by R. E. Klein
“I think you could be a murderer, Miss Thyne.”
“What?”
“A murderess, cold-blooded and lecherous.”
“If Uncle Fitz didn’t need the money—”
“A murderess with the head of a convict!”
She say something unkind and stamp out of room. I furious.
“Why you bite her with bad words?” I demand to know. “Why unhealthy brain squirt so much venom?”
“A new metaphor!” Harsh voice rise as he point with finger high in air. “This place is a retort of inimical corrosives simmering but not yet volatile. And I, I am a catalyst!”
I not know what catalyst is and think maybe it his religion, so I look reverent as we pass out of room.
“Well, nothing yet from her; let us beard the lamprey in its lair.” We trot upstairs to Lamprey room, and Harold knock on door.
There is no answer, so Harold knock again. And again. Then I knock. Then we both knock.
From deep in room squeaky little voice announce: “I’m not coming out today.”
“Well, then we’ll be going away now,” Harold say convincingly, and make footstep sound getting softer and softer.
“We’ll wait right here,” Harold whisper. “He’s bound to come out sooner or later.” He take up poem once more. I sit on stair and try to invent crossword puzzle.
“He can’t stay in there forever, eh?” Harold whisper. “He’s bound to get hungry.” I nod and grin.
Four hours later we finally go downstair, pick up sandwiches in kitchen.
“I guess he means it,” Harold say. “We’ll probably catch him at dinner. What do you say to a walk?”
We start to go outdoors to see woodcraft sights but are withheld by grim old person sitting alone by front door.
“A moment, Mr. Kim, Mr. Bahr,” she call out in old-lady voice. “Have you seen Marc Lamprey?”
“He’s an elusive fellow,” say Harold Bahr. “Have you ever seen a real lamprey, Mrs. Bash? It’s a sort of fanged eel with a sucker mouth which burrows into the flesh of other fish to feed on their blood.”
“He doesn’t feed on my blood, Mr. Bahr. I look after him.”
“Eh, and who looks after you, Mrs. Bash?”
“He is a son to me—sometimes a wayward son.”
“He is in his room. Why don’t you go up?”
“And watch him brood over that woman?”
“Alice, yes, I gathered that.”
“He will come round, Mr. Bahr.”
“I understand you used to be his cleaning lady,” Harold say nastily.
“One rises from humble beginnings. Good day.”
We nod courteously and pass out of building.
We follow trail that sign tell us lead to lake. Lake look like desert. Dead pine trees all around baked, cracked lake bed. Overhead big gray clouds piling up on each other.
“Baked, cracked lake bed,” Harold murmur, “sudda-budda-bee.”
But poetry cut short by sight of Uncle Heifitz standing on wooden dock. Funny to see dock coming from dry land, ending in dry land, and only two, three feet above cracked lake bottom. Uncle Heifitz standing next to big artist’s easel. On easel is unfinished canvas of big blue lake. In water is thin man not yet finished being painted.
“Hey-dey!” call out Harold Bahr to Uncle Heifitz. “Painting I see.”
“Used to be a lake,” Uncle Fitz boom back.
“Freshwater,” say Harold, walking onto dock. I follow. “No gulls, eh?”
“Hardly,” say Uncle Fitz.
“‘Occult skylarks’ we call them.” Harold wink one eye.
“Indeed,” big man answer.
“No ‘fish parts, bones, and broken shells,’ I expect.”
Uncle Fitz give Harold funny look.
“Incidentally,” Harold say, “your canvas is bleeding.”
“It’s the sunset; I try to put it into all my pictures.” He look up at clouds. “We’ll be in for it in a few hours.”
“What’s all that wood out yonder?” Harold point to boxy things sticking out of dry lake bed.
“Used to be duck blinds.”
“Ah, different from ‘tar-roughed planking.’” He laugh.
“I guess.” Uncle Fitz laugh.
Punky Kim laugh, too.
“Does Mr. Lamprey ever come here?”
“Not often. Used to. Mostly these days he stays in his room writing that stuff, or else reading his newspapers. He never throws one away. His room must be full of them by now.”
“You don’t go into his room?”
“Nobody goes in his room. It is fitted with a Yale lock. So far as I know he’s got the only key. He’s even put bars on the windows, though his room is on the second floor.”
“I see. That figure you’re sketching—it looks like a drowned body. It wouldn’t be Mr. Lamprey?”
“Just a fancy of mine, Mr. Bahr, a pictorial fancy.”
“And the lake you are painting; it is full of water, not dry as it is now.”
“I’m remembering how it used to look.”
“Well, don’t fall in and drown,” Harold say with stinging wit. We all laugh many times over this; then we leave uncle and return to lodge. All the time air growing colder while dark clouds filling up empty spaces in sky.
Back at lodge, Harold and Punky put heads through open kitchen door, and Harold say to Alice he very sorry he call her murderer with head of convict. Girl vengeful and vindictive; she slam door in faces.
“Still no crime.” Harold sigh. “We must increase the pressure.”
He politely knock on kitchen door.
Alice open it.
“You’re a degenerate!” he shout, and make disrespectful gesture with part of anatomy. I quickly march him upstairs. Once in room he turn all pictures to wall; then he take up poem and recite:
“A Voice aloft now cries with rapture
Not the boat but now the gull’s cry;
Occult skylark in the sunlight.
The sparkle blinds with diamonds of light.
“This is the mystical part,” he say. “It is to inspire the defiance of oppression. Listen:
“Fear not now to strike with might.
Crack the anchor.
Burst the rail.
Sever the rope with upward thrust.
“And this is the act of violence that has sent us packing three hundred miles. Oh, I simply must talk with Marc Lamprey! Maybe he will be at dinner.”
I miserable his brain still so crazy for violent crime. But all he say is that Alice focus of it all, and go on polishing head.
Dinner silent. Everyone resentful. Marc Lamprey still not come down. Uncle Fitz say he in room. Alice very sullen, not look at Harold Bahr. Punky Kim try to spread merriment by telling several funny jokes, but no one laugh.
After dinner Harold talk with creepy Mrs. Bash, while Punky look for Barbara Wen to walk with in moonlight; only now is no moonlight, only clouds. I not find Wen, but as I pass Uncle Fitz’s room, I hear voice that sound very much orange-headed, so I shrug shoulders and go back to room and read “Pier” poem, but still not find hint of violent crime.
That night is big black storm. Yellow flashes tear all across sky till whole world crash with noise. I peek into Harold’s room to see if he up, too; but no, he snore very loudly.
I sleep few hours, then get up to enjoy storm. Rain stop about six-thirty; it too early to get up, so I go back to sleep.
When I awake clouds outside blacker than ever, and I think we in for more storm. I go into Harold’s room. He raveling yarn back into afghan. I ask if he enjoy storm. He very angry he sleep through it, and say storm best time for violent crime, and that maybe Marc already kill or wound someone.
He relieved to see Alice, Uncle, and Mrs. Bash at breakfast table; Barbara Wen and Marc Lamprey not there, though. Alice glare hard at us, then tell Uncle Fitz storm has uprooted telephone line.
Front door bang open very suddenly. Barbara Wen come puffing in like marathon rac
er.
“Mrs. Bash,” she say with little breath, “have you got the key to Marc’s room? I met him out back; he asked me to bring him something.”
Old lady eyes look squinty and mean.
“To my knowledge there is only one key, which he keeps on his person. Why did he not give it to you?”
Wen start to speak, then dash upstairs. Bash glare. Heifitz glare. Alice look at Harold, and she glare. I start to glare, too, but Harold take arm and say we go for walk.
Everything wet and drippy outside; ground shiny with little pools of water.
Light very queer and eerie.
“Notice the queer and eerie light,” Harold say. “It is the light between storms.”
It hard to see clearly. I start to walk to spot in forest where I talk with Barbara Wen about moonlight walk, but Harold grab arm and steer toward lake bed.
“Barbara Wen acted mighty suspiciously,” Harold say. “What do you make of the case so far?”
I tell him he is case. Sure, everyone act suspicious; everyone always act suspicious when you have crime on mind. Sometime even I act suspicious, though I am innocent good man.
“Don’t you see the Wen was clearly lying?” Harold say.
I tell him maybe old lady lie or make mistake about number of keys.
“No,” Harold insist. “Uncle Fitz corroborated her when he told us that Lamprey has the only key to that room. Remember? But look—we have a lake!”
He right. We pass out of forest and see lake bed covered with big sheet of water. Light still very eerie. Very, very hard to see. Suddenly Harold grab arm.
“What is that on the dock?” he ask. “It looks like a gibbet.”
I not know what gibbet is, so file that one away like ‘catalyst.’ Besides, object on dock look to me like hangman stand. But then we laugh because we both wrong. It only Uncle Heifitz’s easel.
“What’s that black bundle in the mud at the foot of the dock?” Harold ask. We walk to dock and go to end.
Black bundle is human body facedown in mud, half in half out shallow puddle water.
“May as well save our shoes,” Harold say. He take up easel, bend down, use foot of easel to turn body over. It very hard to turn over because face buried much deeper in mud than rest of body. But at last he turn it on its back.
“Ahhh!” Harold say, and recite:
“And plunge into the emerald light.
Swim far and free into the arching waves.
Fear not the sharks that bear thee to thy doom;
They can but bite the flesh and crack the bone.
“After a while thou wilt be free.”
Ugly white corpse covered with black mud. Harold kneel down and splash face with puddle water till mud off face. Slim, skinny corpse with mouth open remind me of Harold’s description of eel fish with sucker mouth.
“Let’s get him out of the mud,” Harold say. We kneel down and lift skinny corpse onto dock.
Harold put hand inside corpse’s coat pocket and bring out transparent plastic bag. Inside bag is what look like dagger; but, no, Harold remove it from bag and unroll it, and I see it is piece of paper, all rolled up.
“Oh, listen to this!” Harold cry out. He read writing on paper.
“I met at a museum a man named Andy Thyne, who showed me only kindness and courtesy. We got together a few times at his hotel room and drank and talked of art and poetry. I killed him for his money, as I now kill myself for justice.
Marc Lamprey
“This is insulting!” Harold say with disgust. I afraid for a minute he going to tear paper up. But he only shake head and put paper carefully in pocket.
“We’ll have to verify the handwriting and the identity of the body,” he say. He return to corpse.
“He hasn’t been long in the water, Punky. Look at the smooth skin; water wrinkles, you know.” Suddenly he begin to whistle and then stop to recite poem all over again. I very happy that Harold at last have his tragic and grisly death. Now maybe he can have swell time enjoying vacation.
“So,” I say knowingly, “this Lamprey bad murderer, who kill Alice’s father, then brood long, long time till he finally drown self like poet Longfellow.”
“If you drown yourself,” Harold say, “you don’t do it in three inches of muddy water, two feet from a dock!”
“But maybe lake deeper when he drown.”
“When you drown,” Harold insist, “you float down; this fellow was impacted in the mud. No, depend upon it, this murderer was murdered. Witness also that lunatic confession.”
“But it is suicide note!” I say. I start to get very angry because I think brain on its hind legs again.
“Let us see what else is on him,” he say. Harold turn out every pocket of slimy dead corpse but find only key; he put this in pocket alongside confession, and we start back to lodge.
“So Barbara Wen met her Marc along the way, and he sent her to his room!” Harold roar as we pick our way around water puddles.
In big main room we see Uncle Fitz is talking to Mrs. Bash. Alice not there. Wen not there.
“Give me a few minutes, then tell them, Punky,” Harold whisper. “I’m off to the locked room. Meet me there when you have a chance.”
I give him few minutes, then stroll into room and put on friendly face to soften shocking news.
“Hey,” I say. “Marc Lamprey’s dead corpse in dry lake. You got wheelbarrow?”
Mrs. Bash grab old-lady heart; Uncle Fitz nearly fall out of chair. Fitz and Punky go to toolshed to fetch wheelbarrow, and then hurry over to lake.
Corpse not prettier for being left alone. Uncle Fitz start to go through dead person’s pockets.
“The key!” he snap. “Where’s his key?”
I coy and tell him I once hear of key being lost in water and advise him to jump in lake. It only funny joke, but he plunge in and rake mud all over.
“Have you got the key?” he demand. “I’m minded to search you.”
He very big, tough man. I make oriental sounds and twirl hands so he think I know karate.
“No!” he say. “Bahr. It’s Bahr!” and run back way we come, leaving Punky to deliver corpse by self.
When I and corpse arrive at lodge, Alice, Bash—sad and crying. Wen look scared. Uncle Fitz clashing big fist into palm. I assume karate stance again, but he wave me off.
“That’s not the way they do it,” he say in tired voice. Then he get angry again.
“That bastard has locked himself in Marc’s room!” he shout.
I angry ’cause he call Harold Bahr bastard, and call Uncle Fitz bastard in return; but he only shake head and look tired. Body still outside in wheelbarrow. I nip upstairs to Marc Lamprey’s room and call to Harold to open door.
Door open slowly, and I step into messy room with bed, writing desk, and ferocious stack of newspapers.
“What we do with dead man?” I ask.
Harold smiling. His smile very terrible.
“It’s all in this little tin box,” he say, ignoring question. “Our Lamprey trusted to his locked door and barred window.”
He show me tin box, take from it what look like legal document, along with what is clearly newspaper clipping with photograph.
“And a little notebook, too.” Smile more terrible now. “Look. Symbols.”
I study page he indicate. Find funny drawings of violin and something that protrude from face like boil—followed by small sums: eight dollar, twenty dollar, forty-three dollar.
Harold give me note we find on body.
“Just compare the handwriting on this with the writing on these manuscript poems,” he say.
I study long, long time, while Harold root around room.
Finally: “They all look same,” I say.
“Yes,” he agree. “It’s clear that Marc Lamprey wrote that confession—that precious, pretentious, sententious, overwritten, feeble, and febrile—” Here he start to get very angry.
“All except for stationery,” I say quickly. “Stat
ionery different.”
Harold’s eyes clear. “Yes,” he say. “I haven’t been able to find any writing paper exactly like it.”
He pocket papers and notebook, and we go downstairs. Uncle Fitz help Harold and Punky carry wet corpse up to Lamprey room and dump it on bed. Barbara Wen come, too, along with Bash and formerly leggy Alice.
“I take it this is Marc Lamprey,” Harold say.
Others agree.
“Has anybody called the police?”
“The phone lines are still down,” Fitz say.
“I’ll drive to town,” Barbara Wen say.
“That is ill advised!” Harold roar. Suddenly he hold up finger.
“I am a detective,” he announce, “and shall represent the police in absentia. We must all remain here at the lodge. We’ll go downstairs now and I’ll relock the door.”
“I think I’ll stay up here,” Barbara Wen say.
“Me too,” say Uncle Fitz.
“It will do you no good.” Harold shake head. “I’ve already pulled all the plums. We’ll go down now, and I’ll lock the door.”
Uncle Fitz ball fists. “This is my hotel!” he shout.
Harold’s lip curl. “Is it, Mr. Heifitz?”
Harold lock door, and we all go downstairs and gather in dining room. Harold make speech.
“Marc Lamprey was dead and drowned in a few inches of water,” Harold say. “Yet his skin was not much wrinkled. Therefore, he could not have been in the water very long. According to Mr. Kim, the rain stopped this morning at about half past six. The assumption is—that whatever his motive for going to the lake—he would hardly have done so while the rain was still falling. Mr. Kim and I found the body at around half past seven. Therefore, I suggest the murder was committed between the hour of, say, six-thirty and a quarter past seven. Oh, don’t gasp, Mrs. Bash. I said ‘murder.’ You don’t drown yourself in three inches of water.”
I very impressed. It big confrontation scene like in old movie—the kind you never supposed to put into story nowadays, because it is cliché.
“Where were you at murder time, Mr. Heifitz?” Harold ask.
Uncle Fitz say nothing.
Harold shake bald head. “The police will ask the same question.” Uncle Fitz still is wordless.