Graves' Retreat by Ed Gorman Read Free Book Online

candles and cannons firing and a brass band playing.”
        Les wished he could stay and hear the whole story because, the longer he was in Cedar Rapids, the more he loved the place and all the good high historical tales Mr. Waterhouse had to tell about it. (As Miss June Dodge, one of the other roomers, always said, “Mr. Waterhouse is the best entertainment in this town.”)
        But after muttering a hello he went directly inside and up the steps to his room to wash up and lie down.
        Les had a Rayo lamp in his room, too, and when he got it lit, it revealed a fairly large space with a sturdy single bed with a colorful spread, a desk and chair, a shelf of books including virtually everything ever written by Sir Walter Scott, an outside photograph of "Cap” Constantine, and a bureau with a mirror, a pitcher and a washbasin. Les went down the hall, got some fresh water and then came back and washed himself off, and then went and lay down on the bed, closing his eyes so he could relax.
        Night sounds came to him; a bam owl, a distant dog, a train headed west with a lonely wail, the soft murmur of voices below in the summer evening…
        He wasn’t sure how long he’d been half asleep before a knock came. A special gentle knock. So he knew it was the boardinghouse owner, Mrs. Smythe, who was a widow.
        “Les?”
        “Yes?”
        “You decent?”
        “Just a minute, Mrs. Smythe.”
        He still wore trousers, so all he needed to do was grab a shirt. “Come in.”
        She crept through the door. She bore in her fingers a small white envelope. A note.
        Les’s heart pounded.
        Mrs. Smythe, plump, dressed in her inevitable gingham and white lace apron, said, “She left this for you earlier.” Mrs. Smythe was a very pretty woman with melancholy blue eyes that made her seem younger than her fifty-some years.
        “She?”
        Mrs. Smythe looked at him. “You know who I mean, Les.”
        “Can I-can I see it?”
        “Of course. It’s your note.”
        She handed him the envelope.
        Before he could open it, she said, “She’s very beautiful.”
        “Yes, she is.”
        “I-” She started to say something but stopped.
        “What, Mrs. Smythe?”
        “Well, it’s really not my business.”
        “We’re friends, Mrs. Smythe. You can say what you like.”
        “Well, we had a talk, the lady and I.”
        “You and Susan?”
        “Yes.”
        “What did you talk about?”
        “Well, apparently, there’d just been some kind of blowup at her house and she’d come right over here to see you.”
        “What kind of blowup?”
        “She wanted her fiance to stand up for himself to her father but-”
        “Oh, is that all?” Les said, relieved. “I thought maybe it was something between her and me.”
        At this point, Mrs. Smythe gave him a most curious look, and one Les would not forget for a while.
        “What is it, Mrs. Smythe? What’s wrong?”
        “Oh-nothing. Just maybe we should have a talk sometime.”
        “About what?”
        “About women.”
        “You mean about Susan?”
        Mrs. Smythe smiled. “No. I’d say about women in general, Les.”
        “Can’t we talk now?” Les was interested in what she might say. “That note. She gave me sort of a hint as to what might be in it. She wants to meet you. In about a half hour.
        Mrs. Smythe turned back to the door. “I’d better be going now.”
        “I’d really like to have that talk.”
        Mrs. Smythe said, “She’s a real lady, Les. You be good to her.”
        Then she was gone.
        
***
        
        Forty-five minutes later, on the comer of Second Avenue and South Second Street, sat a black carriage just beyond the glow of the streetlight. As he approached the carriage, Les could see a