Not now," I told her. "In a moment."
"Then your little pet's going to wash first." She rose, managing to drape herself in the blanket as she stood, and fled giggling into the master bedroom.
That was the last time I saw her, George. Eventually I went into the master bedroom myself. The bathroom door stood wide. The blanket she had taken lay on the floor, and the window had been opened.
She was gone.
What am I to do? Place an ad?
Lost, a young woman. Long black hair, oval face, dark brown eyes, tiny nose, delightful little mouth, perfect complexion. Long nails painted black. Accent. Wearing nothing when last seen. Reward.
Of course I have done all the obvious things. I have looked around outside for footprints or something of the sort, and found nothing. I have tried to look into every room on both floors, and though I cannot be sure I visited them all--there must be at least forty--I did the best I could. I have scoured the neighborhood twice.
These things have kept me on my feet all morning, and now I sit, writing you about them. I can only hope she will return.
Yours sincerely,
Bax
Number 12
A BIG DEAL IN PROSPECT
Dear George:
Another letter so soon? Well, yes. It's evening now--no, night. Full dark.
And she has not returned. Winkle did, and gratefully received the scraps of meat I had brought her from Martha's table. I had never expected to have a tame fox. Indeed, I have never heard of anyone who did, although there must be others.
You will laugh, but I told her about the girl who had visited me, how lovely she was and what she had meant to me while we were together. Winkle looked as sympathetic as it is possible for a fox to look, laid one neat black paw in my lap, and whispered. "She cometh. She cometh. She cometh thoon."
I telephoned Martha. "This is Bax. I wanted to make sure you're all right."
"Oh, yes. Thank you, you're very thoughtful. You kissed my hand." She sighed. "Did you really, Bax? Or did I dream it?"
"Yes, I did, but you were asleep by then."
"I knew it. I felt your kiss. I'm fine now. Not quite my old self, but recovering rapidly. How are you?"
"Oh, I'm perfectly fine. Rearing to go, isn't that what they say? This morning I want to phone the electric company--though I suppose it must be nearly noon. This afternoon, then."
"Have you found a way into the cellar?"
It was a question I had not anticipated. "No. Or at least no way other than the door in back I told you about--the outside door. I haven't even looked for one today."
"This morning it occurred to me that the best way to find one would be for you to go into the cellar through the outside door and look from the bottom up. There will be steps. There'll have to be. Go up them, and see where you are."
"You're right. I should have thought of that. There was something else I wanted ask. Do you have keys to the garage?"
"Garage?"
"Yes, there's a big garage with three doors. They're all padlocked."
"I don't have the keys. The only key I've ever had was the one to the front door, and I gave it to you." She hesitated. "Couldn't you call a locksmith?"
"Yes. I'll do that."
After that our talk wandered off into generalities.
When I hung up, I smiled to think that it was the truth. I could call a locksmith now. I will not tell you, George, how much money that beautiful girl and I took from the mattress. She brought out two handfuls. I believe I said that. I brought out more shortly before I began this. When I counted all I had, the sum was so great that I grew frightened. I put most of it back into the mattress, got out my little sewing kit, and sewed the mattress back up. My stitches were not as sturdy as the factory's; nor were those of the person, Mr. Black, or whoever he may have been, who had ripped out the factory stitches and inserted the money. It was why they had burst while the girl and I enjoyed each other's company.
But I have kept out enough to make me feel very rich indeed, a man who can summon a locksmith without a second thought.
As I have. He will come tomorrow.
Up there I was interrupted by a call from a young lady. "Mr. Dunn? Is this Mr. Baxter Dunn?"
"Speaking," I said.
"My name's Cathy Ruth, Mr. Dunn, and I write for the Sentinel. May I ask you a few questions?"
"You may, Miss Ruth, if you'll answer mine. How did you get my number?"
"Mrs. Murrey gave it to me, Mr. Dunn. She felt sure you'd be delighted to talk to me."
"I see. I was just speaking with her. I'm surprised she didn't mention it." I was striving to recall to whom I had given my number.
"She probably forgot about it. Are you living in the old Black House, Mr. Dunn?"
"Yes, I am. I own it."
"I know! She told me. And you were present when Star Paxton died?"
"Star Paxton was the poor woman last night?"
"That's right. Mrs. Wesley Paxton. You were there?"
"As I understand it, she was killed on the front lawn of her house. I was next door, at Mrs. Murrey's, talking with Mrs. Murrey."
"This is great! You ran outside when you heard the screaming?"
"Mrs. Murrey did. I followed her."
"What did you see?"
"Mrs. Paxton's body, and a great deal of blood. Also Mrs. Murrey looking down at it and screaming."
"You didn't know Mrs. Paxton?"
"No. To the best of my knowledge, that was the first time I'd ever seen her. Now I'd like you to answer another question for me, Miss Ruth. What--"
"Call me Cathy, please."
"What do the police say killed Mrs. Paxton, Cathy?"
"There's been no official statement, Mr. Dunn. That will come from the coroner's office."
"I understand, but you have sources of information on the police force--one at least whom I could name. What does she say, Cathy?"
"Has anyone ever told you you're scary, Mr. Dunn?"
"Never. In my entire life no one has ever called me frightening, Cathy. It's a word that people reserve for my brother George. What does your contact say?"
"You're not supposed to know about her."
The pronoun made my conclusion certain. I said, "If you don't tell me, Cathy, I'll tell Officer Finn that you revealed her identity without being asked."
>
"Mr. Dunn . . ."
"You may well decide to risk it. I'm a poor liar, and I'm inclined to think Officer Finn will soon realize that I am lying. Why don't you chance it?"
"Suppose I tell you now? Exactly what she said?"
"Then I will keep your secret, upon my honor."
"All right. She said everybody thought it was a big dog. Nothing else. Just a big dog."
"I see. Did she agree?"
"No, she didn't, and now you're going to want to know what she thought it was. And I can't tell you because she doesn't know. But one of Star's legs was torn off. Did you know that?"
"Go on."
"She said she grew up with Saint Bernards. Those are big dogs."
"I know."
"Her father bred them. She said the big males are as strong as any dog on earth, and they couldn't have done it. They could have grabbed a leg and dragged the body for miles, but they couldn't have torn a leg off like that."
"I'd say she has a point. Shall I wait for you to ask whether I own a big dog?"
"Do you?"
"I do not."
"Any kind of a dog? A little one?"
"I have nothing against dogs. I rather like them, in fact. But I have never owned one."
"You saw Star's body, Mr. Dunn. I didn't. What was your first thought? What did you think had happened to her?"
"I shouldn't answer that." I paused, hoping Miss Ruth would speak again. "I will, but only because I'm a trifle ashamed of having bullied you. I thought that she had been attacked by a bear."
"Why did you think so?"
"I can't tell you. It just popped into my mind."
"Do you still think that? What do you think now?"
"At present, I don't know what to think. If you'll excuse me, I have to--"
"Please! Just a couple more questions."
"All right, two. No more than that."
"What is the connection between Star's death and the Black House?"
"There is none that I know of." (I was lying, to be sure; but I was not under oath.)
"Have you seen a ghost? In the house, I mean, since you've been there?"
"I'm not certain," I said, and hung up.
I dialed Directory Assistance immediately and was soon connected to the power company. I provided my name and address, explained that I had been occupying the house for several days, and suggested politely that the house could now be reconnected to their grid.
"Let me check this, sir. It will just take a minute."
I waited.
"You've asked to be reconnected before, haven't you, sir?"
"I have not, but I've been told that the real-estate agent made the request on my behalf."
"I see. What this shows, sir, is that you've already been reconnected. It was done yesterday. You don't have power?"
"Correct."
"You checked today?"
"Yes. This morning."
"Could you try again now?"
I could and did, flipping switches in the living room, the dining room (two switches), the butler's pantry, and the kitchen without result. "No power," I told the woman who had answered my call.
"We'll send a man over as soon as we can, sir."
I thanked her, and turned off my cellular telephone.
Now, George, you are bound to be curious regarding my final sally to Miss Cathy Ruth. I confess that I spoke as I did to discomfort her; but upon reflection, I fear there was more substance to it than I intended. I shall not enlarge upon that until I learn more. And perhaps not then.
I have bought her a gift, George. You will say that does not sound like me, but I have.
I walked downtown, you see, after writing to you. You might suppose I would be too tired to do anything of that kind after combing the neighborhood for her, and searching (however inadequately) this house as well. You would be quite correct, too; I was tired, but hunger is a great spur. It was nearly noon, I had money in my wallet, and I had not eaten since dinner last night at Martha's.
So I found a little place with a salad bar and enjoyed a bountiful lunch. After that, I went to the pawnshop, reclaimed my coin, and would have reclaimed my laptop if I could. The time had run out, however, and it had been sold. I will buy a proper computer soon, never fear. Then you can send e-mails berating me once more.
Nor was that all. I found a Laundromat and bought a laundry bag, and tomorrow I intend to carry all my dirty clothing there and wash it.
After that, it occurred to me that I ought to have invited Doris Griffin to lunch--that I owed her a meal. I telephoned her and suggested dinner, promising to pay for our dinners if she would provide our transportation. Very much to my surprise, she asked me to come to the office in which she is employed, saying that someone there needed to speak with me.
I was footsore, I admit, and the distance was at least six blocks; I asked her to pick me up early. We will go to her office and have dinner afterward.
Should I then have bought a gift for another woman? You will say no. Millie--a better judge, I think--might well say yes. I felt that if I was going to buy Doris's dinner, I ought to do that much and more for the young lady who had spent the night with me.
As I have. My original notion was simply to give her a robe to replace the blanket she had borrowed for her dash to the bathroom. When I described her to the saleswoman, however, she insisted that I ought to buy her a silk one of the type she showed me, an Oriental robe with wide sleeves. She had several of these sized for small women. I sat in near-royal majesty (you will not believe this, George, but it's true) while another clerk of the correct size modeled each. In the end I chose the simplest, though it was also the most costly. It is white, and prettily embroidered with a nature scene: a golden pheasant on the limb of a pine watching a fox in pursuit of a rabbit. The sash is crimson. This is something less than modest, I suppose, but I honestly think she will like it. If she does not, I can return it; I have the receipt.
Well, George, I had a most interesting time last night with Doris. She arrived earlier than I had expected, but I laid aside my pen and trotted out to meet her.
"I hope you don't mind," she said.
Of course I assured her that I did not.
"We can have an early dinner. The restaurant won't be crowded, and we can enjoy each other's company."
"Believe me, I'm looking forward to enjoying yours. You are a most charming woman, and I can't be the first to tell you that."
She smiled. "Afterward, we might go to my apartment for a drink and a little more talk. Will you be free?"
It took me by surprise, but I managed it well enough, I think. At least I acquiesced without stammering.
"But first Mr. Hardaway wants to talk to you." She backed out of my driveway and pulled onto the road. "We had a staff meeting this morning."
"Yes?"
"Your name came up." Here I received a delightful smile. "Would you do me a great, great favor, Bax? It will be a very small thing to you, but a very big one to me. And I'll be ever so grateful."
Of course I said I would do whatever I could if it would be of the least assistance to her.
"You're still wearing Ted's ring. I noticed that, and it makes it very hard for me to ask you for anything else, because that was a maxi-favor, too. Hard, but I'm asking just the same."
"You will get whatever you ask for," I assured her.
"Mr. Hardaway's my boss, Bax. Do you remember how we discussed all those real-estate matters over lunch? Well anyway, you must remember that I was going to say we did on my expense account."
"Certainly."
"I'd like you to make it clear to Mr. Hardaway that I'm your agent--that I take care of real-estate matters for you."
I assumed, as I believe anyone would, that Doris had been put on the carpet concerning her expense account, and I swore that I would back her to the hilt.
Although she was driving, we shook hands on it. "You see, Mr. Hardaway happened to mention a tract between here and Port Saint Jude, and--what's the
matter?"
"Nothing. Nothing at all. Go on, please."
"Anyway he mentioned a missing owner, and that was when I said, 'Would you repeat that name, sir?' And he said, 'The name is Dunn, Mrs. Griffin. Baxter Dunn.' "
"Well, well."
"Yes, indeed. So I said, 'Why I had lunch with Baxter Dunn just the other day, sir,' and everybody froze. They've been looking for you for three years."
I smiled, trying to make it charming. (You look like a shark when you smile, George.) "Not in the right places, apparently."
"Obviously not. There's an attorney named Trelawny involved. Do you know him? Urban Trelawny?"
I shook my head.
"And a man named Skotos. Alexander Skotos. What about him?"
I said, "It sounds familiar, but I can't place him." I said that, George, because I judged it contrary to my best interests to commit myself one way or the other so early. How was I to know whether I had, at some time in what I know you will concede has been a checkered career, come across an Alexander Skotos? Perhaps I had. Or more likely, Alexander Skotos was a name assumed by someone I had known under another appellation. I knew a man called Sandy Scott at Churchill Downs, for example.
"Ahhh," said Doris. She was clearly impressed.
"Will he be there?" I asked. "At your office?"
"No. Definitely not. Have you a place in mind, or do I get to choose the restaurant?"
"You get to choose, of course."
"Fine. We'll want a quiet spot with slow service."
"And good food."
"Absolutely. Mr. Hardaway didn't exactly open up with me."
"I quite understand."
"But Olga told me afterward that they've been looking for you for three years. For a Baxter Dunn, anyway. And there's this big tract of undeveloped land." Doris took a deep breath. "What we're talking about here is a big, big commission, Bax. You've probably guessed that."