For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [42]
They waited a suitable time. The woman looked at her companion, shrugged, and withdrew a small, thimble-shaped object from an inside breast pocket. The door opened immediately. The man nodded, then smiled. The woman put the thimble-thing away and moved back.
Arrapkha stepped outside, closing the door behind him, and looked hesitantly from one visitor to the other. “What can I do for you, lady and sir, this night? Your insistence moved me to concern despite the fact that I am closed now for more than—”
“Skip the banter,” the man said crisply. “We know you were watching us. You know that we’re not here to buy”—he glanced at the sign above the doorway—“woodwork. Or do you deny having watched us?”
“Well, no,” Arrapkha began, “but I—”
“And you didn’t call the police,” the man continued easily, “because the police often ask questions you’d rather not answer, right?”
“Sir, I assure you that I—”
“We’re looking for the old woman and the boy who live in that shop.” The man glanced briefly back toward Mother Mastiff’s stall. “You wouldn’t happen to know where they are, would you?”
Arrapkha shook his head, his expression blank. “No, sir, I would not.”
“There are signs of a struggle inside. This is a small street. You didn’t hear anything, see anything?”
“A struggle? Dear me,” Arraphka muttered, showing signs of distress. “Well, you know, even though this is a small street, it can still be very noisy here, even at night. We don’t always pay close attention.”
“I’ll bet,” the woman muttered. “Just like you didn’t pay attention to all the noise we weren’t making while we were letting ourselves into your neighbor’s shop?”
Arrapkha favored her with a wan smile.
“We haven’t time for these games,” the man said impatiently, reaching into his pants pocket.
“Please, sir and lady.” A look of genuine concern came over Arrapkha’s face. “You said that you wouldn’t do anything—”
“We won’t” The man’s hand paused a moment as he saw the shopkeeper’s nervous stare. “Even if we have to, we probably won’t.” He slowly withdrew his hand to bring out a small folder. Arrapkha let out a relieved sigh, and studied the contents of the folder. His eyes widened.
The visitor slipped the little case back into his pocket. “Now, then,” he said pleasantly, “I tell you again that we mean you no harm, nor have we any intention of harming the old woman and her boy. Quite the contrary. If they’ve been the victims of violence, as seems probable, we need to know everything you know, so that if they’re still alive, we can help them. Regardless of what you may think of us personally and what we stand for, you must realize that if they’ve met with ill fortune, they’re bound to be better off in our care than in the hands of whoever carried them away. You can see that, surely.”
“Besides,” his companion added matter-of-factly, “if you don’t tell us what you know, we’ll escort you to a place in city center where you’ll be strapped into a machine, and you’ll end up telling us, anyway. It won’t hurt you, but it will waste our time. I don’t like wasted time.” She stared into his eyes. “Understand?’
Arrapkha nodded slowly.
“The old woman you seek—Mother Mastiff?” The man nodded encouragingly. “I think I saw her carried off by several figures. I couldn’t even tell you if they were human or alien. It was dark and misty.”
“Isn’t it always here?” the man muttered. “Go on.”
“That’s all I know, all I saw.” Arrapkha shrugged. “Truly.” He pointed down the street toward the gap that separated Mother Mastiff’s shop from the one next to hers. “Through there I saw struggling shapes in the alley. It still confuses me. She is a very old woman, quite harmless.