Whispering Nickel Idols (36 page)

A face appeared below. Vendy just looking so Teacher would shut the hell up. His eyes almost popped. I whacked on his bald spot.

He fell to his knees, mumbling. Conscious but incoherent. Teacher growled, “Ya fell outta the goddamn chimbly? You’re one useless piece a pork snot.”

I climbed while there was moaning and complaining to cover the noise. Only a few feet farther up I stepped out into the stairwell that had been bricked off at street level. Wan light dribbled down from a far skylight too small to admit the skinniest burglar. At high noon in clear summer weather it wouldn’t have admitted much light. It served more as a beacon now.

I did not, however, go charging on up.

I explored the new territory foot by foot, looking for an ambush or booby trap.

Below, “You’re shitting me. There ain’t nobody in here.”

Mumble whine mumble.

“Right. Skelington. Climb on up in there.”

Graphically, and with a marked lack of respect, Skelington finally resigned his position with Team White. He had other options.

“All right. Pike, you go.”

“Right behind you, Boss. I got your back.”

The front door rattled and slammed. Teacher’s whole crew electing to seek their fortunes elsewhere. A clever boy, rendered abidingly suspicious by experience, I didn’t count on what I heard being what actually happened.

But it did seem to be.

Only Teacher stayed. He cussed and muttered and slammed things around. And slammed things around. And lightened a flask or two that he was lugging. He began to mumble in tongues.

Bottled courage, mixed liberally with stupid and anger, drove him into the chimbly. Muttering steadily, he climbed. He slipped twice before he got into the closed stairwell. “I knew that sumbitch had shit hid. Goddamn lawyers. They’re all alike. Bunch a thieves.” He climbed the stair one step at a time, a hand on each wall, forgetting that the danger ahead once looked fierce enough to send somebody else up first.

I heard my name mentioned. His opinion hadn’t improved.

He was huffing and puffing and didn’t put up much of a struggle when I disarmed him. He just whimpered and gave up. I tied him up with whatever was handy. He started snoring.

I lit lamps and commenced a serious examination of Harvester’s hideaway. And was amazed. Harvester Temisk definitely had an inflated notion of his own cleverness.

The first lamp came off a trestle table covered with the alchemist’s gear Temisk had used to prepare his firestone surprises. Evidence to convict was there. A lot was on paper. Standouts were a map and notes about Whitefield Hall, that neighborhood, and the disposability of one Buy Claxton. The papers lay under a loaf of bread that had not yet sprouted a beard.

Harvester had visited since the birthday party. With the place being watched. He had a secret way in.

No surprise there. In TunFaire, some neighborhoods have a problem with buildings collapsing because of all the tunneling underneath.

I’d look into that later.

So Temisk had hidden out here. Smirking. Without being as clever as he thought. It hadn’t been that hard for me to get in.

Temisk was big on books. And not orderly. They were everywhere on the second floor. Dozens of books. Scores of books. A fortune in books. Only churches and princes can afford real books. I recalled my idea about ratfolk copyists. And wondered where Temisk had stolen those books. He’d never been flush enough to buy any.

The third floor was more orderly. It was furnished but hadn’t been used. I concluded immediately that the mouthpiece had created a sanctuary for his friend. Long ago. And never got the chance to use it. When he did get hold of Chodo he hadn’t been able to sneak the old boy in.

Back to the second floor, where I discovered that Harvester was a compulsive diarist. The Dead Man must’ve known. And hadn’t bothered to tell me.

Almost every moment and every thought ever experienced by Harvester Temisk seemed to have been recorded, on a profusion of mostly loose papers.

The lamp was almost empty. I’d dozed off twice, though Temisk’s memoirs were interesting. Each time I did, Teacher White stopped snoring. His trying to slip his bonds woke me up.

Then the yelling started downstairs.

I stayed quiet.

Teacher had a notion to fuss, then didn’t because he recognized voices.

That was Winger bellowing. And Tinnie, slightly more ladylike. And Saucerhead, looking for me. Presumably in a snowstorm. In the middle of the night. All worried. And I didn’t want to reveal my discoveries. Not to Winger.

I’d figured out the Dead Man’s scheme. I thought.

If I didn’t do something, though, they’d start looking for the body. And find everything else. That damned Winger. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I grabbed pen and ink. The devils in the sky smiled on me. For once. The nib was sharp. The ink was fresh. I wrote a quick note. Now to sneak it down where somebody could find it. I crept past Teacher and down the stairs. As I eased into the chimney I heard Winger cursing and banging things.

Tharpe said, “Control her, Jon Salvation.” Laughing. “Garrett ain’t under no wooden chair, dead or alive.”

His suggestion that somebody could control her set Winger off all over again. She raved and slammed off to the back of the place.

“She drinks a bit,” Tharpe explained. “Jon, we better watch her, just so things that don’t belong to her don’t accidentally fall into her pockets.”

My luck stayed in. Sort of.

I fell out of the chimney as I tried to lean down for a peek. That was the bad news. The good news was, nobody saw but Tinnie. Who kept her mouth shut when I held my fingers to my lips. I passed the note. And got back out of sight before Winger lumbered in to investigate.

Tinnie said, “I knocked over these andiron things. Trying to get this down off the shelf. It’s a note from Garrett. In case somebody comes looking for him.”

“What’s it say?” Winger smelled a rat.

Tinnie read it out loud.

“That say what she says, Jon Salvation?”

The little guy reported, “Word for word.”

“You’d a thunk that asshole White woulda learned. Whadda we do now?” Tinnie said, “How about we go back to Garrett’s place?”

“Something’s rotten here.”

Saucerhead observed, “You don’t have hardly no flaws, darling Winger, but one teensy little problem you do got is, you think everybody’s head is just as twisted as yours.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means most people don’t have an angle when they tell you what they think.”

“Oh, bullshit! You ain’t that naive, are you?”

That was the last I heard. The street door closed behind them. A puff of cold hit me. Air did go up that chimney.

I waited. Winger was the sort who might pop back in, too.

I went down. They’d left lamps burning. I’d thought Tinnie had better sense.

Ah. Of course she did. Including enough to realize I’d need to see what I was doing.

79

Despite problems getting a schnockered Teacher down the chimney, I almost caught Tinnie and the others, heading home. And that despite the weather. Which hadn’t turned as awful as I’d feared. Yet. Just cold and slick.

I brought White along. He needed some special Dead Man work to get his mind right. I took Teacher straight to His Nibs. Oh, my! We are in a mood, are we not?

“Yes, we are. It’s time to quit fooling around. Hi, sweetie.” I gave Tinnie a hug and a peck and ignored everybody else.

I stipulate that I was remiss where Mr. Temisk was concerned. However, I was preparing Deacon Osgood and had no attention to spare.

Half a minute later I knew the treasures at the lawyer’s weren’t part of his scheme. He hadn’t been aware of them.

I expected more of you at Spellsinger Dire Cabochon’s home. However, Osgood cleverly hustled you through and so did his own cause no harm.

I didn’t get to pursue that. Somebody started hammering on the front door. With amazing enthusiasm.

That is Mr. Scithe. On behalf of Colonel Block, who became suspicious of the results of his earlier visit. Allow him to enter. But only him.

I went to the door. It was late. Dean was asleep. I didn’t have him and his crossbow to back me. But Saucerhead and Winger came to watch. They were enough to keep out the unwanted — except for a high-velocity pixie who surprised us all.

No matter. The kitchen door was closed.

I told Scithe, “You ought to demand a raise, the hours you’re working.”

“My wife agrees. But I do got a job. Plenty don’t. You could mention it to the Colonel, though.”

“I will. What’s his problem now?”

“You visited the Hill today.”

I didn’t deny it. What was the point? “So?”

“So after you left, a gang of ratpeople stripped the place.”

“After I left. Right. No doubt being watched every minute.” I glared at the Dead Man. That inanimate hunk of dead flesh managed to radiate false innocence combined with smugness.

“Enough to know you didn’t carry anything away personally.”

A fib. Everybody but Osgood carried something out of Dire Cabochon’s forty-room hovel. “I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“You hang out with ratfolk.”

My resident ratperson had turned invisible during my trek to the door. The Dead Man seemed more radiant than ever. “That was the scheme, was it?”

“Excuse me?” Scithe didn’t understand that I was snapping at my sidekick.

“His scheme. To try to blame me. He’s always doing that. And he never gets me.”

“I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.” Scithe wasn’t quite focused. Tinnie Tate was in the room. And she’d smiled. At him. He mumbled, “There was a body in there.”

“Sir?”

“Come on. An old woman. Dead. In a chair.”

“I saw her,” Tinnie volunteered. “I went there with Garrett.”

That left Scithe with mixed emotions.

“He’s like a four-year-old. Needs constant supervision.”

That turned the situation around. Sort of. When the Tinnie weather let up momentarily, Scithe asked, “Where were you all afternoon and tonight?”

“I don’t see where you got any need to know, but the fact is, I was trying to get a line on those guys your boss claims I’m hiding. Chodo and his tame lawyer.”

He didn’t believe me. Oh, wound me to the heart. But he had hopes Tinnie could tell him more about the dead Spellsinger, so he didn’t press.

He didn’t quite try to make a date. Probably because he remembered mentioning his wife.

Somehow, without getting many questions answered, Scithe became satisfied that he’d learned what he’d come to find out.

I let him out. Where his grumbling henchmen waited in the cold and the falling snow. Tinnie tagged along, smug as she could possibly get.

She’d begun to notice her power.

There was a crash in the kitchen.

“That damned Mel! How the hell did she get in there?”

With Singe, of course. That’s where Singe had gone while I was letting Scithe in.

I opened up again. Snow was coming down in big, slow chunks. I told Melondie’s tribe to come drag her home.

One of my less inspired ideas.

The brawl made so much racket Dean woke up and came down to restore order in the kitchen. The mess was worse than after the thunder incident.

I threw up my hands and fled to the Dead Man’s room. Singe tagged along, evidently summoned. She retrieved the cashbox and ledger, made entries, then paid Winger and Saucerhead for helping try to find me.

I didn’t say a thing till after they left. Along with the pixie swarm, still squabbling, Melondie Kadare not alone in betraying signs of alcohol poisoning.

Sweetly, I asked, “Do we have a magic cashbox now? Always money inside when we open it, however much we spend on made-up jobs for our friends?” I spoke to Singe but eyeballed my sidekick. “Or did we pawn something?”

Chuckles ignored me. Of course. And Singe shrugged, indifferent to another incomprehensible moral outburst. “We had a windfall.”

I started to get all righteous. His Nibs cut me off.

Would you feel more comfortable if the A-Laf cult’s resources went to Director Relway? When their bad behavior depleted our resources? That is your alternate option.

It had been a cruelly long day. And the residual effect of the samsom weed really had kicked in. “I’m going to bed.”

80

We had an easy ten days. More or less. Morley came by when the weather permitted, mostly to remind me that I faced a reckoning.

The repair and replacement of his front door had been a unique experience. The Palms had been forced to suspend business for days while the place aired out.

“My man Junker Mulclar is your proper modern vegetarian gentleman, ain’t he?”

“Grumble rumble rabble bazzfazzle!”

“You muttered something under your breath, sir?”

“Browmschmuzzit!”

John Stretch was in and out. He seemed willing to make himself at home.

Equally frequently, Penny Dreadful, having conquered her terror of the Dead Man, visited the Luck. Without offering to take them away. She meant to open a temple — real soon now — as soon as she found the right place. I had my eye on Bittegurn Brittigarn’s dump.

I hung around the Tate homestead plenty. Too much. Tinnie’s male relatives made that obvious by their attitudes, though they never failed to be polite.

Business is business.

Deacon Osgood and the surviving lovers of A-Laf escaped custody. Bribery was suspected. They decided to end their mission to this fractious city.

I wished those boys devilspeed on their journey home, and foul weather all the way.

The unseasonable weather seldom let up. Before long it would be seasonal.

Colonel Block’s people, and Relway’s Runners, never ceased to be underfoot. Block was sure TunFaire would mend its evil ways if only he could catch good old ever-loving blue-eyed Garrett with his hand in the cookie jar.

My friend Linda Lee at the Royal Library knew the whereabouts and provenance of lots of special books. And she knew what books had gone missing from the King’s Collection and private libraries over the past dozen years.