The Visitors, page 18
Slowly, with growing uneasiness, he went up to the second floor, and looked in at Uncle George’s unmade bed. The sounds still came from above, and now Powell hurried into the attic, which was empty, and up to the cupola, where the first thing he saw were Uncle George’s bare feet, kicking feebly in empty air and occasionally hitting the wall. He was hanging from a rafter, the sash of his dressing gown knotted around his neck; his face was swollen and the color of wet slate, his eyes protruded, and his tongue hung out like a long piece of meat. Powell rushed up and got his shoulder under Uncle George’s body, almost tripping over the capsized rocking chair, and he lifted Uncle George to take the pressure off his neck, then reached up and tried to untie the sash. He staggered about the cupola, holding the dead weight with one hand and groping for the sash with the other, and finally managed to loosen the knot. He was vaguely aware that his back hurt, but he paid no attention to it as he dropped the limp body on the floor and began to apply mouth-to-mouth respiration. He had no idea how long he knelt there, forcing air into the sagging mouth, but at last Uncle George began to breathe on his own, and the color of his face slowly dissolved into a more natural hue. His eyes, which had been glazed and unseeing, now flickered and began to move slowly from side to side. He put one hand to his throat, around which was a deep red welt. Powell stood up, feeling a stab in his back, and looked down at the figure on the floor. He was suddenly very angry.
“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he said. “What kind of lousy trick was that?”
Uncle George tried to speak but no sound came from his throat, and he shook his head.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Powell went on. “Just listen to me. Do you realize it could just as easily have been Kathryn who found you? And she might not have been able to get you down? And do you realize how horrible it would have been for her to see you there, all blue and with your tongue sticking out, and not be able to do anything? Is this how you repay us for putting up with you all this time? Is this what you call gratitude? You’ve never known gratitude—you’ve just done whatever you pleased, and the hell with everybody else. Well, I’ll tell you one thing—just as soon as you can walk you’re going to get out of this house, and you’re not coming back. We’ve put up with you too long as it is, and this, by God, is the final straw. Consider yourself lucky I don’t throw you out the window.”
Uncle George shook his head again, and this time managed to speak. “I didn’t do it,” he croaked.
“What do you mean, you didn’t do it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, I’m the only other one here, and although I’ll admit I was thinking about—” He stopped. “Then who did do it?” he asked.
“Don’t know—I was asleep—then woke up here.”
“I heard you get out of bed. Do you walk in your sleep?”
Uncle George shook his head.
“This isn’t something you’d do in your sleep, anyway,” Powell said, more calmly. “But I can tell you nobody carried you up here. I heard your footsteps.”
Uncle George shrugged.
“Don’t you remember anything?” Powell insisted.
Uncle George shook his head again.
Powell took a deep breath. “Come on, I’ll help you back to bed,” he said. “Then I’ll call a doctor.”
“No doctor,” said Uncle George, in a more natural voice. “I’ll be all right.”
“You will not. Come on.” Powell lifted Uncle George from the floor and, holding one arm around his waist, guided him down the stairs. When he had put him, protesting, into bed, he drew a glass of water and left it by his side, and then went and called the local doctor. Trying to be as casual as he could, he said there’d been a slight accident, and he’d appreciate it if the doctor could drop around when he had a moment.
“I’m pretty busy right now,” the doctor said. “What kind of accident was it?”
Powell hesitated. “A man hung himself,” he said.
“Good God!” exclaimed the doctor. “You don’t want me, you want the undertaker!”
“He isn’t dead,” said Powell. “I got him in time. But I think you ought to look at him.”
“Sure, sure. Uh—is he conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Neck broken?”
“No.”
“Well, tell him to keep quiet and not do any violent exercise, and I’ll be over as soon as I can. Give him a couple of aspirin, and only liquids or soft foods for lunch. A coddled egg often slips down easy. I imagine his throat’s a mite sore, so—”
“Wait a minute,” said Powell. “You sound as though you’re giving me instructions for a week. When do you plan to get here?”
“Well, seeing as how he’s out of danger, it’s not an emergency. I’ll get there when I can.”
“Thanks.”
“And remember—no violent exercise, and no stimulants. No alcohol, either, for that matter—oh, yes. How old is he?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere in his seventies.”
“You should have let him go. Well, keep an eye on him, anyway.”
The doctor hung up, and Powell looked at the instrument for a moment and then slammed it back in its cradle. Then it occurred to him that perhaps he should watch Uncle George for the next little while, so he went back and sat in a chair next to the bed. Uncle George looked at him in silence. “I’ll go,” he said at last.
“You’ll do nothing of the kind. You’ll stay in bed till the doctor gets here.”
“I don’t want a doctor. I just want to get out of here.”
“All in good time. Right now, you couldn’t walk across the room.”
Uncle George started to get out of bed, but Powell pushed him back. “Relax,” he said. “You don’t want me to tie you down, do you?”
Uncle George lay back and was quiet for a while, and then said, “I didn’t know I was a trouble.”
“Forget it,” said Powell. “I was sore.”
“You were right. But I thought you liked having me.”
“What possibly made you think that?”
“Everybody else does.”
“Everybody else is after your money.”
Uncle George thought about this. “That’s a hell of a thing to find out now,” he said.
“You must have known it.”
Uncle George thought some more. “I guess I did,” he said. “Still, it’s a hell of a thing to hear.”
“Let’s not worry about it now. Just relax, and get your strength back. You want an aspirin?”
“I do not. I want a drink.”
“The doctor said no alcohol.”
“The doctor’s a fool. Get me a drink.”
Powell shrugged, and went downstairs and made a stiff drink. After thinking a moment he also made one for himself, then took them back to the bedroom. When he got there, Uncle George was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his throat. “That kind of thing raises hell with a man’s neck,” he said.
Powell smiled and handed him his drink. Then he raised his glass, said, “Happy recovery,” and took a sip. Uncle George drank half his drink in one gulp.
“That’s more like it,” he said, with a shudder.
Powell sat down. “Listen,” he said. ‘There’s something we’ve got to get straight. You say you don’t remember a thing?”
Uncle George closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “I woke up earlier, and then I must have gone back to sleep. That’s all, until I found myself hanging.”
“Did you have any dreams?”
“None I remember.”
“Did you by any chance dream about a man—probably an old man—in a seafaring costume? Like an old whaling captain?”
Uncle George opened his eyes. “My God,” he said. “Yes.”
“What did you dream?”
“I can’t remember. But he was a mean bastard—” He shivered and took another swallow of his drink. “How did you know that?” he asked.
“If was a guess.”
“A damn good one.”
“But it could be the same person who’s been throwing beer steins at you.”
Uncle George stared at him, finished his drink, and held out the glass. “I’m getting out of here,” he said. “Give me one more and I’ll go.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” said Powell, taking the glass. “You stay where you are.”
“Don’t give me any lip. Just make me a drink.”
Powell went down, and made two more drinks, and when he got back Uncle George was half dressed. “I’ll give you this on one condition,” Powell said.
“What’s that?” said Uncle George, stepping briskly into his trousers.
“That you don’t leave today.”
“I’ll leave when I please. Now, give me the drink.”
“Then at least wait till Kathryn gets back.”
“All right. I ought to say goodbye to her, anyway. Apologize for being such a horse’s ass.”
Powell handed him the drink knowing that, in his weakened condition, it would probably stretch him flat within ten minutes. “Here you are,” he said. “Why don’t we go downstairs and have a little chat?”
He had underestimated Uncle George’s stamina. When Kathryn got back, shortly before noon, they had finished one bottle of Scotch and were starting on another, and Uncle George seemed, if anything, to be getting stronger. Kathryn came in the kitchen door, her arms full of groceries, and stopped in mute amazement at the sight of the two men at the kitchen table, with a bottle between them, shooting Steve’s air pistol at a dustpan propped in the sink. The dustpan was pocked with pellet marks, as was the wall surrounding the sink, and the floor was littered with bits of misshapen lead. “Got him!” Uncle George shouted as Kathryn came in. “Got the sonofabitch right between the eyes!” He recocked the pistol and handed it to Powell.
Powell looked around and saw Kathryn. “Oh, hello, dear,” he said. “Back so soon?”
“Yes,” said Kathryn. “Where’s the war?”
“We’re just having a little fun,” Powell replied. “Something to kill the time on a foggy day.” He aimed at the dustpan, the pistol made a sharp crack, and a pellet clanged into the sink. “Low,” he said, recocking the pistol and handing it back.
Holding the pistol pointed at the ceiling, Uncle George looked at Kathryn. His eyes were glassy and his speech was slow, but he was coherent and under control, he spoke very precisely. “Kathryn, my dear,” he said, “your husband is one of the greatest men in the world. He saved my life this morning; he literally saved my life.”
“It was nothing,” said Powell. “Go ahead and shoot—it’s your turn.”
“Not until I’ve had my say,” pronounced Uncle George. “I am going to have my say, and nobody is going to stop me. Kathryn, I want to apologize for being such a monumental horse’s—for being such an arrogant boor, and inflicting myself upon you and your family. It was thoughtless and unkind of me, and I am here now only because I promised to say goodbye to you. I shall be out of your sight before daybreak.”
“Don’t go,” said Powell. “I haven’t had so much fun in years. Besides, day’s already broke.”
“I mean that,” Uncle George said to Kathryn. “By sundown you will have seen the last of me.”
“Shut up and shoot the gun,” said Powell. “I’ve got a shot I want to try.”
“Do you think all this shooting is wise?” Kathryn asked. “Aside from the damage you’re doing to the wall, mightn’t you possibly puncture each other?”
“Brought up with guns all my life,” said Uncle George. “Can handle a gun as well as my own toothbrush.” The pistol cracked, and a pellet drilled into the ceiling.
“So I see,” said Kathryn. “But if I were you I’d keep it out of my mouth.”
“It slipped,” said Uncle George. “The sonofabitch is slippery.”
Looking at her husband, Kathryn said, “Is there some easy explanation for this, or should we wait till later?”
“It’s easy, all right,” Powell replied. “I found Uncle George hanging from the rafters in the cupola.”
“And he cut me down,” said Uncle George. “Whipped out his Bowie knife and cut me down, with no more than a fraction of a second to spare. Another instant and I’d have been a goner.”
“I see,” said Kathryn. “In other words, it’s complicated.”
“You may think I’m kidding,” said Powell. “I’m not.”
“Is it all right to ask who hung him there?”
“We don’t know, but we know whom to suspect.”
“And?”
“Ebenezer. Ebenezer Twitchell.”
Kathryn turned back to the door. “There are more groceries in the car,” she said, “if either of you feels he can make it that far.” Then she went out.
“She doesn’t believe us,” said Powell. “She thinks we’re kidding.”
“If I show her my neck she’ll believe us,” said Uncle George. “Let’s help with the groceries.”
They went out, jostling and laughing, and each one took a bag from the car. The bottom of Powell’s bag was wet, and came apart the moment he lifted it, and there was a cascade of two dozen oranges, a bunch of celery, five boxes of frozen food, and a dozen peaches. They bumped and rolled and scattered around the driveway, and Uncle George laughed so hard he put his thumb through the box of eggs he was carrying. Kathryn began to laugh, too, and as she helped Powell retrieve his groceries she said, in a half whisper, “What happened? What’s this all about?”
“Uncle George,” said Powell, grappling with the wet boxes of frozen food, “take your thumb out of the eggs, and show Kathryn your neck.”
Holding the dripping box of eggs in one hand, Uncle George loosened his collar with the other, and Kathryn gasped as she saw the red scar.
“You see?” said Powell. “You’d have a drink, too, if you’d been hanging from the rafters.”
Kathryn was quiet as they collected the rest of the food, and when they finally had it all in the kitchen she said, “Well, now. What would you like for lunch?”
“Lunch is on me,” said Uncle George. “Let’s all go to the Ritz.”
“That’s a great idea,” said Powell. “Should we change, or go as we are?”
“Let’s have a drink first,” Uncle George replied. “We can decide the formalities later. Kathryn, my dear, will you join us?”
“Isn’t it a little far away?” Kathryn said cautiously. “It’ll be kind of late when we get there.”
“It’s never late. We’ll take a suite, and order from room service.”
Kathryn, who knew better than to say a flat “no” in the circumstances, said, “That sounds fine. Let’s have a drink first, and see how we feel.”
“Splendid!” said Uncle George, “Bartender, another round of the same!”
He and Powell refilled their glasses, and Kathryn made a short one for herself, which she sipped as she straightened up the kitchen. Powell and Uncle George went into Steve’s room and began to play the phonograph, and by the time Kathryn had put away the groceries, swept up the stray pellets, and put the gun safely out of reach, she realized that the phonograph had stopped, and no sound was coming from the next room. She looked in, and saw Powell and Uncle George asleep on the bed, their arms and legs intertwined as though they had been shot in the middle of some mad dance. Quietly, she closed the door, and after making herself a cottage cheese salad, she took it into the living room and began to address the invitations to the party.
EIGHTEEN
By midafternoon the fog had lifted, and Kathryn decided to walk into town to mail the invitations. There was no sound from the back of the house, so she wrote a note and left it on the kitchen table, and she was just going out the door when she heard an automobile approaching, and saw a battered black sedan come up and stop in the driveway. A small man, wearing a high collar and derby hat, got out and came toward her.
“Mrs. Powell?” he said, lifting his hat.
“Yes,” said Kathryn.
“My card,” he said, producing a slightly crinkled business card. She took it, and read: “Dr. Hector O’Connor–Magician. Prophycist. Exorcist. All Ghostly Apparitions Expelled Forever. Fee Nominal.”
Kathryn smiled and handed the card back to him. “What can I do for you?” she said.
“I think it’s I who can do for you,” he replied, speaking with a faint Irish accent. “I understand you’re troubled with ghosts.”
“Who told you that?”
“I’m not at liberty to divulge my business contacts, but I have it on excellent authority that this house is fairly crawling with ghosts. Three of them, in fact—two benign, and one malignant.” Kathryn started to speak, but he held up his hand and continued, “Before you say anything, let me show you my credentials.” Reaching in an inside pocket, he produced an envelope full of yellowing newspaper clippings, and as he handed them to her he said, “These are all cases where I have successfully exorcized the resident ghosts. Castle Ballyshane, in Killarney; the bloody stones of Kerrigan’s Keep, perhaps my greatest triumph; the screaming woman of Holly Loch, who for twelve hundred years had defied all efforts to lay her—to use the technical expression—and on this side of the water I’ve had unusual success in the old mansions of the South, known far and wide for their ghosts. All these you’ll see in the press cuttings, if you’ll but take the trouble to read them.”
