Night Train to Memphis - Elizabeth Peters [106]
Lifting my skirts, I ran up the stairs. All the doors along the corridor were closed; lights in antique bronze sconces shone brightly.
A methodical searcher would have tried each door in turn. That procedure had its risks, however. It was too much to expect that all of them would be in Larry’s study. If I opened the door of an occupied room the search would end then and there. I tried the door of Schmidt’s former room first, and then that of my own. Both were dark. I had to turn on the lights to make certain nobody was there. It was not a very smart move, but I hadn’t thought of bringing a flashlight. There were a lot of things I hadn’t thought of.
Time was getting on. The meeting could break up at any moment. It occurred to me that maybe I ought to find a place where I could hide in case someone came upstairs. If I couldn’t find him right away, if he wasn’t in this part of the house, I would have to wait till after they had gone to bed before I resumed the search. Maybe I would be lucky enough to overhear a snatch of conversation: ‘Let us go to the cellar, which is reached by a flight of stairs next to the kitchen, and see how our guest (sneering laughter) is getting on.’
Fat chance. I had been associating with Schmidt too long even to imagine such a thing.
It was likely that he was in the cellar (if there was a cellar) or in one of the other buildings. Checking the bedrooms was probably a waste of time, but it had to be done and now was the best time, before the occupants of the house retired for the night. First, though, I needed to find a place. where I could hide temporarily. The narrow unadorned door at the back of a shallow recess looked as if it led to another broom closet or a linen closet, so I tried it first. No one would be there.
Someone was, though.
It was a small room, only eight or ten feet square, with a single window. Shelves along two of the walls indicated that its original function had been that of storage, of linens or other household objects. The furniture consisted of a cot, a table, and a few chairs.
They hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.
His head had fallen forward and his body sagged against the ropes that bound him to the chair. I hadn’t dared hope I would find him in pristine condition. I had even braced myself for a little blood. But only the dark hours of nightmare could have prepared me for this. The stains covered his shirt like a macabre crazy-quilt pattern of rust and scarlet, some patches still wet and bright, some dried to ugly brown.
The sound I made was wordless, more like a bird’s squawk than anything human, but John must have recognized my voice. His head lifted alertly and his face was set in a scowl.
‘You again,’ he said, without enthusiasm.
‘What . . .’ His face was unmarked except for a swollen lip. I cleared my throat and tried again. ‘What did they . . .’
‘It’s called “The Death of a Thousand Cuts,” or something equally picturesque. Lower percentages are employed for purposes of discipline or persuasion.’ The scowl became even more pronounced. ‘The primary subject of the interrogation was your present whereabouts. I ought to have told them not to bother, because you’d be sure to turn up before long. Christ Almighty, Vicky, wasn’t one encounter with that ghastly woman enough? I have been trying for two days to get you out of here, and you keep coming back like a – a bloody boomerang!’
‘You’re the nastiest, most ungrateful bastard I have ever – ’ I began.
‘If you’re going to shout, at least close the door!’
‘Oh.’ I closed the door.
‘Dare I flatter myself that you came after me this time?’ John inquired in his most poisonously polite voice. ‘Very good of you, I’m sure. All right, let’s try the escape bit again. If we keep practising we may get it right one day. I trust it occurred to you to