Merchants of Menace

by Joan Aiken

  The next morning, I found that my instinct had not been without foundation. There had been danger lurking round my house the night before. For when I went to get my bicycle to go and help about the Mothers’ Outing, I found it in its usual place in the shed, but the tires and mudguard were spattered with a kind of thick yellow clay. There is no clay like that anywhere between here and the village. Where could it have come from? Who had been riding my bicycle through unfamiliar mud in the rain and wind last night? Who had put it back silently in the shed, and as silently gone away?

  As I stood there, bewildered and shaken, the telephone rang indoors. It was Linda, and she sounded tense, distraught.

  “Auntie, will you do something for me? Will you come with me to the house tonight and stay there while I do the painting and—sort of keep watch for me? I expect you’ll think it’s silly, but I know there was somebody there last night—and I’m frightened. Will you come, Auntie?”

  There could be only one answer. I got through my day’s work as fast as I could, and by six o’clock I was waiting for Linda on the steps of her office. As we hurried through the darkening streets, Linda was apologetic.

  “I know it’s awfully silly, Auntie, but John’s still working late, and he doesn’t even know if he’ll finish in time to come and fetch me. I feel scared there without him. And the up­stairs lights won’t go on again—John hasn’t had time to see the electrician about it yet—and it’s so dark and lonely. Do you think someone really was there last night, Auntie?”

  I didn’t tell her about the mud on my bicycle. There seemed no point in alarming her further. Besides, what was there to tell? There was no reason to suppose it had any connection.

  “Watch out, Auntie, it’s terribly muddy along this bit where the builders have been.”

  I stared down at the thick yellow clay already clinging heavily to my shoes; and straight in front of us, among a cluster of partially finished red-brick houses, stood Linda’s future home. It stared at us with its little empty windows out of the October dusk. A light breeze rose, but stirred nothing in that wilderness of mud, raw brickwork, and scaffolding. Linda and I hesitated, looked at each other.

  “Come on,” I said, and a minute later we were in the empty house.

  We arranged that she should settle down to her painting in the downstairs front room just as if she were alone, and I was to sit on the stairs, near the top, where I could command a view of both upstairs and down. If anyone should come in, by either the front or back door, I should see them before they could reach Linda.

  I was very quiet as I sat there in the darkness. The light streamed out of the downstairs room where Linda was working, and I could see her through the open door, with her back to me, just as she had been in my dream. How like poor Angela she was, with her pale hair and her white, fragile neck! She was working steadily now, absorbed, confident—reassured, I suppose, by my presence in the house.

  As I sat there, I could feel the stair behind me pressing a little into my spine—a strangely familiar pressure. My whole pose indeed seemed familiar—every muscle seemed to fall into place, as if by long practice, as I sat there, half leaning against the banisters, staring down into the glare of light.

  And then, suddenly, I knew. I knew who had cycled in black hatred through the rainy darkness and the yellow mud. I knew who had waited here, night after night, watching Linda as a cat watches a mouse. I knew what horror was closing in even now on this poor fragile child, on this sickly, puny brat who had kept my lovely, sturdy children from coming into the world—the sons and daughters I could have given Richard, tall and strong—the children he should have had—the children I could have borne him.

  I was creeping downstairs now, on tiptoe, in my stockinged feet, with a light, almost prancing movement, yet silent as a shadow. I could see my hands clutching in front of me like a lobster’s claws, itching for the feel of her white neck.

  At the foot of the stairs now—at the door of the room—and still she worked on, her back to me, oblivious.

  I tried to cry out, to warn her. “She’s coming, Linda!” I tried to scream: “I can see her hands clawing behind you!” But no sound came from my drawn-back lips, no sound from my swift light feet.

  Then, just as in my dream, there were footsteps through the house, quick and loud, a man’s footsteps, hurrying, running, rushing—rushing to save Linda, to save us both.

  The Tilt of Death

  Rod Amateau and David Davis

  Here is a wildly imaginative tale which is just plain fun. And half the fun is in the way it’s told.

  I always had a yen to be a fisherman. I don’t mean just fishing in a quiet pond on Sunday afternoons. I mean an Ernest Hemingway-Crunch and Des kind of fishing. I mean big-game fishing with a fighting-chair and outriggers and a flying bridge and me the skipper with a full charter and an icebox stacked with cerveza.

  Everyone has some sort of dream, but never really expects it to happen, and it never does. Mine happened—all the way.

  Here I am, six weeks short of my fortieth birthday, owner and skipper of the Pescadora, thirty-eight feet of twin-dieseled fishing fool. I say, without fear of contradiction, that my boat is the sweetest running charter out of Boca Negra, Chile, where the summers are winters and the winters are summers, and it doesn’t mean a damn because the marlin can’t read a calendar and they’re hitting all the time.

  That’s how it is now.

  Let me tell you how it was: lousy.

  I was a salesman for the Sequoia Life and Casualty and lived a commuter’s life, nine to six Monday through Friday, fifty weeks a year selling life insurance. Every day I made a half-a-hundred phone calls. Sequoia provided me with Diners, Carte Blanche, American Express. Every day I had rich, boozy lunches with different “prospects.” Every morning, it was the 8:05 into Penn Station and the 6:12 home to Mineola, New York, every night.

  Saturday was family day. Family: Jimmie eight, Jennifer six, Nancy thirty-one, Hey-Dog four, Chevrolet two, Mortgage thirty.

  What with the crabgrass, stopped-up toilets, car wash, super­market, kiddie-matinees, my Saturday was one big cliché. The only thing I looked forward to was my every-other-weekly haircut. I got to sit down for a half hour and skim through girlie magazines. What a great barber! He used a vibrator.

  Five o’clock: I’d had my second martini and was changing clothes to go to somebody’s house for booze and barbecue.

  Midnight: home, a little oiled but functioning. I’d pay off the babysitter, drink a club soda, lock the doors, brush my teeth, slap a little cologne on my face, and va-va-va-voom into the bedroom. Too late! My wife was asleep.

  One time I reversed the procedure. I maneuvered it so Nancy paid the babysitter, locked up. I even passed up the club soda and, believe me, I could have used it. Into the bath­room, teeth brushed, cologne on the face, under the covers, waiting for my wife, grinning in the dark with anticipation. Too late! I fell asleep.

  Sunday morning? Maybe, if the kids didn’t wake up before we did—only they always did because they didn’t go to those Saturday night barbecues. What a pity, because I really loved my wife. What a woman!

  Wife, mother, homemaker extraordinaire; attractive, cheer­ful, understanding, practical; very, very practical, she balanced our bank statement every month, never dented the Chevy fenders, bought two for twenty-five instead of one at thirteen. Kept canned water in the cellar in case of a red alert. For the children’s sake, we always traveled on separate airplanes. She even balanced our budget so tight I could buy $150,000 worth of life insurance. In case of something tragic, she and the kids would be provided for. I couldn’t argue with that; I sold the stuff myself.

  Sundays, I usually tried to get in some fishing, but practical Nancy pointed out that my Sunday fishing excursions on Sheepshead Bay cost me $8.oo per mackerel. I pointed out that it was a sport—good for the kids.

  Once, I even took them along, but Jimmie got a fishhook through his thumb and Jennifer threw up into the live-bai
t tank. The rest of the anglers on this half-day boat were pretty sore. The boat made a U-turn and headed home. What with the $7.50 for Jimmie’s tetanus shot and the $35.00 to replace the dead bait, Nancy dry-docked any future fishing.

  Then came the event that changed my life. I went for my annual medical checkup to our family doctor, Jerome Hale, M.D. Jerry and I had roomed together in college. He was the best man at my wedding, delivered both my kids.

  This day my best friend had the worst news to give me. My electrocardiogram said tilt! Sadly, gravely, Jerry told me I had a severe coronary malfunction: something to do with the valves and blood and surrounding muscle tissue and I had approximately three months to live. Like I said, the worst kind of news. I was in shock.

  Jerry was marvelous. He canceled his appointments for the rest of that day and put me through the tests again and again. Same results. I remember being deeply appreciative of the way Jerry handled the whole horrifying thing.

  We took a long walk by the ocean. We talked a little about life and a lot about death. Jerry got pretty misty, and I ended by cheering him up.

  I went home and broke the tragic news to my wife. She went to pieces, got hysterical. The kids were sent to sleep over at a neighbor’s. She took two tranquilizers, and then we sat down and went over the whole picture together.

  Thank God for the insurance policy. She and the kids would never be public charges. Now her being practical really paid off. She took a pencil and paper and figured out that she could cut down expenses all around, sell the house, and get an apartment. That way, the $150,000 policy would see both kids through college.

  Then she asked me how I was going to spend my time—the short time I had left. I was stumped. I hadn’t thought about it. I’d never died before. Anyway, I couldn’t care less. I said I’d probably spend my time winding things up at the office.

  Nancy said to hell with the office. What had the office ever done for me, except overwork my heart? I couldn’t argue with her there. She put her arms around me and said—I’ll remember these words as long as I live—“Why don’t you go fishing?” Pause. “I said, fishing.”

  I must have looked pretty surprised.

  “Pete, I’m not talking about a half-day boat out of Sheepshead Bay or even Montauk Point. I mean fishing like you’ve always wanted to do. The Caribbean, the Mediterranean—anywhere! Go. Enjoy yourself. Have a ball. You owe it to yourself.”

  By this time I’d figured it was the tranquilizer talking and not her. I was wrong. She meant every word.

  “Of course I’d love to have you here with me,” Nancy wept, “especially these last weeks together, but I’m not going to be selfish. I’ve been selfish about you too long.”

  She felt pretty guilty depriving me of fishing all these years. She wanted me to enjoy my last few months.

  Her plan was: buy the best fishing tackle; fly first-class to where the fishing was best, anywhere in the world; live it up, suites in the finest hotels.

  “Go,” she said. “Take a leave of absence from Sequoia. Eat, drink, fish and be merry.”

  I couldn’t believe it. An excursion like that could cost a fortune. Who could afford that kind of money? Then she told me who could afford that kind of money—Sequoia Life and Casualty, the company I diligently worked for.

  I had Diners, Carte Blanche, American Express, a whole wallet full of credit cards thoughtfully provided by Sequoia Life. Nancy pointed out that I could sign my way onto every airline, every hotel, every restaurant, every men’s shop on earth. I could even charter a boat and crew. I could even add on lavish tips. I could even—“Just a minute! What happens when the bills start coming in?”

  “From overseas? It’ll take two, three months for the bills to get back to the office. By then—” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to. I knew what she meant.

  ’’They’ll collect from you,” I said.

  “They can’t. When you leave it’ll look like you deserted me and the children. You were obviously under great emotional stress, not responsible for your actions. After all, it’s not like you’re an embezzler, and I can’t see Sequoia Life taking revenge on a bereaved widow and two small children.”

  “Gee, I don’t know, Nancy. I don’t think—”

  “Pete. What have you got to lose?”

  She had me there. That’s a practical woman. She even thought of placing an inconspicuous, but completely legal, disclaimer in the Daily Law ]ournal—“Not responsible for debts other than my own, Mrs. Nancy Ingersoll”—and that’s just the way it all worked out.

  The first thing I charged on Diners was a genuine yachting cap from Abercrombie & Fitch with gold braid so thick I could have gotten saluted by Admiral Rickover. I’ve always liked yachting caps.

  In rapid succession I discovered I also always liked matched saddle-leather luggage from Mark Cross; a complete deep sea fishing outfit from Hammacher-Schlemmer; silk suits tailored by Dunhill; a Patek Phillipe chronograph from Cartier’s.

  I divided the above charges as equitably as possible between Diners and American Express. Realizing I’d neglected Carte Blanche, I made up for it by charging them for my first class Mexicana Airlines ticket to Acapulco—one way, of course.

  Boy, what I’d been missing all my life! I fell into that South of the Border groove like I’d been born to it. Everybody gets sick when they go to Mexico. Not me; I’d never felt better. I checked into the Las Brisas Hotel—my own bungalow, my own private swimming pool, and completely stocked bar for $140 a day. I chartered a boat and put it on my hotel tab. What the hell!

  Eighty minutes out, I hooked into my first marlin. I’d read all about big-game fishing, but I never dreamed it was this exciting. It was! It was a great fight, and I won. Afterward, I started thinking that it must must have been a big strain on my heart,­ but what with all the cheering and congratulations from the skipper and the deckhands, I forgot all about it.

  That fish weighed out to 16o kilos. That’s 320 pounds! That night, I phoned Nancy at home in the States (on my hotel tab). I told her about the marlin. She told me about the kids. I told her about my suite at the Las Brisas. She told me about the toilet stopping up again. I told her what was happening in Acapulco, she told me what was happening in Mineola. She told me how much she missed me, and I was about to tell her how much I missed her when my other phone started ringing. I threw her a long-distance kiss.

  The other phone? My dance teacher, Miss Rivera. She was in the lobby, on her way up.

  Miss Rivera was sensational. Her dancing was good, too. She discovered I had natural rhythm, so I went ahead and took the whole course. Why not? I added it to my hotel tab. Cha-Cha, Pachanga, Mambo, Tango, Merengue, Rumba, but I stayed away from the Watusi. I didn’t want to overtax my heart

  No se puede imaginar vd, que fácil es apprender hablar y comunicarse uno en Espanol en Acapulco.

  English translation: They got Berlitz here, too (Carte Blanche).

  Every day in Acapulco was magnifico. Fishing, swimming, dancing, drinking, and every night I phoned my wife.

  The weeks went by muy rapidamente, and every other night I phoned my wife.

  I don’t know what it was with this Mexican climate, but if I drank this much back in Mineola I’d have a hangover all the time. Here, I drank and danced the night away, grabbed a couple hours of sleep and bounced out of bed to go fishing. Too, no matter how busy I was, I found time to phone my wife at least once a week.

  They told me there was some great fishing in Brazil. I flew down. I caught some sailfish, loved Rio. My Brazilian dancing teacher, Miss Santos, discovered I had natural rhythm. The boys in the band gave my Bossa Nova a standing ovation. Of course, my having bought them all a round of drinks didn’t hurt any, but as our Latin-American neighbors so aptly put it: “Póngalo en la cuenta, por favor.” (“Please put it on the bill.”)

  Costa Rica was wonderful, but none of their fishing boats were air-conditioned. I went on to Jamaica. I flew to Montego Bay and checked in at the Round Hill. T
he Royal Suite compared favorably with the El Presidente Suite in Rio.

  I learned to hunt manta ray with a pneumatic harpoon while drinking rum grogs.

  The food at the Round Hill was fabulous: French Turtle Soup, Caribbean Red Snapper, Austrian Boar Gami, Neapolitan ice­ cream, and Irish Coffee, all paid for by American Express. Miss Tizanne, my Jamaican dancing teacher, discovered I had natural rhythm. We went to the Ocean Cove and limbo­ danced to the steel band till 4 a.m.

  That night I had my first attack! I awoke in a cold sweat, gasping for breath, jabbing pains shooting through the left side of my chest This is it!

  With effort, I phoned the hotel doctor, who came immediately and examined me.

  “Heart attack?” I asked.

  “Heartburn,” he answered. “Careful with the rich food.”

  He gave me a tablespoon of medicine and a bill for $25. I took the medicine and put his bill on my hotel tab.

  I made a mental note to find out if there’s a hotel priest. In case of real emergency, I can put my funeral on the hotel tab. I heard there was a big school of tuna boiling off Costa Gorda in Southern Portugal, I packed my matched luggage, signed my hotel tab and flew to Lisbon.

  The following morning, I was tied into a king-size bluefin who had made up his mind that he wasn’t going to wind up in a can. Bad heart or no bad heart, I fought him for three and a half hours and when we docked and weighed him in, I found I had me a record; biggest tuna ever landed in Costa Gorda.

  The town went wild. That night the drinks were on me and Diners. A great party! I took over the ballroom of the Vasco da Gama Hotel and hired a band.

  I was so happy I put a phone call through to my wife, to tell her about my conquest—but there was no answer. I guess she was staying over at her mother’s.