11 Harrowhouse (27 page)

Weaver decided he didn't want any more champagne. He just wanted what he had coming, what he could handle, including Siv and Britta, a double helping, which was only fair enough.

The next morning Maren announced she was going to visit Mildred. She reminded Chesser to pick up the special equipment they'd ordered. They'd also need a stopwatch, she said, because Watts was coming over the next evening for a final briefing and rehearsal.

Chesser went out to do his chores, mildly resenting having to do them alone while Maren enjoyed a
tête-à-tête
with an astral body and Weaver stayed home for some less incredible heavenly response from the generous Danes.

Chesser had to wait more than an hour for the men at the shop to make a few final adjustments on the unit. It was a bulky thing, nearly the size and shape of a fifty-gallon drum. He'd placed the order under the name M. J. Mathew, and volunteered that he'd be applying the unit at his factory in Belgium. He paid for it with cash. At the other place the flexible hose was ready when he got there. Three hundred feet of it, not as heavy as it looked. He loaded it into the car and drove home feeling conspicuous with the top down, the unit on the seat beside him, and the huge coil of hose sticking up from the rear space. He was almost home when he remembered the stopwatch. He drove back to Baker Street and tried three places before he located one at a camera shop. Even then he arrived back before Maren.

He didn't see Weaver anywhere about. Nor Siv. Nor Britta. Chesser shouted that he was there. No answer. Also no help. He went out and unloaded the car, struggled the unit and the hose into the house.

He was hungry, irascible. He fixed himself a Scotch, got a hunk of cold chicken from the refrigerator, stuffed his mouth with dried apricots, and went out to the garden. He was staring into the unfolded face of a giant yellow rose when Maren appeared on the terrace and called to him. She'd been rather pensive when she'd departed but was returning exuberant. She hurried down the terrace steps to him, kissed him a nice, open kiss. He still had the chicken and the Scotch in his hands, so she had to do all the hugging.

“I solved it!” she exclaimed.

Chesser assumed she meant the pipe problem.

“It was easy.”

“No assistance from the other side?”

She shook her head. “But Mildred was a big help.”

“How?”

“Which reminds me, darling, I forgot to tell you, my Indian's back. I knew he'd be around when he was needed.”

Chesser glanced around, asked with a straight face, “Is he here, right now?”

“No, but he's around somewhere.”

“How was Mildred a big help?”

“Well, we were sitting there in Mildred's room, that dreadful, shabby place where she lives, and no sooner had I explained the problem than there it was, the answer, right at our feet.”

“Mildred put it there?”

“In a way.”

“And what was the answer?”

Maren took time out to pay tribute to one of the giant yellow roses. She inhaled deeply and sighed appreciation before telling Chesser, very precisely,
“Blatella germanica.”

She had seven of them. Two spares. She had them isolated in individual small plastic prescription vials, with pin holes punched in the tops so they wouldn't suffocate. They weren't a special, rare sort. Just ordinary cockroaches.

She and Mildred had captured them alive at Mildred's bed-sitter, where there were plenty more, if needed. Maren had stopped off at the British Museum to do some research on the insects. A very accommodating entomologist had told her some amazing things, which she now passed on to Chesser.

For example, did he know that the cockroach is one of the oldest living inhabitants of the world? Three hundred and fifty million years ago it was running around and doing damned well without kitchen sinks and Chinese restaurants. Roaches preceded dinosaurs by a hundred and seventy million years, and even those heavy-footed monsters failed to stomp them out. Roaches have five eyes, six legs, two antennae, and no birth control. They can swim if they must and fly as well. They thrive on such goodies as chocolate cake but can survive on nothing more than cardboard. Caviar or soap, it's all the same to them.

By compressing its exterior skeleton to a wafer-thin dimension, a roach can squeeze through the slightest crack. Said Maren.

That particular ability was now most significant, Chesser immediately realized.

Maren placed the plastic vials on a table, along with a roll of adhesive tape, a pair of scissors, five containers of Dior nail enamel, a sharp-pointed sable eyeliner brush, some cotton, a felt-tipped pen, and a bottle of chloroform.

First she cut strips of the tape, which she affixed to the vials. She printed names on them to give the roaches identity.

Lea.

Ingrid.

Deanna.

Lily.

Marika.

Chesser asked how she knew all the roaches were females.

“Did you ever know a man named Lily?” she replied, and continued her task, step by step, obviously having thought it out in advance.

Into each vial she stuffed a wad of cotton saturated with chloroform. In seconds the insects were unconscious. Then, using the brush, she applied a tiny dot of nail enamel to the back of each roach. A different color for each—pink, white, orange, fuchsia, and true red. She explained to Chesser, “Cockroaches clean themselves much the same way as cats. That's why I put the spot there, where they can't reach it. Otherwise they'd clean it off. And I only put a speck on because it's toxic and might kill them.” Advice gleaned that day from the entomologist, no doubt. Although she said it as if she'd known it forever.

Chesser remarked that the roaches already looked dead.

Maren scoffed, but then wasn't sure. She picked up one of the vials to examine closely the roach it contained. “I hope I didn't overdose them,” she said. She uncapped the vial and prodded the roach gently with the tip of the brush. The roach didn't stir. It leaped. Up the side of the vial and off onto the rug, easily beating Maren's reflexes. She jumped to capture it alive, attempting to come down over it with her cupped hands. The roach did a comparative four-hundred-meter dash in what may well have been world's record time, reached the wall, flattened itself and squeezed through a crack, out of sight and out of danger.

“Damn!” exclaimed Maren, and directed her exasperation at Chesser. “You stood there and let it get away.”

Immediately she admitted it really wasn't his fault by smiling the smile she always smiled whenever she wanted to be forgiven.

She had to substitute one of her spare roaches and once again repeat the procedure of labeling, chloroforming, and painting. On the strips of adhesive, next to the name of the roach, she dabbed an identifying color and finally, on a piece of paper, she made up a master key of colors and names.

By then all the roaches had recovered from the anesthesia and were waving their long antennae, shaking their legs, and searching for a way out of the vials.

Chesser didn't want to waste any time. It was important that they solve the pipe problem as soon as possible. So, after dark, they again drove the Marylebone truck to Puffing Mews and parked at the rear of number 13. Dressed in their Marylebone uniforms, they went in and up to the roof. Weaver bent open the section of fence.

Both Weaver and Chesser volunteered to make the trip across, but Maren wouldn't have it. It was her idea, therefore she deserved to see it through. She already had a lightweight mesh sack slung over her shoulder, containing the roaches in their vials and two extra rolls of adhesive tape. Not waiting for any further protest or demonstration of superior male valor, she climbed through the fence opening and sidestepped to the roof's edge. She didn't hesitate this time, walked right out and across the narrow ridge, making it look easy.

She removed the bricks and then systematically transferred the roaches, one into each of the five narrow openings within the pipe. She peeled the labels from the vials and stuck them on for designation. Using the spare tape she sealed the openings tight. Then she replaced the bricks.

She had the urge to whistle for a show of extra nonchalance as she walked back over the drain gutter. Also because she was delighted with herself.

As usual, Watts carried his simple lunch to work the following day. A sliced egg sandwich with mayonnaise and lettuce, an apple, and a thermos of tea.

The first thing he did each morning when he arrived at the vault was place his lunch in the far right corner on the cabinet surface upon which he'd be working with the Diamondlite. Same place, never fail. But this day he broke the habit. He placed his lunch on top of a high stool just to his left, within full view.

Watts would be there in the vault all morning, checking the contents of packets. But from noon on Meecham expected him upstairs to help conduct sights.

From nine until eleven he examined various stones under the Diamondlite, confirming their weight and other qualities, folding tissue neatly around them, collating them into packets. Although he appeared to be concentrating on the diamonds, he was very preoccupied with his lunch. At eleven o'clock he interrupted his work to undo the wax paper wrapping and partially expose the egg sandwich. He also took one large bite from the apple. Perhaps that would help, he thought.

At precisely eleven forty-five a cockroach of the
Blatella germanica
species flattened itself enough to make it through a sliver of space, between the wall and the face-plate of the electric outlet into which the Diamondlite was connected. The insect had spent the previous fourteen hours on a one-way trip confined within the corrugated metal of a conduit. When the roach's highly sensitive antennae had detected a slight flow of air, it had intelligently headed downward toward it. And then, when the odor of food came from the same direction, it just followed its nose. Now it emerged from behind the outlet, crawled down the wall, and hesitated there, cautious. Temptation overcame fear. It scooted across the floor, climbed a leg of the stool, and waited several minutes in an inverted position on the underside of the stool seat. Five minutes before noon it decided to make a try.

Watts saw it. He was careful not to cause a sudden motion. He merely leaned over and noticed that the roach enjoying his lunch had a tiny spot of color on its back. Pink.

It was Marika.

To the delight of everyone concerned, Watts reported that fact when he arrived at the Park Village house that night for the rehearsal. The caution that had previously prohibited such direct contact with Watts was now eliminated by necessity. They could only hope Watts was not under The System's surveillance and they believed there was no reason why he should be. After nearly thirty years of loyal service, didn't one deserve absolute trust?

One also deserved full death benefits, thought Chesser, but he didn't say it.

Chesser regretted having to implicate Watts to such an extent, to risk compromising the man. Chesser had already written Watts another certified check, bringing Watts's compensation up to an even million, equal with Weaver's. That didn't relieve Chesser's conscience as much as Watts's attitude, which was unqualifiedly cooperative. Evidently Watts was having his own vendetta in his own way.

The rehearsal went well. Maren's insistence that they have it was justified. Among other things, they learned that the hose fit snugly but had enough slip to it, and the unit worked well. Maren used the stopwatch to time Watts's efforts. With crushed gravel substituted for diamonds. After several trials, Watts improved his speed, but that was as fast as he could do it. They multiplied his best time and calculated they wouldn't, at that rate, get all the diamonds. But they'd get most of them.

Mildred attended the reheasal at Maren's request. She sat and watched, fascinated, and was unusually quiet while the others went over the plan. Finally, Chesser was satisfied that everyone knew everything. Then the only question was when. Maren contended there was no need to wait. They'd do it the next night. Agreed.

Watts departed. But Mildred stayed on, expecting Maren to drive her home. Chesser was grateful for the opportunity to settle matters with the small medium. He had a certified M. J. Mathew check ready, made out to her, for two hundred thousand dollars, an amount he considered generous. He was sure she'd grab it eagerly. So, no preamble. He just held it out and offered it to her.

Mildred gazed at it, bewildered for a moment. But then she suddenly recoiled, as though his hand were a cobra about to strike.

“Lor'!” she exclaimed. “I told you not to try giving me money. As much as I need it, I'd rather keep my powers.” She raised her eyes. “I don't want it,” she wailed. “I want to keep my powers.”

Maren was furious.

“I thought she could use it,” explained Chesser. “After all, she did help with the cockroaches and things.”

Maren snatched the check from him. She tore it into little pieces that she dropped into an ashtray. Chesser observed Mildred closely as the two hundred thousand dollars she could have had was being destroyed. Mildred didn't even wince.

Maren put a consoling arm around her spiritual confidant. “He just doesn't understand. You must forgive him.”

Mildred whimpered.

Chesser would have bet anything on Mildred's accepting that check. Maybe, he thought, he was wrong about her. Anyway, he found himself telling her, “I'm sorry.”

Mildred managed a forgiving smile. “I'll be sending out some strong positive thoughts tomorrow night,” she promised.

CHAPTER 18

T
HE NIGHT
of June thirtieth was the sort of night motion-picture people either pray for or try to duplicate when they're filming a mystery, murder or monster. The sky was dark angry with great erratic balls of clouds rolling around in turbulence. The atmosphere was too agitated to settle into a rain. However, a consequence of all its commotion was a convulsive wind, coming to earth in whipping sheets and fistlike gusts.