King of Murder (2 page)

“I don't remember any snake,” Mrs. Jay said.

Mathias King smiled. “That's why you let me have it so cheaply.” Then, still smiling, he lifted his eyes from the invisible apple and saw Meat.

Meat was standing a counter away, keeping his distance.

“The young man is with you?” Mathias King said.

“Yes, that's my friend Meat.”

“Welcome to the conversation, Meat. Mathias King, at your service.”

“My name's Albert,” Meat said. He was particular about who called him Meat.

“Allllbert,” Mathias King said, drawing out the Ls in a way that made Meat sorry that the man knew any of his names.

Mathias King gave a shrug. It was a practiced move that tossed his cape back over one shoulder.

“Even though you know my name, I'd like you to still think of me as a man of mystery. Everyone does. They glance at me on the street as I pass. They wonder about me behind my back.”

No wonder, Meat thought.

He gave Meat a smile that revealed pointed teeth. Meat felt as if Mathias King had read his mind.

Herculeah hadn't seen teeth like that outside of—once again—a Dracula movie.

“And sometimes,” he continued, “they even buy my books.”

“Oh, they all buy your books.” Mrs. Jay spoke quickly, feeling she had been out of the conversation long enough. She held up a black bag that had been on the counter.

“This is his shopping bag, only he calls it his Murder Bag.”

“Murder Bag?” Herculeah said.

“It holds his weapons,” Mrs. Jay said. “And they tell me that he also has a murder room in his house, though I've never seen it.”

“Now you're giving away all my secrets,” Mathias King said.

“And he never lets anyone inside his Den of Iniquity—that's what he calls it—not even the housekeeper.”

“Oh, I might make an exception every now and then,” he said, smiling at Herculeah.

Herculeah wasn't sure she wanted to go near anything called a den of iniquity. Iniquity, she knew, meant wickedness.

She changed the subject. “And is the weapon for your next book in your Murder Bag, Mr. King?” Herculeah asked.

Mrs. Jay said, “No, he bought that last week. It's the golden—”

Mathias King stopped her with a gesture. “Give them no clue. They will have to read the book.”

“—the golden whatever,” Mrs. Jay finished lamely. Behind his back, she indicated something the size of a small bed.

“That's just one possibility, Mrs. Jay. I always keep an open mind where my murder weapon is concerned. And these young people may have fresh ideas. Let's take a look, shall we?”

He began to move through the aisle, his long hands fluttering over the items—a Statue of Liberty bank, a globe, a cigarette lighter in the shape of a pistol. He hesitated over the cigarette lighter and then picked up an Oriental box and slid off the top. “Empty.” He showed it to Herculeah.

“But this could be a trick box, and when you open it a snake comes out and strikes.”

He passed his fingers over the box and placed it in her hand. She slid open the top. A cloth snake sprang out and touched her throat. She was startled, but she didn't flinch.

“But you've already used a snake,” Herculeah said quickly, handing him the snake and the box. “You wouldn't want to repeat yourself.”

“Ah, yes, I must not repeat myself.”

Mrs. Jay said, “Mathias was once a magician, so he can make you believe anything.”

“Now, Mrs. Jay, once again you are too kind.”

He moved through the tables, picking up an object here, another there.

“Ah, here's something. What is this meant to be, Mrs. Jay?”

“It holds back draperies. It's a silken rope.”

Mathias King picked it up and let it slip through his fingers.

“I like this. It has a deadly feel to it. And the silk appeals to me.

I am drawn to beautiful weapons.”

He did a trick with the rope so that it seemed to stand up all by itself for a moment, and then coiled it gracefully into one hand.

He moved backward, as if to give himself more room. His hands moved so quickly, so skillfully, that the three of them watched, as fascinated as if they were at a real magic show.

“It could be used to tie a victim's hands.” He bound his own wrists so that he seemed to be caught in the golden rope.

“But a skillful victim might break free. Or, let me see, the rope could be a noose—”

And as he spoke, he swirled and tossed the rope over Meat's head and drew it back against his throat.

The movement was so quick that Meat had no time to react. And, just as quickly, the golden rope slid across Meat's throat and disappeared into the folds of Mathias King's cape.

The rope had barely brushed Meat's throat, and yet it left him unable to swallow. He knew if he tried, his throat would protest with a loud unpleasant
glunk,
and everyone would know he had been afraid.

He turned away as if bored—at least that was how he hoped he looked—and moved back out of the way. He was so upset, he was relieved to be able to locate the door. He started for it.

“Wait. Wait!” Mathias King called after him. “Oh, I mean no harm. Please, wait.” Mathias King's voice had softened with remorse. “Come back.”

Herculeah could see from the set of Meat's shoulders that coming back was not an option. “We'd better go,” she said. Her throat felt sort of tight, too.

“But I meant no harm. It was just a trick. Oh, dear, Mrs. Jay. I have run off your customers.”

“We didn't have any money,” Herculeah admitted.

“At least take the box as a memento of the visit. Mrs. Jay, put this on my account.”

He held out the Oriental box to her, but she shook her head. “No, thanks.” She could still feel the unpleasant tap of the trick snake against her throat.

“Well, will you at least take my card?”

Herculeah paused.

Mr. King reached into a pocket and brought out a packet of cards.

“I have many cards because I have been many things.” He began to shuffle through the cards. “Let's see. ‘Mathias King, King of Magicians' ... 'Mathias King, King of Actors' ... Ah, here is the one I want you to have.”

Herculeah took the card and read the inscription.

 

“Did you see that? Did you see that?”

“What?”

“He tried to strangle me!”

Herculeah and Meat were now outside Hidden Treasures, on their way home. Meat had stopped Herculeah as soon as they were away from the window and out of sight of Mrs. Jay and, more importantly, Mr. Mathias King.

“He didn't try to strangle you. He was just kidding. I could tell from the expression on his face that he was putting on an act for Mrs. Jay and me.”

“You call that kidding? Putting a rope around someone's neck and choking them?”

“It wasn't a rope and it wasn't that tight, Meat. And it was only, like, two seconds and the cord disappeared. I never did see where it went, did you?”

“It felt tight.” He walked slower. “I've never told you this, but fear sort of causes my throat to close up. Even now I can't swallow without making a sound like this—
glunk
.”

Herculeah said, “Oh?” as if she wasn't aware of the affliction. She had actually heard that glunk many times.

“My throat tends to tighten up, too,” she said. “Everybody's does, but Mathias King was just ... Oh, I don't know.” She shrugged. “He's a writer, Meat. Writers are weird.”

“He's weird, all right; I agree with that. But not all writers are weird,” Meat said.

“I didn't know you knew any writers.” She looked at him, as if studying his truthfulness.

“One or two.”

“You never told me you knew any writers.”

“You never asked.”

“I'm asking now. Name one.”

“You don't believe I know writers?” Meat said, his mind racing for a literary name. To his great relief, he got one. “Elizabeth Ann Varner?”

“Who's she?”

He smiled, remembering. “She was a very nice author who came to my first-grade class.”

“That was the year you were in Miss Stroupe's room, and I was stuck with Deviled Egg. So what kind of books did Elizabeth Ann Varner write?”

“Funny ones.”

“Go on. I could use a laugh.”

“She had a series about two donkeys.”

“Donkeys?”

“Yes,” Meat said, warming to his story. “Their names were Hee and Haw, and Hee had a louder hee-haw than Haw, and that's how they told them apart, but one day Haw's hee-haw—”

He saw the way Herculeah was looking at him, and he said quickly, “Oh, never mind.”

“No, you've got me interested. Did Haw ever get as loud a hee-haw as Hee or—”

“I said never mind!”

He could tell from her voice that she was amused. First she had belittled his getting strangled—calling it kidding and an act—and now she was belittling Hee and Haw, two of his favorite characters in the world. One of the books about Hee and Haw was the first book he had read by himself, and he read it well, too. Even his mom had described his hee-haws as forceful.

They walked to the corner in silence, then Herculeah said, “Getting back to our original topic...”

“Please,” Meat said.

“Authors—some authors,” she corrected herself, “are a little weird. They have to be. They sit in front of their computers all day and write about life instead of going out and experiencing it.

“And,” she went on as they crossed the street, “mystery writers are perhaps a little weirder than the others.”

“Why? Because they sit in front of their computers writing about murder instead of going out and doing it?”

Herculeah stopped. She thought for a minute and then said, “You've got a point, Meat.”

“I do? What?”

“Well, when I saw Mr. King with the golden noose, as he called it, he really seemed like a different person. And when he threw it over your head, well, I thought, wow, this is a writer who really knows his characters—this is a writer who gets inside his characters' minds.”

She took in a deep breath. He could tell she had something to add, and Herculeah's additions were usually important.

“Go on.”

“Either he really does get inside his characters' minds or—”

“Or what?”

“Or he's a murderer.”

Mathias King stood at the window of Hidden Treasures. He watched Herculeah and Meat until they were out of sight.

“Interesting girl,” he commented, more to himself than to Mrs. Jay, but she answered.

“Oh, yes, Herculeah is an interesting girl. She's been a customer for a long time. You and she have very different goals.”

“Oh?”

“She buys items that will help her discover murders, and you get items to help your characters commit them.”

He was only half listening and appeared lost in thought.

“She would make a fascinating victim,” he said.

Mrs. Jay took a step backward. “You're thinking of putting Herculeah in one of your books?”

“It's just a thought. At first,” he went on, “I was thinking of the young man. He had the feel of a victim, wouldn't you agree? Certainly he's placid, wouldn't put up much of a struggle...”

“I don't know him that well.”

Mathias King turned away from the window to face Mrs. Jay. “Did you see how he froze when I tightened the noose around his neck?”

“Yes, you scared him.”

“I could have tightened the noose and strangled him if I'd wanted to—if, of course,” he laughed, “I were a real murderer.”

“I guess so.”

“And then,” he went on, his voice rising with his enthusiasm, “did you notice Herculeah's reaction when I did the snake bit with the Oriental box?”

“Her back was to me. I didn't see.”

“She didn't like it, but she looked straight at me with those gray eyes that ... Could you see her eyes, Mrs. Jay?”

“No.”

“When you first introduced us and I noticed her extraordinary gray eyes, I was struck with their warmth—the soft gray of a kitten, of an evening sky—”

“My, you're becoming poetic, Mathias.”

“You've discovered another of my talents, Mrs. Jay, but you didn't let me finish.” He struck a pose so that his tall, thin frame seemed to be spotlit. “The soft veiled curtain of an evening sky that falls on a weary world.”

“Even more poetic.”

“You're too kind.”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

“But when I did the trick with the Oriental box, her eyes changed. They became the hard, clear silver of bayonet steel.”

“I'm sorry I missed that.”

“Remember what she said to me?”

“Not word for word.”

“I think you're having fun at my expense, Mrs. Jay, but that's all right. She said, as cool as ice, ‘But you've already used a snake. You wouldn't want to repeat yourself,' which of course I had.”

He shook his head as if abandoning the spotlight. “She would not be an easy victim. I sometimes think my victims are too easy.”