Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town
Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow
autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the
steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor,
a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said
"MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD." Tremaine opened the door and went in.
A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at
Tremaine.
"We're closed," he said.
"I won't be a minute," Tremaine said. "Just want to check on when the
Bram property changed hands last."
The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. "Bram?
He dead?"
"Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place."
The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. "He ain't going to
sell, mister, if that's what you want to know."
"I want to know when he bought."
The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. "Come back tomorrow," he said.
Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. "I was hoping
to save a trip." He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw.
A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man's eyes darted toward
it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.
"See what I can do," he said.
It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where
a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a
line written in faded ink:
"May 19. Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid. NW Quarter
Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)"
"Translated, what does that mean?" said Tremaine.
"That's the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the
nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?"
"No, thanks," Tremaine said. "That's all I needed." He turned back to
the door.
"What's up, mister?" the clerk called after him. "Bram in some kind of
trouble?"
"No. No trouble."
The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. "Nineteen-oh-one,"
he said. "I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be
dern near to ninety years old. Spry for that age."
"I guess you're right."
The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. "Lots of funny stories about
old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and
lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place."
"I've heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn't you say?"
"Maybe so." The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look.
"There's one story that's not superstition...."
Tremaine waited.
"You--uh--paying anything for information?"
"Now why would I do that?" Tremaine reached for the door knob.
The clerk shrugged. "Thought I'd ask. Anyway--I can swear to this.
Nobody in this town's ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup."
* * * * *
Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco
facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a
paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.
"You'll find back to nineteen-forty here," the librarian said. "The
older are there in the shelves."
"I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far."
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 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."