Masters of the Maze Read online

  On the other hand. If Bellamy’s death was from purely natural causes, then Nate’s presence was fortuitous, his absence of equally no significance. More: if Bellamy had died a natural death and Nate were his heir, well … Nobeldorf, at any rate, would assuredly not want the local rich man (for all he knew) to have cause to remember him for ill.

  If the report was okay, then everything was okay. And if it weren’t, what then? “I saw another man and he walked through that wall inside …” Not at all the trite situation of not being believed; it was of comparatively little importance if he were believed or not — concerning the other man, that is. He had only to show them the Maze in order for them to believe in the Maze.

  Which was to say, he had only to show them the Maze in order for them to make use of the Maze.

  Them — and millions of other Thems.

  The telephone rang.

  “It’s working now,” Nate said. Congers and Nobeldorf looked at him as the former picked up the phone, but nothing was said except the former’s curt, “Hello!”

  “No …” he said, after a moment. “No … No … I don’t know.” His sigh was exceedingly brief and he hung up.

  Nate said, “I’d like to make a phone call.”

  Sheriff and captain exchanged looks. “I don’t see why not,” the sheriff murmured. Congers’s grunt, as he handed Nate the instrument, seemed to indicate that he didn’t see why not, either, but wished he did.

  Peggy’s response to the single ring was so swift that she must have been waiting for it, next to it. And she had evidently (a) been waiting for it a long time and (b) spent all of that time thinking of what she was going to say. It took her quite a while to say it, with Nate making the traditional brief and futile interjections of the straight man in a situation comedy: stupid old Dad, as it might be. Boiled down and strained twice, it amounted to the fact that POLICE had come to the office where Peggy worked (WORKED: she didn’t OWN the place) and had questioned her about Nate. She had worked in that place for seven years and hoped to go on working there for another seven years and in all that time (her remarks now seeming to include the future as well as the past) the police had NEVER come and asked about ANYONE. How did it LOOK? Had Nate any idea what a thing like that could do to a person’s REPUTATION? And not only the POLICE! EVERYONE had asked her about it, after the police left. COHALLAN had asked her. CHANDOS had asked her. RUTHERFORD and WEINSTOCK and MERRY-ELLEN and even that low, slimy, son-of-a-bitch, DONAHO! had asked her. DONAHO! whose attitude notoriously was, If it smells bad, by all means throw it into the fan!

  Nate said But. He said I. He said Listen. He said Peg.

  That was bad enough. That was quite bad enough. But what hurt, what really hurt, was that the police said that they’d found her name and phone number in Nate’s suitcase. How could anyone be so stupid? How could anyone be so careless? How could anyone be so absolutely and utterly in — dif — ferent? to someone else’s welfare? as to leave her name and phone number in his suitcase? This passed Peggy’s capacity to understand. She did not, did not, did not understand how he could have done it.

  Nate said Oh for.

  Peggy said that she had only one question to ask. She would like, she would really like a reply to it She was asking it civilly, she was asking it calmly, she was asking it politely; making no reproaches, no references whatsoever to the fact that her name had probably been ruined forever and her career and professional reputation had suffered a stigma which would certainly never wear off; no: none of that. Not a word, not a word, not a single word. She wasn’t even angry. Just curious. Would Nate mind answering that question? He really wouldn’t? He was sure? Good.

  “How could you do it?”

  Her voice echoed in his ears long, long after he had hung up without answering. He saw the mouths of Sheriff Nobeldorf and Captain Congers moving, but if they said anything, he didn’t hear it. He saw Keziah come in with plenty of the food and coffee she had spoken of — when was it? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even approximately uncertain today, probably, earlier today — and she looked at him with reproach — and with no more than a measure of kindly curiosity as she (it seemed) urged him to eat and drink. Obediently he moved to the table, cut, poured, stirred, swallowed.

  I have seen the sun rise at midnight.

  The famous phrase, where was it from? Lucius Apuleius, probably; The Golden Ass; but it was a symbolic reference, not to any Arctic dawn, but to the still-mysterious drama of the Eleusinian Mysteries. Nate had seen something more unsettling than that, greater wonder than if he had seen, literally and actually, his own sun rise in his own midnight. The thought of it was like a blow to him, delayed shock or arrested wonder. Circling around it, striking its own blows whenever the opportunity offered, was the smaller (but not small) shock of Peggy. So Nate sat there, stonefaced, making motions, like a man dancing on the crust of the pit: let him dance lightly, dance delicately.

  “What?”

  This time Nobeldorf had answered the phone, was waving him to come answer it.

  “Who?”

  “I said, ‘Mr. Wiedemyer.’ This is I don’t know oh maybe the fourth, fifth time he’s been calling,” the sheriff said, covering the mouthpiece with the cushion of his hand. “Well, I guess he must have a, sure, legitimate concern, he was on Mr. Bellamy’s list; anyway, he’s on the phone — ” He raised it to his mouth, smiled a bland and automatic and sebaceous smile — “Here’s Mr. Gordon now, Mr. Wiedemyer.”

  Nate’s eye, as his hand took the phone, rested on the opposite wall, on a sepia photograph framed in dark wood — this house in the days of its greatness and glory … whatever the hell such words meant, applied anywhere, let alone here … His mouth made some sort of acknowledgment.

  Polite, fussy, tired, precise, excited, unhappy, cautious was the voice or the molecular reproduction of the voice in his ear. “ — a rather nice or rather nasty little monopoly the legal profession enjoys in that state. I realize it is not your fault, sir; I am, believe me, although I cannot explain now, trying to help you as much as,” the shortest of pauses, “myself. It seems that being admitted to general legal practice in that state is not sufficient, it is also necessary to be admitted to practice in each individual county. That county’s bar association consists of exactly six members. Mr. Johnstone, Mr. McDaniel, and Mr. Brandon do not take trial work — their phrase in each case: ‘I don’t take trial work.’ Mrs. Arendts is in bed, sick. Mr. Sweet is out of town. That leaves Mr. Morton.

  “I believe I have made exactly fifteen phone calls to Mr. Morton. He assures me there is no cause for alarm. Nothing will take place in the county, forensically speaking, without him being aware of it before it can be finished. He may or may not take the case — if there turns out to be a case — if he has time — if he receives the retainer which I have wired — Have I been too pre-occupied with my own grievances? Are you in immediate difficulties? Or is your position merely equivocal? The wire may be tapped, you know,” he added, calmly.

  “The position is as stated,” Nate said, carefully. Tapped by whom? he wanted to ask. And not caring what the answer was. “Thanks for your interest,” he said.

  Mr. Wiedemyer actually said something which sounded very much as though it were tut-tut. “Here is the most important thing. Listen quite carefully. I cannot go to see you. I am trying to find someone … someone whom I will know personally … who will be able to go there to see you. And on general and other specific principles. I wonder if you understand what I — ”

  Responding to who knows what fugitive impulse, Nate said, “It’s like trying to see with your eyes shut.”

  There was, for this conversation, a fairly long pause. Then Mr. Wiedemyer said, “The important thing is: if you have it, don’t surrender it. And do not trust, do not follow strangers. Timor Danaos et dona ferentes. None may appear. Someone else is currently trying to get to where you are. I repeat, and I warn: Do not trust! And now I must discontinue this conversation. There’s so much to do, there are
too few of us, you must know the infinite importance — ”

  “I do. I’ll remember. Good-bye.”

  He turned to see that meanwhile several strangers had entered the room. One of them at first struck his eye as being familiar — a sallow, stiff-looking man with clipped, gray hair. The other was evidently familiar at least to both Congers and Nobeldorf, with whom he immediately entered into casual, bluff conversation; a large, red-nosed and self-confident man. They addressed him as “Jack.”

  “Well, Jack, hey — ”

  “Oh, hello, Jack, have you — ”

  He, Nate, couldn’t hear the end of the question because the third man was speaking to him, Nate.

  “Mr. Gordon, Mr. Jamieson Swift has engaged us to look out for you in this matter, and we have engaged Mr. John Morton, who is a member of the local bar. By ‘we,’ Mr. Gordon, I mean the firm of which I am a member — Mathesson, Peabody, Farrel, and Smith — my name is Thomas Farrel Smith.” He gave Nate a firm but not unpleasantly firm handshake. Thomas Farrel Smith was a small, slight man with pale, smooth skin and dark, smooth hair. His smile and the glance it contained seemed to say that he was pleasantly impressed with Nate.

  Nate was mildly surprised, at least he thought he was, and a bit more than mildly pleased. The man with the red nose was discussing a bear hunt with Nobeldorf and Congers. The gray-haired man did not, at second look, seem a bit familiar. Nate said, “Such dispatch doesn’t seem typical of Jamie. Not that I’m — ”

  Smith said, with a rueful smile, “Not that I’m, either, but — Well, it’s been on the radio and the television and in at least some of the newspapers. To tell you the truth, we actually represent Mr. Swift in connection with other business matters. And it was we who called this to his attention. He was naturally upset and immediately asked us to do what we could.” His voice dropped in tone and he said, with a glance to the side, “Here you can watch what is called, for some curious reason, ‘the democratic process in action.’ I assure you, it is a much more interesting show than either radio or television …”

  Morton, having wound up the bear hunt, turned to Nate and he said, “Well, young fellow, are these two yokels giving you a hard time?”

  “Now, Jack — ”

  “Ah, come on, Jack — ”

  But Morton waved them aside. “You’re poor old Joe’s nephew by marriage, aren’t you?” he asked. He walked over, shook his hand, patted him on the back. “Too bad that this had to turn out like this, first time he had a chance to see you in years. Well, naturally … Both in the army, your brother and you, dead men, seeing dead men, no novelty. But … you know … funny thing — nothing to laugh at, not what I mean — odd — seems different, somehow, quiet, decent, civilized place like this. Old man asks you to come up and stay with him — nearest kin he has — dying. We all knew it. You didn’t. Quite a shock. Stayed with him, though, faithfully, all night, all morning, didn’t move from his side, covered him up decently, Kezzie told us, yes, yes.”

  He sighed, nodded. “All flesh is as grass,” his sigh said. “The vanity of human wishes,” his sigh said, “He who believeth in me shall not die,” he nodded. “You went for a walk to be alone for awhile when you saw the whole goddamn cavalcade coming down the drive like Coxey’s Army — Mat, when in the hell is the State going to get you a new car, the one out there is a disgrace, for Christ’s sake, there’s only one thing to do: you got, how many troopers? you know how many troopers. Plus your wife. Plus me. Plus my wife. My son. My daughter. My son-in-law. Okay. The only thing to do is we catch Oscar Hamilton and pin his ass to the mat. I mean, he’s not in the General Assembly in response to some law of nature, for Christ’s sake. He only won the nomination by exactly thirty-seven votes, you know? All right. Tomorrow night’s his night at the firehouse, and if he votes down ’t the Statehouse the way he plays poker down ’t the firehouse, then: Oyez, oyez, and may God save this honorable Commonwealth, is all I got to say.

  “Elmer Nobeldorf isn’t in any too better of a shape either, now I come to think of it,” said John Morton (Esquire), rubbing his red, red nose and gesturing with fluttering eyebrows at a cut-glass decanter on the sideboard. “Ah, thanks, El; old Joe knew how to buy booze, poor Joe. Have one, El. It’s therapeutic, you owe it to the citizens, protect your health. Drop dead from the cold and frost, bottoms up, here’s hair on your balls, you won’t have to worry about Clyde Benchley, he, what’d he do? lost out by two-twenty-two first time he run in the primary; only ninety-one, this last time, Tsk,” Jack Morton shook his cocked head. “Clyde Benchley as sheriff! Well, lots of people seem to like him, he was sucking up to me, believe it or not, only last week. Well, well, young fellow, you behaved altogether admirably on this occasion; Mat Congers and El Nobeldorf obliged only in their official capacities; sure you’ll all be great friends: well.

  “What’s he charged with?” he asked.

  “He isn’t exactly charged — ”

  “We’re waiting for the report — ”

  Morton’s expression was that of an archbishop who has seen his choirboys tumble out before the altar mother-naked. “Not. Charged?” he cried, astonished, almost speechless. Almost. “You mean, he has not been taken before a magistrate? He is being detained here? You-know-better-than-that Not even arrested! Well, boys, one thing you’ve done. Not only we don’t need to bother with that writ of habeas corpus Judge Fleming is waiting in his office to sign if it becomes necessary, but you’ve — I hope — I could be wrong — I believe you’ve saved yourselves from a suit for false arrest, which otherwise this young man, he may for all we know be the new and rightful owner of the very floor we stand on —

  “Button your coat up, Mr. Gordon. Let’s go. After you.” He shook his head, jowls flapping reproachfully, at the two peace officers.

  “Now, Jack, don’t be — ”

  “Listen Jack, I only — ”

  But their hearts didn’t seem to be in it.

  Attorney Smith, his fine, dark brows arched quizzically, bowed slightly and gestured slightly, toward the door. Nate said, “I’ll be right with you … ‘Even kings must live by nature,’ ” he added. He went through the other door, rapidly, entered the small, cold, quiet water-closet, flushed the close-stool. While it roared and gurgled, he, even more rapidly, went to the end of the corridor and opened the window. He strode quickly to the other end and opened the door there. Then he returned to the room where Joseph Bellamy no longer lay on the floor. He paused a moment and pressed his wood against the door frame. A wave of cold and near-nausea swept over him. He swallowed, hard.

  There wasn’t any doubt in his mind, finally, why the sallow man with the clipped gray hair had looked familiar. Man never identified, man never introduced. Ralph Wiedemyer’s warning. Timor Danaos et dona ferentes. Beware the Greeks when they come bearing gifts. This man might have been father, uncle, cousin — but kin, kin, close of kin — to the dark young man whose appearance, challenge, threat, had occurred so soon after Bellamy’s last alarm and death.

  Nate Gordon entered the inner room, closed the door, pulled up the wall, stepped through, pulled it down behind him.

  He took five or six uncertain steps and then, watched — blinking, blind, light, darkness, spinning, whirling, roaring, blackness, whiteness, sickness, shadow, sharpness, dimness, glory, horror, silence, stillness, rest.

  • • •

  Afterward, though how long or how far afterward he knew not and no search could make him know for not even the event would teach him in its hour, he walked down a long cube tube of the richest golden crystal — measured pace with infinite grace and dignity, upon the tips of his toes and the balls of his feet, to the accompaniment of music of sakers, serpents, spinets, tambours and triangles. His walk was a dance, a sacred, hallowed, hallowing, holy dance. He came out into the Temple of En-lil, the Hei-gal of the Lu-gal, and his dance was a walk, a sanctifying, fructifying, pollinating walk.

  He took the waiting priestess by her narrow, painted waist and possessed her and
begat a godling upon her, and he arose and departed and affirmed to the few who dared to lift adoring, glazed, and glowing eyes, eyes like almonds, arrows, and like kohl; affirmed to them with gestures and the very gait of his walk, dance, dance, walk, dance, that neither U-perath nor Hid-dek-el would allow a drop too few nor suffer one too much, but both would water the valleys and trees and fields so that the steps of the ziqquratu would flow with myrrh, with honey, with butter, and with cream.

  Afterward he departed, in search of Et-dir-Mor. This had not been his land after all. But it had been perhaps worth his while to have made the error.

  He fled down a funnel through which blew ice and snow and rime and powdered hail and came out in a gust upon a plain where naked men whose shoulders and feet alone were wrapped in crackling hides thrust their fingers into huge and faintly steaming dung-masses and besought him with words, with gestures, and with mimings to tell them which way through the storm the great red mammoths had fled not long before, not long before at all. But he would not as he could not and strode back upon the blast the way he had come, back up and back down the funnel.

  He sat and mused a long while at a point where seven cities glowed at the arm-ends of seven branch roads, each different as day from white, and watched them turn and revolve like the points of a great, slow Catherine wheel as he walked down the hub to the under sea grot where the mermen come to woo each other when their women have gone ashore to kindle and to bear. Their kink green beards adrifting and afloat in the gentle-currents, they gestured at him with their six soft arms and rolled their glaucous eyes. “Where is the Gate which leads to the land of Et-dir-Mor?” he asked them. Bubbles like streams of pearls rose from under their feet.