The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton

By Russell H. Greenan

"A murderously funny fugue of the macabre ... Grave matters, elegantly dispatched." — The New York Times Book Review 

Algernon Pendleton — call him Al — lives by himself in a suburban Boston house loaded with treasures collected by his Egyptologist great-grandfather. His solitary life, punctuated by occasional visits to a shop where he trades artifacts for ready cash, would be lonely if not for his confidential chats with Eulalia, a talking porcelain pitcher. When an old army buddy shows up with a suitcase full of money, Eulalia has some less-than-friendly ideas about separating their houseguest from his fortune. Meanwhile, a professor of archaeology is getting increasingly suspicious about the shop's supply of rare and valuable antiquities. Thanks to Eulalia's advice, Al soon finds himself trapped in a murder mystery that unfolds with ample doses of black humor. 

"You have to have a heart of stone not to love Algernon Pendleton, the mad-as-a-hatter murderer … Curl up with him and your doom is sealed ... Greenan has fashioned an excursion in to the macabre that is in a class by itself." — Saturday Review

"Oddly appealing, a sort of Arsenic and Old Lace approach that really works in terms of entertainment if you have a taste for the fantastic." — Publishers Weekly

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Jun 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9780486840819

Russell H. Greenan

Russell H. Greenan is an American author with an established readership in the U.S.A. and Europe, particularly France. His first book IT HAPPENED IN BOSTON? was reprinted in 2003 in the U.S.A. as a 20th Century Rediscovery by Modern Library, and most recently in 2010 by Diogenes in Switzerland. His fourth book THE SECRET LIFE OF ALGERNON PENDLETON was made into a motion picture titled The Secret Life of Algernon in 1997 starring John Cullum and Carrie-Anne Moss. His other books published in English are NIGHTMARE, QUEEN OF AMERICA, HEART OF GOLD, THE BRIC-A-BRAC MAN, KEEPERS and CAN OF WORMS. DOOMSNIGHT and GLAMOURDOOM are both published in France.

Book preview

Judgment

PART ONE

1

DEEP MATTERS

On Beacon Street near the corner, a mutilated ancient elm tree stands. Having been shorn of all its limbs by the Brookline Forestry Department, it is now only a tall stump. Soon the stump too will be amputated, but meanwhile a twig has started to grow out of the raw chain-sawed surface at the top, and from it a few tender ovate leaves are sprouting.

Life and death. Where does the one end and the other begin? Are they segments of a single straight line, or are they different lines altogether? Might they be parallel lines? Involuted lines? Convoluted? Perhaps they form circles or ramify into complex patterns, like spider webs.

It is fashionable today to think of death as a total end, a state of nothingness. In spite of Einstein’s proof that matter and energy are two aspects of the same thing, men continue to believe that the universe is divided into live mechanisms and dead ones. What folly! Why, under a microscope, inanimate crystals and animate viruses behave in almost exactly the same way!

Even more to the point, we now know that the seeds of life are everywhere—in the frozen arctic, at the bottoms of hot springs where the water is near boiling, on meteorites, and in gas clouds billions of miles out in space.

Life and death, life and death. Is it possible that death, instead of being a state of nothingness, is nothing at all? I mean, that it doesn’t exist? That there is no death? Suppose everything is alive—this pen, this paper, my cigarette? A peculiar idea maybe, but one that I feel is worthy of serious consideration. My own belief is that we ourselves have been alive for many, many years—centuries, millennia or even more. We’ve occupied a variety of forms in a variety of situations on a multitude of other worlds. Only the frailty of memory prevents us from savoring these primeval experiences. Does the frog remember being a fish? Or the butterfly a caterpillar? No. It’s a pity, really.

2

ANTECESSORS

Pardon that metaphysical preamble. In recording the simplest of events we are all inclined to philosophize, I fear. To each man the world is an endless wonder, and he is ever anxious therefore to describe it to others.

Enough! Enough! My name is Algernon Pendleton. Not surprisingly, everyone calls me Al. I live in Brookline, Massachusetts, an overstuffed town (50,000 souls) which is enclosed on three sides by the city of Boston. President John F. Kennedy was born in Brookline a scant ten minutes’ stroll from where I’m sitting. But my people were here long before his. The first Pendletons came over from Cardiff after the death of Oliver Cromwell. They were farriers. An ambitious lot, they prospered to such an extent that by the time of the Revolution they had become gentry. A Pendleton went with Benedict Arnold (while he was still loyal) to assault Quebec, where a four-pound ball deprived him forever of his left hand. The poor fellow actually replaced it with a hook, just like the pirate in Peter Pan. We used to have a painting of him, but I sold it. The War of the Rebellion and the Great War also counted Pendletons among their participants, and I myself was a lieutenant in the United States Navy during the Second World War.

We were never an exceptional family, though. In three centuries we produced only a single noteworthy member—my great-grandfather, A. Edward Pendleton, who was a globetrotter, an author and an eminent Egyptologist. Because he lived to the age of ninety-three, I knew him well. A delightful old boy he was, with the frosty-blue eyes and snowy hair of a winter sprite. The morning we found him dead in his bed he still seemed so hale and hearty that we thought he was playing possum, since he was a notorious practical joker. I shook the bedstead and Mother gave him a few gentle jabs to the ribs, hoping to make him giggle. Great-grampy—as we all called him—was definitely gone, however. That was in 1933, more than thirty-five years ago. I was sixteen.

Yes, he was the only one worthy of mention. How clearly I remember the heavy silver dollars with which he rewarded me for helping the delivery boy unload the cartons of canned goods and other comestibles from the wagon! What pleasure he took in buying the family groceries! And always in prodigious quantities. To this day I don’t know how we consumed so much food. On other occasions—birthdays and holidays—he would slip me a bright gold sovereign, or even two. They were lovely things, especially the ones with the young Victoria on them. Such a handsome and imperious creature she was!

But the best of all Great-grampy’s gifts, I would have to say, were the fascinating stories that he told me. Their variety was boundless. Hour upon hour I would hear of the marvels of ancient Egypt, of the splendors of the Pharaohs, the mysteries of the pyramids, the strange and almost awesome tenets of that long-dead civilization’s religion. I became remarkably knowledgeable on the subject. Like a sponge I absorbed his every word.

Egypt, though it constituted the greater part of his narrative, was by no means his only theme, however. There were vivid tales of the Congo and the river Zaire, descriptions of the Kalahari and Lake Ngami, stories of Alaska, Australia, Japan. Around the world he’d traveled, from the Indies to the Andes and from the Andes to the solitary Andamans. He saw the Czar Nicholas, Kaiser Wilhelm and the Mikado. He spoke with Garibaldi, met Oscar Wilde, knew H. Rider Haggard and Kipling, dined with the Khedive of Egypt, quarreled with Burton, entertained De Lesseps—and so on, and so on. Great-grampy was an amazing man, a hero worthy of Plutarch.

I had only one sibling, my sister Clarice. She resides in Montevideo and I haven’t heard from her in nearly twenty years. Everyone else is dead and gone. I live on in the old house alone—alone, that is, except for Eulalia.

3

EXOTIC COMMERCE

Early on the morning of the day that Norbie Hess arrived, I took the streetcar into Boston to sell a ushabti to the Turk. The oil company was demanding some payment on last winter’s bill and I required cash to placate them.

Mahir Suleyman is the Turk’s name. He has a basement shop at the wrong end—the run-down part—of Newbury Street, from which he deals in gimcracks, bibelots and gee-gaws. That day—it was a Friday—his mood was testy.

So many of these things you bring, he said, automatically scraping the base of the figurine with his thumbnail to verify that it wasn’t made of plaster. Maybe you bake them up in your gas stove, like those little people that are cut out of brown cake. How do you call them?

Gingerbread men, I said.

The very ones, said he, his voice like the trill of a flute and his lips parted just enough to give me a glimpse of his gold canine tooth. Gingerbread men—yes. Too many of a thing isn’t good, Al. Too much makes the article cheap—you follow me?

My eyes having grown adjusted to the murkiness of the room, I noticed Mr. Vodena in the far corner and nodded to him. He nodded in return, smiling.

If you think I’ll reduce my price, Mahir, you’re mistaken, I asserted. I’ve brought you several ushabtis—true enough—but you’ve sold them all, haven’t you?

Sure. Of course. Would I buy more if I did not? the Turk asked reasonably. That is what business is. Two things-—you buy, you sell. If you do not do the one thing, you cannot do the other.

I looked at him. The fellow was an odd sort, even for a foreigner. He wore a dark-blue jacket of some silken material, a long-collared white shirt and a maroon string necktie. His slightly paunchy middle was girded by a glossy black cummerbund, while the crease in his charcoal-gray trousers was as keen as the edge of a cutlass. That he managed to remain so neat amidst the jumble of dusty objets d’art forever surprised me, but he was a vain man, always stealing glances at the mirrors on the walls to see if the black cowlick curl on his forehead was in its proper position, and endlessly fiddling with his tie, his lapels, his coattails and other particulars of his dress.

Now, squinting his eyes, he held the ushabti up to the wan light of the window for a better view of the face and the inscription in the clay. What dynasty? he asked.

I can’t tell, I said. There was no tag.

He winced. His small brown eyes stopped squinting and filled with dismay. No tag? No tag? That’s nice! How can I sell a thing that I don’t know what it is, Al?

But you do know. It’s an ancient Egyptian funerary statuette. Don’t quibble, Mahir, I said, doing my best to restrain the annoyance that stirred in the back of my mind. For the prices I ask, you can hardly expect me to provide extensive documentation of each piece.

Fifty centuries old, it could be—or maybe fifty years only.

Come, come. You know perfectly well it’s genuine.

"Evet? Those Egyptians are smart—too clever. In Alexandria, I myself saw fakes that fooled an Oxford professor from England. Sure! It is not so hard to do because these people today make the stuff the same way their old ancestors did—the same clay, the same glaze, the same little cooking stoves."

All at once my cheeks grew warm. Are you saying, Mahir, that I’m trying to swindle you? I snapped. If you don’t want the damn thing, don’t buy it. Sidney Peretz on Boylston Street will—and he wont haggle like a whore, either.

"Okay, okay. I didn’t mean nothing. Aman! said Suleyman hastily. It’s old—yes. I never said it was a new thing, Al. Did I say that? I am talking only—business talking, conversation, a chat. You get too excited about just six or seven words. Aman! I’ll buy it—sure. I would not let you go to that cheater Peretz, Al. He gyps people. Chuckling artificially, the Turk waved the ushabti in a gesture of admonishment. I know you don’t like questions, but I ask because the customers ask. Always they want stories. Six languages I speak good, but not one of them is hieroglyphics—so I ask."

His dusky face was almost as flat as a face on a coin; these incised features now assumed a look of unwarranted injury.

Well, then take it to the museum, I muttered.

"When? If I shut my shop up, no money comes in. And that museum! A man can sit there hours, like in front of the gates of paradise. When the professor comes finally he looks two seconds, says ‘New Kingdom’ and runs away. Ne? New Kingdom? That’s all? And the customers want a whole big book. Yes! They will ask you the name of the pottery-maker’s mother, and what day she was born. What is that thing? they ask. What means this writing? Sometimes I even have to tell lies. You follow me, effendi?"

If that’s the case, I said, calming down a bit, you should study the subject. Go to the library in Copley Square and get one of my great-grandfather’s books—there are several of them there—and read it.

Suleyman regarded me shrewdly, and adjudging that I’d lost my anger, winked affably. Okay, Al, after the museum I’ll go to the library. Ha! He grinned. "But who gives me my et ve ekmek? You know what is et ve ekmek? Meat and bread, Al. Yes, meat and bread. Book study is for rich people. A poor person like me is tied to his shop with a rope."

Though my temper is swift to heat, it is equally quick to cool. Ashamed of my childish outburst, I returned his smile and said, Perhaps you are right, Mahir. Then, to dispel any residual tension, I added, But you are neither ignorant nor poor. It’s well known that all antique dealers have bags of gold and boxes of diamonds hidden away, and. . .

Ha! Ha! Ha! Gold and diamonds, this man says! he exclaimed, rolling his coffee-bean eyes. If I had such stuff would I stay in this dirty place? In this hole in the sidewalk?

Shaking his head emphatically, and then putting a finger to his brow to make sure the curl hadn’t been disarranged, he moved toward the rear of the shop, pausing once to set the Egyptian figure on a shelf beside an iron standish, and again to inspect himself in a tarnished mirror. Under his breath, he made a remark in his native tongue. He passed Mr. Vodena, gained the cluttered counter that served as his desk, dragged a folio-sized checkbook from under a ragged heap of woodcuts and opened it with a flourish.

If I had money I would be in Stamboul. I have less of it than a goat has feathers, he declared feelingly. They said there was much money in America. There is, yes—but those who own it do not give it for free. I wish I had some money—some big money, Al. I would fly away across the ocean, like those sea birds. Isn’t it so, Lajos?

His friend, Mr. Vodena, nodded and replied, It is so—yes. You would go back to Stamboul, like a sea gull.

The Turk wrote out the check while complaining about his life in America. The coffee here was undrinkable, he said, the yogurt terrible, the lokum expensive and always stale, the fruits and vegetables as hard as wood, the bread like uncooked dough. At the butcher store there was nothing but beef and pig meat. Even the raki brought straight from Turkey did not taste good when you drank it over here.

If he owned twelve or thirteen thousand dollars, if he had eighty thousand Turkish pounds, then he could buy a fine business in the covered bazaar in that queen of all cities, and be happy forever. A jewelry business is what he would get, because that is the best trade in the world.

I know much about jewelry, Al—about ivory, pearls, corals, amber, cameos, turquoises, mothers-of-pearls, silver things and gold, he explained, handing me the check. Gold—yes. I like very much gold. You think I have bags of gold? I wish I had only one bag, just one. Gold is nice. It feels nice to the fingers.

If you had one bag, Mr. Vodena said, you would want two, then.

Suleyman laughed. If I had one, soon I would get two! He closed the checkbook and shoved it under the papers again. So why don’t you bring me some gold—eh, Al? Why not a gold necklace or bracelet? Those old Egyptians had a lot of gold. King Tut—you remember him?

Yes, I do, but he was a rare case, said I. Of all the tombs in Egypt, his was the only one that hadn’t been robbed before the archaeologists found it.

A sad pity the finder of him wasn’t your great-grandfather, instead of them Englishmen. Think of finding a treasure in the ground! The notion lit a flame in Mahir’s eyes. It died suddenly, however, and he wrinkled his brow. But there was a curse put on them, people say. After, they had bad, bad luck all the time—yes?

That’s the story Still, I imagine my great-grandfather would’ve risked the curse for such a marvelous discovery. He told me that he walked over the entrance to Tutankhamen’s grave a hundred times, and never suspected what lay just beneath the sand. So I have no gold other than what’s in my watch chain.

Look out, Mr. Vodena said, shaking his head, which was covered with fuzzy white hair like the seed sphere of a dandelion, and smiling impishly, or Mahir will get your watch chain too, Mr. Pendleton, one of these days.

At this sally the Turk and I both laughed. Mr. Vodena—a Hungarian or Bulgarian, I’m not sure which—enjoys poking fun at his pal who accepts his jibes good-naturedly. Usually the two of them would be playing checkers together—or draughts, as they called it—but since it was early I guess the day’s tourney had yet to begin.

We exchanged a few more light remarks and then I made my way through the labyrinth of umbrella stands, hookahs and rolled rugs to the front door and departed.

It being a fine, sunny day I chose to walk home. How splendid it would be if I had twelve thousand dollars to bestow on the shopkeeper, I dreamed, so that he could return to Byzantium—to his figs, halvah and shish kebab—and purchase that jewelry store in the bazaar. Unfortunately, however, the check in my wallet represented the whole of my wealth in this rather niggardly world.

At Kenmore Square I slowed my pace, the better to appraise and appreciate the many young college girls who stand about there, wiggling and giggling. Each summer, I’ve noticed, they wear less and less clothing. It makes one wish for a long life.

As sure as a parsnip is not a persimmon,

So is it certain, old men crave young women.

That’s from Engenar’s Leonidas the King. Engenar was sagacious.

4

SENESCENCE

The reason I am inditing this story is to establish the facts while my mind is at ease and my memory clear. Should the police come around making inquiries, then I’m sure to grow flustered and blurt out nonsense. If I have it all set down on paper, there will be no room for misinterpretation and no cause for them to think me a criminal.

That morning I visited the Turk—yes. And on my return I fixed the medicine cabinet in the second-floor bathroom which had come loose from the wall. While engaged in this little chore I had the disenchanting experience of seeing for the first time just how old I’d grown. As we age, nature

Reviews for The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton

[ganeshaka · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Simply put, The Secret Life of Algernon Pendleton is a small masterpiece. It left me a little frightened ! Why? Why, I'll tell you.Mr. Pendleton (imagine the voice of Rod Serling intoning here) "is an aging white male, of independent but dwindling means, living alone, near Boston, in the gothic family homestead. His principal source of pin money is the occasional sale of an Egyptian antiquity from a collection amassed decades ago by his long deceased "great grampy", a semi-famous tomb raider cut from the Sir Richard Burton mold.""Algernon had the honor to serve his country in WWII, in the South Pacific, for which he received in recompense a concussion with lingering effects. This accounts, perhaps, for his bickering relationship with Eulalia, his intimate, sole companion and prized china pitcher. Aural hallucinations, you say? Don't press the point with Algernon.""Our action begins when an old war buddy shows up one day with a suitcase full of cash and a tale of marital failure. Throw confused compassion, a shrewd immigrant Arab antiques dealer, and a voluptuous treasure hunting Egyptologist into this mix, and you have the elements of ...the twilight zone."What sets this novel apart is the delicious first person narrative. Algernon is pensive, philosophical, randy, henpecked, bold at times then timid, corny, a genius, and charmingly silly. And able to kill at the blink of an eye. You get the same sense of unease, as you come to know him, that the late comedian Andy Kaufman and present day Sacha Baron Cohen are famous for invoking. What's next you wonder... an offer of a plate of cookies...a challenge to a nude wrestling match? At the last, I ended by cringing a bit - mon semblable, mon frere - at just how closely Algernon resembled...well, your humble reviewer! And therein lies the mastery. Like Henry James "The Turn of The Screw", or a moebius strip, at the end of the novel, you're back again assessing a really strange character: the phantom in the mirror, that voice in your head, you, y'all. You!

[kylekatz · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

1973. This is a good, creepy book. It deals with a lot of egyptian antiquities, pharoah's tombs and whatnot. The anti-hero is crazy or the universe works very differently than I thought it did. He can talk to inanimate objects and plants. He believes this is real. There are some murders, but it is not a who-done-it, more of a thriller. The thrill is in Greenan's writing and black humour. Also features Brookline and Boston occasionally. Especially Hall's Pond in Brookline, a favorite spot of mine. A quote:"At Kenmore Square I slowed my pace, the better to appraise and appreciate the many young college girls who stand about there, wiggling and giggling. Each summer I've noticed they wear less clothing. It makes on wish for a long life. "As sure as a parsnip is not a persimmon So it is certain, old men crave young women"That's from Engenar's 'Leonidas the King.' Engenar was sagacious."

[porius_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

pfalling in love with a vase, what sort of nonsense will I get up to next.