I don’t know why it happened right then, but suddenly I remembered that when I had left Aralia earlier I promised her I would return with champagne, and little edible goodies, and a big surprise.And I hadn’t kept my promise.
This may not be the time to mention it,I said. But I forgot the champagne and little goodies.
She seemed not to have heard me. But I guess she forgave me anyhow.
Because later, really asleep, she seemed still to be smiling.
CHAPTER TEN
ARALIA was out of bed, and making small noises in the kitchenette, when I woke up. At least, somebody was making little clink-and-clatter noises in there.
I stretched, rubbed my eyes, stuck my tongue out, almost forgot to pull it back in again. After a while I scratched the hair on my chest, scratched the short hairs on my head. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, not scratching anything, not doing much of anything, when Aralia walked in.
What happened to the man who was in here last night?she asked me.
In where?
Here in Sleeping Beauty’s room.
Don’t ask dumb questions. I’ve had it with those dumb fairy tales. But to answer your dumb question, he always leaves before I wake up. He knows I’d kill him —
Want some breakfast?
No.
No?
Is it a complicated answer?
But I just fixed breakfast for you, Shell. It’s all ready.
Huh.
Goodness, you really are a bear in the morning, aren’t you?
Yeah. And I’ll bet you’ve been cooking porridge. Who’s been sleeping in my bed? That was another dumb bunch —
I scrambled some eggs, with mushrooms and herbs and things I found.
Aralia walked into the room toward me. I noted she was wearing one of my old white shirts with the sleeves rolled up. The front of it wasn’t buttoned. She was very casual about buttons. It looked like she was wearing a big scarf.
She sat on the bed next to me. You ought to eat some eggs.
You’re out of your mind.
But you have to keep your strength up, don’t you?
That has never been a problem. But I suppose you’re right. I just never thought of it that way.
I rubbed my eyes, stuck my tongue out.
Do you have to do that?she asked me.
Yeah. It’s how I wake up.
Well, you ought to be wide awake by now. So, upsy-daisy. You really should have a little something, Shell.
Upsy-daisy, huh? Cutesy-pootsy.I looked at her, beginning to see, dimly.
She smiled.
Well,I said, maybe a little . . .
In the Cad, rolling along on Wilshire, I felt splendid. Simply splendid. This despite the fact that my breakfast entree had been two bites of a scrambled egg that tasted as if it had just hatched in the refrigerator. That was all right; I almost never have more than two bites of an egg. But I had also consumed toast, milk, and lots of coffee, and felt ready for whatever the day ahead might throw at me. At least, that’s what I thought then, in my innocence.
Earlier, at the LAPD, I’d learned that efforts to locate Al Hauk or James Collett, in whose duplex apartment I’d shot Werzen, had proved unavailing; they’d just dropped out of sight. The police were not yet officially interested in talking to Norman Amber, or even to One-Shot Voister.
As for me, by noon — after spending most of the morning digging up all the additional info I could about Norman Amber — I had driven to his home again, and once more found nobody there. But by then the picture that had started taking form last night was, though still far from complete, a good deal clearer.
Perhaps most important, there was no longer any doubt that the Norman Amber who’d done time at San Quentin and had since been living in the house on Wisteria, was Aralia Fields’s natural, legal, and now-ex-convict father — the same Norman Amber who, according to Aralia, had died before she was born. Which, when I got around to telling her about it, would undeniably be a more than mildly perplexing circumstance for her to consider. Assuming, of course, that Aralia had not been fibbing to me somewhere along the way, which was an assumption I had no reason to make, and therefore didn’t.
Official state records showed that Norman Leonard Amber and Laura Aralia Blengrud had been legally married a little over twenty-eight years ago in Pasadena, California, when he was twenty-six years old and Laura was twenty-four. They’d been divorced in the same city three years later, one year after the birth of a son, Peter, and three months before the arrival of their daughter, Aralia Ann.
Divorce had been granted to the plaintiff, Mrs. Amber, on the grounds of mental cruelty, which in those days covered everything from boredom to wife-beating. Through the promise of fifty bucks to a long-time contact in Sacramento, and a little luck, I learned that the real reason Laura split from Norman was that she discovered him in flagrante delicto; which is Latin for she caught him banging the nineteen-year-old baby-sitter; which does not mean that Norman had been hitting the girl on the head with a board.
Even more interesting, less than a year after the marriage was dissolved Norman Amber applied for and was later granted the first of his many patents. That first invention was essentially the combining of a redesigned sixteen-millimeter movie camera with a compact, built-in, battery-operated gyroscope of Amber’s design, so that when taking pictures with the camera hand-held it would be nearly as steady as though mounted on a tripod. Apparently, it worked, since Amber had been awarded patent protection, but the idea seemed never to have caught on or made any money.
Even though my scientific education ended approximately with my learning where the washer went on the faucet, one impression did emerge during the time, including a half hour on the phone to Washington, D.C., that I spent checking on Amber. It was that — in contrast to what I knew of Gunnar Lindstrom, who was apparently a genius in half a dozen very different, even basically unrelated, fields of science and technology — nearly all of Amber’s work was directed toward improvements and entirely new concepts in the area of images.
That is, nineteen of the twenty-four Amber patents had at least some bearing on the production or reproduction of images or pictures — snapshots, home movies, the cameras and films used by professional moving-picture makers, as well as television cameras and receivers and tubes and tapes.
His most recent inventions, including the only one on which he’d been granted a patent since his release from prison, were not only more complex and thus less comprehensible to me, but apparently indicative of the direction he’d taken during and since his five years with Horizons, Inc.
Those were years when the growth of cable television, TV cassettes and discs, and the use of laser-printedholograms for everything from information storage and retrieval to production of the first crude but astonishingly real three-dimensional movies began their still-continuing explosion. I had myself seen one of the first — I believe the first — three-dimensional moving pictures produced by the embryo holographic technique. I’d seen it because I have long enjoyed raising, feeding, ogling, and even breeding tropical fishes, and the film was of fish swimming in an aquarium.
The picturewas projected not onto a silvered screen but simply into a couple of cubic feet of air, and it was in three dimensions. It was perhaps not as vividly alive as the two aquariums in my living room at the Spartan, though from a few feet away the shape, color, and rippling movement of those exotic little aquarium fishes had certainly appeared solid and real to me.
But the one unforgettable impression that had stayed with me ever since was that the aquarium remained solid and rectangular, in perspective, filled with swimming fishes, even when I walked around it — examined it from both sides, from the rear, from the front again.
I watched a small Corydoras paleatus, or catfish, wiggling over sand at the aquarium’s bottom on the side next to me, moving from my right to left; then I walked around behind the tank and observed that same catfish continuing to wiggle over sand, from my left
to my right, at the aquarium’s bottom on the side opposite me.
I looked for some time at that aquarium, and the fishes, and especially the scavenging Corydoras paleatus, blinking quite a bit more than merely a little, because there was nothing there. Nothing at all. At least, not anything tangible or alive; just color and movement and light that sure as hell looked solid and wet and wiggly and real.
It was therefore with some interest that I learned Norman Amber, during his years with Horizons, Inc., had been in charge of Research and Development, or R & D, on several secret projects in the imagefield, concerned with the storage and reproduction of both still and moving images or pictures, this time through employment of lasers, holographic techniques, computers, and I don’t know what all. Since the projects were secret, I wasn’t able to find out a great deal about them.
I did know that the patent so recently granted Amber on his latest invention was for some new kind of camera-and-projector combination that was supposed to produce a greatly improved three-dimensional picture, but just how it might accomplish this I didn’t know, and probably didn’t need to know.
But I did have several reasons for wanting to know more about Amber himself, and especially for wanting to find and talk to the man. So by one p.m. I was pulling into a parking slot in front of the Weir Building.
According to the board in the building’s lobby, Vincent Ragan, patent attorney, occupied offices 38, 40, and 42. I took an elevator to the third floor, walked to the door numbered 38,and opened it.
A bright-looking, middle-aged secretary stopped typing when I stepped inside. She seemed surprised when, after giving Ragan my name over the intercom and saying I had no appointment, he said to send me right in.
Ragan was seated at a small desk made of highly polished grainy blond wood, but he stood up and extended his hand as I entered his office, gazing steadily at me from behind the dark horn-rims.
I shook his hand and said, Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Ragan.
It’s all right. Just got back from lunch, and I’ve a minute or two.He smiled slightly. Not much more, though.
Shouldn’t take more. Wanted to check one thing I left out last night. Didn’t know enough to mention last night, I mean.
What’s that?
I wanted to know what you could tell me about Norman Amber.
Norman?
I pricked up my ears. One does not respond to a question about a total stranger by repeating his first name.
The word, that first name, came out easily and naturally, but then the question — or, more likely, Ragan’s automatic reaction to it — stuck him for some reason. It wasn’t obvious, just a twitch of his neat eyebrows, quick compression of his full lips.
Then he rubbed a finger beneath his nose, as if a stray hair had tickled him, saying, Can’t tell you much, Mr. Scott. I hardly know the man.He paused. Which makes it surprising that you’d come here to ask me about him.
Just fishing for bits and pieces, Mr. Ragan.I lit a cigarette, took a drag. I’ve learned he’s an inventor, has had several patents granted over a period of about twenty-five years. Since he’s a local man, I wondered if you’d handled any of those patent applications for him.
Ragan shook his head. No. I don’t really know much about Norman’s — Mr. Amber’s — work, but I met him at a couple of conventions, the last one here in Los Angeles. He’s a charming man, quite brilliant. A little odd, of course.
Why of course?
Ragan smiled. I shouldn’t have put it that way. But he is odd, eccentric. I’ve noted that a good percentage of my own clients depart quite widely from the norm. Nothing wrong with that; if they didn’t, they probably wouldn’t be researchers, inventors. The tried-and-true may be comfortable, but it isn’t new, it isn’t — invention.
Can’t argue with that,I said. Do you mean Amber is a bit balmy?
He laughed. Not at all. It’s just that he’s . . . difficult at a personal level, in conversation, that sort of thing. Extremely opinionated, intolerant of other viewpoints. Brusque, very sure of himself, almost messianic, and he has some very queer ideas. Of course, I’d be the last to denigrate that element of his nature — he’s patented some of those very queer ideas.
Do you know where I could find him?
Ragan shook his head.
I’ve been out to his home,I said, but nobody’s there. You don’t have any idea how I might track him down?
No, I don’t even know where he lives. As I mentioned, we met at a couple gatherings of researchers, engineers, inventors, patent lawyers — addresses by politicians promising to expand capital-gains treatment of royalties in return for votes, company presidents looking for new-product ideas, that sort of thing. The most recent convention was in March of this year, and that’s the last time I saw Norman Amber.He paused. I rather regret that, actually. He’s irritating, decidedly unpleasant at times, but damned stimulating. I wish he was my client. I like him.
What do you do for your clients? I mean, what’s the function of any patent attorney?
That’s simple enough to explain, a bit more complex in actual practice. But let’s say you’ve invented or improved some new and useful thing — process, machine, manufacture or composition of matter — or think you have. Most would-be inventors have merely come up independently with an idea already discovered by at least a dozen or a hundred other people. From your explanation of the invention, the technical information, I prepare the required patent application in formally correct form, including the written specifications, drawings, and claims at the end of the patent application.
I interrupted. Sounds like you almost have to be an inventor yourself. Or at least some kind of scientist.
Well, no, but . . . it helps.After a moment he continued. You can expect a year or so to elapse before the first examination, or initial decision on the merits of your invention, which usually results in rejection of the application. Three months are allowed for preparation of a response — called an amendment — and if there is not a second rejection, you will get your Notice of Allowance, which makes everybody happy.
That’s the patent?
Not of itself, but it does mean you’ve won, you will be granted protection. I see that the issue fee is paid, and then the Patent Office sends the quite impressive Letters Patent, and you are from that moment forward an honest-to-God inventor. I make sure your legal rights are protected and that you understand all of those rights, and defend against possible suits for infringement. In time, with luck, you may safely attempt to sell, assign, or manufacture your disposable ashtray liner or magnetically cushioned pogo stick.
Wonderful. I just happen to have a brand new idea, for a car clock that ticks. What’s new about it is, it keeps ticking.
I’ll handle that one for nothing, Mr. Scott. Speaking of clocks.He glanced at his watch.
Right. Just one last quick question. I tried to phone Wallace Epplewhite, but I’m informed he’s out of town.
Ragan’s eyes narrowed behind his horn-rimmed glasses, and I could see movement of muscles in his forearm as he drummed fingers briefly on the desktop. You mean you went ahead and phoned Wallace after I advised you not to bug him?
Oh, come on, Mr. Ragan. All kinds of people give me all kinds of advice. Would you know where I might get in touch with Mr. Epplewhite?
No, Mr. Scott, I would not.
I stood up. Thanks for your time, Mr. Ragan.
He nodded, opened a desk drawer, and placed a stack of papers before him. I went back the way I’d come in, pausing briefly to thank the efficient-looking lady who’d announced me to Ragan. I got the impression that not many people thanked her for much around here.
The L.A. phone book listed a Fields, Laura on Glenrosa Street is Burbank. I didn’t phone, just drove out the Freeway to the Burbank turnoff, rolled along to Glenrosa.
I’d been checking house numbers, and knew the address I wanted would be somewhere in the middle of the next block, across the street on my left, about where a car was parked at
the curb. Its hood was raised and a long-haired guy was standing there with his back to me, bent forward and apparently fiddling with the engine.
There was something about the look of him — and the car, a sedan. Chevrolet, far from new, a muddy green. And then I noticed the woman with her head stuck out past the front door. As I rolled slowly by — without stopping, not yet, not until I’d sorted out the impressions beginning to jangle in my head — I saw her mouth moving.
The Cad’s window was down on my side, and I heard her yell, very clearly, Told you to get your ass in here, Peter. Hurry up!
That’s who it was, the somewhat weather-beaten overweight lady, and the lank-haired youth who need have no fear of cannibals.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THAT’S who it was, all right. The marvelous pair I had observed leaving Vincent Ragan’s house less than twenty-four hours ago.
I rolled to the next intersection, my thoughts jumping in several directions at once. By the time I drove around the block I had decided to head back toward Hollywood. I still wanted the chat with Mrs. Fields and her magnetic Peter that I’d come here for, and I still intended to have it — but not until I had a better idea of what the hell was going on.
The sound of typing stopped when I came through the door.
The middle-aged, bright-looking secretary looked up, smiled slightly, and said, It’s — Mr. Scott, isn’t it?
Yeah,I said, but without pausing. I tromped across the room toward the adjacent office, adding, You need not announce me —
Mr. Ragan isn’t in his office, Mr. Scott. If it is he whom you wish to see.
I paused with my hand on the doorknob. Oh? Where did he go?
She didn’t know. Ragan had left about five minutes after my earlier visit, without saying where he was going. She didn’t know if he had made, or received, any phone calls before leaving. Several names I mentioned, including Norman Amber and Laura Fields, were unfamiliar to her. Nothing but blanks until, instead of names, I gave her a couple of descriptions — that of Mrs. Green and her unappetizing boy.
The Amber Effect (The Shell Scott Mysteries) Page 10
