Dead Men's s Boots

What she had in her hands was an antique half-hunter watch, Savonnette style, with a silver case and a silver chain, tarnished but still very beautiful. There was delicate filigree work on the case, and the silver bar that was meant to attach the watch to a waistcoat was not a bar at all but a tiny figure of the crucified Christ, his outstretched arms providing the necessary perpendicular line. It was an amazing piece of work: pair-cased, too, I discovered, as I automatically opened the front and discovered the actual watch nestling inside its bivalved shell.

It had to be two hundred years old, and it had to be worth a small fortune.

I looked at Carla. ‘I can’t take this,’ I said.

‘It belonged to his dad, and he wanted you to have it,’ she answered, in a tone that brooked no argument. ‘It was one of the last things he said to me before – when he was still thinking straight. “If anything happens to me, give this to Fix.” So it’s not up to me, or you. It’s yours.’

I put it into one of the inside pockets of the paletot, bowing to the inevitable.

‘Thanks,’ I said lamely. ‘I’ll – well, I’ll think of John every time I look at it.’ Unpalatable though that prospect was right now.

‘Thanks for driving me home,’ Carla said.

‘It was my pleasure.’

And then the twist of the knife. ‘Fix, I hate to do this. You’ve been so kind already. But if John’s going to be dug up and then cremated, I’ve got to know where and when. And I hate that man so much. If it’s not too much to ask—’

And there it was.

No good deed goes unpunished. Come to think of it, probably most of the people you see lying rolled and robbed on the side of the road are good Samaritans who stopped like idiots because they saw someone wringing their hands and looking helpless.

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Yeah. Sure. I can check the details with him. Let you know.’ It was the minimum commitment that the situation seemed to call for. I tried not to sound too grudging as I gave it.

‘Oh, Fix. I’d be so grateful.

You’re a sweet man. Tht. sweet mank you.’

She kissed me on the cheek and we hugged again, even more awkwardly than before.

As she walked me back through the living room I paused briefly, unfocused my eyes and strained my senses for the ghost. It was still there, a faint, unmoving presence like a stain on the air. Dormant. Dreaming.

‘The music should keep John quiet for a couple of days at least,’ I told Carla. ‘After that – well, see how you go.