by Keith Laumer
The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. “You have to handle these old papers carefully.”
“I’ll be extremely careful.” The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed through it, muttering.
“What date was it you wanted?”
“Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.”
The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table, adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. “That’s it,” she said. “These papers keep pretty well, provided they’re stored in the dark. But they’re still flimsy, mind you.”
“I’ll remember.” The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech. Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.
On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram:
Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land, north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey of Elsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze a few head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, has been a resident of Mrs. Stoate’s Guest Home in Elsby for the past months.
“May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?”
The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read the heads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back to her desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caught his eye:
A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine woods north of Spivey’s farm destroyed a considerable amount of timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along the river.
The librarian was at Tremaine’s side. “I have to close the library now. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Outside, the sky was sallow in the west: lights were coming on in windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a cold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.
A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faint squeal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forward of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped short, stared after the car.
“Damn!” he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply. Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-turn, and headed north after the police car.
* * * *
Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back. The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.
“What’s your problem, mister?” a harsh voice drawled.
“What’s the matter? Run out of signal?”
“What’s it to you, mister?”
“Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?”
“We could be.”
“Mind if I have a word with him? My name’s Tremaine.”
“Oh,” said the cop, “you’re the big shot from Washington.” He shifted chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. “Sure, you can talk to him.” He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike before handing it to Tremaine.
The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. “What’s your beef, Tremaine?”
“I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave the word, Grammond.”
“That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out on me.”
“It’s nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were doing might have been influenced if I’d told you about the Elsby angle.”
Grammond cursed. “I could have put my men in the town and taken it apart brick by brick in the time—”
“That’s just what I don’t want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he’ll go underground.”
“You’ve got it all figured, I see. I’m just the dumb hick you boys use for the spade work, that it?”
“Pull your lip back in. You’ve given me the confirmation I needed.”
“Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punching out a signal. For all I know, it’s forty midgets on bicycles, pedalling all over the damned state. I’ve got fixes in every county—”
“The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs three tons,” said Tremaine. “Bicycles are out.”
Grammond snorted. “Okay, Tremaine,” he said. “You’re the boy with all the answers. But if you get in trouble, don’t call me; call Washington.”
* * * *
Back in his room, Tremaine put through a call.
“It looks like Grammond’s not willing to be left out in the cold, Fred. Tell him if he queers this—”
“I don’t know but what he might have something,” the voice came back over the filtered hum. “Suppose he smokes them out—”
“Don’t go dumb on me, Fred. We’re not dealing with West Virginia moonshiners.”
“Don’t tell me my job, Tremaine!” the voice snapped. “And don’t try out your famous temper on me. I’m still in charge of this investigation.”
“Sure. Just don’t get stuck in some senator’s hip pocket.” Tremaine hung up the telephone, went to the dresser and poured two fingers of Scotch into a water glass. He tossed it down, then pulled on his coat and left the hotel.
He walked south two blocks, turned left down a twilit side street. He walked slowly, looking at the weathered frame houses. Number 89 was a once-stately three-storied mansion overgrown with untrimmed vines, its windows squares of sad yellow light. He pushed through the gate in the ancient picket fence, mounted the porch steps and pushed the button beside the door, a dark panel of cracked varnish. It was a long minute before the door opened. A tall woman with white hair and a fine-boned face looked at him coolly.
“Miss Carroll,” Tremaine said. “You won’t remember me, but I—”
“There is nothing whatever wrong with my faculties, James,” Miss Carroll said calmly. Her voice was still resonant, a deep contralto. Only a faint quaver reflected her age—close to eighty, Tremaine thought, startled.
“I’m flattered you remember me, Miss Carroll,” he said.
“Come in.” She led the way to a pleasant parlor set out with the furnishings of another era. She motioned Tremaine to a seat and took a straight chair across the room from him.
“You look very well, James,” she said, nodding. “I’m pleased to see that you’ve amounted to something.”
“Just another bureaucrat, I’m afraid.”
“You were wise to leave Elsby. There is no future here for a young man.”
“I often wondered why you didn’t leave, Miss Carroll. I thought, even as a boy, that you were a woman of great ability.”
“Why did you come today, James?” asked Miss Carroll.
“I….” Tremaine started. He looked at the old lady. “I want some information. This is an important matter. May I rely on your discretion?”
“Of course.”
“How long has Mr. Bram lived in Elsby?”
Miss Carroll looked at him for a long moment. “Will what I tell you be used against him?”
“There’ll be nothing done against him, Miss Carroll…unless it needs to be in the national interest.”
“I’m not at all sure I know what the term ‘national interest’ means, James. I distrust these glib phrases.”
“I always liked Mr. Bram,” said Tremaine. “I’m not out to hurt him.”
“Mr. Bram came here when I was a young woman. I’m not certain of the year.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“I have no idea.”
“Why did a healthy young fellow like Bram settle out in that isolate
d piece of country? What’s his story?”
“I’m…not sure that anyone truly knows Bram’s story.”
“You called him ‘Bram’, Miss Carroll. Is that his first name…or his last?”
“That is his only name. Just…Bram.”
“You knew him well once, Miss Carroll. Is there anything—”
A tear rolled down Miss Carroll’s faded cheek. She wiped it away impatiently.
“I’m an unfulfilled old maid, James,” she said. “You must forgive me.”
Tremaine stood up. “I’m sorry. Really sorry. I didn’t mean to grill you. Miss Carroll. You’ve been very kind. I had no right….”
Miss Carroll shook her head. “I knew you as a boy, James. I have complete confidence in you. If anything I can tell you about Bram will be helpful to you, it is my duty to oblige you; and it may help him.” She paused. Tremaine waited.
“Many years ago I was courted by Bram. One day he asked me to go with him to his house. On the way he told me a terrible and pathetic tale. He said that each night he fought a battle with evil beings, alone, in a cave beneath his house.”
Miss Carroll drew a deep breath and went on. “I was torn between pity and horror. I begged him to take me back. He refused.” Miss Carroll twisted her fingers together, her eyes fixed on the long past. “When we reached the house, he ran to the kitchen. He lit a lamp and threw open a concealed panel. There were stairs. He went down…and left me there alone.
“I waited all that night in the carriage. At dawn he emerged. He tried to speak to me but I would not listen.
“He took a locket from his neck and put it into my hand. He told me to keep it and, if ever I should need him, to press it between my fingers in a secret way…and he would come. I told him that until he would consent to see a doctor, I did not wish him to call. He drove me home. He never called again.”
“This locket,” said Tremaine, “do you still have it?”
Miss Carroll hesitated, then put her hand to her throat, lifted a silver disc on a fine golden chain. “You see what a foolish old woman I am, James.”
“May I see it?”
She handed the locket to him. It was heavy, smooth. “I’d like to examine this more closely,” he said. “May I take it with me?”
Miss Carroll nodded.
“There is one other thing,” she said, “perhaps quite meaningless….”
“I’d be grateful for any lead.”
“Bram fears the thunder.”
III
As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and asked:
“Any luck, Jimmy?”
Tremaine shook his head. “I’m getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea’s a dud, I’m afraid.”
“Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn’t showed up yet. I’m getting a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?”
“Sure. Just so I’m back by full dark.”
As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, “Jimmy, what’s this about State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand from what you were saying to me.”
“I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond’s a jump ahead of me. He smells headlines in this; he doesn’t want to be left out.”
“Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I’m wondering why you don’t want ’em in. If there’s some kind of spy ring working—”
“We’re up against an unknown quantity. I don’t know what’s behind this and neither does anybody else. Maybe it’s a ring of Bolsheviks…and maybe it’s something bigger. I have the feeling we’ve made enough mistakes in the last few years; I don’t want to see this botched.”
The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west as Jess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old trees before the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men got out, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on the door. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, and the paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set up a strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up an empty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. “This don’t look good,” he said. “You suppose those fool boys…?”
He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned to Tremaine. “Maybe this is more than kid stuff,” he said. “You carry a gun?”
“In the car.”
“Better get it.”
Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket, rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchen Jess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty plate lay on the oilcloth-covered table.
“This place is empty,” he said. “Anybody’d think he’d been gone a week.”
“Not a very cozy—” Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in the distance.
“I’m getting jumpy,” said Jess. “Dern hounddog, I guess.”
A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. “What the devil’s that?” Tremaine said.
Jess shone the light on the floor. “Look here,” he said. The ring of light showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.
“That’s blood, Jess….” Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.
“Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen.”
“It’s a trail.” Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor. It ended suddenly near the wall.
“What do you make of it. Jimmy?”
A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess stared at Tremaine. “I’m too damned old to start believing in spooks,” he said. “You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing tricks?”
“I think.” Tremaine said, “that we’d better go ask Hull Gaskin a few questions.”
* * * *
At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop of greased hair.
“Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine,” said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung the cell door open. “He wants to talk to you.”
“I ain’t done nothin,” Hull said sullenly. “There ain’t nothin wrong with burnin out a Commie, is there?”
“Bram’s a Commie, is he?” Tremaine said softly. “How’d you find that out, Hull?”
“He’s a foreigner, ain’t he?” the youth shot back. “Besides, we heard….”
“What did you hear?”
“They’re lookin for the spies.”
“Who’s looking for spies?”
“Cops.”
“Who says so?”
The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to the corner of the cell. “Cops was talkin about ’em,” he said.
“Spill it, Hull,” the policeman said. “Mr. Tremaine hasn’t got all night.”
“They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help ’em get them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around hers.”
“And you mentioned Bram?”
The boy darted another look at Tremaine. “They said they figured the spies was out north of town. Well, Bram’s a foreigner, and he’s out that way, ain’t he?”
“Anything else?”
The boy looked at his feet.
“What did you shoot at, Hull?” Tremaine said.
The boy looked at him sullenly.
“You know anything about the blood on the kitchen floor?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin about,” Hull said. “We was out squirrel-huntin.”
“Hull, is Mr. Bram dead?”
“What you mean?” Hull blurted. “He was—”
“He was what?”
“Nothin.”
“The Chief won’t like it if y
ou hold out on him, Hull,” Tremaine said. “He’s bound to find out.”
Jess looked at the boy. “Hull’s a pretty dumb boy,” he said. “But he’s not that dumb. Let’s have it, Hull.”
The boy licked his lips. “I had Pa’s 30-30, and Bovey Lay had a twelve-gauge….”
“What time was this?”
“Just after sunset.”
“About seven-thirty, that’d be,” said Jess. “That was half an hour before the fire was spotted.”
“I didn’t do no shootin. It was Bovey. Old Bram jumped out at him, and he just fired off the hip. But he didn’t kill him. He seen him run off….”
“You were on the porch when this happened. Which way did Bram go?”
“He…run inside.”
“So then you set fire to the place. Whose bright idea was that?”
Hull sat silent. After a moment Tremaine and Jess left the cell.
“He must have gotten clear, Jimmy,” said Jess. “Maybe he got scared and left town.”
“Bram doesn’t strike me as the kind to panic.” Tremaine looked at his watch. “I’ve got to get on my way, Jess. I’ll check with you in the morning.”
Tremaine crossed the street to the Paradise Bar and Grill, pushed into the jukebox-lit interior, took a stool and ordered a Scotch and water. He sipped the drink, then sat staring into the dark reflection in the glass. The idea of a careful reconnoitre of the Elsby area was gone, now, with police swarming everywhere. It was too bad about Bram. It would be interesting to know where the old man was…and if he was still alive. He’d always seemed normal enough in the old days: a big solid-looking man, middle-aged, always pleasant enough, though he didn’t say much. He’d tried hard, that time, to interest Tremaine in learning whatever it was….
Tremaine put a hand in his jacket pocket, took out Miss Carroll’s locket. It was smooth, the size and shape of a wrist-watch chassis. He was fingering it meditatively when a rough hand slammed against his shoulder, half knocking him from the stool. Tremaine caught his balance, turned, looked into the scarred face of a heavy-shouldered man in a leather jacket.
“I heard you was back in town, Tremaine,” the man said.
The bartender moved up. “Looky here, Gaskin, I don’t want no trouble—”
“Shove it!” Gaskin squinted at Tremaine, his upper lip curled back to expose the gap in his teeth. “You tryin to make more trouble for my boy, I hear. Been over to the jail, stickin your nose in.”