Limbo 56 - Mike Morris (if you give a mouse a cookie read aloud TXT) 📗

with him. Sitting in a dark corner of the pub, he hefted the ingot thoughtfully.

“What is it,” Jasper asked over his shoulder, causing him to jump and almost drop the thing. His small assistant from Hell was constantly popping up at the wrong time and asking foolish questions.

“It’s gold,” Arthur told him. “And I found it here, in the foundry.”

“Yes, but what is it?” Jasper asked, taking it and holding it by two of its beveled corners.

“It’s an ashtray, of course,” Arthur said.

“Oh.” Jasper said guardedly, then “Oh, yes. They’re used for those new fangled cigarette things. Best invention Hades ever came up with,” he went on. “They’re dirty, disgusting, unhealthy and addictive, all in one little package.”

“What I want to know is where did it come from?” Arthur interrupted. “This is Limbo. All we have here is iron and steel and a little bit of brass. So what is a great lump of gold doing in my foundry?”

“Beats me,” Jasper answered. “It doesn’t seem to have much use here.” He sniffed. “This ashtray could buy the whole Limbo five times over.” He sniffed again. “Not that anyone would want to buy this place.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Arthur muttered, nettled. “You thought the place was very nice when you escaped from Hell.”

“It’s so damned cold,” Jasper told him. “I miss the old fire sometimes. Except when I was thrown into it,” he added.

“When did that happen?” Arthur asked him curiously.

“Every other day,” the Demon answered. “So,” he said, taking the ashtray from the Governor, “You want me to check this out? Can you get me one of those precious metal detectors when you go out recruiting?”

Arthur, normally suspicious of unsolicited help was distracted by the sight of the stranger, engaged in deep conversation with Gladys. Something about the shape of those broad shoulders and the cut of the fancy jacket reminded him of the smooth-talking Londoner who had stabbed him in the real world. “Sure,” he said, getting up quickly.

But the man wavered and was gone, and Gladys turned innocent gypsy eyes on him when he asked the question. “What Larry O’Grady,” she said in a voice of enormous surprise. “You mean the bloke that killed you? Now why would I talk to ‘im?”

“He killed you too,” Arthur answered confusedly.

“Yes, he did,” she admitted. “Although I don’t think he really wanted to,” she added enigmatically. He stepped back, startled. “I told you the whole story before,” she said. “Anyway, I think you’re jealous.” She started to polish an already spotless glass. “He was a harp maker, trying to sell one for the Lounge.”

“He must be mad,” Arthur told her. “Why would I buy a harp for a fifth-rate Limbo like this,” he added, forgetting his recent defense of the place.

“It was just a line,” she said silkily. “He was just tryin’ to get into my panties, not that I wear ‘em,” she added saucily.

He was marching angrily down the street before he realized that neither of them had mentioned the abrupt and peculiar vanishing of the stranger. In the next few days, he almost forgot about the incident. Two of his best workers disappeared, everything went wrong at the foundry, and he spent fruitless hours trying to sell his limbo paradise to a bunch of almost dead, who either heard his sales pitch and declared that Hell seemed like a better bet, or advanced totally unreasonable demands that even the Heavenly Host would have found difficult to fulfill.

Then, one Sunday, he was in the foundry, tidying the piles of junk that accumulated daily. Despite being Governor for many years, he had never been able to shrug free of the foundry. He shoveled a few small mountains of black sand into a storage bin, passed a rag over some of his machines, and started to neatly stack some piles of rusting iron that lined the conveyor. The iron bars were labeled ‘do not use or recast – flawed.’ When he moved them, he realized that they were far too heavy to be iron.

He sat on his haunches and inspected the metal. The girders were about five feet long and two inches square, and they weighed twice as much as they should. Curiously, he extracted his penknife and carved a small flake of metal. Under the patina of what looked like rust, the yellow of gold glinted briefly. Arthur sat back and measured the pile with his eyes. All around him were stacks of metal. He tested a sample and estimated that they were all solid gold. He whistled slowly.

Thoughtfully, he walked back to his office and unearthed his new set of metal testers. An hour, and several scribbled sheets of paper later he had an inventory of the dimensions and weights of the metal. He walked over to his locked cabinet and extracted a laptop computer. It was the only one in his Limbo, and had cost him two of his workers, who were snatched into the jaws of Heaven after stealing it from the Devils. With the help of the Internet, he counted the value of the metal as just over two billion pounds sterling. Arthur arranged the piles of rusty metal as they had been and looked thoughtfully at them.

That night, he spoke to the only two people he knew well enough to confide in. He and Gladys, and Jasper sat around the dark table, unnoticed by the regulars, and talked about vast wealth that was of no value whatsoever to anyone in Limbo. “Two billion pounds,” Gladys said. “I can’t imagine two billion pounds.”

“Where did it come from,” Jasper asked, and Arthur shook his head. “Alright, what about the ashtray,” Jasper continued, “Did you find out anything about that?”

“I thought you were going to look into it,” Arthur grumbled.

“Oh, yes, I hung it on my wall and forgot about it,” Jasper said.

“Arthur,” Gladys told him. “Someone is using your Limbo as a bank, and two billion dollars of hidden money smells like big trouble.” It had to be the work of outsiders. Gold was of no use in Limbo. “But someone in here must be getting paid to hide this stuff,” Gladys said. “Why don’t you look for one of your workers with a big-screen TV set, or a luxury car? There can’t be many cars driving around Limbo.”

“Twenty,” Jasper said. “One car is mine, one is the Governors car, and four are used for foundry transport. That leaves fourteen to check out.

“I won’t be able to help you, Arthur,” Gladys said. “I have to visit the real world for a few days.” Arthur nodded; he had never questioned Gladys’ ability to come and go at will. He had been tempted to follow her on her infrequent expeditions, and had kicked himself for acting like a love-struck youth. In fact, he was afraid that the Gypsy bartender would leave forever if he put too much pressure on her.

“I can’t check anything, nobody trusts me,” Jasper said succinctly.

Arthur sighed. “I’ll do it. Do we have records of the car-owners?” he asked.

Jasper, who had been a reluctant Accountant for several years, nodded. “I’ll get them for you,” he said.

So, the next morning instead of working at his desk or at the foundry, Arthur, the list tucked in his pocket, laptop strapped to the rack, wheeled out his cycle and set out. He seldom used his official car; and in truth he still mistrusted these mechanical monsters. He was apt to drive too cautiously, avoiding pedestrians by a wide margin, hands gripping the steering wheel. Gladys drove like a madwoman, and only Jasper handled an automobile as if he had been born with wheels.

The first car he saw was up on blocks. Weeds had grown through the floor and were peeping from the driver’s window. The second car was an old Ford that had seen better times, but the third was a brand-new Mercedes sports car with custom paint and hubcaps. Arthur opened the laptop and inserted the little plug that Jasper called a wireless adapter. He typed in the name of the car-owner and details filled the screen. “Miracles,” Arthur murmured, as he always did when regarding a computer, a television set or a cell phone.

The owner of the car was a nondescript unskilled laborer, one Bill Smith, who had never owned anything in his long half-life in Limbo. He hardly ever appeared at work any more, and when he did was given more to complaint than real effort. Arthur strode up to the newly painted front door and knocked. The inside of the house was quiet. Arthur eyed the door. Despite the paint, it was flimsy and battered. Indeed, the whole house looked as though a good push would topple it. Arthur kicked the lock and the door flew open amidst a shower of splinters.

A deep pile rug covered the hallway; paintings of nude women hung on the walls. The living room was crammed to bursting point with overstuffed furniture, two television sets and various electronic devices, some of which stood unused in their cartons. The kitchen was a mess of unwashed crockery and half-eaten dinners and the bedroom was one enormous bed surrounded by three television sets. Just off the bedroom was a small cubbyhole that the occupant obviously used as an office. Arthur looked around and opened the desk drawer. On top of a sheaf of papers was a thin sheet of shiny black paper, with red writing. Arthur had seen something similar before, in his infrequent dealings with the Devils. It was a contract from Hell. Arthur pulled it out. He was about to read when a slight sound caused him to turn. He caught a swift vision at a bar of gold, descending, and then it crashed on his head and everything went black.

Apparently, his head was getting used to violent impacts. He came to with a bad headache, a vanishing dent, and Jasper bending over him. “Next time, I’ll hold your hand,” the Demon said. “Your suspect ran off as soon as he saw me. Don’t worry; I know where he’s going.” He held up the Devils Contract. “This is serious.” He helped Arthur to his feet and dragged him outside. “We’ll search this place later,” he said. “Get in the car.”

They arrived at the gateway just in time to see Bill Smith hurl himself into the invisible barrier. “He’s a bigger fool than I thought,” Jasper said. “What are you doing?” he called.

The man faced them. “I call on my contract with the Devil. Release me from Limbo,” he cried, raising his arms which trembled under the weight of two bars of gold.

“Nothing is going to happen,” Arthur told him.

“Yes, it will,” Jasper contradicted him. “The Devil always honors his contracts, right down to the fine print.” And as the man and his gold disappeared into the ground with a wail and a wisp of smoke, Jasper added. “He’s been released from Limbo, just as the contract said.” They stared at the spot as the wisp of smoke dissipated in the light rain. “Let’s go back to his place,” Jasper said.

They found nothing else of interest in the house. Jasper carried a few electronic items to his car and they went back to the pub. “We’re back where we started,” Arthur said grimly.

“No,” Jasper told him. “I said this was serious for a reason. Look at this contract.” He pointed to the neat signatures beneath Bill Smith’s