The Clairvoyant Countess

by Dorothy Gilman

  Pruden introduced himself and displayed his ID card. “I’m looking for a Miss Kathy Dunlap.”

  “That’s me,” the girl said eagerly. “Is it about last night?”

  Pruden nodded.

  “Well, I’m Kathy and this is my brother Birch,” she said, pointing to the blond boy beside her. “I guess you’d like to go inside, right? My mother doesn’t like me to talk to strangers.” She stood up and brushed off her skirt.

  “And who are you?” Madame Karitska asked the unintroduced young man.

  Kathy said carelessly, “Oh, that’s Joe Lister, he works at the auto-body shop. So long, Joe.”

  Lister turned scarlet and stood up. Putting his hands in his pockets he mumbled, “See ya,” and slouched off, looking considerably diminished by Kathy’s indifference.

  Mrs. Dunlap was summoned from upstairs and came into the living room looking harassed. “It was terrible, just terrible,” she said. “It went on nearly the whole night and we couldn’t get a doctor; it was Sunday you know, their day off, and the hospital told us to bring Kathy in but we simply couldn’t get her into the car. Please sit down, won’t you?”

  The chairs were arranged very symmetrically and as Pruden sat down, inadvertently moving one, he saw the pained look on Mrs. Dunlap’s face. He carefully moved the chair back in line with the other. “Can you explain how she acted?”

  “Delirious,” said Mrs. Dunlap simply. “Out of her head completely and yet no fever, no fever at all. She wouldn’t sit down, she wouldn’t lie down, she roamed the whole house—babbling—and when we tried to get her to rest she screamed at us. It was terrible.”

  “What do you remember of it?” Pruden asked Kathy.

  “That’s what everyone’s asking,” she said, “but—well, it was like waking up from a nightmare this morning. I can’t remember anything except how horrid the nightmare was. I was exhausted. Mum made me stay in bed until ten. I still feel restless and itchy,” she admitted, “but I don’t remember any gun at all, or screaming, or anything like that.”

  “It’s my husband’s gun, all properly registered,” the woman added hurriedly. “He has a very nice collection of guns in the basement. He’s a member of the Target Club. And we did not call the woman across the street a witch, as people are saying.”

  “Did you happen to notice if the pupils of Kathy’s eyes were dilated?”

  Mrs. Dunlap indignantly shook her head. “No, I didn’t notice. But I can assure you, Lieutenant, that both my children are good children. Birch,” she said with a proud glance at her son, “is a top honor student at school, he studies hard and gets all A’s. Kathy isn’t quite an honor student but she’s on the Dean’s List. We’re very strict with them, I can assure you, and if either of them so much as touched drugs they know their father’d whip them. We find this terribly embarrassing, all of it.”

  Pruden hazarded the guess that Kathy didn’t find it embarrassing but was rather enjoying the attention. “Yes—well …” he murmured, and stood up.

  “I’ll see you to the door, sir,” Birch said, jumping to his feet.

  “Well, at least the boy had manners,” Pruden said when they were on the street again. “Any impressions?”

  “Only as we approached them on the street,” said Madame Karitska. “I felt a sharp stab of alarm, of something being very wrong, but of course something has been very wrong, or was last night.”

  Pruden stopped and looked up at the second floor, where a glazier was fitting glass into one of the windows. “Some of these model children don’t always tell their parents about their less model-like experiments, of course. I just wish a doctor had been called.” He consulted his memo book. “Crystal Jamison’s away for three days—her grandmother died—so we can’t call on her. Let’s see if Johnny Larkin’s family called a doctor.”

  “The first child to become ill?”

  He nodded and guided her to his car. “Around the block, next street.”

  The Larkin family turned out to be very different from the Dunlaps. Nothing was symmetrical in their living room, which was filled with plants, a coffee table piled high with books, and a weaver’s loom crowded into one corner. Mrs. Larkin wore dungarees and a sweat shirt and apparently had a sense of humor. “I’ll call him,” she said, “if I can pry him away from his microscope. Meals don’t do it, maybe a live policeman will.”

  Johnny, when he arrived, turned out to be a very small twelve-year-old with auburn hair, glasses, and the gravity of an adult. His mother very tactfully withdrew, leaving him alone with Pruden and Madame Karitska.

  He nodded to Pruden’s query about a doctor. “Yes, he came, Mother called him, which I really didn’t think awfully necessary. I certainly wasn’t as sick as I hear Kathy was.”

  “And what did the doctor say?”

  “He said I had to have been taking drugs,” Johnny said firmly. “Except I hadn’t taken any. Of course,” he added scrutinizing Pruden frankly, “you needn’t believe that. The doctor didn’t.”

  “How did you feel?” asked Pruden. “Can you remember?”

  “Oh yes,” Johnny said, to his surprise. “I like to observe things and I wasn’t that sick. The pupils of my eyes were dilated—huge, actually—and I couldn’t see very well. I minded that most of all, you know—I couldn’t read or look through my microscope, which made it awfully dull. At first I felt very lightheaded but then I became what I think you’d call ‘manic.’ I had a terrifying amount of energy. I finally went out in the yard and built a stone wall. You can see it if you’d like,” he said generously. “I had the feeling, you know, that if I didn’t use this terrible energy I’d go quite mad. My father says I carried rocks that he couldn’t have carried, and he weighs two hundred.”

  “And you?” asked Madame Karitska with a smile.

  “Ninety-eight pounds.”

  Pruden said with respect, “Have you any—uh—theories about this, Johnny? For one thing it does seem to be only young people who’ve been experiencing this—this—”

  “Phenomenon?” suggested Johnny. “But that’s not true, you know. Cas Johnson said he’d had it too, and he’s twenty-four, I think.”

  “Cas Johnson,” echoed Pruden.

  Johnny nodded. “He works part time at the auto-body shop.”

  “That would be Lister’s auto-body shop?”

  Johnny stood up and walked to a rear window. “As you can see, it’s directly in back of our house, it’s how I cut through to school and to my friends on Mulberry Street. It’s got a great yard for playing catch and everything and Mr. Lister never minds our hanging out there. He’s a really relaxed guy. And then we used to sit in the old junked cars when we were kids and pretend we were driving.” He explained this as if it were a century ago. “They brought Daredevil Demon’s car there last week,” he added in an awed voice. “It was right there in Mr. Lister’s auto-body shop for six days. We were in school when Daredevil Demon came for it though.” This made him sad; he looked sad, as if being twelve was a cross to be born.

  “Well, Johnny, you’ve been very helpful,” Pruden said, rising. “If you remember anything else I’d certainly appreciate your letting me know.”

  “I’d be glad to,” the boy said gravely. “I can go back to my work now?”

  Pruden nodded, and he left.

  “And what did you think of the doctor’s diagnosis?” Pruden asked Mrs. Larkin when she met them in the hall.

  Johnny’s mother considered this thoughtfully. “I thought it a little ridiculous, actually. Of course I refuse to be the kind of mother who insists her son can do no wrong and won’t try something once. As you can see from meeting Johnny, he could try something once, being, alas, hopelessly scientific even about how he eats his breakfast. But I also believe him when he says he took nothing druggy because he knows he can tell us the truth, and he never lies. He has,” she added reflectively, “a scientific respect for truth.”

  “The scientific part I certainly noticed,” Pruden said dryly.

>   Mrs. Larkin laughed. “I thought you might. By the way, is Mrs. Trumbull a bona fide witch? I do horoscopes myself, and I’m tremendously interested in that sort of thing.”

  “No, she’s not a witch. You’ve met her?”

  Mrs. Larkin shook her head. “No, I’ve never stopped in. The dogs, you know …” She looked a trifle guilty.

  They left, and with a glance at her watch Madame Karitska announced that she would have to get back to her apartment now. “Reluctantly,” she added, “but I have a half-past-one-o’clock appointment. You are very good, you know; this has been very instructive, observing you at work.”

  “Thanks,” said Pruden, feeling inordinately pleased. “Climb in, I’ll drop you off.”

  That was Monday. On Wednesday Pruden phoned and said flatly, “I thought you’d want to know—”

  “Mrs. Trumbull?” said Madame Karitska.

  Pruden was somewhat taken aback. “What makes you say that?”

  “Because I had an impression of change hanging over her, something for the better. I felt confident for her.”

  “Well, your ESP must have suffered a short circuit,” he said grimly, “because one of her dogs got out of the yard yesterday and attacked a child. A neighbor beat off the dog with a stick and called the police. The child was taken to the hospital—twenty wounds needed cauterizing—and has had to begin rabies injections.”

  “Plakhoy,” murmured Madame Karitska, lapsing into the language of her childhood. “But this is bad, very bad,” she explained.

  “Exactly,” he went on. “The police notified the ASPCA and Mrs. Trumbull was ordered to bring her dogs to the shelter today, but she didn’t show up. Now she’s been given a summons to appear tomorrow in Magistrate’s Court.”

  “The poor woman. But,” added Madame Karitska thoughtfully, “she does have a dress. She said so.”

  “Very funny,” growled Pruden. “What I particularly called about, though, is that I’ve gone to see her and she’s very upset at leaving her house unattended in the daytime. She liked you. When I asked her what could be done for her she wondered if you could possibly house-sit. Unfortunately,” he added, “we can’t spare a policeman for that sort of thing.”

  “Obviously,” said Madame Karitska.

  “Feeling is running high about her, I might add, although I think you’d be safe enough. Not entirely because of the dog,” he added. “Somebody else has become ill.”

  “Who?”

  “A seventeen-year-old girl—same neighborhood—named Julie Austen. She’s been taken to the hospital, so maybe this time our mysterious ailment can be identified.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. At what time should I present myself at Mrs. Trumbull’s house tomorrow?”

  “You’ll do it? Great. I’d suggest half past twelve. She’s due in court at one o’clock. She shouldn’t be there more than an hour or two at most.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there at twelve twenty-five,” said Madame Karitska, and hanging up the telephone she picked it up again to begin rearranging two of her afternoon appointments for the next day.

  At half past twelve the next day Mrs. Trumbull left for Magistrate’s Court looking very neat in a dark-blue dress and a curious sort of hat that Madame Karitska yearned to bring into the twentieth century with a few adjustments. Since Mrs. Trumbull had no money for taxi fare, Pruden had offered to take her to court in his car; she wrung Madame Karitska’s hand, asked her to explain matters to her three remaining dogs, and climbed in beside Pruden, looking very small, anxious and defenseless.

  Madame Karitska closed the gate behind her, chatted with the dogs for a few minutes, and then went into the house. Its darkness was oppressive and she headed for Mrs. Trumbull’s microscopic living area where at least the darkness had been lightened into mere gloom. She sat for a long time on the couch, opening herself up to the feel of the house, and then she began to walk up and down the aisles of towering cartons and piles of newspapers, feeling drawn to them as if somewhere in the maze lay something of importance to Mrs. Trumbull’s future. But only a few of the cartons lay open, and she had no flashlight; what she did find, however, was an ancient pair of grass clippers. Carrying these she went outside, looked over the jungle of green, and glanced at her watch. An hour had already passed; she decided that she might as well make herself useful, and with some humor began to attack the path to the house.

  She was hard at work when the gate opened and Johnny Larkin’s mother walked in. Once the dogs had been quieted she said rather breathlessly, “I hope you don’t mind. Lieutenant Pruden stopped at the house this morning—he wanted Johnny to remember and write down everywhere he’d been the day he became sick—and he said you’d be here while Mrs. Trumbull’s at court. I think it’s perfectly splendid of you. I’ve brought you some lunch.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” said Madame Karitska, “but I had lunch before I came.”

  Mrs. Larkin nodded. “Then I’ll save it for Mrs. Trumbull. I made her a cake, chocolate with three layers.” Looking around her she said, “It really is a mess, isn’t it? I suppose she just didn’t have the energy to keep up. The housewives’ nightmare,” she added with a grin. “You catch the flu and lose a week and it’s overwhelming how behind you can get.” Sobering, she said, “You know, if people didn’t insist she was a witch—this really is a nice neighborhood—we could all pitch in and do something about this.”

  Madame Karitska said gently, with a faint smile, “Yes indeed. It would be so helpful, wouldn’t it?”

  The gate creaked again, the dogs came running, and Madame Karitska turned to see a man and a young woman standing in the tunnel of green and looking somewhat appalled. She quieted the dogs and looked at them questioningly.

  “Inspector Fowler from the Department of Housing,” the man said gruffly. “And Miss Wyler from the Department of Welfare. We’ve come to inspect the house and remove the dogs for examination. Magistrate’s Court sent us.”

  “But Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Madame Karitska, brows lifting.

  “She’s still at court. She’ll be there until our investigation’s finished and the magistrate makes a recommendation. A few more hours.”

  “So we’ll just go in,” the young woman said with a smile.

  It did not take long for the house to be declared uninhabitable. Every room in the building was piled high with junk, with only narrow aisles for access. There was a thirty-foot well in the basement, and around this were arranged a number of perishable food items and two buckets. There was no electricity, no running water, and no toilet facilities. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” the building inspector said incredulously. “One match and the whole place could blow up.”

  “And she insists she needs no help from welfare,” said Miss Wyler sadly, looking around her. “Well, we’d better go back and report.”

  When they had gone Mrs. Larkin looked at Madame Karitska. “You’re going to have a long wait.”

  “Yes,” said Madame Karitska.

  “I’ll just go home and put a casserole in the oven and then I’ll come back and wait with you. I feel,” she added vaguely, “somehow responsible. You know, ‘no man is an island,’ and all that.”

  It was six o’clock before Pruden walked in the gate; he came alone. “Still here?” he said.

  “Still here,” Madame Karitska told him with a smile. “But where is Mrs. Trumbull?”

  “I’ll take you both home,” he said in a hard voice. “They’ve sent Mrs. Trumbull to Harlow Hospital for two days of testing to see whether she’s sane, and Julie Austen died half an hour ago in the hospital.”

  “Died!” cried Mrs. Larkin. “Oh no, Julie? Only seventeen and dead?”

  “Yes,” Pruden said grimly. “The nearest they can get to it is belladonna poisoning but they’re not sure.” With a glance at the house he added, “They’re posting a guard here. I explained the circumstances and they don’t want trouble so they’ll post a guard. Let’s go,” he said in a savage voice, and tu
rned on his heel and led them to his car.

  “Belladonna,” Pruden said the following day when he stopped in, exhausted, at Madame Karitska’s. “Also called deadly nightshade, devil’s cherries, devil’s herb, and great morel. I don’t get it, frankly. Seven patrolmen spent the entire morning combing the back yards of the neighborhood, especially Joe’s auto-body shop where the weeds are thickest, and none of them found any deadly nightshade. And even if they did, why would four people go out and eat the stuff?”

  “What is interesting to me,” said Madame Karitska, “is the pattern of the illnesses.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Johnny Larkin was only mildly ill. You tell me that Cas Johnson was a trifle sicker—it was necessary for him to report out of work for two days. Kathy Dunlap went berserk and Julie Austen died.”

  Pruden’s brows lifted. “I’m not following you.”

  She said calmly, lighting a cigarette in a long jade holder, “To me it gives the impression of someone—shall we say fumbling for the right dosage?”

  He stared at her incredulously. “You’re implying murder?”

  She looked at him steadily. “This hadn’t occurred to you?”

  Startled, he said, “Actually, no, but then no one died until last night. And when you discover it’s a weed that grows wild—”

  “You would have come to the possibility eventually,” she assured him, “but perhaps not until someone else had died. Did Johnny Larkin give you a—a scientific listing of the places he’d visited before he became ill?”

  He nodded. “It’s here somewhere.” He groped in his pocket and brought out several lists. “Cas Johnson did it for me, too, and Kathy Dunlap. But look here, why do you suspect a human hand in this?”

  “Let me look at them a moment,” said Madame Karitska, interrupting him, and studied the three lists with interest.

  “I know what you’ll find,” Pruden said with a rueful smile. “There’s just one common denominator, one place they all visited before becoming sick.”