Free Charnel House by Graham Masterton Page A

freckle than face. “How come the sanitation department is working so late?”
    â€œWell,” I said, “this came outside the usual type of sanitary investigation. This is what you might call personal.”
    â€œHow about you, Doctor?”
    Dr. Jarvis gave a brief, twitchy smile. “It’s the same for me. I’m moonlighting, I guess.”
    â€œSo what happened?”
    I coughed, and explained. “This gentlemen, Bryan Corder, he’s an engineer from the same department as me. He’s a specialist in house structure, and he usually works on slum clearance, that kind of thing. We brought him along because he knows about odd noises, and drafts, and everything to do with dry rot.”
    The policeman continued to stare at me placidly, but still made no move to lift the pillow slip from Bryan’s head.
    â€œHe thought he heard a thudding noise in the chimney,” I said, almost whispering. “He put his head up there to hear it better, and well, that’s the result. Something seemed to attack him. We didn’t see what.”
    The cop looked at his buddy, shrugged, and lifted off the pillow slip.
    A white-and-gold Cadillac ambulance whooped away through the easing rain, bearing Bryan Corder’s body off to the Elmwood Foundation Hospital. I stood on the front step of 1551 and watched it go. Beside me, the police lieutenant who had arrived to deal with the case lit up a cigarette. He was a tall, laconic man with a wet hat and a hawkish nose, and a manner of questioning that was courteous and quiet. He had introduced himself as Lieutenant Stroud and produced his badge like a conjurer producing a paper flower out of thin air.
    â€œWell,” he said gently, blowing out smoke. “This hasn’t been your evening, Mr. Hyatt.”
    I coughed. “You can say that again.”
    Lieutenant Stroud smoked for a while. “Did you know Mr. Corder well?”
    â€œWe worked in the same department. I went ’round to his place for supper one night. Moira’s a real hand at pecan cookies.”
    â€œPecan cookies, huh? Yes, they’re a weakness of mine. I expect Mrs. Corder will take this very hard.”
    â€œI’m sure she will. She’s a nice woman.”
    An upstairs window rattled open, and one of the policemen leaned his head out. “Lieutenant?”
    Stroud stepped back a pace, looked upward. “What is it, officer? Have you found anything?”
    â€œWe’ve had half of that goddamned chimney out, sir, and there’s no sign of nothing. Just dried blood.”
    â€œNo signs of rats or birds? No secret pas sages?”
    â€œNot a thing, sir. Do you want us to keep on searching?”
    â€œJust for a while, officer.”
    The window rattled shut, and Lieutenant Stroud turned back to the street. The clouds had all passed overhead now, and stars were beginning to sparkle in the clear night sky. Down on Mission, the traffic booped and beeped, and out of an upper window across the street came the sounds of the Hallelujah Chorus .
    â€œYou a religious man, Mr. Hyatt?” asked Lieutenant Stroud.
    â€œOn and off,” I said cautiously. “More off than on. I think I’m more superstitious than religious.”
    â€œThen what you said about breathing and heartbeats in the house … you really believe it?”
    I looked at him carefully across the porch. His eyes were glistening and perceptive. I shook my head, “Uh-huh.”
    â€œWhat I have to consider is a number of alternatives,” Lieutenant Stroud said. “Either Mr. Corder died in a particularly bizarre and unlikely accident; or else he was attacked by an animal or bird that was trapped in the chimney; or else he was attacked by an unknown man or woman who somehow hid him or herself in the chimney; or else he was attacked and killed by you and your friends.”
    I stared down at the wet sidewalk and nodded. “I realize that.”
    â€œOf