Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 14 - Murder in a Casbah of Cats (23 page)

I paused before opening my door. I made up my mind if I ran into anyone, I’d tell them the truth, that I was going to test my last desperate theory about the secret of the fireplace.

Chances were I was wrong, but at least I’d know.

The only sounds were the occasional rumbles of thunder reverberating through the old house. I made my way downstairs by the widely spaced night-lights along the base of the halls. Once in the library, I flipped on my flashlight and wound through the furniture to the fireplace.

I focused the beam on the painting within the painting. I studied the expression on the old gentleman’s face. The artist had endowed him with a very faint, cryptic grin, no more than an uptick of the lips, a curl of an eyebrow.

Leaning forward, I inspected the painting closely, noting the toe of the red lounging slipper touched the brick next to the wall on the bottom course.

A faint grumble of thunder rolled through the dark house. I glanced over my shoulder, then dragged the beam from the painting to the brick next to the wall. I knelt, hesitating to touch the
brick. I chided myself. Go ahead, Tony. At least, you’ll know one way or the other.

I pushed on the brick.

Nothing happened.

“I should have known better.” I pushed it again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

Then an idea hit me. Maybe it didn’t slide but pivoted.

I held the beam on the grout between the brick and those surrounding it. My heart skipped a beat when I spotted a thin gap between the brick and the grout, a gap as thin as sewing thread.

My hand shaking, I made a fist and just as another rumble of thunder rolled through the house, sharply tapped one end of the brick with the side of my doubled hand. I jerked back quickly as a soft, grating noise mingled with the thunder.

I swept the beam up the side of the fireplace, half expecting to see some sort of opening in the wall.

Nothing.

I rose quickly, playing the light over the hearth and into the firebox. I froze when the beam hit a black hole in the rear of the firebox. The fireback had pivoted open, providing an opening that appeared to be about two by four feet.

A wave of damp, moldy air bathed my face. And then I understood the air fresheners in the library.

My heart thudded against my chest. My lips were dry, my throat parched. I’d found the old man’s secret. And in a flash, I realized what had happened. I wanted to laugh, it was so simple. All Collins had to do after shooting Watkins was duck into the opening, light the gas logs, and close it behind him.

Seeing the fire blazing in the firebox, no one would ever dream the killer had utilized it for his escape. I hesitated, drawing
several deep breaths and releasing them slowly. The excitement of my discovery and what I would find in the 150-year-old tunnel had me almost hyperventilating.

Gingerly easing around the logs, I squeezed through the opening, realizing that any of the staff could fit through the gap. Frank, with his stomach, might have a difficult time, but he could make it.

Jimmy Vega, small and thin, could have danced through it. This had to be how that scuzz slipped inside.

The powerful little halogen beam lit a series of steps leading down several feet to a brick tunnel, supported by thick beams every few feet. The bricks were handmade, without any coloring.

At the base of the steps, the tunnel led in both directions. I started to my left, then froze, cutting my gaze back to the opening above. I mounted the steps and gently tugged on the fireback. To my relief, it slid shut.

Back down in the tunnel, I followed the one to the left for several yards to where it ended at a flight of wooden steps leading up between two walls.

Best I could figure, I was under the laundry room.

Easing up the steps, I reached the top. Gently I pushed on one wall. Nothing happened. I pushed on the other. It opened slightly, revealing the dim glow of a small bulb.

I caught my breath and quickly flipped off my light. I eased the wall open another few inches and peered inside. I had guessed right. The laundry room. As best as I could remember, I was behind the wall of shelves.

Hastily, I pulled the wall back into place and descended the steps.

By now, sweat dripped off my forehead and stung my eyes. My T-shirt was clinging to my skin. Slowly, I made my way along
the passageway, noting a few small chambers off the main tunnel, chambers I guessed where the first Herbert Watkins hid slaves from the owners and other Southern sympathizers. Some had rough tables, some a few hand-hewn chairs.

For the next several minutes, I eased along the tunnel. While bricks had fallen in places and water collected in spots, the shoring timbers appeared solid and firm.

Easing along the tunnel, I tried to keep my sense of direction in regard to where I would be on the grounds. Moving along a dark tunnel in a balloon of light provided no perspective. I wasn’t sure if I was angling to the left or right. The passageway seemed straight, but the darkness played havoc with my sense of direction.

Finally, I reached a flight of steps to the surface. I shined the beam of light upward and shook my head. “So that’s how they did it,” I muttered, staring up at the inside of one of the redbrick columns in the wrought-iron fence surrounding the estate.

I remembered how inset in the front and back of every column in the fence was a cast-iron oval almost six feet high with an image of the mansion in relief. And on the back of the insets in this particular column, I spotted a latch, which, when I released it, allowed the oval to pivot and provide enough room for a slender person to slip in or out. It was a tight fit, but possible to accomplish.

“Well, I’ll be,” I said, peering back across the grounds at Spooky Manor. “So this is how those bozos managed to vanish.”

Just before snapping the inset back in place, I looked at the mansion. It remained dark. Everyone still slept. Time to get back and contact Lieutenant Fenster.

The ball was in his court.

Playing the bright beam over the dark tunnel ahead, I spotted the mouth of a chamber ahead. Hercules darted into my beam of light and shot into the chamber.

I froze.

The cat hadn’t come in with me. I would have noticed. Either he was already in the tunnel, and I’d disturbed him, or else…

I didn’t want to answer the “or else.” I flashed the light into the chamber. A single table sat at the rear in front of the rear wall. “Where in the blazes did that cat go,” I growled, running the beam over the brick wall and the three heavy timbers supporting the beams. I looked again at the wall. There appeared to be a difference in the depth of the walls between the first and remaining two timbers.

Easing forward, I spotted a narrow alcove, perhaps eighteen inches deep, behind the first timber, and at the top of the wall, my beam played over a small opening eight to ten inches in diameter. My frown deepened when I failed to see Hercules.

Inspecting the opening closer, I felt a faint breath of fresh air. The old plantation owner had the foresight to put in a fresh air duct when he constructed the tunnel. Hercules was nowhere to be seen. No matter, I told myself. I’d discovered his secret means of coming and going.

I started back to the tunnel when I heard voices.

I flipped off my light and held my breath. The voices were muted. I pressed back against the brick wall, hoping the ancient timber would hide me.

I peered around the timber, spotting brilliant shafts of light slicing the darkness. The voices grew more intelligible, although the soft words were still garbled. One was feminine, the other male.

Then I heard the male voice say, “You’re sure?”

The female voice mumbled, “Yes.”

I didn’t recognize either one.

Without warning, a bright beam slashed back and forth across the chamber, tracing across the rear wall several times. The male growled. “Me, I think you be hearing things, girl. There ain’t nobody down here.”

Placide! That had to be the owner of the voice. I’d never met him, but that was Cajun dialect as sure as a Cajun’s hair is curly black like my unruly shock.

If that were Placide, then that meant the other voice had to be Gadrate.

The feminine voice whispered, “I tell you what, me, I hear noise.”

With a hint of sarcasm, he replied, “You sure you not be seeing things, girl? There ain’t nobody down here.”

Their voices grew fainter.

Feeling my way, I eased from the alcove and felt along the wall to the tunnel. Using my hand as a guide, I hurried toward the fireplace, hoping to get back to my room before the two returned.

I had been right, although I’d overlooked Placide. I should have figured he’d be part of it when I discovered he was in Austin instead of Morgan City. Still, I had their little scheme down pat. Now all I had to do was hand it over to the lieutenant and get back to a normal job.

I caught the scent of air freshener. The two had left the fireplace open. Placide must have been the one who dumped the spiders in my room.

And then I remembered something Frank Creek had said about spiders at the breakfast table the morning after Al Guzman had bought the farm. Henry had joked about the spiders in my bed, causing Frank to remark, “Those big black hairy ones can be mighty scary.”

I jerked to a halt there in the middle of the dark tunnel, puzzled. How did he know they were black and hairy? I hadn’t described them to anyone. Henry was the only one who saw them, and from the condition in which I put them, he had no idea what they looked like.

Voices from behind galvanized me into action. I scurried down the tunnel to the stairs, casting a glance over my shoulder every few seconds. Far back down the tunnel, I spotted the light. Luckily, the beam wasn’t powerful enough to reach me.

Pausing at the base of the steps, I flashed my beam above. A sigh of relief rolled off my lips when I saw the firebox was open.

Quickly, I climbed the steps, squeezed through the opening, and crawled over the gas logs into the dark library.

And then a thousand stars burst in my head.

Voices slowly pried through the thick fog of unconsciousness in which I lay. I tried to open my eyes, but my muscles refused to respond to the weak electrical signals my brain was trying to send.

“Look, he’s waking up.” The voice seemed familiar, but I couldn’t fit a name to it.

A deeper voice replied. “Yeah. His eyelids are flickering.”

A cold cloth patted my forehead and cheeks. “Tony. Tony. Wake up. Please wake up.” I recognized the soft, pleading voice as Edna’s.

Slowly I opened my eyes and stared up at a ring of faces staring down at me. I blinked once or twice. Gadrate tilted my head and touched the rim of a cup to my lips.

Edna urged me. “Drink some,”

Still groggy, I sipped from the cup. The cool water was like heaven to my parched lips and tongue.

Edna’s gentle face came into my line of sight. “Just take it easy. You’ll be all right.”

Henry agreed. “Yeah. You scared me when I saw you on the floor. Thought maybe you’d had a heart attack or something.”

Their words were coming too fast for my befuddled brain to comprehend. I grimaced. “What…” I looked around. I was lying on the couch.

Frank Creek hurried in, his wrinkled face twisted in concern. “What happened? Is he all right?”

Gadrate removed the cup from my lips. “Us, we don’t know. He just be waking up.”

Her voice cut through the fog in my brain. Those minutes in the tunnel came flashing back. I sat up abruptly, staring at Gadrate. “You! What are you doing here?”

The slightly built Cajun jerked back, surprised. “What you talking about, boy?”

Henry exclaimed. “Tony! What’s wrong with you?”

I shook off his hand and pointed at Gadrate. “It was her. I saw her down in the tunnel.” I tried to stand.

Edna gasped. “Tony! What on earth are you talking about?”

Frank pushed through and laid his hand on my arm. “Easy, boy, easy. Calm down. Sit back down and tell us what happened.”

My head started spinning, forcing me to close my eyes and grab the back of the couch. I moaned, not resisting as they gently pushed me back on the cushions.

A cold, damp cloth covered my forehead. The back of my head throbbed.

Frank’s gravelly voice cut through the confusion spinning about in my head. “What tunnel?”

I ran the tip of my tongue over my dry lips and managed to croak. “I got hit. The back of my head. Jeez, it feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it.”

A hand ran under the back of my head. Edna exclaimed. “He’s got a dandy of a knot back there.”

Somewhere in the tangled confusion in my head, I expected someone to wisecrack that it matched the one on my forehead, but no one did.

Henry cut in, “You said tunnel. Did you find a way in?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I found a way in.” I opened my eyes and looked up at him. “Gadrate. She was there. Someone else. Placide, maybe.”

“Mère sainte!”
I heard a squeal of protest followed by calming voices soothing Gadrate’s sputtering protestations.