Stewart Fromes looked like he had been dead for a month. There was no denying the utter gauntness and yellowing, rotting dead tissues of his face. The features had all withdrawn to resemble the wrinkled, leathery-dry rot of decay.
Yet, with all the horror of the situation and the revelation, there was one more staggering blow to sanity.
Stewart Fromes’ clothes were all reversed.
It was as unmistakable as the condition of the dead man’s face.
His jacket was on backwards, straitjacket style. His shirt was the same peculiar way, showing the rear of the collar as if he were a minister. There was no tie, naturally. Solo, still revolted, bent to examine the corpse. Stewart Fromes’ trousers were on backwards too.
The only place where the motif had been ignored was the feet. Stewart Fromes’ ten stiff naked toes wore no shoes.
Napoleon Solo stepped back, completely baffled. This was like some double blasphemy of the dead. Like some filthy joke that had no point other than shame and unholy mortification. He felt anger begin to cloud his reason. He shook it off. There was overtly something devilishly remarkable about the whole thing.
Stewart Fromes looked as though there would not be a single mark on his body to indicate what had killed him. Yet his body was rotting away before Solo’s very eyes and all of his apparel had been reversed. Why, in God’s name?
“Napoleon,” Jerry Terry shuddered. “What does it mean?’
“I don’t know. Let’s just wait until our German friends are done with their bickering. I’ve never run up against anything like this before.”
Herr Burgomeister bobbed into view, his scrawny figure agitated. “That fool Klingeheim. He lost a little sleep—” He paused, bewildered. He had seen the look in Napoleon Solo’s eye.
“Bitte, is something wrong?”
“Yes, Herr Muller. I find my friend’s body badly taken care of. And his clothes most unusually arranged.”
“Please,” the Burgomeister begged. we have no facilities! I am sorry, you must know that. As for his clothes—we find him like this. In the kitchen of his house. I swear. We touch nothing.”
“You’re sure?”
“Ja, ja. I swear.”
“Where is his laboratory, please?”
“Two squares over. Come. You are done here?”
“No, I will come back to guard the body. And I’ll need ice. Lots of ice. You understand? The body must be kept from decomposing further before I can return it to America. Tell your Mr. Klingenheim I want a coffin. I’ll pay him well. Can you do these things for me?”
“Ye-e-es—”
“Good. I want nothing touched. I will crate the body myself. Is that understood now, Herr Muller?”
The commands were so evenly stated, so unequivocally pronounced that even if Herr Muller knew little of this Napoleon Solo, he knew him well enough now to be afraid.
“Do you take me for a dumbkopf, Herr Solo? I do. I do.”
“Fine. Now show me where my friend stayed in Oberteisendorf.”
The Burgomeister led the way, clucking fearfully, guiding them with a swinging hurricane lamp which splattered yellowish rays over the sickly landscape. Jerry Terry clung to Solo’s right arm and huddled close to him as they walked.
It was a small, cottage-like place set further back than the homes flanking its low sides. The paint was peeling and ugly black patches shone through the cornices of the structure. Herr Muller ushered them to the front door, and shrugged his shoulders in resignation, before he turned away to do Solo’s bidding in the matter of the corpse.
“Oh, Herr Muller,” Solo called before he had darted from view.
“Bitte?”
“Where is Frau Morgernstern? The lady who was his housekeeper:
“Gone. Run away. Have not seen her since the terrible thing. No one see her.”
With that, he was gone.
Jerry Terry shivered. “This is an ugly little town. I feel it in my bones.”
“I agree wholeheartedly with your bones. Come on in. And watch out for low-flying bats.”
There was a light switch close to the front door. Oberteisendorf had electricity, at least—it wasn’t as backwards as all that. Perhaps it might even seem liveably decent in the daylight.
Stewart Frames’ home away from home was a modest two-room affair with loft above. This he had converted into his laboratory. Solo lit a cigarette and loosened his tie. The plain, simple furniture mocked him.
“Okay, Memory Girl. Let’s go over the complete setup. Top to bottom. If there’s anything at all here we should know about, let’s find it. Stewart Fromes is not going to go to waste. Not if we can help it. Right?”
“Right.”
Side by side, they worked through the two rooms, emptying everything, overturning all in sight. Solo even drained a sugar bowl and coffee pot, sifting the dead grounds for clues. Nothing. The place was as devoid of personal belongings as a hotel room can be.
“See anything, Jerry?”
“Nothing. Shall we try the loft?”
“Yes. That was his real home. He would have left his imprint there more than anywhere.”
Yet, twenty minutes later, Napoleon Solo admitted to defeat. He felt completely stymied. Beyond finding the same old Bunsen burners, slides and scientific apparatus, a research chemist might need, he was absolutely in the dark. What was worse, they had not even stumbled upon a book of notes or records or some such daily log in which to record data.
“Blind alley, Solo?”
“Maybe, Terry. But I don’t think so. He had notes all right—lots of them. In his head and on paper. Trouble is, whoever killed him forgot nothing. They got the notes too.”
“That would make sense—if he found something.” He must have,” Solo said, “or he wouldn’t have been killed.”
She sighed. “We don’t know for a fact that he was killed.”
He stared at her. “The high altitude must have scrambled your brains, Miss Terry. Agents like Stewart Fromes just don’t keel over in mid-day because they have high blood pressure.”
“Probably not. But I wish we knew for sure.”
Solo cast a last long mournful look about the house. He shook his head, fatigue making his voice as raspy as a file.
“He found out something all right. Right here and right in this room. And they found out about him, so killed him—in a way that’s caused his body to start decomposing immediately.” Solo paused frowning. “I wish we knew what we were looking for so we’d know what it was when we found it.”
She smiled wanly. “I’ll bet you can’t say that all over again, Mr. Solo, and get it perfectly straight.”
“I’ll tell you something. I’m not even going to try.” He took her arm. “Come on, lady, tough work ahead yet. You have to help me pack a coffin.”
He felt her body stiffen beside him. Their eyes locked.
“Do I have to—Napoleon?”
“No, of course you don’t. But it will be easier if you help.”
“Then I’ll help,” she said.
He kissed her quickly, full on the mouth, and drew back before she could either slap him or respond. Her eyes had widened in surprise.
He laughed. “You thought I was going to make love to you right here and now?”
“Something like that,” she confessed.
“Something like that,” Solo smiled, “will come later. I promise you.”
They marched, hand in hand, back to the mortician’s parlor, with sleeping Oberteisendorf closing them in on all sides and the dark sky above. Jerry Terry yawned sleepily. Napoleon Solo fought to keep his eyes open. It had been a very long night.
It wasn’t over yet, either.
At the far end of the village, just where the last house disappeared under a shelving of trees, Herr Muller rapped at a wooden door. He was admitted quickly by a tall, lanky man nearly a head higher. The Burgomeister held his hat fearfully between his thin fingers, alternately crumbling and pulling it apart.