Lee leant his shield against the wall, strode over and grabbed a handful of the fancy jacket. He lifted Canato by it and growled in his face, “I don’t want advice. As I told you, I want information. Are you going to talk or must I apply pressure?”
“How can he talk when you’re choking him with his collar?” Sherret protested, disturbed by a sympathetic choking sensation himself.
Slowly, reluctantly, Lee let Canato fall back in his chair. His face suffused, Canato tried to answer but couldn’t recover his breath. Lee snapped, “Earthman, take a look around the house. I’ll keep guard on this specimen.”
“All right,” said Sherret. He wanted free and easy movement, so he slipped his rucksack off. He started for the door, then paused. Canato had raised his hands in an imploring gesture, making inarticulate noises, striving to speak.
“He doesn’t want you to search the house,” said Lee. “That means he’s hiding something. Go and find what it is— but be careful.”
Sherret nodded, unhooking his machete. He stepped out into the passage. He was glad Lee couldn’t see the way his hands were beginning to shake. He ignored the two unoccupied rooms on this floor, and began to climb the stairs cautiously. He saw that the lights were on upstairs, which was some relief. He didn’t feel happy and was having to suppress his imagination. It would have been more difficult in the dark.
Yet, did the lights upstairs mean that there were people upstairs?
He reached the top of the stairs and found himself looking along a corridor of doors. A strip of light gleamed under every one, and there were six of them. His mouth became dry. Yet again, this was like one of the old nursery nightmares becoming real. The one which centered around something nasty hiding behind the door.
Which door? And what was the something?
He braced himself and kicked open the nearest door.
The room appeared to be empty. There was no reaction, no sound. But there was that hidden space between the door and the wall…
He made a grand leap into the room, and whirled around, machete poised. There was nothing behind the door. Although the light was on, this room didn’t appear to be in use. Some odd pieces of furniture, some paintings and general bric-a-brac were piled against the wall. That was all.
He visited each room in turn. First the screwing up of courage, the kick, the leap, and the anti-climax of the empty room. Only two of the rooms showed signs of being lived in. One was a bedroom. The other, the biggest room of all, was a studio workshop. There was a workbench littered with tools and wood shavings. There was an easel and a little table bearing a trayful of paints. There were a number of canvases stacked on shelves.
He wandered around, picking up and inspecting pieces of carved wood. They looked like the parts of an ornamental display case.
Then, shaking him to the core, a scream of awful terror came from the lower floor, swelled up the stairs, echoed along the corridor outside. It didn’t sound like a man’s voice. But he knew it was—and it was Lee’s.
A richly carved strip fell from Sherret’s hand. It rattled loudly on the wooden floor in the silent aftermath of that scream.
Snatching up the machete, he rushed outside and down the stairs, hearing strange, gasping sobs. He tore into the room where he had left Lee. The big man was lying in a corner, sobbing, arms crossed in front of his face, as if he were trying to ward off a murderous attacker. But the only other creature in the room was Canato, slumped in his chair, his face turned away from Lee and expressing infinite sadness.
“Lee, Lee, what is it?”
Sherret dropped on one knee beside Lee and gently forced his arms apart. Lee’s face was contorted with horror, his eyes bulging glassily. It reminded Sherret of Rosala’s painting of himself in the grip of the Melas tree. Then he dropped Lee’s arms and started back with a cry. For one side of Lee’s throat had been torn out and the blood was pumping out in spurts.
“Oh, my God!”
Sherret beat his knuckles together. He didn’t know what to do. Nothing could close that wound or staunch that flow.
He blundered across to Canato.
“You! Did you do that?”
“Partly. Not entirely,” said Canato in a low, tired voice.
