Inspector Gavigan was fidgeting again. Merlini, noticing it, spoke faster.
“For our purpose, the more important books of the lot are these.” He indicated that section just to the left of and handiest to the desk. “They are the Black Books, the Rituals of Magic, fourteenth century treatises that describe and illustrate the instruments necessary for conjury and divination, with all the necessary pentacles, prayers, invocations, and suffumigations.”
He ran his finger over the titles. “The Claviculae Salmonis, The Legmegton or Lesser Key, The Books of Cornelius Agrippa, the Magical Elements ascribed to Peter of Albana, and the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage. Those five are the Rituals of white and black magic. And these, the famous Grimorium Verum, The Grand Grimoire, and the—The Grimorium of Pope Honorius the Great are the Rituals devoted solely to black magic. Here you can find, if you are interested, recipes for the flying ointment with which the witches greased themselves before their wild ride through the sky to the Sabbath.1 And the formula for pact-ink, should you want to draw up any agreements with Lucifer.2 What’s more important, just now, you’ll find here a comprehensive demon directory which lists the names and offices, and pictures the personal seals of the members of the infernal hierarchy, the Almanac de Gotha, the DeBrett of Hell. Surgat should be on the list, and I don’t think we’ll have to spend much time hunting him. The Pope’s Grimorium is not in its place.” He indicated an empty space in the otherwise closely packed shelf. “It lies on that table.” We followed his glance toward the low coffee table that was partly hidden by the armchair near the door. We moved over and stood looking down at it. It was a large folio in only fair condition. The binding was scuffed and the pages wrinkled with damp, but the richly intricate gold leaf tooling and the warm patina of age that covered the binding gave it a mysterious dignity.
“I wonder,” Merlini continued, “if someone kindly left that out—so we’d be sure not to miss it?”
He bent to pick it up, and Gavigan cautioned, “Careful. There may be prints.”
Merlini nodded, “I suppose so. Though if we have a demon to contend with, I doubt if his prints will do us much good—unless, of course, he’s been previously arrested for some misdemeanor. And if the murderer is mortal, I’ll bet that any fingerprints he may have left belong to someone else.”
He lifted the book gently and turned it over so that the open leaves faced us.
We all bent over, staring at the open pages, and then Merlini said, “Someone has been very considerate. Look.”
He pointed at the left hand page and ran his finger down a list of names that appeared there.
Lucifer—Emperor
Beelzebuth—Prince
Astaroth—Grand Duke
Luciferge Rocale—Prime Minister
Satanachia—Commander-in-Chief
Afaliarept—Another Commander
Fleuretz—Lieutenant General
Sargatanas—Brigadier Major
Nebiros—Field Marshal and Inspector General
The Seventeen Sub-Spirits
Frucissiere who brings the dead to life
Trimasel who teaches chemistry and sleight of hand
Sedragossam who makes girls dance stark naked
Humots who transports all manner of books for thy pleasure
At the next name his finger stopped. The line read:
Surgat who opens all locks.
Following each of the sub-spirit’s names was an invocation guaranteed to summon that demon from the infernal depths. Surgat’s began near the bottom of the page, and Merlini read it aloud.
For Sunday, to Surgat (otherwise Aquiel).…This experience is to be performed at night from eleven to one o’clock. He will demand a hair of your head, but give him one of a fox and see that he takes it.
Gavigan’s attitude was irreverent. “Foxes,” he said, “are red. What does a gray-haired sorcerer do?”
Merlini ignored this arrant skepticism and read on, tasting each syllable with obvious enjoyment, but delivering them with all the solemn dignity of an earnest Archbishop.
I conjure thee, O Surgat, by all the names which are written in this book, to present thyself here before me, promptly and without delay, being ready to—Merlini stopped.
“Well,” prompted the Inspector, “let’s have it. We’re all of age.”
Merlini pointed to the center of the folio where a ragged fringe of paper was all that remained of a leaf that had been roughly torn away. The pages were aged with yellow, but the serrated edges of the tear were white and fresh.
Inspector Gavigan made a noise like a string of firecrackers. The whole damned business, in his opinion, was blithering, four-starred, purple-hued nonsense.
His expert flow of pungent Anglo-Saxon was interrupted by Malloy, who put his head in at the door and announced:
“Mr. Duvallo just walked in downstairs, Inspector. Do you want him brought up?”
1Two of the formulae as given by Weyer are as follows: 1. Water Hemlock, sweet flag, cinquefoil, bat’s blood, deadly nightshade and oil. 2. Baby’s fat, juice of cowbane, aconite, cinquefoil, deadly nightshade and soot. It is interesting to note that, in the opinion of Prof. D. J. Clarke, the use of aconite and belladonna as an unguent is likely to produce the sensation of flying.
2In signing on the dotted line of any compact with His Satanic Majesty you will, of course, write your signature with your own blood, but the body of the deed itself requires a special ink. Arthur Edward Waite in The Book of Ceremonial Magic gives this formula: || Gall-Nuts, 10 oz. Roman Vitriol or Green Copperas, 3 oz., Rock Alum or Gum Arabic, 3 oz. Dissolve this powder in river water using a new varnished earthenware pot, and bring to a boil over a fire laid with sprigs of fern gathered on the Eve of St. John and vine twigs cut in the full moon of March, and kindled with virgin paper.
Chapter 9
Ask Me No Questions
Faustus lived a life of pleasure, Kissed the lips of the Maid of Troy Wealth and power beyond all measure,
Bad Dr. Faustus,
Mad Dr. Faustus—
All were his to enjoy.
George Steele Seymour: Faustus
THE INSPECTOR’S FULMINATIONS WERE forgotten. He said, “Yes, but not just yet. I want LaClaire first. Get him.”
Merlini said, “There’s a candid camera shot of His Nibs here, Inspector, but perhaps in your present state of mind you’d rather not—”
The pendulum motion of Gavigan’s irritated pacing slowed, then stopped. “Okay, I can take it. Now what?”
Merlini swung the book around. Gavigan took one look and walked off, snorting.
I saw a full-page reproduction of a woodcut in the tortured fifteenth-century style. The word “Surgat” appeared there, together with the incomprehensible assortment of cabalistic symbols that comprised his personal seal. Surgat himself was a leering, furious monster belonging to the genus Pink Elephant. A jigsaw scramble of animal life, his head was that of a brute with a flaring snout, dark-rimmed pop-eyes, and trailing, curled fangs. His body was constructed on the general architectural plan of man’s except for great, limp bat wings that protruded from the shoulders and a torso covered with lizard scales. A bristling cluster of spikes and a thorny, curved tail growing out of his behind must have considerably complicated the art of sitting down. The monstrosity stood on two emaciated hairy legs that terminated in long-clawed talons, four-pronged like a bird’s. One oddly gnarled hand clutched a large, unlikely looking key. The artist must have been, at the very least, a Surrealist hophead suffering from acute delirium tremens. Beneath Surgat’s name I saw the startling inscription, “Drawne from the Life.”
Gavigan’s sarcasm was heavy. “That, I suppose, breaks the case! We hand that tintype to the papers, captioned ‘Wanted, Dead or Alive’ and wait for someone to phone in saying they saw him boarding a subway train at Times Square, or shouting ‘boo!’ at the children in Central Park. Maybe we’d better phone the Zoo in case he’s been turned in to Doc Ditmars. Hmmpf!”
Merlini, managing a straight face, replied, “We’ll hope not, Inspector. I doubt if Dr. Ditmars would give up an exhibit like that without a struggle. Even though you offered him a whole cageful of assorted bushmasters, vampire bats, and duck-billed basilisks.” Then turning his attention to the book again, he reflected aloud: “It would be nice to know about that missing page—and the rest of that invocation. If we can locate another copy of this book…Rosenbach maybe, or—”
“And I,” Gavigan said, underscoring each word, “don’t want to hear any more about it. Just one more mention of hobgoblins, and I’ll have someone’s scalp.”
Alfred LaClaire came in then. He stopped just inside the door and stood there woodenly, his hands in his pockets, his green eyes scowling. He saw Merlini, started slightly, and nodded.
Gavigan turned to him and went to work, sharp staccato questions streaming like ticker tape from his mouth. Quinn scratched busily in his notebook. LaClaire stated that on the previous evening he and his wife had done their usual three turns nightly at La Rumba, one of the village hot spots. Their routine was a twenty-minute one, and they appeared at 9:30, 11:30, and 1:30. He had left after the last show, at about two o’clock, going direct to Tony’s Place, a bar on Sullivan Street.
“Proprietor know you?” Gavigan asked.
“Yes.”
“How long were you there?”
“Until four o’clock. Some damn fool put me in a taxi at that point and the fare home was three bucks.”
“A little bit hazy about then?” Gavigan suggested.
LaClaire nodded. “Some, yes. Too many stingers.”
“You didn’t notice the number of the cab or see the driver’s name, then, I suppose?”
“Hardly.”
“You haven’t mentioned your wife. Wasn’t she with you?”
“No, I left her at the club. Look, Inspector, was—was he killed last night?”
Gavigan said, “Maybe. Did Mrs. LaClaire go right home from the club?”
His pause was just a shade too long. He nodded slowly. “That’s where she said she was going.”
Gavigan closed in on that. “And where did she go?”
“She was in bed when I got home.”
“All right. You don’t know where she went. What do you think?”
Alfred walked over to a chair. I noticed the lithe spring to his step and the careful poise of his body. He turned at the chair, looked at the Inspector a moment and sat down.
In a low, very slow voice he said, “She may have come up here.”
Gavigan’s calm was professional. “Let’s hear about it.” LaClaire seemed to be having trouble finding the words and Gavigan helped out. “She do that often?”
The expressions on LaClaire’s face were a mixed lot and not easily sorted. He said, “I’ve reason to think so, yes.”
“And last night? Just what makes you think she came here?”
Alfred looked up at him. And suddenly began talking fast, as if trying to get it over.
“She phoned Sabbat from the club last night. I heard her. When she thought I’d gone, I was outside the door, and I heard her say, ‘Cesare, I’m coming up.’ ”
“What else?”
“That’s all. It was enough. I went out and got plastered. I’ve known about it for some time. I guess it’s no secret by now. What I can’t understand is why she wants to play around with that old goat. If she has to sleep out like an alley cat, she might at least…” He leaned forward suddenly and put conviction in his voice. “But she wouldn’t have killed him, Inspector. I know that.”
Somehow I had a definite impression that, on the contrary, he thought her quite capable of it.
“And yet,” Gavigan said, “you go on living with her. Why is that, Mr. LaClaire?”
He felt in his pockets for a cigarette but found none. Merlini offered his pack. LaClaire took one. “Thanks, Merlini. You explain it to him, will you? I think you understand.”
Merlini nodded and then spoke to the Inspector in a flat, noncommittal voice. “Mr. and Mrs. LaClaire’s act, Inspector, consists in apparent extra-sensory communication. Mental telepathy or clairvoyance or both, depending on how you look at it. That sort of act is the result of long practice and close cooperation. The two members of such a team must have worked together so consistently as to have acquired the ability of almost predicting each other’s actions and thoughts. Breaking in a new partner is a tedious, highly speculative job. And since one can’t earn while one learns, there would be no income during the process. I think you get the idea.”
Gavigan said, “Bring her in, Malloy.”
LaClaire looked up quickly. “Listen, I’ve got to know. Was Sabbat killed last night?”
Gavigan nodded, “Yes.”
“When?”
“That’s one of the questions I’m supposed to ask.”
“You’re going to tell her I said she might have come up here?”
“If necessary, yes. I’ve got to know if she did.”
“I’d better warn you, then.” LaClaire spoke quickly. “I’ll deny it. You’ve had your hint. Use the information any way you like, but don’t ask me to back you up. Understand?”
The Inspector glanced toward Quinn bending over his notebook at the desk.
“Yes,” LaClaire said, “I know, you’ve got it on paper, but I haven’t signed it. And I won’t.”
Merlini, behind LaClaire, was frantically trying to signal the Inspector, jerking with his thumb toward the bedroom.
Gavigan scowled. “Brady, take Mr. LaClaire into the next room.”
LaClaire didn’t move from his chair until Gavigan added, “Come on, snap into it.” Then he stood up and walked out. Brady closed the door behind them.
“What’s all this thumb jerking about?” Gavigan asked suspiciously.
“The general underlying theory is that telepathists, even pseudo ones, should be questioned separately. Even then, you never know. Those two could toss hints, whole paragraphs even, back and forth right under your nose and you wouldn’t catch them at it. Not sure I could follow through myself. They all have their own variations…”
We heard Malloy’s voice. “This way, please.” Merlini stopped, watching the door.
Zelma LaClaire came in, walking toward us with considerable self-assurance and rather more sway amidships than necessary. She was the luscious type, the smoldering sort that the out-of-town buyers who frequented La Rumba would get hot about. Her evening dress encompassed an interesting assortment of curves that were, for my tastes at least, a shade too adequate. Her hair, bleached almost white, and her peaches-and-cream store complexion gave her a youthful appearance that appeared somewhat forced. She wore too much eyeshadow, and her finger nails flashed blood red as her hands moved in the light, flicking cigarette ash to the floor.
Gavigan had an astonished look on his face. “Hello, Babe,” he said, “I didn’t know you were married.”
The dark, too thin line of her eyebrows flattened. “Do you have to bring up that Babe stuff?”
“Haven’t seen you lately. Not since we had to close the Elite Burlesque house. Gentlemen, meet Babe Colette, Queen of Strippers, the gal with the Tiffany G-String. Or was that a publicity gag?”
“Skip it, Inspector! I’m not in that racket now. So lay off.”
Gavigan indicated a chair, and she sat, crossing her legs and looking up at him as if he were a news photog with a flash bulb ready.
“Okay, forget I mentioned it. Let’s hear your story.”
“My story?” she asked, her blue eyes turned on full.
“Yes. What are you doing here? Where were you when Sabbat was killed? That sort of thing. You can start with last night about this time.”
She seemed more used to policemen than had Alfred. Gavigan didn’t pull his punches, and she took it as a matter of course. Her story began like Alfred’s.
“I left ten or fifteen minutes after Al did, took the subway home, and…”
“Seventh Avenu
e to Times Square and change there for Queens, crosstown on 42nd?”
“Yes. I got home just before three. Al came in plastered and woke me up at 5 A.M. trying to undress himself. I got up at the usual time, around eleven, and spent the afternoon getting a permanent. At five Al and I came in to a cocktail party in Tudor City. When we left there we came over here.”
“Why did you stop in here?”
Her fingers tightened ever so slightly on the purse in her lap. “We thought maybe Sabbat might furnish another drink.”
“Known him long?”
She shook her head. “Six months, maybe. Eugene Tarot introduced us. Sabbat was interest in mental telepathy. We’ve seen him off and on since.”
“Who do you think might have killed him?”
“I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Anything else you’d like to tell me?”
She shrugged. “What else do you want to know?”
Gavigan’s eyes were hard. “Who did you phone before you left the club last night?”
If she reacted, I didn’t catch it. “Who did I phone…? I don’t know what…”
“Listen, Babe. You’re a good actress. You always were more than just a strip artist. But don’t try it on me. I’m not guessing. Come on, spill it.”
She sat up straighter in her chair.
“Nuts! I didn’t just blow in from the sticks. I don’t have to answer questions like that. And you know it.”
“So that’s your line. Okay. Suppose I know who you phoned? What if I’ve got a witness who heard you talking to Sabbat? Anything to say to that?”
Zelma’s mouth was a thin hard line. She stood suddenly on her feet, and her voice was harsh, biting. “This washes me up with that dirty, lying———! Al handed you that line, didn’t he? I haven’t phoned Sabbat all week. Put me on the spot, will he! The…” Her phrasing was masculine.
As she slowed, Gavigan stepped in quickly. “Then you have phoned Sabbat before?”
Death from a Top Hat Page 8
