Nightside the Long Sun

“To dispose of that poor woman’s body, you mean. You know, I’ve been terribly slow about this, I suppose because these aren’t the sort of people I’m accustomed to. She was Orpine, wasn’t she? One of these women mentioned it. She must have had the room next to Orchid’s office. Musk and another man have taken her body there, at any rate.”

“Yeah, that was Orpine. She used to help out Orchid now and then, running the place.” Blood turned away.

Silk watched him stride across the courtyard. Blood had called himself a thief the night before; it struck Silk now that he had been wrong—had been lying, in fact, in order to romanticize what he really did, though he would steal, no doubt, if given an opportunity to do so without risk; he was the sort of person who would consider theft clever, and would be inclined to boast of it.

But the fact was that Blood was simply a tradesman—a tradesman whose trades happened to be forbidden by law, and were inescapably colored by that. That he himself, Patera Silk, did not like such men probably meant only that he did not understand them as well as his own vocation required.

He strove to reorder his thoughts, shifting Blood (and himself as well) out of the criminal category. Blood was a tradesman, or a merchant of sorts; and one of his employees had been killed, almost certainly not by him or even under his direction. Silk recalled the pictured cat on the dagger; it reminded him of the engraving on the little needler, and he took it out to re-examine. There were golden hyacinths on each ivory grip because it had been made for a woman called Hyacinth.

He dropped it back into his pocket.

Blood’s name … If the dagger had been made for him, the picture on its hilt would have shown blood, presumably: a bloody dagger of the same design, perhaps, or something of that sort. The cat had held a mouse in its jaws, and mice thus caught by cats bled, of course; but he could recall no blood in the picture, and the captive mouse had been quite small. He was no artist, but after putting himself in the place of the one who had drawn and tinted that picture, he decided that the mouse had been included mostly to indicate that the cat was in fact a cat, and not some other cat-like animal, a panther for example. The mouse had been a kind of badge, in other words.

The cat itself had been scarlet, but hardly with blood; even a large mouse would not have bled as much as that, and the cat had presumably been tinted to indicate that it was somehow burning. Its upright tail had actually been tipped with fire.

He took a step away from the wall and was punished by a flash of pain. On one knee, he pulled down his stocking and unwound Crane’s wrapping, then flogged the guiltless wall he had just deserted.

When the wrapping was back in place, he went into the room next to Orchid’s cramped office. It was larger than he had expected, and its furnishings were by no means devoid of taste. After glancing at a shattered hand mirror and a blue dressing gown he picked up from the floor, he uncovered the dead woman’s face.

* * *

He found Blood in a private supper room with Musk and the burly man who had carried Orpine’s body, discussing the advisability of keeping the yellow house closed that night.

Uninvited, Silk pulled up a chair and sat down. “May I interrupt? I have a question and a suggestion. Neither one should take long.”

Musk gave him an icy stare.

Blood said, “They’d better not.”

“The question first. What’s become of Doctor Crane? He was out there with us a moment ago, but when I looked for him after you left I couldn’t find him.”

When Blood did not answer, the burly man said, “He’s checking out the girls so they don’t give anybody anything he hasn’t got already. You know what I mean, Patera?”

Silk nodded. “I do indeed. But where does he do it? Is there some sort of infirmary—”

“He goes to their rooms. They got to undress and wait in their rooms until he gets there. When he’s through with them, they can go out if they want to.”

“I see.” Silk stroked his cheek, his eyes thoughtful.

“If you’re looking for him, he’s probably upstairs. He always does the upstairs first.”

“Fine,” Blood said impatiently. “Crane’s gone back to work. Why shouldn’t he? You’d better do the same, Patera. I still want this place exorcised, and in fact it needs it now more than ever. Get busy.”

“I am about my work,” Silk told him. “This is it, you see, or at least it’s a part of it, and I believe that I can help you. You spoke of disposing of that poor girl’s—of Orpine’s—body. I suggest that we bury it.”

Blood shrugged. “I’ll see about doing something—she won’t be found, and she won’t be missed. Don’t worry about it.”