Gene Wolfe - Free Live Free

“What is the use!” The witch gave a theatrical gesture of despair. “Perhaps we should ask for stuffed pig, did we not have one already.”

“If you mean me, forget it. A pig, maybe. But stuffed? Forget it. I’m so empty I can feel my stomach folding up. Now listen to this.” Candy held up the room service menu. “‘Pompano Amandine—luscious filets of fresh pompano, flown up daily from Miami, broiled in a mixture of farm butter, fresh-squeezed lemon juice, and grated almonds.’ That’s for me.”

“Right,” Stubb said. He had taken a small notebook and a mechanical pencil from inside his coat. “What to drink?”

“Beer. Pie afterwards. Peach, if they’ve got it. Or apple. They’ve always got apple.”

“Right. What about you?” He looked toward the witch. “It’s your room, after all.”

“I am delighted you recall it. I had thought it forgotten that I will be paying for all this.”

“Sure. By the way, it’s about time you phoned the desk to ask about your seventy bucks. But wait till I get this order in. What’ll you have?”

“I do not eat flesh or dairy products. Is there anything there for me?”

Candy scanned the menu. “Large fresh fruit salad—includes pineapples and mangoes, other fruits in season.”

“That will do. I will have a glass of white wine also.”

Stubb glanced at the salesman. “Ozzie?”

“Filet mignon with mushroom caps. Scotch on the rocks.”

“Got it. Sandy?”

“Nothing. I don’t want anything.”

“We can’t just eat in front of you. How about a drink?”

“You’re going to have coffee, aren’t you? I’ll have that. A cup of coffee.”

“Got it.” Stubb took the telephone, rang room service, and began to read out the order.

“I can’t decide which questions.” Sandy was staring at a scuffed notebook as though the scrawled words there represented some indecipherable code.

“You must,” the witch said. “Or give them to me. I will decide.” She reached for the notebook.

“A minute. Can’t you give me just a minute?”

There was a knock at the door.

Stubb put a hand over the mouthpiece and looked significantly at the witch. “There’s a peep-hole in the door. Use it.”

“I need not,” she said, standing up. “Our visitor means no harm.” She opened the door, but stood in the doorway.

A little, gray-haired woman in a shabby coat waited on the other side of the threshold. “I know you,” she said as the door opened. “You’re Miz Garth.” She sighed as a traveler who has come to the end of a long journey. “You’re a sight for some eyes, being from Mr. Free’s house and all. Can I come in?”

“I have visitors, and though you say you know me, I do not know you. What is it you wish?”

“I know all of you,” the little woman said, peering around the witch’s shoulder. “Or anyways, most all, almost. A difference without a disinclination, is that what they call it? I just want to ask you about Mr. Free.”

“Let her come in,” Stubb said. “Come in, Mrs. Baker.”

The witch took a half step back, and Mrs. Baker slipped past her. “I know you,” she said. “You were in my parlor when that nice policeman was playing with Puff. I’ve seen you over at Mr. Free’s too. You’re Mr. Barnes.” She turned her vague, sweet smile toward Candy. “And you’re Miz Snake, the fortune teller. Oh, I do so love to have my fortune read! There’s truth in tea, I always say.”

Candy grinned at her. “I’m afraid you’ve made a Miz Snake, Mrs. Baker.”

The old woman did not appear to hear her. “But I don’t know … Well, where did she get off to? Where’s the other girl? I’m sure I saw three when the door opened.”

No one answered. Stubb stepped to the drapes and jerked them aside, but there was no one there.

The witch said, “Certainly she did not go out.”

Barnes called, “Sandy? Ms. Duck, where are you?”

A muffled voice replied, “In here.”

“Oh, hell.” Barnes sounded relieved. “She’s going to the bathroom. I must be getting jittery.”

“I’ll come out when I’ve got my questions!”

Candy sighed. “I was just about to go in there myself. Ozzie, you brought her, tell her to hurry up.”

“That’ll just fluster her worse,” Barnes said. “Leave her alone. She’ll be out in a minute.”

Mrs. Baker smiled at them. “Haste makes worst, I always say.”

“I’ll bet you do,” the fat girl said.

Stubb interposed. “While Sandy’s out of the way, we’ve got a chance to talk to Mrs. Baker here. Let’s make use of it. You said you wanted to find out something about Mr. Free, Mrs. Baker. What was it?”

“Where he’s at, of one thing. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the brush, they say.”

The witch, who had been watching the old woman expectantly, let her shoulders droop a trifle. “Then you know no more than we. I had hoped you did.”

“Because some ladies were asking around and about him. They’re from the Government, I think. And I’d like to know myself. It’s been prying on my mind.”

Stubb said, “These ladies from the Government, were they police? Like Sergeant Proudy, who played with your cat?”

“I don’t think so. They weren’t uniform. Besides, they drank my tea. It was my obsession, when those two nice policemen broke my door, that policemen bought and large won’t drink tea, only cooco. Tea and symphony is what they say, and policemen bought and large don’t care for music.”

“Can you tell us what they told you? Please think carefully. It might be important.”

“Only that they had seen Mr. Free broadcased, and they wanted to talk to him—”

“They saw him on television?”

“Yes, and I did too, clear as day sight on the TV pogrom. It was just after they showed that nice sergeant getting hit with the ax. They say fool’s names and fool’s cases are often aired in public paces, but I thought Mr. Free gave his case about as good as anybody could. He didn’t sound like a lawyer—he sounded like he was telling the truth.”

Barnes said, “That must have been while the rest of us were inside looking after that cop.”

The old woman shook her head. “It was the six P.M. Morning Report.”

Stubb grunted. “They had it taped, Mrs. Baker. Maybe even from before we moved in, when a lot of people were protesting the new ramp. What else did these ladies say?”

“Nothing match. Just that they had been looking for poor Mr. Free because he had crash coming, but when they got there he wasn’t here. Factually, the whole kitten caboose of you wasn’t. A missus as good as a mile, like they say, even if maybe they were married. They didn’t take their gloves off, either one.”

“They must have given you their names.”

Mrs. Baker hesitated, chin tucked in. She was sitting in the vanity chair, her back as straight as its own.

“First names? Last names? Anything?”

“I know they said them, but I was in a fluster. Then the little one saw Puff and asked what’s Puff’s name, and I told her Puff, and she run over and hid under the divan like she does, and I never thought to ask again. Do you think it’s a lot of crash?”

Stubb shook his head.

“Still, it might be a lot to him. The widow’s might, it’s called, I believe. You could call it the widower’s might nearly as good. Mr. Free was a widower, I expect.”

“But you don’t know?”

“He always seemed so widower-weedy, if you know what I mean. Not like a old bachelor—they’re always so crispy. The worst old women is the ones that wear pants in the family, they say. But I think old bachelors are worse even, and Mr. Free is so sweet. He casts his spelling over you.”