The Investigations of Avram Davidson (23 page)

—GD

 

Guy Benson used to tell himself that if Cousin May had never borrowed the book from the library he would never have got the idea. But all the same he rather thought it would have come to him anyway. The need was constant, the solution so easy—and so near.

“So, Guy,” Cousin May had said, in that deep voice to which authority, amusement, and scorn seemed to come quite naturally; “so, Guy, you agree with that wretched fellow in the book, do you?”

Guy passed a hand through grey-blond hair, thinning fast now. “In the theoretical discussion, yes—but not in the brutal murder of the old miser, no.”

May boomed at him: “But what is the difference?” She waved the library copy of
Crime and Punishment.
In the chair by the marble-topped fireplace Cousin Jenny pouted. She never liked conversations to grow loud and excited. It disturbed her. Even now, in fact, her soft little hands fluttered nervously toward the tray on the tiny table next to her.

“What is the difference between them?” Cousin May demanded. “The theoretical question—if you could press a button and kill a man whom you have never seen, but whose death would make you rich—”

Cousin Jenny quavered, “Oh, please!
Don't
talk about such things.” The coal fire in the grate cast glints of ruddy light on the small but richly furnished room.

“—presents no moral issue at all different from bludgeoning to death an old miser for the money hidden in a trunk,” Cousin May trumpeted, ignoring Cousin Jenny. “Murder is murder.”

Guy disagreed. “Murder is as murder feels,” was how he put it. “Violent killing would
feel
like murder. But pressing a button would
not
feel like it. And besides, all men must die. My man dies painlessly. Think what later agonies my simply pressing a button may well have saved him.”

In her fluty voice Cousin Jenny said, “Oh,
such
a morbid conversation. May, dear,
would
you mind?—some fresh water, please. This in the jug is stale and tepid. Little bubbles, you know…” Her voice died away.

Cousin May shifted her heavy face to where Cousin Jenny sat, a little vial in one thin hand, an empty glass in the other.

“Another one of your capsules,” she snorted.

“I
need
it,” said Jenny staunchly.

“Capsules, pills, powders, injections, diathermy; every doctor in the city has gone to Florida at least twice on what he's gotten from you.” May's voice dwindled away into the kitchen, from which a sound of running water came, then grew louder as she returned with a wet-glistening tumbler. “Your heart, your head, your nerves, your enzymes—oh, well. Here you are. Drink it down. No use
my
doing any more talking.”

But she continued to talk as capsule and water rippled their way down Cousin Jenny's throat, now beginning to grow thin as the years went on—and on—and on.

Guy thought of all those years, and all the money spent on doctors by Cousin Jenny in those years, and then one single sentence of Cousin May's broke through his bubble-thoughts.

“These sickly fancies of yours will be the death of you yet,” said Cousin May.

*   *   *

T
HAT WAS FIVE
years ago. Five years in which Guy's position in the world (which had never been too good) had got steadily worse. The three-room apartment had given way to one room, without bath, in a decayed lodginghouse. The truth was that Guy gambled. And his luck was bad. Someday, he assured himself, his cards would turn, his number would come up at the wheel, his stock, his horses—but in the meanwhile he lived in a cheap little room and six days a week ate scanty meals.

But Sunday night he dined at Cousin Jenny's.

The candlelight, the embroidered linen, the savory soup, the rich brown-glazed fowl, the roast, the multitude of smaller (though by no means small) dishes moving round the table—curried this, candied that, stewed something, buttered something else. Dessert. Delicious pastries. Coffee with rum in it. Then, in the small front room there were brandy and Turkish cigarettes, while the coal fire glimmered on the polished furniture, golden picture frames, and leatherbound books.

Once at such a moment there had come to Guy's mind a phrase from the Bible—he supposed it must be from the Bible—perhaps he had heard it in church in those dim, far-off days when he had still gone to church:
Hast thou slain and also taken possession?

The money had all been made by their common grandfather, but Guy's father had lost much of his share, and Guy had lost the rest. Cousin May's income, though small, was sufficient, since she lived with Cousin Jenny, whose own father had not only retained all he inherited, but actually had increased it.

About money Cousin Jenny seldom spoke, but Guy knew that she had two fixed ideas on the subject: one, money should not be given to young people (young people!—he was five years her junior) because “it was bad for their character and better for them to stand on their own feet”; two, family money should be “left in the family.”

Aside from a few small charitable bequests all Cousin Jenny's estate would go to Guy and May. That is, when she died. But year succeeded year and she continued to ail, to consume capsules, pills, powders, before meals, after meals, on retiring at night, and on awakening in the morning. She made the rounds from one expensive doctor to another and she never—so far as Guy could see—grew any iller, or feebler, or looked any worse.
If you could press a button and kill … whose death would make you rich, would you do it?

And Guy's heart cried out, “Yes, yes, I would!”

*   *   *

H
E HAD HAD
the “button” for two years now. Soon after he had moved to his present room, a medical student, expelled for drunkenness, had killed himself in the dingy lodginghouse. Guy, summoned by the worried landlady into the dark hall smelling eternally of boiled cabbage and cheap bacon, broke down the door. The body was on the bed, the box was on the table by the bed, and in the box were two tiny white tablets.

When the police arrived there was only one tablet in the box. The other was in Guy's shirt pocket. For two long years, wrapped in a screw of paper tucked into an old sock, it had lain in a corner of a drawer in his rickety bureau.

Guy had approached Cousin Jenny's house from the rear, to avoid any possibility of being seen on the street. He was now at the back door, key in hand. He had the key lawfully: it had been given him to come and check the house during the ladies' annual vacation (“Just to see that everything was in order”), and he had retained it at their request (“Just in case you ever need it”).

There was no chance of his being heard as he walked stealthily into the darkened house, for Cousin May slept so soundly by nature that firebells could not awaken her, and Cousin Jenny always (naturally) “took something” to make her sleep. And if by one chance in 10,000 someone
did
awaken and ask why he was there—“I felt a presentiment. I had to see if everything was all right.”

Jenny would marvel and accept, and May would snort, but no more than usually.

It was all so easy, as easy as pressing a button: alongside Cousin Jenny's bed stood her night table with its tray of medical supplies; on the tray was a small saucer in which she put the large capsule she would take on waking up in the morning. Guy knew the capsules were not sealed, for once he had heard her complain that one had opened and spilled. It would be necessary for him only to pull off the top cap, insert the tiny tablet, close the capsule, and replace it; then—as silently as he had entered—leave.

I should have done this years ago, he thought, entering the hall. Somehow he did not feel so calm, so cool, now that he was inside. His breath came harder, his heart beat faster, and there seemed to be not enough air. To his surprise he found his legs trembling.

This will never do, he thought. In the hall, his eyes made out the shape of a chair. I will sit down for a moment, and rest, he said to himself, just for a moment, until I feel better—

*   *   *

N
EXT MORNING AT
nine o'clock a canary-colored taxi-cab stopped in front of the house and let out Cousin May and Cousin Jenny, each with a suitcase.

“Oh, I
knew
he'd be late,” said Cousin Jenny petulantly. “Well, I won't enter the house until he comes.”

“Now, you have only yourself to blame,” said Cousin May. “
I
never heard anything, never saw anything. Such a nuisance, staying in that hotel. I hope you'll have no more notions like this one, Jenny.”

Jenny moved from one grievance to the other. “But I
did
hear them, May,” she protested, wide-eyed and pouting. “I really did—rustling noises at night, in the walls, in the woodwork, in the hall. Insects, mice—why, perhaps even rats!” She shuddered.

May shrugged, looked at her watch.

“Where
is
that man from Wilson's?” she asked. “He's five minutes late.” She walked down the steps to peer both ways along the street, Jenny following.

“Curb your imagination, Jenny,” May's voice ran on. “Beware of these sickly fancies or they will be the death of you yet.”

Behind them, on the front door, was a sign with large red letters. In each of its four corners was a skull and crossbones.

Danger,
the sign read.
Do Not Enter. Poison Gas. Rats. Wilson Pest Control Service.

Inside the house all was silent.

T
HE
D
EED OF THE
D
EFT
-F
OOTED
D
RAGON

“T
HE
D
EED OF THE
Deft-Footed Dragon” was published in 1986.

The Chinese laundryman, On Lung, is drawn from Davidson's sojourn in China at the close of World War II. Avram was in Peking during the Japanese surrender, and he took the opportunity to escape the confines of military life and explore the ancient culture of China. Avram's fascination with Asia lasted all of his life. His last novel published during his lifetime (which I co-authored due to his ill health) concerns Marco Polo's travels through China and Asia (
Marco Polo and the Sleeping Beauty,
Baen Books, 1988).

Michael Kurland, in his introduction to
The Redward Edward Papers,
described Avram's sojourn in China: “Davidson served with the Marines in the South Pacific. He ventured as far into northern China as Peiping, whereupon the Chinese immediately changed the name to Peking, and closed the country to all foreigners for twenty-five years.”

—GD

 

It was frightfully hot in the streets. Most of the shops were cooler, particularly since the day was fairly young, but some of the shops were even hotter, and behind the beaded curtain in one of them a man was taking advantage of the concealment thus offered to work stripped to the waist; and even so the sweat poured off his torso and onto his thin cotton trousers. He did not think of complaining about the weather, sent as it was by the inscrutable decree of Heaven. Still, it was necessary to admit that it did slow his work down. Not that he toiled one hour the less at the washtubs, not that he toiled one hour the less at the ironing-board. Man was born to toil, and—brutal though the savages were among whom he toiled—it was almost inevitable that eventually he would have saved one thousand dollars: then he might retire to his native country and live at ease. However, the heat. And the sweat. What slowed his work down was that from time to time he was obliged to wipe his hands dry and carefully fold the garments he had ironed; in order to avoid staining them with his perspiration he was obliged to stand far away as he folded:
this
slowed the work down.
Mei-yo fah-dze,
there was nothing to be done about it; he filled his mouth with water and carefully sprayed a small amount onto the garment on the ironing-board; then he picked up a hot iron from the stove and made it hiss upon the cloth.

“It is unfortunate about the girl-child's absence,” one of his countrymen then present observed.

“So.” The water had evaporated. Another mouthful. Another spray. Another hiss.

“She justified her rice by folding the garments while you ironed.”

“So.”

This countryman was called Wong Cigar Fellow. He rolled the cigars themselves, then he peddled them to others. Sometimes he carried other things for sale from his basket—these varied—but always the cigars; hence his name. “It is said that once you pursued a far more honored craft than this one, far away in the Golden Mountain City.” The man said nothing. The pedlar said, “All men know this is so, despite your great modesty. Do you not regret the change?”

“Mei-yo fah-dze.”

He puffed his cheeks with water, sprayed, ironed.

Wong Cigar Fellow made as though to rise, settled again. “It is too bad about Large Pale Savage Female.”

The name on the shop was On Lung. Sometimes this caused the savage natives to laugh their terrible laugh. “Hey, One Lung,” they would say, in their voices like the barking dogs. “Hey, One Lung, which Lung is it? Hey? No savvy? No tickee, no shirtee, hey?” And, baring huge yellow teeth, would laugh, making a sound like
hop, hop, hop.

The wash-man dried his hands, dried his body, quickly packed up the shirt, and, holding it at arms' length before he could begin to sweat heavily again, deftly folded it around a piece of cardboard.

“Ah, how swiftly the girl-child folded shirts.”

“Mei-yo fah-dze.”
He took another shirt and spread it on the ironing board; then asked, indifferently, “What large pale savage female do you refer to?”

“Large Pale Savage Female, so we all call her. Eyes the ugly color of a sky on a bright day.”