during the time—that the liquid contained something
which did not become a drug unless it contacted human
epidermis?
He sat up in bed then. Sergeant Mustanoja! He should
have been worrying about Childe's failure to call in.
What had he done—if anything?
He phoned the LAPD and got Mustanoja. Yeah, he
had the note but Bruin didn't seem to think it was im-
portant and, anyway, what with being so busy—what
a night!—he had forgotten it. That is, until this Beverly
Hills officer called in about him and then Mustanoja
had found out what happened and knew he was not at
Igescu's so what was there to worry about, huh7 How
was Childe?
Childe said he was home and OK. He hung up with
some anger at Bruin for making light of his concern.
However, he had to admit that there was no reason for
Bruin to do otherwise. He would change his opinion af-
ter he found out what had happened last night. Perhaps,
Bruin could arrange with the Beverly Hills Police De-
partment … No, that wasn't going to work. The BHPD
had far more immediate duties than investigating what
was, objectively speaking, a very hazy lead. And
there were certain things, important things, about the
events that Childe was not going to tell them. He could
skip the summerhouse activities and just say that he
had been drugged with the brandy in the drawing room,
but the officers were shrewd, they had heard so many
false tales and part-true tales, so many omissions and
hesitations, that they picked up untruths and distortions
as easily as radar distinguished an eagle from an air-
liner.
Besides, he had the feeling that Magda would not
hesitate to claim that Childe had raped her and forced
"perversions" upon her.
He had gotten into bed again but now he climbed out
swiftly once more. He felt ashamed and sick. That drug
had overcome his normal fastidiousness and caution. He
would never have gone down on a woman he just met.
He always reserved this act—even if he were strongly
tempted to do so—for women whom he knew well,
liked or loved, and was reasonably sure were free of
syphilis or gonorrhea.
Although he had brushed his teeth, he went into the
bathroom and brushed again and then gargled deeply
ten times with a burning mouthwash. From the kitchen
cabinet he took a bottle of bourbon, which he kept
for guests, and drank it straight. It was a dumb act, be-
cause he doubted that the alcohol would kill any germs
he had swallowed so many hours ago, but it, like many
purely ritual acts, made him feel better and cleaner.
He started for bed again and then stopped. He had
been so upset that he had forgotten to check in with the
exchange or turn on the recorder. He tried the exchange
and hung up after the phone rang thirty times. Appar-
ently, the exchange was not yet operating again or had
lost its third-shift operator. The recorder yielded one
call. It was from Sybil, at nine o'clock. She asked him
to please call her as soon as he came in, no matter what
time it was.
It was now three-ten in the morning.
Her phone rang uninterruptedly. The ring seemed
to him like the tolling of a faraway bell. He envisioned
her lying on the bed, one hand drooping over the edge
of the bed, her mouth open, the eyes opened and glazed.
On the little table by the bed was an empty bottle of
phenobarbital.
If she had tried to kill herself again, she would be
dead by now. That is, if she had taken the same amount
as the last time.
He had sworn that if she tried again, she would
have to go through with it, at least as far as he was con-
cerned.
Nevertheless, he dressed and was out on the street and
walking within a minute. He arrived at her apartment
panting, his eyes burning, his lungs doubly burned from
exertion and smog. The poison was accumulating swiftly,
so swiftly that by tomorrow evening it would be as
thick as before—unless the winds came.
Her apartment was silent. His heart was beating and
his stomach clenching as he entered her bedroom and
switched on the light. Her bed was not only empty; it
had not been slept in. And her suitcases were gone.
He went over the apartment carefully but could find
nothing to indicate "foul play." Either she had gone on a
trip or someone had taken the suitcases so that that im-
pression would be given.
If she had wanted him to know that she was leav-
ing, why hadn't she left the message?
Perhaps her call and her sudden departure were un-
related.
There was the possibility that they were directly
related but that she had told him only enough to get
him over here so that he would worry about her. She
could be angry enough to want to punish him. She had
been mean enough to do similar things. But she had al-
ways quickly relented and tearfully and shamefully
called him.
He sat down in an easy chair, then got up again
and went into the kitchen and opened the secret com-
partment in the wall of the cabinet rear, second shelf'
up. The little round candy cup and its contents of white-
paper-wrapped marijuana sticks—fifteen in all—were
still there.
If she had left willingly, she would have disposed of
this first.
Unless she were very upset.
He had not found her address book in any of the
drawers when he had searched, but he looked again to
make sure. The book was not there, and he doubted that
any of the friends she had when they were married
would know her whereabouts. She had been dropped by
them or she had dropped them after the divorce. There
was one, a life-long friend, whom she still wrote to
now and then, but she had moved from California over
a year ago.
Perhaps her mother was ill, and Sybil had left in a
hurry. But she wouldn't be in such a hurry that she
wouldn't have left the message with the recorder.
He did not remember her mother's number but he
knew her address. He got the information from the oper-
ator and put a call through to the San Francisco ad-
dress. The phone rang for a long time. Finally, he hung
up and then thought of what he should have immedi-
ately checked. He was deeply upset to have overlooked
that.
He went into the basement garage. Her car was still
there.
By then he was considering the fantastic—or was it
fantastic?—possibility that Igescu had taken her.
Why would Igescu do this?
If Igescu was responsible for Colben's death and
Budler's disappearance, then he might have designs on
the detective investigating the case. Childe had pre-
tended to be Wellston, the magazine reporter, but he
had been forced to
give his own phone number. And
Igescu may have checked out the so-called Wellston.
Certainly, Igescu had the money to do this.
What if Igescu knew that Wellston was really Childe?
And, having found out that Childe had not gotten into
the serious car accident he had hoped for, he had taken
Sybil away. Perhaps Igescu planned to let Childe know
that he had better drop the investigation … no, it
would be more probable that Igescu wanted to force
him to break into the estate, to trespass. For reasons
of his own, of course.
Childe shook his head. If Igescu were guilty, if he,
say, had been guilty of other crimes, why was he sud-
denly letting the police know that these crimes had been
committed?
This question was not one to be answered immedi-
ately. The only thing as of this moment was whether or
not Sybil had gone voluntarily and, if she had not, with
whom had she gone?
He had not checked the airports. He sat down and
began dialing. The phones of every airline were busy,
but he hung on until he got through to each and then
went through more exasperating waits while the passenger
lists were checked. At the end of two hours, he knew
that she had not taken a plane out. She might have in-
tended to, but the airlines had been overburdened ever
since the smog had become serious. The waiting lists
were staggeringly long, and the facilities at the ports, the
restaurants and toilets, had long queues. Parking facil-
ities no longer existed for newcomers. Too many people
had simply left their cars and taken off with no inten-
tion of returning immediately. The authorities had im-
posed an emergency time limitation, but the process
of towing away cars to make room for others was
tedious, involved, and slow. The traffic jam-up around
International Airport demanded more police officers
than were available.
He ate some cereal and milk and then, though it
hurt him to think of all the money wasted, he flushed
the marijuana down the toilet. If she continued to be miss-
ing and he had to notify the police, her apartment would
be searched. On the other hand, if she were to return
soon and find her supply gone, she would be in a rage.
But surely she would understand why he had had to get
rid of the stuff.
Dawn had arrived by then. The sun was a twisted pale-
yellow thing in a white sky. Visibility was limited to a
hundred feet. The eye-burning and the nostril-scorching
and the lung-searing were back.
He decided to call Bruin and to tell him about Sybil.
Bruin would, of course, think that he was being unduly
concerned and would think, even if he didn't say so,
that she had simply left for an extended shacking-up with
some man. Or, possibly, Bruin being the cynic he was,
she was shacking up with some woman.
Bruin called him as he stood before the phone.
"We got a package in the late mail yesterday after-
noon but it wasn't opened until a little while ago. You
better get down here, Childe. Can you make it in half
an hour?"
"What's it about? Budler?" And then, "Never mind.
But how did you know I was here?"
"I tried your place and you didn't answer, so I thought
I'd try your ex-wife's. I knew you was still friendly with
her."
"Yeah," Childe said, realizing that it was too early to
report her missing. "I'll be down in time. See you.
Unh-unh! Maybe I can't! I have to get my car first and
that may take some time."
He told Bruin what had happened but censored the
summerhouse activities. Bruin was silent for a long time
and then said, "You realize, Childe, that we're all doing
a juggling act now, keeping three balls or more in the
air at the same time? I'd investigate Igescu even if you
don't have anything provable, because they sure sound
like a fishy lot, but I doubt we could get into that place
without a court order and we don't have any evidence
to get an order. You know that. So it's up to you. Those
wolf hairs in Budler's car and now this film—well, I
ain't going to tell you about it, you got to see it to believe
it—but if you can't get down here on time … lis-
ten, I could have a squad car pick you up. I would if
this was ordinary times, but there's none available. Tell
you what, if I'm out, you can get the film run off again,
I'll leave word it's OK. Anyway, it might be shown
again for the Commissioner. He's up to his ass in work,
but he's taking a special interest in this case, and no won-
der."
Childe drank some orange juice, shaved (Sybil kept a
man's razor and shaving cream for him and—he sus-
pected—for other men) and then walked to the Beverly
Hills Police Department. He got his key from the desk
sergeant and asked if it were possible to get a ride with
a squad car out to his car. He was told it was not. He
tried to get a taxi, could not, and decided to hitchhike
out. After fifteen minutes, he gave up. There were not
many autos on Santa Monica Boulevard and Rexford,
and the few that did go by ignored him. He did not blame
them. Picking up hitchhikers at any time was potenti-
ally dangerous, but in this eery white-lighted smog any-
body would have looked sinister. Moreover, the radio,
TV, and newspapers were advising caution because of
the number of crimes in the streets.
His eyes teary and the interior of his nostrils and throat
feeling as if he were sniffing in fumes from boiling metal,
he stood upon the corner. He could see the house across
the street and make out the city hall and the public li-
brary across the street from it as dim bulks, motionless
icebergs in a fog. Far down, or seemingly far down, Rex-
ford Avenue, a pair of headlights appeared and then
swung out of sight.
Presently a black-and-white squad car passed him.
When it was almost out of sight up Rexford, it stopped
and then backed up until it was by him. The officer on
the right, without getting out of the car, asked him what.
he was doing there. Childe told him. Fortunately, the
officer had heard about him. He invited Childe to get in
and ride with them. They had no definite goal at that
moment; they were cruising around the area (the wealthy
residential district, of course) but there was nothing to
stop them from going that far out. Childe had to under-
stand that if they got a call, they might have to dump
him out on the spot, and he would be stranded again.
Childe said that he would take a chance.
It took fifteen minutes to get to his car. Only an emer-
gency would have forced them to speed through this thick
milky stuff. He thanked them and then started the car
without any trouble, backed up, and swung toward town.
Forty minutes later, he was parked in the LAPD visitors'
12
Budler was in the same room in which Colben had been
killed. The first scenes had shown Budler being condi-
tioned, going through fear and impotence at first and
then confidence and active, eager participation. In the
beginning, he had been strapped to the same table but
later the table was gone and a bed took its place.
Budler was a little man with narrow shoulders and
skinny hips and legs, but he had a tremendous penis. He
was pale-skinned and had light blue eyes and straw-
colored hair. His pubic hairs were a light-brown. His
penis, however, was dark, as if blood always filled it.
He had an unusual capacity for sustaining erections after
orgasms and an unusual supply of seminal fluid.
(Both victims had been men with hyper sex drives,
or, at least, men whose lives seemed to be dominated by
sex. Both were promiscuous, both had made a number
of girls pregnant, been arrested or suspected of statutory
rape, and were known as loudmouths about their con-
quests. Both were what his wife described as "creeps."
There was something nasty about them. Childe thought
that the victims had possibly been selected with poetic
justice in mind.)
The woman with the garish makeup, and the creature?
—machine?—organ?—concealed behind her G-string,
was an actor; she specialized in sucking cock and she
took out her teeth several times but she did not use the
iron teeth. Every time he saw her remove the false
teeth, Childe tensed and felt sick but he was spared the
mutilation.
There were other actors, also. One was an enormously
fat woman with beautiful white skin. Her face never ap-
peared. There was another woman, whose figure was su-
perb, whose face was always hidden, usually by a mask.
Both of these used their mouths and cunts, and once
Budler buggered the fat woman.
There were also two men, their faces masked. Childe
studied their bodies carefully, but he could not say that
either was Igescu or Glam or the youth who had been
playing billiards. One of the men had a build similar to
Igescu's and another was a very big and muscular man.
But he could not identify them as anyone he had seen
at Igescu's.
Image of the Beast / Blown Page 13
