The Ghost Wore Yellow Socks - lanyon Josh (читать книги онлайн txt) 📗

Great. Now what? It would be difficult to cross the clearing to the gazebo without being seen from one or another of the windows. His gaze fell on a nearby birch tree, yellow branches spreading over the octagonal building.

Keeping to the cover of wild rose bushes, Perry sneaked over to the tree and climbed up into the branches, shoes slipping on the pale bark, then finding purchase.

From his perch he had an unobstructed line of vision through the grimy gazebo windows. A dull beam of light played slowly over the gently angled room.

More than this it was impossible to see in the gloom. What the heck could she be doing in there? Perry strained to hear, but that was also impossible over the distant rush of the river, the leaves whipping in the chilly breeze.

Minutes crawled by.

Was she hiding something? It would hardly take this long. And if she was looking for something…well, same argument, really. After all, she had lived on the estate for years. For what could she be searching for twenty minutes that she hadn’t had plenty of time to find in the past decade or so?

Perry’s hands grew numb with cold. His leg was falling asleep. He was trying to think if he had ever been more miserable in his life when the rain started again, trickling down the back of his neck. He began to worry about the cold and damp aggravating his asthma -- not something Sam Spade ever had to put up with.

He massaged his leg absently, watching the wan light traveling listlessly around the room once more. Maybe he should risk climbing down and try peering through a window on the ground level. Or maybe he could just walk in and pretend to be surprised to find Miss Dembecki there -- see how she reacted?

The door below him banged open, and Miss Dembecki exited the building, startling Perry -- almost literally -- out of his tree.

He steadied himself. Through the lattice of leaves he watched the gnomelike figure of Miss Dembecki hurrying away. He could see that she held something in one hand, but he was pretty sure it was her flashlight.

Perry let several minutes elapse. No one else left the gazebo, so he had guessed right. Not a meeting; Miss Dembecki had been looking for something.

What?

Who would use an abandoned building as a hiding place? Why?

Letting himself down gingerly through the tangle of twigs and branches, Perry dropped to the wet ground. He went into the gazebo.

It was small. The eight windows were brown with years of dirt, the wooden floor layered with dust and evidence of bird and squirrels. Perry pulled out a clean handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose.

Circling the room, he had to admit there was a conspicuous lack of hiding places -- some old rattan furniture, the faded cushions ripped open long ago. That was about it.

No loose plank squeaked beneath his foot. He knocked on the walls, but they felt and sounded solid enough.

After ten minutes or so, Perry gave up and returned to the house.

* * * * *

The house was listening.

Waiting.

Perry could feel it in the silence beyond the cheerful canned laughter of Scooby-Doo. He sat on the late Mr. Watson’s long black leather sofa eating a bowl of cereal and watching Watson’s television.

Every now and then, he reassured himself with a glance over at the shiny new locks on the doors. Serious locks. Heavy-duty locks. No one was coming in through that door -- unless they broke the door down. He held the only keys; he had instructed the locksmith to cut a dummy key, and he’d handed that over to Mrs. MacQueen.

So he was perfectly safe. Perfectly secure. And yet he couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was not alone.

That he was being watched.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. Up in the isolated tower rooms that hush was normal; here on the second floor Perry expected signs of life. Where was the homey scent of dinners cooking? Where was the comfortable rattle and bang of activity from any of the surrounding rooms? From the sound of things, he could be the only person on this floor or in the whole house.

Finishing a second bowl of cereal, he dumped his dish in the sink and made another nervous circuit of Watson’s rooms. He almost wished he were back with his own belongings in his own familiar surroundings -- except he’d never be able to use the bathroom in his apartment again.

He checked the wine rack next to Watson’s stereo: lots of merlots and cabernets. Familiar brands, mostly from California. Nothing imported or priceless as far as he could tell. Not that he was any expert; he wasn’t much of a drinker. Red wine usually gave him a headache, and white wine -- according to his pop -- was for sissies. His own cupboards were bare even if he felt like braving the deserted third floor. So why not? Watson wouldn’t care, and the unknown relatives surely wouldn’t miss one bottle of wine? He could leave money for the bottle on the counter.

He went into the bathroom, scrubbed down Watson’s tub, then uncorked a bottle of cabernet while the bath water ran.

Two glasses of Salmon Creek and a long, hot soak went a long way toward relaxing him, and by the time Perry heaved himself out of the tub, he felt pleasantly limp and woozy.

Pulling back the covers of the freshly made bed, he crawled between the sheets. Watson had an electric blanket. Perry turned the heat up.

He thumbed through one of the comic books stacked beside the bed. More scantily clad ladies, this time fighting space aliens. He checked the date on the magazine cover. September 1950. Watson must have collected comic books.

You could never tell about people. The few times Perry had talked to Watson, he had stuck strictly to sports and the stock market -- neither topics of great interest to Perry. Whereas he’d have been fascinated to hear about these comics and graphic novels. He loved the artwork, even if half-naked ladies were not really his thing.

Curiously he turned back to the intergalactic warfare.

After a time the breasts and word balloons all blurred together. He reached up and snapped off the light.

* * * * *

What woke him? He wasn’t sure. For a minute, Perry lay there in the unfamiliar darkness trying to reorient.

From next to the bed he heard the soft click of luminous numbers turning over. From the living room came the tick-tock of the clock. Closer was the scratch of tree branches against the window. Identified, he could dismiss these sounds. But there was still something….

Then he heard it. A strange sound, like…brushing. No, more like someone dragging a heavy weight down the hallway.

Throwing back the covers, he stumbled through the dark to the front door and peered out the peephole. He had a bird’s-eye view of discolored carpet, somber paneling, light that had a bleached, aged quality. Even the dust motes looked old.

The hall was empty.

He listened tensely. The sound seemed to have stopped.

Perry stood shivering a few minutes longer, then gave it up and returned to his still-warm sheets.

Slowly the adrenaline drained and he sank into a velvety darkness -- only to start awake as something bumped against the wall of the bedroom.

“Who’s there?” he called.

Silence. That listening silence he was coming to recognize.

Perry turned on the bedside lamp.

The room seemed all deep corners and dark shadows.

His glance fell on the detective novels he had brought down from his room. A snarling man in a fedora faced down a trio of goons. The man in the fedora looked vaguely like Nick. Don’t be a dweeb, Perry told himself. What would Nick do in this situation?

Nick would go check it out.

Perry considered this glumly. He cheered up when it occurred to him that more likely Nick would tell him the noise was all in his imagination and to go back to sleep.