Tales of Drysdale House (14) Pulled Back In (1)

 

Pulled Back In (1)

“I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse” – The Godfather

 

“What is a tarn”, asked Inspector Strade.

I read from the back of the menu.

            “Tarn (n) a small steep-banked mountain lake or pool often glacier fed, or by mountain streams.

“But in this case, it is a more expensive private part of the Scaramouche Restaurant.”

Inspector Lee Strade opened the menu in front of him.

“Good thing I have a generous expense account. Still as funny name for a restaurant.”

I thought that a San Francisco police inspector having such a noticeable English accent was odd as well. We looked around The Tarn. It’s wood paneling and deep carpets seemed odd for a modern restaurant as well. The Tarn was on the third floor of the Callum Building, across Mercado Street from the Hathaway Building where my law offices were. It was run by Chef Rafael Sabatini, owner of The Scaramouche, which occupied the two stories below The Tarn. We had entered through The Scaramouche and been escorted up to the more exclusive, and therefore more expensive eating establishment. I had never before been to The Tarn, which seemed mostly occupied by men. Female servers were dressed in white dresses and golden sandals. I looked again at the menu. The prices were fierce.

“Good thing I have a generous expense account” remarked the Inspector again.

“Do all San Francisco Police Inspectors have such generous expense accounts?”

“No, Mr Masters. The deputy Chief of the Investigations Bureau recognizes that because I am in charge of the High Priority Branch, which deals with crimes by or against prominent people or institutions, I need a more liberal and generous expenses. Because of moving in those circles, you see.”

“And no trouble about your accent? Odd that it is still as strong after thirty years in San Francisco.”

“My London accent? Well, I will tell you Mr Masters that I have to practice to keep it up. I watch a lot of TV from England. Shocking amount of murder in Shetland and Midsommer. Not at all safe like San Francisco.”

“Please call me Patrick. Speaking of safe, I received a letter from Barbara Quigley this morning. She wanted to let me know that her sister, Hannah is resting peacefully in a Care Home in Pittsburgh. She wrote me because we appeared against each other in a case there. Barbara said she was very impressed with the kindness and courtesy the San Francisco police showed to her sister. The doctors give little hope though, that Hannah will recover her memory.”

The Inspector shook his head sadly.

“I was involved a little with that case. Poor girl. Terrible bruising around her neck.Like someone had put an iron collar around her throat. No wonder she suffered from traumatic amnesia. Still, maybe lucky in a way.”

“Lucky?”

“Well Patrick, although she may have amnesia, it could be worse. She did miss the helicopter trip to Dragonwyck. Who knows what might have happened to her there? She could be missing or dead, like that VanRijn girl. They are still sifting the ashes of the ruins after the fire. Terrible tragedy. Terrible.”

“It is sure then, that she was never anywhere near Dragonwyck?”

“Oh absolutely. The helicopter pilot is adamant that the woman he flow up there with the unfortunate late Mr Vansittart was not Miss Quigley. Likely an escort of some kind.”

The server brought our soup. For a while we ate in silence. After the soup plates were cleared, I spoke again.

“Why did you call and suggest lunch? How can I help the police.”

Well, Patrick, we don’t like our special citizens to be bothered, and a couple of weeks ago, the archives bureau received a request from a Miss Winchester, a High School teacher. Some of her students were studying the history of 19^th century San Francisco and wanted some information about smuggling tunnels connected with the Barbary Coast, Shanghaiing of sailors, Houses of Ill Repute etc, and wanted to know if there was anything about tunnels under Drysdale House in the police reports. We wouldn’t even have bothered looking except this Miss Winchester is part of an architectural heritage group that has some important members.”

“I can assure you, Inspector, that there are no tunnels under Drysdale House, or anywhere else I am aware of.”

We parted outside the restaurant. The Inspector got into an unmarked police car and was driven away. I walked back to my office. Just a little down the street from Rafael Sabatini’s Scaramouche there was a less exalted establishment, a tavern called Captain Bloods. There had been taverns there for nearly two hundred years, back to when the Spanish ruled here. There was a old tunnel from the cellars of Captain Bloods running to the Hathaway Building.

*

The next three weeks of autumn were idyllic. The Conflagration of Dragonwyck faded from the news. I worked half days, and enjoyed my leisure at home. Anders and I spent most evenings talking, I discovered that he had formed an appetite for Western literature.

“Stirring tales of honorable men. Lots of scope for a man like me too.”

He would read the adventures of Paladin, Have Gun, Will Travel with relish. An accomplished and upright assassin. But it Louis L’Amour whom he truly loved. He wanted to visit the Lazy F of the Fricks before winter. However he would not go without Scipio Metellus. The exiled Slaver was in funk without a role to play on Earth. Some of his effects had arrived; Scrolls of a Theocritean of Gorean Slavery called Trakker, and cutting of plants and bushes. Lena, Anders’s girl would water and care for them, but Scipio would give no direction about transplanting them. He grew quite fierce when anyone asked about what to do with them, but would not do anything himself. Without his business to keep him occupied, Scipio Metellus was fading away.

One fine afternoon, I passed Scipio outside the old stables as I was walking from the gardens back to the House. I mentioned that I might think about the taming of Nicola, who we still had in the pens as apparently the Fricks were too busy to pick her up. He gloomily agreed to look in at her.

Aside from making sure she was fed adequate Nutri-Girl to keep her healthy, and a making her run on the spot for an hour a day, Nicola had been left alone. She sullenly came out of her cage, but she was slow and insolent.

“Kneel now, with your legs spread wide. You know what you must do.”

“Why should I? Or you will kill me too? Rain down blow after blow with your axe, crushing my skull again and again like you did my Billy? You should kill me, I would be better off!”

I was still haunted at night by the look in Billy Jackson’s eyes, just before I killed him with my tomahawk. One blow between the eyes, with the tomahawk that was the gift from Zach Frick’s parents. The day I had become a murderer. That was behind me, I was living a quiet life of a semi-retired lawyer. No more excursions outside the law for me. So I was angry when Nicola brought it up, Angrier that she had lied about it.

“Be Quiet! Be Quiet! I killed him in self-defense. If everyone had just stayed still, only Vansittart would have died, and only because he was waving that gun around.  Everyone else would have been all right.”

“You would have killed my uncle!”

“He had tried to kill me. It was justified.”

“You admit it. You are a killer. Billy was just defending me, so you wouldn’t take me away, like Lena and that Quigley woman.”

            “Lena and Hannah were rescued.”

“And ended up branded and naked, just like me. Billy was defending me, and I loved him.”

“You told your uncle he was only a diversion.”

“I lied to my uncle. I loved him. And you killed him, and you might as well kill me.”

Nicola cursed and shouted and ranted until Scipio took a switch and struck her three times across the back. She subsided.

Scipio Metellus took me aside.

“This case will take special handling. The threat of death will not move her until she comes out of her melancholy. That one, with the passion and the looks will sell for gold with the proper handling. We must not lose that one.”

“Will you take on the task, Scipio.”

“Yes. I will consult the scrolls as to the proper course of action.”

*

The sun had set on a fine fall day in San Francisco. After a delicious meal served by Juli and Veronika, Anders and I were relaxing in my library. We were sitting in a pair of leather armchairs, staring across the room into a wood fire in the fireplace. Anders had a fine brandy; I a vintage Scotch. Anders took an appreciative sip. He spoke sincerely, but in a low voice, what he said was not for the ears of the kajirae.

“Thank you for letting Scipio Metellus handle that Nicola situation. He has had a hard time finding his way here on the Slave World. On Gor, before his exile, he was not only a man of importance, he was muchly occupied with affairs and business. Many men answered to him; many women wore his collar. He always had schemes and plans and much to do. Now since we have arrived here, he is purposeless, without a goal or aim. I worried that he ouldl go mad or do something desperate. That is why we have not moved on to our own abode. I need to be able to find something for him to do that will consume his attention.”

The Slave Manuals of Trakkar of Gor, from which Scipio Metellus has read passages tell me that there are many ways to train a newly collared slave and the owner must select the one that will most enhance the slave’s value. For example, with Lena who was already half tamed and half broken to the collar by her previous owner, the patroon Vincent VanRijn, showing her ways to display her devotion to Anders was the path. She was half in love with him and had accepted that she would not be freed. Of course, she must learn to obey all masters and be aware that she could be sold at any time, but that would come. So by the light of the candles and the oil lamps in my library, and in front of the fire, Lena and Veronika adopted position after position that any Gorean kajira is expected to know. Veronika demonstrated not only the static positions, but how a girl can subtly squirm in each one, enhancing her desirability by small movements that attract a man’s eye. These little movements prevent the slave’s muscles from cramping in an unappealing way. Lena by now could display herself acceptably now, it was the necessary graceful transitions from one modality of display to another that she needed to learn. We watched as Veronika demonstrated several times and criticized when Lena fell short.

“Stupid girl, I believe you are being clumsy on purpose. You disgrace me as your teacher, and your master will hate you!”

Lena was almost in tears. To be totally pleasing is the requirement of a Slavegirl which requires practice and hard work. She looked to Anders for encouragement; some sign that he did not regard her as hopeless. He took a sip of his brandy, shook his head, and turned to speak to me. Lena, crying now, turned to her lessons. Although she did not know it, she had just learned a necessary lesson. Effort does not count if a girl is not pleasing. Please or please not, there is no ‘try’.

Anders said,

“Lena is the first girl I have owned; I mean as more than a temporary purchase. We had slaves in the Caste House when I was training, and I have bought slaves as a cover when working on a Commission; to pull a wagon, or to distract the eyes of a crowd, but not a slave for my dwelling. What would I do with her when I was working? I don’t want ears listening or eyes watching when I am talking about a commission or to say who is visiting me. No, Lena is the first girl I will keep for a while. Strange that I had to come to another planet to enjoy that luxury.”

Veronika had Lena work through her paces again. The girl was doing her best. There is more than one way to train a slave. After this afternoon’s display of temper, Scipio Metellus had asked to work the Nicola. Instead of patient teaching and repetition, Nicola was learning by the switch and crawling on her belly over the stones of the slave pits of Drysdale House. Later she would be petted and praised and fed delicacies. The proud, former playgirl, who ‘fucked who I please’ would learn that it was she who must now be pleasing. Men of Gor are not deceived or manipulated by coquettish smiles and vague promises. Nicola had a lot to unlearn as well as a lot to learn.

“There is something I must tell you of the Man of Treve who calls himself Howard Smith or Holgar Magnusson,” Anders began.

“Oh yes?”, I muttered. I was distracted by the movements of the bare bodies of Lena and Veronika as they moved in unison in front of the dancing flames of the fire.

“We talked through much of the night, before the morning the Commission on VanRijn was finished. He had not talked to a Gorean he did not know for many years.”

“A Gorean he did not know?”  I was listening now.

“He came here many years ago now. He is in contact with four or five others like him, men who came here on a mission and were stranded when their contact with the Sardar was cut off. They refer to themselves as the Old Goreans, as do their enemies. He and his brother came at the same time, but as your old outlaw cowboy songs go, One Road East, and One Road West. The bad news for Holgar was that the brother he had not seen in twenty-five years had been killed. Even though he had not seen his brother and they parted on bad terms, Karl was his brother.”

“Karl?”

“Karl Magnus, the late Ubar of London, was his brother. Holgar still serves the Priest Kings; Karl served the Steel Worlds. Holgar’s true name was Holgar Magnus of Treve. He used Magnusson to fit in on Earth. Should we tell Woodrow Frick?”

“I will have to think about that,” I said. “We swore to Holgar we would not mention that he was at Dragonwyck, and will most likely never see him again. And with Karl dead, I don’t think it matters. Why turn the Families of North America against someone who is alone and powerless? Especially as we swore oaths. One brother is dead; let the other brother mourn him.”

We talked no more; just watched the girls move in the firelight. When they were done, Anders spurned Lena and chose Veronika for use instead. Lena had not been totally pleasing in her movements. Anders was Gorean.

*

The Gardens of Drysdale House run downhill from the House to the Hathaway Building. Except for the buildings at either end, they take up two city blocks. On the sides without buildings, there are high brick walls, topped with broken glass. The hill is steep and the land is terraced into five flat terraces. Outside the walk out basement of Drysdale House is a paved area. At one side of the area are the old stables, now converted to garages, although the old farrier’s forge still existed. Scipio Metellus had made his dwelling above the forge, morosely hiding from the world. Today I was pleased to see him watering his plants. It looked like he was preparing to transplant his cuttings. A small portable greenhouse had been erected. Anders had told me that Scipio has decisive in action when he decided to move. This was the first I had seen of it.

 

The second terrace was for the formal gardens and hedges. The remaining terraces resembled small parks. Goings on here could not be seen outside the garden, due to the high walls and the spreading canopies of the trees. The Hathaway Building had no windows that overlooked the gardens.

I was on the third terrace, sitting under a tree with a book I was not reading. I was dozing in the pleasant air and the dappled sunshine as it filtered through the leaves. Juli was sitting beside me, her head on knee, her arms around my calves. We were happy.

I looked up. Mrs Magruder, the housekeeper was leading four men in suits across the lawn. Two I knew, Woodrow Frick and Zach Frick. The third amd fourthI did not know. The faces of all four were grim. Mrs Magruder crooked a finger at Juli.

“Come girl, the men have things to discuss.”

Juli got up and followed Mrs Magruder away. I did not offer mu visitors any refreshments. They sat down in the wooden lawn chairs. Woodrow Frick spoke.

“I want you to meet my step-sisters companion Elliot Emery.This gentleman is Robert Desjarlais, he is head of General Security. We have come to make you an offer that I am sure you will want to accept.”

We are going to make you an offer you cannot refuse, is what I heard.

“You have many fine facilities here a Drysdale House which could be of use to use in the next little while.”

We need your house and are taking whether you agree or not.

“The members of the acquisition team that were here a few weeks ago noted that you already have slave pens and ways of egress and ingress that would be useful for acquisitions.”

Our acquisitions team helped you , and now you owe us.

The Steel Worlds have some sort of major operation happening some on Gor, and so it is necessary that the volume of supplies of livestock acquisitions be maintained or even increased.

“Something big is happening, and we will be handsomely rewarded if we succeed and punished if we fail.

“Unfortunately, the volumes of acquisitions from England and Britain have fallen off and it will be some time before a reorganization can increase the volumes again.”

Killing the Ubar of London has upset things and we are meeting more resistance than expected.

“We cannot meet the increased demand without new facilities, so we are coming to you to use Drysdale House for the next three to six months.”

Why should we pay to set up new facilities when we can use yours, especially when so many of our resources are tied up across the Atlantic.

“In return, we will be happy to help out with a few things.”

Here comes the spoonful of sugar.

The Fricks will make your tribute payment of three kajirae a year to the Grand Duchy of Lutha for the next five years. In addition you will gain standing with the First Families of North America, the rank of Honorary Second Cousin, with the immunities and standing that implies.”

I stood up. I put a smile on my face. I held out my hand.

“I would be pleased and honored to run this acquisition facility for you. And ten years of tribute paid to Lutha is indeed generous.”

“Five years is generous,” said Woodrow Frick.

“Ten years is more generous,” I countered. “I have multiple ways in and out, the neighbourhood is beyond suspicion. I have an experienced Gorean slaver on the premises for administration and advice. All I will need is an acquisition team or two, and perhaps some personal for the pens.”

They had expected to finesse me from my own home. But if I gave it up, I knew it would never be mine again. It was a good counteroffer, and they knew it. If I had read the situation correctly, the Families did not want to open even another small conflict at a time when they were dealing with trouble in Britain and pressure from the Steel World. I was sure tha the Fricks would rather I kept the House rather than see it turned over to the Head of General Security. Internal politics are always an opportunity for a rival negotiator.

“That is acceptable to me,” agreed Woodrow Frick.

“And I am sure that it will be acceptable to Wyandotte,” said Zach, Wyandotte’s messenger.

"It is acceptable to the First Families," said Elliot Emery. He had a fanatic's glare on his middlei-aged face,

“It’s not acceptable to me.” Desjarlais, the head of General Security was getting red in the face.”

“We get a temporary facility, run by a well-known local front man, who has Gorean slavers on site. It is everything we need.”

Zack’s voice was deceptively quiet. When you are the courier and spokesman for Wyandotte Frick you do not need to shout.

Clearly, the head of General Security had wanted to take my house for his own and had been checked by my offer and the Frick’s acceptance of it.

As we shook hands I knew I had made a devil’s bargain. I had saved my house, and likely my possession of Juli at the expense of leaving my lawful quiet life and again entering the hurly burly of working for the Steel Worlds.

My peace was gone; I was again the man with the axe in his hand.