Thomas Tryon - The Night of the Moonbow

Reece could not know, however, that, for Honey’s sake, Leo was determined to say nothing, not even to Tiger or the Bomber. He had confided in Fritz, who said that the whole incident was best forgotten. Honey was out of trouble, no one the wiser, and better to let the ugliness fade away. Which was all well and good, Leo thought – except that the hostility remained. Brief, private looks from Reece, in the dining hall, the coop, the crafts barn, revealed his feelings of resentment, and only Leo (and Fritz) could see the wolf’s teeth behind the smile.

At least the hike to this astonishing place on this glorious morning had been free of the counselor’s presence

– he had had an “appointment he couldn’t break” in Putnam, and would be driving over “later” in the Green Hornet. Upon receipt of this news, Dagmar had commented in that acerbic way of hers that if she had his number right he’d turn up just about the time lunch was being served.

There had been one arrival of note, however; half an hour ago a car had driven up, and its passenger – a stranger to Leo – had received’ a cordial welcome from Dagmar. She and the man were now seated on the terrace talking together, and as Leo looked down from his eyrie he saw both heads turned upward. Were they talking about the tower, or perhaps the sky, which was showing signs of weather – or about Leo? Though why he should imagine such a thing, he couldn’t say.

His thoughts were interrupted by Fritz’s suggestion that they go down. The rest of the viewing party had already disappeared through the small doorway that led to the circular flight of steps. “Come, let me show you the trophy room,” Fritz said, pocketing his little telescope and steering Leo down the descending spiral and along the gallery to this treasure house, the high-beamed room where Dagmar’s collection of artifacts was housed, a trove of exotic impedimenta that took up every flat surface, every inch of wall space. Here was a wastebasket hollowed from an elephant’s foot, a matched pair of narwhale tusks; a grass skirt from Waikiki, and a pair of teakwood-and-brass opium pipes from Canton; a half-dozen fierce-looking Fijian ceremonial masks and an array of primitive weaponry, including bamboo blowpipes that shot poison darts – and the famous shrunken head.

“Ain’t it somethin’?” the Bomber boomed. “Did you ever see anything so fierce-lookin’?”

Leo hadn’t. The head was the most grotesque object he had ever set eyes upon. About the size of a baseball, it had black skin as wrinkled and stiff as old leather. Hanks of coarse hair, black and still glossy, sprouted from the scalp. The hideous features were at once alarming and strangely complaisant: on the one hand the owner seemed to have expired in a moment of extreme agony – this Leo deduced from the painful grimace of the cracked and torn lips -while on the other the closed eyes – sewn shut with a series of neatly taken stitches – lent the face a peculiar air of peaceful slumber.

Noting the others’ eyes on him as they waited for his reaction, he turned away with studied indifference to find himself standing before a vitrine shaped roughly like a clock case on whose half dozen glass shelves were exhibited a collection of glass paperweights.

“That’s the one, Wacko,” Eddie said.

“The one what?”

“In the middle.” Eddie pressed his fingertip on the glass, leaving a smudge. “That’s the one Stanley stole.”

Leo could understand why someone might want to steal the paperweight: it was a real beauty, a dome-shaped mou nil imprisoning a bouquet of flowers. And while the others went outside again, he lingered behind, contemplating the brightly gleaming object, thinking about the culprit and remembering the story: Stanley had pocketed it, then smuggled it back to camp and hidden it in his suitcase, where it was sure to be found. He should have known that was the first place they’d look for it. Stanley couldn’t have been very bright.

The doorway of the adjacent room (this was Dagmar’s music room) stood next to the cabinet, and, before joining the others – from outside now Moriarity could be heard bellowing “Come and get it!” as he banged on an aluminium pan – Leo stopped to check out the space where later he was to perform. Suddenly his heart began to pound. All morning he had resolutely refused to consider the fact that this afternoon he was to give his first public performance since Major Bowes Night. Now he couldn’t help remembering that his playing had been part of the bargain between him and Dagmar that had made the visit to the Castle possible, and he steeled himself for the ordeal, praying he wouldn’t disgrace himself again. He liked the look of the room very much. It was long and low-ceilinged, with the ebony grand piano standing in the corner at the far end, away from the fireplace. On the fringed shawl that half-covered it, next to a Chinese vase filled with roses, stood a bust in dark bronze (Beethoven, the eyes glowering sternly from under a majestic brow), and beside that, where Augie had placed it earlier, Leo’s own violin.

Again he heard Moriarity’s bellow – “Last call, last call” and turned to go, heading for the chow line upon which hungry campers were converging from all directions.

“Can I eat with you?” Leo asked Fritz.

“Why don’t we go see what Dagmar has to say?” he replied. “Well, come along, it’s all right.” Together, he and Leo crossed the gallery, to meet with Dagmar, who was heading in their direction. Accompanying her was the stranger. He was wearing a wrinkled suit; his head was bald on top, with frizzy locks that drooped over his collar, and he had warm, friendly eyes.

“This is Professor Pinero,” Dagmar said as they came up.

The man smiled kindly. “How do you do, Leo,” he said. Leo liked him right away.

“The professor teaches music,” their hostess explained.

Leo took care to keep his eyes lowered. Dagmar was up to something; he didn’t know what, but suddenly he was afraid. He could see the toes of the man’s shoes and the cuffs of his trousers.

Dagmar must have read his thoughts, for, reaching for his hand to guide him along the gallery, she said, “I invited the professor to come and visit with us today. We’re going to take lunch together.”

“Yes,” the professor said. “And afterward, your friend Dagmar tells me, I’m to have the pleasure of hearing you play. I’m looking forward to that, I assure you.”

Leo felt trapped. This was something he hadn’t counted on at all. Had the professor come to audition him or – or what?

While Fritz and the professor chatted in a friendly fashion, Leo glanced nervously at Dagmar, whose eyes snapped with interest, her look saying she was waiting to hear what Leo had to say to her unexpected guest. Rescue came at the hands of Augie, who, wearing a shiny black jacket and no cap, and comfortable-looking slippers on his feet, stepped up to his mistress with word that lunch was ready.

Dagmar looked toward the end of the gallery, where, in a little pergola, a table had been set. “Leo will be joining us for lunch,” she announced. “But first he might want to wash his hands, if you’ll show him where.”

Obeying, Leo started to follow Augie, only to bump headlong into Reece, who had come bounding up the steps.

“Easy there, Kemo Sabe,” he said brusquely, looking him over. “Where are you off to in such a rush?”

“He’s just going to the bathroom,” Dagmar said. “That’s all right, Augie, take him along.”

“Don’t get lost,” Reece said with a friendly wave, as Leo hurried after Augie, while the counselor turned, still smiling, to Dagmar. “You have to watch some of these guys every minute,” he said, jokingly. “Hello, Auntie, how’s about a kiss.”