The Clairvoyant Countess

by Dorothy Gilman

  “I dreamed of Jan Heyer again last night,” she said, addressing herself to Pruden exclusively. “She was in a small room, this time with no windows, the walls of rough board, and in the room there was a broken-down bed to which she was handcuffed. There were burlap sacks in one corner, and on the wall a yellowed picture of your President Roosevelt. She was quite alone.

  “I want to say at once,” she added firmly, “that this was no ordinary dream. Jan Heyer’s grandparents mentioned to me that Jan possessed ‘second sight,’ which is an old-fashioned expression meaning that a person has psychic capabilities or,” she said with a thoughtful glance at the Chief, “some degree of clairvoyance. I believe that in both my dreams—last night’s in particular—I was in telepathic communication with Miss Heyer.”

  The Chief began to look distinctly uneasy. Pruden, with a glance at him, grinned and said, “Try to keep in mind, Chief, that it’s Madame Karitska who’s insisted all along that Jan Heyer wasn’t killed.”

  “I’ll try but it’s not easy,” growled the Chief.

  Swope, less traumatized by this jump into the unknown, said, “But Trafton’s a large city; that room you described could be anywhere.”

  “It might be possible,” suggested Madame Karitska, “to establish more closely the area in which she’s been hidden. I feel that Jan Heyer must have some experience in telepathic sending, or that this very charged emotional situation—her desperation, perhaps—has brought it to her. It is a situation very unusual, this, but it has great potential. Obviously she is a sender. Whether she can also receive telepathically, I do not know.”

  “You make it sound like two-way radio,” said the Chief accusingly.

  She smiled. “I only wish it were so easy! If you would like me to attempt some communication as an experiment, I would suggest calling in Mr. Faber-Jones and Gavin O’Connell to help.”

  “What else would you need?” asked Swope curiously.

  “A room in which we could sit very quietly, preferably in the dark, and become receptive to what she may be projecting. But I am thinking also that it might be possible, with the three of us working, to send her the impression that we are listening, and ask her if she can in any way project a picture of where she is. This will take time. It will also be very tiring, but the three of us can work in shifts.”

  “Weird,” said the Chief flatly, and then, “Any chance of this working?”

  “You might consider the alternatives,” Pruden pointed out. “At the moment they register zero.”

  “True,” the Chief said, turning thoughtful, and they waited, watching him. He said at last, “All right, we’ll try it, we’ve nothing to lose but our reputations. Pruden, get the lady what she needs.” He rose, looked down at Madame Karitska, started to speak, and then thought better of it and walked out.

  Because it was Saturday, Gavin was summoned from St. Bonaventure’s without the necessity for taxing explanations. Mr. Faber-Jones was discovered at home lunching, and agreed to collect Gavin on his way to headquarters. They arrived, curious and interested.

  “This is the girl,” Madame Karitska said, showing them the photograph in the Times after she had explained the circumstances. “She probably has no idea that she’s believed dead, but she would know she is missing and that her grandparents would be worried. I think she has been trying very hard to reassure them telepathically, but with no success. Or perhaps,” said Madame Karitska thoughtfully, “she did meet with some success, because they felt uneasy enough to think of a seance. Through them she was, in a sense, introduced to me.”

  “And walked into your dreams,” Gavin said, nodding.

  “Yes, but it is relatively easy to receive telepathic communication in dreams; it happens frequently to most people without their realizing it. What we must attempt here is a deliberate communication in a waking state.”

  “How?” asked Gavin eagerly.

  “It would be not so different from your turning of the pages in a book, Gavin … To send a message, at least. You would empty the mind of thought and bring attention—attention like a laser beam—on any message we send to Miss Heyer. To receive a message telepathically requires a technique similar to meditation: an emptying of the mind, stillness, and total passiveness. Also patience,” she added wryly.

  Faber-Jones looked doubtful. “Are you sure you want me? I’m so damned new at this and frankly it still strikes me as ridiculous, even though I’ve felt these things happen.”

  “My friend, we need your confidence and your strength,” she said warmly. “Please, do not be doubtful. I suggest we start by projecting a picture of ourselves seated in those three chairs, waiting to learn where she is. If she can just feel our attention, it may give her support.”

  “I’m ready,” Gavin told her.

  Faber-Jones nodded.

  “Good,” said Madame Karitska. “I think we do this as a team for fifteen minutes—perhaps a small light under the clock will not distract us—and then you, Gavin, take a break for fifteen minutes, then Faber-Jones will rest, after which I will take fifteen minutes. Is this agreeable?”

  Pruden found a small desk lamp in a nearby office and set it up in a corner. The overhead lights were turned off, the one window shuttered and the telephone disconnected. He left them in semidarkness, seated quietly in a row in the center of the room, and just to be certain they wouldn’t be interrupted he posted Benson down the hall to guard the room from intruders. He noticed as he left that it was just one o’clock.

  By two o’clock there had been one hundred and twenty telephone calls in answer to the photographs in the Times, and every available policeman was at work checking out the leads. Making it even more intricate was the fact that Tommy Brudenhall’s description had been included in the Times article; Pruden divided his men into three groups. In the meantime the exhumation had taken place and Jan Heyer’s dental charts were being traced. Her dentist turned out to be a Daniel Murk, D.D.S., with a Broad Street address. It was difficult finding him, but by half past two it was determined without any further doubt that the girl killed in the accident was not Jan Heyer. A man was detailed to notify the elder Heyers of this, and Pruden made his way up to the third floor to see if anything was happening there. He found Gavin sipping a glass of milk in the hall with Benson. “Well?” he asked somewhat curtly, the incongruity and the hopelessness of this sweeping over him.

  “Nothing really,” Gavin said. “We’re going to stop sending and begin receiving when I go back. We’re all getting awfully tired.”

  “What do you mean, nothing really?”

  “Jonesy had the feeling once—it scared him, though, and he panicked—of making contact with something. Or somebody, I mean. It’s too bad he panicked, although I guess I would have too,” Gavin said modestly. “He said it was like walking into somebody’s mind for a second. It must have been spooky.”

  Pruden said curiously, “Did he think it was hers?”

  Gavin sighed. “He hopes not. He said there was an awful kind of despair—hopelessness, actually—and a physical sensation of cold and thirst. It wasn’t so good.”

  “Cold,” repeated Pruden and then he said, “Oh God, the cold, I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’d better go in now,” said Gavin and handing his empty glass to Benson he tiptoed back inside.

  At three o’clock the owner of a delicatessen on River Avenue called in to report that a young man resembling Tommy Brudenhall had bought five sandwiches at his shop on Tuesday night. His description of the young man matched Tommy closely enough to be promising, and Pruden ordered patrolmen to concentrate on River Avenue and begin checking out buildings in that area. At best it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack: the area was honeycombed with old warehouses, two freight stations, wharves, and abandoned buildings.

  And then at quarter past five Benson paged him from an office telephone and asked him to come upstairs. He sounded excited. “They say they’ve got something.”

  Pruden raced upst
airs and found the three psychics talking in the hall. Madame Karitska said eagerly, “We all received it—all of us, simultaneously. It was marvelously clear and strong. It has to mean something: a glass of beer.”

  “A what?” said Pruden blankly.

  “A glass of beer. Amber liquid with white foam in a glass mug.”

  Pruden tried not to show his disappointment. “You really think it’s important?”

  Faber-Jones said stiffly, “My dear Lieutenant, you can’t expect a full-blown telegram; of course it has to mean something. Just the sending of such a picture took enormous concentration. Enormous.”

  “Beer,” Pruden repeated. “Beer … malt … foam … a glass mug … Cocktail bar, maybe? Saloon?” Then he gasped, “Brewery! The old Wirlitzer place is down there near Convention Hall.” He snapped his fingers. “Benson, send a message—oh, to hell with it, come on, let’s go.”

  When the car pulled up in front of the huge, dilapidated old Wirlitzer Building it was six o’clock and the first flakes of snow had begun to drift through the circles of light carved out of the darkness by the street lamps. A cold November wind blew in from the river, setting Pruden’s teeth on edge. Even when he turned off the siren there was no cessation of sound as other patrol cars converged on the scene, their headlights invading the black silhouette of the building. Pruden climbed out of his car to meet the others and they conferred quietly near the boarded-up entrance to the brewery.

  “Can we go too?” asked Gavin when Pruden returned to the car.

  “Not on your life,” Pruden told him. “That place was condemned eight years ago. There’s also no way of knowing whether Tommy Brudenhall’s in there, armed. If it is the right place,” he added, with a worried glance at the sky.

  “We just have to wait?” Gavin asked, disappointed.

  “We just have to wait,” Pruden told him, and began unwinding his walkie-talkie.

  Occasionally Swope’s voice drifted in to them, reporting the top floor searched, and then the second floor, and once or twice they could see the flash of lights moving behind shuttered windows. The snow blurred and softened the harsh outlines of the building and danced through the beams of the spotlights set up to illuminate the door. Nobody spoke.

  Suddenly Swope’s voice interrupted the appalling silence. “We’ve found her!” he shouted. “We’ve found her, Lieutenant! Down in the basement.”

  Gavin reached out and touched Madame Karitska, found her hand and squeezed it.

  “But you’d better call an ambulance,” added Swope. “She’s pretty weak. Says Brudenhall hasn’t been around for three days. No food, no water. As soon as we get the handcuffs off her we’ll be up.”

  They climbed out of the car and stood waiting in the howling wind, the snowflakes biting their eyes. Presently the wooden door opened slowly. Pruden went forward to help, followed at a distance by the others, so that he was the first to see her as she moved into the spotlight. She didn’t look at all like her passport picture, he thought. She limped toward him supported by two policemen, tall and loose-limbed, looking younger than he’d expected in a pair of old blue-jeans and a dirty sweat shirt, long, pale-gold hair framing a gamin face.

  He said with a sense of awe, “Hello there.”

  “She wants to meet the Karitska woman,” said Benson.

  Jan Heyer broke away and stumbled toward Madame Karitska, half laughing, half crying. “Meet?” she said, embracing her. “But I already know you—know you all so well!”

  Pruden watched her turn toward Faber-Jones and Gavin, and he felt an inexplicable stab of jealousy. The ambulance attendant moved forward to help and Pruden, oddly reluctant to see her go, walked to the door of the ambulance and waited there.

  The girl passed him. Seeing him in the spotlight for the first time she gave him a startled glance and said, “Oh!” and then added shyly, “Thank you very much.” The doors closed behind her, the driver climbed inside, and the ambulance pulled away, leaving him standing there alone.

  “Well, my friend?” said Madame Karitska, joining him.

  He said in astonishment, “She’s lovely.”

  “Yes, and so fair-haired,” pointed out Madame Karitska, her eyes mischievous.

  “But, damn it,” he said helplessly, “all I could say was ‘hello there.’ She’d been through hell and all I could do was gape at her like a bloody schoolboy and say ‘hello there.’ ”

  “Yes,” said Madame Karitska, amused. “Nevertheless you will see her again. Would you have preferred to throw your coat on the ground for her to walk on? It would have become very wet, my friend, for I doubt that you’ve noticed but it’s snowing quite hard now.”

  “You don’t understand,” Pruden said angrily. “I felt such a clumsy fool … I feel like such a fool now.”

  Madame Karitska regarded him with impatience. “My dear Lieutenant,” she said, “if you could only turn the kaleidoscope a fraction of an inch the view would dazzle you! In the meantime, however, it is excruciatingly cold here and Gavin has begun sneezing and what we all need is a cup of very hot strong coffee—Turkish, of course. Shall we go?”

  For Bob and Spence especially, and for

  psychics Ida Harrington and Vivian Meyer

  Please turn the page

  for an exciting peek at

  Dorothy Gilman’s

  new novel

  KALEIDOSCOPE,

  featuring Madame Karitska.

  Available at your local bookstore.

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group.

  Chapter 1

  Madame Karitska, leaving the shabby brownstone on Eighth Street, gave only a cursory glance at the sign in the first-floor window that read MADAME KARITSKA, READINGS. It was ironic, she thought as she stepped into the bright noon sunshine, how a talent that had earned her whippings as a child, and for which she had never before accepted money, had led her so firmly to this street a year ago, and to this brownstone, to place the sign in the window that at last admitted her gift of clairvoyance.

  On the other hand, her life had always been filled with surprises, and among them, here in Trafton, was her blossoming friendship with Detective Lieutenant Pruden, whose suspicions and skepticism had long since been obliterated by the help she’d been able to offer him in his work. The shoddiness of the neighborhood neither bothered nor depressed her; after all, she had known poverty in Kabul, and wealth in Antwerp, and poverty again in America, and in spite of Eighth Street’s flirting with decay it no longer seemed to deter her clients, which amused her. She was becoming known.

  At the moment, however, she was between appointments and free to venture uptown for a few purchases, and she was in no hurry; she walked slowly, drinking in the sounds and colors along the way as if they were intoxicating, as for her they were. Reaching Tenth Street she saw that the warmth of the sun had brought Sreja Zagredi out of his secondhand furniture store to sit in the sun, and she greeted him cordially.

  His eyes brightened. “Ah, Madame Karitska, you have the step of a young girl!”

  “And you the heart of a brigand,” she told him. “How is my rug today?”

  “Still here,” he told her, pointing to it displayed in the window. “I have a very good offer for it the other day, from a man uptown who appreciates the finest of old rugs, I assure you.”

  “Nonsense,” said Madame Karitska crisply, “it’s a poor copy of an Oriental rug, and shabby as well.”

  “Shabby! A good rug ages like wine,” he told her indignantly. “You want garish colors, God forbid? A hundred dollars is still my price, but only for you.”

  Madame Karitska smiled. “The colors were garish,” she pointed out amiably, “but you’ve had it hanging in the sun all winter, spring and summer to fade it. My offer remains eighty-five dollars.”

  “Eighty-five!” He pulled at his considerable hair in anguish. “What a fool you make of me to tell this stranger from uptown I save it for a friend! With five children to feed you speak starvation to me, Madame Karit
ska.”

  She observed him critically. “Scarcely starving. I think you could lose at least twenty pounds, Mr. Zagredi, if you cut down on the brînzǎ and the raki.”

  “This is a rug worth at least one hundred fifty uptown!”

  Madame Karitska shrugged. “Then take it uptown, Mr. Zagredi.”

  He blew through his mustache and eyed her shrewdly. “For you I have already come down to one hundred.”

  “And for you I have already gone up to eighty-five,” she reminded him.

  They eyed each other appreciatively, and he laughed. “There is no one like you anymore, Madame Karitska; you know how to haggle like in the old country and it does my heart good. Like the knife—sharp!”

  “Very sharp, yes,” she told him cheerfully. “In the meantime it is good to see you, and say hello to your wife for me, Mr. Zagredi.”

  “Come for a dinner of mǎmǎligǎ,” he called after her. “Come soon—you are the only one who can put sense into my son’s head about school.”

  “I will,” she promised, smiling, and they parted with perfect understanding, their minds pleasantly exercised and soothed by the exchange.

  Reaching the subway station at Eleventh Street she paid her fare and was pleased to find a seat available. In the moment before the doors slammed shut, two men entered the car, one of them young, with a hard, suntanned face that almost matched the color of his trench coat, and who took a seat some distance away. The other, older man wore a dark, somewhat shabby suit and carried a small attaché case, and he sat down opposite her; glancing at him she gave a start, for she recognized him. Leaning forward she was about to call across the aisle to him when he lifted his head and looked directly at her and then through her, with not a trace of expression on his face.

  At once Madame Karitska covered her movement by leaning down and retying a shoelace. When she straightened again she studied the man briefly and glanced away, but she was alert now, and thoughtful.