Dreaming Jewels (12 page)

Monetre cloaked his eyes. Would the fool ever get to the point? “What kind of regeneration? The girdle of the nematodes? Cellular healing? Or are you talking about old-time radio receivers?”

“Please,” said the judge, and made a flabby gesture. “I’m quite the layman, Mr. Monetre. You’ll have to use simple language. What I want to know is—how much of a restoration is possible after a serious cut?”

“How serious a cut?”

“Hm. Call it an amputation.”

“Well, now. That depends, Judge. A fingertip, possibly. A chipped bone can grow surprisingly. You—you know of a case where a regeneration has been, shall we say, a bit more than normal?”

There was a long pause. Monetre noticed that the Judge was paling. He poured him more port, and filled a glass for himself. Excitement mounted within him.

“I do know of such a case. At least, I mean… hm. Well, it seemed so to me. That is, I saw the amputation.”

“An arm? A leg, perhaps, or a foot?”

“Three fingers. Three whole fingers,” said the Judge. “It would seem that they grew back. And in forty-eight hours. A well-known osteologist treated the whole thing as a great joke when I asked him about it. Refused to believe I was serious.” Suddenly he leaned forward so abruptly that the loose skin of his jaw quivered. “Who was the girl who just left here?”

“An autograph hound,” said Monetre in a bored tone. “A person of no importance. Do proceed.”

The Judge swallowed with difficulty. “Her name is—Kay Hallowell.”

“Perhaps so, perhaps so. Have you changed the subject?” asked Monetre impatiently.

“I have not, sir,” the Judge answered hotly. “That girl, that monster—in good light, and right before my eyes,
chopped off three fingers of her left hand!”
He nodded, pushing his lower lip out, and sat back.

If he expected a sharp reaction, he was not disappointed. Monetre leaped to his feet and bellowed, “Havana!” He strode to the door and yelled again. “Where is that little fat—oh; there you are, Havana. Go and find that girl who just left here. Understand? Find her and bring her back. I don’t care what you tell her; find her and bring her back here.” He clapped his hands explosively.
“Run!”

He returned to his chair, his face working. He looked at his hands, then at the judge. “You’re quite sure of this.”

“I am.”

“Which hand?”

“The left.” The Judge ran a finger around his collar. “Ah—Mr. Monetre. If that boy should bring her back here, why, ah—I, that is—”

“I gather you are afraid of her.”

“Now, ah—I wouldn’t say that,” said the Judge. “Startled, yes. Hm. Wouldn’t you be?”

“No,” said Monetre. “You are lying, sir.”

“I? Lying?” Bluett puffed up his chest and glowered at the carny boss.

Monetre half-closed his eyes and began ticking off items on his fingers. “It would seem that what frightened you a few minutes ago was the sight of that girl’s left hand. You told the midget that the fingers had grown back. It was obviously the first time you had seen the hand regenerated. And yet you tell me that you have already consulted an osteologist about it.”

“There are no lies involved,” said Bluett stiffly. “True, I did see the restored hand when she stood in this doorway, and it was the first time. But I also saw her cut those fingers off!”

“Then why,” asked Monetre, “come to me to ask questions about regeneration?” Watching the Judge flounder about for an answer, he added, “Come now, Judge Bluett. Either you have not stated your original purpose in coming here, or—you have seen a case of this regeneration before. Ah. I see that’s it.” His eyes began to burn. “I think you’d better tell me the whole story.”

“That
isn’t
it!” the Judge protested. “Really, sir, I am not enjoying this cross-questioning. I fail to see—”

Shrewdly, Monetre reached out to touch the fear which hovered so close to this wet-eyed man. “You are in greater danger than you suspect,” he interrupted. “I know what that danger is, and I am probably the only man in the world who can help you. You will co-operate with me, sir, or you will leave this instant—and take the consequences.” He said this with his flexible voice toned down to a soft, resonating diapason, which apparently frightened the Judge half out of his wits. The chain of imaginary horrors which mirrored themselves on Bluett’s paling face must have been colorful, to say the least. Smiling slightly, Monetre leaned back in his chair and waited.

“M-may I…” The Judge poured himself more wine. “Ah. Now, sir. I must tell you at the outset that this whole matter has been one of—ah—conjecture on my part. That is, up until I saw the girl just now. By the way—I do not want to have her see me. Could you—”

“When Havana brings her back, I’ll get you out of sight. Go on.”

“Good. Thank you, sir. Well, some years ago I brought a child into my house. Ugly little monster. When he was seven or eight years old, he ran away from home. I have not heard of him since. I imagine he would be nineteen or so by this time—if he’s alive. And—and there seems to be some connection between him and this girl.”

“What connection?” Monetre prompted.

“Well, sh-she seemed to know something about him.” As Monetre shifted his feet impatiently, he blurted, “Fact is, there was a little trouble. The boy was downright rebellious. I thrashed him and shoved him into a closet. His hand—quite accidentally, you realize—his hand was crushed in the hinge of the door. Hm. Yes—very unpleasant.”

“Go on.”

“I’ve been—ah—looking, you know—that is, if that boy has grown up, he might be resentful, you understand… besides, he was a most unbalanced child, and one never knows how these things might affect a weak mind—”

“You mean you feel guilty as hell and scared to boot, and you’ve been watching for a young man with some fingers missing. Fingers—get to the point! What has this to do with the girl?” Monetre’s voice was a whip.

“I can’t—say exactly,” mumbled the Judge. “She seemed to know something about the boy. I mean, she hinted something about him—said that she was going to remind me of a way I had—hurt someone once. And then she took a cleaver and cut off her fingers. She disappeared. I had a man locate her. He found out she was due here—my man sent for me. That’s all.”

Monetre closed his eyes and thought hard. “There was nothing wrong with her fingers when she was in here.”

“Damn it, I know that! But I tell you, I saw, with my own eyes—”

“All right, all right. She cut them off. Now, exactly why did you come here?”

“I—that’s all. When something like that happens it makes you forget everything you know and start right from scratch. What I saw was impossible, and I began thinking in a way that let anything be possible… anyth—”

“Come to the point!” roared the Maneater.

“There is none!” Bluett roared back. They glared at each other for a crackling moment. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you; I don’t know. I remembered that child and his crushed fingers, and there was this girl and what she did. I began wondering if she and the boy were the same… I told you ‘impossible’ didn’t matter any more. Well, the girl had a perfectly good hand before she chopped into it. If, somehow, she was that boy, he must have grown the fingers back. If he could do it once, he could do it again. If he knew he could do it again, he wouldn’t be afraid to cut them off.” The judge threw up his hands and shrugged, and let his arms fall limply. “So I began to wonder what manner of creature could grow fingers at will. That’s all.”

Monetre made wide eaves of his lids, his burning dark eyes studying the Judge. “This—boy who might be a girl,” he murmured. “What was his name?”

“Horton. Horty, we called him. Vicious little scut.”

“Think, now. Was there anything strange about him as a child?”

“I should say so! I don’t think he was sane. Clinging to baby-toys—that sort of thing. And he had filthy habits.”

“What filthy habits?”

“He was expelled from school for eating insects.”

“Ah! Ants?”

“How did you know?”

Monetre rose, paced to the door and back. Excitement began to thump in his chest. “What baby-toys did he cling to?”

“Oh, I don’t remember. It isn’t important.”

“I’ll decide that,” snapped Monetre. “Think, man! If you value your life—”

“I can’t think! I can’t!” Bluett looked up at the Maneater, and quailed before those blazing eyes. “It was some sort of a jack-in-the-box. A hideous thing.”

“What did it look like? Speak up, damn it!”

“What does it—oh, all right. It was this big, and it had a head on it like a Punch—you know, Punch and Judy. Big nose and chin. The boy hardly ever looked at it. But he had to have it near him. I threw it away one time and the doctor made me find it and bring it back. Horton almost died.”

“He did, eh?” grunted Monetre tautly, triumphantly. “Now tell me—that toy had been with him since he was born, hadn’t it? And there was something about it—some sort of jeweled button, or something glittery?”

“How did you know—” Bluett began again, and again quailed under the radiation of furious, excited impatience from the carny boss. “Yes. The eyes.”

Monetre flung himself on the Judge. He grasped his shoulders, shook him. “You said ‘eye,’ didn’t you? There was only one jewel?” he panted.

“Don’t—don’t—” wheezed Bluett, pushing weakly at Monetre’s taloned hands. “I said ‘eyes.’ Two eyes. They were both the same. Nasty looking things. Seemed to have a light of their own.”

Monetre straightened slowly, backed off. “Two of them,” he breathed.
“Two…”

He closed his eyes, his brain humming. Disappearing boy, fingers… fingers crushed. Girl… the right age, too… Horton. Horton… Horty. His mind looped and wheeled back over the years. A small brown face, peaked with pain, saying, “My folks called me Hortense, but everyone calls me Kiddo.” Kiddo, who had arrived with a crushed hand, and had left the carnival two years ago. What had happened when she left? He had wanted something, wanted to examine her hand, and she left during the night.

That hand. When she first arrived, he had cleaned it up, trimmed away the ruined flesh, sewed it up. He had treated it every day for weeks, until the scartissue was fused over, and there was no further danger of infection; and then, somehow or other he had never looked at it again. Why not? Oh—Zena. Zena had always told him how Kiddo’s hand was getting along.

He opened his eyes—slits, now. “I’ll find him,” he snarled.

There was a knock at the door, and a voice. “Maneater—”

“It’s the midget,” babbled Bluett, leaping up. “With the girl. What shall I—where shall—”

Monetre sent him a look which wilted him, tumbled him back in his chair. The carny boss rose and stilted to the door, opening it a crack. “Get her?”

“Gosh, Maneater, I—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” said Monetre in a terrible whisper. “You didn’t bring her back. I sent you to get her and you didn’t do it.” He closed the door with great care and turned to the Judge. “Go away.”

“Eh? Hm. But what about the—”

“Go away!” It was a scream. As his glare had made Bluett limp, his voice stiffened him. The Judge was on his feet and moving doorward before the scream had ceased to be a sound. He tried to speak, and succeeded only in moving his wet mouth.

“I’m the only one in the world who can help you,” said Monetre; and the Judge’s face showed that this easy, quiet, conversational tone was the most shocking thing of all. He went to the door and paused. Monetre said, “I will do what I can, Judge. You’ll hear from me very soon, you may be sure of that.”

“Ah,” said the Judge. “Mm. Anything I can do, Mr. Monetre. Call on me. Anything at all.”

“Thank you. I shall certainly need your help.” Monetre’s bony features froze the instant he stopped speaking. Bluett fled.

Pierre Monetre stood staring at the space where the Judge’s bloated face had just been. Suddenly he balled his fist and smashed it into his palm. “Zena!” said only his lips. He went pale with fury, weak with it, and went to his desk. He sat down, put his elbows on the blotter and his chin in his hand, and began to send out waves of feral hatred and demand.

Zena!

Zena!

Here! Come Here!

H
ORTY LAUGHED. HE LOOKED
at his left hand, at the three stubs of fingers which rose, like unspread mushrooms, from his knuckles, touched the scar-tissue around them with his other hand, and he laughed.

He rose from the studio couch and crossed the wide room to the cheval glass, to stare at his face, to stand back and look critically at his shoulders, his profile. He grunted in satisfaction and went to the telephone in the bedroom.

“Three four four,” he said. His voice was resonant, well suited to the cast of his solid chin and his wide mouth. “Nick? This is Sam Horton. Oh, fine. Sure, I’ll be able to play again. The doc says I was lucky. A broken wrist usually heals pretty stiff, but this one won’t. No—don’t worry. Hm? About six weeks. Positively… Gold? Thanks Nick, but I’ll get along. No, don’t worry—I’ll yell if I need any. Thanks, though. Yeah, I’ll drop by every once in a while. I was in there a couple days ago. Where did you find that three-chord bubblehead you have on guitar? He does by accident what Spike Jones does on purpose. No, I didn’t want to hit him. I wanted to husk him.” He laughed. “I’m kidding. He’s okay. Well, thanks, Nick. ’Bye.”

Going to the studio couch, he flung himself down with the confident relaxation of a well-fed feline. He pressed his shoulders luxuriously into the foam mattress, rolled and reached for one of the four books on the end table.

They were the only books in the apartment. Long ago he had learned of the physical encroachment of books, and the difficulties of overflowing book-cases. His solution was to get rid of them all, and make an arrangement with his dealer to send him four books a day—new books, on a rental basis. He read them all, and always returned them on the next day. It was a satisfactory solution, for him. He had total recall. What use, then, were book-cases?

He owned two pictures—a Markell, meticulously unmatched irregular shapes, varying in their apparent transparency, superimposed one on the other so that the tone of each affected the others, and so that the color of the background affected everything. The other was a Mondrian, precise and balanced, and conveying an almost-impression of something which could never quite be anything.