The Djinn (7 page)

I took a
cigarette from my shirt pocket and lit it, “I don’t know, Anna. I only
suggested that someone was trying to scare us because I can’t think what else
it could possibly be. I know it doesn’t make sense.”

“It could be
a djinn
,” Anna said simply.

“There’s only
one way to find out
There’s
a shed round the back
where they keep the tools and stuff. Do you want to come with me? I’m going to
find a crowbar,”

“If you think
I’m going to stay in this creepy place on my own..,”

We walked
silently back up the corridor, then down the stairs, through the drawing room
and the kitchen, and out the back door. Outside, there was a soft warm wind
blowing from the land to the sea, and creamy blue clouds were covering the
stars. We crunched down the gravel drive to the tool shed and opened it up. It
was very dark inside, but I knew where Max always used to keep his
flashlight-hanging up on the right side of the door. Anna stayed close, looking
around at the house from time to time and shivering.

“Are you cold?”
I asked her.

“No,” she
shuddered. “Just plain old-fashioned scared.”

I found the
flashlight, switched it on, and rummaged through the garden tools for a crowbar
or something similar. In the end, I made do with a pick. Swinging the
flashlight, I started to walk with Anna back to the house. I whistled a few
bars of Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to work we go between my teeth, just to make
myself feel more cheerful.

We went in
through the back door, across the kitchen, and into the drawing room. We were
halfway to the hall when the lights blinked on, and there by the front door
stood Marjorie and Miss Johnson in their black overcoats and mourning hats.

“Marjorie!” I
said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

For some
reason, Marjorie didn’t seem very interested or pleased to see me. She turned
to Miss Johnson and said, “Close the door.” Then she stepped rather
mechanically into the drawing room. “We’ve been for a walk.”

“Are you
feeling okay?” asked Anna. “You look a little tired.”

Marjorie passed
a black-gloved hand lightly over her forehead. “Yes,” she said. “I am tired.”

Miss Johnson
came into the room and stood awkwardly beside Marjorie, like an ugly daughter
who is constantly aware that her mother outshines her.

“Mrs. Greaves,”
whispered Miss Johnson. “I’ll make your milk.”

“Thank you,”
said Marjorie. “Would you like some milk, Harry?”

I glanced at
Anna and frowned. There seemed to be something wrong with Marjorie, something
more than regret and exhaustion. She stood there stiff and immobile; her dark
eyes seemed to be focused miles and miles away. Or perhaps it was years and
years.”

“I... er...
think I’ll skip the milk, thanks,” I said uncomfortably. “I’m a Jack Daniels
man myself.”

I attempted a
small chuckle, but it sounded very flat in that vast mournful drawing room.

Marjorie didn’t
seem to have heard me. She walked across to the old settee and sat down in the
same place I had imagined the hooded figure was sitting. I coughed, hefted the
pick in my hand, and said, “Oh, well, it’s time to start work. This won’t take
long.”

Marjorie looked
up. “Where are you going with that?” she asked coldly.

I frowned.
“Er... upstairs.”

“To open the
turret?” asked Marjorie.

“That’s right.
I mean, when you said it was sealed up, you weren’t kidding. All we have to do
is...”

“Take it back.”

I blinked. This
was a Marjorie I hadn’t seen before. She was composed and frigid and
authoritarian. Maybe the grief and shock of Max’s sudden death had gotten through
to her at last.

“Marjorie,’ I
said patiently, “If we’re going to open the turret and remove the jar, we’re
going to have to break the door down. There’s no other way. That door has iron
bars, a wax seal, and God knows what else.”

“We’re not
going to open the turret and get the jar out,” said Marjorie. “The jar must be
allowed to stay where it is.”

“Marjorie, what
are you saying? That jar has been upsetting you and Max for years, and I really
believe that-”

“What you
believe is not important,” interrupted Marjorie. “I appreciate your interest,
Harry, and yours, Miss Modena, but now I’m tired, and I would like you to go.”

“Marjorie-”

Miss Johnson
interrupted me. “It’s been a difficult day for Mrs. Greaves, sir. I think she’s
right.”

“I couldn’t
care less what you think,” I said. “There’s something weird about that jar and
it needs to be looked at. I don’t care if it’s natural or supernatural, it’s
unhealthy. Jesus, Marjorie,
it’s
bad enough taking all
the pictures down, without giving free room and board to a goddamned pot.”

Miss Johnson
almost seemed to flinch. “Sir,” she said, “you don’t have to-”

“I don’t have
to listen to garbage like this, that’s what I don’t have to do. Marjorie, I’m
annoyed.

Anna and I just
spent our entire afternoon looking through Max’s papers and diaries, and now
you’re throwing us out. I know today was his funeral, and I know you’ve been
under a strain, but you said yourself that the quicker we got this over with
the better. It won’t take five minutes just to-”

“I’ve changed
my mind,” said Marjorie quietly. “The jar will stay exactly where it is.”

Anna shook her
head. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greaves, but it can’t.”

“It must. My
husband willed it.”

“Mrs. Greaves,”
said Anna. “The jar didn’t even belong to your husband. The jar is the property
of the government of Iran. It’s quite priceless, and
it’s
part of that country’s heritage. It has to go back to its original owners.”

Marjorie lifted
her head and stared at Anna with her beady shrimp’s eyes. “As long as I am
alive,” she said, “that jar will not be moved. That is my final word.”

Anna sighed.
“In that case, I will probably have to take action in the courts against you
for repossession of the jar, apart from a whole long list of other contraband
antiquities which are still in the house.”

“You can do
what you like,” repeated Marjorie. “The jar will not be touched.”

There was a
long and awkward silence. Then I said, “Come on, Anna. I think we’d better
leave it where it is for tonight. Do you want a ride?”

Anna nodded.
“I’ll get my hat.”

I turned to
Marjorie and tried to sound warm and conciliatory and nice. “Listen,” I said.

“Supposing I
drop by at lunchtime tomorrow and treat myself to one of your delicious tuna
salads? Then, we can talk this over some more.”

Marjorie turned
away. “It’s late,” she said calmly. “You had better take your young lady and
go”

“Marjorie-”

“Just go,
Harry, before you stir up any more trouble.”

I stayed where
I was. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I said sharply. “What do you mean stir
up trouble?”

“Exactly that,”
Marjorie replied quietly. “By attempting to learn more about the jar, you have
unsettled it. It knows you are here, and it wishes you to leave at once. Every
moment you remain in this house, it becomes more and more uneasy. For all our
sakes, it would be better if you left”

For a moment, I
felt like arguing, but Anna took my arm, and I let out a long exasperated sigh
and gave in. Maybe the whole thing would look better tomorrow. I took my pick
out with me and propped it up against the front porch.

Marjorie and
the homely Miss Johnson stood silently in the doorway watching us leave. They
didn’t even wave or smile.

As we turned
around and started off down the drive, Anna twisted around in her seat to take
a last look at Winter Sails.

“Take a good
long look while you’re at it,” I said bitterly. “I expect she’ll have it burned
down by tomorrow. I haven’t been so goddamned furious in years.”

Anna didn’t
seem to be listening. “Does she have two companions?” she asked urgently.

“What?”

“Your
godmother-does she have two companions?
Miss Johnson and
someone else?”

I shrugged.
“Not that I know of.”

“Well, who’s
that then? Look in your mirror. “

I quickly
checked my rear-view mirror. I couldn’t look for very long, because the
driveway was dark and winding, but I saw the silhouettes o£ Marjorie and Miss
Johnson andI jammed on the brakes. The Cougar slithered and bucked on the weedy
gravel,
I stared back at the house, then looked at
Anna with my mouth open. “I don’t know,” I said hoarsely. “I only caught a
glimpse. It looks like that person in the robe.”

“Do you think
we ought to go back?” asked Anna nervously. “I would never forgive myself if
anything happened to those two.”

I thought for a
while drumming my finger on the steering wheel. The front door of Winter Sails
was closed now, and there were no lights showing. In the distance, the surf
gleamed fluorescent white through the darkness.

“Oh, what the
hell,” I said at last. “I’ve had enough of this for one day. They’ve probably
got a guest there they don’t want me to meet. I don’t know why, but I’m too
hungry to go back and find out. Let’s find ourselves some dinner and decide
what to do on a full belly.”

I released the
brakes, and we drove off into the murky night. I felt worried and unsettled
about Marjorie, but there are times when godsonly devotion can be overcome by
irritation, fatigue, and a desire to entertain comely girls.

Over steak and
salad in the candlelit restaurant of the Cape Cod Motel, Anna and I talked some
more about djinns and Arabian magic and Marjorie’s mysterious behavior. We had
stopped to pick up Anna’s suitcase at Hyannis Airport, and she had changed into
something more becoming than her funeral suit. She wore a simple white evening
dress, low-cut and silky, which showed off her sun-tanned shoulders and an
inviting amount of cleavage. In the restaurant, there was Californian burgundy,
plenty of hot rolls, piped music, laughter, plush decor, and reality.

After the
events of the day, reality was something that both Anna and I sorely needed.

“Look at it
this way,” I said through a mouthful of steak. “Just because Max Greaves had
the jar of djinns in the house, that doesn’t mean that the jar was responsible
for his behavior. If you ask me, it was the other way around. Max went off his
head and made everybody think it was the jar that was doing it”

Anna shrugged.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m trying to keep an open mind. You have to admit
that he went to an awful lot of trouble to seal up the jar in the authentic
ancient way.”

“Of course he
did. Eccentrics always do. They have a passion for detail. Half the time, he
probably thought he was a Persian magician from the fifth century B.C.”

“I’d like to
know more about the faces,” said Anna.

“What faces?”

“The portraits,
the pipe, and all those magazines with the pictures cut out. His own face, if
it comes to that. There must have been a reason for it.”

“We could
always ask Dr. Jarvis.”

“Is he the
family doctor?”

I nodded. “He’s
been looking after Max and Marjorie for a coon’s age. I think if I talk to him
in just the right way, he might tell me what happened. I had measles once when
I was staying at Winter Sails, and I kind of made friends with him. He’s very
proper, but if I tell him I’m worried about Marjorie...”

Anna grated
some black pepper over her steak. “It’s worth a try. If you do that, I’ll have
a talk with Professor Qualt out at New Bedford.”

“Qualt?
Who’s he?”

“You must have
heard of Gordon Qualt. He’s America’s foremost expert in ancient folklore and
Middle Eastern culture.”

“Why the hell
should I have heard of him?”

Anna smiled.
“Don’t get so offended. He was in the newspapers not long ago when they turned
up that marble-smuggling racket out of Iraq. He’s very keen on keeping
treasures in the environment where they were originally created/’

I stabbed a
piece of pickle. “I agree with him. I hate to see people losing their marbles.”

“You’re
impossible,” laughed Anna. “I’m glad I found out what you were like before I
asked you to read my fortune. I might have believed it.”

“Were you going
to ask me to read your fortune?”

She made big
foxy eyes at me. They sparkled in the soft candlelight, and somehow I had the
feeling that she was thinking of making a play for me. Don’t ask me how, it was
just one of those remarkable intuitions that we clairvoyants are prone to.

“Well,” I said,
“you mustn’t let my naturally suspicious nature put you off. I do tell a very
mean fortune.”

“Will you read
mine?”

“Sure, what do
you want? Palm reading, Tarot, tea leaves, or crystal ball? I can even read the
bumps on your head.”

She laughed.
“What are you best at?”

“After I’ve
read your fortune, I’ll show you.”

We finished our
steaks and ordered Irish coffee. The piped music was playing a treacly version
of “Samba Pa Ti,” and at the next table, a man with a loud tie and a large
mustache was laughing in great uncontrolled shouts. A middle-aged woman wobbled
past us in purple nylon ski pants, silver shoes, and a green-rinsed, gray,
beehive hairdo. Her husband, in yellow and red plaid, looked like a character
out of the Sunday funnies.

“What kind of a
guy is Qualt?” I asked Anna. “Do you know him personally? I mean, do you think
he’ll help us?”

“He’s very
sensitive and very understanding. I used to have a crush on him at the university.
I guess Qualt is one reason why I’m doing the job I’m doing. I was always
interested in antiques, but he really turned me on to this whole thing of
restoring Middle Eastern antiquities to their rightful owners.”