In Deep – 18: Stan Eliot

First thing I did after they were gone, was to roll the fifteen bangles off the front lawn and into my apartment. Each was a rod about the diameter of a beer can formed into a ring about the span of a bicycle inner-tube. I figured that they were made of gold from the weight alone, and I felt better once they were all inside and out of sight. Platinum; gold: someone was extorting a huge fee for this rock, and I had just begun to work out who it was. Now I had to attend a funeral...

*****

I loitered around the Gilman estate watching the proceedings. We Innsmouth denizens are pretty old-fashioned when it comes to things like funerals: there’s a Temple service and the women-folk all attend; then the men-folk collect the body from where it’s been laid out and they carry it to the sea. Those from out beyond Devil Reef do the rest. We keep the women away from the dead; it’s an old superstition I guess, but whether it pre-dates the arrival of Dagon worship in Innsmouth or not, I’ve never been able to fathom.

Hiding in the undergrowth, I watched as Stan Eliot, Barney Marsh and the others consoled each other at the front door before going inside. Winston showed up wearing a white scarf to set off his basic black and he tearfully received the shoulder rubs and back pats of the Temple elders. There were a lot of heavies from the Order shuffling around outside, watching the shadows; when the ceremony started to get under way, they all walked uneasily inside, keeping one eye over their shoulders. Soon the ritual croakings and responses began to ring out.

I kept low and made my way for the back door. Most of the ground floor windows were either broken and patched or overgrown with wild roses, so there was only a slim chance that I would be seen dodging by. My biggest risk was with the floorboards inside: they would either creak or give way completely. I knew the place well enough to avoid the major pitfalls, but it had been awhile since I’d sneaked out late at night with Winston and a six-pack, so who knew what had changed in the interim.

I stepped out into the front parlour ducking under a portiere: Barney Marsh was the first to see me and he let out a yawp that threw everyone into a flap. At first everyone thought this was just another one of his turns, but eyes soon followed his outstretched claw and next thing there was a pile of E.O.D. goons all over me. They picked me up and dragged me across the parlour rug. Ned Pierce stepped in the way and signalled the heavies to hold up.

‘Well if it isn’t Mr. Clever-clever,’ he smarmed.

‘Whoever’s writing your material Ned, I’d sack ‘em and hire someone better.’

‘Wise guy!’ He belted me across the cheek; his claws opened up three lines of red on my face.

‘Now fellers,’ Stan Eliot cut in, ‘let’s all take a breath here and settle down some.’

‘Settle down?’ Winston stepped up to say his piece. ‘Stan! This is my grandfather’s killer! He has the nerve to show up here?’ He gestured sharply at the goons and they dragged me towards the exit. There was a sudden bang as Stan smacked his walking stick across the table.

‘Now hold on son,’ he said, ‘I’m aware of what this feller’s bin accused of, an’ I’ve heard your account o’ the proceedin’s. What I ain’t heard is his side o’ the story, since he’s bin run ter ground these last two days by all these here gangsters. Now: since I’m the ranking Elder o’ the Temple here, I’d kinda like to hear what he has to say fer ‘imself.’

There was a pause, long enough for Winston to glare coldly at Stan while pulling a cigarette from its mother-of-pearl case and light it. That done, he gestured to the goons and they let me slump to the carpet.

‘Now Benson,’ Stan turned to me, ‘you’ve bin a hard minnow ter hook. What’ve you got to say fer yerself?’

I pushed myself up to my knees and hauled my handkerchief out of my pocket. I dabbed my cheek with it a few times to try and ascertain the extent of the damage. It didn’t look as though I’d be picking up any modelling gigs in the near future. I groaned and stood up, taking all the time I needed to cast a beady eye about the room. Most of the larger furniture had been pushed against the walls: the phonograph was in the corner, and the breakfast table butted right up under the windows. All of the stuffed chairs had been moved into the entry hall. The open casket stood on a couple of saw-horses roughly in the spot where I’d first seen Abner’s body. Of course – and I smiled in grim satisfaction at this – only the men-folk had been in the house, so pushing furniture was pretty much all that had been done: nothing had been cleaned up or tidied away, beyond a perfunctory nod. I turned to look at Stan.

‘Thanks, Stan,’ I said, ‘I’m grateful for an opportunity to be heard.’ Winston made an angry sound and ground out his smoke in a nearby potted palm.

‘All I can say,’ I went on, ‘is that I’ve been falsely accused of this crime. And, although I know the circumstances look bad for me, I think Abner can tell us what actually happened.’

‘What?’ Winston’s voice chirped like a startled cheerleader’s over the excited murmuring of the gathered mourners. ‘Stan! How much more of this garbage do we have to listen to?’

Stan frowned his non-existent brows at me, doing his best to look severe and patriarchal with a face that simply wasn’t cut out for it. I gave him points for trying.

‘Now son,’ he said, ‘that ain’t no kinda talk to be goin’ on with when Abner’s body is right here preparin’ for its final swim. Dagon’s Water-Wings boy! You gotta show some respect!’

I raised my hands in apology. ‘I have nothing but respect for Abner Gilman, Stan. You of all people should know that. He was the one who saved me when my dad went on his feeding frenzy and started the fire. There’d be no Waites at all in this town if not for him. If not for Abner, I wouldn’t be here at all.’

Stan nodded. He had some memories of that bad night too.

‘You know, Stan,’ I went on, ‘when I came in here and found him – the way I found him – he was sitting there just as he always used to: in his smoking jacket doing the crossword with his favourite coral fountain pen. You know the one, don’t you Stan?’

Stan looked up at me a note of curiosity creasing his features.

‘That’s it over there, Stan. On the table over there, on top of the newspaper.’

Winston jerked into motion but was stopped by Stan’s walking stick. Two of the E.O.D. heavies put their hands on his shoulders.

Stan walked over to the table and picked up the fountain-pen. He pulled the lid off it and clicked it back on. Then he turned the newspaper around: his steepled fingers stiffened on the newsprint and his head snapped around to glare at Winston in pure piscine malevolence.

That was enough for Winston: he wrenched one arm loose from one of his captors and head-butted the other. Bolting for the exit he grabbed Barney Marsh and threw him in his wake to foil pursuit. The front door slammed behind him.

‘WAIT!’ Stan swatted the table with his cane once more and stared, wall-eyed, at the assembled mourners, his mouth gaping, showing needle teeth. ‘We’ll track down that blood-traitor,’ he snarled, ‘but first you’ll all git a load o’ this.’

He held up the folded newspaper, displaying the crossword from two day’s previous; scrawled across the page, in Abner’s trademark sea-green ink, were the words “Winston killed me”, the last word trailing off the side of the page.

When everyone had seen the evidence for themselves, Stan raised his hands for silence.

‘Abner needs seein’ to,’ he said, ‘an’ that’s sumpin’ the Temple Elders and Benson can do. The rest o’ you fellers can get out there and track this mad dog down. An’ hear me when I say, I want him wrigglin’ when you bring him in front o’ me.’

There was a flurry of dark-suited bodies and the room rapidly emptied of all but a few individuals. Stan turned to me and patted my arm.

‘I’m so glad boy,’ he said, ‘I knew it couldn’t be you done fer Abner; that jist didn’t sit right with me. How’d you know about it though?’

I rubbed my forehead. ‘Well I found the gun,’ I said, ‘and it was a .38 automatic. It takes more than that at medium range to do any kind of damage to our type of musculature. It’ll do it, but it will take some time; time enough, I figured to scrawl a note while you’re doing the crossword.’

Stan cocked his head with a concerned expression. ‘So it was a gamble? You risked a heck of a lot comin’ here like you did, boy. What if there was no note? What if Abner hadn’t left us a message?’

I winked at him. ‘Let’s just say an old bird told me she was sure the cards would fall my way.’

To Be Continued...