Nebulon Horror (14 page)

"Oh?"

"'When Mr. Nebulon lived here, this was his retreat. His study, if you like. I have not disturbed it in any way."

The chief nodded.

"You may think that rather odd," Elizabeth went on. "He
was
an odd man in some ways. All I ask is that you try not to trouble anything. I promised him I would not." Producing a key from a pocket of her dark dress, she stepped forward. "It is the only room that I keep locked." She turned the key in the lock, opened the door, and switched on a light.

Chief Lighthill walked into a room about twenty feet square and looked around him. The floor here was covered by a carpet that reached almost to the walls, the kind called an Axminster, with imitation oriental-rug design and colors. In places it was threadbare.

In one corner stood a large flat-topped mahogany desk with an ornate, high-backed chair behind it. The desk top was bare. The chair resembled a throne, Lighthill thought. Against the wall, within reach of anyone seated there, was a bookcase filled with books. Worth Blair went to it and proceeded to examine the titles without touching the volumes themselves.

There was not much else. On the other side of the room an easy chair covered in dark brown leather faced the desk. A small round table beside it bore a heavy crystal ashtray and a rack of well-smoked pipes. Two ladderback chairs against the wall looked as though they might collapse if Chief Lighthill trusted them with his weight.

He did not find it hard to accept Peckham's statement that the room was never used. It had a musty
odor that was already making him want to sneeze. It looked unused. Yet there was no noticeable film of dust on anything.

"I suppose you come in here every now and then to clean, Miss Peckham."

"Of course."

The chief glanced at Blair. "You ready, Worth?"

"In a minute, Chief. Miss Peckham, whose books are these?"

"They were Gustave's, of course. Everything in this room was his. I have neither removed anything nor added anything. I thought I made that clear."

Blair said to Lorin Lighthill, "You should look at some of these titles, Chief. Old Nebulon was into spiritualism, it seems."

Elizabeth said punctiliously, "If by being 'into' you mean he pursued the subject, you are correct. In the last few months of his life he was profoundly interested in many forms of metaphysics."

"Including life after death, it seems. There must be twenty books here on that subject alone."

"I think he wanted to believe but was not convinced."

"He spent a lot of time in this room?" Blair asked.

"I'm sure he did. At least toward the end. Of course I was not living here then, but I believe his research became a kind of obsession."

Blair looked again at the bookcase and said to Chief Lighthill, who had stepped to his side, "This is some collection. I'll bet it's as good as you'll find in many a college library." He briefly grinned. "There's even a couple of books here published by the Mason Nicolini Company. You ever hear of them? I bet you haven't."

Lighthill wagged his head.

"Not many others have, either. Too small, and they specialize in poetry. I didn't know they published occult things. I sent 'em some of my poems once and got turned down."

Unless they dealt with police procedure, books were somewhat outside the bounds of the chief's ken. He peered at some of the titles and discovered that most contained words whose meanings he but vaguely understood. He did notice that all but a few volumes had the musty, faded appearance old books usually acquired in a warm, damp climate.

"Interesting," he said. "Anything else, Worth?"

"No, Chief."

"Let's go, then."

Followed by the younger man, Lighthill walked into the hall and turned to watch Elizabeth lock the door. He gave the remaining two rooms only sufficient time to be sure they were empty as Elizabeth had stated, then aimed a meaningful look at the door of Teresa's room, down the hall. "Now, Miss Peckham, if we might just have a little chat with your niece . . ."

"Must you?" she demanded haughtily.

"Afraid so, if I'm to do my job. Blair and I will wait for you downstairs." Turning his back on her, the chief went down the stairs with Blair at his heels and walked into the living room. There, seating himself, he watched the younger man sit down, then concentrated, scowling, on how he was to handle the interrogation of seven-year-old Teresa.

He had never talked with Peckham's niece before. For background information on her all he had was his knowledge of her personal tragedy and scraps of opinion supplied by others he had questioned.

Those others did seem to be agreed on one point, however: Teresa Crosser was about as cool and smart as a seven-year-old could be.

The chief stood up when Elizabeth and her niece came into the room. So did young Blair. Tight-lipped, the woman went straight to a chair without even glancing at them. The child halted, leisurely looked
them over, then nodded and said, "Good evening."

She wore a severely plain brown robe and felt slippers of the same drab color—nothing at all little-girlish about her, the chief thought. Both she and her aunt seemed to belong here in this room with its heavy drapes and antique furniture.

Strolling to a chair on the opposite side of the room from where Elizabeth sat, the child squirmed herself into a posture of prim attentiveness. The chief and Blair sat down again. To test the water before committing himself, the chief said warily, "Teresa, do you know who I am?"

"Of course." The words were polite but the twist of her mouth plainly asked him how stupid he could be. "You're Mr. Lighthill, our chief of police."

"Right." He already felt stupid, for some reason, but tried not to show it. "And I'm here this evening because one of your playmates is missing."

She waited, calmly returning his gaze, not helping him a bit.

"I mean Raymond Hostetter, the mayor's son," Lighthill said. "Tell me now—just when did you see him last?"

She looked thoughtful, and then shrugged. "I don't really remember."

"You don't remember? A friend of yours?"

Again she shrugged. A little taller than most kids her age, a lot thinner, with dark, silky hair that hung
to her shoulders, she seemed more self-possessed than a child her age ought to be. Maybe she'd had to grow up in a hurry when she lost her parents, Lighthill thought.

"Well?" he prompted.

"Raymond isn't a friend of mine, as you put it,"
she said. "I don't even like him. So why should I remember when I saw him last?"

"He comes here to play, doesn't he?"

"I can't help that. Lots of kids come here to play."

"And they're not all your friends?"

"Well"—again that eloquent shrug—"I'm sure you know how it is. Some are my friends, and others just come because
they
do."

It was going to be very hard, the chief realized, to back this little girl into a corner. "All right, tell me something." He leaned toward her until the chair he was on creaked warningly under his weight. "You recall the time Raymond was missing before? The day he ran away from school after breaking up that marble game in the school yard?"

"Yes."

"Did he come here that day?" If the boy had been here, and had walked straight home, he would have passed old Tom Ranney's shack on his way to the park, where he had accused Mrs. Fortuna of drowning her baby. This was not the first time the thought had crossed Lighthill's mind, but it might be the best time to establish, once and for all, if Raymond had been here that day.

Almost too quickly, it seemed to him—so very quickly that she might have been trying to clue her niece—Elizabeth Peckham said, "You asked me that before, and I told you no."

"Did I?" He had called a good many people that day in his frantic effort to find the boy and get the mayor off his back, but did not recall having called her. "Anyway, I've never asked Teresa, have I?" Returning his gaze to the child, he said with a frown, "So you didn't see Raymond that day? Is that right?"

"If that is what I said then. I mean if Aunt Elizabeth asked me. I really don't remember now."

"You say you don't like Raymond. Why don't you like him? Any special reason?"

Teresa gazed into space for a moment, seemingly in deep thought. Then a look of innocence replaced her frown. "I don't think I know, actually. Do you have to have a reason for not liking somebody? Can't you just not like them?"

Lighthill saw he was getting nowhere and was not likely to get anywhere so long as the atmosphere remained as it was. Questioning this child was like firing at armor plate. Or at a mile-thick feather pillow she held in front of her. He grinned to admit she was beating him, and then changed his tactics.

"I know one thing, Teresa," he said, solemnly nodding. "The smartest of all the kids who play here is you. I've talked to most of the others, and not one them answered me like a grown-up, the way you do. How would you like me to make you a kind of deputy, so you could be my helper?"

Elizabeth said, "If you please, Chief Lighthill, I hardly think this is a time for frivolity."

The chief managed to look hurt as he turned to her. "I'm not joking, Miss Peckham. I really need help."

"Nonsense."

"No, no. Look, Miss Peckham. The mayor's only son is missing. Do you realize what will happen to me if I don't find him? I'm in big trouble, and I think Teresa can help me." Big-eyed with his own feigned innocence, he turned back to the child. "What do you say, Teresa? Isn't there
something
you can tell me that will help me find that boy?"

"I don't know what," she said with perfect composure.

"Think. Please."

She thought, or seemed to. A moment or two of
silence ensued, at any rate. Then she shrugged again, for the last time. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm probably not as smart as you think I am."

No
, Lighthill thought, giving up,
you're a thousand times smarter
. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his chair. "Well, Miss Peckham, thanks. I'm sorry we had to trouble you."

"It's quite all right," Elizabeth said with obvious relish. "I only hope you are now convinced."

The chief said, "Yes, of course," and "Good night," and then, with Blair trailing him, paced out of the room, out of the house, and down the front walk to his car. He was silent as Blair slid in beside him. Not until the house was well behind them did be speak.

"What do you think, Worth? Was that kid telling the truth?"

"It's hard to say, Chief. She's a very cute little girl, I'd say.
Cute
meaning shrewd and resourceful. She could have been lying her head off."

"Probably was. I had the damnedest feeling she was laughing at me every minute, knowing she was way out of my reach. Could you have handled her any better, you think?"

Blair had to smile at the left-handed concession to his more formal education, which he knew the chief respected. "No," he said without hesitation. "With my lack of experience she'd have had me in the first round. With the first punch, more than likely."

"I'm not sure she didn't get me just as quick. What about the rest of it? The house, I mean. Was everything what it seemed to be?"

"No, Chief."

"What caught your eye?"

"That powder in the empty room upstairs, for one thing. If it was roach powder, why was it only in that room?"

"And why in the middle of the room?" Lighthill said. "The place to look for roaches is around the baseboards. Tell me something else. How come, if she never uses the old man's study, she had the key on her? From the time we walked into the house, she was never out of our sight. She couldn't have gone somewhere and got it. It was right there in the pocket of her dress."

"Maybe she'd been cleaning the room, Chief."

"At this hour?"

"M'm. I guess not."

They were almost at the station when Blair spoke again. "Chief?"

"Yes?"

"There was something else. I can't put my finger on it, but there was something
in
that study."