Read Online The Last Coin by James P. Blaylock - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James P. Blaylock
Ads: Link
orchestrated tangle of tubes and valves, reaching away to the ceiling.
A pounding on the front door awakened him. There was a simultaneous screaming, coming from somewhere—from over-head, from the attic. Andrew stumbled out into the living room, rubbing his face. He felt like a rumpled, dehydrated hobo. Wrapped in her bathrobe, Rose pushed past him, bound for the front door. She threw it open. There was Pickett, holding a fishing pole and tackle box and wearing a hat. He started to speak, to play out the role he and Andrew had written for him the previous afternoon, but Rose dashed away toward the stairs, shouting at Andrew to follow along.
Upstairs, Mrs. Gummidge stood with her hand across her mouth, outside the open door of Aunt Naomi’s room. Somehow the ’possum had deteriorated sadly in the early morning hours. In the closeness of the room, it outstank the cats, which had, apparently, been at the corpse just a little bit—investigating it, but finally giving up and leaving it alone. It was perfect. Andrew bit his lip and winked at Pickett.
Aunt Naomi sat in bed, her hair curled as it had been the night before. She breathed like a tea kettle. “How,” she demanded in a hollow, lamenting voice, “did that creature get into my room?”
Andrew cleared Mrs. Gummidge out of the way. “Bring me the scoop shovel,” he said, taking command. “Out of the garage. The broad, aluminum scoop.”
“I’ll get it,” said Pickett, hurrying away down the stairs.
Andrew examined the dead ‘possum. “Cats have done for it.” He nodded at Aunt Naomi, who stared at him as if he were talking like an ape. “The cats,” he said, louder. “They’ve worried the beast to death. Look at him, he’s all over scratches. Like the Chinese—the death of a thousand cuts. Very nasty business.” He shook his head. Pickett came stomping up the stairs, carrying the short-handled shovel. “What do you think of this?” asked Andrew stoutly.
Pickett stared at him, then said, “Looks like—what?—the cats got him, I guess.” He bent over to have a closer look, then screwed up his face and backed away. “He’s rather had it, hasn’t he?”
Andrew nodded. “Does he look like the fellow we saw on the back fence two days ago? Same size, I’d say.”
Pickett nodded. “I’m certain it is.” He looked up at Rose, who seemed to be staring at him particularly hard. “Couldn’t
swear
to it, of course, not absolutely. Wouldn’t want to sign an affidavit. If he were in a police line-up, you know …” He let the subject drop and pretended to examine the creature again, shaking his head at the very idea of it.
Rose sat down on the bed beside Aunt Naomi and patted the coverlet over the old woman’s leg. “Can’t you get it out of here?” she asked Andrew, nodding toward the door.
“At once. Back away there, Mrs. Gummidge. One dead ’possum coming down the stairs. Call Rodent Control, will you? There’s a man there named Biff Chateau who has done some work for me in the past. This is right in his line. Thank God for the cats, eh? This place would be hell on earth without them. There wouldn’t be a room in the house safe from monsters like this. He stinks to high heaven, doesn’t he?”
There were more footfalls on the stairs, and Mr. Pennyman hove into view. Imposter, thought Andrew. He’s taken the time to massage his scalp before coming up. There might have been any kind of trouble at all up here—thieves, cavemen, Martians—
he
wouldn’t have been worth a curse. It occurred to Andrew that he could trip right then, and pitch the spoiled ‘possum into Pennyman’s face. No one would claim it wasn’t a flat-out accident. But he wouldn’t. This was art, this ’possum business. It demanded subtlety. There wasn’t any room for farce.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pennyman,” Andrew said, shoving past the man on the landing. “There’s been a ‘possum fooling about in Naomi’s bedroom. Half-terrorized her before the
A pounding on the front door awakened him. There was a simultaneous screaming, coming from somewhere—from over-head, from the attic. Andrew stumbled out into the living room, rubbing his face. He felt like a rumpled, dehydrated hobo. Wrapped in her bathrobe, Rose pushed past him, bound for the front door. She threw it open. There was Pickett, holding a fishing pole and tackle box and wearing a hat. He started to speak, to play out the role he and Andrew had written for him the previous afternoon, but Rose dashed away toward the stairs, shouting at Andrew to follow along.
Upstairs, Mrs. Gummidge stood with her hand across her mouth, outside the open door of Aunt Naomi’s room. Somehow the ’possum had deteriorated sadly in the early morning hours. In the closeness of the room, it outstank the cats, which had, apparently, been at the corpse just a little bit—investigating it, but finally giving up and leaving it alone. It was perfect. Andrew bit his lip and winked at Pickett.
Aunt Naomi sat in bed, her hair curled as it had been the night before. She breathed like a tea kettle. “How,” she demanded in a hollow, lamenting voice, “did that creature get into my room?”
Andrew cleared Mrs. Gummidge out of the way. “Bring me the scoop shovel,” he said, taking command. “Out of the garage. The broad, aluminum scoop.”
“I’ll get it,” said Pickett, hurrying away down the stairs.
Andrew examined the dead ‘possum. “Cats have done for it.” He nodded at Aunt Naomi, who stared at him as if he were talking like an ape. “The cats,” he said, louder. “They’ve worried the beast to death. Look at him, he’s all over scratches. Like the Chinese—the death of a thousand cuts. Very nasty business.” He shook his head. Pickett came stomping up the stairs, carrying the short-handled shovel. “What do you think of this?” asked Andrew stoutly.
Pickett stared at him, then said, “Looks like—what?—the cats got him, I guess.” He bent over to have a closer look, then screwed up his face and backed away. “He’s rather had it, hasn’t he?”
Andrew nodded. “Does he look like the fellow we saw on the back fence two days ago? Same size, I’d say.”
Pickett nodded. “I’m certain it is.” He looked up at Rose, who seemed to be staring at him particularly hard. “Couldn’t
swear
to it, of course, not absolutely. Wouldn’t want to sign an affidavit. If he were in a police line-up, you know …” He let the subject drop and pretended to examine the creature again, shaking his head at the very idea of it.
Rose sat down on the bed beside Aunt Naomi and patted the coverlet over the old woman’s leg. “Can’t you get it out of here?” she asked Andrew, nodding toward the door.
“At once. Back away there, Mrs. Gummidge. One dead ’possum coming down the stairs. Call Rodent Control, will you? There’s a man there named Biff Chateau who has done some work for me in the past. This is right in his line. Thank God for the cats, eh? This place would be hell on earth without them. There wouldn’t be a room in the house safe from monsters like this. He stinks to high heaven, doesn’t he?”
There were more footfalls on the stairs, and Mr. Pennyman hove into view. Imposter, thought Andrew. He’s taken the time to massage his scalp before coming up. There might have been any kind of trouble at all up here—thieves, cavemen, Martians—
he
wouldn’t have been worth a curse. It occurred to Andrew that he could trip right then, and pitch the spoiled ‘possum into Pennyman’s face. No one would claim it wasn’t a flat-out accident. But he wouldn’t. This was art, this ’possum business. It demanded subtlety. There wasn’t any room for farce.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pennyman,” Andrew said, shoving past the man on the landing. “There’s been a ‘possum fooling about in Naomi’s bedroom. Half-terrorized her before the
Similar Books
