Haggopian and Other Stories

“Up!” ordered Joe briefly. “Off the bed.” He pulled Crow to one side, nodding to Pasty, indicating some sort of action involving the bed. Crow stepped forward as Pasty yanked back the covers from the mattress and took out a sharp knife.

“Now wait—” he began, thoroughly alarmed.

“Hold it, guv’, or I might just let Pasty use his blade on you!” Joe waved his gun in Crow’s face, ordering him back. “You see, you’d be far better off to tell us where the money is without all this trouble. This way you’re just going to see your little nest wrecked around you.” He waited, giving Crow the opportunity to speak up, then indicated to Pasty that he should go ahead.

Pasty went ahead!

He ripped open the mattress along both sides and one end, tearing back the soft outer covering to expose the stuffing and springs beneath, then pulling out the interior in great handfuls, flinging them down on the floor in total disregard of Crow’s utter astonishment and concern.

“See, gov’, you’re a recluse—in our books, anyway—and retiring sorts like you hide their pennies in the funniest places. Like in mattresses…or behind wall-pictures!” Joe gave Pasty a nod, waving his pistol at the Beardsleys.

“Well for God’s sake, just look behind them,” Crow snarled, again starting forward. “There’s no need to rip them off the walls!”

“Here!” Pasty exclaimed, turning an enquiring eye on the outraged householder. “These pictures worth anything then?”

“Only to a collector—you’d never find a fence for stuff like that,” Crow replied.

“Hah! Not so stupid, our recluse!” Joe grinned. “But being clever won’t get you anywhere, guv’, except hospital maybe… Okay, Pasty, leave the man’s dirty pictures alone. You—” he turned to Crow “—your study; we’ve been in there, but only passing through. Let’s go, guv’; you can give us a hand to, er, shift things about.” He pushed Crow in the direction of the door.

Pasty was last to enter the study. He did so shivering, an odd look

crossing his face. Pasty did not know it but he was a singularly rare person, one of the world’s few truly “psychic” men. Crow was another—one who had the talent to a high degree—and he sensed Pasty’s sudden feeling of apprehension.

“Snug little room, isn’t it?” he asked, grinning cheerfully at the uneasy thug.

“Never mind how pretty the place is—try the panelling, Pasty,” Joe directed.

“Eh?” Pasty’s mind obviously was not on the job. “The panelling?” His eyes shifted nervously round the room.

“Yes, the panelling!” Joe studied his partner curiously. “What’s wrong with you, then?” His look of puzzlement turned to one of anger. “Now come on, Pasty boy, get a grip! At this rate we’ll be here all bleeding night!”

Now it happened that Titus Crow’s study was the pride of his life, and the thought of the utter havoc his unwelcome visitors could wreak in there was a terrifying thing to him. He determined to help them in their abortive search as much as he could; they would not find anything—there was nothing to find!—but this way he could at least ensure as little damage as possible before they realised there was no money in the house and left. They were certainly unwilling to believe anything he said about the absence of substantive funds! But then again, to anyone not knowing him reasonably well—and few did—Crow’s home and certain of its appointments might certainly point to a man of considerable means. Yet he was merely comfortable, not wealthy, and, as he had said, what money he did have was safe in a bank. The more he helped them get through with their search the quicker they would leave. He had just made up his mind to this effect when Pasty found the hidden recess by the fireside.

“Here!” The nervous look left Pasty’s face as he turned to Joe. “Listen to this.” He rapped on a square panel. The sound was dull, hollow. Pasty swung his cosh back purposefully.

“No, wait—I’ll open is for you.” Crow held up his hands in protest.

“Go on then, get it open.” Joe ordered. Crow moved over to the wall and expertly slid back the panel to reveal a dim shelf behind. On the shelf was a single book. Pasty pushed Crow aside, lifted out the book and read off its title:

“The…what?…Cthaat Aquadingen! Huh!” Then his expression quickly turned to one of pure disgust and loathing. “Ughhh!” He flung the book away from him across the room, hastily wiping his hands down his jacket. Titus Crow received a momentary but quite vivid mental message from the mind of the startled thug. It was a picture of things rotting in vaults of crawling darkness, and he could well understand why Pasty was suddenly trembling.

“That…that damn book’s wet!” the shaken crook exclaimed nervously.

“No, just sweating!” Crow informed. “The binding is, er, human skin, you see. Somehow it still retains the ability to sweat—a sure sign that it’s going to rain.”