The Loo Sanction (29 page)

The Vicarage

P
atches of mist on the low-lying sections of the road into Wessex were silvered by the full moon that skimmed through a black tracery of treetops, keeping pace with the Lotus as it twisted through back lanes, deserted at this early hour. Jonathan's shoulder was still stiff, and driving one-handed was tiring, so he maintained a moderate speed. It had been a difficult week. His reflex time had been eroded, and to keep himself awake he reviewed the events that had brought him to here and this—driving out to meet Maggie, the black plastic cylinder of amateur sex movies jiggling on the seat beside him.

Because he was deeply tired, people and events, words and coincidences of the past five days rolled through his mind, the connections obeying subtler laws than simple chronology. One event passed through his mind, then as he came around the bend of another occasion . . . there it was. Obviously! The odd bits of tessera that hadn't fit in anywhere suddenly fell into place.

Maggie . . .

He pressed down on the accelerator and switched off his driving lights so the plunges into wispy ground mist did not blind him.

He pumped his brakes and broadsided into the rough lane that led from the road to the Vicarage. As the car rocked to a stop, the door of the Vicarage burst open, and Yank rushed toward the car. The broad form of the Vicar filled the yellow frame behind Yank, something bulky in his hand.

Just as Jonathan ducked down, his windscreen shattered into a milky crystal web. A second bullet blew out the wing window and slapped into the back of the bucket seat. He grappled the .45 out of the map compartment, clutched open the door, and rolled out onto the damp grass. On the other side of the steaming undercarriage, Yank's foot skidded to a stop. Jonathan shot it, and it became a knee. He shot that, and it became an unmoving head and shoulder, the face pressed into the gravel.

The roar of the gun reverberating beneath the car covered the stumbling run of the Vicar, who now stood over Yank's inert body, a log of firewood poised ready to strike.

“Are you all right, Dr. Hemlock?” he called, wheezing for breath.

Jonathan got to his knees and leaned his head against the car. “Yes. I'm all right.” The cool of the metal dispersed his dizziness. “Is he dead?”

“No. But he's bleeding badly. Seems to be missing a leg.”

Jonathan could hear a crisp, pulsing sound, as though someone were finishing up pissing into gravel. “We'd better get a tourniquet on him. I've got to ask him some questions.”

“You do have the films with you, I hope.”

“Jesus H. Christ, Padre!”

They carried Yank into the cozy den with its smell of furniture polish and wood smoke, and the Vicar set about attending to Yank with an efficient display of first-aid knowledge. He applied a tourniquet just above the missing knee, and before long the spurting blood flow was reduced to a soppy ooze.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” the Vicar mumbled each time he noticed the damage the blood was doing to the Axminster rug.

Jonathan helped himself to the Vicar's brandy as he stood beside the fireplace, watching the older man work with quick trained hands. “He's not coming around, is he?”

“I'm afraid not. Not much chance of regaining consciousness after a shock like that.” The Vicar looked up and winked, and for the first time Jonathan noticed a purple contusion across his forehead.

“Yank hit you?”

The Vicar rose with effort and touched the spot gingerly. “Yes, I suppose so. I'd forgotten about it. We had a bit of a tussle. When he got here, he was the worse for drink. He said something offensive—I don't recall just what—and when I turned around, he was pointing a gun at me. He began babbling things about Max Strange, and needing the money to buy a ranch in Nebraska, and . . . oh, all sorts of things. He wasn't quite right in the head, you know. The violence and danger of his double game had been too much for him. He was never the right kind of personality for this business.” He winked. “Then your car drove in suddenly and took his attention. I grappled with him. He struck me down with his gun, and out he went. I took up a stick of firewood, but by the time I could come to your aid, it was not necessary. I could do with a drop of that brandy myself.”

“Did he say anything about Maggie Coyne? Give you any idea of where she is?”

“I'm afraid not. You feel she's in danger?”

“She's in danger . . . if she's alive at all. Yank must have told Strange about her. And Strange had a simple formula for dealing with spies and informers.”

“You sound as though you
knew
Yank was in the pay of Strange.”

“Only for the last fifteen minutes. The pileup of coincidences finally broke through my stupidity. Strange knew about your Parnell-Greene. He knew about me. He knew I had talked to Vanessa Dyke. Always a couple of steps ahead. He had too much information; there was too much coincidence. It had to come from inside. And Yank was at Van's house after she was murdered—no police, just Yank. He was pretending to be drunker than he was. Later, he wanted to pick me and the films up at my flat. It all fits in. But the coagulating agent was just a phrase—something one of Strange's men said after they had shot me full of dope. He told me I had struck out.”

“Meaning what?”

“That's the point. The expression comes from American baseball. Only Yank would have used it.”

“I see.” The Vicar winked meditatively. “What shall we do about Miss Coyne?”

Jonathan pressed a finger into his temple and massaged it. “She could be anywhere. Her apartment, maybe.”

“Oh, I doubt that. I've called several times in the past two days. Never an answer. I was seeking information about you, because Yank had stopped reporting in—and now we know why. Finally, he did call this afternoon to tell me that events had altered your plans. He told me you had gotten the films, but the situation was such that you could not carry them on your person. He said you had mailed them. All of that, I see now, was Strange's plot to neutralize any action of mine. I was supposed to sit here awaiting the cheerful call of the postman, while they made the sale and got away. And, of course, I would have done just that.”

Jonathan's concentration was still on Maggie. “I've got to do something. I guess I could start at her apartment, then—wait a minute! Why would Yank want the films?”

“That's obvious, isn't it? Strange will pay heavily for them.”

“But Strange's dead. Yank knew that.”

“I'm afraid you're mistaken there. Yank described to me the rather gaudy mayhem you wreaked on the staff of The Cloisters. He was proud of that, you see. The virile fury of a fellow American, and all that. And he mentioned that you had inflicted a ghastly facial wound on Strange. A certain Miss Amazing . . . or was it Miss Grace . . . well, whoever . . . she carried Strange away to a sanctuary.”

“Did he mention a name? A place?”

From the floor Yank gasped shallowly, then moaned . . . like a child struggling to awake from a nightmare.

Jonathan knelt beside him. “Yank?” he said softly. Yank was under again. “
Hey!”
Jonathan slapped the chill cheek.

“That won't get you anywhere,” the Vicar said.

But Yank's eyelids fluttered. His eyebrows arched in an attempt to tug open the eyes. But they remained closed.

“Where's Maggie Coyne?” Jonathan demanded.

A moan.

“Where's Strange?”

Yank's voice was distant and mucous. “I . . . wanted . . . I only wanted . . . ranch . . . Nebraska.”

“Where is Strange?”

“Please? Not . . . Feeding Station.” Yank's body stiffened and relaxed. He was unconscious again.

The Vicar stood up with a grunt. “Ironic. He's frightened of the Feeding Station. Ironic.”

“What's ironic?”

“He doesn't realize that you have saved him from that grisly fate.”

“I have?”

“Oh, yes. There is almost no call at all for one-legged bodies.” The Vicar winked.

The Cellar d'Or

A
fter turning over the films, Jonathan retrieved the other .45 from the blinded Lotus. As Yank's car warmed up, he checked the load; there were only two bullets left. Enough.

A soft rain and low clouds blurred the limen between night and dawn as he drove through London streets that were desolate and gravid with despair. He pulled up before the Cellar d'Or. As he descended the narrow stone steps leading to the basement entrance, he could hear the whir of a vacuum cleaner within. The door was unlocked.

A black crone with a red bandanna pushed her vacuum cleaner desultorily back and forth over the black carpet and did not look up as he entered the bar. With the working lights on, the gold and black decor looked tawdry and cheap, and the air was stale with cigarette smoke and the smell of booze. Jonathan waited a moment for his eyes to adapt to the dimmer light.

“Close the door behind you, sir. It is cold this morning.”

Jonathan recognized the basso rumble of P'tit Noel's voice. Then he saw him, sitting at the back of the lounge.

“I am sorry, sir, but we have closed. Like ghosts, our customers fade away with the
cocorico
of the morning rooster.”

Jonathan raised the revolver in his hand and walked back slowly toward P'tit Noel.

“It is odd, is it not, sir, that roosters around the world do not speak the same language. In Haiti, they say
cocorico,
while in Britain they—”

“Where's Strange?”

“Sir?”

“Don't screw around, P'tit Noel. I'm tired.”

The Haitian rose languidly and blocked the entrance to the internal stairway, his Roman breastplate muscles tense under the white knit pullover. Without taking his calm eyes from Jonathan's face he spoke in patois to the charwoman.
“Vas-toi en, tanta.”

The cleaner was clicked off, its whir dying with a Doppler fade, and the crone departed noiselessly.

“The gun is for me?” P'tit Noel asked.

“Not really. But I don't intend to grapple with you.”

“Actually, I am a strong man, sir. I could probably absorb the first bullet and still get a hand on your throat.”

“Not a bullet from this gun.”

P'tit Noel looked into the big bore.

“Are they upstairs?” Jonathan asked.

“They were expecting someone. Not you. Someone with a package.”

“He won't be coming. Listen, I don't care about Grace. If she stands between me and Strange, I'll cut her in half. If she stands back, I'll let her go.”

P'tit Noel considered this. He nodded slowly. “Mam'selle Grace has a gun. Give me a chance to get her out of the room. If you do not harm her, I shall leave you alone. The man is nothing to me.”

He turned and led the way up the stairs and down a corridor. Raising a hand to gesture Jonathan back, he tapped at the door softly.

Amazing Grace's voice was strained. “Yes?”

“It is I, Mam'selle Grace. He is here, the one you await.”

Jonathan pressed back against the wall as the lock clicked and the door opened. “Where the hell have you—Hey!”

P'tit Noel's hand snapped in with the speed of a mongoose and snatched Grace out into the hall by her arm. She screamed as her little automatic arced across the corridor and clattered to the floor. “Max!” Then she saw Jonathan, and fury glittered in her eyes. “It's Hemlock, Max!” She threw her diminutive naked body toward him, fingernails spread like talons, her lips drawn back, revealing thin sharp teeth. “I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!” P'tit Noel swept her up as though she were weightless. It took all of his strength to hold her as she squirmed and snarled in his arms, her naked body oily with the sudden sweat of rage. “Let me go, you nigger bastard!” He began to walk clumsily toward the stairs, his awkward, savage burden screaming and kicking and clawing at him. But he could not bring himself to strike her, or even to protect himself from the punishment of her impotent, desperate anger. She dug her fingernails into his cheek and tore four deep furrows of red through the brown, but he only looked at her with resigned, unhappy eyes.

“Please, please!” She sobbed and panted promises. “I'll let you screw me if you let me go! Max! Max!”

He made consoling sounds as he continued down the stairs. She clung, pale-knuckled, to the railings, but the steady power of his momentum tore them slowly away.

Even after they disappeared down the stairs, Jonathan could hear her screams and invective. There was one last tormented wail, then the sound of sobbing.

A muffled voice spoke from within the apartment. Jonathan kicked open the door and dashed across the opening to draw fire. But no shot came. The muffled sound again. Incomprehensible words, as though someone were speaking through a gag. He pressed against the wall outside, the revolver before his face.

The words became distinguishable. The voice was a guttural whisper through clenched teeth. “Come . . . in, Dr. Hemlock.”

Jonathan eased the door farther open with his toe and looked through the crack. Strange lay limp on the red velvet sofa, his shirt off and a wet towel covering half his face. He had both hands lifted to show that he had no gun.

Jonathan entered and locked the door behind him. He crossed to the bedroom, checked it out, then returned.

Strange's uncovered eye followed his every movement, hate and pain mixed in its expression. He spoke with great effort, his diction trammeled through clenched teeth. “Finish the job, Hemlock.”

“I have.”

“No. Not finished. I'm still alive.”

“If you want to die, why don't you do it yourself?”

“Can't. No gun. Grace wouldn't help me. Too weak to get to window.”

The eye glittered with sudden anger. “Do you know what you did to me?” With a convulsion of effort and a snort of pain, he tore the towel from the side of his face. The cheek was gone, and grinning molars were visible to just below where the ear would have been. The teeth were held in by tapered pink tubes of exposed root. And the eye, lacking support, dangled like a limp mollusk. The bleeding had been staunched, but the flesh oozed with a clear liquid and it had begun to fester.

Jonathan glanced away as Strange replaced the towel. When he looked back, the eye was crying. “Please kill me, Hemlock. Please? My whole life . . . devoted . . . beauty.” The voice grew faint and the fingertips fluttered. The visible cheek had the subaqueous tint of somatic shock, and Jonathan was afraid he would pass out.

“What have you done with Maggie Coyne?”

The eye was dim and confused. “Who?”

He didn't even know her name. “The girl! The one Yank informed on. Where is she?”

“She . . . she's—” The eye pressed shut as he tried to clear his mind. “No. I have something to bargain with, haven't I?”

Jonathan considered for a moment. “All right. Tell me where she is, and I'll kill you.”

“You give . . . word . . .” The head nodded as the tide of shock rose.

“Come on!”

The eye opened again, the lid fluttering with the effort. “Word as a gentleman?”

“Where is she?”

“Dead. She is dead.”

Jonathan's insides chilled. He closed his eyes and sucked air in through his lower teeth. He had known it. He had felt it back at the Vicarage. And again as he drove through the sad, deserted city. It had seemed as though some energy out there—some warm force of metaphysical contact had been cut off. But he had conned himself with fragile fables. Maybe they held her hostage. Maybe she had escaped.

Strange's eye grew large with terror as Jonathan turned and walked aimless toward the door. “You promised!”

“Who killed her?” Jonathan asked, not really caring.

“
I
did!”

“You? Yourself?”

“Yes!” There was a flabby hiss to the word as air escaped through his cheekless teeth.

Jonathan looked down on him dully. “You're lying. You're trying to make me kill you in anger. But I'm not going to. I'm going to call for an ambulance. And I'll warn them you're suicidal. So they'll protect you from yourself. They'll fix you up—more or less. And it will be months before you find a way to kill yourself. All that time they'll be looking at you. Nurses. Doctors. Prison guards. Lawyers. They'll look at you. And remember your face.”

Strange's swathed head vibrated with impotent rage. “You son of a bitch!”

Jonathan started toward the door, the revolver dangling in his hand. “See you in the newspapers, Strange.”

Strange grasped the back of the sofa for support and pulled himself up. The effort caused the wet towel to fall from his mutilated face. “Leonard killed her!”

Jonathan turned back.

“I told you once, Hemlock, that I had a vice—expensive—subtler than sex. My vice is expensive because it costs lives. I like to watch the kinds of things Leonard does to women. Leonard was in particularly creative form with this girl of yours. And I watched! She didn't disappoint me either. She had a strong will. It took a long, long time. We had to revive her often, but—”

Strange won.

He got his way after all.