Mystery, Inc. Read online

  “Then, Milton Rackham continued—‘The irony is, as Slater told it, after a long and surprisingly successful life as a small town bookseller of quality books, Barnabas Slater did hang himself, it was surmised out of boredom and self-disgust at the age of seventy-two—in the cellar of Slater’s Books exactly as his grandson Amos had envisioned. Scattered below his hanging body were carefully typed, heavily edited manuscript pages of what appeared to be several mystery-detective novels— no one ever made the effort of collating the pages and reading them. It was a family decision to inter the unpublished manuscripts with Grandfather.’”

  “Isn’t this tale amazing? Have you ever heard anything so bizarre, Charles? I mean— in actual life? In utter solemnity poor Milton Rackham recounted it to me, as he’d heard it from Amos Slater. I could sympathize that Rackham was a nervous wreck—he was concerned that his son might do violence against him, and he had to contend with being the proprietor of a store in which a previous proprietor had hanged himself! He went on to say, as Slater had told him, that it had been the consensus in Seabrook that no one knew if Barnabas had actually poisoned anyone fatally— he’d played his little pranks with laxatives and insecticide—but the ‘Poison Dart Frog venom’ was less evident. Though people did die of somewhat mysterious ‘natural causes,’ in the Slater family, from time to time. Several persons who knew Barnabas well said that the old man had often said that there are some human beings so vile, they don’t deserve to live; but he’d also said, with a puckish wink, that he ‘eradicated’ people for no particular reason, at times. ‘Good, not-so-good, evil’— the classic murderer does not discriminate. Barnabas particularly admired the de Quincy essay ‘On Murder Considered One of the Fine Arts’ that makes the point that no reason is required for murder, in fact to have a reason is to be rather vulgar—so Barnabas believed also. Excuse me, Charles? Is something wrong?”

  “Why, I—I am—utterly confused …”

  “Have you lost your way? My predecessor was Milton Rackham, from whom I bought this property; his predecessor was Amos Slater, from whom he, Rackham, bought the property; and his predecessor was a gentleman named Barnabas Slater who seems to have hanged himself in the cellar here—for which reason, as I’d mentioned a few minutes ago, I try to avoid the damned place, as much as possible. (I send my employees down, instead! They don’t mind.) I think you were reacting to Barnabas Slater’s philosophy, that no reason is required for murder, especially for murder as an ‘art form.’”

  “But—why would anyone kill for no reason?”

  “Why would anyone kill for a reason?” Neuhaus smiles, eloquently. “It seems to me, Slater’s grandfather Barnabas may have extracted the essence of ‘mystery’ from life, as he was said to have extracted venom from the venomous frog. The act of killing is complete in itself, and requires no reason—like any work of art. Yet, if one is looking for a reason, one is likely to kill to protect oneself—one’s territory. Our ancestors were fearful and distrustful of enemies, strangers—they were ‘xenophobic’—‘paranoid.’ If a stranger comes into your territory, and behaves with sinister intent, or even behaves without sinister intent, you are probably better off dispatching him than trying to comprehend him, and possibly making a fatal mistake. In the distant past, before God was love, such mistakes could lead to the extinction of an entire species—so it is that Homo sapiens, the preemptive species, prefers to err by over-caution, not under-caution.”

  I am utterly confounded by these words, spoken by my affable companion in a matterof- fact voice. And that smile!—it is so boyish, and magnanimous. Almost, I can’t speak, but stutter feebly.

  “That is a—a—surprising thing to say, for you … Aaron. That is a somewhat cynical thing to say, I think …”

  Aaron Neuhaus smiles as if, another time, I am a very foolish person whom he must humor. “Not at all ‘cynical,’ Charles—why would you think so? If you are an aficionado of mystery-detective-crime fiction, you know that someone, in fact many people, and many of them ‘innocent,’ must die for the sake of the art—for mystery’s sake. That is the bedrock of our business: Mystery, Inc. Some of us are booksellers, and some of us are consumers, or are consumed. But all of us have our place in the noble trade.”

  There is a ringing in my ears. My mouth is so very dry, it is virtually impossible to swallow. My teeth are chattering for I am very cold. Except for its frothy remains, my second cup of cappuccino is empty—I have set it on Neuhaus’s desk, but so shakily that it nearly falls over.

  Neuhaus regards me closely with concerned eyes. On his desk, the carved ebony raven is regarding me as well. Eyes very sharp! I am shivering—despite the heat from the fire. I am very cold—except the whiskers on my jaws feel very hot. I am thinking that I must protect myself—the box of Lindt’s chocolate truffles is my weapon, but I am not sure how to employ it. Several of the chocolate truffles are gone, but the box is otherwise full; many remain yet to be eaten.

  I know that I have been dismissed. I must leave—it is time.

  I am on my feet. But I am feeling weak, unreal. The bookseller escorts me out of his office, graciously murmuring, “You are leaving, Charles? Yes, it is getting late. You might come by at another time, and we can see about these purchases of yours. And bring a check—please. Take care on the stairs!—a spiral staircase can be treacherous.” My companion has been very kind even in dismissing me, and has put the attaché case into my hands.

  How eager I am to leave this hellish, airless place! I am gripping the railing of the spiral staircase, but having difficulty descending. Like a dark rose a vertigo is opening in my brain. My mouth is very dry and also very cold and numb—my tongue feels as if it is swollen, and without sensation. My breath comes ever more quickly, yet without bringing oxygen to my brain. In the semi-darkness my legs seem to buckle and I fall—I am falling, helpless as a rag doll—down the remainder of the metal stairs, wincing with pain.

  Above me, two flights up, a man is calling with what sounds like genuine concern— “Charles? Are you all right? Do you need help?”

  “No! No thank you—I do not …”

  My voice is hoarse, my words are hardly audible.

  Outside, I am temporarily revived by cold, fresh wind from the ocean. There is the smell and taste of the ocean. Thank God! I will be all right now, I think. I am safe now, I will escape … I’ve left the Lindt chocolates behind, so perhaps—(the predator’s thoughts come frantically now)—the poison will have its effect, whether I am able to benefit from it or not.

  In the freezing air of my vehicle, with numbed fingers I am jamming a misshapen key into the slot of the ignition that appears to be too small for it. How can this be? I don’t understand.

  Yet, eventually, as in a dream of dogged persistence, the key goes into the slot, and the engine comes reluctantly to life.

  Alongside the moonstruck Atlantic I am driving on a two-lane highway. If I am driving, I must be all right. My hands grip the steering wheel that seems to be moving— wonderfully—of its own volition. A strange, fierce, icy-cold paralysis is blooming in my brain, in my spinal cord, in all the nerves of my body, that is so fascinating to me, my eyes begin to close, to savor it.

  Am I asleep? Am I sleeping while driving? Have I never left the place in which I dwell and have I dreamt my visit to Mystery, Inc. in Seabrook, New Hampshire? I have plotted my assault upon the legendary Aaron Neuhaus of Mystery, Inc. Books—I have injected the chocolate truffles with the care of a malevolent surgeon—how is it possible that I might fail? I cannot fail.

  But now I realize—to my horror—I have no idea in which direction I am driving. I should be headed south, I think—the Atlantic should be on my left. But cold moon-glittering waters lap dangerously high on both sides of the highway. Churning waves have begun to rush across the road, into which I have no choice but to drive.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electron
ic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Joyce Carol Oates

  Cover design by Neil Alexander Heacox

  978-1-5040-0695-8

  Published in 2015 by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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