Tea with the Black Dragon - Страница 25

“I will tell you when we get there.”

Fred looked at the clock. “It’s just after four. You say Liz is safe until the banks open?”

“I hope so. Until Rasmussen and Threve believe they have the incriminating letter, they dare not kill the daughter.”

“But what about… Mrs. Macnamara?”

Mr. Long’s answer was slow in coming. “She is in terrible danger. The only reason they have for keeping her alive is that she can be used to pressure the daughter. If they believe this is not necessary, or if Martha refuses—has refused—to be so used, then they can be expected to kill her. And after they are done with her, they must kill her. She is a curious, sharp woman who has probably seen at least one of them face to face. How can they let her live?”

Fred’s face clouded over, remembering the blue dress and the graying hair, and how the little voice-operated race car made circles on the floor. It was the sort of happening he fostered in his shop. That’s what the shop was for: friendly computers. Friendly people.

“Can’t the police help?” he asked.

“How? Tell me how, Fred, and I will show up on the precinct house doorstep with you. I cannot find Rasmussen or Threve…”

“Threve I never heard of. What does he look like?”

“Like Satan himself, I gather. Elizabeth fears him more than she does Rasmussen. Other than that, I know only that he is rather short and dresses loudly. “I believe he drives a black Lincoln. At least I suspect such a car was involved with the kidnapping, and I didn’t see it parked at RasTech. With no more information than this, can the police find Martha Macnamara? That is, can they find her in time? I am sure they would eventually turn up the body.”

Frisch shuddered. “Jeez! Do you get hardened to things like this?”

“Do I?” inquired Long. “The longer one lives, the more one sees, it is true, but I don’t feel hardened. Quite the contrary, in my youth I was far more… brutal.”

“Then you’re in the wrong line of work,” insisted Fred. “No offense. I think a guy who could thrive in such a slimy world, with fraud and criminals, always a bit to the windward of the law… he’d have to be kind of a snake.”

Long leaned over curiously. “What are you talking about, Fred. Which world is this?”

“I mean the world of the private investigator. Or police investigator. Any detective.”

“Ah.” Mr. Long digested this, and began again to laugh, ignoring the lancing pain in his shoulder, “You believe I’m a private detective.”

“You’re not?” Fred’s eyes darted wildly from the road to the smiling, tired face beside him. “Then what—who are you? How’d you get involved in this?”

Mr. Long sighed. “Starting with what I am: my field was languages, but I am now retired. Who is equally easy to explain. I am a friend of Martha Macnamara’s. How? Easiest of all. I promised her I would find her daughter. So you see. You have been aiding a bumbling amateur to trespass and steal documents. Have you second thoughts?”

Fred was staunch. “Jeez, no. I’m glad. I mean, there’s something seamy about carrying the banner for money. But, Martha. Mrs. Macnamara. I’m really sorry. She seemed like a fine lady.”

“No eulogies yet, please,” growled Long. “I don’t believe her to be dead. Allow me that.”

The car glided to a stop in front of Frisch’s duplex. He left it double parked. Both men got out.

Fred felt the keys of the car being pried from his hand. Half-embarrassed at his earlier show of force, he let them go and fumbled for his door key.

With the front door open, he turned to perceive that Mr. Long was not with him, but was unlocking the Citroen from the driver’s side. Fred sprinted across the lawn.

“What’re you doing?” he protested. “Trying to chuck me?”

“Yes, Fred. That is exactly it,” Long admitted, gently fending the young man off. “I had hoped you would not be so quick.”

“You can’t do it. I won’t let you go alone!”

Long placed his right hand on Frisch’s shoulder. It was an affectionate, avuncular gesture and Frisch found he could not move at all. “You can hardly stop me, Fred.”

Fred fought against Long’s grip. Defeated, he tried words again. “If you leave me behind, I’ll call the police.”

The dark man turned his face away and the hand slipped off. “I can’t prevent that,” he admitted. “Not without harming or detaining you. And I won’t do that.” He slid into the seat.

Fred wedged himself between the door and frame. “But you need me. There are two baddies, and you have only one arm.”

“Acrobatics may not be necessary,” repeated Mr. Long.

“But they may. I may make a little bit of difference. Maybe the difference between saving a life and… and not. I may be very important.” The young blond clutched at the door. His pale hair gleamed under the streetlight.

“You are very important, Fred,” whispered Mayland Long. “And that is why I will not take you any further into this.”

With a slow, irresistible pressure, he forced Frisch out into the street.

Chapter 14

Martha Macnamara’s universe was compassed by the groan and creak of wood, and by the chill of wet air. Had she been able to think, her very sickness might have convinced her she was still alive. She was denied that comfort, being barely conscious, and her thoughts were bound up with a rhythmic rise and sinking. The beat was molto lento, and she should be doing something in time with it. What?

That question gnawed at her. She tried breathing in time with the measure—no go. You can’t force your breathing, she reminded herself. What then—sing? She couldn’t remember a song as ponderous as the rhythm the world now kept, and she couldn’t find her mouth anyway.

Neither could she find her hands, so she couldn’t play the fiddle.

The staccato beat of footsteps superimposed itself over the slow rocking. She attended to the footsteps. Good.

Percussion rounded out the work nicely. Someone was taking care of things. Martha was content.

He was driving on the reserve tank. That was unfortunate, but not to be helped, at this hour of the morning. Perhaps he could siphon gas from Elizabeth Macnamara’s car.

As he had told Fred, he was feeling much better. This hideous night was falling behind him.

Something else, too, was falling behind: a danger or misery he could feel but to which he could put no name.

Perhaps it was despair.

He had partially fulfilled his promises, but promises were no longer the only things keeping him alive.

He felt the pressure of the sun’s approach, as it ate up the night to the east. In two hours it would rise over California. The sun had always been a great source of comfort to him.

Yet he owed his increase in strength not to the slow roll of time, but to the spontaneous kindness of Fred Frisch. Except for the young engineer, he would probably not have survived. He felt the wonder of that charity shimmering within his mind.

Long could be compassionate, in his dry, reserved fashion. He had once or twice donated his varied and considerable strengths to the service of others. But he had rarely been subject to the compassion of mankind. He had rarely needed it.

And Frisch’s response to a man who was almost a stranger went beyond casual kindness. He had given up sleep and ruined his furniture. Long injured the mans arm, and still he continued to help him. He risked jail. He offered to risk his life. How could Long comprehend such kindness, let alone pay it back? Like music, Frisch’s gift to him could not be translated into terms of gain or loss. Nor was it subject to reason. It had no meaning but that of its own existence.

Idly, because he was a methodical creature who did think in terms of gain and loss. Long began to tally the losses and gains of the last few days: loss of power. Loss of blood. Loss of new hope.

Loss of certainty.

On the credit side was only this encounter with an absurd young man who gave up a night’s rest for Mayland Long. Who performed the onerous duties of a nurse. Who lent him a shirt.

Who dared place his hand on Longs head, and tell him it was all okay.

With a ledger like this, Mr. Long wondered, why did he feel so much stronger, now, driving toward the dawn?

The Citroen darted onto the freeway and he was pressed against the back of the seat. This was the last short step of the nights journey—to Elizabeth Macnamara’s apartment. It would be profoundly anticlimactic if he ran out of gas.

The chill of the air prophesied fog later, but now, in the last hours of night, the sky was sharp and clear. He shifted in the seat, and his flannel shirt stuck to the leather upholstery, glued with drying blood.

At least this shirt was the right color.

He left the freeway and zagged right onto Middlefield. His arm was numb to the turn. Passing by Liz’s condominium he noticed a single light shone yellow. He turned the corner and parked along a side street. He wondered if the car would start again. No matter. He would not be driving again soon.

A stone tower obscured the light of the stars. He had parked in front of a church. He was a connoisseur of all stone architecture, and churches in particular were his passion, but this edifice was disappointing. It was obviously new, and the stone was merely veneer. TRINITY PARIS read the signboard. A pale phantom H in the varnish at the end of the word marked where the brass letter had been lost.