cb.damnationgame-第61部分

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　　〃What　have　you　got　to　say？〃　Mamoulian　asked。
　　〃He's　not　dead；〃　Luther　replied。　There：　it　wasn't　so　difficult　to　do；　was　it？　〃It　was　all　set　up。　Only　two　or　three　people　knew：　I　was　one　of　them。〃　〃Why　you？〃　Luther　wasn't　certain　on　this　point。　〃I　suppose　he　trusted　me；〃　he　said；　shrugging。
　　〃Ah。〃　〃Besides；　somebody　had　to　find　the　body；　and　I　was　the　most　believable　candidate。　He　just　wanted　to　make　a　clean　getaway。　Start　again　where　he'd　never　be　found。〃　〃And　where　was　that？〃　Luther　shook　his　head。　〃I　don't　know；　man。　Anywhere；　I　suppose；　where　nobody　knows　his　face。　He　never　told　me。〃　〃He　must　have　hinted。〃　〃No。〃　Breer　took　heart　at　Luther's　reticence；　his　look　brightened。
　　〃Now　e　on；〃　Mamoulian　coaxed。　〃You've　given　me　the　motherlode；　where's　the　harm　in　telling　me　the　rest？〃　〃There　is　no　more。〃　〃Why　make　pain　for　yourself？〃　〃He　never　told　me；　man！〃　Breer　took　a　step　up　the　stairs；　and　another；　and　another。
　　〃He　must　have　given　you　some　idea；〃　Mamoulian　said。　〃Think！　Think！　You　said　he　trusted　you。〃　〃Not　that　much！　Hey；　keep　him　off　me；　will　you？〃　The　skewers　glittered。
　　〃For　Christ's　sake　keep　him　off　me！〃
　　
　　There　were　many　pities。　The　first　was　that　one　human　being　was　capable　of　such　smiling　brutality　to　another。　The　second　that　Luther　had　known　nothing。　His　fund　of　information　had　been；　as　he'd　claimed；　strictly　limited。　But　by　the　time　the　European　was　certain　of　Luther's　ignorance　the　man　was　past　recall。　Well；　that　wasn't　strictly　true。　Resurrection　was　perfectly　plausible。　But　Mamoulian　had　better　things　to　do　with　his　waning　stamina；　and　besides；　letting　the　man　remain　dead　was　the　one　way　he　could　pensate　for　the　suffering　the　chauffeur　had　vainly　endured。
　　〃Joseph。　Joseph。　Joseph；〃　Mamoulian　chided。　And　the　dark　flowed　on。
　　
　　
　　X　Nothing；　and　After
　　
　　54
　　Having　secured　himself　all　he　needed　for　a　long　vigil　at　the　house　on　Caliban　Street…reading　material；　food；　drink…Marty　returned　there　and　watched　through　most　of　the　night；　with　a　bottle　of　Chivas　Regal　and　the　car　radio　for　pany。　Just　before　dawn　he　deserted　his　watch　and　drove　drunkenly　back　to　his　room；　sleeping　through　until　almost　noon。　When　he　woke　his　head　felt　the　size　of　a　balloon；　and　as　stalely　inflated；　but　there　was　purpose　in　the　day　ahead。　No　dreams　of　Kansas　now；　just　the　fact　of　the　house　and　Carys　locked　up　in　it。
　　After　a　breakfast　of　hamburgers　he　returned　to　the　street；　parking　far　enough　away　to　be　inconspicuous；　yet　close　enough　to　see　the　ings　and　goings。　He　spent　the　next　three　days…in　which　the　temperature　rose　from　the　high　seventies　into　the　middle　eighties…in　the　same　location。　Sometimes　he'd　catch　a　few　minutes　of　cramped　sleep　in　the　car；　more　often　he　returned　to　Kilburn　to　snatch　an　hour　or　two。　The　furnace　of　the　street　became　familiar　to　him　in　all　its　moods。　He　saw　it　just　before　dawn；　flickering　into　solidity。　He　saw　it　in　midmorning；　young　wives　out　with　children；　business　in　their　walk；　in　the　gaudy　afternoon　too；　and　in　the　evening；　when　the　sugar…pink　light　of　a　declining　sun　made　brick　and　slate　exult。　The　private　and　public　lives　of　the　Calibanese　unfolded　to　him。　A　spastic　child　at　Number　Sixty…seven；　whose　anger　was　a　secret　vice。　The　woman　at　Number　Eighty…one　who　weled　a　man　to　the　house　daily　at　twelve…forty…five。　Her　husband；　a　policeman　to　judge　by　shirt　and　tie；　was　weled　home　each　night　with　a　ration　of　doorstep　ardor　in　direct　proportion　to　the　time　wife　and　lover　had　spent　together　at　lunchtime。　More　too：　a　dozen；　two　dozen　stories；　interlocking；　dividing　again。
　　As　to　the　house　itself；　he　saw　occasional　activity　there；　but　not　once　did　he　glimpse　Carys。　The　blinds　at　the　middle　windows　were　kept　drawn　throughout　the　day　and　only　lifted　in　the　late　afternoon；　when　the　strongest　of　the　sun　was　past。　The　single　top…story　window　looked　to　be　permanently　shuttered　from　inside。
　　Marty　concluded　that　there　were　only　two　people　in　the　house　besides　Carys。　One；　of　course；　was　the　European。　The　other　was　the　butcher　that　they'd　almost　faced　back　at　the　Sanctuary；　the　dog…killer。　He　came　and　went　once；　sometimes　twice；　daily；　usually　about　some　trivial　business。　An　unpalatable　sight；　with　his　cosmeticized　features；　his　hobbled　walk；　the　sly　looks　he　gave　the　children　as　they　played。
　　In　those　three　days　Mamoulian　didn't　leave　the　house；　at　least　Marty　didn't　see　him　leave。　He　might　appear　fleetingly　at　the　downstairs　window；　glancing　out　down　the　sunlit　street；　but　that；　infrequently。　And　as　long　as　he　was　in　the　house　Marty　knew　better　than　to　attempt　a　rescue。　No　amount　of　courage…and　he　did　not　possess　that　attribute　in　limitless　supply…would　arm　him　against　the　powers　the　European　wielded。　No；　he　must　sit　it　out　and　wait　for　a　safer　opportunity　to　present　itself。
　　On　the　fifth　day　of　his　surveillance；　with　the　heat　still　rising；　luck　came　his　way。　About　eight…fifty　in　the　evening；　as　dusk　invaded　the　street；　a　taxi　drew　up　outside　the　house；　and　Mamoulian；　dressed　for　the　casino；　got　into　it。　Almost　an　hour　later　the　other　man　appeared　at　the　front　door；　his　face　a　blur　in　the　deepening　night；　but　hungry　somehow。　Marty　watched　him　lock　the　door；　then　glance　up　and　down　the　pavement　before　setting　off。　He　waited　until　the　shambling　figure　disappeared　around　the　corner　of　Caliban　Street　before　he　got　out　of　the　car。　Determined　not　to　risk　the　least　error　in　this…his　first；　and　probably　only；　chance　at　rescue…he　went　to　the　corner　to　check　that　the　butcher　was　not　simply　taking　a　late…evening　constitutional。　But　the　man's　bulk　was　unmistakable　as　he　headed　toward　the　city；　hugging　the　shadows　as　he　went。　Only　when　he　was　pletely　out　of　sight　did　Marty　go　back　to　the　house。
　　All　the　windows　were　locked；　back　and　front；　there　were　no　visible　lights。　Perhaps…the　doubt　niggled…she　was　not　even　in　the　house；　perhaps　she'd　gone　out　while　he　was　dozing　in　the　car。　He　prayed　not；　and　praying；　forced　open　the　back　door　with　a　jimmy　he'd　bought　for　that　very　purpose。　That　and　a　flashlight：　the　standbys　of　any　self…respecting　burglar。
　　Inside；　the　atmosphere　was　sterile。　He　began　a　room…by…room　search　of　the　ground　floor；　determined　to　be　as　systematic　as　possible。　This　was　no　time　for　unprofessional　behavior：　no　shouting；　no　rushing　about；　just　a　cautious；　efficient　investigation。　The　rooms　were　all　empty；　of　people　and　of　furniture。　A　few　items；　discarded　by　the　previous　occupants　of　the　house；　emphasized　rather　than　alleviated　the　sense　of　desolation。　He　ascended　a　flight。
　　On　the　second　floor　he　found　Breer's　room。　It　stank；　an　unwholesome　mingling　of　perfume　and　rancid　meat。　In　the　corner　a　large…screened　black…and…white　television　had　been　left　on；　its　sound　turned　down　to　a　sibilant　whisper；　some　sort　of　quiz　show　was　playing。　The　quizmaster　howled　soundlessly　in　mock　despair　at　a　contestant's　defeat。　The　fluttering；　metallic　light　fell　on　the　few　articles　of　furniture　in　the　room：　a　bed　with　a　bare　mattress　and　several　stained　cushions；　a　mirror　propped　on　a　chair；　the　seat　of　which　was　littered　with　cosmetics　and　toilet　waters。　On　the　walls　were　photographs　torn　from　a　book　of　war　atrocities。　He　did　no　more　than　glimpse　at　them；　but　their　details；　even　in　the　doubtful　light；　were　appalling。　He　closed　the　door　on　the　squalor　and　tried　the　next。　It　was　the　toilet。　Beside　that；　the　bathroom。　The　fourth　and　last　door　on　this　floor　was　tucked　around　a　half…corridor；　and　it　was　locked。　He　turned　the　handle　once；　twice；　back　and　forth；　and　then　pressed　his　ear　to　the　wood；　listening　for　some　clue　from　within。
　　〃Carys？〃　There　was　no　reply：　no　sound　of　occupancy　either。
　　〃Carys？　It's　Marty。　Can　you　hear　me？〃　He　rattled　the　handle　again；　more　fiercely。　〃It's　Marty。〃　Impatience　overtook　him。　She　was　there；　just　beyond　the　door…he　was　suddenly　seized　by　the　absolute　conviction　of　her　presence。　He　kicked　the　door；　more　out　of　frustration　than　anything；　then；　raising　his　heel　to　the　lock；　he　booted　it　with　all　his　strength。　The　wood　began　to　splinter　beneath　his　assault。　Half　a　dozen　further　blows　and　the　lock　cracked；　he　put　his　shoulder　to　the　door　and　forced　it　open。
　　The　room　smelled　of　her；　was　hot　with　her。　Other　than　her　presence　and　her　heat；　however；　it　was　practically　empty。　Just　a　bucket　in　the　corner；　and　a　selection　of　empty　dishes；　a　scattering　of　books；　a　blanket；　a　small　table　on　which　lay　her　gear：　needles；　hypodermic；　dishes；　matches。　She　was　lying；　curled　up　on　herself；　in　a　corner　of　the　room。　A　lamp；　with　a　low…voltage　bulb　in　it；　stood　in　another　corner；　its　shade　partially　draped　with　a　cloth　to　keep　the　light　level　lower　yet。　She　was　wearing　only　a　T…shirt　and　a　pair　of　panties。　Other　articles　of　clothing；　jeans；　sweaters；　shirts；　lay　strewn　around。　When　she　looked　up　at　him　he　could　see　how　the　sweat　on　her　brow　made　her　hair　cling。
　　〃Carys。〃　At　first　she　didn't　seem　to　recognize　him。
　　〃It's　me。　It's　Marty。〃　A　tick　of　a　frown　creased　her　shiny　forehead。　〃Marty？〃　she　said；　her　voice　in　miniature。　The　frown　deepened：　he　wasn't　sure　she　even　saw　him；　her　eyes　swam。　〃Marty；〃　she　repeated；　and　this　time　the　name　seemed　to　mean　something　to　her。
　　〃Yes；　it's　me。〃　He　crossed　the　room　to　her；　and　she　seemed　almost