An Affair Of Sorcerers m-3

by George C. Chesbro

  She put down her coffee cup, frowned. "What on earth are you talking about?"

  "Daniel didn't mention that either?"

  April Marlowe slowly shook her head. "What would there be to tell me? Frank wasn't a witch. On the contrary, he always thought wicca was a big joke."

  Chapter 8

  The mysterious, many-mooded creature that is the New York night somehow reminded me of a number of things, including Vincent Smathers; its body was a complex game board of light and dark where there were as many games as there were people and you never knew what move to expect next. Where we were, the beast was feeling good; the block between the restaurant and the hospital was brightly lighted. Children played stickball in the street, using potholes for bases. Older boys and men played basketball and paddleball in a lighted playground in the middle of the block.

  As we slowly walked, I told April Marlowe everything I'd learned. She listened with growing agitation, knotting and unknotting the sleeve of the light sweater she'd thrown over her shoulders.

  "I just don't understand any of it," she said when I'd finished. "Kathy told you that either Esobus or Daniel stole Frank's book of shadows?".

  "That's right," I said, gently easing her down on a bench under a mercury lamp in a corner of the playground. "Apparently, she heard him talking to himself."

  "Frank certainly did talk to himself, but I wasn't aware he was even interested in wicca."

  "Well, it's obvious he was. It's also obvious that he was killed-and Kathy probably poisoned-by occultists, most likely witches."

  "But Daniel? They only met once, at some family gathering, and they didn't show any particular interest in each other. If they ever saw each other after that, no one ever mentioned it to me. Even if Daniel had found out that Frank was into wicca, why steal Frank's book of shadows? It doesn't make any sense."

  "Whatever happened makes sense to Daniel, Mrs. Marlowe. I'm certain of it. What I told him about your former husband and Kathy upset him, sure. . but I don't think he was really surprised."

  She put her head in her hands, rubbed her temples. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's all just. . totally incomprehensible to me."

  We sat in silence for a few minutes. I lighted a cigarette, offered her one. She declined. "Please tell me about Frank, Mrs. Marlowe," I said.

  "Please call me April."

  "All right. If you'll call me Mongo."

  She looked up, raised her eyebrows slightly. "Mongo?"

  "It's a circus name."

  "You used to be in the circus?"

  "But of course," I said, smiling. "Don't you know that the circus is dwarf heaven?" That usually got at least a chuckle from most people; April Marlowe just stared at me. "I was billed as Mongo the Magnificent," I continued. "The name stuck."

  "I'll tell you about Frank," the woman said softly. "But first you have to tell me about the time you spent with the circus."

  I did, and was surprised at how easily it all came out. The years I'd spent with the circus were, overall, a painful memory for me. I'd used the money I'd earned to finance my studies. In the course of my earning a Ph.D., the university and I had made the mutual discovery that I was good with students; I'd accepted their offer of a faculty position. The private-detective business had come later, I wasn't rich, but I was reasonably happy. That was what I told April Marlowe.

  She'd listened intently, with an interest that I found absurdly flattering. "You're a fascinating man," she said evenly. "From circus headliner to college professor and private detective."

  "Oh, just an average superdwarf."

  She still didn't smile. "Your self-mockery doesn't always become you," she said somewhat sternly. "You're a very remarkable man. Since you're no longer a circus performer, I think I'll call you Robert-if you don't mind."

  I still felt like a performer; I'd always feel like a performer. But I said, "I don't mind, but no one else is going to know whom you're talking about."

  "You asked about Frank," she said with a curt nod. "As I'm sure you know, he was a very successful writer. What you may not know is that he was a very unhappy one."

  "That's not unusual for creative types."

  She shook her head. "This is more than that. He'd been unhappy for years with the work he was doing. He considered it all junk-and I suppose he was right. You may not realize this-how could you? — but Frank could have been a good writer; he had a lot more talent than you'd suppose from just reading those series genre books he churned out. He felt trapped-felt he'd trapped himself, really. He was making a great deal of money from the stuff he was writing. Naturally, his publisher couldn't get enough of it. But more than anything else he wanted to write what he referred to as a 'big book,' by which he simply meant a good book. He wanted to write something he could put his own name on and be proud of. It ate at him for years-and it finally cost us our marriage. It must have gotten even worse, because I know he was drinking quite a lot this last year."

  The paddleballers on the court nearest us were arguing over one of the players' calls. I'd happened to be looking in their direction while April was talking. When they glanced over at me, I signaled that the ball had been out over the back line. There was some grumbling from the losing side over how I could make a call from so far away, but they went back to their game.

  "Why didn't he just write his 'big' book, or at least take a crack at it?" I asked, turning back to April. "He certainly had enough money to tide him over."

  She thought about it, shrugged. "I really don't know, Robert. He was so used to what he was doing. Also, of course, his publisher wasn't interested in publishing the kind of 'straight' book he wanted to do; he was under constant pressure to keep turning out the genre books."

  "Again: he had plenty of money. Why didn't he just take a couple of years off?"

  "I guess he was under his own pressures," she said after a thoughtful pause. "In the end, perhaps he was simply. .afraid that he didn't have that good book in him." She paused again, ran her finger along the edge of the wooden bench. "As a matter of fact," she continued quietly, "the pressure may finally have gotten to him in another way besides the drinking. He always sent Kathy and me copies of his books-sometimes as many as eleven or twelve a year. We hadn't received any for the past year. He must have been blocked, afraid he was drying up." She sighed, put her head in her hands. "Maybe that's why he turned to wicca."

  "Maybe. How long have you been divorced?"

  "Four years, but we stayed good friends. Frank adored Kathy, and she adored him. As you know, Kathy spent summers with him."

  "Did you speak often?"

  "Oh, yes. We were always on good terms; we just didn't love each other anymore. He often used the house to store things-tax records, manuscripts, contracts-that sort of thing. Even with all his money, he preferred living in a small apartment, and I have a big attic. In fact, he and Kathy stayed …" She choked, put her hand to her mouth, took a deep, shuddering breath. "Kathy and Frank were at the house over the weekend. Frank had driven up to leave something in the attic." She suddenly rose with a start. "I'm worried, Robert; I've been gone too long."

  "The hospital's only five minutes away," I said, rising and taking her arm. As we left the playground, two of the paddleballers smiled and waved; the other team scowled. "If Frank wasn't writing," I asked quietly, "what did he want to leave with you?"

  April Marlowe looked at me strangely. "I don't know, Robert," she said distantly.

  "Can you find out?"

  "I suppose so. Do you think it's important?"

  "I have no idea, April. It could be."

  "Then I'll go back and look for it as soon as I can. But the attic is a mess; I have no idea where he put what he brought, and it will take me hours to dig through …" Her eyes grew moist as her voice trailed off. "Right now I have to stay close to Kathy."

  "I understand. Do you have a place to stay?"

  "Dr. Greene has arranged for me to stay at the hospital."

  "Where's your brother staying?
"

  "I don't know."

  I gave April Marlowe my home and office numbers, and we hurried back to the hospital. Kathy's condition was unchanged.

  In the morning I awoke with a start and glanced at my watch; it was ten thirty. I'd slept around the clock. I immediately called the hospital, but the reception desk would tell me only that Kathy's condition was listed as "serious." I asked them to switch me over to the residential room where April Marlowe was staying. April answered on the third ring.

  "It's Mongo," I said. "I hope I didn't wake you up."

  "Good morning, Robert," the woman said in a heavy, sad tone. "You didn't wake me."

  "Were you able to sleep at all?"

  "Some. The wine and the dinner helped relax me-as you knew they would. Thank you. And Dr. Greene gave me something to help me sleep."

  "Anything new on what's wrong with Kathy?"

  "No," April said tightly. "She's still in a coma, and her heartbeat's slightly irregular. The neurologists here are working on her, and Dr. Greene is assembling a team of specialists from other hospitals."

  There was an uncomfortable silence in which I found myself with nothing to say. I suddenly realized why, and I felt slightly guilty; beyond my concern for Kathy, I'd thoroughly enjoyed dinner with April Marlowe the night before. I enjoyed hearing her voice over the telephone, and I looked forward to seeing her again.

  In some circles, lusting after a comatose girl's mother might be considered a bit tacky.

  "Uh, I'll be by later to check on her," I said at last. "You try to get some rest. Do you need anything?"

  "No. Thank you, Robert. If I'm not in my room near Intensive Care, I'll probably be having coffee. Be sure to find me, okay?" "Right."

  When I hung up, I realized something was missing: it was the painful knot that had been in the pit of my stomach since early Monday morning. Kathy was in one of the finest medical centers in the world, and the doctor in charge of her case was intensely concerned about her; it would be hard for any group of mere witches to top those odds.

  Now, with a full night's sleep in my head, I decided I must have been suffering delusions of grandeur to suppose that Kathy's life could depend on anything I might or might not find out about the gown she'd been dressed in. In the bright morning, I was filled with confidence that Greene and his team of specialists would quickly discover what was wrong with Kathy, and cure her; it was inconceivable to me that they wouldn't. My concern had shifted to wanting to find the people responsible for putting her in the hospital in the first place. I wanted to drum out a few tunes on their skulls.

  I checked in with my service and was told that Senator Younger had called the night before and was anxious for me to get in touch with him. The Chancellor had called at eight; he wanted me to come in and see him. Also, Yvonne Mercado had called.

  Yvonne could wait. When I called Barnum's office, I was told that he'd be free to see me in a half hour. I said I'd be there. I started to dial Younger's number, then hung up. I remembered all too well the fear and pain in the Senator's eyes, and the confidence Janet Monroe had expressed in me. It would do no good to tell him that something else had come up; it had been four days since I'd spoken with him, and his daughter was also dying. The fact of the matter was that I hadn't even had time to talk to Esteban Morales, much less look into the case against him. I wasn't prepared to tell Younger I'd been weighing the life of his daughter against that of someone else's.

  Reluctantly, I gathered up the file I'd started on Smathers based on the information Winston Kellogg had provided me with. I put it into my briefcase, along with the recording of my telephone conversation with Kellogg and a small, portable tape player. Then I drove downtown to the university.

  The towering glass-and-stone buildings of the school with its vast, arcane treasury of human knowledge, combined with the ubiquitous murmur of New York's technology, proved a good antidote to the case of creepies Marlowe's death and Kathy's hospitalization had given me. I stood in the middle of the student plaza for a few minutes, armoring myself with the university atmosphere. As a result, I was five minutes late for my appointment. Barnum was pacing impatiently back and forth across his carpeted office.

  "Good morning, Chancellor," I said.

  "Good morning, Frederickson," Barnum replied curtly, moving around behind his desk. He lowered his lanky frame into his leather-covered swivel chair. "I appreciate your coming in to see me on such short notice. Please sit down."

  I did, placing the briefcase on my lap. "Do you think it's a good idea for us to meet here?" I asked evenly.

  "Probably not," Barnum said shortly, "but I hate deceit." He shifted his angular form forward in his chair, began tapping his fingers nervously on his desk top. "In fact, I've been having second thoughts about this whole matter. I'm not sure what I've asked you to do is. . appropriate." He cleared his throat. His gray eyes seemed cold and distant, as though he blamed me for his discomfort. "I know you've only had a few days, but have you, uh. . have you found out anything?"

  Barnum wanted it both ways. He wanted to find out whatever there was to know about Smathers, but he didn't want to get his hands dirty; in short, he wanted me to decide for him whether or not to continue the investigation. At the moment, that responsibility was resting heavily on my thighs. What my briefcase contained could easily destroy the reputation of a brilliant scientist.

  Very carefully, like a man toying with the pin on a hand grenade, I fingered the latch on the case for a few seconds, then abruptly set the case on the floor. "It doesn't make any difference, sir," I said. "I've decided not to take the assignment anyway."

  "Then you too feel. . uncomfortable?"

  "Yes, sir, that's part of it. Also, frankly, something more important has come up, and it requires my full attention. I wouldn't be able to continue this investigation in the manner it deserves. That wouldn't be fair to you-or to Dr. Smathers."

  He looked at me for a long time, his eyes boring into mine. "Continue?" he said at last. "Have you found out anything?"

  "As you indicated, there are rumors," I answered after giving it some thought. "But that's all." I took Barnum's check out of my pocket and placed it on the desk between us. I wasn't about to destroy a man on the basis of what I'd heard. Neither, apparently, was the Chancellor.

  "But you have heard some things?" Barnum said tightly.

  "Yes; but as far as I'm concerned, what Smathers does with his personal life is his business." For all I knew, Smathers had been living like a monk since coming to New York; the brush with notoriety and the law in Boston had to have given him a scare.

  Barnum thought about it, nodded. "Please keep the check, Dr. Frederickson," he said, picking up the piece of paper and holding it out to me. "I insist. You have gone to some trouble."

  Reacting to the pride in his voice, I took the check. I got up, started for the door, then hesitated and turned back. Barnum was still seated at his desk, staring absently after me. He looked like a man suffering from acute indigestion. I respected the man, and knew that I'd probably left him with an even heavier burden than he'd come to me with. I'd been coy, to say the least, and I felt I owed the man something for his money.

  "Chancellor," I said, "I've been up to Smathers' complex, but I couldn't find out anything other than the fact that Kee's Chinese assistant spooks easily. Smathers has everything locked up tighter than a drum. I suppose that's his right-maybe even his responsibility, if he's working with expensive equipment and bizarre types. But I'd think that somebody in the administration has a right to know what he's doing-and you don't need a private investigator to find out what it is. That's my opinion as a faculty member, not a detective."

  "I agree, Frederickson," the man said thoughtfully with a curt nod of his head. "I think perhaps I've been neglecting my responsibilities. I'll look into Dr. Smathers' professional activities myself. Thank you for your time and advice."

  Walking out of the Administration Building, I felt a surge of relief; I hadn't wanted to in
vestigate Smathers to begin with. Now I was free of that burden, and I didn't think the Chancellor had been offended. It was, after all, Barnum's responsibility to monitor research activities at the university; if he wanted to find out about Smathers' extracurricular activities, he could hire somebody else to do the investigating.

  As if to underline my reticence to dig up personal dirt, I glanced up and spotted a Chinese walking toward me. He was tall for an Oriental-over six feet-and stocky. His head was shaven, and he wore heavy horn-rimmed glasses. His dress was rather odd for New York: flowered Hawaiian shirt, ill-fitting blue serge slacks, white socks and wing-tipped cordovans. He looked almost comical, like something out of a World War Two propaganda film. But there was nothing funny about the way he walked and carried himself; his movements and bearing had a distinct military stamp. I was convinced the man was Kee, and I instinctively sucked in my breath. However, the Chinese walked on past me with barely a glance in my direction. That was worth a sigh of relief: I'd been expecting Round Two of Frederickson versus the behavioral psychologists.

  My good feeling didn't last long.

  "Mongo!" a familiar voice called from behind me. "What luck! I was just looking for you over at your office."

  The woman who approached me across the stone plaza was young-twenty-four-and brilliant. Dr. Yvonne Mercado had graduated from the university at seventeen, earned her master's at nineteen and her doctorate at twenty-one. A widely published cultural anthropologist, she'd been around the world several times, charting various cultures. Yvonne also happened to be lovely, with a dark, lusty beauty. She was touted by the university as the successor to Margaret Mead, but I didn't see it that way. Mead had obviously empathized with the people she studied; I tended to look on Yvonne as something of an academic hotshot, seeing people in terms of statistics, books, monographs and awards. She had an unsettling habit of saying exactly what was on her mind. But I liked her, and suspected she might mellow with age.

  "Hello, Yvonne," I said, uncomfortable because I was pretty sure I knew what she wanted to talk to me about.