11 Harrowhouse (22 page)

“They didn't used to but sometimes they do now.”

She was right. Chesser remembered reading about the Bobbies now being frequently allowed to carry revolvers.

“Know why they decided to carry guns?” Maren asked.

Chesser asked why, knowing she was going to tell him regardless.

“So they could shoot back for a change,” she said smugly. Having had the last word she picked up Chesser's Mauser by its muzzle and handed it to him. In the transfer he almost dropped it.

He didn't particularly like the feel of it and he had to force his fingers to grip.

She gestured toward the dummy, offering him the target.

He stood wrong, full front, facing it, brought the Mauser up and jerked the trigger. The bullet missed the dummy entirely, zinged off the granite foundation wall behind it and ricocheted several times, making them duck.

“You jerked,” she said.

He was surprised that he'd missed. Maren had made it seem so easy.

“You've got to squeeze the trigger,” she told him. “I know you know how to squeeze.”

She removed the clip from his gun and had him place his finger over hers on the trigger so he could feel what she meant by squeezing. She showed him how to stand and told him how his breathing could affect his accuracy.

Chesser told himself he was only humoring her by paying attention. After the fundamentals, she rammed the loaded clip back into the gun and cocked.

“The best way to get good at it is to pretend you're dead if you miss,” she said.

He pretended that, really concentrated, and squeezed. The bullet thumped into the lower part of the dummy.

“Got her that time!” shouted Chesser.

“Yeah,” said Maren, not impressed, “right between the ovaries.”

“What's the difference?”

“Go for the heart.”

He shot again and again. Maren loaded clips while he fired them off, round after round. Some hits. But mostly misses that zinged around their heads like deadly bees.

Half past noon the following day. Chesser was seated in a rear pew at St. Paul's.

About a hundred others were scattered throughout the vast cathedral. They had chosen places most distant from one another, as though such separateness might bring them in greater proximity to God.

Chesser wasn't there to pray. He hadn't said a prayer since he was fifteen. He glanced up and was paying some respect to the structural genius of Christopher Wren when Maren sidled into the pew.

“You were supposed to meet me at one thirty. Outside.” He said it at normal level but his voice seemed to boom in this well-built womb, where it is said one can hear a tear drop.

A few old heads turned to condemn.

“Shh,” remonstrated Maren. Then she whispered, “I suspected you were meeting someone.”

“I am.”

“Who?”

“You don't know him.”

“It has to do with our project, doesn't it?”

Chesser nodded. He'd intended to tell Maren about Watts. But not until afterward. Because Watts was a long shot, his best bet, but still a long shot.

“I want to be included in everything,” said Maren. Chesser shrugged. He took a prayer book from the rack in front of him, riffled its pages for no particular reason. He noticed part of one page had been torn out. He wondered irreverently if someone had done it to get rid of a wad of chewing gum.

“I talked to Mildred,” Maren said.

“What did Jean Marc have to say this time?” asked Chesser, not really interested.

“I didn't talk through her, just to her.”

“Oh.”

“She's going to help us.”

“You didn't tell her about our project, did you?”

“Not everything.”

Chesser closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Don't worry,” Maren assured, “we can trust her. If there's anyone in this world I'm sure I can trust, it's Mildred.”

Chesser thought he detected some personal implication in that and decided he'd be better off not pushing the loyalty issue. Just because Maren hadn't mentioned his recent infidelity didn't mean she didn't know about it.

“Mildred won't tell a soul,” declared Maren. “You do believe in Mildred, don't you?”

Chesser gazed at the far-away altar for a moment. He nodded.

That pleased Maren. “I keep forgetting that you've never met her. She talks about you so much. Anyway, I've asked her over tonight.” She slid closer, to get arm in arm with him. “We can use all the help we can get. Mildred will put us in touch with someone on the other side who can guide us.”

“What about your Chinaman?” asked Chesser, referring to Maren's invisible
aide-de-vie
.

A quizzical look from her. She hadn't given the supernatural Oriental a single thought since she'd started with Mildred. Now she glanced around as though expecting him to be there. “He hasn't been with me lately,” she said, “and neither has Billie Three Rocks.”

“I always figured we could count on dear, departed Billie,” said Chesser.

“We can. He's just taking some time off.”

“I suppose everyone needs a vacation, even a dead Indian.”

Maren nodded. “He'll be around when we need him.”

“Maybe they've both given up on you.”

“No.” She was sure. “They're supposed to see me through, all the way, to the very last.”

Chesser saw Watts then, coming down the near aisle from the direction of the altar. Evidently he'd come in through a side entrance. He was squinting, searching for Chesser, who signaled discreetly.

Watts caught it. He came to the end of the pew, hesitated, then side-stepped in to sit next to them.

Chesser and Watts shook hands. Watts's skin felt extremely dry to Chesser. Maren was introduced. She had set a pleasant expression on her face, while her eyes studied this mild, ordinary-looking man. Her imagination had expected someone strong and insidious. Watts smiled gently and viewed her youthful beauty with respect.

Chesser got right to it. “I've a favor to ask of you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Two favors, actually. The first is that you drop all the sirs.”

“All right,” agreed Watts, a bit embarrassed.

“I've been thinking,” said Chesser, “about that friend of yours.”

“Which friend?” Watts almost said sir again.

“You told me about him that afternoon at the Connaught. The one who had only a few months to live.”

Watts didn't blink an eye. “What about him?”

“Well, I think we may be able to help one another.”

“Help?”

“Yes. From what you told me, your friend has a financial problem caused by the unsympathetic regulations of the firm he works for.”

A nod from Watts.

Chesser reached into his jacket pocket. Brought out a once-folded check. He unfolded it and put it on his left knee. It was one of the certified checks supplied by Massey and signed M. J. Mathew by Chesser. Made out for two hundred thousand dollars. Payable to Charles Watts.

Watts looked at it for a long time.

Chesser decided at that moment he was going to give Watts the check whether he cooperated or not.

From seeing his name on the check, Watts realized Chesser knew the friend was a figment. However, Watts chose to continue with it. It was better for both of them, more comfortable. He asked, “How can my friend help you?”

“By supplying me with some information about the place where he works.”

“What sort of information?”

“As much as he knows. Especially about the arrangement of things beneath the ground floor.”

“My friend knows all about that.”

“I'm sure he does.”

“But it won't be necessary to pay him. He'll be glad to do it.”

A smile from Chesser. “I'm pleased to hear that's the sort of friend he is. However, I must insist on paying. It's worth it to me to know the details.” He shoved the check into Watts's jacket pocket, which was already bulging with something.

“My lunch,” explained Watts.

“I hope we haven't taken up too much of your time,” Chesser said, and wished immediately he hadn't.

A polite smile from Watts. “I often come here anyway,” he said, glancing toward the altar.

“When do you think I'll be hearing from your friend?”

“In two or three days, at the most.”

“Perhaps by the weekend. How is your friend at remembering numbers?”

“Quite good.”

“He should remember 387–9976.”

Watts repeated the number aloud.

“He'll probably call from a public booth,” suggested Chesser.

“I'll make certain he does.”

That was that. Chesser and Maren got up. They left Watts there in the pew. From the aisle Chesser looked back and saw that Watts was already kneeling.

CHAPTER 14

M
ILDRED CLIMBED
up onto the plush couch. She finally got settled against a back cushion, but sitting as she was, the couch was too deep for her. The front edge of it hit her about mid-calf, so her stubby little legs had to extend straight out, displaying her thick, rubber-soled shoes.

As though sensing Chesser's disapproval of her unsightly feet, Mildred complained: “Lor', there's nothing worse than foot trouble. Oooooh,” she moaned, down-scale, “such suffering I've had—fallen arches, bunions, the lot.”

Maren sympathized.

Mildred was inspired to continue. “Last month I was gimping about with a horrible ingrown toenail. My right big one, sore as blazes. Had to get me to the clinic at St. George's to have it properly fixed. Nice gentleman he was too, the foot doctor. Not all high-nosed and mighty like those Harley Street butchers who charge a fiver for doing nothing.”

Chesser looked away and signaled Siv that he desperately needed a drink. He tried to think of any excuse that might get him out of the room but, to please Maren, he decided he'd better stay and suffer. His preconception of Mildred had not been entirely wrong. She was just more grotesque than he'd imagined. An animate stump less than four feet tall; her torso and limbs looked as though they had attempted to grow but had been prohibited by some cruel compressing device. Only her head was normal size; however, it appeared larger than normal. She had hyperthyroid eyes, lashes beaded heavily with mascara, brows completely plucked to accommodate dark-penciled lines drawn too high on her forehead. Extreme exaggeration of the already bizarre. Face layered with white, lavender-scented powder, cheeks smudged with orange rouge, thin lips overpainted despite her large mouth, which resembled that of a ventriloquist's dummy. And framing all this was an abundance of her hair streaming down below her shoulders—brassy, orangeish dyed hair that had been tortured by a curling iron. She wore it middle-parted, lying open like a wound to reveal the pale flesh of her scalp and some darker new growth.

Chesser didn't like her. When he'd first looked down on her, he disliked her and now he was totally repulsed. It wasn't because she was a dwarf. Actually it was a complete lack of that sort of prejudice that allowed Chesser to feel, honestly, as he did. Nearly everyone's reaction to Mildred was immediate pity for her unfortunate proportions. But Chesser didn't give her that advantage. He saw her as a person and believed there was no reason for her being so garish and distasteful. After all, she could have been a regular, nice-enough dwarf.

Understandably, the repugnance Chesser felt toward Mildred affected his opinion of her claim to extraordinary powers. Dubious to begin with, he was now certain that the small medium was no more than a supernatural fraud. It annoyed Chesser that he had to put up with her. But he had to. There was no alternative. Simply because Maren had already confided in Mildred, had told her about the project, thereby making Mildred a full-fledged accomplice. Chesser couldn't imagine anything worse than trusting his fate to this loquacious, unpredictable opportunist.

Now he tried not to look at those awful shoes. Maren was on the floor near the couch, a position of homage. Siv came in, wheeling a drink cart. Maren asked Mildred's preference.

“Buttermilk,” ordered Mildred, “with a spot of gin.”

Chesser blanched.

“My old dad never drunk anything else,” said Mildred, “when he could afford it.”

“I doubt that we have any buttermilk,” said Maren apologetically.

Mildred was disappointed.

“How about some Epsom salts and brandy?” suggested Chesser. That got him a quick disapproving look from Maren.

Mildred noticed and made the most of it. She acted victimized, lowered her eyes, shifted her bottom, and primped at the yellowed, tatted cotton bodice of her black dress. “Never mind,” she murmured, subdued.

Maren's eyes sent a
now see what you've done
look at Chesser. Then she turned to Mildred and urged, “Do have something.”

Mildred shook her head.

“How about some nice old Spanish sherry?” asked Maren.

Or some nice old Spanish fly, thought Chesser.

Mildred sniffled.

Chesser was handed a glass of his favorite Scotch by Siv, and barely managed not suggesting Mildred consider Lysol and vermouth, heavy on the Lysol.

“Please have something,” entreated Maren.

Mildred finally raised her eyes to the drink cart and capitulated: “Just a touch of gin, then. Neat with no ice.”

Siv, who Chesser felt was currently his only ally, poured Mildred a good four fingers of straight Tanqueray. Mildred took a delicate sip for an overture and then tossed down about half the gin in two consecutive gulps. She pretended polite dabs at her mouth with a napkin that she crushed into a ball as she brought her look to Chesser. A long, steady gaze. “How unusual,” she declared.

“What?” asked Maren, eyes sparkling, sensing that Mildred was onto something psychic.

“He has the most amazing aura,” said Mildred.

Chesser glanced down expecting to see his fly open.