by Otto Penzler
Father Orion toyed with his beard in that dreamy manner as the woman stopped before him. She did not speak loudly, but in the quiet her brittle voice sounded loud.
“He killed himself,” she said. “He killed himself after they took the last of his money and kept on threatening him. He’s dead. You know why he’s dead. No one but you could have known. I’ve come all the way back here to settle with you.”
Her voice gave no further warning. She was still talking when she snatched a gun from her black purse. The first blasting shot broke the tension.
Women screamed, men yelled. They fled in all directions and became a milling, helpless mob. And the woman stood there and emptied her gun at Father Orion.
I had leaped on a couch to see better. Her black-clad figure did not move as the small automatic in her hand blasted shots directly into Father Orion’s chest.
There wasn’t anything I could do. He didn’t have a chance. It wasn’t pretty to watch. A bloody execution never is particularly pretty.
Father Orion did not try to save himself. I saw it. He stood there with that big white beard over his chest and his arms half-lifted as if he might be blessing her while she poured bullets into his body.
The ripping roar of explosions was over in seconds. All the patio was in an uproar. And I stood frozen on a couch waiting for Father Orion to fall.
Eddy Voss dived in from one side, caught her gun hand and jerked her around to him. He hit her in the jaw. She dropped. And I jumped off the couch and pushed and shoved toward the spot.
Voss was trying to lift the woman’s limp figure when I reached them. I caught her feet to help. And once more froze as the unbelievable happened.
Father Orion had stepped back on the dais and lifted his arms. His big hooked nose and half-closed eyes, his bushy white beard and uplifted arms made him like a prophet out of the old books. His voice came in a dreamy, awesome boom above the panic and the noise.
“Peace! Peace, Brothers! The Truth lives. The Great Truth lives undying.”
A woman screamed. “It didn’t hurt him! Master, they can’t kill you!”
Guess who! Miss Two Million Bucks screamed that.
Other voices caught her up. “Master, they can’t kill you!”
“Praise the Truth! Praise the Master!”
I almost shivered. They were like animals yapping with fanatical joy. And so help me that huge old man stood there on the dais, unharmed, unhurt.
I was close. I could see two of the bullet holes in the outer cloth of his robes. The holes were over his chest. He should have been dead, dying at least. And I could see no blood, no hurt, no break in the dreamy, unearthly manner.
Voss’ eyes were black slits as he snarled: “Pick her up! Pick her up! Toward that door back of you!”
The crowd was surging toward the dais as we started to carry the woman away. They weren’t even thinking of her. Voss had slipped the gun into his pocket. I thought of her purse and didn’t see it.
John Paige appeared beside me and snapped: “I’ll take her!”
“She isn’t heavy,” I panted.
“I’ll take her!” he snapped again, and elbowed me aside.
So I let him have her and started to follow them.
Paige was excited. His voice broke at me. “We don’t need you. Go on back!”
“Scram!” Eddy Voss threw at me. His eyes were black coals. He looked like he might start shooting himself.
So I turned back. Starting a fight with those two wouldn’t get Mike Harris any information.
I pushed back toward the dais hoping to find the woman’s purse. No sign of it. I looked again to make certain Father Orion was all right. He was.
By now I was thinking again. You don’t do tricks with bullets from modern automatics, even if it is small. But you can stop ‘em with bullet-proof vests.
And bullet-proof vests mean that someone expects to get shot at now and then. People don’t shoot because they’re taught the Great Truth of Life.
Trixie Meehan hauled at my elbow.
“I’ve got her purse, Mike!”
“Slip me!” I said quickly. “Find out where Paige and Voss are taking that woman. See what they do with her. They ran me away. It’ll look suspicious for me to watch them now!”
Trixie gave me the black purse and hurried off like the little trouper she was in a pinch. And for once I was thankful for the bedsheet I was wearing. Under cover of the robe I emptied the purse into the pocket where my money was. Back in the crowd again I dropped the purse on the floor.
As near as I could tell from a quick look, my haul was some paper money and coins, a Pullman check, vanity, nailfile, a little memorandum book, a crumpled envelope and a small handkerchief.
She had spoken of a man who had killed himself, had charged Father Orion with the responsibility. The idea was hot enough to sizzle. A plain trail of death pointed to Orion! And if once, why not twice? Like, say, Frances Farnson? Well, why not?
So we had more mystery. Ideas began to rattle in my mind. A nebulous thought took form, so startling that I almost shrugged it off.
The woman in black could have settled the idea in a few minutes. But would I have a chance to talk with her? I would not. Paige and Voss’ manner had left no doubt that I wasn’t wanted around her.
I wondered if they suspected me? But why should they? What cop would turn up carrying eight thousand dollars?
Would they turn her over to the police? Don’t be silly. By now I could see that this guarded estate in the hills north of Hollywood could settle its own troubles.
I smiled at the thought of Larry Sweet and Jake Dennis. They’d give something to be in on this. Chances were that Jake Dennis was still profanely wondering why I’d appeared on that Chicago plane.
Trixie came back. “They took her through that door, Mike. It’s locked.”
“What’s beyond the door?”
Trixie shrugged.
“Will the Cudahy girl know?” I asked.
“Maybe.”
“Ask her. But first, you’d better get outside and see if they’re taking her away.”
Trixie nodded. “Where are you staying, Mike?”
“Fourth—no, fifth cabin—to the right of the driveway.”
“We’re two cabins from the eating pavilion. Sometimes Nancy spends the night. And the more I see of this the less I like it,” Trixie said as she turned away.
CHAPTER IV
HITTING THE PIPE
Paige was back on the dais a moment later, leaning close as he spoke to Father Orion. The old man nodded. Paige lifted his voice for quiet.
And when he had quiet, Paige called: “The woman dropped her purse. Who has it?”
“Here, Brother.” A reedy eager little man pushed forward with the purse.
Paige solemnly lifted his hand.
“You have seen. The woman is mad. The Master orders that there be no mention of this.”
“No mention,” Father Orion boomed dreamily.
“Another day ends,” Paige told them. “There will be no ceremonies tonight. The Master gives you Peace and Truth.”
“Peace and Truth!” Father Orion intoned.
So we were eased out, and I had to leave also. Voss hadn’t appeared. Outside I made a circuit of the big white building. Trixie wasn’t in sight.
The woman had fainted, Paige had said. Fooey. I wondered what Paige would think when he found the purse empty.
The brethren and sistern were scattering. I headed for my cabin to shuck out of the white sheet. I’d left my suit over the foot of the bed with a few flakes of cigarette ash scattered where they’d do the most good. The little gray flakes had vanished from the suit fabric.
So my clothes had been frisked. I lighted a cigarette and was reaching for the loot inside my robe when Paige knocked and entered hurriedly.
“I’ll lock your money in the safe tonight,” he told me.
“Don’t bother,” I said. “It’s safe with all that electricity around and Fat
her Orion near.” And I added: “Brother, I’m afraid I’ll forget where this money is if I lock it up anywhere.”
“Nonsense,” Paige said.
“Tomorrow, Brother, I’ll look for the Truth about it.”
“Take my advice in this,” Paige insisted.
“Tomorrow,” I promised. “Tomorrow, Brother.”
Paige looked as if he were not sure whether he was being kidded or not. A slight smile followed.
“Tomorrow,” he agreed. “We’ll settle everything tomorrow. Remember, Brother, no smoking near the Master.”
He left as abruptly as he entered—and I hadn’t been so near a chill in years.
Father Orion, Paige and the disciples were funny on the surface. The guarded estate and fantastic Shrine of Truth were good for a laugh. But some crackpots are only a hair-line from an asylum. And a madhouse can have its horrors.
Paige had just called me “Brother.” His changed manner had suggested “Sucker.” I switched off the light and got into my clothes fast.
And when the money went back inside my coat I damned myself for thinking of such a stunt. But then I hadn’t thought it possible to walk into a situation like this.
The purse loot was next. I drew the curtains before I switched on the light to take inventory.
The money came to fourteen dollars and some coins. The Pullman check didn’t tell me much at the moment. A Philadelphia pawnshop ticket made out to Mrs. H. Mossman dropped out of the memorandum book. The crumpled letter was postmarked Bridgeport, Connecticut, and was addressed to Mrs. Harry Mossman, at a North Side address in Philadelphia.
Dear Mae:
I can’t loanyou any more. And I don’t see how you and Harry can need so much cash. Last year when you folks came back from Los Angeles and bought the garage, you were well fixed. For that matter I never could see why Harry sold out and came back. He was doing well and liked the Coast. If business is so bad, Harry had better sellout and take a job somewhere. We’re all well here. We’d like you two to come up and visit us. Your Affct. Brother,
SAM
The memorandum book held bridge scores, a housewife’s small notation, some addresses, mostly in the East, several in Los Angeles.
But I had my information. She’d come from Philly. She’d been to a pawnshop just before she left, evidently to get rail-road fare.
Fourteen dollars wouldn’t take her back. She hadn’t been thinking of going back. I had seen her, heard her. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that the woman had been obsessed with the one idea of getting to L. A. and emptying a gun into old Orion. After that it didn’t matter.
She’d lived in Los Angeles. She’d been one of the disciples. For some reason her husband had moved to Philadelphia. If you asked Mike Harris, the husband might have gone to Philly to get his wife away from these lunatics.
Suddenly the husband had begun to need cash money. His wife had borrowed from her brother. When the money was all gone, the husband had shot himself. Only a hockshop had gotten the woman back to Father Orion.
All that I knew now. But I didn’t know why the husband had bankrupted himself without a squawk and finally shot himself.
The woman could tell me. But could I talk to her in the privacy I had to have? Would she be alive that long? Would I be alive that long?
Sounds jittery, doesn’t it? Well, I had Bro-phy’s eight grand, and Father Orion’s madhouse all around, and a dead girl down the hill in Hollywood and a dead man in Philadelphia. I’d witnessed an automatic spitting bullets at Father Orion.
A little cool thought about the situation was enough to lift the hair on a sane man’s head.
So I tucked the contents of the purse under the mattress, switched the light off again and opened the door quietly.
The local disciples had been driving automobiles off the estate. When I stepped outside, the grounds seemed pretty well deserted. The Shrine was dark. Most of the overhead lights along the paths had been turned off. Here and there I could see the dim-lit windows of occupied cabins. The white shape that suddenly appeared at the corner of my cabin made me jump and swear violently.
“Iss forbidden,” I was sternly informed.
“Forbidden hell!” I said, mad because he’d surprised me out of a week’s growth. I needed growth at the moment. This toga-clad fellow was almost as big as the guard at the gate. “What’s forbidden?” I asked.
“Go out,” he said in an accent thick enough to slice.
“Yeah?” I said. “Who’s forbidden and who said so?”
“Everyone—you,” he told me. “Father Orion orders.”
“The hell with Father Orion,” I started to say—and didn’t. Such talk wouldn’t do me any good around here. “Where’s Paige?” I snapped.
“Don’ know.”
“Where’s Father Orion?”
“Don’ know. You sleep now, huh?”
“Yeah?” I said. “Oh, sure, I’ll sleep.”
He was big and the white toga made him look bigger. He was carrying a stick. I couldn’t see whether he had a gun.
“You go back,” he said.
“Sure,” I said.
What else? His yell would have brought others. I might have ducked into the woods, reached the fence and gotten outside the guarded gate some way. But I didn’t think so. Back inside the dark cabin I began to fumble around as quietly as I could.
Ten minutes it took me, maybe a little more. When I finally looked past the edge of the window shade, the white toga was still out there a few feet from the front door. And for once I could have said a kind word for the sheet-wrapped brigade. They were easy to see at night.
The door hinge creaked. He was turning around when I started out, so I talked fast.
“Look,” I said. “I’ve got to see Father Orion.”
“Tomorrow,” he said stolidly.
“Tonight,” I said, walking up to him.
“What iss?” he asked suspiciously, looking down at my left hand.
“Money,” says I, holding it out. “I found it in the cabin. Look, Brother, look.”
He took the money instinctively. Maybe I’d have done the same. And I slugged him with the twisted pillow cases in my right hand and he went down with a funny grunting sound.
I forgot to say that the two pillow covers, one inside the other for strength, had a heavy doorknob knotted in the end. I’d used my knife point for a screwdriver to get the knob off. It was almost as good as a blackjack. For a moment I was afraid I’d caved his skull.
But I hadn’t. He was breathing heavily when I dragged him inside, turned the light on and began to tear sheets to tie and gag him. When I was through, he was through too, bound, gagged, helpless on the floor.
His eyes opened. He struggled, made sounds behind the gag and glared up at me.
I hefted the wooden club, which felt like it was loaded with lead in the end, and grinned at him.
“Brother,” I said, “it’s forbidden. You sleep now, huh—or I’ll bust you one with this bat you were carrying.”
He was silent and glaring when I turned the light off again and slipped out.
The estate was weird now in its quiet. Many of the cabins had gone dark. I wondered if more of the guards were creeping around. And I wondered where the woman in black was, and where Trixie Meehan was, and would it be safe to go to the cabin that Trixie was occupying with the Cudahy girl.
I decided to take a chance. Second cabin from the eating pavillion, Trixie had said.
The cabin was lighted. A small radio was playing softly inside. When I knocked cautiously the light went out, the music stopped.
“That’s Trixie, all right,” I thought. “And she doesn’t know anything or she’d have looked me up. So what now?”
And the door opened, a girl slipped out and threw her arms around me, crying softly: “Darling! Sweetheart!”
“Wrong number, sister,” I said, trying to untangle her from my neck.
She’d already discovered that. She uttered a little scream as
she jumped back.
“I thought you were John!” she stammered.
Lightning does strike now and then. Miss Two Millions made a bull’s-eye with her confused comment—and I knew something I’d been wondering about. I thought fast before I spoke.
“Paige is busy just now,” I said. “He wanted me to tell you to—er—wait for him.”
“I didn’t think he could get back from town so quickly,” she babbled. “Who—who are you?”
“I’ve a message for Miss Meehan.”
“She isn’t here.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. She—she didn’t come back from the Felicity Circle.”
“That’s funny,” I said calmly. “I wonder where she could be?”
Inside I wasn’t calm. I was suddenly afraid for Trixie. The night was too quiet, too ominously quiet. Paige had made a quick night trip into town for some reason—and Trixie was the first reason I thought of. Could she have been carried helplessly off the estate? And would Trixie’s body be found tomorrow somewhere down in the city, accidentally dead?
“Paige didn’t tell me where he was going,” I said. “Do you know any way I could get hold of him quickly?”
She said, “No,” and it sounded suspicious. So did the question that followed. “Who are you? I don’t believe I know you.”
“I’m Mike Harris,” I said. “Hasn’t John told you about me?”
“No.”
“He will, Miss Cudahy,” I promised, chuckling. “He’ll have a lot to say about me. I’ll look around for Miss Meehan. If she comes back, tell her I’m looking for her.”
I left before she could think to turn on the light. One look and she’d have me spotted as Brother Amnesia. And she wouldn’t be dumb enough not to smell a rat about my sudden familiarity with Paige’s secrets.
And so Paige was her sweetheart, her darling. Smooth, eh? Smoother than I had thought. Sweetheart and darling to millions! Who said there wasn’t any profit in being a crackpot?
But there wasn’t any profit in Mike Harris wandering around Father Orion’s zoo. Everything that happened was making the situation worse. And what about Trixie?
I was afraid—afraid for Trixie Meehan as I walked toward the big white shrine, the loaded club swinging in my hand and growing anger seething inside. Crackpots or no crackpots, if any harm came to Trixie I’d take the whole place apart.