9 Tales Told in the Dark 3 Read online

  From there I could see a far ways. The stars gleamed above me, quite a lot of them; dim heaps of mountain crouched at the limit of vision like quiescent prehistoric beasts; and a lone, bright light burned directly ahead atop a steep mound. As predicted, the now straightened road carved an arrow’s path to that spot, as did I. I’d traveled a great distance to reach it, counting on the effort proving lucrative. As I neared it I thought for a moment that the trees encroached again, for large black shapes came at me from both sides. Then I thought for an instant they weren’t trees but something more, living things of unexpected size oddly in motion, only that was nonsense, for they didn’t move, and they were just rocks, stone figures like the fabrications of a mad sculptor’s worst nightmares. That fit too; I had heard that this was a picturesque locale.

  I pulled into a big clearing among the weird stones, saw a few trees, a few cars, and a couple of structures. One, surely my destination, was an old two-story house of wood with many shuttered windows, bar the one on the upper floor from which the glaring light radiated. I guessed that house had been there since the olden days. It had that look to it, like something dropped out of a ghost town, only it looked a little bit lived in. The other structure suggested the ephemeral, a metallically shining trailer hitched to a big, clunky prime mover. That stuff was certainly new.

  I parked with the other cars, got out, scouted the place, checking by habit for anything out of the ordinary. I didn’t expect trouble, but in my business it pays to be wary. I carried two items of consequence on my person, one of them being a gun-- again, habit-- which need not come into play should that night prove profitable for all concerned. I trudged to the door with my penlight activated, following a sort of path in the snow, shook off the clinging powder from my boots on the porch. No buzzer, so I put to quaint use that old-fashioned brass knocker. Counting puffs of vapor from my nose and mouth, I reached nine before the door squeaked open.

  There appeared in a bath of yellow electric glow a frumpy old woman with stringy long gray hair, too much make-up, and an unflattering purple dress dangling rhinestones from every fringe. I snapped off the flashlight. “I’m here to see Mr. Thrushwaite,” I said.

  She pointed a fat finger at me, said in a whiny old voice, “Are you the one? Did you bring... it?” I don’t hand out information to anyone, so I fired back a question, “Who are you, the housekeeper?” She got all huffy and stuffy on me, snapped, “Certainly not. Our host has dispensed with the hired help. Well, there’s Hugo, of course. Otherwise there are only guests here. Young fellow, I am Madame Larisha. I hope that name means something to you.”

  It didn’t. I brusquely pushed past her into the hall. I was freezing out there. It was deliciously warm inside. I threw off my jacket onto a lacquered wooden chair, unbuttoned my jacket, kept it on. It contained my goodies. “Tell Thrushwaite I’m here,” I said, “or tell this Hugo to tell him. I don’t care. I’m Harrow, John Harrow, and I’m here by request to complete our financial transaction.”

  Madame Larisha seemed thrilled by my news, but she didn’t push me any more. Instead she led me around a turn of the hall to a door opening into a large, inviting room. “Wait here,” she said. “Our host will join us shortly. I will let him know of your arrival.”

  Unless he was a dope he already knew, but I could wait a little longer. I entered the room. It was a combination den and library I guess, very cozy, much ornamentation and antique furniture, a crackling fireplace, lots of books in shelves along three walls. The reading material didn’t look like current best sellers. In a comfortable seat by the fire slouched an astounding beautiful young girl, a petite blonde who might have stepped out of a fashion magazine, smoking a cigarette and languidly flicking through the pages of a book. She casually dropped the volume on the floor and turned bored eyes upon me. She looked, shrugged, said in a pretty voice, “You’re the courier, I suppose.”

  “Sure enough. I’m Jonathan Harrow, sweetie, and pleased to make your acquaintance. I didn’t expect anyone like you here.”

  “Neither did I,” she drawled. I could tell she was already tuning me out. That annoys me.

  I sat down in a matching chair opposite her. It felt good. With the chill leaving my bones, another need loomed large. “I could use a bite to eat, babe,” I said. “How do I arrange that?”

  “You don’t. Mr. Thrushwaite will in a few minutes.”

  “You got a cigarette?”

  “I have plenty, thank you.”

  I had my own. “Do you know what this is all about?” I persisted.

  “No.”

  Okay, I got the point. I got up, intending to wander as I pleased, met a big guy coming through the hall door. I didn’t get out of his way, he didn’t move out of mine. We faced each other, I with studied belligerence, he with what seemed honest amusement. He was tall, mature, lean but solid, immaculately dressed like a true gentleman. I don’t meet many of those. He wore an expensive suit, a soft, clean hat, and his boots were polished leather, the real deal. He had a little manicured beard, a hawk nose, and eagle eyes. He said, “You must be our important visitor. We have been keenly awaiting your arrival.” He spoke with a tinge of foreign accent, but his English was better than mine.

  I said, “Thrushwaite, let’s get it over with, do the deal, and I’ll clear out.”

  The girl snickered. The man replied, “A case of inappropriate identification, sir. I am Vorchek, Professor Anton Vorchek, invited here as were you. Miss Delaney, whom I presume you have met, accompanies me. Our host calls for dinner. He is, as of this moment, aware of your presence, and will surely see you.”

  “He’d better,” I growled. This was too much time wasting. Still, “I’m starved,” I announced. “Lead the way, Professor.”

  The Delaney babe-- who I soon learned was named Theresa-- fell in behind us as we wended down a couple of corridors to a cramped dining room (made bearable by a space heater) separated by a counter from the kitchen. Madame Larisha was already seated at table, which had settings for four. “One other, Hugo,” Vorchek said to a short, chunky, mean-looking goon behind the counter. The goon ignored him. I plopped myself down at an empty plate. Another guy entered from the hall. He was kind of old, really skinny, dried up, with glaring eyes, shabby. He wasn’t a patch on Vorchek, but I figured him before he nasally cried, “I’m Lawrence Thrushwaite. You’re Harrow?” “Yeah.” “Do you have it?” “Yeah.” “Let me see it.”

  “Let me see what you’ve got,” I said coolly.

  “Come upstairs.”

  “After dinner,” I responded.

  Thrushwaite rolled his eyes, motioned to the goon. “Hugo, serve them. I’ll not eat.” He stood by me, pulled a roll of bills from his jacket pocket, pushed it at my face. “Here, it’s all there. Now give it.” I took the money without counting it. Maybe later, but they were the right denominations of bills, and it was a big wad. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a modest, flat package, taped in brown paper. Thrushwaite seized it, scuttled to the counter. Hugo served a passable beef stew with salad, placed a bottle on the table. We helped ourselves to the wine.

  Hugo receded into the kitchen, clattered dirty cookware. Theresa chowed down, I coming up a close second. Vorchek fussed with his food. The old bag watched Thrushwaite. He tore paper, talked to himself.

  “This is it,” he muttered. “I know this thing. The description matches, the materials are genuine. The base metal is gold, the jewels perfect green emeralds. The inscriptions are as foretold by my sources. I hold it in my hands. Madame Larisha, we may commence.”

  Vorchek swallowed a tiny bite, leaned over confidentially and said to me, “Many men have sought that prize, Mr. Harrow. I wonder how you came by it.”

  “Don’t ask me,” I said. “I’m just the delivery boy. That’s my trade, how I pay my bills-- big bills-- I deliver goods, no questions asked. Talk to your buddy.”

  “I wonder,” Vorchek continued, “about the current health of the former owner.”

  “I wo
uldn’t know,” I said. “Drop it. That’s not part of the deal.”

  “Thrushwaite said, “Let it lie, Vorchek. That’s no concern of yours. What matters is that I possess the legendary Cross of Xenophor, and that you can translate the words written on it. Look at it, Vorchek.”

  The professor turned in his seat, appraised the object with a glance. For the first time I saw it. It was a beauty, about nine inches by four, studded with winking gems both lengths, with lots of ornate scratchings in the gold. That didn’t resemble any writing I knew, but then I guess it wouldn’t, given what I’d just heard. It looked a valuable piece of merchandise, much fancier than anything else I’d seen in the house. Maybe Thrushwaite kept his collection in the trailer.

  Our host left us then, curtly calling Hugo after him. Madame took off after them shortly thereafter. Vorchek came across as a decent sort, even if I wasn’t especially tempted to trust him, so I casually asked, “What goes on? Is Thrushwaite a hot shot smuggler?”

  Vorchek chuckled. “Heavens, no. He is a student of the occult. Madame Larisha is his close colleague. The cross is an ancient talisman, reputed to possess great power. I dare say they mean to try it out.”

  I grinned. “You’re kidding?”

  “He’s not,” Theresa said loudly, with warm emphasis. “The professor wouldn’t get involved with such weirdoes if he didn’t think there was something real going on.”

  Vorchek smiled, very pleasantly. “You know me too well, my dear. Sir, having received my invitation, and the reason for it, I chose to come in order to establish two facts: the genuineness of the fabled cross, and the use to which it will be put. The first point I consider adequately confirmed. Thoracrates, in his Dark Jubilations, described well his hoary find, considerately incorporating a detailed drawing.”

  “He one of your friends?”

  “A remote colleague, long deceased. He, and others, write of the object’s curious properties. Mr. Thrushwaite intends to test it. How, I do not yet know.”

  “Good enough,” I said, pushing away my plate. “I’m out of here.”

  “Good riddance,” whispered Theresa, hunched over her bowl of stew. I ignored that crack, got up with every intention of dashing out.

  “Do not be in a hurry, young man,” advised a genial Vorchek. “You may find much to amuse you here in the days to come.”

  “No chance. I never stay put for long. That’s not good for business, you see.”

  “Pause, briefly,” he said, “to look out the window, and you may see.”

  I frowned, obeyed, stared with mounting anger and frustration at the sight I beheld. Snow was coming down in buckets, and I realized now that I’d been hearing for some time the whipping of wind. It was outright storming. No chance, I realized, of ever negotiating that tricky road in these conditions.

  I swore. Theresa blinked, then laughed out loud. I said, “Thrushwaite will have to put me up until morning.”

  Vorchek said, “At the very least. Have no fear, for there is plenty of room to accommodate you, nor do we lack for essentials.”

  Thanks for nothing. Getting to brass tacks, I eventually crossed paths with Thrushwaite again, he being mighty disturbed that I was still there, becoming a deal more so when I made it plain I was to be another guest for an indeterminate while. He acquiesced because he had to, but he made it real clear that it wasn’t what he wanted. I got to bunk in a crappy downstairs room that, so Hugo told me, was the handyman’s quarters. That was the first time I’d heard the voice of Thrushwaite’s ape. That’s how I thought of him. I sensed danger there. His voice was heavy, coarse, uneducated.

  So I spent the night. I rose early, as is my way, dressed with every layer I’d brought and went outdoors. The sky had cleared, looked an intense blue, the air biting cold. Snow lay thick on everything, a charming wintry scene that curdled my mood. My car was axle deep in the stuff. I wasn’t getting out and back to civilization until somebody with heavy duty machinery unburied the road. I meant to ask about that pronto.

  Only now did I realize what a strange place I was in. The old-timey house on the hill with the thicket of spruce pressing close were dramatic enough, but there were other features to this terrain that truly startled. It was as if we were surrounded by an army of huge stone monsters. In every direction, save for the house and the trailer, I spied ominously suggestive shapes of rock standing tall, much taller than a man, wearing wigs of snow and leering with implacable hostility. That last was a foolish conceit, yet many of the formations, with their odd protuberances and cracked lines, did appear to possess harsh, rough faces. I felt enclosed by enemies, a rotten feeling under those conditions.

  Vorchek said, “Majestic, is not it?”

  I spun round to face him, surprised that I hadn’t detected his approach. He had come out right behind me, heavily dressed for the occasion, still looking smart. I asked, “What is all this, Professor?”

  “Behold the wonders of the Chiricahua Mountains, young man. Millions of years of volcanic activity built up dense masses of hard deposits, millions more eroded them into the intriguing shapes you see. Quite attractive in their own way, I grant you, though cruel to the overly imaginative, like denizens of a nightmare.”

  “They’re just rocks,” I said.

  “Hoodoos, Mr. Harrow,” Vorchek replied. “This type of mineral structure is colloquially referred to as hoodoo. Whoever invented the term was also spooked by them.”

  “I’m not spooked.”

  “Come to breakfast, sir. We may leave our stony friends to their own devices. They do not mind. They are extraordinarily patient.”

  The professor and his girlfriend, if that’s what she was, were whipping up a meal for themselves in the kitchen, a little feast to which I was invited. Over breakfast we talked. Vorchek asked a lot of seemingly casual questions at first, I infrequently responding. Theresa, who looked mighty fetching so early, said bluntly, “You’ve got to be some kind of criminal.” “A malicious accusation,” I said. “What are the charges?” She snipped a slice of crisp bacon with her perfect teeth, said, “Robbery and smuggling.” “False in both particulars. I don’t care for the authorities hanging over my shoulder, and I take it hard if somebody gets in my way, but I walk the line, just enough to get by. That keeps me healthy and free.”

  Vorchek said, “An admirable philosophy, sir, one of which I can approve, within limits. At times the deed requires an unconventional approach. I am aware of the necessity.”

  “Are you ever,” muttered the girl.

  The professor chuckled. He did that a lot, making me think other people tended to amuse him. That was probably why he kept her around, if not for the obvious. He said now, a little more soberly, “I hope, Mr. Harrow, that you have not bitten off too much on this occasion.”

  “Call me John,” I advised. She subsequently did at whiles, he never; the stuffy, prim and proper kind of guy. I said, “I’m here on business, that’s all, no great mystery. Not that it really matters, but I wonder what’s in it for you.”

  He told me, “Why, business, of course, what else? Does not it always come down to that? Mr. Thrushwaite has embarked upon unusual research, with lofty goals in mind. He wishes, with the aid of his kindred spirit Madame Larisha, to test the veracity of a most peculiar Indian legend. They require my services to translate the inscriptions on that valuable object which you brought. I have already been paid a princely sum to do just that.”

  I grinned, shook my head. Lighting a cigarette, I stabbed in the dark, said, “That won’t do. You could work from your comfortable office. You and your sweetie don’t have to rot in this freezing wasteland.”

  Theresa started to sneer, but Vorchek cut her off with a booming laugh. “Excellent, sir. Our host recommended precisely that. I chose to come here, and Miss Delaney kindly agreed to accompany me. I wish to observe the proceedings.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Why not ask the learned Madame?”

  She had entered from the hall.
“I will accept a cup of coffee,” she said wearily. I didn’t guess she’d been to sleep. She was dressed in a ragged robe, her slippers flopping on the wooden floor. “What are you talking about, Vorchek?”

  “Matters of grave consequence, perhaps,” he replied. “Mr. Harrow is keen to learn of our affairs.”

  “That is none of his concern,” Madame Larisha said. “He shouldn’t even be here. His presence is a complication.”

  “Sorry, lady,” I sneered. “I’m unavoidably detained. Have your boss call a helicopter for me.”

  Then Thrushwaite came in, fully dressed. “Are we ready?” he snapped. He dismissed the suggestion of breakfast, whining, “No time for trivialities. There’s work to do. Vorchek, I want you now. The cross is in the laboratory, where it will remain. Do what I’ve paid you to do.” The professor nodded, rose. Thrushwaite added, “Madame Larisha, let us repair upstairs to continue preparing our notes. You two--” he meant Theresa and me-- “amuse yourselves. Keep out of the way.”

  When all had vacated the room except the girl and myself, we went on with our meals. I attempted to engage her in small talk, chatting archly in my customary way, but she wasn’t having any of it. I didn’t appeal to her at all. That was a shame, because I could have given her a squeeze. Finally she dumped her dirty dishes in the sink, announcing, “I’m checking out the lab. At least the professor’s a familiar face. Interested?” Scarcely, but it was better than suffocating boredom. When she was ready I trooped along after her.

  The girl led me outside, then to the trailer. So, that was the center of operations. The door was locked, but Theresa’s banging brought a prompt response from the sole occupant. The affable Vorchek let us in, seemed wholly unconcerned by our intrusion. In fact, “Enter and welcome,” he said, puffing languidly on his pipe. “This is a cold and lonely edifice. I would rather talk to you youngsters than to myself.”