Nine by Laumer

by Keith Laumer

  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 ninety, 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 isolated 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. “Dem hound-dog, 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 teenage 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 here.”

  “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 you 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 heavyshouldered 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.”

  Tremaine dropped the locket in his pocket and stood up. Gaskin hitched up his pants, glanced around the room. Half a dozen early drinkers stared, wide-eyed. Gaskin squinted at Tremaine. He smelled of unwashed flannel.

  “Sicked the cops onto him. The boy was out with his friends, havin a little fun. Now there he sets in jail.”

  Tremaine moved aside from the stool, started past the man. Soup Gaskin grabbed his arm.

  “Not so fast! I Agger you owe me damages. I—”

  “Damage is what you’ll get,” said Tremaine. He slammed a stiff left to Gaskin’s ribs, drove a hard right to the jaw. Gaskin jackknifed backwards, tripped over a bar stool, fell on his back. He rolled over, got to hands and knees, shook his head.

  “Git up, Soup!” someone called. “Hot dog!” offered another.

  “I’m calling the police!” the bartender yelled.

  “Never mind,” a voice said from the door. A blue-jacketed State Trooper strolled into the room, fingers hooked into his pistol belt, the steel caps on his boot heels clicking with each step. He faced Tremaine, feet apart.

  “Looks like you’re disturbin' the peace, Mr. Tremaine,” he said.

  “You wouldn’t know who put him up to it, would you?” Tremaine said.

  “That’s a dirty allegation,” the cop grinned. “I’ll have to get off a hot letter to my congressman.”

  Gaskin got to his feet, wiped a smear of blood across his cheek, then lunged past the cop and swung a wild right. Tremaine stepped aside, landed a solid punch on Gaskin’s ear. The cop stepped back against the bar. Soup whirled, slammed out with lefts and rights. Tremaine lashed back with a straight left; Gaskin slammed against the bar, rebounded, threw a knockout right … and Tremaine ducked, landed a right uppercut that sent Gaskin reeling back, bowled over a table, sent glasses flying. Tremaine stood over him.

  “On your feet, jailbird,” he said. “A workout is exactly what I needed.”

  “Okay, you’ve had your fun,” the State cop said. “I’m taking you in, Tremaine.”

  Tremaine looked at him. “Sorry, copper,” he said. “I don’t have time right now.” The cop looked startled, reached for his revolver.

  “What’s going on here, Jimmy?” Jess stood in the door, a huge .44 in his hand. He turned his eyes on the tro
oper.

  “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction,” he said. “I think you better move on ’fore somebody steals your bicycle.”

  The cop eyed Jess for a long moment, then holstered his pistol and stalked out of the bar. Jess tucked his revolver into his belt, looked at Gaskin sitting on the floor, dabbing at his bleeding mouth. “What got into you, Soup?”

  “I think the State boys put him up to it,” Tremaine said. “They’re looking for an excuse to take me out of the picture.”

  Jess motioned to Gaskin. “Get up, Soup. I’m lockin you up alongside that boy of yours.”

  Outside, Jess said, “You got some bad enemies there, Jimmy. That’s a tough break. You ought to hold onto your temper with those boys. I think maybe you ought to think about getting over the state line. I can run you to the bus station, and send your car along …”

  “I can’t leave now, Jess. I haven’t even started.”

  IV

  In his room, Tremaine doctored the cut on his jaw, then opened his trunk, checked over the detector gear. The telephone rang.

  “Tremaine? I’ve been on the telephone with Grammond. Are you out of your mind? I’m—”

  “Fred,” Tremaine cut in, “I thought you were going to get those state cops off my neck.”

  “Listen to me, Tremaine. You’re called off this job as of now. Don’t touch anything! You’d better stay right there in that room. In fact, that’s an order!”

  “Don’t pick now to come apart at the seams, Fred,” Tremaine snapped.

  “I’ve ordered you off! That’s all!” The phone clicked and the dial tone sounded. Tremaine dropped the receiver in its cradle, then walked to the window absently, his hand in his pocket.

  He felt broken pieces and pulled out Miss Carroll’s locket. It was smashed, split down the center. It must have gotten it in the tussle with Soup, Tremaine thought. It looked—

  He squinted at the shattered ornament. A maze of fine wires was exposed, tiny condensers, bits of glass.

  In the street below, tires screeched. Tremaine looked down. A black car was at the curb, doors sprung. Four uniformed men jumped out, headed for the door. Tremaine whirled to the phone. The desk clerk came on.