Free Highbinders by Ross Thomas Page A

chairs, three awful paintings, and four suits of plate armor that stood stiffly about not doing much of anything other than collecting dust, except for the one whose right mailed fist held an old black hat, a gray scarf, and an umbrella.
    “I think we’ll be more comfortable in here,” Christenberry said and pushed through a door that led to a sitting room that turned out to be a dim place with drawn curtains, one lighted floor lamp, and the kind of furniture that you would expect to find on Ashworth Road. Two lumpy-looking, overstuffed chairs hunched toward a fireplace that contained an electric heater. There was a couch slipcovered in a faded, flowery print. A dull brown rug covered most of the floor. A massive desk faced the curtained windows and was littered with pieces of paper that looked like bills. Here and there, rickety tables held big vases choked with roses.
    Except for the walls, the room and its furniture seemed to be much like the man who lived there, worn and used up, not quite good enough to sell but not bad enough to throw out. The walls, however, were covered with items designed to bash heads, break bones, sever limbs, and knock out teeth. There were swords of all kinds, long ones and short ones, wide and thin, curved, straight, and wiggly. There were wicked daggers and stout war axes. There were harpins and catchpoles and partizans and halberds and poleaxes. There were maces and spiked flails and cudgels and even a caltrop or two.
    It was quite a collection and I told Christenberry so. He nodded and smiled with yellow teeth. “And all designed with a single purpose,” he said. “To hurt. To maim. To kill.” The idea seemed to please him momentarily—until he thought of something less cheerful. “Unfortunately,” he said, “I’ve had to sell off the really good pieces. One by one I’ve sold them off to provide a bit of bread and meat for my table.”
    I felt that I could take a hint as well as anyone so I brought out my wallet and handed him two five-pound notes along with a fifty-pence piece. “Ten guineas,” I said.
    He pocketed the money hurriedly, apparently afraid that I might change my mind. “I suppose you’ll take tea?” he said, as if trying to be gracious, but knowing that he wasn’t very good at it.
    “If it’s no bother.”
    There were some tea things and an electric kettle on a table next to one of the lumpy armchairs and he started fooling around with them. On a plate by the kettle were four vanilla cookies, one of which had pink icing. The kettle was already starting to whistle and he gestured me to the chair opposite him. He took a single tea bag, dropped it into the pot, and then poured in what seemed to be about four cups of water. We sat there and waited for it to steep. He had his eyes half closed and his mouth half open and I wasn’t sure whether he was about to say something or doze off.
    “You’re a journalist, are you?” he said after a while.
    “A reporter.”
    “What paper did you say you worked for?”
    “I didn’t say, but it’s The New York Times .” I crossed my legs elegantly, the way that I thought a Times man might.
    “Hmm,” he said. “They should be able to afford ten guineas. No need to feel sorry for them.”
    “No need,” I said.
    He twisted to his left and poured the tea. “What do you take?” he said.
    “Sugar. One lump.”
    He passed me my cup. Then he offered the plate of four cookies. “Biscuit?”
    “No, thank you.”
    He seemed relieved. He snatched up the one with the pink icing and crammed it into his mouth, chewing noisily.
    I sipped my tea. It was weak. “Very good,” I said.
    “You mentioned over the telephone that you were interested in medieval weaponry,” he said. “Don’t know why you should be. No one else is today.”
    “I’m putting together an article on some of the lost and missing treasures of the world which lately seem to be popping up. For instance, about three years ago the Boston Museum of Fine