"I'm Francis Joyne," I said. "Are you Mr. Petersen?"
"Sure. I'm Petersen. What can I do for you?"
"Well, Mr. Petersen, I'm very much interested in the Inner World Society of Truth Believers. I was present and listened to Narda this Sunday morning, and as I've learned that you were also present, I hoped we could talk about the Society."
He opened the door wider and said, "Come in Mr. Joyne, was it? Please come in."
I went inside and he showed me to an old Morris chair, much used and comfortable. I sat down and said, "The thing is, I've only recently become aware of the Society, but I'm interested in the work. I might be interested enough to aid the organization, well, financially, but of course I'd like the opinion of others. I'd like to be sure the organization is, shall we say, reliable."
"I see." He grabbed one of his big ears in a small hand and scratched it vigorously. "Could I fix you some tea, Mr. Joyne?"
"No, but thanks. I really don't have much time. Just thought I'd stop in for a minute and ask you about the organization. Your opinion."
"Sure. Sure. Well, I guess I can't tell you much, Mr. Joyne. First time I was ever there was Sunday."
"How did you happen to go there?"
"Just read about it in the papers. Seen it before, but just didn't never go. Paper said it was a new outlook on life, new peace of mind and suchlike. I live alone here, Mr. Joyne. Sometimes it gets kind of lonesome, you know, so I just up and went. Thought maybe I'd get something out of it."
"How did the service impress you, Mr. Petersen? Did you enjoy it? Was it about what you expected?"
"Don't rightly know." He played with his ear some more. "Was a strange thing—felt like I was off somewhere else when that Mr. Narda was doing his talking. Couldn't understand more'n half what he said. Seemed like a real smart one, though. I guess I liked it all right."
"Do you plan to go back again? Regularly, maybe?"
"Well, I didn't go back this morning, but I was thinking about it for tomorrow. Can't see no harm in it, and it's a place to go. Made me feel kind of peaceful. I suppose I'll be going back. How about you, Mr. Joyne? You be going back there to them meetings?"
I got up, "Yes," I said. "I'll be going back."
"Good. We'll see each other there, maybe?"
"Maybe we will, Mr. Petersen. Thanks for your time."
He went with me to the door and just before I left he said, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down behind his tightly knotted black tie, "Say, Mr. Joyne. Any time you want to come back and talk, I'd be glad to have you. Always drink tea myself, but I could get something else if you'd like."
I thanked him, knowing I wouldn't be back, and left feeling a little sorry for Mr. Petersen.
I killed another forty-five minutes checking the rest of the names on my first list, and the story was just about the same. A man and his wife had attended the Sunday session because their pastor had by some strange set of unimaginable circumstances become involved in a most unseemly scandal, and as a result of this blow they were window-shopping. Yes, they really thought Narda had a lot on the ball—a revelation. A young kid and his girl just saw the light and went over to see what was going on. They both got a big kick out of the deal and, like me, they "like to busted laughing." The last name on my list was a woman of forty-odd years with an inquiring mind, who was investigating the "multiple facets of religious expression in Southern California." We had quite a talk. When I left there it was after eight P.M., and I dug out the list of what I supposed were the regulars, or active disciples of Narda's hooey.
The first name was Alfred P. Fresnell, and I had to ring three times and knock to get him to open the door. The conversation was interesting, if not very enlightening.
He was a tall man dressed in a maroon silk robe and his face looked like a large blob of mayonnaise. He was thin and pale.
He looked as if he'd just waked up and he said grumpily, "I don't want any," and started to shut the door in my face.
I leaned easily on the door and said, "I'm interested in discussing the Inner World Society with you. I understand you're acquainted with the organization."
He glared at me, growled, "Beat it," and slammed the door shut. I heard a key turn in the lock and footsteps receding from the door. It looked as if the conversation was ended.
Back to the Cad, out to Harvard Boulevard, and up to the door of 824½. It was a big place set back behind a lot of green lawn that was getting ragged and long, and it looked as if it had cost somebody a pile of dough. I pressed the buzzer at the side of the heavy door and chimes went off inside like the "Prelude in C-sharp Minor." Rachmaninoff was still bouncing gloomily off the walls when the door opened and a woman about thirty years old looked out at me.
She was sallow-complexioned with pleasant, regular features and brown hair tied on top of her head in a colorful bandanna. She was the second gal I'd seen in the last few hours with a highball glass in her hand, but she either hadn't had much to drink or she held her liquor better than Lucille. Praise be.
She gave me a glassy-eyed look and said inquiringly, "Yes?"
I'd been Francis Joyne for over an hour now; I switched back to me to see what happened. "Good evening," I said. "I'm Shell Scott, a private detective. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes."
She narrowed her eyes and squinted at me, chewing nervously on her lower lip. "A detective? What's the matter?"
"Nothing's the matter." I tried to grin at her reassuringly. "You're Mrs. Kelland, aren't you?"
"Yes, of course, but what…" Her voice trailed on and she continued nibbling at her lip.
"I'm working on a case and I thought you might be able to supply me with some of the background I need. You're not personally involved, Mrs. Kelland."
She licked her lips with a furred tongue. "Well, all right. All right, I guess. Come on in."
I followed her into the living room and perched on a chair.
"Mrs. Kelland," I said, "I've learned you were, for a time, actively interested in the Inner World Society of Truth Believers. I wonder if you could give me a little more information about the Society."
She gulped the last half of her highball before she answered, "I've got nothing to do with that outfit."
"You did go to their meetings for some time, though, didn't you?"
"Just a couple times. I told you, I've got nothing to do with them."
I knew better, but I let it ride. "What did you think of the organization, Mrs. Kelland? Did you find that Narda's philosophy was, well, of benefit to you? Of any real worth?"
She put the highball glass on the floor, then leaned back into the cushions of the divan and yawned. "Listen," she said at last. "I don't know anything about it, Mr.—whatever your name is. I'm tired; past my bedtime. Don't want to talk about it. Don't know anything about it. Leave me alone. Just leave me alone." She closed her eyes and let her head relax against the cushion behind her head.
I sat and looked at her for a minute or two, wondering. Finally I said, "One other thing, Mrs. Kelland, and I'll go. Mrs. Kelland?
My conversational abilities apparently weren't of the highest order. Mrs. Kelland snoozed quietly, breasts rising and falling with her breathing, and her lips making a tiny puffing sound as she exhaled. I must have been the most exciting company she'd had for a week.
I got up quietly, said, "Pleasant dreams, my love," and let myself out. It was eight-forty-five Monday night.
I drove to the nearest pay phone and called Samson.
"This is Shell, Sam. Finally. Let's—"
"Where the hell you been?"
"Never mind that now, Sam. What say we call on Narda?"
"It's about time. Where you at?"
"The two of us ought to be enough to arrest dear old Narda, huh?"
"O.K., genius. We arrest him, huh?"
"Yeah. On suspicion."
"Suspicion of what, genius?"
"Murder, Sam. Suspicion of murder."
Chapter Seventeen
&nb
sp; WHEN WE PULLED up in the graveled driveway at the side of the temple, Samson clicked off the car lights, still growling.
"Sam," I said, "I know this is a little unusual, and I might be about to make a damn fool of myself, but string along with me, will you? Something might happen. There's just one way everything makes sense at all, and I'd like to try it that way. I'd appreciate it if you'd let me handle the play and make a fool of myself if it works out that way."
As we got out of the car Samson stuck one of his black cigars in his mouth and growled, "Damn you, Shell. If it was anybody but you…This better be good. If it's not, I got a good mind to clump you in a cell where you'll be out of my hair.
"It'll be good, Sam." I tried to sound sure of it myself.
"I'd like to keep him in the dark a while about why we're out here."
After we rang, the door was opened by Narda himself. He looked out at us without saying anything, but his jaw dropped when he saw me.
"Surprise," I said. "What's the matter, Narda? Didn't you expect to see me anymore?"
He started to slam the door shut, but Sam and I leaned against it and walked into the black-draped room where Narda and I had first chatted. No organ music this time.
Narda backed up stiffly, black robes hanging heavily around his ankles, his dark eyes staring at us from under the white turban.
I said, "This is Captain Phil Samson, Narda. He's from the Homicide Division of the Central Detective Bureau."
"Homicide? Why…what are you doing here?" He'd recovered a little of his composure, but he didn't wear it very well.
"He wants to talk to," I went on. "Me too. Just a little conversation. What say we go to your room?"
He blustered a little. "We can talk here. This is an invasion of my privacy. This is my home. You can't—"
"Stow it, Narda," I said. "We're bigger than you are. Let's go."
He pressed his jaws together, but turned and led us to the room I'd burgled the night before. Outside the door I said to Sam, "Sit tight with him, will you? I'll be back in a couple of minutes."
Sam glared at me and almost bit off the end of his unlighted cigar, but I turned and took off before he exploded.
I went prowling for Loren, the white-robed, round-faced gal I'd first run into here, and the one who exchanged intimate glances with the now nervous Narda. I had the beginnings of an idea that she might be able to toss some light on. There wasn't much downstairs: the big front room, Narda's room, and a couple of others, empty. In one of the rooms upstairs I found the other woman who carried a candle for the sunrise services. The door was unlocked and I was trying it when she opened the door and looked out at me. She was surprised as hell.
I said, "Nothing to worry about. Your boss is in a little trouble. The police are here."
Her eyes got wide. "Police?"
"Yeah. Relax. I'm looking for Loren. What room's she in?"
"Why, two doors down the hall." She gestured with her head. "What's the matter?"
"Don't worry about it now. We'll clear it all up later. Thanks. You'd better stay in your room for a while."
She swallowed visibly and said, "I will. Yes, sir, I will."
I waited till she'd shut the door, then walked down the hall. The first door was directly opposite the stairs; the second was just beyond it and to the right of the stairs. I stopped at it and knocked. Nobody answered, so I opened the door with the skeleton keys I still carried and went in.
Loren hadn't been dead long. Her bluish flesh was still firm and warm, and she looked as if the last tortured breath might just have passed her lips. She lay on the floor just inside the door as if she'd given up trying to reach it when the pain became too strong and the will too weak. A dark-blue robe lay loosely about her twisted body.
Her eyes were wide open and staring with that peculiar, soul-shivering fixity and blankness of the dead. A little froth was on her lips. Her left arm was bent under her and the right was extended before her, both fists tightly clenched. Near her, on the floor, was a gleaming hypodermic syringe with the thin, hollow needle that had poured death into her veins.
I didn't pick up the syringe, but I knew if there were prints on it they'd all be hers. I sniffed cautiously at the needle and the barrel, and the characteristic peach-pit odor was the same as that on her lips.
What had happened was obvious enough. Loren had squeezed the hypodermic plunger and sent a few deadly grains of cyanide of potassium directly into her blood. She'd have died fast: dizziness and pain, the heart pounding and straining, muscles constricting, the entire body screaming for air that wouldn't come. She'd have died fast… and horribly.
I didn't touch her except to feel for the pulse I knew wasn't there. I sat down on the floor, leaned back against the wall, and thought about a lot of things: faces, words, glances, violence, slammed doors, and murder, among others. I hadn't expected to find Loren like this, and for a minute it threw me for a loss, but it cleared up something that had been puzzling me all along. I sat with the dead woman and thought about the last couple of days and nights, and thought quite a lot about Narda. Then I got up and walked back down the stairs and found the phone.
I lifted the phone wearily and dialed the number of my apartment. I heard the phone removed from the hook, but nobody answered.
I said, "Lina, this is Shell. I want you to do something for me."
Still no answer.
I got a cold chill for a second, then remembered I was the guy who'd told her to clam up till she was sure it was me. I'd never called her on the phone before, so she couldn't be expected to know my voice positively.
I fixed that. I said, "O.K., pepper pot," and mentioned an incident of the night before that nobody could have known about except me.
She laughed and said, "It is my querido, Shell. What do I do for you?"
"You know where the IW temple is out on Silver Lake Boulevard?"
"I know where it is, yes."
"This might sound silly, honey, but I think it'll help. Do you know this Narda? The big wheel out here?"
"No, Shell."
"Well, I'm out here at the temple with a big, gray-haired cop named Samson. He weighs damn near as much as I do, and he's got a kind of pinkish face and a jaw that looks like a chunk of rock. He'll probably be chewing a cigar. There'll be him and me and another guy in a room out here. The other guy is Narda. I want you to grab a cab and get out here as fast as you can. Don't stop to pretty up." I told her where we'd be in the house and went on: "Knock on the door of the room we're in, then walk right inside and start laughing at Narda. Get it? Start laughing like you'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. And the front door's open. Slam it when you come in so I'll know you're here. That's all. Got it?"
She said without hesitating, "Sí, querido. I will do what you say, but I think you are crazy."
I said, "Maybe I am, honey," hung up, and walked back to Narda's room. Samson was sitting in a wooden chair by the door and Narda stood opposite him, nervously twisting his bony fingers together.
Narda glanced at me as I came in the door and walked across the room toward him. I stopped in front of him, grabbed him by the loose front of his black robe, and with my other hand jerked the white turban off the gleaming bald head of the very active corpse of Walter Press.
Chapter Eighteen
PRESS CLAPPED HIS hands to his bald head and struggled a little as I spun him around and jerked at the padded, quilted robe that covered his body.
He tried to fight me. He screamed hoarsely, "Stop! Stop it. You can't, you can't!" but I slammed him up against the wall, pain lancing through my bandaged right hand, and ripped the robe from him and flung it to the floor.
He turned and flattened his back against the wall, arms spread and the palms of his hands pressed against the wall behind him, as if he could force his way into the wood and out of our sight.
He was a sad specimen of a man without his trappings of divinity and clad only in a pair of baggy white shorts. His frame was shrunken, hollow
-chested, and potbellied, and his hairless chest was pale.
His mouth opened wide and he pulled his lower lip down from his teeth in an anguished grimace, then rolled his eyes to the robe crumpled on the floor, the heavy robe that had covered his thin shoulders, scrawny chest, and bony knees, and made him look like a man. Without the protecting folds of the robe to hide them, the clumsy shoes on his feet made it obvious, too, how he'd grown from the five-seven of Walter Press to the more imposing five-ten or five-eleven of Narda. And it explained why, when he left the room after our first inverview, he'd looked as if he were walking on eggs—stiffly, awkwardly.
I said, "We came out to arrest you for murder, Press."
"Press? Press? I'm not Press. He's dead. He's dead. I'm Narda. Narda! Do you hear me?"
The booming voice was incongruous now, coming twisted and harsh from the almost naked man. Not at all like the "Disciples. Disciples. Listen to me…" I remembered from Sunday morning.
"Shut up, Press," I snarled. "You murdering bastard. You'll die in the gas chamber, Press. Want to tell us about it, Press?"
He was starting to crack just a little. He'd been Narda—powerful, masterful, almost divine Narda—so long he probably partly believed he was what he wanted others to think him. But it was tough going right now.
"I haven't killed anybody. I haven't. I swear it. I swear I haven't killed anybody."
"The hell you say, Press. And, Walter, I didn't mean lately. I meant about a year ago. About the twelfth of September, How about then, friend?"
He clamped his teeth together and pushed himself back harder against the wall, his eyes darting from one side of the room to the other. He didn't say anything.
I asked him again, "How about it, Press? Going to tell us?"
He lifted his eyes to glare at me and his lips twitched, but he didn't speak.
Samson had risen from his chair and was holding his cigar in his hand. He said, "Goddamn."
"Sam," I said, "take him. I'll be right back." I went out the door as Sam stuck the cigar back in his mouth.
I ran upstairs and banged on the door of the room where I'd left the other woman. She opened the door immediately.
The Case of the Vanishing Beauty Page 14
