Prince of Darkness, page 2
“Don’t forget the voice,” Sam reminded him. “That’s one of the things that gets them.”
“Don’t be vulgar. Two million instead of two billion, then.”
“Well, if you want to pick flaws—”
“No, I think you’ve done splendidly. I shall sally forth to—what’s its ghastly name?—Middleburg, and imitate a blond Englishman. I take it he wore his hair long?”
“You are the bright lad.” Sam smiled sunnily.
“Too bright for my own good.” His companion shoved back his chair and stood up, in a quick, abrupt movement that jarred the comatose waitress out of her dreams. “All right, Sam. I appreciate this,” he added awkwardly. “Especially your seeing me personally.”
“It was on me way.” Sam pushed the sheaf of papers across the table. “Don’t forget these. Are you just going to vanish into the Limbo, now, or will I be hearing from you?”
“Why should you be hearing from me?”
“Oh…sometimes these matters can’t be handled by one person. If you should need any assistance…”
The younger man stood quite still, his hand resting lightly on the back of his chair; but his pose suggested that the slightest sound or movement might send him into flight.
“And what makes you think I’m up to anything that will require handling? Or assistance?”
Sam made a vulgar noise in the back of his throat.
“Come off it, me lad. I’ll be back in about a week. You know how to reach me. The usual rates, of course,” he added, with one of his unpleasant smiles.
“Of course.”
There was a moment of silence, during which the two contemplated one another with expressions which were as different as they were mutually unreadable. Then the younger man said,
“Good luck, then. I expect you’ll need it.”
“I always do,” Sam agreed calmly; and, as his companion turned, he added, “One more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I neglected to mention it. The fellow you’re…impersonating. The great lover.”
“Well?”
“Well,” Sam said pensively, “he’s dead, you see.”
PART ONE
Huntsman
Chapter
1
MIDDLEBURG, MARYLAND, POSSESSED A POPULATION of 9300 and one of the finest small airports one descending passenger had ever seen. For a place of its size it had a surprising amount of traffic. There were several daily shuttle flights to Washington and New York, and this plane, the Friday afternoon flight from Washington, had been nearly full.
The passenger in question, a slight, fair-haired man, was the last one off the plane. He stopped at the foot of the ramp and stared across the field, noting the number of private planes and hangars. The field was miniature, but equipped with all the latest gadgetry; it looked like a rich man’s toy. The setting was equally perfect. Beyond the strips of concrete and the fences a gently rolling countryside had taken on the rich colors of autumn. The grain fields were stubble now, but much of the land was wooded; the gold of maples and the crimson of oak and sumac made vivid splashes of brightness against the somber green background of firs. A faint haze lay over the land, but the day was fine, almost too warm for October. The visitor reflected that this must be what the natives called Indian summer. He shrugged out of his coat, draped it over his arm, and started off across the field toward the terminal.
It was small, like the airport, and equally perfect; built of fieldstone and timber, it looked more like a private hunting lodge than a public building. The young man joined the group waiting at the luggage counter. Only a handful of the passengers had waited; most of them, carrying briefcases, had gone directly to waiting cars. Weekenders, evidently; and weekenders who could afford two separate wardrobes and homes.
The people waiting for luggage were of the same type, and the young man categorized them with the quick impatience which was one of his many failings. The Rich. Bureaucrats or businessmen or idlers, they were all alike: people with too much money and too much leisure, so that they spent large quantities of the former trying to occupy the latter.
He himself did not fit in with the crowd, though he had a chameleonlike instinct for protective coloring. The business he was presently engaged in required another type of costume. His suit—one of his own, recently retailored to fit his reduced measurements—was old but good. His tie was modest in design, but he wore it with a slightly stifled look, as if he were unused to even that moderate formality. By the standards of the over-forty generation he still needed a haircut. He had considered horn-rimmed glasses, and had abandoned them as being a bit too much, and also as too obviously fraudulent; his vision, like Katherine More’s, was twenty-twenty. But the most important part of the disguise was attitude. He had thought himself into his role so thoroughly that when the man standing next to him spoke he came out of an artistic fog with a slight jerk.
“Stupid bastards get slower every week.” The man, a stocky individual, had shoulders like a bull’s and a belligerent, feet-wide-apart stance. His close-cropped gray hair failed to conceal a skull as hard and round as a cannonball, or soften features which looked like something an inexperienced sculptor had roughed out and then given up as a hopeless job.
“Hmmm? Oh. I haven’t been waiting very long.”
“Stranger here?” The older man sized him up with a long, appraising stare, and extended a brown hand. “Volz is my name. U.S. Army, retired.”
“Peter Stewart. I’m a writer.” He let the U.S. Army, retired, wring his hand, and produced a pained smile. “General, were you, sir?”
“How did you know?”
“The…general air,” Peter murmured, and grinned modestly when the general gave a short brusque laugh that sounded like a dog barking.
“Very good. The writer’s touch, eh? Have I read any of your books?”
“I very much doubt it.”
Suitcases began rolling onto the rack and Volz, with an unexpurgated comment, darted forward. Peter followed more slowly. When he had retrieved his battered case he found the general still at his side.
“Going into town?”
“Yes. There are taxis, I suppose?”
“Probably taken by now. I’ll give you a lift, if you like.”
“That’s very good of you.” Peter spoke stiffly; then he reminded himself that he was being too suspicious. He knew the automatic if superficial friendliness of Americans. This loudmouthed idiot couldn’t possibly know anything about him or his past—or his present intentions. He added more warmly, “I’ve booked a room at the Inn, but if that’s out of your way—”
“No, no, got to go through town anyway. My place is on the other side. This way.”
His car was just what Peter had expected: a black, shiny Lincoln with a uniformed chauffeur, who leaped out as his employer came stamping up. The chauffeur was black, six and a half feet tall, with a profile like that of the Apollo on the temple of Olympia. Even the flat crisp curls looked Greek.
Belatedly Peter tried to conceal his fascinated stare with an inane smile and a murmured greeting. The black statue responded with a stiff inclination of his head and no change of expression whatever. Chastened, Peter climbed into the back seat, and the door slammed smartly, just missing his heel.
On the way into town the general told four dirty jokes and a long tedious story about some minor skirmish during the Battle of the Bulge. Peter laughed immoderately at the jokes and made admiring noises during the anecdote. By the time they neared the outskirts of Middleburg, Volz had also extracted a major portion of Peter’s biography. It was a good biography, and Peter was proud of it. He had spent two days composing it and another week gathering the documents which backed it up.
“Folklore,” Volz repeated. “Thought you said you wrote fiction.”
“Actually, I do write novels under another name.”
“What name?”
“Ah.” Peter shook his head, smiling. “That’s a secret, I’m afraid.”
“What?” Volz stared at him suspiciously, and Peter had to remind himself that impertinent curiosity was a normal American trait. Then the general’s face broadened in a smile which was more than impertinent; it was downright offensive. “Oh, that sort of novel. I’ll bet I’ve read some of them at that.”
Peter returned the smile, reflecting with some complacency on the advantages of the writer’s trade as cover for even less wholesome activities. Anonymity was not only understandable, it was the norm; within twenty-four hours the whole town would be speculating on his pseudonyms and identifying him with everybody from Norman Mailer to Agatha Christie. He could deny all the rumors with perfect sincerity, and never be believed.
Volz abandoned the question of identity as they approached the town. He was now exhibiting another notorious American characteristic—pointing out uninteresting local sights to a visitor. The Foundling Home, the hospital, the Catholic Church—all new, handsome buildings, which suggested sizable private support. Peter made appropriate noises.
“The Club’s down there,” Volz said, indicating a drive flanked by impressive stone pillars. Peter just had time to catch the sign, which added an emphatic “Private Drive—Members Only” to the name of the country club.
“I don’t suppose you ride,” Volz said, with unconsicous contempt.
“I used to.”
“You said you’d been sick, so I figured—”
“Exercise is what I need. Healthy outdoor life, and all that. So the doctor says.”
“I suppose you’ll be wanting a local doctor? We’ve got a good man. Paul Martin.”
“So I’ve heard. Matter of fact, I’ve got a letter of introduction to him. From Sir George Macpherson.”
He watched, out of the corner of his eye, and saw that the name had registered.
“The British Ambassador? You know him?”
“Not personally. Just the family.” He dropped it there, knowing the error of elaborating a good lie.
Volz’s stare was perceptibly more friendly.
“Great guy, Sir George. When he was out with the hunt last year, he was quite impressed with my stable. Are you a hunting man?”
“I have hunted.”
“Give me a call if you’d like to join us one day.”
“I’d like that. But I haven’t been near a horse for several years; I might disgrace myself.”
“Oh, well, come out to my place someday and try my horses. I’ve got a new hunter, name of Sultan; cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you. Like to see you on him.”
Volz grinned wickedly, and Peter made a mental note to watch out for Sultan’s tricks.
“When does your season begin?” he asked.
“October; we start earlier than you people, I’m told. We meet three times a week.”
“I just might join you one day. If you’re sure I won’t be intruding.”
“Any friend of Sir George’s,” Volz assured him. “You’ll like the other members. Important people.”
“Mmm.” Peter wondered how he could ascertain the one point he was most interested in. To mention Katharine More by name would be too crude even for Volz. “I understand that Middleburg has an inordinate number of nationally prominent citizens.”
“Sure does. An ex-governor, several Congressmen, some of the big banking families. All friends of mine. Not that I pick my friends for that. They’re all…interesting people. Very interesting…”
Before Peter could pursue the subject, Volz changed it. He leaned forward, pointing.
“Here we are. Middleburg. Not much of it, but what there is, we like.”
The outskirts of the town were unusual in that the common highway deformities—neon signs, gas stations, factories—were absent. The main street was narrow, and lined with old trees whose carefully tended branches met above in a multicolored arch. The houses were set in wide lawns, with shrubbery and ornamental trees. Massed beds of chrysanthemum and aster made patches of color, from white and gold to deeper bronze and a glowing crimson. Many of the homes were white-painted wood, their size and wide verandas dating them to an era when household help was cheap, and available. Judging from the superb condition of lawns and paint, Peter concluded that help was available, if not cheap.
“Main Street,” Volz said. Peter suppressed a smile. “That’s Jefferson Avenue over there, where Martin lives.”
“It’s an attractive town. Is it all as—prosperous as this section?”
“Yep. We’re pretty proud of the place. Of course we have a few slums, like everybody else. Down by the creek is Shantytown, where the niggers live.”
There was no glass partition between front seat and back. Peter glanced at the rigid back of the chauffeur and said blandly, “I’m surprised you folks haven’t cleaned it up.”
“You can’t get trash like that to take any pride in their homes. Only way to clean the place up would be to run ’em out. And we need ’em. Servants.”
“Of course.”
The chauffeur’s dark hand reached for the turn signal, and the car slowed. They turned left, past a white, steepled church, onto a street lined with shops. Peter frowned thoughtfully at the uniform facades, with their bow windows set in aged brick and their discreet little signs; then he remembered what the place reminded him of. Reconstructed…Williamsburg, was it?…a travel brochure, glanced at some years back, which advertised one of the restored Colonial towns of which Americans were so proud. Such places always had an air of selfconsciousness; they were not the result of slow natural growth, but of a planned effect, like a set for a film.
He caught a few of the signs, noting thankfully that there were no atrocities such as “Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe,” and then the car slid smoothly to a stop in front of a larger, more distinctive, building.
The sign read simply “Middleburg Inn,” and the place looked as if it had been built as a tavern or hotel several centuries ago. A long wooden building, painted yellow, with black shutters and shingles, it had three floors, and a flat-roofed veranda, supported by black columns stretching along the length of the facade. The windows of the topmost floor were gabled. A pair of tall brick chimneys reared up from the far end; and on the left was a five-floored annex, built of the same yellow clapboard, but clearly of later date.
“Here we are,” Volz said unnecessarily. “Give me a call, Stewart, about the hunt. Always happy to have a friend of Sir George’s.”
“Thanks for the ride.” Peter accepted his suitcase from the stiffly correct chauffeur and stood watching as the car glided away. The two figures in front and back were as isolated from one another as if they had been on two different planets.
“Curious people,” he said aloud, and headed for the registration desk.
His room was small and extremely Early American, with yards of flowered chintz draped here and there, and a quantity of maple furniture. The mattress was comfortable, though, and the small bathroom gleamed with gadgetry, including heated towel racks and glasses done up in paper, a custom which Peter had always considered evidence of a basically nasty mind. His eyebrows rose slightly at the rates quoted on the discreet card placed beside the telephone.
The air conditioner was going full blast. As soon as the bellboy had left, Peter turned it off and wrestled successfully with the window.
His room was in the annex, at the back; front rooms, of course, would be reserved for more important visitors. Peter had expected this, but had been prepared to find some fault with the room if necessary in order to get the location he wanted. This was quite satisfactory. Nothing faced onto the alley behind the hotel except the back doors of other business establishments; they would be closed and deserted after dark. By American standards it was a very clean alley. The trash cans were tightly lidded and placed off to one side to keep the center of the pavement free for traffic. High board fences lined both sides. And off to the right, not far from his window, was a fire escape. It was almost too perfect.
He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and started to unpack. The domestic staff of the hotel was clearly well trained; everything was painfully neat. Even the drawers of bureau and desk had been relined with fresh white paper. That was how he knew that the singular object in the top left bureau drawer could not have been left by mistake.
It was a gold crucifix, about an inch and a half long, and distinctive in its design. The anguished figure on the cross had a simplicity of structure which marked it as modern work, but the artist had managed to suggest, in the droop of the head and the twist of the limbs, a degree of agony which reminded Peter of some of the more sadistic medieval depictions of the Crucifixion. He picked it up, conscious of an odd aversion; and as he examined it more closely his curiosity and repugnance grew. It was damned skillful work; there was no explicit detail in the beautifully modeled figure which would account for his distaste.
With an abrupt movement he put the ornament into his pocket, straightened his tie, and reached for his jacket. He needed a drink. Several drinks, in fact, if his imagination was getting that far out of hand.
He had the drinks, in a lounge which was free of the Early American touch, but which reeked equally effusively of Ye Olde English Pub, and then had dinner. The Inn, as he might have anticipated, had an excellent dining room. After dinner he went to the desk.
“I’d like to speak to the manager.”
The clerk was a type: supercilious, thin, middle-aged, with a consciously well-modulated voice. It took Peter several minutes of argument, in an accent which he deliberately exaggerated, to win his point. There was more than the normal officiousness in the clerk’s reluctance; Peter got the impression that the manager and owner—who was not male, but female, a Mrs. Adams—was something of a tartar. But when the clerk returned from his expedition into the inner sanctum, he was looking almost human in his surprise.
“Mrs. Adams will see you,” he said in hushed tones.
Peter knew, at first glance, that he and Mrs. Adams were not going to be friends. From the clerk’s attitude he had expected to find one of those frail, white-haired aristocrats whose cooing voice conceals a will as dictatorial as Hitler’s. He had nothing against old ladies, even vicious aristocratic old ladies, and he had always been successful with them. He assumed the charm automatically, bending so low over Mrs. Adams’ extended hand that his lips almost touched it, but he had no illusions as to the effectiveness of the performance.
