Mr. X

by Peter Straub

  “Where are we?”

  “I’m somewhere in Wisconsin,” Robert said. “You’re in Edgerton, with Mom.”

  Ned pulled his knees to his chest as a spike drove into his head.

  80

  “And I was you,” said Robert. “Long enough to get us out of Boulder, anyhow.”

  “I can’t believe I forgot what we did,” I said. “I saved your life.”

  “I’ve saved yours a couple of times,” Robert said. “Can you stay alive until our birthday? I can’t protect you every minute of the day.”

  “We have more to talk about,” I said, but he was gone.

  81 Mr.X

  O You Hoverers, You Smoke Ravening from the Cannon, Your Son is wondering if in Your Triumphant Millennium what used to be called “the servant problem” still exists. Do You, in Your Exalted Realms, employ the services of humbler beings, no doubt enslaved, no doubt from Conquered Territories? If so, You know what I’m talking about. A slave is no different from a servant, except for being an even greater responsibility. The patron saint of servants is Judas. My earthly parents suffered the depredations of disloyal maids and housekeepers, and I, too, have had my Judases, the first of them one Clothhead Spelvin, whose betrayal I answered with a summary visit to his jail cell. And now, that twitchy collection of street-sweepings, Frenchy La Chapelle, has failed me.

  This morning I snatched sans payment a copy of the Edgerton Echo from the newsstand and nipped up Chester Street, scanning the front page. The editors had been allowed time enough only to insert a paragraph reporting the destruction by fire of a “modest rooming house.” A single fatality was considered a possibility. Tomorrow’s rag would supply photographs and complete details.

  I strolled to the scene of the happy event in the guise of an ordinary mortal. My visible, daytime self possesses the dignity of a retired statesman or diplomat, with perhaps a hint of a general’s authority. In a weathered manner, I am still handsome, if I say so myself. (To complete these details of my mundane existence, I employ a false or assumed name, which contains a revelatory joke no one is likely to perceive, and I have recently retired from an executive position.)

  One matter niggled as I neared the site. I should have known of my son’s death, as I had known of his mother’s. Yet this was the weakling offspring, whose share of my legacy may have been too insignificant to permit telepathic transmission.

  The “modest rooming house” had been reduced to a heap of rubble. Within a network of red tape declaring DO NOT CROSS HAZARDOUS AREA DO NOT CROSS HAZARDOUS AREA, investigators in orange space suits prowled through the mess. A collection of dimwits and ghouls had assembled across the street.

  I circulated through them and picked up what I could. Several blamed the fire on faulty wiring. Many considered Helen Janette, the landlady, an ill-tempered harridan. I nearly went mad with impatience: What about the fatality?

  At last I buttonholed a wheezing wreck. Didn’t one of the tenants perish?

  “Say what?”

  Some guy died.

  “Oh, yeah. Otto. Damn shame. Did you know him?”

  Not to speak to.

  The wreck nodded. “It shakes you up more than you want to let on.”

  Oh, it does shake me up.

  I hastened back to the sty and fastened onto the news broadcasts. An unidentified body had been removed from the scene. An hour later, identity was suspected but unconfirmed. Identity had been confirmed but withheld. Not until noon was the victim named as Otto Bremen, a seventy-year-old crossing guard at Carl Sandburg Elementary School.

  By evening, the broadcasters were exercising their internally amplified voices to announce that investigators and fire specialists in the pay of Edgerton’s Departments of Fire and Police had concluded that the fire was of suspicious origin.

  You understand my complaints about the servant problem.

  Truth be told, Frenchys are hard to come by. I have decided to give the snake a second chance. Frenchy is not so stupid as to boast of his crime. (Except to Cassie Little.)

  Frenchy’s life shall be spared, as long as he can repair the damage and look up some old acquaintances to discover if they have been unwise. Star would never have divulged the name “Edward Rinehart”: she was good at secrets. Clearly, she never told the weakling that he had a brother. Blast him. Blast his brother, too. I thought there was only one of them—

  Years back, I nearly had the boy—the atmosphere electric—my excitement profound—I sensed the presence—yet the quivering shadow slipped from me—the singularity of the occasion troubled & intrigued—now I understand.

  I believe the two connected—joined together. The Dangerous Son was close to hand—Resolution nigh. My failures had a single cause—Ignorance. I thought there was but One—not Two—I believed the Shadow the image of my Prey—not the helpless Shadow of his brother.

  I object! You People got things wrong!

  But no more complaint. During her lifetime, the cow apparently exerted a protective influence. Understanding strengthens me, as does blessed Recognition—success in maturity—in what some may call old age—is sweeter than in youth.

  82 Mr.X

  Six hours later. I require sleep. Unpleasant dreams beset my brief doze, and I tossed and turned for yet another hour. However.

  The morning’s edition of the Edgerton Echo informs all and sundry that the Chester Street fire resulted from an act of arson. Below the fold, two elegiac columns accompany a photographic representation of Crossing Guard Bremen’s bloated visage. PLUS!—the mind reels—in devotion to the memory of Mr. My Mustache Is Bigger Than Yours, Carl Sandburg Elementary School has announced a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the arsonist.

  I am on the verge of palpitations. If I were found incinerated, would anyone fork out $10,000 for the name of the incinerator? Besides that, Cassie Little would slit her mother’s throat for a handful of nickels, much less $10,000.

  Before the sun travels another five feet of sky, Frenchy receives his marching orders.

  83

  Before Ashleigh’s flight the next morning, I walked over to Merchants Hotel to pick up the satchel and tell her about the fire and Captain Mullan while we had breakfast.

  “Laurie called earlier. I told her I managed to get some useful information. I didn’t say how, and she didn’t ask.”

  “Good.”

  Ashleigh jabbed her spoon into her granola. “Mullan checked you for a wire? It sounds like he’s being investigated. Or is afraid he will be. I bet he’s worried about what’s going to come out if Hatch is indicted. About two days from now, these guys will be sweating bullets.”

  “Not Mullan,” I said.

  “You’ve been here no longer than I have, and you know that. You’re an interesting man, Ned.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Ned?” She put down her spoon. “Why are you laughing?”

  Toby Kraft came from behind his counter and wrapped his arms around me. “Heard the news this morning, couldn’t believe my ears! You okay? What happened?”

  I said that I had moved to the Brazen Head after his friend had evicted me. “I guess you knew her when her name was Hazel Jansky.”

  “We did some business together about a million years ago. The lady got in trouble, and I helped her out. I do favors for my friends.” Toby was not even faintly uneasy. “What did she do, tell you her life story?”

  “Part of it. I hope you had that building insured.”

  “Bet your ass. Do your aunts know you’re all right?”

  “I didn’t tell them where I was, but I should call them anyhow,” I said.

  Toby looked at the satchel, and I asked him if he would keep it in his safe for a while. He caressed the soft leather. “Touch an item like that, you feel like J. P. Morgan.”

  He shoved the bag on top of the jumble of files and loose papers in his safe and grunted back onto his feet. “Helen chewed me out for telling you her old name.
But you didn’t get that here.”

  “I saw some old articles from the Echo,” I said. “Toby, was that why you went to Greenhaven?”

  “Sit down.”

  The same piles of papers flowed across the top of his desk; the same women in the same sad, blunt poses covered the walls. Toby folded his hands on his belly. “Want to know the truth of that deal? Certain people have problems with the adoption process. Other people, they don’t want the babies God gave them. I can’t defend the legality of what I did, but I do defend its morality.”

  “The morality of selling babies,” I said.

  “Adoption agencies don’t take fees?”

  “They don’t abduct babies and tell their mothers they died.”

  “A child deserves a good home.” Toby spread his arms. “Me, I am a guy who takes care of people. I took care of your grandmother, I took care of your mother, and I’m going to take care of you. The day I am dragged kicking and screaming from the face of the earth, and I hope at the time I am in the sack with a good-looking dame, you are going to hear from the greatest lawyer ever lived, Mr. C. Clayton Creech, and it will be your duty to get your ass back to Edgerton. No fooling around.” His magnified eyes made sure I got the message. “Understood?”

  “Understood,” I said.

  “I should give you his particulars.” Toby snapped a business card out of his wallet.

  C. Clayton Creech, LLP

  Attorney at Law

  7 Paddlewheel Road

  Edgerton, Illinois

  A telephone number was printed on the lower left corner, and on the lower right, Available at All Times.

  “Get into any kind of trouble around here, you call this guy first. Promise me?”

  “Greatest lawyer that ever lived.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “On the day you die, he’s going to read your will? What’s the rush?”

  “You let things slide, funny shit can happen. Know the basic principle?”

  I shook my head.

  “Take ’em by surprise,” he said. I laughed out loud. “Listen, why not start working for me now? You got nothing else to do, and I can explain the whole job in fifteen minutes. The hours are eight A.M. to five-thirty P.M. A little time off for lunch. Ready?”

  “Take ’em by surprise,” I said. “I guess so, sure, but it can only be for a couple of days. Let me call Nettie first.”

  “Be my guest,” Toby said.

  Nettie wasted no time on an exchange of greetings. “I thought we were going to be seeing you, but all you do is call on the telephone.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I heard your ring. Come over for dinner around six. And if you still don’t have a piece, the best thing is, get one from old Toby Kraft. You want a piece with no registration on it. The time comes when you have to use it, wipe it off, drop it, and walk away. You’ll be cleaner than the Board of Health. May will be here, too, so show up on time.”

  Toby tilted back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “The old warhorse had some words of advice?”

  “You know what she’s like,” I said. “How about giving me a lesson in pawnbroking?”

  “You’re gonna be great at this. It’s in your blood.” He pushed himself away from the desk.

  He explained the procedure for writing out the tickets and storing the goods. Cameras went on one set of shelves, watches on another, musical instruments in a display case, arranged in the order of the numbers on the ticket stubs. He put flatware in wrapped bundles lined up in drawers, stemware and china in cabinets, paintings against the wall, rugs and furniture at the side of the back room. Pledges were charged at 3 percent interest, weekly. I asked him about the money given for the pledges.

  “Generally, you know by looking at the customer. It’s in their eyes. You’ll see. When you know what they hope they’re gonna get, offer half, and they go away happy. Anything suspicious, like a guy with a shopping cart full of computer monitors, pick up the phone and tell him you’re calling the cops. That shit catches up with you.”

  “What about guns?”

  “Paperwork up the keester. The firearms are in a locked cabinet on the other side of the shelves. A guy wants a handgun, go to the cabinet, slide out a tray, put it in front of him. Prices are all tagged. When he makes his choice, he signs the forms here in the drawer. We send copies to the State Police, and he comes back in five days. Rifles, shotguns, no problem, he gets it that day. No assault weapons, on account of I’m not running an armory.”

  “Nettie thinks I should carry an unregistered gun,” I said.

  “She wants you to get into the stickup business?”

  After I had explained my history with Joe Staggers and his friends, he gave me a long, careful look. “I got a couple pieces here for use in emergencies. Don’t let anyone see it unless you have to, and never say where you got it.”

  Toby disappeared into the rear of the shop and came back with a small, black pistol and a holster that looked like a glove. “This here’s a twenty-five-caliber Beretta automatic. I put a clip in for you. To chamber a round, pull back this slide. This is the safety—see the red dot? That means the safety is on, and you can’t pull the trigger. Push it down with your thumb, you’re ready to fire.” He put the pistol in the holster. “Clip it to your belt in the small of your back, no one’ll know it’s there. Give it back the day you leave.”

  “This probably won’t happen, but what if I have to use it?”

  “Throw it in the river. A gun with no paper on it, you only use once.” He watched me clip the holster to my belt and asked me to turn around. “Now forget you’re carrying it. Don’t keep on reaching around to fiddle with the thing.”

  We went into his office. “Your job is to stick behind the counter. If I’m out or in here by myself, bring in copies of the slips every couple of hours and record the transactions in the journal on my desk. You’ll see how—put down the number, the customer’s name, a description, and the amount. When you get to the amount, record it at half value. Then take the other journal out of my bottom left-hand drawer and write down everything all over again, but with the right numbers. At the end of the day, that one goes in the safe.”

  I laughed.

  “You want to keep your head above water, you need an edge. Is this concept new to you?”

  “Toby,” I said, “I’m a Dunstan.”

  He stuck out his furry paw, and in the light of a sudden recognition I surrendered my hand to be tenderized. Toby Kraft’s loyalty to my aunts, by extension to me, would forever overlook the petty cruelties they wished upon him, because Nettie and May represented his only surviving connection to the wife whose extraordinary talents had delighted him beyond measure.

  84

  I spent the rest of the day in the doze of the pawnshop. Separately, two men who looked as though they had never pawned anything in their lives came in and proceeded to the office. On his way to lunch, Toby introduced me to the second of these visitors, “Mr. Profitt,” who brushed his manicured hand against mine and said, all in one word, “Goodameetchakiddonledimdownawright?”

  “I hear you,” I said.

  Toby came back alone and handed me a brown bag containing a tuna-fish sandwich, a packet of potato chips, and a Coca-Cola. He apologized for not giving me a lunch break and said I was doing a great job. To my surprise, the customers I dealt with during the day bore out his promise that I would know how much to offer for a pledge: by a flick of the eyes, a hesitation of speech, a wayward gesture, each had communicated the hoped-for amount. When I named half of the sum, they accepted on the spot.

  At 5:00 P.M., Toby patted me on the back and told me I could get “spruced up” for the aunts. He gave me a set of keys. “Let yourself in a half hour early tomorrow, okay? We’re going to rearrange the storage room. When you leave, lock up in front and show the CLOSED sign. I don’t want no more customers today.”

  After I locked the gates, I went to an agency on Commercial A
venue, checked the boxes for all the insurance I could get, and rented a Ford Taurus painted the saturated green of a Spanish olive.

  85

  The map in Hugh Coventry’s old journal put the entrance to Buxton Place, where Edward Rinehart had occupied two cottages purchased under the names of characters from H. P. Lovecraft, near the top of Fairground Road, not far from the campus. I pulled into a parking space in front of a coffee shop. Two blocks ahead, Fairground Road came to an end at a deep swath of green intersected by paths leading to red brick, neo-Georgian buildings. I glanced backward and saw the bus stop where I had gotten off to visit Suki Teeter. Buxton Place lay ahead and on the other side of Fairground Road. I walked past the gilded window of an Irish bar called Brennan’s, then stepped between the parked cars and jogged across the street.

  Storefronts lined the sidewalk all the way to the intersection. Buxton Place had to be in the last block before the university. I went past an unbroken row of comic-book stores, clothing outlets, student restaurants, and candy shops. My memory had tricked me, and the cul-de-sac came into Fairground Road further south, maybe a block past Suki’s corner.

  I walked past the same storefronts I had seen on the way up. When I came parallel to Brennan’s, I glanced through the window at an aproned bartender aiming a remote control at a television set I could not see. I glanced to my right and between a Canadian pancake house and a Middle Eastern restaurant saw a cobbled alley no wider than my rented car. If the alley had a name, the City of Edgerton had seen no reason to put up a sign. I stepped down onto the cobbles and peered into the gloom. Past the rear of the shops on either side, the alley widened out. I made out the double doors of old stables and, at the far end, two small cottages.