In the House of Secret Enemies Read online

  “Let’s see how fast you can come up with two glasses of water.” I waved the gun at him. He was very fast.

  I opened the vial in my hand and tapped a few crystals of the drug into each glass, then motioned for Mueller to pick them up. He didn’t have to be told what to do next. We marched back to the closed room, and I waited while the cloudy water disappeared down the throats of the men. Then I left them alone—I shut off the lights and closed the door.

  I found a phone and dialed Garth’s precinct. Then I backed up against the wall and held my gun out in front of me. The nameless forms sharing the room with me stayed hidden. At last MacGregor’s welcome voice came on the line.

  “Listen to me closely,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “I can probably only get it straight once. Garth’s insanity is a setup. I think he’ll be all right if you do what I say. If you do a urinalysis and blood test soon enough, I think you’ll still find traces of a very unusual drug in his system. I know you will in mine, and I can prove where it came from. In the meantime, send a car to pick me up. I’m at Zwayle Labs. I have a surprise package for you.”

  MacGregor started to pump me for more information. I was in no shape to give it to him, and I cut him off. Boise was starting to scream. Soon, Mueller joined him.

  “Please hurry,” I said softly, closing my eyes. “I’m afraid.”

  The travel notes come out again.

  Country for Sale

  I rolled over in the dark and swatted the button on the alarm clock. Nothing happened. The jangling continued, bouncing around inside my brain like marbles in a tin cup. The hands on the clock read 3:30. I picked up the telephone and the ringing finally stopped. I pulled the receiver down near the vicinity of my mouth and muttered something unintelligible.

  “Mongo? Is that you, Mongo?”

  I rummaged around inside my mind until I managed to match the voice to a seven-foot giant with a penchant for collecting sea shells. I hadn’t seen Roscoe Blanchard in five years, not since I’d left the circus.

  “Roscoe?”

  “Yeah, it’s Roscoe.” The voice was strained, nervous. “Sorry if I woke you up. I know it’s close to midnight.”

  I looked at the clock again. It still read 3:30. “Roscoe, I think you need a new watch.”

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you?”

  “San Marino.”

  “California?”

  “No. San Marino.”

  “I got that. But where’s San Marino?”

  There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

  “San Marino’s in San Marino,” Roscoe said at last.

  I decided to leave the geography lesson for later. “Roscoe, what’s the matter?” I asked him.

  “We’ve got trouble here and nobody knows what to do. I remembered Phil mentioning something about you being a private detective now. I got your number out of one of the books in the office.”

  “Where’s Phil?”

  “He’s disappeared.”

  That woke me up. Phil was Phil Statler, owner of the Statler Brothers Circus, where I’d spent eight of the most miserable years of my life. But there aren’t that many things you can do when you’re a dwarf. If you end up a circus performer, there’s no better man to work for than Phil Statler.

  “How long has he been missing?”

  “Four days. And there are some other funny things going on. Just yesterday—” It ended in a bloody gargle and the muffled sound of something very large and heavy falling.

  “Roscoe!” I was screaming at a dial tone; the line had been disconnected. I tasted blood and realized I had bitten into my lower lip. I lay frozen, my fingers locked around the receiver.

  I sat up on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to stop my knees from shaking. Somewhere at the opposite end of thousands of miles of wire a man was dead or dying, and all I had was the name of a place I’d never heard of. I dialed the operator.

  It took ten minutes to confirm that the call had come from a place called San Marino, and another ten to find out where it was: San Marino, a full-fledged United Nations member, was a country which occupied the whole of a mountain top—Mount Titano—in Italy. That was all the information I was going to get; I couldn’t get through to a police station, or anyone else for that matter, because the San Marinese phone system had suddenly broken down and the phone people couldn’t tell me when it would be operational again. I would just have to live with the sound of Roscoe’s dying.

  I brushed my teeth and packed a bag.

  I met an Italian on the flight to Venice who filled me in on San Marino.

  San Marino seemed to be doing quite well despite the fact that I’d never heard of it. It was—well, a dwarf, the smallest and oldest republic in the world, sixty square kilometers with 19,000 people, about enough to fill the football stadium in a small college town. It had been around since A.D. 300, when a Christian stonecutter by the name of Marino hid out on Mount Titano to avoid being fed to the Roman lions.

  San Marino’s geography consisted of nine towns and three castles, which a Hollywood movie company had helped renovate in the ’40s. Its economic assets included heavy doses of authentic medieval atmosphere, huge bottles of cheap cognac, postage stamps, and a thriving tourist trade.

  It seemed a strange place to take a circus.

  I landed in Venice and rented a car. The drive to the coast town of Rimini took a little over an hour. By then it was noon. I was tired from the Atlantic crossing, and hungry. Most of all I was worried, but there didn’t seem to be much sense in rushing at this point.

  I stopped in a ristorante to exercise my Italian and ordered some pasta and wine. Once my raven-haired waitress got over the fact that she had an Italian-speaking dwarf in her establishment, I received excellent attention. The food and wine were superb. I finished, then asked directions to San Marino. She took me over to a window and pointed east.

  Mount Titano was barely visible. I could make out San Marino’s three castles sitting on the highest points of the mountain, silhouetted against the sky. It looked like something out of a Disney movie.

  I turned away from the window and caught the waitress staring at me. She giggled nervously and dropped her eyes.

  “I take it you don’t get that many dwarfs around here,” I said in Italian.

  “I didn’t mean to stare.”

  I introduced myself. Her name was Gabriela. I asked if I could use her phone, and she steered me into a back room. I got hold of an operator who informed me that the lines to San Marino were still out. I hung up and went back into the dining room, where Gabriela was waiting with a glass of cognac. I drank it in the name of international relations and thanked her. It tasted terrible.

  “San Marinese,” Gabriela said. “I thought you might like to taste it. They sell it by the gallon up there.”

  I disguised a belch with a noncommital grunt.

  “Did you reach your party?”

  “The phones up there are out of order.”

  Gabriela absently stroked her hair. “That’s odd. Come to think of it, nobody’s been down off the mountain in two or three days.”

  “Who usually comes down?”

  “Many San Marinese work in Rimini. They often stop in here for lunch or dinner. I have regulars, but I haven’t seen them for three days. I guess there may be something to the rumors.”

  “What rumors?”

  “It is said they have sickness. They are keeping themselves isolated until they find out what it is and how to cure it.”

  “What kind of a police force do they have up there?”

  “Oh, they’re all very nice.”

  “That’s great for public relations. How effective are they?”

  She gave me a puzzled look. I rephrased the question. “How good are they at catching crooks?”

  Gabriela laughed. “There is no crime in San Marino. Perhaps an occasional drunk or a traffic accident, but never anything serious. The San Marinese are very pleasant peop
le. Very friendly. It will be a shame if you can’t get in.”

  Gabriela went back to the window and pointed up the highway. “The road branches off about two kilometers to the south. The right fork will take you to Mount Titano.”

  I paid my bill, left Gabriela a few hundred lire, and returned to my car.

  There were two guards at the border. One of them stepped out into the middle of the road as I approached. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, but the scattergun he held made him seem older. The other one stayed back, watching me through cold, mud-colored eyes. He was tall, swarthy, and looked decidedly unfriendly. I doubted that he’d ever directed traffic.

  The boyish one came around to my side of the car and cleared his throat.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in passable English. “The border is closed.”

  “I didn’t think that ever happened in San Marino.”

  “There is sickness on the mountain.” He dropped his eyes as he said it. “Very bad. We have closed ourselves off to protect others.”

  “I understand it’s only catching if you’re a telephone.”

  He gave me a sharp look, filled with warning.

  “I’ve had all my shots. I’d like to take my chances.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Perhaps in a few days.”

  I backed my car around and drove back down the hill. I parked it at a service station at the foot of the mountain and gave the attendant some money to watch it for a few days. From what I’d seen, San Marino wasn’t exactly impregnable; it was time to test its new border fortifications. I found a convenient vineyard and ducked off the road into it.

  I took the vineyard route three-quarters of the way up the mountain, past the guards, then turned left and walked until I hit the main highway. That was all it took to get into San Marino. Staying there might prove more difficult, but I’d worry about that when the time came.

  I found myself on the outskirts of a town that I recognized from the Italian’s description as the country’s capital, also named San Marino. The central thoroughfare was a narrow, cobblestone street lined on both sides with souvenir shops. There were also a number of restaurants and hotels, not to mention the famous three castles, each about a half kilometer from where I was standing.

  There was no sign of any circus.

  I went up the street and stopped in front of one of the souvenir shops. Its windows were filled with the same things the windows of all the other shops were filled with, plastic junk with a medieval theme: plastic helmets, swords and shields, all undoubtedly made in Japan. There were three revolving stands displaying glassine envelopes filled with San Marinese stamps. All of the usual postcards were already stamped, and there was a large wooden mailbox conveniently nailed to the side of each shop.

  Benches on each side of the entrance were loaded with glass jugs containing San Marinese cognac.

  The San Marinese didn’t miss a trick.

  On the other hand, it didn’t take much of an experienced eye to see that much of San Marino was authentically medieval. There was a church visible down a side street that had to be at least eight hundred years old, probably of great interest to historians. But the San Marinese had learned their lesson early and well; history doesn’t make money, plastic souvenirs do.

  A woman emerged from behind the tinted glass and stood on the stoop watching me as though I might be a souvenir that had somehow escaped from her shop. She had been beautiful once, before she’d put away too many San Marinese delicacies. Her green eyes were perfectly complemented by almond-colored skin and dark hair.

  Finally she smiled and said, “American?” It was as perfect as English can be when laced with a Brooklyn accent.

  I extended my hand. “My name is Robert Frederickson.”

  “I’m Molly Marinello,” the woman said, taking my hand in a firm grip. Her eyes glittered with pleasure. “Please wait here a moment, Mr. Frederickson. My husband will want to meet you.”

  She went back into the shop, and reappeared a few moments later with her husband in tow. He was a big, handsome man with the ruddy complexion and granite presence of a man who has spent most of his life out-of-doors, working with his hands.

  “I’m John Marinello,” he said, pumping my hand. “Always glad to meet another American.”

  “Brooklyn?”

  “Yeah. Can’t say enough about the United States.”

  “Too much violence,” his wife said gently. “Nobody’s safe on the streets.”

  John Marinello shook his head. I felt as if I’d stumbled into an argument that had been going on for years. It was a ritual, and they knew their lines by heart.

  “I earned good money there. I was a construction worker. Stonemason. I’d still be there if it wasn’t for Molly. Great place, the United States.”

  “Too much violence,” Molly repeated. “Nobody’s safe on the streets. Much better here.”

  Her husband started to shake his head again.

  I cut in. “I take it that things are pretty quiet here.”

  John Marinello’s eyes grew big in mock wonder. “Quiet?! Let me tell you—”

  “Peaceful,” Molly said quietly. “Nobody fights here. People here live like human beings.”

  The man’s head was starting to go again.

  “I guess we used to be neighbors,” I said quickly. “I teach at the university in downtown Manhattan.”

  Both of them looked surprised. “We thought you were from the circus,” Molly said. She paused and flushed. “I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “I just took it for granted.”

  “It’s all right. As a matter of fact, I used to work for the circus. The one that’s here now. By the way, do you know where they’re camped?”

  John pointed up the street. “There’s a large field up there around the bend, to your right. It’s down in a valley.” He paused and studied me. “I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”

  “I just got here.”

  “I understood we were quarantined. How did you get up here?”

  “Do you believe the story about the epidemic?”

  John and Molly Marinello exchanged glances. They both seemed incredulous.

  “Believe?” John said. “Why shouldn’t we believe it? The order came directly from Alberto Vaicona, one of the Regents.”

  “He’s the head of your government?”

  “One of the heads. There are two Regents.”

  “Why are all the phones out of order?”

  “It is nothing,” Molly assured me. “These things happen. Whatever is wrong will be repaired soon.”

  “Uh-huh. Are they giving out shots or anything for this epidemic?”

  “We’ve been told it isn’t necessary for now,” John said. Flecks of light that might have been suspicion suddenly appeared in his eyes. “Why do you ask these questions?”

  I swallowed hard, trying to think positive. “There’s a rumor that a man from the circus was hurt the other day, maybe killed.”

  “It’s more than a rumor,” Molly said. “It’s a fact. It was one of the freaks, a giant. Killed by a knife in the throat.”

  My mouth went dry. Molly’s eyebrows went up as though yanked by strings.

  “Isn’t that terrible? But that was an outsider killed by another outsider. The man was murdered by somebody from the circus.”

  “Who?”

  “A knife thrower called Jandor. They already have him locked up in the jail.”

  “They have any witnesses?”

  “No, but it was Jandor’s knife that killed the giant.”

  I said nothing, but I was sure Jandor hadn’t killed anybody. Like most men who earn their living with the tools of violence, he was personally a gentle man, even tender. And he wasn’t mentally defective; if Jandor was going to kill somebody, he wasn’t likely to walk away and leave his trademark sticking out of his victim’s neck.

  “Can’t say enough about the United States,” John said.

  “Too much violence,” Molly said.

&nb
sp; I bought a souvenir, thanked them and left.

  From the rim of the valley the circus below looked drab, spent. The aura that almost always surrounds a circus was missing. The colors of the rented tents were all wrong; the whole encampment looked like a balloon that was slowly leaking air. A trio of armed guards posted around the campsite added to the depressing effect.

  The men were empty-handed, but the type of men I was looking at always wore guns. They might forget to put their pants on in the morning, but never their guns.

  I put my hands in my pockets, mustered up enough spit to do some casual whistling, then merrily tripped off down the slope. Two of the guards glanced at me, then looked away, apparently unconcerned. The man closest to me kept his eyes riveted on my chest. I walked up to him, nodded pleasantly, then started to walk past.

  A hand like a pair of wire cutters reached out and grabbed my shoulder, turning me toward him.

  “Who are you, pal?” he said in slightly accented English. He sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of marshmallows, as though somebody had walked on his tonsils. I gave him a hurt look and pointed toward the tents.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” I was hoping all dwarfs looked the same to him.

  His eyes skittered across my face, up and down my body. Like most stupid men, the thing he feared most was appearing stupid.

  “What the hell are you doing out here?! Where’s your pass?!”

  I groaned apologetically and started rummaging through my pockets. After a few moments of that number Marshmallow Mouth cursed and waved me through.

  I walked quickly down the path and ducked behind one of the tents.

  It was noontime and most of the circus personnel would be in the lunch trailers. That was fine with me. At least half of the circus would recognize me on sight, and I wanted to get the feel of things before holding any reunions. I needed somebody I could trust.

  I slipped along the perimeter of the encampment to the midway, then cut through to the compound where a number of trailers had been set up as living quarters for the performers and hands. I found the name plate I wanted, then knocked softly on the door of the trailer on the outside chance that its occupant would be in.