An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  “Dr. Smathers has no time for consultations,” she sniffed, turning her attention back to her typewriter.

  “Then I’d like to speak with Dr. Kee.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Mrs. Pfatt said indignantly, her chins quivering. “Dr. Kee will not see you either.”

  “How do you know unless you ask?”

  “I know my job, sir,” she said, and resumed typing.

  Taking my leave of the charming Mrs. Pfatt, I walked down a long corridor lined on both sides with classrooms. The rooms were all empty, except for one where a makeup examination for a summer course was in progress. A few students recognized me and waved; I grinned and waved back. From what I could see, everything in Marten Hall was distressingly in order.

  The building had four floors, and I started to work my way up them as casually as possible. The second floor consisted of empty classrooms, while the third was a combination of offices and laboratories, sparsely populated on a summer Friday with a few graduate researchers. I headed toward the stairway at the end of the corridor, stopped and stared. A heavy steel door had been installed across the entrance to the stairs. A warning had been stenciled in red paint on the cold gray metal.

  NO ADMITTANCE AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

  There was no reason why I couldn’t come back to Marten Hall after my meeting with Janet Monroe; I simply didn’t care to. To judge by Mrs. Pfatt’s behavior, I could spend all summer playing hide-and-seek with Smathers and Kee without ever coming up a winner. I was impatient to get on with the job; as a result, I did something I might not otherwise have done: used a lockpick.

  Smathers should have spent less money on steel and more on the lock: I had it open in about five minutes. A narrow flight of stairs snaked up and twisted to the left. The inside of the door as well as the walls and ceiling of the stairwell had been soundproofed. It seemed a curious expense for a psychology department; mental processes just don’t make that much noise.

  I climbed the stairs and found myself at the end of a long corridor which had been expensively remodeled with glassed-in offices on one side and locked steel doors on the other. I decided to jimmy my way into one of the locked rooms, but first wanted to make sure that the offices on the left were empty. They were—except for the last one.

  The Chinese caught me out of the corner of his eye before I could duck down out of sight. He was the original Captain Flash, out of his chair and standing in front of me in a lot less time than it would have taken his rival to find an empty phone booth.

  “Uh … Dr. Kee?”

  The man simply stared at me, which probably made him Kee’s assistant. It occurred to me that I should have paid closer attention to Barnum’s mini-lecture on first impressions: the man in front of me looked like a battered refugee from a tong war. Somebody had tried to use his head as a whetstone; his right cheek was a sheet of white, rippled scar tissue. He looked blind in the right eye, but the left was perfectly all right; he was glowering at me with it.

  Smiling, I wished him a cheery good afternoon. He still said nothing.

  “Is Dr. Smathers here?”

  Still no response; he might have taken it as a Chinese insult, or maybe he just didn’t care for dwarfs. I shrugged and turned around to walk away.

  The Chinese was around in front of me like a cat, crouched and balanced on the balls of his feet like a prizefighter. His right hand came out and gripped my shoulder. “No go!” he yelped in lumpy English.

  My watch told me I had fifteen minutes before my meeting with Janet Monroe. “Sorry,” I said, slapping his hand away. “You’re a brilliant conversationalist; I’d love to stay, but I’ve got business.”

  I started to step around him. He moved with me, reaching out with snake speed to grip my shoulders with both hands. His fingers started to tighten on the nerves and muscles around my collarbone. I slapped his hands away again with more force, hitting the insides of his elbows sharply with the sides of my hands. He didn’t like that; he sputtered something in Chinese and took a swing at my head. I ducked under the blow and stepped into him, spinning clockwise to gain momentum, snapping my elbow into his solar plexus. I hit him a lot harder than I would have if I hadn’t been slightly perturbed. He arched on his toes, the air exploding from his lungs, then crumpled to the floor, where he gasped and heaved for air like a beached fish.

  “Tell Dr. Smathers that Bob Frederickson was here to see him,” I said, squatting next to the man’s head. Pain, surprise and hate swam in the good eye, filming it like a second skin. “Tell him I’d like to buy him a beer one of these days, when he’s got the time.”

  Janet Monroe was waiting for me in her main laboratory. The woman was the pride of her religious order and a leading researcher in microbiology; more important to me, she was a valued friend. We’d drained a good many pots of coffee with arcane philosophical chitchat about God, gods, men’s needs and deeds. Janet was a handsome woman in her early fifties. As usual, her shiny gray hair was drawn back into a flowing ponytail, which served to highlight her violet eyes and the finely sculpted, aquiline features of her face. Now she looked troubled.

  “How’s my favorite nun?” I asked, kissing her hand.

  “Hello, Mongo,” Janet said, taking my hand in both of hers and squeezing my fingers hard. She looked at me, frowned. “Are you all right? You look pale.”

  “Indigestion,” I said, resisting the impulse to add something about Chinese food. Putting Kee’s assistant on the floor hadn’t really involved that much exercise, but the residual tension from the confrontation obviously still showed. “What did you want to see me about?”

  She nodded toward a small office just off the laboratory. “The man I want you to meet is in there.”

  The man waiting for me looked like a movie star who didn’t want to be recognized. When he took off his dark glasses, he still looked like a movie star; he also looked like a certain famous Southern senator who was very close to wrapping up his party’s presidential nomination.

  “Dr. Frederickson,” he said in deep, stentorian tones that echoed faintly in the small office. “I’ve been doing so much reading about you in the past few days that I feel I already know you. I must say, it’s a distinct pleasure. I’m Bill Younger.”

  “I know. Nice to meet you, Senator.” I shook his large, sinewy hand. With his boyish, middle-aged face and full head of brown, razor-cut hair, Younger looked good. Except for the anxiety in his eyes, he might have been waiting to step into a televison studio.

  I glanced inquisitively at Janet, but she was standing over by a window, her arms loose at her sides and her gaze fastened steadily on the floor. When I looked back at Younger, he cocked his head to one side and smiled absently, as at a memory.

  “I used to take Linda—my daughter—to see you perform when you were with the circus,” he said distantly. “You were Mongo the Magnificent. What an incredible gymnast and tumbler you were. I remember the stunt where you—”

  “That was a long time ago, Senator,” I interrupted gently. It had been seven years since I’d left the circus, but it seemed a hundred. “Why the background check?”

  “I recommended you, Mongo,” Janet quietly interjected from the other side of the room.

  Younger’s smile faded. “Now you’re very well known as a private investigator,” he said, looking at me hard as though he couldn’t quite believe it. “I wanted to make certain you were also discreet. You are; your credentials are impeccable.” His tone shifted slightly. “You seem to have a penchant for unusual cases.”

  “Unusual cases seem to have a penchant for me. You’d be amazed how few people feel the need for a dwarf private investigator.”

  Younger wasn’t really listening. “Have you heard of Esteban Morales?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps I should explain,” Janet said, leaving her outpost by the window and coming across the room to us. That was fine with me; the Senator seemed to be having trouble getting started. Janet stopped in front of me, continued softly:
“Esteban is a healer.”

  “A doctor?”

  “No, Mongo,” Janet said, slowly shaking her head, “not a doctor. Esteban is a psychic healer. He heals with his hands … or maybe his mind.” She paused and looked at me intently, as though trying to gauge my reaction. I must have looked startled, because she quickly added, “I know it sounds absurd, but—”

  “It doesn’t sound absurd,” I said. Janet had no way of knowing—and I couldn’t tell her—that the most unusual case I’d ever handled had involved a man by the name of Victor Rafferty. Rafferty had been able to heal—and do a great many other things—with nothing more than the power of his mind. “Go on, Janet.”

  “Apparently, there are supposed to be a number of good psychic healers in this country,” Janet continued. “Most of the ones we hear about are associated with some religious group. But people who are familiar with this kind of phenomenon consider Esteban the best.”

  “What group is he with?”

  The nun shook her head. “None that I know of. Esteban’s not a faith healer. What he does seems to be independent of religious belief—his, or that of the person he’s treating. Anyway, I received a grant to do a research project on him this summer.”

  “Excuse me, Janet,” I said, “but working with faith healers, psychic healers or any other kind of healers seems like an odd project for a microbiologist.”

  “I’ll explain later,” she said softly. “I know Senator Younger has to return to Washington for an important committee hearing. The critical point is that Esteban is now in jail awaiting trail for murder. In fact, Garth was the arresting officer. It seems he’s now working on some special squad that has to do with …” Her voice trailed off into embarrassed silence.

  “The occult,” I finished for her. For months, Garth had been heading an interborough task force working the burgeoning New York occult underground, ferreting out the con artists—and worse—who preyed on the gullible. The tympani lessons had been his response to my mercilessly kidding him about wasting the taxpayers’ money chasing witches, warlocks and Satanists. But murder wasn’t so funny.

  Janet was slowly and rhythmically massaging her temples with the tips of her index fingers. “It seems that Esteban, as a psychic leader, is considered some kind of occult figure just because he’s not associated with any religious group,” she said with a trace of bitterness in her voice. “That’s why Garth was assigned to the case.”

  Watching Younger, I was beginning to suspect that it could be more than Janet’s recommendation that had attracted him to me. I hoped I was wrong, because he was going to be disappointed if he thought I could—or would try to—influence my brother when it came to his official business. I had a natural distrust of politicians. “Is Esteban one of your constituents?” I asked the Senator.

  “Yes,” he answered simply. “It so happens that he is; but that’s not my reason for wanting to help him.”

  “What is your reason?”

  Younger was still having trouble telling me what was on his mind. When he didn’t answer right away, I turned to Janet. “Who’s this Esteban accused of killing?” I asked abruptly.

  “Don’t you want me to tell him now?” she asked Younger. Janet’s voice was very gentle, and I wondered if my impatience with the Senator was showing. I was still smarting from my tussle with the Chinese, and angry that I’d agreed to investigate Smathers in the first place; I could hardly wait for the next meeting of the faculty Ethics Committee.

  “No,” Younger said, his voice strangely muffled. “I can do my own talking. It’s … just that I’m having trouble …” He swallowed hard, closed his eyes. “Yes, Sister,” he whispered. “Would you please fill Dr. Frederickson in on the background of the case?”

  I tried to sneak a glance at my watch, and Janet caught me at it. Her gaze was steady and vaguely accusatory. “Esteban is accused of killing a physician by the name of Robert Samuels,” she said tightly. “Dr. Samuels worked at the university Medical Center.”

  “Why would Esteban want to kill Samuels?”

  Janet touched her fingers to her temples again, then dropped her arms stiffly to her sides. I had the feeling she was struggling to control an enormous amount of tension. “The papers reported that Dr. Samuels filed a complaint against Esteban—practicing medicine without a license. The police think Esteban killed him because of it.”

  “They’d need more than suspicion to book him.”

  Janet nodded quickly as she sucked in a deep breath. “Esteban was found in Dr. Samuels’ office—with the body. Dr. Samuels had been dead only a few minutes; his throat had been cut with a knife they found dissolving in a vial of acid.” Janet’s tone had been growing increasingly strained. She paused and took another deep breath. It seemed to calm her, and her words came easier.

  “Mongo,” she continued, “if it’s true that a complaint was filed against Esteban, it wouldn’t be the first time; and it certainly wouldn’t have been a reason for Esteban to kill anyone. He’s always taken the enmity of the medical establishment in stride.”

  “Esteban is not a killer,” Senator Younger interjected from the center of the office, where he’d been nervously pacing. He stopped and pounded a fist into his palm. The sharp slap of flesh against flesh grated on my nerves, and I suddenly realized I had a headache. “The charge is absurd! Damn it, the man’s spent his entire adult life helping people!”

  “The Senator’s right, Mongo,” Janet said, and the nun/scientist’s soft, quavering voice had a far greater impact on me than Younger’s outburst. “Esteban just couldn’t have killed anyone; and certainly not that way. I feel a responsibility for what’s happened, because I brought Esteban here. When Senator Younger came to see me, I told him I thought you could help.”

  “I’m not sure how you think I can help, Senator,” I said, turning to face the politician. “And I still don’t understand why the case is so important to you.”

  Younger slumped into a chair behind him. He unconsciously ran a hand through his hair, then quickly smoothed it down. “You must clear Esteban,” he said, looking at me with anguish in his eyes. His voice was steady, intense. “Prove that Esteban didn’t do it—or that someone else did.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order, Senator. And it could get expensive. On the other hand, you’ve got the entire NYPD set up to do this kind of work for nothing. It’s their job.”

  Younger shook his head. “I want one man—you—to devote himself exclusively to this case. You work here at the university; you have contacts. You may be able to find something the police overlooked—or didn’t care to look for. The police think Esteban is guilty, and we both know they aren’t going to spend a lot of time investigating what they consider an open-and-shut case.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “This is most important to me, Frederickson,” Younger said, jabbing his finger in the air for emphasis. “I’ll double your normal fee.”

  “That won’t be nec—”

  “At least, I must have access to Esteban if you can’t clear him. Perhaps … your brother could arrange that. I’d be willing to donate five thousand dollars to any cause your brother deems worthy.”

  The words, heavy and ugly, hung in the air. Janet looked away, embarrassed. “Uh-oh,” I said quietly. “Hold on, Senator. I can see that you’re a little overwrought, but if I were you I wouldn’t suggest that kind of arrangement to Garth. He might interpret it as a bribe offer, and he’s very touchy about those things.”

  “Damn it, Frederickson, it will be a bribe offer!” Younger’s face was blanched bone white. He choked back his anger, and his next words came out in a forced, breathy whisper. “If Esteban Morales is not released, my daughter will die.”

  I felt a chill, and wasn’t sure whether it was because I believed him or because of the possibility that a United States Senator and presidential hopeful was a lunatic. I settled for something in between and tried to regulate my tone of voice accordingly. “I don’t understand, Senat
or.”

  “Really?” he said tightly. “I thought I was making myself perfectly clear.” Younger was still shaken, but now he had his anger and desperation under control. He took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly let it out. “My daughter’s life is totally dependent on Esteban. Linda has cystic fibrosis. As you probably know, doctors consider the disease incurable. The normal pattern is for a sufferer to die in his or her teens, usually from pulmonary complications. By the time Linda was fourteen, we’d consulted the finest specialists in the world and were given no hope; my wife and I were told that Linda would die within a year. Then we heard of Esteban, and we felt we had nothing to lose by going to him for help. He’s been treating Linda in his own, very special way—for ten years. She’s now twenty-four. But Linda needs him again; her lungs are filling with mucus.”

  I could see how the medical establishment might be made a little nervous by Esteban Morales’ activities; false hope could be the most insidious of poisons. Under the best of circumstances—meaning when I didn’t have a Nobel laureate to poke at—it didn’t sound like the kind of case I’d be too eager to take on. If Morales was a hoaxer—or a killer—I had no desire to be the bearer of bad tidings to a man with William Younger’s emotional involvement.

  “How does Esteban treat your daughter, Senator?” I asked, finding myself naturally slipping into the familiar usage of the healer’s first name. “With drugs?”

  Younger shook his head. “Esteban just touches her; he moves his hands up and down her body. Sometimes he seems to be in a trance, but I don’t think he is. It’s … very hard to explain. You have to see him do it.”

  “How much does he charge for these treatments of his?”

  Younger looked surprised. “He doesn’t charge anything. I’m told that most psychic healers—the good ones, anyway—won’t take money. They feel it interferes with the source of their power, whatever that may be.” Younger laughed shortly, without humor. “Esteban prefers to live simply—off Social Security, a pension check and small gifts from friends. He’s a retired metal-shop foreman.” He smiled thinly. “Doesn’t sound like your average rip-off artist, does he, Frederickson?”