"Yes, but this was recently. True, my observation does not categorically establish the person's guilt, but this fact should be brought to light. I feel obligated to report it to Tyrene, compelled, if not by friendship for Oren, then by a sense of duty."
"Then by all means tell Tyrene about it."
"But… of course there is the inevitable odium attached to the act of informing."
"I understand," Trent said. "But you shouldn't let that deter you."
"Yes, I suppose you are right. I must give some thought to this matter." The count rose, drawing Dalton and Thaxton to their feet.
"Thank you very much for the advice," the count said to Trent.
"I'm sure you'll make the right decision," the prince replied.
"I think I shall retire early this evening. Gentlemen, the pleasure was all mine. Good evening, Your Highness… my lady."
"Good night, Damik," Sheila said. "Take care."
The count bowed deeply and left.
"I'd hate to be in his shoes," Sheila remarked. "Especially if it was a friend I suspected."
"I wish he'd told us who it was," Thaxton said. "But I suppose he couldn't go around making accusations, no matter how well-founded."
"That knife is a very common make," Trent commented. "No doubt the murderer chose it for that very reason."
"No doubt," Thaxton said.
Trent suddenly got up. "I forgot to mention something to Damik. I'll be right back." He walked out of the dining hall.
Conversation shifted to lighter topics while Dalton demolished a roast sage hen. He claimed that the sea air had sharpened his appetite. Thaxton was in the middle of telling a story about grouse-shooting in Dorset when a scream came from the anteroom of the dining hall.
Everyone rushed outside.
There, in the middle of the foyer, stood Princess Dorcas. At her feet lay Damik, eyes closed. Trent was standing close by, along with Lord Belgard and Lady Rilma. All seemed stunned.
Thaxton and Dalton got to him first. He was lying face up, a red stain marring his white blouse.
"Dead?" Dalton asked.
Thaxton took his hand from the count's neck. "Quite. The knife went right through the heart."
Tyrene elbowed his way through the crowd. Thaxton stood up and stepped aside while the captain examined the corpse.
"Dalton, old boy?"
Dalton came to Thaxton's side.
"What is it?"
"I just kicked something."
"You just kicked something?"
"As I stepped back, I felt my shoe hit something, and I heard something clatter. I don't see a thing, do you?"
Dalton looked around. "Nothing for it to hide under. Are you sure?"
"Quite sure. What do you make of it?"
"Thaxton, old fellow, I don't have a clue."
Thaxton stared at the count's body.
"I think I do," he said.
Seventeen
Darby's Cafe
The greasy spoon was closed. A door at the side of the building gave onto stairs mounting to a landing, where three doors led to separate apartments. The stairs were dark, the bare light bulb over the landing burnt out.
"No numbers," Carney said. "Which one, Velma?"
"You got me."
The building was quiet except for the far-off sound of a radio playing. Soft dance music.
Carney picked the first door on his left and knocked.
Nothing happened for quite a while. Then came sounds of latches being thrown. The door opened a crack, the chain still hooked.
Dim light inside, a woman's voice: "Yes?"
"Does a Mr. Lemarr Hamilton live here?"
"Who're you?"
"I'd like to engage his services, if he's not too busy."
"He in bed."
"I realize it's late, but I'm in a great deal of trouble. Mr. Hamilton can help me. Can you please wake him?"
"He don't do that stuff no more anyway."
"I can pay well. As I said, the situation is very urgent. In fact, it's a matter of life and death."
The eye on the other side of the crack was unblinking. The door closed momentarily. Then it opened wide. Carney and Velma went in.
A tall woman in her forties closed the door. She was tall and slim in a green flower-print housedress and worn slippers. She gave her visitors a distrustful frown. "Go on through there, into the parlor," she said.
It was a railroad flat. They passed through the kitchen, then through another room where a blanketed form lay sleeping on a cot in the corner. There was a larger bed and several other pieces of furniture. Ragged holes marred the ceiling plaster, and water stains billowed across it. The place smelled of frying grease and mildew. Otherwise the apartment was well-kept.
They passed through a short corridor with a door. The back room had comfortable, if threadbare, furniture. Carney and Velma sat on the antimacassar-draped couch. They waited, looking at family pictures on the wall.
Presently an old man came into the room. He walked stooped, his gray head inclined, his eyes up and aware. He was thin, almost emaciated, dressed in baggy pants and undershirt, black wool socks with a hole in one toe.
He looked at his two visitors, unsmiling, then sat in the chair opposite.
"You want somethin' with me?" His voice was strong, clear, belying his appearance.
"Yes," Carney said. "I wish to engage your services as a consultant in supernatural matters."
The old man studied him with penetrating black eyes. "Yes, suh." He smiled. "Yes, suh. I believe I know who you are. Can't say as I know the name, though."
"John Carney. I run a couple of businesses in this town. Some people say I'm pretty influential."
"I believe they right." The old man leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "What can I do for you?"
"I need the power."
They sat in silence for a while. The radio, far off, had switched to lively Latin rhythms.
"Everybody need the power," the old man said. "You got to have the power to live."
"I need more. I'm fighting something pretty big. I think you might know what it is. They've been in this town for a long time, and they're growing."
"Yessuh. I know it."
"I want to fight them. I am fighting them, though not very effectively up till now. But give me an edge, the slightest edge."
"Edge?" The old man grunted. "It ain't nothin' you can edge up on."
"Perhaps the metaphor… I need what power you can summon. What you can generate and transmit. Whatever this power is, or whatever its nature, I might be able to work with it."
The old man straightened up slowly, then sat back. He let a long contemplative quiet intervene before answering: "I can't transmit nothin'. I can't generate nothin'. It don't come like that."
"Can you describe how it does come?"
The old man shook his gray head. "Ain't no describin'. There's feelin'. You got to feel it."
"What is it?"
The old man studied him for a moment. "You not the man for it."
"No?"
"No, suh. You not the man."
"Is it the color of my skin?"
Silence again. The old man looked off to his left, out a window that offered a view of darkness obscuring nothing worth viewing.
At length he leaned forward and spoke calmly but with underlying controlled emotion. "Ain't a matter of color. Matter of… experience. You born with a color, but every man, he live different. Do things different, different things happen to a man. He get to be different. He look at things his own way. No one can tell him, 'cause he know. It get into his blood and then he can't go back, he is what he is. It get to be part of him like it was his color, like he was born with it. A man's life ain't like any other man's life. It's his own. Can't do nothin' but live it his own way. He got his pain, y'understand. Livin' is pain. Don't matter nohow if he happy or he sad. Livin' is pain. Each man got his own pain. You got to take that… work with it. Shape it up. Use it. Then you got somethin'. But each man got his own. Ain't no use tryin' one man give it to another. Can't be give out. You got to keep it. You got to work with it."