Waltz Into Darkness (35 page)

He
was drawn to it as if in a trancelike condition, and unbolted, and
drew it back.

They
flamed instantly into full color, from the pewter silhouettes they
had been, and into full stature, from the shoulder busts.

The
woman was dark haired, sallow skinned, rather thin of face but pretty
nonetheless; wearing a costume of grape velveteen, adorned with
black frogs across the bodice like a hussar's jacket. The man was
florid of face, with a copper walrus mustache drooping over the
corners of his mouth, a cane handle riding over the crook of his arm,
and a shirt front with small blue forget-me-nots patterned all over
it.

He
raised his hat to Durand, in deference to his companion, and revealed
the crown of his head to be somewhat bald, and also somewhat
sunburned.

Durand
didn't recognize him for a minute.

"I'm
Dollard, the agent from whom you rented the house."

He
waited, ready to smile at the expected acknowledgement, but there was
none.

"Mrs.
Durand tells me you are unexpectedly called away and the house will
be available."

She
had been there then. She had even thought of that.

"Oh,"
he said stupidly. "Oh. Oh, yes. Of course."

Dollard
gave him a somewhat quizzical look, as if unable to understand his
lack of immediate comprehension. "That is correct, isn't it ?"

"Yes,"
he said, realizing he'd already blundered copiously in the moment or
two since he'd appeared at the door.

"Have
I your permission to show this possible client through the house?"

"Now?"
he murmured aghast. He could almost feel his chest pucker, as if
closing up for lack of oxygen.

Dollard
seemed to miss the intonation, having suddenly remembered his best
business manners. "Oh, forgive me. Mrs. mayer, may I present Mr.
Durand?"

He
saw the young woman glance at the forgotten coffee cup his hand still
clung to, as if it were some kind of a chalice with mystic powers to
save him. "I'm afraid we may have come at an unfortunate time,"
she suggested deprecatingly., "We're disturbing Mr. Durand.
Should we not perhaps come back at another time, Mr. Dollard?"

The
agent had already deftly inserted himself on the inside, however, and
since he refused to return to her, she had to follow somewhat
hesitantly to where he was, even in the act of speaking.

"I
know how upset everything is when a move is contemplated; the packing
and all," she apologized.

"I'm
sure Mr. Durand doesn't mind," Dollard said. "We won't be
very long." And since he had unobtrusively managed to close the
door after the three of them by this time, the fact was already an
accomplished one.

They
moved down the hall parallel to one another, the young woman in the
middle; Dollard striding with heavy-footed assurance, Durand all but
tottering.

"This
is the hall. Notice how spacious it is." Dollard swept his arm
up, like an opera tenor on a high note.

"The
light is quite good too," agreed the young woman.

Dollard
tapped his cane. "The finest hardwood parquetry. You don't
always find it."

They
advanced after the momentary halt.

"Now,
in here is the parlor," Dollard proclaimed grandly, again with a
sweep.

"Is
the furniture yours, Mr. Durand?" she asked.

Dollard's
answer overrode whatever one he might have brought himself to make,
sparing him the necessity. "The furniture goes with the house,"
he stated flatly.

She
nodded her head approvingly. "This is quite a nice room. Yes,
it's quite nice."

She
had already turned her shoulder to it, about to lead them on
elsewhere, and Dollard had turned in accord with her. When suddenly,
as if only now struck by something he had already observed a moment
ago, he looked back, pointed unexpectedly with his cane.

"Shouldn't
there be a rug here?"

The
dust patch was suddenly the most conspicuous thing in the room. In
the house, in the whole world. It glowed livid, as if limned with
phosphorus. To Durand, at least, it almost appeared incandescent, and
he felt sure they must see it that way too. He could feel his face
bleaching and drawing taut over the cheekbones, as if the slack of
his skin were being pulled at the back of his head by some cruel
hand.

"Where
?" he managed to utter.

Dollard's
cane tapped down twice, for irritated emphasis. "Here. Here."

"Oh,"
Durand said pitifully, crumbling phrases in a play for time. "Oh,
there--Oh, yes-I think you're-I'd have to ask my--" Then
suddenly he'd regained command of himself, and his tone was firm,
though still brittle. "It was removed to be beaten out. I
remember now."

"Then
it's outdoors ?" Dollard queried, as though not wholly pleased.
Without waiting to be answered, he crossed to one of the windows,
lowered his head to avoid the interplay of the curtains, and swept
his gaze about. "No, I fail to see it there." He turned
his head back to Durand, as if uneasily asking reassurance.

The
latter's eyelids, which had closed for a moment over some inner
illness of his own, went up again in time to meet the agent's boring
glance.

"It's
safe," he said. "It's somewhere about the house. Just
where, I couldn't exactly--"

"It
was quite valuable," Dollard said. "I trust it hasn't been
stolen. It will have to be accounted for, of course."

"It
will be," Durand breathed almost inaudibly.

The
young woman shifted her foot slightly, in forebearing reminder that
she was being detained; this instantly succeeded in recalling his
present duties to Dollard, and he dropped the topic.

He
hastened back to her, and tipped two fingers to her elbow in courtly
guidance. "Shall we continue, Mrs. Thayer? Next I would like you
to see the upstairs."

They
ascended in single file, she in the lead, Durand at the rear. They
ascended slowly, and he seemed to feel each footfall imprinted on his
heart, as though it were that they were treading upon. The rustle and
hiss of her multiple skirts was like the sound of volatile water
rushing down a wooden trough, though it flowed the other way, upward
instead of down.

"You
will notice the excellent light that is obtained throughout this
house," Dollard preened himself, as soon as they were on level
flooring once more. He hooked his thumbs to the armholes of his
waistcoat, allowed his fingers to trip contentedly against his chest.
"In here, an extra little sitting room for the lady of the
house. To do her sewing, perhaps." He smiled benevolently,
winked at Durand behind her back, as though to show him he knew
women, knew what pleased them.

He
was in fine fettle today, apparently; enjoying every moment of his
often-performed duties. Durand remembered enjoyment, an academic word
from the vague past; remembered the word, but not its sensation. His
wrists felt as cold as though tight coils of wire were cutting into
their flesh, had long since stopped all circulation.

At
their bedroom door she balked, chastely withdrew the tentative foot
she had put forward, as soon as she had identified it for what it
was.

"And
this room has a most desirable outlook," Dollard orated
heedlessly. "If you will be good enough to go in--"

Her
eyes widened in dignified, gravely offered reproach. "Mr.
Dollard!" she reminded him firmly. "There is a bed in
there. And my husband is not accompanying me."

"Oh,
your pardon! Of course!" he protested elaborately, with
recessive genuflections. "Mr. Durand?"

The
two men delicately withdrew all the way up-hall to the stairhead, to
wait for her, and with the impurity of mixed company thus removed,
she proceeded to enter the room and inspect it at her leisure.

"A
real lady," Dollard commented admiringly under his breath,
punctiliously looking the other way so that even his eyes could not
seem to follow her on her unchaperoned expedition.

Durand's
hand lay draggingly on his collar, forgotten there since he had last
tried to ease his throat some moments ago.

She
came out again very shortly. Her color was a trifle higher than when
she had gone in, since the bed had not been made up, but she had no
comment to offer.

They
descended again, in the same order in which they had gone up. Her
undulating hand left the railing at the bottom, and she turned to
Dollard.

"Have
you shown me everything ?"

"I
believe so." Perhaps judging her to be not yet wholly convinced
of the house's desirability, he groped for additional inducements to
display to her, turned his head this way and ' that. "All but
the cellar--"

Durand
could feel a sharp contraction go through his middle, almost like a
cramp. He resisted the instinctive urge to clutch at himself and bend
forward.

Their
eyes were not on him, fortunately; they were looking back there
toward where its door was, Dollárd's gaze having led her own
to it.

"It
is quite a large and commodious one. Let me show you. It will only
take a moment--"

They
turned and paced toward it.

Durand,
clinging for a necessary moment to the newel post of the banister,
released it again and took a faulty step after them.

His
mind was suddenly spinning, casting off excuses for delaying them
like sparks from a whirring whetstone. Rats, say there are rats; she
will be afraid--Cobwebs, dust; she may harm her clothes--

"There
is no light," he said hoarsely. "You will not be able to
see anything. I'm afraid Mrs. Thayer may hurt herself--"

His
tone was both too abrupt and too raucous for the intimate little
elbow passage that now confined them all. Both turned their heads in
surprise at the intensity of voice he had used, as though they were
at a far greater distance. But then immediately, they seemed to take
no further notice of the aberration, beyond that.

"No
light in your cellar ?" said Dollard with pouting
dissatisfaction. "You should have a light in your cellar. What
do you do when you wish to go down there yourself ?" And
glancing about him in mounting peevishness at thus being balked, his
gaze suddenly struck the lamp which had been put down close by the
doorframe by one of the two of them, Bonny or himself--Durand could
no longer remember which it was--on coming up the night before.

Again
he died inwardly, as he'd been dying at successive intervals for the
past half-hour or more. He'd chosen the wrong preventative; it should
have been rats or dust.

"No
light, you said?" Dollard exclaimed, brows peaked. "Why,
here's a lamp right here. What's this?"

All
he could stammer in a smothered voice was: "My wife must have
set it there- There was none last time- I remember complaining--"

Dollard
had already picked it up, hoisted the chimney. He struck a match to
it, recapped it, and it glowered yellow; to Durand like the fuming,
imprisoned apparition of a baleful genie, called into being to
destroy him.

He
thought, Shall I turn and run from the house? Shall I turn and run
out through the door? Why do I stand here like this, looking over
their shoulders, waiting for them to--? And badly as he wanted to
turn and flee, he found he couldn't; his feet seemed to have adhered
to the floor, he found he couldn't lift them.

Dollard
had opened the cellarway door. He stepped through onto the small
stage that topped the stairs, and then downward a step or two. A pale
yellow wash from the lamp, like something alive, lapped treacherously
ahead of him, down the rest of the steps, and over the flooring, and
even up the cellar walls, but growing fainter and dimmer the greater
its distance from him, until it finally lost all power to reveal.

He
went down a step or two more, and stretching out his arm straight
before him, slowly circled it around, so that it kindled all sides of
the place, even if only transiently.

"There
are built-in tubs," he said, "for the family's washing, and
a water boiler that can be heated by wood to supply you with--"