When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) 📖

“All right,” I said. “How’d it happen?”

Mr. Billings looked uncomfortable as he squeaked around in his seat. I knew the look; he was about to be fairly dishonest with me.

“You must realize the importance of—confidentiality.” His eyes did a conscientious little roll of self-possession until they came to rest on me again, quivering and uncertain like bad actors. They were indefinite and restless on either side of his hatchet nose. Perfectly unconvincing so far.

“You may not believe this, but under all this makeup, I’m a goddamned angel,” I sneered. “Besides, there are few people who take my word seriously.” I flashed him a quick idiot grin.

“May I ask?” The dead man nervously pulled out a package of cigarettes and lit one.

“The makeup?” I cut him off. “It’s none of your business.” In truth I only had vague suspicions myself. The clown’s thoughts, public and private, were only dull impressions to me. I reached into the desk drawer over my knees and pulled out a photostat of my license. I had three copies. One I kept in Tommy’s egg-shaped plastic change purse, the other in the Chrysler’s glove compartment. I threw the license across the desk. Billings leaned forward, studied it for a minute then pushed it awkwardly out of the lamplight with his numb hands.

“Very well.” His face held an uncomfortable, chastised look. “I’ll have to trust you.”

“Yes, you will. Besides, even if I am just another asshole who thinks he’s a detective and happens to dress like a clown, you could use me to get whatever’s bothering you off your chest. It’s free for the time being.” I could feel echoes of Tommy’s psyche rise angrily within. I released the ire through a pair of clenched fists. I squeaked my chair. I liked the sound of it. Mr. Billings screwed up his face. He didn’t. He began.

“I was visiting a friend—er, a specialist, she’s a massage therapist who treats me for a back problem…”

‘Bucking hips syndrome,’ I thought, and grinned at the idea of a dead man trying to cover up his living tracks. He continued.

“It happened in the older part of town—the Downings—47th Street. I met with her for a treatment and must have fallen asleep. I woke up around three a.m. and I guess I was dreaming, because I thought I heard a baby crying. I was up, so I decided to go to the washroom. I went—the washroom adjoins the bedroom—and when I was through I heard the sound of a door opening and closing.

“There must have been another blackout because I tried to turn on the overhead light. When nothing happened, I felt around on the bed and found my therapist. She was in a deep sleep—we’d shared a bottle of gin earlier, so I grabbed a candle from the nightstand—lit it—and walked out into the living room. The candle didn’t throw much light. I took about six steps, felt a minor pressure at the back of my head…then it was B-b-bl-blacktime.” His newly deceased tongue machine-gunned the word. ‘Blacktime’ was the catchphrase for the amnesia dead people experienced in the moments between life and death. The length of it varied from person to person.

“How long were you out?” I asked.

“I don’t know, you’ll have to understand my condition, having just been shot, I was rather frantic. Though I do not remember the moments immediately following my waking, I know it was morning. But the impressions I have of that time are funny—fuzzy.”

I nodded my head, lit a cigarette of my own. “So your therapist found you.”

“No, I was alone. I can remember wandering downstairs…it was a horror! I spoke to someone then, a little fellow—the night clerk, I think…”

“So,” I said. “What happened to your therapist?”

His face drooped like someone had yanked the bones out of it. “I’m afraid that is a problem. She disappeared.”

I clicked my tongue and felt adrenaline prickle the hair on my scalp. The prickling caused a distracting shiver to itch quickly down the length of my back. “How long?” I drummed fingers on the desk—enjoyed the feeling.

“You must understand, that being newly deceased, my mind was preoccupied with many details. I spoke to Authority, told them what had happened. They’ve investigated, I’m told. My wife had to be notified…it was a very strange time.” He studied his fingernails like they were unfamiliar to him. Maybe he was realizing they would never grow again. Billings would soon find out there were varnishes on the market designed to thicken and preserve them. “They told me about you though.”

“Who?” I tried to imagine a single Authority Investigator who hated his career enough to recommend Wildclown Investigations.

“You were recommended to me by an Inspector Borden. He interviewed me later, after the initial questioning.”

“Don’t know him. When were you killed?” I snatched a notepad and pencil from the desk, wrote Borden.

“It was two nights ago, Thursday, the first,” he said this in hushed tones, as if we were at a funeral in the rain. “The Authority Investigators said they tried to question my therapist, but she has simply vanished. They’re still investigating—said they’d contact me if anything turned up. Jan Van Reydner is her name—my therapist. She hasn’t been seen since that night. Left her valuables and everything—apparently.”

“It will cost you a hundred a day to find your murderer, plus expenses.” I murmured, jotting the therapist’s name beside Borden’s.

The dead lawyer smiled and shook his head. “I was told you worked for two hundred dollars a week on your last case, Mr. Wildclown.” I could tell that for a moment at least he was feeling like his old self. “Nevertheless, I’ll pay you seventy-five dollars a day to get my killer. Authority is too big and clumsy; they’re investigating too many murders now—others that are more—more important. I’m