Read Online The Wind Chill Factor by Thomas Gifford - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Thomas Gifford
Ads: Link
in amazement at the proper moments. He popped a match on his thumbnail and rolled a cigar on his tongue, lighting it evenly. When I finished he leaned forward and looked from one of us to the other, bushy eyebrows raised. “ Can such things be?” He sighed. “Of course they can. Life is full of such acts of violence, meaningless, tortured, psychotic. But still … I sicken at the thought of it. Are you recovering adequately? Good. You’re a very fortunate fellow they were so sloppy in their work habits.” He blinked at me as if he were looking past me. “There’s really no excuse for your being here after such an elaborate charade.” I remembered it; it seemed for an instant to be happening again: I felt the impact, felt the Lincoln slipping away in the snow. …
Arthur was speaking again and I hadn’t been listening.
“I beg your pardon, Arthur?”
“I say, why did Cyril want you to meet him here? What was the purpose of his summons?”
“That’s what we want to talk to you about. You see, I had no idea of the purpose of any of it, none whatsoever.” Paula was looking out the window, apparently wrapped in her own thoughts, despair: I wondered if she would eventually break down from the shock and what must have been her deeply felt grief. “And I wouldn’t have known at all if I hadn’t stopped in at the library yesterday morning. Sheer coincidence. I went to the library and found Paula.”
Paula came out of her reverie without hesitation; she’d been listening after all. “And I told John two things about Cyril. I told him that Cyril and I had been lovers for years, that we had been in weekly contact for a long time no matter where Cyril had been. And I also told him why Cyril had asked him to come back.”
Arthur Brenner leaned back contentedly in the sea of chintz and lifted his right leg up onto an embroidered gout stool. His nose was red from his cold and he produced a wad of Kleenex from his sweater sleeve. He was wearing a heavy cardigan with leather buttons, a tattersall checked shirt, a heavy brown-knit tie. His whole bulk shuddered when he blew his nose and watching him I felt like a small boy again.
“And why was that, Paula?” he asked, his voice soft and reassuring. “Why had Cyril asked John to come home?”
“Because of what I found in the boxes,” she said, “boxes from the house, things that had been in Austin Cooper’s estate. You see, they’d been packed up in boxes years before, twenty or thirty years before at least, and they must have been stored away in an attic … or a basement, somewhere.” She cleared her throat, toyed with a slim silver bracelet. “Anyway, the boxes had been shipped down to the library—for the librarian to sort through them. There was nothing but magazines and books so far as anyone looking at the boxes could see. But the thing was, the librarian’s job here has always been a sort of part-time thing and instead of being sorted out and catalogued the boxes were stored away in the storm cellar beneath the library. No one ever bothered to look at them until I went down to the cellar a couple of weeks ago.”
“But, my dear,” Arthur said patiently, wheezing slightly, “what was it that you found in those boxes?” He smiled. “Surely not Austin’s old love letters.” He chuckled quietly and took Paula’s hand, hid it in his own huge hand. “That would never have been reason to come home.”
“There were diaries, Mr. Brenner, diaries of Austin Cooper’s trips to Germany, France, Spain, England, and Scandinavia during the 1920s and 1930s.”
Arthur shook his head, as if to say not good enough. “Well-tilled soil I should say, very well tilled, indeed.” He pulled on the huge black cigar. “Nothing else?”
“Yes, there was something else.”
“And what was it, my dear?”
“There were documents in German. I couldn’t read them, of course, but there were names—very famous names, some I didn’t know, and they were addressed
Arthur was speaking again and I hadn’t been listening.
“I beg your pardon, Arthur?”
“I say, why did Cyril want you to meet him here? What was the purpose of his summons?”
“That’s what we want to talk to you about. You see, I had no idea of the purpose of any of it, none whatsoever.” Paula was looking out the window, apparently wrapped in her own thoughts, despair: I wondered if she would eventually break down from the shock and what must have been her deeply felt grief. “And I wouldn’t have known at all if I hadn’t stopped in at the library yesterday morning. Sheer coincidence. I went to the library and found Paula.”
Paula came out of her reverie without hesitation; she’d been listening after all. “And I told John two things about Cyril. I told him that Cyril and I had been lovers for years, that we had been in weekly contact for a long time no matter where Cyril had been. And I also told him why Cyril had asked him to come back.”
Arthur Brenner leaned back contentedly in the sea of chintz and lifted his right leg up onto an embroidered gout stool. His nose was red from his cold and he produced a wad of Kleenex from his sweater sleeve. He was wearing a heavy cardigan with leather buttons, a tattersall checked shirt, a heavy brown-knit tie. His whole bulk shuddered when he blew his nose and watching him I felt like a small boy again.
“And why was that, Paula?” he asked, his voice soft and reassuring. “Why had Cyril asked John to come home?”
“Because of what I found in the boxes,” she said, “boxes from the house, things that had been in Austin Cooper’s estate. You see, they’d been packed up in boxes years before, twenty or thirty years before at least, and they must have been stored away in an attic … or a basement, somewhere.” She cleared her throat, toyed with a slim silver bracelet. “Anyway, the boxes had been shipped down to the library—for the librarian to sort through them. There was nothing but magazines and books so far as anyone looking at the boxes could see. But the thing was, the librarian’s job here has always been a sort of part-time thing and instead of being sorted out and catalogued the boxes were stored away in the storm cellar beneath the library. No one ever bothered to look at them until I went down to the cellar a couple of weeks ago.”
“But, my dear,” Arthur said patiently, wheezing slightly, “what was it that you found in those boxes?” He smiled. “Surely not Austin’s old love letters.” He chuckled quietly and took Paula’s hand, hid it in his own huge hand. “That would never have been reason to come home.”
“There were diaries, Mr. Brenner, diaries of Austin Cooper’s trips to Germany, France, Spain, England, and Scandinavia during the 1920s and 1930s.”
Arthur shook his head, as if to say not good enough. “Well-tilled soil I should say, very well tilled, indeed.” He pulled on the huge black cigar. “Nothing else?”
“Yes, there was something else.”
“And what was it, my dear?”
“There were documents in German. I couldn’t read them, of course, but there were names—very famous names, some I didn’t know, and they were addressed
Similar Books
