Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

curiosity regarding Mary and her motives. He had the habit of thinking, whenever anything bizarre happened nearby, that it was somehow meant for him. Quite often he was right.

      Lounging near the window now, he glanced out through his new polarizing sunglasses at the last fading tinges of a gory sunset. Clouds were hung theatrically above a distant reach of desert, studded with a few Hollywood mountains. From the twentieth floor, a lot of distant scenery was visible beyond the smoky metropolitan sprawl.

      “You can bet I didn’t know what she was going to do.” This was the voice of Robinson Miller, Mary’s young man from the auction room, who had turned out to be her lawyer also. He and Mary, Thorn understood, had encountered each other on some pathway of the legal jungle into which she had been parachuted by her accidental connection with the infamous Seabright murder-kidnapping; and they had been getting better acquainted ever since.

      “Completely irrational behavior,” Miller added now, drilling Mary with a stern look that she did not seem to feel at all. From what Thorn had seen of her lifestyle so far, it was hard to estimate whether she needed friend or lawyer most.

      Last night as Mary was giving the police her name, address, and phone number, Thorn had been nearby, although she had not seen him. Today Thorn had called her up—Miller answering the phone—and had invited her up to his suite for this evening chat, saying there were matters of mutual advantage to be discussed. Yes, certainly, she was welcome to bring a friend along to the hotel lair of the mysterious stranger; and so it was that her legal adviser and probable lover sat beside her now in another chair constructed like hers at disabling angles, sipping a glass of ginger ale and ice and puffing at a large-bowled pipe.

      “What I really wanted,” Mary announced now, “was to get hold of some blood.”

      Mr. Thorn, who had been paying only desultory attention, forgot about the scenery and took off his glasses long enough to give her an intense look. It took him a moment to realize what she had meant.

      “At first I thought maybe I’d use beef blood. But then I realized that it wouldn’t be appropriate to throw anything real on him. Except maybe some real acid.” Mary gave a bright giggle. “So it was just that stuff they use in movies, harmless. A friend of mine who works in a studio got hold of some for me.”

      “The dry cleaner found it interesting,” commented Mr. Thorn. “A type of stain with which he had never had to deal before. But it came out of my suit quite easily.”

      “Your—?” In a second Mary’s mood changed to regret and horror. “Oh, I’m sorry! I hadn’t realized that any of the glop hit you. Is that why you wanted me to come up here? No, of course not. Look, I really am sorry.”

      “Your apology is accepted. Think no more of the matter, I was not harmed. And it is fortunate that the painting sustained no damage either.”

      “Yes, fortunate,” concurred the lawyer. Taking his pipe from his mouth, he made fencing motions in the air with the curved stem. “Ah, you mentioned some matters of mutual advantage?”

      “I did.” Thorn smiled at them both, then addressed himself mainly to Mary. “It is to my advantage to learn more about Mr. Ellison Seabright. It may be to your advantage to help me do so.”

      “Whom do you represent?” Miller asked quickly, before Mary could respond.

      Thorn turned to him. “Only myself. Therefore any information you may give me will go no farther.” After a pause he added: “You may be confident also that none of it is likely to be used to Mr. Seabright’s advantage.”

      His visitors exchanged a cautious glance, and slight shrugs. Then Mary asked: “What sort of things do you want to know?”

      Mr. Thorn moved a little closer to his guests, taking a seat on a sofa opposite their chairs, his lean hands clasped before him. “To begin with, whom do you accuse Mr. Seabright of having murdered?”

      “Mary,” Robinson Miller cautioned, shaking his beard at her.

      Mary took another sip of Coors and ignored legal counsel. “He killed his half-brother, Delaunay Seabright. And Helen, his own stepdaughter. You must have heard and read about those killings, they made news all over the country. Oh, I don’t mean he did it with his own hands. But you can bet he was involved.”

      Thorn allowed himself a pained frown, and objected gently: “Were not the police of the opinion that Helen was killed by men trying to abduct Delaunay for ransom? And that Delaunay himself died almost accidentally, though while he was in the unknown kidnappers’ hands?”

      Mary brushed back her wayward hair. “I bet they weren’t unknown to Ellison. I was there that night, when Del and Helen were killed—was I ever there. And I know what I saw. And I know that Ellison’s no good.”

      “Kid,” warned Miller, hopelessly.

      Thorn nodded to Mary. “When I learned your name, I of course could place you as the escaped hostage of the news stories. But your claim that Ellison was implicated comes as a surprise to me. Have you any evidence that will support it?”

      “No, if you mean legal evidence,” said Mary, dismissing the idea. “Do you know the family at all?”

      “Only through the news accounts.”

      “Well.” Mary looked at her lawyer at last, then back to Thorn. “Excuse me, but just what good is all this going to do you?”

      Thorn was not at all sure of that himself, but he was interested. He said: “I find myself in the position of being Mr. Ellison Seabright’s rival. Therefore I wish to learn everything of importance that I can learn about him. If, as you say, he is really involved in murder, that is certainly an important fact.”

      “You’re his rival as an art collector?”

      “Exactly. Now can you explain to me just what he stood to gain from his brother’s death? Or from the girl’s?”

      “His half-brother,” Mary corrected, as