Free The Investigations of Avram Davidson by Avram Davidson Page A

taxi-man said, “I believe I’ll stop by the Ashby bar. Might be someone there wanting to catch the evening train. Night, Levi. Don’t turn on the yard light for us.”
    â€œWasn’t going to,” said Levi. “Turning them on and off, that’s what burns them out. Night, Clem, Gam, Erastus.” He closed the door after them. “Mrs. Nickerson,” he called to his wife, “you can come and start supper now. We finished our business.”

T HE I KON OF E LIJAH
    A VRAM D AVIDSON TRAVELED far and wide, and his experiences provided inspiration for many lifetimes’ worth of writing. He was in Israel during the 1948 war of independence and afterward journeyed through Europe to London. His wanderings included Cyprus, where “The Ikon of Elijah” is set. Cyprus is a small island in the eastern Mediterranean where Greeks, Turks, and other ancient cultures live in a constant state of simmering conflict—and there are always opportunists who are ready to make a profit from conflict.
    â€œThe Ikon of Elijah” appeared in 1956 and was one of Avram’s first published stories. The editor at Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine commented: “Watch Mr. Davidson: he has the gift—the precious gift of words and insight.”
    â€” GD
    Â 
    On a wet afternoon in early winter a small and mud-splashed automobile entered Nicosia through the Paphos Gate and made its way through Sultan Solyman Square, Queen Irene Street, Ledra Street, and, finally, through a back alley which had neither name nor paving to speak of. Very few people in Cyprus were feeling cheerful in the cold rain, and the driver of the car—a heavy-jowled man with snowy hair—was certainly not one of them. He cursed the rain and the people thronging the narrow streets of the capital city, Greeks and Turks and Armenians and British, with superb impartiality, but in a low voice. Drawing to a stop about halfway up the alley, he blew two short, hard blasts on his car horn, and struggled out, breathing heavily.
    A door opened in the stone wall to the right, and a man wearing the high boots and baggy black pantaloons still favored by Cypriotes of the older generation hurried out. He had few teeth and gray stubble covered his cheeks and chin.
    â€œMore floods in the foothills, Kyrios! ” he said. “People and cattle drowned, houses washed away—”
    â€œI wish the whole damned island would wash away. Be quiet. Park the car. I won’t need it again today.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Carpius.” The houseman folded himself into the little vehicle and maneuvered it slowly away, while Mr. Carpius entered the back garden of his house and closed the door behind him. The garden was not well kept, the interests of the master of the house presumably lying elsewhere; tiles clinked loosely under his rapid feet, unpruned shrubs grew to the size of small trees, moss was everywhere. The ground-floor windows were barred, as were the second-floor windows. There was no third floor, but if there were and if it had windows, they would certainly have been barred, too; for Mr. Carpius was a cautious man.
    He let himself into the house with two keys, and passed through an enormous and shadowy kitchen, where an old woman dressed all in black was feeding chestnut wood into an ancient stove. She mumbled a greeting over her shoulder and Mr. Carpius, sniffing the aroma of lamb pilaf and stuffed grape leaves, permitted himself a little smile of anticipation, and blessed her fulsomely.
    After unlocking and locking the doors of three more rooms, and passing through, Mr. Carpius came at length to a small shop fronting on a fairly busy street. His eyes flickered rapidly around it, looking for a moment with pleasure on the window:

    and came to rest on a small, dark Maltese, who at once broke into a smile of obsequious welcome.
    â€œWhat news, Paul?” Mr. Carpius asked, sitting in a rush-bottomed