The Search for My Great-Uncle’s Head Page 2

  “Maybe he’s right,” observed the man spoken to as George, halting. “I never heard of a madman carrying a zipper bag.”

  “I’m Peter Coffin,” I declared, following up this advantage, “and I’d like to see my great-uncle.”

  “Have you anything to prove who you are?” asked the sharp-faced man.

  I handed him my wallet and some letters. While the others stood in silence he examined these things thoroughly.

  “They seem all right,” he said at last and added suspiciously, “but you could have stolen them.”

  I said it was hardly likely I would present myself at the home of a relative of a man from whom I had stolen a wallet. This seemed to be reasonable, and some of the tension relaxed.

  “Have you got the letter from Mr Coffin with you?” asked the sharp-faced man.

  “No. I left it home.”

  “The trouble is,” said George, peering at me through his glasses, “that you weren’t expected at this time of night, and your aunt was supposed to come with you.”

  “My aunt didn’t like the tone of Uncle Tobias’ letter, so she didn’t come.”

  Strangely enough this explanation produced a marked reaction in my favor. Perhaps the others had wished they could have ignored my great-uncle’s summons, but hadn’t dared.

  Suddenly from in back of the first line of defense came a woman’s laughter. A small round woman in a black evening gown, with jeweled bracelets and a chain of precious stones, pushed past the others. I hadn’t noticed her before.

  “He has the Coffin nose,” she said, laughing again. “I think we have made a mistake. I cast one vote in favor of Cousin Peter.”

  The pretty blonde began to laugh, too, and presently everyone was chuckling. The two young men self-consciously lowered their weapons. Finally the laughter died away.

  I felt the blood rising to my cheeks. “I fail to see anything of a risible nature in this situation,” I asserted.

  This produced more laughter. When it died the jeweled woman took hold of my sleeve.

  “We’re sorry, Peter,” she said, “but we were expecting a madman, and it is such a relief to find it is only a relative.” She glanced at my face. “Perhaps you’ll understand our mistake when you look in a mirror.”

  “It’s your clothes and the mud on your face,” explained the larger of the two young men with shotguns.

  I turned to my great-uncle’s butler. “Bronson, I should think you’d have recognized me. Will you show me to my room? My feet are damp, and I wish to gargle before I apprehend a cold.”

  Chapter II

  FROM MY CORNER windows I could see waves tossing white spray over the black surface of the lake. The wind continued gusty, roaring around the house at intervals and every now and then dashing rain against the panes with an angry violence which made me start. There was an increasing noise of thunder. I congratulated myself on having reached the house ahead of the worst part of the storm.

  My great-uncle, despite the fact that he had shut himself away from civilization by secluding himself in a remote part of Michigan, had kept his estate thoroughly modern, and I was able to take a warm shower in the connecting bathroom. As I was drying myself with a huge Turkish towel I heard the noise of the radio downstairs. The man’s voice, excited and urgent, continued in some sort of a monologue. I wondered what he could be talking about. It was too late for a political address, and no news broadcast ever lasted more than half an hour. I decided to inquire about it in the morning.

  From the minor puzzle of the voice over the radio my mind turned to the much greater puzzle of my strange reception. Someone had explained that they had been expecting a madman in place of me. But does one ever expect a madman? I had to admit to myself that my mud-plastered face, seen in the bathroom mirror when I first reached my room, was rather terrifying, but a short parley should have established my identity. Yet it didn’t. As far as I could tell I was Peter Coffin to the others only on an extremely tentative basis.

  A bellow of thunder made me jump, and I turned to my customary precautions against colds. I am susceptible to colds (although Aunt Nineveh heatedly denies this), and it is only by a diligent use of gargles, sprays, nose drops, sodium bicarbonate and other remedies that I maintain my precarious health. My constitution is very frail, and I was surprised to feel quite well despite my strenuous walk so many hours past my usual bed time. Indeed I felt perfectly capable of repeating the journey.

  However, I wished to take no risks, and I was just placing a teaspoon of soda in a glass of warm water, the first step in my nightly routine, when there was a knock at my door. I hurriedly put on my pajamas and called, “Enter.”

  Bronson opened the door and advanced just across the threshold. “Your great-uncle would like to see you, sir,” he said.

  “What!” I glanced at my wrist watch on the mahogany dresser. “He wants to see me at two o’clock in the morning?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Then I have to dress?”

  “Oh no, sir. Mister Tobias said you were to come as you are.”

  Bronson waited while I took my green silk dressing gown and my leather slippers from my zipper bag. There was a curious lack of expression on his long face. It was wooden.

  “You do not appear overjoyed to see me, Bronson,” I said, adjusting the cord on my dressing gown.

  “I am always pleased to see any of Mister Tobias’ guests,” he replied guardedly.

  I sat on the purple spread over the hand-carved four-poster and pulled on my right slipper. “Bronson, do you remember the time I played Indian and frightened you so badly on the pier that you fell into the lake?”

  For an instant Bronson’s black eyes met mine. There was some sort of a gleam in them, but I could not interpret it. “No sir,” he said. His angular face was severe. “I must say, sir, you have changed considerably since you were a boy. I am unable to recognize you.” His voice sounded as though he had no real interest in the matter.

  The lights in the room fluttered, faded to a butter yellow, then flared into brilliance again. Seconds later came a heavy rumble of thunder.

  “All ready,” I said, standing up.

  Bronson held the door as I passed into the hall. A chill draft made the flesh on my ankles clammy. “Your great-uncle has the same rooms,” Bronson said in a whisper.

  He let me lead the way.

  Behind a huge walnut desk at the rear of his second-floor library, white light from a green glass-shaded desk lamp reflected from an untidy litter of letters and documents onto his leathery face, sat my great-uncle. He had changed little in twenty years. He sat very erect, his shoulders squared and his round brown wrinkled face tilted upward by a tall stiff collar. His white hair, thick as a wig, covered his entire head, and under his shaggy brows peered out keen blue eyes. He was wearing a velvet smoking jacket over a white silk shirt and a black bow tie. His expression was severe.

  “We had given you up,” he said sharply.

  I started to explain about the missed train and the bus.

  “I’ve heard all about it,” he said. “Sit down.”

  The room looked just as I had remembered it: ceiling-high bookcases, crowded with adventure stories, to the right and left as you entered the study; a speckled marble fireplace with a piece of coal smoldering in the iron grate; the two huge windows in back of the walnut desk with their pulled silk drapes. I felt as though twenty years had been swept away, as though I was again the small boy who used to be brought trembling into the library to explain broken windows, trampled flower beds, the mysterious disappearance of pies and other juvenile misdemeanors.

  My great-uncle continued, “I’m surprised you’d go to all that trouble to get here.”

  “I was very glad to come, Uncle Tobias,” I said. “I wanted to show my gratitude for the delightful summers I spent with you as a boy.”

  My great-uncle thrust a telegram over the desk. “But what is the meaning of this?” On the back of his hand was a network of purple veins
.

  I accepted the yellow slip. It read:

  TOBIAS COFFIN CRYSTAL LAKE MICHIGAN

  NUTS

  NINEVEH

  I repressed a tendency to giggle. I said, “My aunt was—ah—indisposed.”

  “You mean she didn’t want to come, don’t you?”

  “I believe,” I said, “that ‘nuts’ is a rather vulgar term of—er—defiance.”

  My great-uncle’s voice, suddenly loud, startled me. “Good for her,” he boomed out. “She’s the only one in the family with any guts.” His blue eyes fastened upon me. “I had some hope for you when you were a boy, but I have been disappointed. What do you mean anyway, spending the best years of your life fiddling with the dull records of the English Regency when you should be learning to live?”

  “The Restoration,” I corrected him, “and the records are far from dull.”

  “When I was your age,” declared my great-uncle, “I’d been around the world three times.”

  “I’ve been to London,” I said.

  “Bah!” My great-uncle struck the desk with his fist. “Your grandfather was the original fool. Had a chance to make a fortune in the importing business and threw it away to dig for broken pots in Asia. Always at me to finance an expedition to Babylon or some other benighted spot.” He bared his teeth at me. “I never gave him a cent.” He ran his fingers around the papers on the desk. “What was it he named your father?”

  “Sargon.”

  “That’s it. Sargon. What a name! What names for a pair of children! Sargon and Nineveh!”

  “My grandfather was very enthusiastic over the early peoples of the valley of the Tigris and Euphrates,” I said. “Perhaps his enthusiasm got the better of his judgment.”

  My great-uncle snorted. “What about your own father? What did he name you?”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter what?”

  “Peter Nebuchadnezzar Coffin.”

  My uncle said triumphantly. “There! That gives you an idea of the general insanity of your side of the family. If it hadn’t been for your mother you’d never even had the name Peter.”

  “I am not displeased with my name,” I said.

  My great-uncle moved his papers again, watching me under his heavy eyebrows. Suddenly he asked: “What did he leave you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your father.”

  “His principal bequest was a remarkably fine collection of cuneiform tablets, at present on display at the Oriental Institute of the University of Chicago.”

  “No cash?”

  “A few securities from which I derive a small income.”

  “Could you use more money?”

  “Why, no. I am quite comfortable with my salary.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I told you,” I began. “I felt that this was a way to show my gratitude——”

  “Gratitude!” My great-uncle raised his voice. “Bosh! You came here because you hoped I’d leave you some of my money.”

  “That’s not so, Uncle Tobias.”

  “It is. You want my money.” My great-uncle was half leaning over the table, his face crimson with rage. “You’re like all those other sycophants. You want my money. You want my money.”

  “The devil with you and your money,” I said, rising from my chair. “You can take your money and …”

  My great-uncle leaned eagerly over his desk. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m afraid I lost my temper. But I meant what I said.” I started for the door. “If you will have someone drive me to Traverse City I’ll catch the morning train home. I will be dressed in five minutes.”

  “Wait a minute,” said my great-uncle.

  “As long as you feel the way you do,” I said, “I don’t care to spend the night under your roof.”

  To my surprise my great-uncle was smiling. “By gad!” he said, “I believe there is some stuff in you after all, Peter.” He sank back in his chair. “I’m sorry to have been so rude, but I wanted to see. I’ll explain later.” He waved a hand at me. “Now, good night. It’s long past my bedtime.”

  I stood irresolutely in the doorway. I was really quite angry—I had inherited my share of the Coffin temper—but I realized I should humor my relative, particularly in view of his past kindness.

  He seemed to sense my inward struggle. He said, “Please, Peter. I shall take it as a very great favor if you will stay here. You must forgive the whims of an old man.”

  His tone was really penitent, and I said, rot very graciously, “Very well, I’ll stay. But only because of my sense of gratitude, not because——”

  He interrupted me. “Not because of our relationship. Like all the Coffins, you feel that blood is no thicker than water. It is a family characteristic.” His smile took some of the sting from his words. “Good night, Peter.”

  “Good night, Uncle Tobias.”

  I encountered Bronson in the hall, and he walked back to my room with me. I had an impression he had been waiting outside the door during my interview with my great-uncle.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” I asked him.

  “Of all what, sir?”

  “Of this gathering of Coffins.”

  “I really can’t say, sir.”

  Bronson’s attitude was precisely that he would have taken with any stranger. He had been a footman with Sir Richard Chandos in England, and although he had been with my great-uncle in America for more than twenty years he had never forgotten his early training. I believe it is the custom of the old-school English servant to treat his employer’s guests with condescension. He walked behind me to my room, and as I entered he coughed.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I think it would be advisable, sir, to sleep with your windows closed.”

  I imagined he was solicitous about my health. “Nonsense, Bronson,” I said. “I’m not afraid of fresh air. I am a firm believer in oxygen.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of fresh air, sir. I was thinking it would be safer.”

  “Safer?” I stared at Bronson. “You mean someone might try to enter the house through my windows?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But what for? Who would …?”

  Bronson’s voice was lowered impressively. “A madman is loose in this vicinity. He escaped from an automobile near here this afternoon while he was being taken to an institution at Lansing.”

  “A madman!” I exclaimed. “So that was what they expected when they met me downstairs.”

  “Yes sir. He had already tried to break in this evening.”

  “Did you see him, Bronson?”

  “Yes. It was I who managed to frighten him away,” he said impressively.

  I clutched his arm. “Was he barefoot and without a coat?”

  The butler’s pitch-black eyes widened. “Why, yes.”

  “Then I met him.”

  Despite his passive face I could see Bronson was interested in my story of the near encounter with the skipping man. “It was well that you hid from him,” he commented when I had finished. “He had been sent up for the murder of his wife and three children. I believe he cut off their heads with a meat cleaver.”

  I sank down on the bed. “Zounds! A very narrow escape.”

  Overhead, thunder sounded a fierce barrage. Bronson said, “Yes sir,” and turned to go.

  “A moment,” I said. “I can see how everyone would be alarmed at my knock, but why all the suspicion after I had identified myself? Surely you could see I wasn’t the same madman?”

  “It occurred to us you might have obtained some other clothes. And then, sir, you did look a bit odd with mud all over your face and clothes.”

  “Unfortunately there are no facilities for pressing one’s clothes on the way around the lake,” I said severely.

  “No sir,” said Bronson. “Good night.”

  Despite his warning I opened both my windows a foot and climbed into bed. Even the rattle of thunder, the roar of wind, the swish of
wet branches, the tattoo of heavy rain could not keep me awake.

  Chapter III

  I AWOKE sitting up in the center of my bed, my arms clutching the blankets to my chest, my eyes vainly trying to penetrate the darkness. I was terribly frightened, as though I had had a very vivid nightmare, but I couldn’t remember any dream. It seemed to me I had heard a scream. I held my breath and listened. The curtains, flung inward by the erratic wind, brushed damply against my face, produced goose flesh on my arms and back.

  Then from somewhere close to my door came a woman’s scream, vibrant with terror. It wasn’t a dream! I swung myself out of the bed, snatched one of my military hairbrushes from the dresser in a mad notion it would serve as a weapon, and ran out into the hall. Another scream, shrill, hysterical and terrible, echoed through the corridor. I ran in its direction, toward my great-uncle’s rooms.

  The door to the upstairs library was open, and a rectangle of cream-colored light made a patch on the opposite wall of the hall. In this patch, huddled in a wheel chair backed against the wall, was a very old woman whom I immediately recognized as Mrs Spotswood, my great-uncle’s housekeeper. I halted in consternation at the sight of her face. She was looking in my direction, but her eyes, insane with terror, did not see me. From her open mouth came a weird, inhuman screaming, and her hands, tight yellow flesh making them look like the talons of a bird of prey, clawed the air in a spasm of panic. I am altogether unused to hysteria, and for a moment I considered securing a bucket of cold water and dousing her with it.

  While I was hesitating another woman appeared around the bend in the hall just beyond my great-uncle’s bedroom door. I recalled her as the pretty dark-haired girl in the group which had met me downstairs. She was wearing pink slippers of a type known, I believe, as mules, and she had on a lacy peachtinted silk robe over her pajamas. I confess that I was frightened by the screams which continued to come from Mrs Spotswood, but the young woman’s face showed no trace of fear.

  “What are you doing to her?” she cried to me, somewhat unreasonably, I thought. She ran to the wheel chair. “What’s the matter, Mrs Spotswood?”