In the House of Secret Enemies

by George C. Chesbro

  “Mongo, I’ve got reports!”

  I ignored him and he leaned back against the bars of the cell and began to tap his foot impatiently. I turned to Esteban Morales. “Esteban,” I said quietly, “will you tell my brother what an aura is?”

  Morales described the human aura, and I followed up by describing the Kirlian photographs Janet Mason had shown me: what they were, and what they purported to show. Garth’s foot continued its monotonous tapping. Once he glanced at his watch.

  “Esteban,” I said, “how does my brother look? I mean his aura.”

  “Oh, he fine,” Esteban said, puzzled. “Aura a good, healthy pink.”

  “What about me?”

  Morales dropped his eyes and shook his head mutely.

  The foot-tapping in the corner had stopped. Suddenly Garth was beside me, gripping my arm. “Mongo, what the hell is this all about?”

  “Just listen, Garth. I need a witness.” I took a deep breath, then started in again on Morales. “Esteban,” I whispered, “I asked you a question. Can you see my aura? Can you see my aura, Esteban? Damn it, if you can, say so! I may be able to help you. If you can see my aura you have to say so!”

  Esteban Morales slowly lifted his head. His eyes were filled with pain. “I cannot help you, Mr. Mongo.”

  Garth gripped my arm even tighter. “Mongo—”

  “I’m all right, Garth. Esteban, tell me what it is you see.”

  The healer took a long, shuddering breath. “You are dying, Mr. Mongo. Your mind is sharp, but your body is—” He gestured toward me. “Your body is the way it is. It is the same inside. I cannot change that. I cannot help. I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I said. I was caught between conflicting emotions, exultation at coming up a winner and bitterness at what Morales’ statement was costing me. I decided to spin the wheel again. “Can you tell about how many years I have left, Esteban?”

  “I cannot say,” Morales said in a choked voice. “And if I could, I would not. No human should suffer the burden of knowing the time of his death. Why you make me say those things about you dying?”

  I spun on Garth. I hoped I had my smile on straight. “Well, brother, how does Esteban’s opinion compare with the medical authorities’?”

  Garth shook his head. His voice was hollow. “Your clients get a lot for their money, Mongo.”

  “How about getting hold of a lawyer and arranging a bail hearing for Esteban. Like tomorrow?”

  “I can get a public defender in here, Mongo,” Garth said in the same tone. “But you haven’t proved anything.”

  “Was there an autopsy done on Edmonston?”

  “Yeah. The report is probably filed away by now. What about it?”

  “Well, that autopsy will show that Edmonston was dying of cancer, and I can prove that Esteban knew it. I just gave you a demonstration of what he can do.”

  “It still doesn’t prove anything,” Garth said tightly. “Mongo, I wish it did.”

  “All I want is Esteban out on bail—and the cops dusting a few more corners. All I want to show is that Esteban knew Edmonston was dying, fast. It wouldn’t have made any sense for Esteban to kill him. And I think I can bring a surprise character witness. A heavy. Will you talk to the judge?”

  “Yeah, I’ll talk to the judge.” Again, Garth gripped my arm. “You sure you’re all right? You’re white as chalk.”

  “I’m all right. Hell, we’re all dying, aren’t we?” My laugh turned short and bitter. “When you’ve been dying as long as I have, you get used to it. I need a phone.”

  I didn’t wait for an answer. I walked quickly out of the cell and used the first phone I found to call the senator. Then I hurried outside and lit a cigarette. It tasted lousy.

  Two days later Garth popped his head into my office. “He confessed. I thought you’d want to know.”

  I pushed aside the criminology lecture on which I’d been working. “Who confessed?”

  Garth came in and closed the door. “Johnson, of course. He came into his office this morning and found us searching through his records. He just managed to ask to see the warrant before he folded. Told the whole story twice, once for us and once for the DA. What an amateur!”

  I was vaguely surprised to find myself monumentally uninterested. My job had been finished the day before when the senator and I had walked in a back door of the courthouse to meet with Garth and the sitting judge. Forty-five minutes later Esteban Morales had been out on bail and on his way to meet with Linda Younger. Rolfe Johnson had been my prime suspect five minutes after I’d begun to talk to him, and there’d been no doubt in my mind that the police would nail him, once they decided to go to the bother.

  “What was his motive?” I asked.

  “Johnson’s forte was business. No question about it. He just couldn’t cut it as a murderer … or a doctor. He had at least a dozen malpractice suits filed against him. Edmonston was getting tired of having a flunky as a partner. Johnson was becoming an increasing embarrassment and was hurting the medical side of the business. Patients, after all, are the bottom line. Edmonston had the original practice and a controlling interest in their corporation. He was going to cut Johnson adrift, and Johnson found out about it.

  “Johnson, with all his troubles, knew that he was finished if Edmonston dissolved the partnership. When Dr. Mason told him about Morales, Johnson had a notion that he just might be able to use the situation to his own advantage. After all, what better patsy than an illiterate psychic healer?”

  “Johnson sent the message to Esteban, didn’t he?”

  “Sure. First, he admitted lying to Edmonston about Esteban giving drugs to one of Edmonston’s patients, then he told how he maneuvered Edmonston into filing a complaint. He figured the university would bail Esteban out, and a motive would have been established. It wasn’t much, but Johnson didn’t figure he needed much. After all, he assumed Esteban was crazy and that any jury would know he was crazy. He picked his day, then left a message in the name of Edmonston for Esteban to come to the offices that night. He asked Edmonston to come forty-five minutes early, and he killed him, then waited for Esteban to show up to take the rap. Pretty crude, but then Johnson isn’t that imaginative.”

  “Didn’t the feedback from the patients give him any pause?”

  Garth laughed. “From what I can gather from his statement, Johnson never paid any attention to the reports. Edmonston did most of the interviewing.”

  “There seems to be a touch of irony there,” I said dryly.

  “There seems to be. Well, I’ve got a car running downstairs. Like I said, I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Thanks, Garth.”

  He paused with his hand on the knob and looked at me for a long time. I knew we were thinking about the same thing, words spoken in a jail cell, a very private family secret shared by two brothers. For a moment I was afraid he was going to say something that would embarrass both of us. He didn’t.

  “See you,” Garth said.

  “See you.”

  That Theme again—and another story I would treat slightly differently if I were writing it today. This piece, too, was eventually to be incorporated into An Affair of Sorcerers.

  The idea for “Falling Star,” and for most of the occult pieces in this collection, grew out of my friendship with a man who was, and still is, a very successful and highly influential tarot reader and palmist. I liked the man very much, considered his choice of profession absurd. Other people didn’t find his work so ridiculous. On a wall in the foyer of his brownstone were framed palm prints of the rich and famous, names virtually anyone would recognize, who came to him on a regular basis for palm and tarot readings and advice on how to lead their lives—rock stars, heiresses, politicians, and the wives of politicians. These people believed that the answers to their problems could be found in the lines of their hands, the layout of the tarot cards, and my friend’s interpretation of these things. These powerful people acted on his advice, just as Nancy Reag
an heeded the strictures of her astrologer.

  Now, my friend is a kind, sensitive, and responsible person who wields his considerable power with great care. But as I studied the palm prints of the people on the wall, I couldn’t help but reflect on the havoc he could wreak in people’s lives if he were not so kind and responsible. Now I wish I had been more ambitious and come up with the idea of an astrologer able to reach directly into the White House in order to influence a president’s behavior, but at the time I would have dismissed the idea as patently ridiculous.

  Falling Star

  I don’t usually get clients walking into my university office, but I wasn’t complaining. That’s the kind of attitude somebody in my position develops after a while.

  My visitor was a big man with a swarthy complexion, wearing expensive shoes and suit, diamond pinkie rings, and show biz written all over him. He had red hair and milky blue eyes that did a double take between me and the nameplate on my desk.

  “I’m looking for Dr. Frederickson.”

  “I’m Frederickson.”

  “You’re a dwarf.”

  “You’ve got something against dwarfs?” I must have sounded nasty.

  He flushed and extended his hand. “Sorry,” he said. “My name is Sandor Peth. I need a private detective. Your brother suggested I come and talk to you.”

  That raised a mental eyebrow. I wondered what business Peth had had with Garth. I shook Peth’s hand and motioned him to a chair.

  Peth reached into his suit jacket and took out a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it, handed it across the desk to me, and said, “I brought this along for what it’s worth. I think it could be important.”

  I studied the paper. There were two concentric circles divided into twelve sections by intersecting lines. The sections were filled with symbols and notes that were meaningless to me.

  I placed the paper to one side. “What is it?”

  “A horoscope.”

  I didn’t say anything. The thought crossed my mind that Garth might be having a little fun with me.

  Peth cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard of Harley Davidson?”

  “Sure. He’s a famous motorcycle.”

  Peth smiled. “He’s a rock star. At least he used to be.”

  “Used to be?”

  The smile faded. “Harley’s in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Peth lighted a cigar and stared at me through the smoke. His milky eyes fascinated me; they were like mirrors, reflecting all and revealing nothing. “I want you to know that I don’t believe in none of this stuff, but Harley does. That’s the point.”

  “What does Harley believe in, and what’s the point?”

  “Astrology, witchcraft, all sorts of occult nonsense. Harley’s no different from lots of people in the business who won’t get out of bed in the morning unless their astrologer tells them it’s okay. But Harley got into it a lot deeper. He got mixed up with a bad-news astrologer by the name of Borrn. Borrn’s the one who cast that horoscope. Whatever’s in it scared the hell out of Harley, messed his mind. So far, he’s missed two recording dates and one concert. No promoter’s going to put up with that stuff for long. Harley’s on his way out.”

  “What’s your interest in Harley?” I asked.

  “I was Harley’s manager up to a week ago,” Peth said evenly. “He fired me.”

  “On Borrn’s advice?”

  “Probably.”

  “A neutral observer might call your interest sour grapes.”

  “I don’t need Harley. If you don’t believe me, check with my accountants. I’ve got a whole stable of rock stars. I like Harley and I hate to see him get messed up like this. He’s made me a bundle, and I figure maybe I owe him some.”

  I nodded. It seemed a sincere enough statement. “How do you think I can help, Mr. Peth?”

  “I want to nail Borrn. It may be the only way to save Harley from himself.”

  “Harley may not want to be saved.”

  “I just want to make sure he has all the facts. I don’t think he does now.”

  “I’m not in the business of ‘nailing’ people. I just investigate. If you think Borrn’s into something illegal, you should go to the police.”

  “I did. That’s how I met your brother. He said that as far as he knew Borrn was clean. He told me he couldn’t do anything unless there was a complaint, which there hasn’t been. I want to find out if there’s a basis for a complaint. I can afford to tilt at a few windmills. How about it? Will you take the job?”

  I took another look at the expensive shoes and diamond pinkie rings. “I get one hundred fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. You don’t get charged for the time I’m teaching.”

  Peth took out a wad of bills and lightened it enough to keep me busy for a few days. “Borrn operates out of a store-front down on the Lower East Side,” Peth said, handing me the money. “That’s about all I know, except for what I’ve already told you.” He rose and started to leave.

  “Just a minute,” I said. Peth turned and looked at me inquiringly. “You said Garth told you he thought Borrn was clean. Did he say how he knew that? Astrologers aren’t his usual meat and potatoes.”

  Something that might have been amusement glinted in Peth’s eyes. “They are now,” he said. “Didn’t you know? He’s been assigned to a special unit keeping tabs on the New York occult underground.”

  I hadn’t known. For some reason I found the notion enormously funny, but I waited for Peth to leave before I laughed out loud.

  Peth had left the horoscope behind. I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket along with my newfound wealth.

  At the precinct station house I found Garth torturing a typewriter in the cubicle he called an office. He looked tired. Garth always looks tired. He is a cop who takes his work seriously.

  “Abracadabra!” I cried, jumping out from behind one of the partitions and flinging my arms wide.

  Garth managed to hide his amusement very well. He stopped typing and looked up at me. “I see Peth found you.”

  “Yeah. Thanks for the business.”

  “Why don’t you say it a little louder? Maybe you can get me brought up on departmental charges.”

  I sat down on the edge of his desk and grinned. “I understand you’re using the taxpayers’ money to chase witches.”

  “Witches, warlocks, Satanists and sacrificial murderers,” Garth said evenly. “As a matter of fact, the man Peth wants you to investigate is a witch as well as an astrologer.”

  I’d been kidding. Garth wasn’t. “You mean ‘warlock,’ don’t you?”

  “No, I mean a witch. A witch is a witch, male or female. The term ‘warlock’ has a bad connotation among the knowledgeable. A warlock is a traitor, or a loner. Like a magus or ceremonial magician.”

  “A who?”

  “Never mind. You don’t want to hear about it.”

  What Garth meant was that he didn’t want to talk about it. I asked him why.

  “I’m not prepared to talk about it,” Garth said quietly, staring at the backs of his hands. “At least not yet. I’ll tell you, Mongo, you and I come from a background with a certain set of preconceptions that we call ‘reality.’ It’s hard giving up those notions.”

  “Hey, brother, you sound like you’re starting to take this stuff pretty seriously. Are the practitioners of the Black Arts getting to you?”

  “What do you know about magic?”

  “I’m allergic to rabbits.”

  “It isn’t all black,” Garth said, ignoring my crack. “Witchcraft, or Wicca, is recognized as an organized religion in New York State. The parent organization is called Friends of the Craft.”

  “I’m not sure I get the point.”

  Garth pressed his hands flat on the desk in front of him. He continued to stare at them. “I’m not sure there is a point.”

  I was growing a little impatient. “What can you tell me about this Borrn character?”

  “H
e’s supposed to be a good astrologer, and there aren’t that many good ones around. I don’t know anything else, except that he’s never been involved in any of our investigations. That’s why I sent Peth to you.”

  “What about a bunko angle? It’s possible that Borrn could be milking Davidson. If he’s using scare tactics, that’s extortion.”

  Garth threw up his hands. “Then Davidson will just have to file a complaint. We’re not running a baby-sitting service.” He thought about what I’d said for a few moments, then added, “It’s true that some of these guys are bunko artists, con men. They get an impressionable type, come up with a few shrewd insights, scare the hell out of him with a lot of mumbo jumbo, then start giving bad advice.”

  “Do any of them give good advice?”

  Garth looked at me strangely. “I’ve seen some things that are hard to explain, and I’ve heard of things that are impossible to explain. I know very little because I get told very little. The occult underground is a very secret society. Secrecy is part of the Witch’s Pyramid.”

  “There you go again.”

  “Never mind again. If you want to know more you should talk to one of your colleagues at the university.”

  I tried to think of one of my colleagues who might know something about the occult. I came up zero. “Who would that be?”

  “Dr. Jones.”

  “Uranus Jones?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Uranus was more than a colleague; she was a friend. She was also one of the most levelheaded, together people I’d ever met. I shook my head. “You must have your signals crossed. Uranus isn’t an astrologer, she’s an astronomer. And one of the best in the business.”

  Garth grunted. “You may know her as an astronomer. In the circles I travel in lately, she’s a living legend. She’s cut an awful lot of corners for me, helping to track lost kids who get involved in the occult, that kind of thing. She’s opened doors I wouldn’t even be able to find on my own. Or wouldn’t know existed. You wouldn’t believe her reputation.” He stared off into space for a few moments, as though considering his next words. “She’s supposed to be psychic, and a materializing medium.”