Glen Cook - Old Tin Sorrows

Morley settled on the fountain surround, in the shadow of the dragon's wing. "Now what?"

"Let's wait. He'll talk to Cook. If she goes along, you'll get to look at Stantnor." Cook might not be mother to the world but she was queen of the Stantnor household. "Doctor. Can you suggest any experts who might help?"

"Let's see if we get to examine the patient. If I find no physical cause, I'll provide referrals. They won't come cheaply, though."

"Does anybody but me?"

Morley had a big yuk. "This is the man who paid cash for a house with the take from one case."

"And for every one of those, I have fifty where I give Saucerhead half my fee to get them to pay up. You know anything about the art world?"

"That's a change of subject. I know something about everything. I need to. What do you need?"

"Say I discovered an unknown painter genius whose work deserves display. Who would I see to get things moving?"

He shrugged, grinned. "Got me. Now if you had some hot old masters I could help. I know people who know morally flexible collectors. If you have something like you're talking about, you should see your friend with the brewery."

"Weider?"

"He's got fingers in all the cultural pies. Honorary director of this and that. He has the contacts. You don't have some old masters, do you?" He glanced around. I'm sure he'd been inventorying potential plunder.

"You won't find anything here but portraits of old guys with whiskers who scowl a lot, all painted by people you never heard of."

"I noticed the welcoming committee. I wondered how long it takes the Stantnors to train their young not to smile."

"Might be hereditary. I've never seen Jennifer do more than fake it."

"Your buddy's coming."

Peters was coming from the kitchen under a full spread of sail. I knew what he'd say before he said it. He said it anyway. "We don't give the old man a vote."

"He'll cut you out of his will."

"Ask me if I give a damn. Let's go." But he hung back, gave me a look that said he wanted a private word. I let the others move upstairs a flight.

"What?"

"That crack about the will. In all the excitement I plain forgot to tell you before. The copy the General burned wasn't the only one. He always made two of every document. Sometimes three."

"Oh?" Interesting. That meant nothing had changed, if the killer knew. "How many are there?"

"One for sure. He gave it to me to give to you. Like you asked. I put it in my quarters, then got distracted till I was talking to Cook and she said the same thing you did, about getting cut out."

"It wasn't that important to you?"

"No. I did you a favor, then forgot to carry through. Till it hit me what that copy could mean."

"It could mean the killer won't back off. If he knows about it. Who knows?"

"Dellwood and Kaid. They were there. And everybody else knows the General made copies of documents."

"Where'd you put it? Give me your key. I'll grab it now. You go ahead and get after the old man."

He gave me a nasty look. I knew what he was thinking. I wanted to toss his quarters. I told him, "I don't think you've got anything to hide."

"You're a bastard, Garrett. Put me in a spot where I'm damned whatever I do."

"You do have something to hide?"

He glared. "No!"

"Then get it yourself. I'll take your word." I recalled the fire, for which he could have been responsible. I hung in there, taking a chance on my guts. "But hurry."

He gave me the key. "In the drawer of my writing table."

Cook came rumbling up, the stair shuddering to her tread. "We going to do this?" she demanded. "Or we going to gossip?"

Smart woman, Cook. The old man couldn't dismiss her. If she went in and sat on him, all he could do was cuss and take it. "Thanks," I told her.

She gave me half a sneer. "What for? He's my baby, ain't he?"

"Yeah." I watched them hurry to overtake the others. The General would be in the worst tactical position of his life. He couldn't do anything to Morley, Saucerhead, the doc, or Cook. And he'd be damned stupid if he did anything about Peters. If he ran Black Pete off, he'd be damned near out of help. He had to think survival in more than personal terms. He had to think about keeping the estate in shape.

I suspected its value was dropping fast.

I fingered Peters's key, glanced around. I had the feeling I was being watched, but I saw nobody. My blonde again, I thought. I wondered where the others were. At work, presumably.

A vampirous spirit, eh? On top of draugs? What a lovely place to live.

Something wasnt right. Black Pete's door wasn't locked. He wasn't the sloppy type.

It worked before, so I grabbed a shield and stormed inside. And didn't find anything this time, either.

The damned place was haunted by practical jokers. I tossed the shield against the doorframe, put up my head-knocker, went to the writing table. The room was a mirror image of my sitting room. I sat down at an identical table.

I guess I heard a sole scuff the carpet. I started to turn, to duck. That's all I did, started.

Something hit me like a monument falling. I saw shooting stars. I think I howled. I lurched forward. My face met the tabletop. It wasn't a friendly meeting.

It's pretty hard to knock somebody out. You either don't hit hard enough, in which case your victim gets after you, or you hit him too hard and he croaks. If you have any idea what you're doing, you don't bash him up top the head. Unless you want to smash his skull.

This blow was aimed at my skull. I moved that much. It hit the side of my neck and bounced off my shoulder. It didn't put me out—not more than ninety-nine percent. It paralyzed me. For half a minute I was vaguely aware of a shape in motion. Then the lights went out.

Got to stay away from the hard stuff, I thought as I came around. Getting too old for it. The hangover isn't worth it.

I thought I was slumped over my desk at home. The truth dawned as I tried to get up. I saw unfamiliar surroundings. My head spun. I fell, banged my jaw off the edge of the table, curled up on the floor, and dumped Cook's lunch. When I tried to move, the heaves started again.

Sometime during the fun somebody ran past, headed for the door. All I saw was a flash of brown. I didn't much care.

Concussion, I thought. That scared me. I'd seen guys with their brains scrambled after getting hit on the head. I'd seen them paralyzed. I'd seen them go to sleep and never wake up.

Got to stay awake, Garrett. Got to stay awake. That's what the docs say. Get up, Garrett. To hell with the heaves. Take charge, Garrett. Make the flesh obey the will.

Trouble was, there wasn't much will left.

After a while I got my knees under me and crawled to the door. I fell down a few times during the trek. But the exercise did me good. I arrived so chipper, I was afraid I wasn't going to die. I worked up so much ambition that I swung the door open and moved out a yard before I collapsed and passed out again.

Gentle, delicate fingers slid lightly over my face, feeling my features the way a blind woman once did. I'd turned over somehow. I cracked one eyelid a millionth of an inch.

My sweetheart in white had come to succor me. At least she looked concerned. Her lips moved but I didn't hear anything.

Panic. I'd heard of guys who'd lost their hearing, too.

She jumped away. Not that she needed to. I was in no shape to run down a brigand snail. More, Black Pete's door had closed on my legs. I was caught like a mouse. I managed a feeble "Don't go. Please."

The investigative mind was at work. It wanted to know.

She came back. She settled onto her knees, resumed massaging my head. "Are you badly hurt?" Her voice was the ghost of a whisper. She sounded concerned. She looked concerned.