A Question Of Time Fred Saberhagen (reading the story of the .TXT) 📖

      “And where were you when she disappeared?”

      “In the hospital, back in Boston. Only recently have I recovered sufficiently to come here and begin a real search for her. None of those who searched earlier had the vaguest idea of how to go about it.”

      Joe nodded. Then he said: “I understand that Cathy and several of her friends from school were staying here at the Park. But not in this house.”

      “That is correct. Gerald stays overnight in this building from time to time, when he comes here to the Park on business having to do with my husband’s estate—of course Edgar was declared legally dead a great many years ago.”

      “I see—or maybe I don’t, exactly. What kind of business brings Gerald here?”

      Sarah chose the words of her explanation carefully. “In the art world, Mr. Keogh, it is rumored and commonly believed that Gerald and I have hidden a number of original works by my husband, works executed decades ago, and that we place one or two of these on the market every year. I believe opinion is divided as to whether the hiding place of this treasure trove is really here—somewhere in the vicinity of this house—or whether my nephew’s occasional visits are only misdirection.

      “Actually, of course, he comes here to meet Edgar.” The old lady paused, looking at Joe as if defying him to prove himself after all incapable of understanding.

      Joe only nodded. “Your nephew periodically meets your husband. Go on, please.”

      Sarah relaxed somewhat. “Generally, in the course of the meeting, Gerald receives from Edgar a new carving or two—you’ll have to speak to Gerald if you want to know the details of their arrangement. He may, of course, try to deny the whole thing as preposterous, and insist that Edgar has been dead for fifty years.”

      “I’ll have to talk to him. Gerald, I mean.”

      A log cracked in the fireplace; Joe tried to keep himself from starting at the noise. He knew too much about the nosferatu to ever deal with them calmly.

      “A question on another subject, Mrs. Tyrrell.”

      “Yes?”

      “What are the terms of your will?”

      “There’s no secret about that. The bulk of my wealth will go to Cathy when I die.”

      “Not to her father.”

      “No. Gerald is—not a responsible person when it comes to money. And I am fond of the girl.”

      “Of course. And if Cathy should die, or be declared dead, before you die?”

      “At the moment, Gerald would inherit everything. Mr. Keogh, I am now seriously thinking of altering that provision of my will.”

      “Does Gerald know that?”

      “He probably suspects it. Mr. Keogh, my nephew is not an evil man, and I cannot imagine that he would harm his own daughter—though she is, as I believe I have mentioned, adopted. But Gerald is under great pressure at the moment. Will it be possible for you to guard this house tonight?”

      “Guard it? Mrs. Tyrrell, if your husband should decide to visit, there’s nothing I can do to prevent him. Not tonight, anyway—you understand that?”

      She shook her head impatiently. “I understand that. The people Gerald fears are much more common creatures than my Edgar. My nephew will feel better if the house is watched.”

      “Certainly, we can keep an eye on things, if that’s what you want. Who is he afraid of?”

      “He has not told me exactly. But I believe it is a matter of gambling debts.”

      “I see.”

      “Then I suggest you make your arrangements now, to have some people watch the house. First things first. Later you and I can talk about my husband. And about Cathy.”

      “All right.” Joe got up from his chair and went back into the living room, where with a slight nod he indicated to Maria that she should now attach herself to the client.

      Brainard was standing on the far side of the living room, chewing absently on an unlit cigar.

      Joe asked him: “Want to give me a guided tour? Your aunt would like us to keep watch over the place tonight.”

      The stocky man relaxed a trifle. “Gladly.”

* * *

      The house was of a unique design, partially due to its situation on and beyond the very brink, and partially by what had evidently been the builder’s whim. The design was part Western and part fantastic, three stories high. Two bedrooms occupied most of the middle level. The two upper stories were of log construction. Steep interior stairways connected all three floors. The lowest level, mainly of stone, was partially supported by a rocky ledge a few yards below the rim. Here Joe and his guide looked into a large room, lighted by large northern windows, which Brainard said had served as Tyrrell’s studio.

      Back in the main part of the house, Brainard kicked aside an Indian rug, revealing a trapdoor. Unlatching and raising this door exposed darkness underfoot, and timber piers on which the building was supported. Attached to one of these log columns, a wooden ladder went down twelve or fifteen feet to a worn spot on the rocky ground, from which a barely visible trail descended the steep slope.

      “It’d be easy,” Brainard muttered, “for someone to come up this way, and set fire to the place.”

      “I’ll put at least one man down here,” Joe assured him. “Don’t worry.”

      In five minutes, Joe had some people posted. John Southerland was out on the paved and civilized walk along the rim. Expecting that diplomacy would be at least as important as athletic ability in dealing with anyone who approached the house openly, from this direction, Joe put his most experienced and trusted man here. John was standing in a strategically chosen place where he remained shadowed from the streetlights, and from which he could see anyone who approached the house from the front.

      Joe himself went down with Bill to the slope just below the house. “Let’s figure,” said Joe in a low voice, “that the hour after sunset may be the most dangerous.”

      “Why?” asked Bill, with interest.

      Joe ignored the question. “So we’ll set a double guard for an hour or so. You