The Unicorn Trade Read online

  “The line’s dead,” Yamamura reminded him.

  “No, I get a dial tone now,” Moffat said. “They must’ve repaired it a few minutes ago. Hello, operator—”

  Yamamura became occupied with explaining his presence and showing the squad around. When they came back to the living room, Moffat had cradled the phone. He stood so unmoving that their own feet halted.

  “What’s the matter, Charlie?” the inspector asked. “You look like the devil. Couldn’t you find out anything?”

  “No.” Moffat shook his head, slowly, as if it weighed too much. “There wasn’t any call.”

  “What?” Yamamura exclaimed.

  “You heard me,” Moffat said. “This line went down about midnight. Wasn’t fixed ’til now.” He took a step forward. “Okay, Trig. What really brought you here?”

  “A phone call, I tell you.” Yamamura’s back ached with a tension he could not will away. “From Cardynge.”

  “And I tell you that’s impossible.”

  Yamamura stood a while hearing the clock tick. Finally, flatly, he said: “All right. Maybe there never was a call. I was half asleep, half awake, my brain churning. I guess that subconsciously I was worried about Cardynge, and so I dreamed the message, even took the phone off the rack, it felt so real.”

  “Well … yes.” Moffat began to relax. “That must be what happened. Funny coincidence, though.”

  “It better be a coincidence,” Yamamura said.

  The men looked simultaneously at the body, and at the phone, and away.

  —Poul and Karen Anderson

  BELA LUGOSI

  1883–1956

  Do you remember how he gave the sharp

  Kiss of undeath, and how he wrapped the night

  Of his cloak about white Mina? And do you

  Remember how we tingled at the nape

  When we saw his face, and saw his wilful smile?

  We loved his voice, his eyes that held our own

  While a taut coldness took us by the throat;

  We kept our secret thoughts of his high head

  So proudly held—his arrogance of grace.

  Then we could understand why legends told

  Of demons’ beauty, and named “Bearer of Light”

  Him who for pride had cloaked himself with Hell.

  —Karen Anderson

  THE KITTEN

  The flames roared. They stood aloft from the house in cataracts of red, yellow, hell-blue, which a breeze made ragged and cast as a spray of sparks against cold November stars. Their blaze roiled in smoke, flashed off neighbor windows, sheened over the snow that lay thin upon lawns and banked along hedges. Meltwater around burning walls had boiled off, and grass beneath was charred. The heat rolled forth like a tide. Men felt it parch their eyeballs and stood back from trying to breast it. Meanwhile it strewed reek around them.

  Blink, blink went the turret light on the fire chief’s car. Standing beside it, he and the police chief could oversee his trucks. Paint and metal gleamed through darkness, background for men who sluiced thick white jets out of hoses. Hoarse shouts seemed remote, nearly lost amidst boom and brawl. Still farther away were the spectators, a shadow mass dammed in the street to right and left by a few officers. And the view downhill, of Senlac’s lamps and homes in peaceful arrays, the river frozen among them, a glimpse of grey-white farmland beyond, could have been on a planet circling in Orion.

  “Yeah, about as bad as they come,” said the fire chief. His breath made each word a ghostly explosion. “We just hope we can keep it from spreading next door. I guess we can.”

  “Damn, there goes any evidence,” said the police chief. He slapped arms over chest. The fury he watched did not radiate very far.

  “Well, we might find something in the ashes,” said the fire chief. “Though I should think whatever you can use is in, uh, the other place.”

  “Probably,” said the police chief. “Still … I dunno. On the face of it, the case looks open and shut. But what I’ve heard tonight—I’ve seen my share of weirdos, not only when I was on the force in Chicago, Jim, but here in our quiet, smallish Midwestern town too, oh, yes. And this business doesn’t fit any pattern. It smells all wrong.”

  Brroomm, went the flames. Rao-ow-ow. Sssss.

  Leo Tronen’s wife made no scene when she left him. She deemed they had had enough of those in the three years they were married, culminating in the one the evening before. That was when he stormed into her study, snatched her half-written thesis off the desk, brought it back to the living room, tossed it in the grate, and snapped his cigarette lighter to the strewn paper. As he rose, he spoke softly: “Does this convince you?”

  For an instant Una flinched away. An odd little breaking noise came out of her throat. She was a short woman, well formed, features delicately boned, eyes blue and huge, nose tip-tilted, lips forever a bit parted, face framed between wings of blonde hair. And Tronen loomed six feet three, and had been a football star at his university. Then she clenched fists, stood her ground, and whispered almost wonderingly, “You would do such a thing. You really would. I kept praying we could work our troubles out—”

  “Jesus Christ, haven’t I tried?” His voice loudened. “A million times at least. From practically the first day we met, I explained—I don’t need a college professor—an Egyptologist, for God’s sake!—I need a wife.”

  She shook her head. “No.” Soundless tears coursed forth. “You need, want, a status symbol. A mirror.” She wheeled and walked from him. He heard her shoes on the stairs, and how she fought her sobs.

  Ordinarily Tronen drank no more than his work required, including, of course, necessary cocktail parties. Now he put down a fair amount of Scotch before he too went to bed, thinking how magnanimous he was in taking the guest room. That would be a point to make tomorrow, when he must take the lead in cleaning up the chaos that had overcome their relationship. For instance: “Be honest. The main reason we don’t have a better sex life is you’re still stuck on that Quarters character. I realize you don’t admit it to yourself, but you are. Okay, you dated him in college, and you both like to talk about countries dead and gone, and maybe my action yesterday was too extreme. If so, I’m sorry. But don’t you see, I had to do something to make you understand how you’ve been letting me down? What is Harry Quarters? A high school history teacher! And what use to you, to us, would your precious master’s degree be, that you’re making a forty-mile commute three days a week to study for? You’re an executive’s wife, my dear, and we’re bound for the top. You’ll visit your Pyramids in style—if you’ll help out!”

  She wasn’t awake when his alarm clock rang. At least, the bedroom door was closed. Frostily indignant, he made his own breakfast and drove off into a dim false dawn. Hadn’t he told her he must rise early today? He’d be showing the man from John Deere around, which could result in a seven-figure subcontract, which could get Leo Tronen promoted out of this hole.

  He was a country boy by origin, but had the lights of New York in his eyes. His corporate employer had made him the manager of a die-cutting plant it had built outside Senlac, where land was cheap. “A fine opening, especially for a young fellow like you,” they told him. But he saw the blind alley beyond. You can only go so far, producing stuff people actually use. The real money, prestige, power lie in operating the people themselves and the paper which governs them. Well, let him make a good showing here—much more important, let the right men know he did—and he’d get the big offer.

  However, for this the right wife was essential: attractive, alert, intelligent, skillful as hostess or as guest. And he had reached Senlac newly divorced. He met Una Nyborg at a party, zeroed in and, being a handsome redhead with a quick tongue and some sophistication, succeeded before long. She lived near Holberg College then, pursuing graduate studies which he agreed she might continue on a part-time basis after they were married. He didn’t expect she would for many months. He had shown her such dazzling visions of wonderful places an
d wonderful persons they would meet all over the world. At first, when she nonetheless persisted in her private undertaking, he was annoyed. Later, when it became inconvenient for him, sometimes an out-and-out business handicap, he grew angry.

  At last—enough was enough. Una simply must straighten out and fly right. He’d start seeing to that this very day after work.

  Dusk was falling when he came home. There were no street lamps in this new residential district, and windows glowed well apart, picking out bare trees and a crust of old snow. The air was hushed and raw. The tires of his Cadillac made a susurrus that was nearly the single sound. His multiglassed split-level stood dark. Nothing but an automatically opened door and lit bulb in the garage welcomed him. Una’s Morris Minor was gone.

  What the devil? He let himself in at the main entrance and switched on lights as he passed through the hall beyond. Long, wide, creamy of walls and drapes, thick and blue of carpet, Swedish modern of furniture, equipped with fieldstone fireplace and picture window, less militarily neat than he desired, the living room felt somehow emptier than the garage, somehow colder in spite of a heating system that mumbled like the ghosts of important visitors he had entertained here.

  Was Una off shopping? A strange hour, but she was poorly organized at best, and doubtless distraught after last night’s showdown. An envelope propped against a table lamp caught his glance. He strode to investigate. “Leo” said her handwriting. Fear stabbed him. He snatched a paperknife and ripped. The sheet within was covered by her scrawl, worse than usual, here and there water-blotted. He read twice before he grasped the meaning.

  “… can’t go on … think I still love you, but … no alimony or anything … please don’t try to find me, I’ll call in a few days when this isn’t hurting so hard. …”

  “Why, how could she?” he heard himself say. “After all I’ve done for her.”

  Savagely he crumpled note and envelope, tossed them in the grate across the remnants of her thesis, sought the liquor cabinet and poured a stiff slug, flung himself onto the couch, popped lighter to cigarette, and dragged in a lungful.

  What an absolute hell of a moment for her to desert. Where could she be? He mustn’t make frantic inquiries. Discretion, yes, that was the word, heal the breach behind the scenes or at least finalize it inconspicuously. But could he trust her not to make a fool of him? If she’d sought shelter from a friend … No, hardly that. She’d likeliest gone to the city and entered a hotel under an assumed name. She was dreamy but not idiotic, unstable (Quarters—and now this!) but not disloyal. What had she said, during a recent quarrel? “You keep a good man locked away behind your ego. I know. You’ve sometimes let him out … on a chain, but out, to me, and he’s who I love. Oh, Leo, give him a chance. Let him go free.” Some such slush. Quite possibly she hoped her action would force a reconciliation.

  His first drink went down in two consecutive cigarettes’ worth of time. He fetched a refill and sipped more calmly. A sense of thaw spread through him. Una had told him how the ancient—Persians, were they?—always debated vital matters twice before deciding, drunk and sober. He smiled. Not that he meant to tie one on. However … He wasn’t a monster of selfishness, nor narrow, really. He saw the reason for Una’s interests; yes, he had felt a tug of the same when she talked. If only he had leisure … Unfair to call her ungrateful. She had in fact tried hard, though being helpmate to his kind of man didn’t come natural. Had he for his part been less tolerant, less giving, even, than he ought? Could he rise as far in the world, no doubt slower but as far in the long run, if he relaxed more with her while they were still young?

  Let her make her gesture. If an acquaintance asked where she was, say she’d gone out of town on a visit. When she contacted him, let them discuss matters in a reasonable way.

  And let him rustle together a meal before he got loaded. Tronen chuckled rather sadly and went to the kitchen. She’d cleaned his breakfast dishes. That touched him; he wasn’t sure why, but it did.

  He had selected a can of corned beef hash when he heard a noise. In the stillness which engulfed him, he stood startled. The noise came again, a weak mew … Stray cat? He shrugged. A third cry sounded. He’d better check. The window above the sink was so full of darkness.

  When he opened the kitchen door that gave on the patio, light spilled into a thick blue-brown gloom which quickly swallowed it. Thus the kitten on the stoop crouched all alone in his sight. It was about three months old, a bundle of white fur fluffed out against the chill, a pink nose, two large amber eyes. “Weep,” it piped, “weep,” and bounded past him into the warmth behind.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Tronen said. The kitten sat on the linoleum and looked up at him, up, up, up. It didn’t appear starved or ill. Then why had it invaded his house?

  Tronen bent over to take the beast and put it back out. It ran from his hand, huddled in a corner by the stove, and watched him as if terrified. Why should a pet be afraid of a man? Tronen felt the night reach in, icy around his backbone. He sighed, rose, closed the door. The creature must have gotten lost. On those short legs, it couldn’t have wandered far. Okay, he’d give it a place till he’d eaten, then phone around and learn whose it was. Several of his neighbors were prominent in Senlac, two of them—a state party committeeman and the owner of a growing grocery chain—on a larger scale. His kindliness would be appreciated. He hoped the kitten was housebroken.

  Minutes later, as a pan sputtered savory smells, he heard another mew. The kitten had crept timidly forth to tell him it was hungry. Ah, well, why not oblige? On impulse, he warmed the milk; this was such a bleak night. The kitten assaulted the bowl ravenously. Tronen took a bench in the dinette for his own supper. After a bit, full-bellied, the kitten rubbed against his ankles. He reached down in an absentminded fashion and tickled softness. The kitten went into ecstasies. He resumed eating. The kitten sprang to his lap and curled in a ball. He felt the purr.

  Having finished, he put the animal back on the floor. He meant to shut it in the kitchen, where misbehavior wouldn’t have serious consequences, while he investigated. But it pattered by him too fast. “Damn!” It led him a merry chase to the living room. There it turned, sprang in his direction, rolled around at his feet, eager for fun and games.

  Hm, he’d better determine the sex anyway. He settled on the couch again, by a phone he kept there (as well as those in the bedroom and his den). The kitten didn’t mind examination. Male. He let his left hand keep it amused while his right dialed and his shoulder held the receiver. Presently it snuggled alongside his thigh and licked his fingers, a tiny rasp with a motor going like crazy.

  “—nice of you to call, Mr. Tronen, but we don’t have cats. Have you tried the de Lanceys? I know they do.”

  “—present and accounted for here. Thanks a lot, though. Few people these days would bother.”

  “—not ours. But say, why don’t you and your wife come have a drink one evening soon?”

  He was sorry when he ran out of names. The house was too God damn silent. Not as much as a clock tick; on the mantel the minutes flickered by in digital readout. Music? No, he had a tin ear; the expensive hi-fi and record library were part of his image, and he wasn’t about to fetch the ballads and jazz she enjoyed from Una’s empty study. Television? What was on? Abruptly he remembered reading about single persons, especially old persons, in big cities, who grow so lonely that they kiss the faces on the screen. He shivered and turned his gaze elsewhere.

  The kitten slept. Good idea for him. No more booze; a bromide, make that two bromides, eight or nine solid hours in the sack, and he’d be fit for work regardless of his problems. What about the kitten? It could hardly help letting go sometime during the night. He didn’t fancy scrubbing a mess before he’d had coffee. But if he put the little wretch out, it’d freeze to death. He grinned at his indecision. Assign an engineer … In the garage was a beer case. He removed empty deposit bottles, took the box inside, added a layer of clean rags, set it by the stove, fetched the
still bonelessly slumbering kitten, and shut the lid. On the point of departure, he suddenly added a fresh bowl of milk.

  Upstairs, he threshed long awake, unhelped by his pills. Absurd, how his thoughts kept straying from Una, from the Deere contract, from everything real, to that silly infant animal. Probably he should put an ad in the paper. But then he could be stuck with the beast for days … The pound? … Una had always wished they’d keep a pet, specifically a cat. She’d accepted his veto. Now, a peace offering? Maybe he should experiment while she was gone, learn if the nuisance actually was intolerable … In his eventual sleep, a leopard stalked him.

  His alarm clock brought him struggling to wakefulness. For a moment the dark before dawn was still full of shapes. He groped about; his palm closed on hair and warmth. Una! went through him like a sunbeam. Why was he gladdened? … No, wait, she was gone … Had she come back in the night? He fumbled overhead, found and yanked a reading lamp cord. On the pillow beside him rested the kitten.

  Oh, no.

  It regarded him brightly, pounced on his chest, patted his cheek with a fluff of paw. He sat straight, spilling it. Snatching for a hold, it clawed his neck. He swatted it aside. “Bloody pest!” Evidently he’d forgotten to reclose the lid of the box. He ached from restless hours. His skull was full of sand that gritted out through the eyesockets. As he left the bed, he noticed white smears on spread and electric blanket. Suspicious, he sniffed. Uh-huh. Sour. The stinker must have upset the bowl from the kitchen, which itself must be a pool.

  The kitten had retreated to a corner of the room. Its stare seemed hurt, not physically but in an eerily human fashion. Well, cats were a creepy breed. He’d never liked them.

  Downstairs, he found his guess confirmed, and had to spend time with a mop before he could take care of his own needs. At least there was no piddle or dropping—Unh, he’d doubtless find some later, crusted in a place hard to get at. “Okay, chum,” he said when the kitten appeared. “That settles the matter.” It buzzed and tried to be petted. Behavior which had been slightly pleasant in his loneliness of yesterday was only irritating now.