"This Parisian bistro deal is only on slack nights. Weekends, we got a
combo in here."
"I think I prefer the bistro."
"I guess you would."
They fell back into silence. Guido smoked raggedly. Kintyre felt no
need for tobacco; the implacable sense of going somewhere overrode his
self.
After the girl had brought their round, Guido said in a harsh tone,
looking away from him: "Well, what is it? I got to go on again soon."
"I just came from the Michaelis'," said Kintyre.
"What?" Guido jerked. "What'd you go there for?"
"Let's say I was curious. Gene Michaelis was out of sight last weekend.
He won't say where."
"You don't--" Guido looked up. Something congealed in him. "I thought
Corinna was just flipping," he said, very softly.
"I don't accuse anyone," said Kintyre. "I'm only a civilian. However,
the police are going to give him a rough time if he won't alibi
himself."
Guido lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the last.
"Where were you, Saturday afternoon through Monday morning?" Kintyre
tossed the question off as lightly as he was able.
"Out of town," said Guido. "With some friends."
"You'd better get in touch with them, then, so they can give statements
to that effect."
"They--Christ almighty!" In the guttering flamelight, Kintyre saw how
sweat began to film the faun countenance.
"My personal opinion," he said, watching Guido's lips fight to stiffen
themselves, "is that you are not involved. The fact remains, though,
you'd better account for your weekend."
"To you?" It was a wan little truculence.
"I can't force you. But without trying to play detective, I am sticking
my nose a ways into this affair. Knowing the people concerned, I might
possibly turn up something the police can use.
"So where did you spend your weekend, Guido?"
The full mouth pouted. "Rotate, cat, rotate. Why should anybody care?
Where's my motive?"
"Where is anyone's motive? You have a lot of shady friends. I daresay
your mother had to shield you often enough from your father--or even
from the authorities, once or twice." It was a guess on Kintyre's part,
but he saw that he had struck a target. "Maybe of late you've gotten
mixed up with something worse. Maybe Bruce found out."
"Beat feet," said Guido. "Blow before I call the bouncer."
"I'm merely trying to reason as a policeman might. I'm not accusing
you, I'm warning you."
"Well," said Guido, raising his eyes again, "there wasn't anything like
that going on. Certainly nothing Bruce would know about. I mean, man,
he was all professor!"
"Jealousy," murmured Kintyre. "There's another motive. Bruce was the
favorite. All his life he was the favorite. Oh, he deserved it--the
well-behaved kid, the bright and promising kid. But it must have been
hard for you to take, with your Italian background, where the oldest
son normally has precedence. You were college material too. It just so
happened Bruce was better, and there was only money for one. Of course,
later you had your G.I., and didn't use it. You'd lost interest. Which
doesn't change the fact: money was spent on Bruce that might otherwise
have been spent on you."
Guido finished his whisky and signaled out the booth. "Crazy," he
fleered. "But go on."
"Well, let's see. I imagine you're always at loggerheads with your
father. That won't recommend you to a suspicious detective either. Here
you are, thirty years old, and except for your military hitch you've
always lived at home. You've sponged, between short-lived half-hearted
jobs; you've drifted from one night club engagement to another, but all
small time and steadily getting smaller. I hardly think you belong to
the Church any more, do you?"
"I was kicked out," admitted Guido with a certain cockiness. "I got
married a few years back. It didn't take. So I got divorced and the
Church kicked me out. Not that I'd believed that guff for a long time
before. But there was quite a row."
The waitress looked into the booth. Guido slid a hand down her hip.
"Let's have a bottle in here," he said. "Raus!" He slapped her heartily
on the rump. His gaze followed her toward the bar.
"Nice piece, that," he said. "Maybe I can fix you up with her, if you
want."
"No, thanks," said Kintyre.
Guido was winning back his confidence. He grinned and said: "Sure. I'm
the bad boy. Bruce worked part time all his undergraduate years, and
made his own way since. Corinna still helps out with a slice of her
paycheck, which is none too big. But me, man, I got horns, hoof, and
tail. I eat babies for breakfast.
"Only lemme tell you something about Bruce. All the time he was so
holy-holy, attending Mass every Sunday he was over on this side--but
avoiding Communion, come to think of it--he didn't give a damn either.
He just didn't have the nerve to make a clean break with those black
crows, like me."
Kintyre, who had listened to many midnight hours of troubled young
confidences, said quietly: "At the time he died, Bruce hadn't yet
decided what he believed. He wouldn't hurt his parents for what might
turn out to be a moment's intellectual whim."
"All right, all right. Only did you know he was shacking up?"
Kintyre raised his brows. "I'm surprised he told you. He introduced the
girl around as his fiancée. In the apartment house he said she was his
wife. He was more concerned about her reputation than she was."
"Come off it," snorted Guido. "Who did he fool?"
"Nnn ... nobody who met her, I suppose. He tried, but--"
"But this was the first woman he ever had, and it was such a big event
he couldn't hide it. He was a lousy liar. Just for kicks, I badgered
him till he broke down and admitted it to me."
"It was her idea," said Kintyre. "He wanted to marry her."
"Be this as it may," said Guido, "our little tin Jesus turns out to've
been less than frank with everybody. So what else did he have cooking?
Don't ask what I'm mixed up in. Look into his doings."
"I might," said Kintyre, "except that you have explained to me how poor
a liar he was."
The girl came back with a pint of bourbon and a chit for Guido to sign.
She leaned far over to set down a bottle of soda and two glasses of
ice, so Kintyre could have a good look down her dress.
"Man," said Guido when she had oscillated off again, "Laura's got ants
tonight. If you don't help yourself to that, I will."
"Why offer me the chance in the first place?" asked Kintyre. He ignored
the proffered glass, sticking to his beer.
"I was going out on the town when I finished here. Know some places,
they cost but they're worth it." Guido slugged his own glass full,
added a dash of mix, and drank heartily. "They'll keep till tomorrow,
though."
"I wonder where a chronically broke small-time entertainer gets money
to splurge, all at once," said Kintyre.
Guido set his drink down again. Behind the loose, open blouse, his
breast muscles grew taut.
"Never you mind," he said, in the bleakest voice Kintyre had yet heard
him use. "Forget I mentioned it. Run along home and play with your
books."
"As you wish. But when you're being officially grilled--and you will
be, sonny--I wouldn't talk about Bruce in exactly the terms you used
tonight. It sounds more and more as if you hated him."
Kintyre had no intention of leaving. Guido was disquietingly hard to
understand. He might even, actually, be a party to the murder. Kintyre
didn't want to believe that. He hoped all the tough and scornful words
had been no more than a concealment, from Guido's own inward self, of
bewildered pain. But he couldn't be sure.
He would have to learn more.
He sat back, easing his body, his mind, trying not to expect anything
whatsoever. Then nothing could catch him off balance.
But the third party jarred him nonetheless.
A man came over toward the booth. He had evidently just made an inquiry
of the waitress. He wore a good suit, painstakingly fashionable, and
very tight black shoes. His face looked young.
Guido saw him coming and tightened fingers around his glass. A pulse in
the singer's throat began to flutter.
"Get out," he said.
"What's wrong now?" Kintyre didn't move.
"Get out!" The eyes that turned to him were dark circles rimmed all
around with white. The tones cracked across. "I'll see you later. There
could be trouble if you stay. Blow!"
Kintyre made no doubt of it. Ordinarily he would have left, he was
not one to search for a conflict. But he did not think any man could
be worse to meet than the horror, and he could feel the horror still
waiting to take him, as soon as he stopped having other matters to
focus on.
He poured out the rest of his beer. Then the man was standing at the
booth.
He was young indeed, Kintyre saw, perhaps so young he needed false
identification to drink. His face was almost girlish, in a broad-nosed
sleepy-eyed way, and very white. The rest of him was middling tall and
well muscled; he moved with a sureness which told Kintyre he was quick
on his feet.
"Uh," said Guido.
The young man jerked his head backward.
"He was just--just going," chattered Guido. "Right away."
"When I finish my beer, of course," said Kintyre mildly.
"Drink up," said the young man. He had no color in his voice. Its
accent wasn't local, but Kintyre couldn't place the exact region. More
or less Midwestern. Chicago?
It was a good excuse to get his back up. "I don't see where you have
any authority in the matter," said Kintyre.
"Mother of God," whispered Guido frantically across the table. "Scram!"
The young man stood droop-lidded for a moment, considering. Then he
said to Guido: "Okay. Another booth."
"Won't you join us here?" asked Kintyre. "You can say your say when
I've gone."
The young man thought it over for a second or two. He shrugged faintly
and sat down beside Kintyre, a couple of feet away. Shakily, Guido
poured a drink into the unused glass of ice.
"Th-th-this is--Larkin," he said. "Terry Larkin. This is Professor
Kintyre. He was a friend of my brother, is all."
"Are you from out of town, Mr. Larkin?" said Kintyre.
The young man took out a pack of cigarettes. It was the container for a
standard brand, but the homemade cylinders inside were another matter.
He lit one and sat back, unheeding of the whisky.
Kintyre would not have thought an ordinary drug addict anything to
reckon with: the effects are too ruinous. But in spite of all the lurid
stories, marijuana is a mild sort of dope, which leaves more control
than alcohol and probably does less physiological damage than tobacco.
If it came to trouble, Larkin was not going to be inconvenienced by a
reefer or two.
"Friend of mine," said Guido. He was still tense, his smile a
meaningless rictus. But a hope was becoming clear to see on him, that
the episode would pass over quietly.
Kintyre did not mean for it to. There was more than coincidence
here. If Larkin simply had private business to discuss, even illegal
business, Guido would have had no reason to fear trouble. Larkin could
merely wait until the professor took his bumbling presence home.
_The trouble is_, thought Kintyre, _I've been asking so many
questions. I might irritate Happy here._
Wherefore he dropped his bomb with some care: "Perhaps you can help
me, Mr. Larkin. I suppose you know Guido's brother was murdered. Guido
won't tell me where he was during that time, Saturday and Sunday, and
I'm afraid he might get in trouble with the law."
Guido regarded Larkin like a beggar.
Larkin sat still. So still. It must have been half a minute before he
moved. Then he looked through a woman's lashes at Kintyre and said:
"He was with me. We went out and picked daisies all weekend."
Kintyre smiled. "Well, if that's all--" His bomb had missed. He dropped
another. "To avoid trouble, though, you'd better both go to the police
with a statement."
"You're no cop," said Larkin.
"No. It was only a suggestion." Having bracketed the target, Kintyre
dropped his third missile. "If they happen to ask me first what I know
about it, I can refer them to you. Where are you staying?"
"_Gèsu Cristo_," groaned Guido out of a lost childhood.
Larkin's face remained dead. But he laid down his cigarette and said
slowly and clearly: "I told you to run along home. This time I mean it,
daddy-o."
Kintyre bunched his muscles--only for an instant, then he remembered
that he must be at ease, at ease.
"I'm beginning to wonder what you really were doing last weekend,
Terry," he said.
There was hardly a visible movement. He heard the click, and the
switchblade poised on the bench, aimed at his throat.
"End of the line," Larkin told him without rancor. "On your way. If you
know what's good for you, you won't come back."
"Do you know," murmured Kintyre, "I think this really is a case for the
police. Ever hear of citizen's arrest?"
Guido's wind rattled in his gullet.
Larkin's blade spurted upward. It was an expert, underhand sticking
motion; Kintyre could have died with hardly a noise, in that booth
designed not to be looked into from outside.
From the moment the steel emerged, he had realized he was going to get
cut. That was half the technique of facing a knife. His last remark had
been absolutely sincere: the law needed Larkin a prisoner, now. His
left arm moved simultaneously with Larkin's right. The blade struck
his forearm and furrowed keenly through the sleeve. It opened the skin
beneath, but little more, for Kintyre was already lifting the arm,
violently, as the follow-through slid Larkin's wrist across. He smacked
the knife hand back against the booth wall.
His own right hand slipped under Larkin's knee. Then he half stood up;
his left came down to assist; and he threw Larkin out of the booth.
He followed, out where there was room to deal properly with the boy.
Larkin had hit a table (_Western movie style_, grinned part of Kintyre)
and the whole business crashed and skated over the floor.
The bouncer ran ponderously to break up the fight. Kintyre had nothing
against him, except that any delay would give Larkin too much time. He
ran to meet the bouncer, therefore, stopped a fractional second before
collision, and took the body's impact on his hip. It was elementary art
from there on in. The bouncer bounced.
Larkin was back on his feet, spitting fury and blood. He'd lost his
knife--should be easy to wrap up--_Hold it!_
The second switchblade gleamed among candles. Kintyre had almost
impaled himself. He fell, in the judo manner, cushioned by an arm.
Whetted metal buzzed where he had been. Rolling over on his back,
Kintyre waited for Larkin to jump at him. Larkin was not that naïve. He
picked a Chianti bottle off a table and threw it.
Kintyre saved his eyes with an arm hastily raised. The blow was
numbing. He whipped to his feet again. The bartender circled on the
fringes, gibbering and waving a bungstarter: the typical barroom fight
is ridiculous, these two meant what they were doing. The bouncer
dragged himself to his hands and knees.
"Call the police," snapped Kintyre. "And for God's sake, some of these
tablecloths will start burning any minute!"
The customers were milling away. One of the fairies screamed; the butch
stood on a chair and watched with dry avid eyes. Larkin backed off
along the wall. Kintyre followed. Larkin wasn't foolish enough to rush;
Kintyre would have to.
He waited till there was a small space clear of tables before him. Then
he crouched low and ran in. His left arm was up, for a shield. He'd
take that toadstabber in the biceps if he must.
Larkin, back against the bar, drew into himself. _Almost on one knee_,
thought Kintyre as he plunged in, _like a Roman gladiator trying for
the belly._ A tactical change was called for.
He shifted course and met the bar six feet from Larkin. His palms came
down on it, he used his own speed to leap frogwise up to its surface,
pivoting to face Larkin. He made one jump along the bar. His second was
into the air. He landed with both feet on Larkin's back, before the
other had more than half straightened.
Larkin went down, the knife flying from his hand. Kintyre fell off and
went in a heap. This wasn't judo, it wasn't anything; Trig would laugh
himself sick if he could watch. But--
Kintyre rolled back. Larkin was climbing unsteadily to his feet.
Kintyre pulled him down and got a choking hold from behind. He lay on
Larkin's back, his legs and sheer weight controlling the body, one arm
around the throat, hands gripping wrists.
"Okay," he panted. "Squirm away. You'll just strangle yourself, you
know."
Larkin hissed an obscenity. He was lighter, but Kintyre could feel a
hard vitality in him. No matter, he was held now.
"Bartender," wheezed Kintyre. "Call the police--"
Something landed on his head.
It was like an explosion. For a moment he spiraled down toward night.
He felt Larkin wriggle free, he groped mindlessly but his hands were
empty and the world was blackness and great millstones.
Then he was aware once more. Guido crouched beside him, shaken and
sobbing, and pawed at his bleeding scalp with a handkerchief. "Oh, God,
Doc, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Are you hurt?"
Kintyre looked around. "Where'd Junior go?" he croaked.
"Out the back door. Christ, Doc, I had to, you don't know what--Mary,
Mother of God, forgive me, but--"
Kintyre stood up, leaning on Guido. A small riot was developing among
the clientele and the help. He ignored it, brushing someone aside
without even looking. The singer's stool lay at his feet. Guido must
have clobbered him with that.
"Suppose you tell me why," he said.
"I--Get out. Get out before the cops come. I'll cover for you--tell
them I don't know who you are, you were a stranger and--Get out!" Guido
pushed at him, still weeping.
"I don't have anything to fear from them," said Kintyre. "It strikes me
that maybe you do."
"Maybe," whispered Guido.
"Bruce died in a nasty way."
"This isn't--nothing to do with--I swear it, Doc, so help me God I do.
Think I'd ever--It's something else, for Christ's sake!" Guido spoke
in a slurred muted scream. "It's not only the cops I'm scared of, Doc,
it's the others. They'd kill me!"
Kintyre studied him for a long second.
After all, he thought, this was Bruce's brother. And Corinna's.
"Okay," he said. "I promise you nothing. I, at least, will insist on
knowing what this is all about. When I do, perhaps I'll decide the
police ought to be told, and perhaps not. But for now, good night,
Guido."
He turned to go out the rear exit. Faintly through the main door, he
heard approaching sirens, but there was time enough to get into a back
alley and thence to his car.
He realized, suddenly, with an unsurprised drowsy delight like the
aftermath of love, that the horror had left him. When he continued his
search for Larkin and for that more terrible thing which Larkin must
represent, it would be from honor, because he was taking it on himself
not to tell the police at once that there was a mansticker loose in
their city. He would not be merely running from his private ghosts.
Tonight he would be able to sleep.
He paused at the door, looking back. "Good night, Guido," he repeated.
"And thanks again for the song."
7
Two brawls in succession had not tired him; he got more exercise than
that in an evening at the dojo. But the strain of the time before had
had its effect. He woke with a fluttering gasp and saw dust motes dance
in a yellow sunbeam. The clock said almost nine.
"Judas priest," he groaned. Suddenly it came to him that he had left
Guido unguarded. So much for the amateur detective.
He sprang from bed and twirled the radio controls. Having found a
newscast, he went into the bathroom and showered; Trig Yamamura had
beaten that much Zen into his thick head. Through the water noise, he
heard that more money was necessary so the nation's bought friends
would stay bought; that the countries which had simply given their
friendship were being imperialistic, i.e., hanging on to their overseas
property, and therefore unworthy of help; that subversive elements
in the bottle cap industry were to be investigated; and that Mother
Bloor's Old Time Chicken Broth was made by a new scientific process
which "sealed in" tiny drops of chicken goodness. Nothing was said
about another murder.
Kintyre sighed and gave himself time to cook breakfast. If Guido hadn't
been killed last night, he must be safely asleep at home by now. There
were a few hours to spare.
He got into slacks and a gray sports shirt: he hated neckties and had
no reason to wear one today. First, he decided, he must see Trig. After
that he could wind up Bruce's University job. And, yes, he would take a
closer look at the Book of Witches.
Yamamura's office was unimpressively above a drugstore in downtown
Berkeley, a mile or so to walk. Kintyre found him polishing a Japanese
sword. "Hi. Isn't this a nice one?" he boasted mildly. "I picked it up
last week. It's only Tokugawa period, but get the heft, will you?"
Kintyre drew the blade. It came suddenly alive. He returned it with a
faint sense of loss. "I could have used that chopper last night," he
said.
"Yeh." Narrow black eyes drifted across him, the plaster high on his
forehead and the outsize Band-Aid on his left forearm. "What happened,
and is she going to prefer charges?"
"I suspect I met Bruce Lombardi's murderer," said Kintyre. "Or one of
them."
Yamamura slid the sword carefully into its plain wooden scabbard. He
took out his oldest briar and stuffed the bowl. Kintyre had finished
his account by the time the pipe had a full head of steam up.
"--So I came on home."
Yamamura looked irritated. "It's your own stupid fault Larkin got
away," he said. "Obviously you were holding your neck muscles tense.
The stool wouldn't have hurt you to speak of if you weren't." He
waggled his pipestem. "How often must I tell you, _relax_? Or don't you
want to win your black belt?"
"Come off it," said Kintyre. "Look, what I'm afraid of is that Larkin,
or someone associated with him, may decide Guido isn't safe to leave
alive."
"All right. Let Guido ask the police for protection."
"He can't. I don't know why, but he doesn't dare. He'd rather take his
chances with Larkin."
"I'd suggest that if he's that scared of the authorities, he deserves
whatever he'll get."
"Don't be such a damned prig. Guido may be an accessory, of course, but
I hate to think that. Why write him off before we're sure he wasn't
just someone's dupe?"
"Mmmm. What has all this to do with me?"
"I want you to keep an eye on him."
"So? What's wrong with you doing this? Your vacation is coming up. I
still have a living to make, and you can't pay me."
"I haven't the skill. And Guido and Larkin both know my face. Also, I
do think I can be of some value on this side of the Bay."
"Huh! Sherlock Nero Poirot rides again."
"No. Think, Trig. The probability is that Bruce was killed by one or
more professionals. But they didn't do it for fun. Somebody hired them,
and that somebody is the real murderer. I've two reasons for wanting to
meddle a little bit, rather than simply dumping what I know into the
official lap. First, to spare Guido, at least till I'm sure if he's
worth sparing or not. But second, this may not be entirely a police
problem. They'll concentrate on the actual, physical killers, try to
find one or two or three ants in the whole Bay Area antheap. They've no
choice about that, it's their duty. Doubtless they'll put a man on the
job of finding out who the killers' boss is. But the police don't know
anyone concerned very intimately. The boss will have a certain amount
of time to cover his tracks. Or to plan another murder.
"I knew Bruce well. I must have met all his friends, however casually.
_I have met whoever had Bruce killed._ It may be sheer megalomania on
my part, but I think there's a chance I could get an idea who it was."
Yamamura put his feet on the desk, leaned back, and stared out the
window at the street. "Okay," he said at last. "On conditions."
"What?"
"I do have my family to keep. Not to mention my license. I'll undertake
a week or so of Guido-guarding as an investment. Because if I could
get a clue to the murderers, the boss or his torpedos, if I could give
any substantial help to the police, the publicity would be good for my
business. But to do anything useful along those lines, I'll have to
leave Guido from time to time. I'll tail him when I think he may be in
danger, yes, but when I think he's going to be safe for a few hours,
I'll go check on something else."
"All right," said Kintyre. "In fact, excellent."
Yamamura looked at him through pipe smoke and said gravely: "If I find
reasons why Guido should be arrested, I won't cover for him. I'll turn
him in. Furthermore, I could make an error in judgment. I might leave
Guido and come back to find Guido plus a knife. Now I sort of like
you, Bob, don't ask me why. I'd hate to think you would hold either my
informing or my mistake against me."
"Certainly not."
"Are you sure?"
"You know me, Trig."
Yamamura thought it over for a while. "Very well," he said. "Let's get
the descriptions, addresses, and whatever else you know."
When they had finished, they were silent a few seconds.
"Oh, what did you find out about Owens?" asked Kintyre.
"Wife and two grown children in New York. Started as a business
traveler, years ago; found that his hobby of writing paid more,
and quit to write full time; captain's commission during the war,
chairborne brigade in Washington--"
"If it takes a criminology degree to enter a bookstore, tell the clerk
you're just looking, and read a dust jacket biography, then I'm in the
wrong racket."
Yamamura settled himself more comfortably. "Owens has been hanging
around Berkeley for several days without obvious motive," he said.
"Addressed a writers' club Saturday night, but left early and was
presumably on the town. They say at the hotel he slept late on
Sunday, but no one remembers when he came in. Played some golf Sunday
afternoon, dropped from sight again that night. Since then he's been
simply--around. Bored, lonesome, but waiting for something or other."
"In short," said Kintyre, "it's possible he--"
"Did it personally? I don't know. Anything is possible, I guess. He may
just have been out on the make, too. The chambermaid at his hotel tells
me he's the pawing type. Of course, if the murder was done by proxy,
these timetables don't mean anything anyway."
"Of course," said Kintyre.
8
Bruce had shared an office with four other assistants, but they were
gone now. Bare of people, it had a hollow quality.
Kintyre went through the desk a final time. There was so little which
was personally a man's. A few scrawls on the memo pad, a scratch sheet
covered with intricate doodles, Margery's picture, some reference
books, and a fat folder of notes relating to his research: no more. It
could all be carried away in a single trip.
Kintyre attacked the remaining student papers. That was a mechanical
task; few freshmen nowadays ever showed much originality, except in
their spelling. Most of his brain idled. It occurred to him that one
common element bound together everyone who seemed to figure in this
affair. The Italian nation and culture.
Angelo, Maria, Guido Lombardi: All born in Genoa.
Bruce Lombardi: Born over here, but oriented toward the old country,
writing his master's thesis as a critical exegesis of a medieval
Italian manuscript, corresponding with an uncle in the Italian secret
service.
Corinna Lombardi: Well, Bruce's sister; spoke the language too.
Margery Towne: Bruce's girl. Admittedly a weak connection.
Himself, Robert Kintyre: Postgraduate studies of the Renaissance,
on a fellowship which kept him in Italy from 1949 to 1951; took his
Ph.D. at Cal with a study of those lesser known sociological writings
before Machiavelli which had influenced the Florentine realist;
returned overseas for a year ending last summer, on another grant to
continue his researches; now teaching and working on a book which only
specialists would ever read.
Jabez Owens: Visited Europe, including Italy, many times. Claimed,
as a semiamateur scholar, to have unearthed some lurid Borgia
correspondence, which he had turned to his own profit.
Gerald Clayton: Officer in the Army Quartermaster Corps in Italy,
during the latter part of the war. Returned there immediately after his
discharge, came back in a couple of years with the American franchise
for a new line of Italian motor scooters. Since then he spent half his
time abroad, pumping a steadily larger flow of European goods into the
United States market, everything from automobiles to perfumes. Also
interested in manuscripts. Had several tracked down for him by Italian
scholars, bought them, sent them home. He obtained the Book of Witches
in Sicily, and carried it along when business took him to San Francisco
last fall. Found Kintyre was the man to see, looked him up, asked him
to examine the volume for whatever value it had. Kintyre had turned
the project over to Bruce; it would make a good M.A. thesis. Clayton
had pungled up a couple of thousand dollars as a research grant: a
graceful way of making it financially possible for Bruce to give some
time to the task. Since then Clayton had frequently seen both Bruce
and Kintyre, and shown a real if not very deep interest in the boy's
progress.
Gene Michaelis: Served his Navy hitch in the Mediterranean theater.
Yes, Bruce had mentioned that. What might have happened during Gene's
Italian shore leaves was an intriguing question.
Peter Michaelis: Gene's father, as embittered as he toward the Lombardi
tribe.
Terry Larkin: No connection demonstrated, but it was quite possible in
this land of many races.
"Holy Hieronymus," muttered Kintyre, "next thing I'll be looking for a
Black Hand."
But melodramatic and implausible facts were still stubbornly facts.
He completed his task about noon, turned in the papers and reports, and
got the Book of Witches from the department safe. He wanted a better
acquaintance with this thing.
Bruce's office was too empty. He took the manuscript and the folder
of notes to his own room. It was just as bare and quiet between these
walls, but more familiar. He could look out the window to lawns and
blowing trees and sunlight spilling over them--without thinking that
Bruce lay frozen under a sheet.
He put the book on his desk with care. It was almost six hundred years
old.
The phone rang. He jerked in surprise, swore at himself, and picked it
up. "Hello?"
"Kintyre? Jabez Owens."
"Oh. What is it?"
"I called your home and you weren't in, so I tried--How are you?"
"I'll live. What's the occasion?"
"I wondered--I'd like to talk to you. Would you care to have lunch with
me?"
"No, thanks." Kintyre had better plans than to watch Owens perform.
"I'm busy."
"Are you sure?" The voice was worried.
"Quite. I'll be here for some hours. I'll just duck out for a
sandwich." Maliciously: "I've some work to do on Bruce's project.
Afterward--"
What? Well, he hadn't called Margery today. He supposed, with a faintly
suffocated feeling, that he ought to see her. "I have an engagement,"
he finished.
"Oh." Hesitantly: "Do you think I could drop up to your office, then?
It really is urgent, and it may be to your own advantage."
"Sure," said Kintyre, remembering his wish to play sleuth. "Walk into
my parlor." He gave Owens the room number and hung up. Then he returned
to the Book of Witches.
It was a thick palimpsest, a little over quarto size. The binding,
age-eaten leather with rusted iron straps, was perhaps a century newer
than the volume itself. He opened it, heavy in his hands, and looked at
the title page. _Liber Veneficarum_--
_Book of Witches, Their Works and Days, Compiled from Records and the
Accounts of Trustworthy Men, Done at the Sicilian Abbey of St. John the
Divine at the Command of the Abbot Rogero, for the Attention and Use of
the Authorities of Our Holy Mother Church._
When Clayton first brought it around, Kintyre had only skimmed
through the black uncials in a hasty fashion. He knew there had been
considerable Satanism in the Middle Ages, partly pagan survivals and
partly social protest, but that had not seemed to be in his immediate
line. A man has only time to learn a few things before the darkness
takes him back.
Now he opened Bruce's folder and began to read the notes. Some were
typewritten, some still in pothooks harder to decipher than the
fourteenth century Low Latin. But they were in order, and their own
references were clearly shown. Bruce had been a good, careful scholar.
Well--Kintyre turned to the first page. It was very plain work,
unilluminated. The opening sentences described the purpose: to set
forth exactly what the witchcraft movement was, how widespread and
how dangerous to the Faith and the state. Sources were given, with
some commentary on their trustworthiness. The Middle Ages did not lack
critical sense. The monk wrote soberly of witchcraft as a set of real
activities in the real world; he wasted very little time on the demons
presumed to be the object of worship.
Kintyre struggled with his memory, brought back an approximate
recollection of a later passage, and hunted for it again. Yes, here,
near the middle: an account of a thirteenth century witch hunt in
northern Italy, a follow-up to the Albigensian Crusade. The author
said that since then there had been no covens worth mentioning
north of Abruzzi, and cited proof--statements by Church and secular
investigators, a couple of confessions extracted by torture.
Bruce's notes at this point gave confirming cross references. A
penciled afterthought occurred: "If there were no organized Satanists
in the Romagna in 1398, it hardly seems reasonable that Cesare Borgia
could have joined them a century later!" Evidence was marshaled to
show there had been no revival in the meantime. Rather, the cults had
been on the wane throughout the fifteenth century, as prosperity and
enlightenment spread.
_Well_, thought Kintyre, _that does pretty well sink Owens' boat._
Something caught his eye. He leaned over the sheet. A fifteenth century
"discourse," an official report, in the state archives of Milan was
quoted to support the claim that there was no contemporary local Black
Mass. In the margin was scribbled "L.L."
Private abbreviations could be weird and wonderful, but Kintyre found
himself obscurely irritated. So much was unknown about Bruce's final
destiny, even an initial might tell something.
He found the letters several times more in the next hour, as he worked
his way through the volume and the notes. They seemed to mark findings
which could only be made in Italy: by going out and looking at a site,
or by reading in ancient libraries.
The telephone interrupted him again. He glanced at his watch. Two
o'clock already! He grew aware that he was hungry.
"Hello. Robert Kintyre speaking."
The voice in his ear was low. It stumbled the barest bit. "Professor
Kintyre. This is Corinna Lombardi."
"Oh." He sat gaping into the mouthpiece like a schoolboy, feeling his
heartbeat pick up. "Oh, yes," he said stupidly.
"I wanted to apologize to you."
"Hm?" With an effort, he pulled himself toward sense. "What the
dev--What in the world is there to apologize for?"
"Last night. I was horrible."
Habit took over, the smoothness of having known many women; but his
tone was burred. "Oh, now, please don't be silly. If you won't mind my
saying so at a time like this, I thought you were quite extraordinarily
pleasant to meet."
Did he catch the unsubstantial wisp of a chuckle? "Thank you. You're
very kind. But I did pull a regular Lady Macbeth. It was nerves. I was
tired and miserable. I hope you'll believe how sorry I've been all day.
I've spent the past half hour at the phone, trying to track you down."
"If I'd known that, I'd have laid a paper trail--Blast!" Kintyre
checked himself. "Now it's my turn to ask your pardon. I wasn't
thinking."
"It's all right," she said gently.
"No, but--"
"Really it is. Now that the requiem Mass has been held, the solemn one
Mother wanted--it was almost like a real funeral. Everything looks
different now."
"Yes, I saw the announcement. I couldn't come, I had to finish his
work."
"I could envy you that," she said. Then, with a lifting in her tone: "I
came back and slept. I woke up only an hour ago. It's like a curtain
falling. Bruce is dead, and that will always hurt, but we can go on now
with our own lives."
He hovered on the edge of decision, wondering what to do, afraid of the
ghoul she might think him. A line from _The Prince_ came: "_... it is
better to be impetuous than cautious, for fortune is a woman_--" All
right, he told himself.
"There's one thing, Miss Lombardi."
"Yes?" She waited patiently for him to sort out his words.
"I haven't forgotten what you did say last night. I went ahead and
looked into it, your ideas, I mean."
"Oh?" A noncommittal noise, not openly skeptical.
"I can tell you something you may feel better for."
"What?" Caution, now, not of him but of the thing he might say.
"The phone is hardly suitable. Could we get together in person?"
"Well--" It stretched into seconds, which he found unnaturally long.
Then, clearly, almost gaily: "Of course. Whenever you like."
"This evening? You're at your parents' home still, aren't you?"
"I'm going back to my own place today. But this evening will be fine."
He said with careful dryness: "Bearing in mind that I am a somewhat
respectable assistant professor of history and more than a decade your
senior, may I suggest dinner?"
She did actually chuckle that time. "Thank you, you may. No references
needed; Bruce told me enough about you. And it's a good deal better
than sitting alone brooding, isn't it?"
He had gotten the address and a six-thirty date before he wholly
realized what was going on. When the phone was back in its cradle,
he sat for some indefinite time. _Oh, no!_ he thought at last.
_Impossible. I'm too old to be romantic and too young to be tired._
He decided to eat before going back to the manuscript.
While he went out for a sandwich and milkshake, while he walked back
again, he twisted his attention to the problem of the book. It could
have wrought a man's death, or it could only be a stack of inked
parchment. Most likely the latter; but then who or what was L. L?
The building was gloomy when he re-entered it from sunlight. Even his
office seemed dark. It took his eyes a few seconds to register the fact
that the book was gone.
9
Kintyre stood for a little while more, scarcely thinking.
Then, during an instant, he had a vision of tiny black devils
fluttering through the half-open window, lifting the volume and
squeaking their way out on quick charred wings. But no, no, this was
the twentieth century. We are rational, we don't believe in witchcraft,
we are scientific and believe in vitamin pills, Teamwork, and the
inalienable right of every language to have a country of its own. Also,
the phase of the moon was wrong, and--and--
His mind steadied. He whirled about the desk, to see if the book had
somehow slid off. No. He snatched up the phone and called the main
office. Had anyone come into his room in the past twenty minutes? We
don't know, Dr. Kintyre. No, we did not pick up your book. No, we
didn't see anyone.
He put back the instrument and tried to start his thoughts. It was
curiously hard. He tended to repeat himself. Someone must have come in.
Yes, someone must have come in. It would be easy to do, unobserved.
Someone must have come in and taken the book.
What the hell had Margery's apartment been burgled for?
That snapped him back to wakefulness. If, as Clayton had suggested
yesterday, the burglar was after this volume and hadn't found it, the
University was the next logical place to try.
_Owens! I told him I'd go out to eat. He could have watched the
entrance._
But where was he now?--Wait. Close your eyes, let the mind float
free, don't strain too hard--memory bobbed to the surface. Owens had
mentioned taking a room in the Bishop, a hotel conveniently near campus.
Kintyre forced himself into steadiness. If Owens had copped the book,
Owens would want to get rid of it. Permanently. But leather and
parchment don't burn easily. Dumping it meant too much chance of its
being noticed and recovered. Owens would take it to Los Angeles with
him, to destroy at leisure.
He was probably packing at this moment.
Kintyre tucked Bruce's notes into a drawer which he locked: not that
they had any value without the physical evidence of the book. He went
down the hall fast, a pace he kept up on the outside. His brain querned
until he brought it under control. Damn it, Trig was right, there was
no reason on God's earth ever to tense any muscle not actually working;
and the same held true for the mind. An emotional stew would grind him
down and get him to the Bishop no sooner.
It was a hard discipline, though. Kintyre had no urge to embrace Zen
Buddhism, or any other faith for that matter; but he would have given
much to possess the self-mastery it taught.
He entered the modest red-brick building a few blocks from Sather Gate
and asked for Mr. Owens. The clerk checked the key rack and said: "Oh,
yes, he came in a few minutes ago."
"I'll go on up, I'm expected," said Kintyre. It was probably not a lie.
When he knocked on the writer's door, he heard himself invited in.
Owens had one suitcase open on the bed and was folding a coat into it.
Another stood strapped on the floor.
He looked up (was his color a shade more rubicund?) and said, "Hullo,
there. I'm glad you came by. I'm leaving tonight."
The voice was level. Perhaps too level. Kintyre closed the door and
said: "I thought you were going to come and see me in my office."
"Well, I was," said Owens. "I wanted to get my packing out of the way
first." He felt in the suitcase and brought out a pocket flask. "Care
for a drop?"
"No," said Kintyre.
He leaned in the doorway, watching. But he saw only that Owens stood
neatly attired, calm of face, steady of hands, putting up a linen suit.
"What brings you here?" asked the writer.