Hoodwink

by Rhonda Roberts

  ‘Now let me get this straight … just so I can make sure I give Mr Devereaux every proper nuance …’ Dada nodded encouragingly. ‘LeFage introduced Earl to another con-artist in Paris …’

  ‘No! No! No!’ He waved a bony finger in my face. ‘You women, the small brain is so very tedious.’ He smacked the centre of his forehead with the other hand. ‘That Carole Lombard … she had absolutely no idea what I needed. I had to do everything for her.’

  I fought the urge to smack him a little harder in the same spot.

  I grabbed the waving finger instead. ‘Tell me exactly what happened, so I can tell Mr Devereaux.’

  He sobered. ‘One afternoon, while LeFage was in Curtis’ hotel room … The pompous oaf was staying at the George V, of course! Oh how these Americans —’

  ‘Go on!’

  A little stunned at my now less than polite tone, he said mulishly, ‘LeFage was drinking his way through the bar.’ He shrugged. ‘Curtis had dragged the poor man to a showing of his terrible film. It was Red something —’

  ‘You mean Crimson Dawn?’

  ‘Why is it always red with that fool?’ He shrugged again. ‘That could be the title — I don’t care. Anyway, the bellboy arrived with a box while Earl was taking a bath. LeFage, naturally intrigued, opened it. Inside was a strange black doll with one missing limb.’ He paused. ‘I think it was a hand?’

  The Blight Dolls.

  ‘And?’ I prompted.

  ‘Later, when Earl opened the box he became terrified. He packed his bags and left France.’

  ‘What did LeFage do then?’

  Dada glanced over his shoulder. ‘You will tell Monsieur Devereaux everything?’

  ‘I can guarantee that.’

  ‘LeFage sent a letter to an acquaintance of his who now lives in Los Angeles. He thought that, given their abundant talent, they could supply a suitably amusing punch line.’

  ‘So this con-artist is now reeling Earl in like a fish,’ I mused.

  Dada smirked; he was enjoying my curiosity. ‘I will not spoil the joke by telling you who it is because —’

  ‘You’re talking about Dr Murchison. Aren’t you?’

  His face crumpled.

  I checked my watch, I had to find her.

  ‘Where’s Earl gone?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Dada, extremely annoyed at my lack of appreciation. ‘He was distracting Carole then suddenly he started shrieking like a … a banshee.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He pointed into the crowd and then ran off.’

  ‘What scared him?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why would I care? He just screamed something about his mother following him and ran away.’

  Mother … Mama … ‘Was the name he called out “Matz”?’

  ‘Er … yes. Yes, that was it.’

  Dr Constance Murchison’s psychotherapy clinic was at the far end of the west wing of Guild Hall. Unlike the rest of the park, her corridor was quiet, deserted.

  The glass panel in her door read ‘Dr Murchison — Regression Therapy’; it was picked out in professional black letters.

  The rooms beyond were in darkness, so I picked the lock, switched on my torch and went through the reception area and into her private office. There was a heavy wooden desk in front of the window with a low metal desk lamp that I switched on. Opposite the desk was a leather chaise longue with a matching armchair and a low marble table holding a notebook and pen next to it.

  Earl’s file had to be in here somewhere.

  At the back of the room was a set of steel filing cabinets and a built-in closet with louvred doors. I tried the filing cabinets but they were locked, so I looked around for something to use as a lever. I opened the closet but it only held a row of pristine white lab coats. Dr M took her scientific persona seriously.

  I heard steps, then Earl’s voice echo down the hall.

  He was whining about Matz.

  I dived for the desk light and then hid in the closet.

  The lights switched on and through the louvre slits I watched Constance Murchison half carry Earl to the chaise longue.

  He collapsed across it, panting and wringing his hands.

  ‘Yes, yes, Earl. I believe you, but you have to calm down.’

  ‘It was one of those dolls, Dr M. I tell you, it was her! The doll was standing there in the crowd, right in front of me. You promised me that if I got the tattoo it would protect me! That Matz would leave me alone now!’

  ‘Yes, yes, Earl. It’s all right … I’ll fix everything.’

  Murchison spilt some water into a glass then flung open a drawer in her desk. She pulled out a bottle of white pills and shook four into her hand.

  ‘Here.’ Murchison handed him the pills and then the glass. ‘Take these. They’ll calm you down so we can talk.’

  Earl complied and slumped back against the chaise longue, the back of one slack hand held to his sweaty forehead.

  Murchison went back out to the reception room and made two phone calls. She watched Earl closely as she did it, but muffled her voice so he couldn’t hear what she was saying. The last phone call ended with her ordering whoever she was talking to to get over here immediately!

  By now Earl was stretched out and staring glassy-eyed up at the ceiling.

  Murchison stood over him and said in a soothing voice, ‘Now, Earl, we’re going to put you under again and find out what went wrong.’

  He sighed, compliant.

  ‘Your eyes are closing. Your eyelids are getting heavy. Your limbs are sinking into the soft couch like lead weights. Each breath is getting deeper and deeper, slower and slower. Start counting your breaths. When you reach five you will be in a deep trance. One … Two … Three …’

  Earl went limp.

  Murchison scowled down at him.

  A man in a white coat, the twin of Murchison’s, strolled in. ‘So what’s up now, Connie?’

  ‘Earl Curtis got a fright — he said one of those creepy dolls he keeps raving about had come to life.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not talking about those things again, is he? I thought you fixed that.’

  ‘Have a gander at that box on the desk over there,’ said Murchison. ‘Earl brought them all in this morning.’

  Dr M’s colleague opened the box. ‘Jesus! So they’re real after all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Murchison. ‘But Earl said the one he saw tonight was life-size. And that it followed him through the crowd. He arrived here in a complete frenzy. I had to sedate him.’

  ‘Now Earl’s having hallucinations? That’s not good, Connie. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought that damned jaguar tattoo would keep him happy for longer than this, but now …’

  ‘Better be careful, Connie. You might be about to lose our best paying client.’

  She smiled like a shark in a school of fish. ‘I won’t.’

  ‘So what are you going to do then?’ he insisted.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Murchison said pensively. ‘I had Earl convinced that the dolls were a sign from Matz. That she was the one after him.’

  ‘For messing with the story of Obsidian Shield in that stupid movie he made?’

  ‘No. I decided that it was better to convince him he’d offended Matz in a past life.’

  ‘Oh, I like that.’ He looked down at Earl and said, ‘So who is Earl Curtis really?’ He chuckled.

  ‘The high priest who sacrificed the real Obsidian Shield.’

  ‘Oh very nice, Connie. So you regressed him back to a Mayan past life, steamy jungles and all.’

  ‘Yes. I turned up the heating and released one of those idiot laughing parrots that Linda keeps as pets. It flew around the room squawking its head off …’

  ‘What … Linda brought in that kookaburra?’

  ‘I don’t know what they’re called but it worked. Earl’s very suggestible.’

  ‘And now, Connie?’

  ‘I think Earl will have to have a catharsis
and confront Matz herself.’

  ‘But do we have the necessary props …?’

  ‘Yes. I phoned Linda, she should be here with them any moment.’ She went over to a control on the wall. ‘That reminds me, I’d better turn up the heat.’

  He rubbed his hands. ‘Oh I’m going to enjoy this one.’

  Linda arrived wearing a furry lion suit. She was carrying the big toothy lion’s head in one hand and a sullen kookaburra in a cage in the other. She stuck the birdcage on the desk while Dr M shut the office door behind her.

  ‘Should I let Cookie out yet?’ enquired Linda.

  ‘No, leave him in there, Linda,’ ordered Dr M. ‘That malignant bird crapped all over my office last time. Can you get him to make that noise while he’s in the cage?’

  Linda looked at the bird. It’d sunk its big head into its neck and was peering out at her with resentful beady eyes.

  ‘Er, no, Connie, I can’t.’

  ‘Okay, get him out then,’ said Dr M, resigned.

  The heating was very efficient. As I watched, a bead of sweat rolled down my face.

  Linda opened the birdcage and Cookie shot past her like a flying rat out of a trap. It flew around the room once and then perched on the top of the window curtains.

  The three looked up at him, helpless. Cookie looked down, sneering.

  ‘Oh, leave the frigging bird there,’ said Dr M. ‘Linda, get ready.’

  Linda fixed the lion’s head in place.

  She looked like she was advertising something.

  Dr Murchison touched Earl’s brow. ‘We are going to journey back now, Earl. Back to the time of your previous life. Back to the jungle. Back to Palenque.’ She waited, then said, ‘Are you there yet?’

  ‘No, it’s too hot … too hot.’ One hand brushed his Spanish grandee costume as though to open it up.

  Murchison and her colleague exchanged an amused glance.

  ‘Never mind that,’ said Murchison in a soft voice. ‘Are you in Palenque?’

  ‘Yes.’ Earl’s voice sounded strange, as though it was coming from very far away.

  Murchison checked Linda’s position behind her then said, ‘Earl, now you are going to resolve your fears about Matz. You will confront Matz and ask her to forgive you.’

  ‘No! I can’t!’ Earl thrashed about on the couch. ‘I won’t!’

  The man said, ‘You didn’t sedate him enough, Connie.’

  He went over to her desk drawer and pulled out a steel tray with three hypodermics on it. He picked up a phial and filled a syringe.

  Earl tried to get up, but Murchison held him down, saying over her shoulder, ‘Hurry up with that syringe!’

  Before the man could reach the chaise longue, Cookie let out a deafening avian war cry and dive-bombed Dr Murchison.

  Dr M reeled backwards, hitting the desk with a thump.

  As she bounced off she tripped her male colleague, sending the syringe flying towards Linda.

  Linda screamed her lungs out …

  Earl slammed open his eyelids, beheld the screaming lion and started bellowing himself.

  He lurched to his feet and sprinted out of the office.

  Murchison staggered upright and they all gave chase.

  40

  THE SÉANCE

  Honeycutt was balanced on top of the red-brick cemetery wall, eyeballing the hordes flooding through the gates like a hungry feline more than ready for its dinner.

  It’d taken me way too long to work my way back down Mount Mortimer. The cobbled road was jammed full of curious visitors desperate to get into the Guild Cemetery before midnight.

  I whipped the mantilla off my head and waved it. The movement caught his eye and he beckoned urgently.

  Once I was through the gates Honeycutt slid down, grabbed my hand hard and started shoving his way back into the multitude.

  ‘We’re in, Kannon, but we have to hurry. They’re about to start.’

  My skin crawled at the view ahead.

  From the gates to the six grandstands, the cemetery was a restless sea of humanity. They may’ve arrived with blankets and picnic baskets but now it was standing room only. Here and there marble angels stood poised above the human carpet as though ready to take flight. Above them the bile-yellow moon brooded, bitter at so much frenzied life in a place of eternal rest.

  I loathe enclosed spaces.

  Walls of flesh or material ones — it doesn’t matter. I’ve been that way for as long as I can remember, at least since the kidnapping when I was two … I’d been left to strangle to death in a dark cave.

  I don’t do well with confinement.

  I managed to hold down the panic until we made it just inside the grandstands, then I wrenched my hand out of Honeycutt’s iron grip.

  ‘Look up there.’ I pointed at the grandstands.

  ‘What?’ said Honeycutt, angry at one more delay.

  ‘Look!’

  He scanned up and around.

  There must’ve been close to ten thousand people wedged into those hastily constructed stands and there should’ve been only a third that number. No one could sit because there wasn’t enough room, and from their overexcited faces they were already at a fever pitch of expectation.

  ‘Bumstead!’ spat Honeycutt, disgusted. ‘We’d better hope whatever little spectacle he has planned doesn’t scare the fans.’

  I stared around at all the grinning faces and then down at the tiny tomb precinct. If that crowd went wild, people would be trampled just trying to get out of the way.

  My gaze blurred and I stiffened into icy paralysis.

  God! I thought I’d made it past this level of bone-numbing fear …

  But I hadn’t.

  Honeycutt bent into me. He was speaking but I couldn’t hear him.

  I forced myself to focus on his lips.

  ‘Kannon, are you all right? What’s wrong?’

  I couldn’t answer.

  He bent closer, one warm hand rubbing my shoulder. ‘I can go in by myself …’

  Fury surged up my spine and out my mouth. ‘No!’

  I’d been robbed of too much already, I refused to lose any more.

  I aimed for the gate into the tomb and launched myself towards it. Honeycutt followed, puzzled.

  When the guards inside the wrought-iron fence saw Honeycutt they opened the gate and let us in.

  Honeycutt started to ask me about what had just happened but I cut right over the top of him. ‘So what’s the deal? How is the séance organised?’

  He searched my face with concern but decided to answer anyway. ‘There are four other people attending. Originally it was supposed to be five Guild officials plus Lewis Renfrow, but I managed to persuade Bumstead to jettison two of his men.’

  President Bumstead was standing to one side of the vault door, with Hubert Humbolt and another tall, thin man. Lewis Renfrow was leaning against the tomb using a switchblade to pick something orange out of his front teeth. He seemed exactly the same as the night of the party: well dressed, cool and in complete control. But he was obviously bored by the low-voiced argument Bumstead was having with the other Guild official.

  ‘No, I will not!’ insisted Bumstead. He slapped a piece of paper he was holding. ‘This is the agenda the council agreed to, and I’m not deviating from the text!’

  Bumstead dropped all pretence of listening to his adversary when he caught sight of Honeycutt. His smile revealed outsized capped teeth, which gleamed in the moonlight. ‘Ah, Mr Devereaux. You’re just in time.’

  Bumstead didn’t bother with me, just checked his watch, saying, ‘Now we must get the séance underway.’ He glanced up at the murmuring grandstands, pleased with their zealous attention. ‘We don’t want to disappoint our … audience.’

  Interesting choice of words.

  He led the five of us into the tomb. I was the last one in and Bumstead slammed the heavy metal door shut behind me.

  Clang.

  My courage escaped me in a rush when the lock clunke
d into place. The tomb had no windows and the roof was so low it brushed Honeycutt’s head.

  It was musty. The only light in the tomb came from candles.

  Honeycutt hovered. His worried expression and body language said he’d have me out of here in an instant if I gave even one sign of distress.

  The anger surged up my backbone again. I had to beat this … I’m a detective so I had to act like one. Troy’s Lost Child face flashed into my mind. I wasn’t going to fail him.

  I searched for Renfrow. Merlin Jones’ marble sarcophagus took up most of the floor space so the six stools had been placed around it. Renfrow was already seated, eager to get started.

  That gangster had answers that could help me help Troy.

  ‘Miss Dupree?’ said Hubert Humbolt, indicating that everyone except Renfrow was waiting for me to be seated.

  I nodded I was okay to Honeycutt, but his concern remained. I decided it was best to ignore it, rather than try and explain, so I walked over to sit in the place opposite Lewis Renfrow.

  I was here to witness what he had to say, and I wasn’t bloody leaving until I did.

  There was a life-sized sculpture of Merlin Jones carved into the sarcophagus lid — he was small and slight with wispy hair that fell to his shoulders. But it was the face that topped off all that frailty that surprised. If this carving was true to life then Merlin was no ethereal thinker; he had a boxer’s pugnacious visage, with a broken nose and fists far larger than were normal for his build.

  They looked like they’d been used too.

  Bumstead commandeered the stool at Merlin’s head, Humbolt sat at his feet, I was next to Humbolt, while Honeycutt sat next to me and opposite the tall thin man. He was nervously tapping his pen on the notepad on his knees, as though trying to pre-empt the séance with a shot of Morse code.

  Renfrow gave a sly grin down at Merlin Jones then said to Bumstead, ‘Your boy here looks like one of my old Jersey pals.’

  Bumstead’s face fell.

  I studied Merlin’s marble features … If there was such a thing as an afterlife, how would this kind of man feel about Bumstead’s three-ringed circus?

  I shivered, but not with fear this time; an icy draught had swept through the tomb.