Manly Wade Wellman - John Thunstone 02 (21 page)

           
There was a stir in the audience,
but nobody else got up and went away.

 
          
“Then
let me continue,” said Shimada. “Let me go on with what some of us have been at
pains to find out here.” He bowed briefly above the microphone. “About the evil
that has been here, grown here, since the founding of this school.”

 
          
They
listened. All of them listened.

 
          
“In
the beginning, devils were worshiped here. When Buford got money to found its
college those long years ago, there was also money to prosper the cult of evil,
prosper it to this day. Grizel Fian has been its latest leader, its queen. She
has had a considerable ally by the name of Rowley Thome. Do you know that
name?”

 
          
He
waited. Everyone sat still. Nobody spoke or gestured.

 
          
“I
am certain that some of you do know Rowley Thome. If so, you know he has
suffered defeat here. He suffered it twice last night. I have witnessed those
defeats. Rowley Thome, ladies and gentlemen, is a renowned sorcerer and
evildoer, but just now he is a loser. And we who have defeated him are winners
and are strengthened by winning. He and his companions are weakened by losing.”

 
          
They
sat and listened. Thunstone could see the red-haired girl he knew. Perhaps she
was staying to make report to her comrades.

 
          
“Reduced
to its simplest terms, the conflict is understandable,” said Shimada. “It is between
good and evil, if you know what is good and what is evil. Decide on that for
yourselves.”

 
          
He
walked clear away from the lectern and the microphone. He held out his hands.

 
          
“It
is between love and hate!” he cried, so loudly, that his unamplified voice rang
through the auditorium. “Which of those will win? Wait until tonight. I think
all this will be decided.
Decided definitely.”

 
          
He
bowed low- He raised his hands before him. Still bowing low, he moved backward,
across the stage, into the wings and out of sight.

 
          
And
silence- It was an oppressive silence. Nobody applauded. Nobody moved.

 
          
Lee
Pitt appeared and came to the microphone.

 
          
“Tonight,
at
eight
o’clock
, we will
hear from John Thunstone,” he said, and no more.

 
          
People
rose, moved along the aisles. They chattered, as usual, but it was subdued
chatter. Thunstone and Sharon and their companions walked out in a group.
Shimada came to join them. The light and the air outside were like a release.

 
          
Someone
confronted them on the sidewalk in front. It was the red-haired girl who had
been at the theater, who had been at the witch ceremony in Grizel Fian’s
basement. Her hair was disordered, her face was pale. Makeup stood out on it,
grotesque patches of makeup.

 
          
“Did
you have to do what you did?” she burst out at Shimada. “Did you have to say
those things about Grizel?”

 
          
“Indeed,
I felt that I had to,” said Shimada courteously. “Did I not tell the truth?”

 
          
“You’ll
pay for this!”

 
          
“I
shall pay whatever is honestly due, whenever you present your bill.”

 
          
She
shifted her angry gaze to
Sharon
. “And as for you—”

 
          
“Won’t
you please go?” Thunstone interrupted.

 
          
The
girl turned and hurried off across the campus. They watched her go, then went
on, crossed to the
Inn
, and entered the lobby. They found a group
of chairs and a sofa, where they all sat down together.

 
          
“Ahi
,
”
intoned Manco. “I’d say it’s
working, that
they’re coming out into the open, to be seen
and faced.”

 
          
“And
they do not know what to do,” added Shimada.

           
“They are afraid. Maybe fear will
help them. It’s supposed to stimulate the thyroid, suprarenal and pituitary
glands.” “But do we know what to do?” asked Thunstone, and all of them looked
at him fixedly.

           
“We’ll cue ourselves by what you
yourself do,” said Father Bundren.
“When you speak tonight.
That will be after dark, and I judge that they’ll have to make their decisive
move, then and there. What are you going to say to the people, to back up what
Professor Shimada began?” Thunstone shook his massive head. “I had some notes,
but as of just now they’re no good anymore. I’m afraid I’ll be up there
ad-libbing, playing it by ear.”

 
          
“Ahi,
good,” said Manco. “Your words
will be strong, the words of a chief.”

 
          
“I
hope so,” said Thunstone. “It strikes me that I’m the one who has talked with
these devil people more than any of you. They’ve tried to frighten
me,
they’ve tried to cajole me. But their talk is empty.
Banal.”

 
          
“Cliches,”
supplied Father Bundren. “Is that it?” “That’s it exactly,” said Thunstone.
“They say things out of their teachings, words that have been chewed over
already. They’re like people mouthing crazy religious or political jargon.
It’s—well, it’s colorless. I can’t think of any other word for it.”

 
          
“But
what you are going to say will force these devil followers,” said Manco. “And
we others, we will be there with you, to back you up.”

 
          
“Yes,”
said Shimada. “I say, it is for us all to be on stage but out of sight in the
wings, ready.”

 
          
“Good,”
said Manco again, and, “Good,” Father Bundren echoed him.

 
          
Shimada
was frowning slightly. “I could wish for my young friend Oishi,” he said. “He
can see and hear into these matters so much better than I do. I wish he were
here.”

 
          
“Your
wish comes true,” said Manco, looking toward the outer door. “Here he comes,
just as you say his name.” They all looked. Oishi Kyoki ran across the floor
toward them. Shimada rose to meet him. Kyoki spoke, a rattling flood of
Japanese, Shimada stared,

 
          
“He
tells us that Exum Layton, poor Exum Layton, has died suddenly,” Shimada said.

 
 
          
They
were all on their feet at once, even Sharon. Kyoki stood among them, trembling.
His eyes stared. His face that had been brown looked gray, bloodless.

 
          
“Tell
us how it happened,” Shimada said to him. “Speak English.”

 
          
“It
just happened,” said Kyoki. “We had been together at my room. I was sensing
some unusual things. He seemed to be all right then. Perhaps I did not pay
attention,
I was deep in seeing, in hearing. I had tried to
see and hear Rowley Thorne—I had a sense of blood, a blood sacrifice—”

 
          
“How
did this poor man die?” broke in Shimada.

 
          
“We
looked at our watches. We thought that you had nearly finished speaking, and we
left to come to you here, at the
Inn
. We
walked together on the campus. We talked. Poor Exum, he seemed all right then.
But as we came to the center of the campus, he made a moaning noise—
Mmmmmm!
And down he fell.”

 
          
“Dead?”

 
          
“Dead
at once,
I
think. He fell and he lay. I knelt to touch
him—he did not breathe. Others came to see, a call was made for the campus
police. They got an ambulance, took him to the hospital. The ambulance men said
that he had died.”

 
          
“How?”
said
Sharon
. “How did he die?”

 
          
“Rowley
Thome and Grizel Fian can kill at a distance,” said Thunstone. “Say certain
words, point a certain way. They tried it on me last night, but it didn’t
work.”

           
Father Bundren bowed his head.

 
          
“Exum
Layton died in the hands of God,” he said. “I’d heard his
confession,
I had told him that his sins were forgiven. He had repented.”

 
          
“You
say they took him to the hospital,” said Thunstone. “We’d better go there.
Where is it—the hospital?”

 
          
“Not
far.” Kyoki pointed somewhere.
“Edge of the campus.
Half a mile, maybe.”

 
          
“Then
let’s go,” said Thunstone.
“You too,
Sharon
.
Don’t ever get out of my sight.”

 
          
“I
have protection,” she half whispered. “My cross and the bell you gave me.”

 
          
But
she came. They went out and across the campus, Kyoki leading the way. They came
to the University library, walked down steps beside it,
crossed
another street and a big parking lot. At the far side they mounted another
flight of stairs, made of iron like a fire escape, and came out upon the
hospital grounds. Kyoki still led the way swiftly.
Sharon
had almost to trot to keep up. He brought
them to a pillared entrance where cars stopped and started again, where people
came in and out, some in wheelchairs. Inside the lobby was a long desk with
businesslike young women sitting in a row behind. One of these heard their
errand, frowned hesitatingly over it,
then
made a
telephone call. They waited, and a plump man came into view and joined them.

 
          
“I’m
Dr. Harold Forrester,” he introduced himself.
“A pathologist.
What’s the problem here, and how can I help you?”

 
          
Thunstone
explained their wish for information as to
Layton
’s death. Dr. Forrester listened, nodding importantly.

 
          
“Mr.
Layton was pronounced dead on arrival,” he said. “No marks of violence on him.
It seems to have been a sudden stoppage of the heart action, but we can’t be
sure. We’re trying to locate any relatives or close friends.”

           
“He had no relatives,” said
Thunstone, “and I’d judge that we were his only true friends when he died.
Lately he had severed relations with a group of others. We’d like to speak for
arrangements.”

 
          
Dr.
Forrester squinted at him. “You’re quite sure about no relatives? Dr. Lee Pitt
was his faculty adviser, and he says about the same thing.”

 
          
“When
it comes to that, I was his spiritual advisor,” said Father Bundren. “He told
me that he had no relatives, none at all.”

 
          
“Do
you want to see him?” asked Forrester. “Come along with me.”

 
          
He
led them to a flight of stairs going down. Below were bleak halls, with doors
to laboratories and storage rooms. Forrester opened a metal door and ushered
them into a long slice of a chamber with pallid fluorescent lights. Its ceiling
and one side wall were of blue-gray tile. The other side showed hatchlike doors
of stainless steel. There was
a closeness
in the air,
a hush. Forrester checked along the doors and opened one. He drew out a sort of
great tray with a silent body upon it.

 
          
Instantly
Thunstone recognized Exum Layton, covered to his naked chest with a sheet. His
face was blank and dully pale. His eyes were closed. His mustache straggled.

 
          
“There’s
no mark on him, no indication of any injury,” Dr. Forrester told them again.
“No external evidence of anything like poison of any kind. I feel that we’d
like permission for somebody to do an autopsy.”

 
          
“Since
he hasn’t any family, can’t we speak as his friends?” asked Thunstone. “Say
that we’re in favor of an autopsy?”

 
          
Dr.
Forrester pondered that. “Let me have you talk to our director,” he said. “He’s
Dr. Clark, Dr. Christopher Clark.”

 
          
They
went upstairs into the lobby again. Dr. Forrester took a telephone at the desk
and talked earnestly into it. Then, “Come with me,” he said, and they went by
elevator to an upper floor. In a front office there, a secretary bade them,
“Please go in,” and Forrester ushered them into the room behind. It was an
imposing place, with file cabinets against most of the walls and a single oil
painting of a landscape that seemed to be English countryside. At a paper-
stacked desk sat a blocky man in a beautifully cut blazer of dark blue. He wore
a gray beard, also beautifully cut and carefully brushed. Rising, he responded
to Forrester’s introductions,

 
          
“I
know who you are, Mr. Thunstone,” he said, “Fve read about you in various
journals. Are those accounts true?”

 
          
“Not
always,” said Thunstone.

 
          
“I
promise myself great profit in hearing you speak tonight.” Dr. Clark studied
Manco, who stood with brown expressionless face between the brackets of his
braids. “Chief,” he said, “I could wish you’d lecture our pre-meds, on Indian
medicines,”

 
          
“
Wagh
Manco said in his deep voice of
formality. “They’d not believe.”

 
          
“But
sit down, sit down,” said Dr. Clark. “We have chairs enough here. Let’s go into
this problem about the body of—what was his name?”

 
          
“Exum
Layton,” said
Sharon
.

 
          
“Yes,
yes. What an unfortunate matter. Mr. Thunstone, you and your friends ask to
speak and decide as his close friends. Of course there will be some expenses,
here and also for some sort of funeral.”

 
          
“I’ll
stand good for those expenses,” said Thunstone promptly, “I happen to be
solvent. I can give you the address of my bank in
New York
and of my investment broker.”

           
“And I’ll conduct the funeral
service,” added Father Bundren. “I’ll stay over in Buford to do that.”

 
          
“You’re
kind,” said Dr. Clark. “Gracious.
Just what I’d expect.”

 
          
He
took up a telephone and talked to the secretary in the front office. She
brought in papers, which all of them signed. Then they gave their addresses at
the
Inn
, and left. The air outside seemed bright,
but away somewhere sounded a mutter as of distant thunder.

 
          
“Thunder
on the left,” said Thunstone, walking along with
Sharon
. “That’s supposed to be a warning of some
important happening to come.”

 
          
“We
don’t need thunder to tell us that,” said Manco. As he walked, he filled his
pipe from the pouch that held his ritually mixed tobacco and herbs. He popped a
wooden match alight on his thumbnail, lighted the pipe and puffed, then handed
it to Thunstone.

 
          
“Smoke,”
he said. “All of you smoke. Pray while you smoke.”

 
          
Thunstone
drew a mouthful of the pungent vapor and passed the pipe to
Sharon
. She also puffed and held the pipe behind
her to Shimada, who was talking earnestly in Japanese to Kyoki. They drew
smoke, and then Father Bundren. The pipe came back to Manco, who tapped it
clean and stowed it away.

 
          
“Ahi,”
he said. “Professor Shimada, you
spoke today about attempted murder. I call this an attempted murder that
succeeded.”

 
          
“How
did they manage it?” asked
Sharon
.

 
          
“It’s
done everywhere,” said Manco. “My friend Thunstone says they tried to manage it
with him last night. I’ve studied reports. People are prayed to death in a
hundred ways. It happens in the
South Seas
,
in
Italy
, in
New York
.
Among Indian tribes.
Everywhere.”

 
          
Sharon
’s blue eyes were daunted. “Poor Exum
Layton,” she said to Thunstone. “He looked so small, somehow, lying there.”

           
“The dead always seem to shrink,”
Thunstone told her, remembering experiences of his own.

 
          
“Their
souls depart,” said Father Bundren from behind. “I predict that the autopsy
will indicate that his heart just stopped. And it did stop—it was stopped with
a murderous vengeance.
High time that those who stopped it
were stopped from doing more evils.”
He drew a deep breath. “But he died
a believer. He was killed for being a believer. His soul has rest.”

 
          
“Yes,
it does,” said
Sharon
. Then again to Thunstone, hand on his arm: “You said you’d assume those
expenses for him. That will run into money.”

 
          
“Nothing
I can’t afford,” he said.

 
          
“Listen.
Let me share the expenses with you.”

 
          
“But—”

 
          
“Yes,
let her,” put in Manco. “She wants to help. Her help makes her one of us, more
than ever. She says a good thing.”

 
          
“Well,”
said Thunstone, “all right,
Sharon
.”

 
          
She
smiled up at him and her hand squeezed his arm tightly.

 
          
Shimada
and Kyoki kept on talking in Japanese. At last Shimada looked at his watch.