“It’s you!” he cried.
“Hello, Mr. Schmidt,” Ellery said dismounting. “Where can I tether Lightning?”
The stout little man bustled forward. “Here, here in the shade. Let me get him a bucket of water and some bread. Oh, you brought feed. Here, let me fix it for him. Well! Mr. Quinn, was it? Or Kean? My goodness, where you been? And how come you’re riding this here old jackass? What happened to your car…?”
Ellery walked into the store, inhaling the cool, damp aroma of ancient wood and cinnamon and coffee and vinegar and cloves and kerosene.
Everything was as he had last seen it: the spirals of flypaper, the faded colorphoto of Franklin D. Roosevelt, the worn counter with its brass measure set into the top (and how long ago was it, Ellery wondered, that calico or canvas or gingham or unbleached muslin had been measured off on it?), the antique soda-pop cooler…
He sat down at one of the tables and immediately winced. An occasional canter on the Central Park bridle path had not been really adequate training for a three-hour ride through the desert on the back of a vigorous male donkey.
“Well, by golly!” Mr. Schmidt had scurried in, beaming. “You found the road like I told you? You get to Vegas? Say! Is that why you’re on the jack? I bet you lost your car playing crap. Or was it in the slot machines?
Or ― it’s none of my business, of course.”
Ellery smiled noncommittally. “Any chance of getting something to eat, Mr. Schmidt? Or I’ll have to eat Lightning.”
“Surest thing you know! You’re in luck! Bill Hone, you wouldn’t know him, makes a special side trip through here once a week on his way from Hamlin to Vegas. I give him my ration stamps and he picks the meat up for me. Well! Bill was by this morning and he left me some of the nicest steak I’ve seen since I was cutting meat back in the old home town. How about a T-bone and maybe a couple of eggs? And there’s some boiled potatoes I could country-fry, and I baked up a batch of peach tarts…
“He ran down, evidently searching his mind for additions to the menu.
Ellery swallowed the water in his mouth.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Starting with some coffee?” And added, “Will you join me?”
“Well, by golly!” said Otto Schmidt. “I will…!” The coffee was fresh and strong; the steaks had been pan-broiled over a slow fire. Ellery found his sense of purpose slipping away in the pleasure of once more eating civilized food. How long ago had it been? There was no time in Quenan, and not much more awareness of its passage here in the End-of-the-World Store. With an effort he pulled his dawdling mind back to the business that had brought him.
“What can you tell me about the silver dollar the old fellow gave you last Sunday, Mr. Schmidt?”
Otto Schmidt paused, a crisp brown-edged chunk of potato halfway to his mouth, a drip of egg on his mustache. He stared. He blinked; his smile faded. Then the potato continued to its destination, and he chewed it slowly.
“So. You met up with those two hermits. Well, they’re kind of queer, but live and let live is my motto. They don’t bother no one and I hope no one bothers them ― ”
“Mr. Schmidt,” Ellery said gently. “Otto. No one’s going to bother them. Or you. I simply want to know about that silver dollar I saw him give you.”
The corpulent little storekeeper declared earnestly that there was no law against silver dollars. Gold, now, he said, that was different. In
‘35 ― no, ‘34 ― time went by so slow out here you lost track ― a fellow came through in a touring car with rubber curtains buying old gold ―
“Otto.”
“ ― said his name was Haggemeyer, he’d been in Mexico with Black Jack Pershing chasing Pancho Villa. He’d set up his own business afterwards in Laredo but the depression wiped him out ― ”
“Otto…”
‘‘ ― borrowed some money against his pension and was going around buying up old gold. He showed me his license ― had to have a license for gold ― ”
“Otto!”
The storekeeper stopped, looking apprehensive.
“Otto, nobody’s accusing you of breaking the law. Here, take a look at these.”
Ellery produced his wallet. As police card followed police card, Otto Schmidt’s eyes opened wider and wider. At the sight of the two letters from Washington, they bulged.
“Sayyy! You must be a pretty important fellow.” His eyes shone as he leaned over the table. “Does this have anything to do with the war effort?” Ellery recast the question. “Do I have anything to do with the war effort?” And answered it, quite truthfully, “Yes, I have.” Otto leaned back, unmistakably awed. With one final “Well!” and a muttered, “That’s okay, then,” he got up and went over to his safe ― a safe as short and squat as he was, with the flaked remains of an American flag and eagle still faintly visible in faded red, white, blue, and yellow on its door. He came back with a battered old ledger.
“You got to understand the situation when I bought this place,” he said with false-hearty defensiveness. “I don’t know how long this old hermit had been dealing with the former owner, but they didn’t trade for cash money; no, sir. The hermit and his wagon would come around every now and then with produce ― hides, wool, flaxseed oil, honey, beeswax ― truck like that; and the fellow who had the store would give him credit.
“Then came the depression. Then came me. But the depression was still on, and in a little while I found out that my suppliers, my wholesalers, wouldn’t take produce any more ― not in such small quantities anyway.
Cash on the barrelhead, they said. Credit? ‘Credit is dead,’ I told the old hermit. ‘No more produce. Has to be cash.’ ‘What’s that?’ he asked me.
Well, I put my hand in my pocket and I had a lone silver dollar and I pulled it out and showed it to him. That old man looked at the silver dollar, then he looked at me like I’d shown him a dirty picture. And out he goes without saying a word.
“Next time he showed up was November, 1930. Here it is, written down, see? November 12, 1930. Hermit, Carson City silver dollar, 1873. I didn’t know much about old coins, still don’t, but I figured it’s got to be worth a lot more than just one hundred cents, and I told him so. I was due to make a visit to L.A., and I offered to take his coin with me and see what I could get for it. He agreed, though I could see he was kind of struggling with himself.”
Otto had taken the silver dollar around to various dealers in downtown Los Angeles, and he had finally sold it for the highest price offered in 1930 ― $90. When the old man of the hills returned to the End-of-the-World Store, they made a deal: the proprietor would retain $18 for his trouble and the old hermit would be credited with $72 against his account.
The old man visited the store once or twice a year, and Otto noted each transaction in the ledger. Sometimes the hermit would bring one of the CC 1873 dollars with him, sometimes not, depending on the state of his account. When one of the coins passed hands, Otto held onto it until his next trip to Los Angeles, where he would shop around for the best price, sell the coin keep 20 percent commission for himself (to Ellery’s amusement, the figure was between a literary agent’s commission and an art dealer’s), and credit the balance to the hermit’s account.
“And that’s the way it’s been for thirteen and a half years,” the little storekeeper said. “The old bird seems to have a whole supply of ‘em ― I figured he must be some kind of prospector from way back who went a little nutty from too much sun, and the younger fellow’s his grandson or something.”
“How many CC dollars has he turned over to you since the first time?”
“Including last Sunday? Well, I got to figure…” Figure Otto did, with moistened finger riffling and rumbling the pages, while Ellery fidgeted. Finally the storekeeper announced “Nineteen, all told.” Ellery’s first thought was that there was something wrong about the number. The thought kept niggling, but he could not come to terms with it. Impatiently he asked Schmidt what kind of things the old man bought on his
visits.
“Oh, rock salt, kerosene, nails, stuff like that. No, never candy or wine or anything fancy. Seed? Not that I remember. But lots of paper. Must do a heap of writing. And, oh, yes! he once bought a piece of furniture.”
“Furniture/”
Otto Schmidt nodded. “Sure was funny, what happened that day ― the book and all. I can remember, Mr. Green ― Breen ―?”
“Queen,” Ellery said. “Let’s not wander afield, Otto. You mentioned a piece of furniture and a book. What about them? And when was this?” The storekeeper referred to his ledger. It had occurred on April 8, 1939 ― ”the year the war broke out in Europe.” The hermit had come in… alone? Yes, Mr. Queen, alone. “Never laid eyes on the younger fellow till last year. Well, the old man left a silver dollar, picked up his supplies, and was getting ready to go. The book was on the counter and he spotted it. Something real strange seemed to happen to him. You’ve noticed his eyes? They’re kind of… on fire all the time. Well, this time they blazed up like Fourth of July. And he went into a trance, like, shook and mumbled, seemed to be having some sort of a fit, and ― well, praying, like, all at the same time.
“When he calmed down, he asked me how much credit it would take to buy the book, how many silver dollars.”
“What book was it?” Ellery asked, failing to keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“Oh, some book sent to me from Europe; I have relatives on the other side. I’d tried to read it, but it didn’t hold my interest, so I put it away. I’d come across it again and was having another try at it when the hermit came in.”
“But what was the title of the book?”
“To tell you the truth, Mr. Queen, I can’t recall. Anyway, when he said he wanted to buy it, and I said no ― ”
“You said no? Why, when it didn’t interest you?”
“I don’t know,” said Otto Schmidt. “It just didn’t seem right ― I mean, selling a present from a relative. But he kept after me to let him buy it.
The more I said no, the more he said yes. Got all hotted up, the old man did ― offered me all the silver dollars he had. In the end I said he could have it ― as a gift. You know, he blessed me? And then he pointed to an old walnut china closet I used as a showcase for notions and such, and he offered to buy that. I charged him five dollars for it.”
“Didn’t he say why he wanted the book?”
“No, just wrapped it up, very careful, loaded his wagon, and left. I guess if you’re not touched in the head to begin with you don’t become a hermit. You know, he couldn’t even read the book? Admitted it when I asked him. But he just had to have it.”
The question of the book was not going to be solved here in the store, obviously. Nor the question of the silver dollars. Their number… why was he so disturbed about their number?
Here is wisdom: let him who hath understanding count the number of the Beast, for it is the number of a man, and his number is six-hundred-sixty-six…
Interesting that this verse from the Apocalypse of John should enter his mind just now. But of course 666 was far too large. He had to know what the number was ― he simply had to. To do that he must return and count the coins in the holy arque.
Now!
The nearer Ellery got to Crucible Hill, the moodier he felt. It was with an effort that he had restrained himself from trying to beat the donkey into a gallop. A heavy depression had settled on him; a black, bleak melancholy. The wearisome journey on the beast, his mood and malaise, gloomily recalled the state of mind and body that had brought his work in Hollywood to such an abrupt halt; and he asked himself if he had ever really recovered. And he asked himself if he ever would.
He looked up at the sky, observing with surprise that it was rapidly darkening although it was not yet sunset.
Was a storm brewing? Perhaps a falling barometer was causing his depression.
By the time he had reached the crest of Crucible Hill, the sky was almost black and the Valley was in profound shadow. He could discern nothing clearly. Even his ears seemed affected; he could hear none of the usual sounds of Quenan. Jogging slowly down the inner slope, eyes open but not seeing, he was almost upon the Holy Congregation House before he looked up, and was shocked.
Gathered before the building was a crowd which must have represented almost the entire population of the Valley.
And all were silent.
And it was like night.
The blackened air had a green tinge to it, and through this unnatural light the yellow lampshine from inside the House fell through the open doorway with ghastly effect, like a scene from hell. The stunned folk of Quenan stood rooted as though by some paralyzing force, some terrible horror they groped vainly to apprehend.
Ellery’s heart swelled, then constricted as if squeezed by a giant hand.
The Teacher! Was it his own death the old man had sensed approaching?
Dismounting hastily, Ellery ran through the crowd and into the House. And there indeed was the Teacher ― but not dead, only looking like death; looking for the first time every year of his great age. And at his feet lay a man.
Storicai.
The Storesman was dead. But no assault by nature on heart or brain had stormed his life and taken it. The sun-dark forehead had been crumpled by a barbarous blow: bones had shattered, blood had spurted, so that head and face were thickly redly wet with it, as if a bucket of paint had been flung at him. And head and neck and shoulders lay in a pool of it, still glistening.
Numbly, Ellery sought its cause; and there it was lying on the floor of the Holy Congregation House a little to one side of the Storesman’s body, an instrument he had ― somehow ― expected to find: a heavy hammer, spattered with scarlet.
The “great trouble,” then, had come at last to the Valley of Quenan.
There was no longer need to wonder in what form it would make its dread appearance.
It was the kind of trouble for which Ellery had been predestined; and his brain cleared, and he sprang forward.
At the back of the Storesman’s head there was another wound; but Ellery’s practiced fingers told him that it was not, by itself, a mortal blow.
The smashing hammer on the forehead had taken Storicai’s life. He parted the curly hair; and among the curls he spied ― first one, then another, then still another ― tiny particles of what looked like plaster.
Ellery frowned. Nowhere in Quenan had he seen plaster. He examined the speck again, this time with his lens.
They were clay ― bits of hardened clay.
Gently he opened the clenched hand of the dead man. The Storesman had died clutching a button, a metal button, its sundered threads still attached; and on the button’s face there was a crude and curious symbol.
Ellery did not pause to examine it. He dropped the button into a glassine envelope from the leather kit he had had a messenger fetch from his luggage.
Strapped to the left wrist of the dead man was Ellery’s watch. He lifted the wrist, the hand dangling. Ellery looked up. “He was so taken with this watch ― ”
Before Ellery’s eyes, beyond surprises now, the Teacher drew himself up to his full height, shedding his mantle of years swiftly; and his voice, when it came, was rich and strong again. “We must not say” ― he gestured toward the watch, glittering gold in the dimly golden light ― ”we must not say, Elroi. ‘It would have been better had he never seen it.’ “ But this was no time for riddles; and Ellery returned his attention to the watch. The crystal was savagely smashed, the dial deeply dented; no mere fall would have caused this havoc. No, Storicai had thrown up his left hand in an attempt to ward off one of the hammer blows, and he did, catching the blow on the watch; but he failed to stop the next blow, and staggering, grappling, clutching, grasping the button, he had fallen dead.
The hands had stopped at 4:20.
The time was now (he had it checked) 4:58. Ellery had been here about three minutes.
Systematically he went through the dead man’s clothing. And in an inner
pocket he found what he had altogether forgotten ― a crude duplicate of the key to the sanquetum.
So the thief in the night had been Storicai. Or… had it been?
Ellery sighed. Even in Eden.
He straightened up, pointing to the hammer. The old man’s face was now remarkably calm, although his eyes ― those prophet’s eyes ― were sadder than Ellery had yet seen them. But they kindled Ellery’s gesture.
“Thus it was,” the Teacher began. “One of the legs of the Crownsil table on this side had loosened, and I was intending to ask the Successor to mend it after his studies and writing. I deemed it not important enough to call to the attention of the Carpentersmith, but lacked time to do it myself.
“Therefore I placed the hammer from my tool chest in the center of this table as a reminder to me to ask the Successor to repair the table leg.” Ellery wrapped the hammer carefully in one of his large handkerchiefs. While he was so occupied, the Successor came running in through the still-open door (and still the still crowd stood outside), calling, “I have searched everywhere, Master ― ”
“He is here,” the Teacher said, indicating Ellery.
The young man gasped for breath, looking at the body on the floor.
He shuddered and gave a short cry.
“You may go to your room,” said the old man gently.
“Oh, but please.” Ellery stopped the Successor. “Will you first go to the scriptorium and bring me fifteen pieces of paper?” Even in Eden the same things had to be done.
Through the doorway a light breeze blew, bringing Ellery the memory of the first hint he had had, then unrecognized, of the existence of Quenan, the smell of burning sagebrush. The same breeze set the room’s single lamp to swinging, as the lamp in the sanquetum had swung only that morning. But now the shadows seemed large with doom.
He said to the Teacher, “Please summon the Crownsil and the Superintendent. There is something I must ask them to do.” The summons took only the speaking, for those he named were in the throng outside. The members entered and took their accustomed places; even the very old Slave, who had been ill, it appeared, and had to be carried in; then, at Ellery’s gesture, the door was closed. It seemed to him that he could hear another sigh (or was it a moan?); but this might have been imagination.
And on the Eighth Day Page 9