He sat up. "No. All I know is that Weather was killed—and your gun was found by his body."
I went over it all, the party, everything I'd learned. I finished, "And Jay was hypnotized. He was one of the three who were."
He sat quietly, frowning.
I said, "A question. Assuming Jay's parrot was the result of hypnosis, why in God's name would he be saddled with that? What's your answer as a psychiatrist?"
"Well, if it was an accident, that's all there is to it. Poor technique. So you must mean it wasn't an accident."
"Let's assume it was done on purpose. It could be done, couldn't it?"
"Certainly. Well, in that case, there might be several reasons. Practical joke. Revenge for some real or imagined hurt." He frowned and continued slowly, "Of course it would be rather a horrible revenge. Or it could be an attempt to create a neurosis in the man, maybe actually derange him. There might be any number of reasons, Shell. And it could be an accident."
"Yeah." I looked at my watch. It was after ten and I was anxious to get out of here. I still needed information, though. "This guy Joseph Borden, Bruce. Know anything about him?"
"A little. From what I've heard, he seems like a reliable man. Certainly knows what he's doing; has quite a decent psychological background, I believe."
"You know what I'm driving at, don't you?"
"Of course."
"Well?"
"Maybe." He scratched his head. "Doesn't seem to be any connection. Bit fantastic, isn't it?"
"And how."
"Shell, does anybody else know about this hallucination except you? I mean people who weren't told about it by you?"
That didn't mean anything for a second, then it chilled me. "Wait a minute," I said slowly. "You don't think I made up this whole deal, do you?"
"Hold it," he said. "Don't jump across the desk at me. I believe you. But what if you have to prove Weather told you all this? See what I mean?"
I saw what he meant, all right. I could have made the whole story up before I killed Jay. That is, if I'd been planning to kill him. Premeditation. I didn't like it a bit, especially since Lucian might be hauled in any minute—or Homicide might get a tip about Gladys and me. I swallowed.
"I'm not sure," I said. "He said I was the first one he told about it." I thought for a minute. "I don't know if there is anyone else. But I'm glad you mentioned it. Well, I'm going after this Borden character but good. Maybe I can find a connection."
Bruce frowned. "Could be ... but don't assume that Borden's the only answer. Even if hypnosis is the answer, Jay's trouble might date back beyond that Saturday party. Besides, Weather must have been a good subject. Borden doesn't have to be the only man who could have induced trance."
"Swell. That leaves only about a million people."
"There's this, too, Shell. When a man is in deep trance, the control can be passed on to almost anybody else."
"Say that again."
He smiled. "Didn't you read the books I gave you?"
"Not all the way through. Hell, I left them in the office. Meant to finish them last night, but I forgot them."
He leaned back and looped a long leg over the arm of his chair. "Well, I'll sum it up for you. Suppose you had hypnotized me. While I'm in the trance you tell me that Captain Grant will take complete control. Whatever I'd normally do under hypnosis I'd then do for Grant. That's an oversimplification, but not much. For that matter, he in turn could pass control to Sergeant Anderson, he to Lieutenant Hill, and so on. Back to you if you wanted."
I said, "I'll be damned. You're not pulling my leg?"
He looked slightly annoyed. "Oh, for Pete's sake, Shell. No, I'm not pulling your leg."
I asked, "What if I passed control to Grant and he told you to jump out the window? Would you jump?"
"No. At least I don't think I'd jump out the window any more than I'd stick a knife in my assistant. But I'm one of those who definitely believe the hypnotized man can be made to harm himself or others. It would probably take a lot of conditioning and training, though. If Grant, say, merely ordered me with no more preparation than we've discussed, to knife my assistant or jump out the window, I'd probably wake up immediately, snap out of the trance. Might even have convulsions."
"I'll be damned again. What if you were conditioned, like you mentioned?"
"Well, suppose that during a month or two of hypnotic sessions I was told that my assistant was a homicidal maniac who'd sworn to murder me, and I'd have to kill him in self-defense. Further, that he was a mass murderer who'd killed a dozen people, raped some women, molested some children, and so on. You get the idea? It would take an expert hypnotist and a lot of conditioning, but at the right time I might kill him. I'm convinced it's possible, though a number of my colleagues don't agree with me. Probably the controversy won't ever be settled."
"How come?"
He smiled. "Assume that, by hypnosis, I make a subject kill another person. I've proved the theory, but who am I going to brag to? Can I publish the details of my experiment in the Journal of General Psychology?" He paused. "But I'm sure it would work. Particularly if I chose a gangster or a hired gunman. There'd be less resistance to overcome. A man who's used to shooting people won't react so violently to the suggestion that he's to shoot one more."
He stopped, and it was quiet for a moment. Then I said, "I think I see. But suppose the guy doesn't like the idea?"
"You forget, Shell. He doesn't know anything about it."
That gave me a little shiver along my spine. "Bruce," I said, "you give me the double-barreled creeps."
"It's just a theory—as far as I'm concerned, anyway. It might actually have been done many times, but I wouldn't know about it."
"Yeah. About Jay Weather, now. I'm going ahead on the supposition that his parrot was a posthypnotic suggestion. Suppose Jay had also been told he'd come to my office yesterday. Would he do it?"
"I don't know why not. If he didn't, he'd probably be a nervous wreck."
"Why nervous?"
"Well, the effect of a posthypnotic suggestion is one hell of a lot more compelling than an idea that just pops into your mind. If it were resisted, then the suggestion would bother the subject until he carried it out. I remember one experiment I did a long time ago—I told a good subject that after he was awakened, he would give me his shirt when I said, 'Fee, fi, fo, fum.' I woke him up then and we talked a while and finally I said, 'Fee, fi, fo, fum.' I purposely chose words that would seem strange and attract his attention to them rather than an ordinary phrase that would have served just as well. Anyway, he got up and started to unbutton his shirt. Then he stopped and grinned at me and sat down. He realized it must have been a posthypnotic suggestion—he'd experienced them before and recognized the peculiar compulsion he had to perform the act. He didn't remember the suggestion being given in the trance, of course, but he recognized the sensation. I admitted that he was right, and asked what he was going to do about it.
"He held out for three hours, got nervous, irritable, smoked almost a pack of cigarettes, finally wouldn't say a word. He was perspiring and he couldn't keep his hands off his shirt. Finally he yanked it off and threw it at me. He calmed down at once after that. I thought that one a particularly interesting example because usually the suggestions lose a little of their compulsion if the subject knows they've been given."
I sat for half a minute without saying anything. Then I got up. "Thanks, Bruce. I can't digest any more now, and I've got some checking to do."
He nodded at me. "Sure. And how about keeping me posted? I'd like to know the score on that parrot."
"Yeah. So would I." I went out.
I sat behind my office desk and smoked a cigarette while I tried to sort out the things that had happened in these last hours. It had been about twenty-four hours since Jay had originally phoned me, and a lot had happened since then.
I looked at the broken drawer of my desk and wondered again about that missing bill of sale. Lucian and his buddy had
wanted to buy the business from Jay. Suppose they'd killed him. If they had, what the hell did they expect to gain by it? Of course they knew that Jay had yelled for help. They might have figured that if Jay were dead they'd have better luck with me, or with his heirs, whoever they were—particularly if they framed me for the kill. But how did they get my gun? And how ...
Heirs.
Wake up, Scott. Go back to fundamentals. When a man is murdered, look around fast for motive; ask yourself who profits by his death. If he's got dough, ask yourself right off the bat who gets fat? I dug into my wallet and fished out the list Ann had scribbled for me last night. The one I wanted now was Robert Hannibal, Jay's lawyer and a friend of the family. His office was in the Sprocket Building on Figueroa. And, I thought curiously, Hannibal had been at that peculiar party, too.
I got ready to go. There was still unopened mail on my desk and I picked up the letter I knew was from Jay. I opened it. Inside was a check for twenty-five hundred dollars. The amount surprised me. Jay had plenty, sure, but I hadn't done anything to earn that much. Not yet. Well, I could start earning it now. Maybe logically nobody owed Jay anything now that he was dead. But I owed him at least this much.
I headed for the Sprocket Building.
Robert Hannibal looked like one of the elephants that another Hannibal had herded across the Alps. Hell, he looked like one of the Alps. Not that he was fat; he was just big. When I entered his cramped office, he was seated behind a small desk that made him look even bigger. He stood up when I came in and he just kept going up. He got up to my six-foot size, then kept going for another four or five inches. He had shoulders to match, and his hands were half again the size of mine.
He smiled, showing me large white teeth like sugar cubes, and said, "Mr. Scott? What can I do for you?"
His secretary had given him my name, but not my business. I shook his big hand and said, "I'm a private detective, Mr. Hannibal. I've got a couple questions you might be able to answer for me."
"Glad to, glad to. Sit right down." He acted overjoyed. His voice was rich and powerful, and I'll bet he cut a pretty figure in front of a jury. Particularly a predominantly female jury.
I sat down and took a cigarette from the wooden box he shoved toward me. He held the lighter for me as I lit it, then transferred it to the cigarette dangling from his wide lips and said, blowing out smoke, "Now we can talk. What is it you want, Mr. Scott?"
I said, "It's about Jay Weather."
He sobered. "Yes. I heard, of course. Terrible thing. I knew the Weathers quite well."
"Have the police been here?"
He nodded. "I imagine they've talked to the family and most of the close friends by now."
"I'll get to the point, Mr. Hannibal. Jay was fairly well off, I know. I wonder if you could tell me who inherits his estate?"
He frowned. "Oh. Isn't it rather soon—"
"I know. I'm sorry if this seems callous."
He inhaled a mouthful of smoke, blew a wavering ring and speared it with the tip of the cigarette. Watching the shreds of smoke swirl, he asked me, "What is your interest in this, Mr. Scott?"
"I knew Jay Weather for years. I liked him. He was a friend of mine."
He frowned. "Mr. Scott, perhaps you're letting your trade influence you unduly."
"He was murdered."
He looked at me. "The police intimated as much. But still I don't feel I should speak of the legacy."
I should have expected that. We chatted some more and for a while I didn't think I'd get any answers at all. But when I finally said I could undoubtedly get the information elsewhere, he started to weaken.
At last he shrugged. "Mr. Scott, I suppose it's largely a matter of habit with me. Privileged communications, you know. It's merely that it seems to me you're placing undue importance on the fact of inheritance. That can't possibly have any bearing on—on Mr. Weather's death." Something seemed to be troubling him. He added, "It's absolutely impossible." Then he sighed and said, "All right, Mr. Scott. Probably you'll read the terms of his will in the newspaper shortly anyway."
I lit another cigarette. It looked as if I were going to have a nice motive laid out for me in the next few minutes, and I was thinking about Gladys and her amorous inclinations. Jay, fifty-eight years old; Gladys, a good thirty and claiming twenty-nine. A lush, bright-lights gal, and a pipe-and-slippers guy. I thought how Gladys had told me she remembered almost nothing about the party—and how Ann had told me Gladys was lying.
Hannibal said, "I suppose you know Mr. Weather married about two years ago?"
I nodded.
"After the marriage, Jay had me draw up his will. I handle all his legal matters, you know. He wasn't as well-to-do then as he is—was—more recently, but the entire estate totaled approximately two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Roughly, it was left to Mrs. Weather and to his daughter, Ann. In the event of his death, twenty-five thousand dollars was to be Ann's when she reached twenty-one. All the rest went to Mrs. Weather."
I flicked ash off my cigarette into a brass ashtray. That meant about two hundred and twenty-five thousand clams for Gladys, plus whatever Jay had piled up since then.
Hannibal went on. "Then, for reasons of his own, Mr. Weather made a new will about two weeks ago. He left everything to Ann."
"What?"
"I should amend that. Ten thousand dollars is bequeathed to Mrs. Weather. Everything else goes to his daughter."
A bunch of questions jammed up in my mind all at once. Why? Why two weeks ago? Did Ann know about it? Why just two weeks before he was murdered? I stubbed out my cigarette and said, "Jay left everything to Ann?"
He nodded.
"Did Mrs. Weather and Ann both know about the new will?"
"Yes," he said. "There wasn't any secret about it. As a matter of fact, both Mrs. Weather and Ann were with him when he came here to give me his instructions."
"That was only two weeks ago?"
"A little before that. Two weeks ago the will was completed and signed. In other words, it superseded the old will from that date. It's the legal document now. Except for the ten thousand dollars I mentioned, Ann is the only heir."
This changed the picture. I began to think the will angle wasn't so important any more. Maybe I'd been too anxious to jump at it. But there were too many other things that didn't make sense yet—the two goons, for example. Jay's parrot. And the transfer of his business to me on the day before he died; and, most important to me right now, the fact that my gun had been used to murder him. And once again, all of a sudden, I remembered the little things out of place, the different things when I'd awakened this morning. I felt uneasiness growing in me. I had to find out more about Jay's death—and Jay's life in the days before he'd been killed.
I lit another cigarette and said, "Thanks. If you don't mind, I'd like to check something else as long as I'm here."
He sat quietly, looking at me.
"The party at Jay's last Saturday. You were a guest, I understand."
"Yes."
"I've already talked to several of the people who were there, so I have a pretty good idea of what went on. The hypnotic demonstration is what I'm particularly interested in. I'd appreciate your telling me about the lecture and demonstration Mr. Borden gave."
"Certainly. I was—wide awake all evening." He grinned. "I'm afraid I didn't cooperate at all with Mr. Borden. Wouldn't care to violate any professional confidences under hypnosis, you know."
I nodded, and he continued. His story was the same one I'd heard before. Jay aped Hitler and mixed drinks at the end of the show, Gladys stood up and sat down when Borden touched his nose. Ayla did a little dance, Hannibal said. Everything was the same, apparently.
I asked him, "Did Borden go with Jay when he mixed the drinks before the party broke up?" Hannibal nodded and I asked, "How long did that take?"
He looked puzzled, but he said, "Three or four minutes. Perhaps a little longer. Whatever time it takes to mix nine drinks. I really didn't pay an
y attention. Why?"
"What time was that?"
"About midnight then. We sat around and talked for perhaps half an hour, then the party ended. You seem to place strange emphasis on a number of things, Mr. Scott."
"Yeah." I got up. "I won't take any more of your time. Oh, Borden was careful to remove all suggestions, wasn't he?"
"Of course. He did that before anybody left."
"One other thing. Did Jay give you any reason for changing his will, Mr. Hannibal?"
"No. I tried to make him take time to consider such an important step, but it was no use. He was quite calm, but apparently his mind was made up. As a matter of fact, I even discussed it with him again the night of the party."
"Oh? During the demonstration?"
He smiled. "No, that was hardly the time for such a discussion. I went back to his place after I took Miss Stewart home."
"You escorted Miss Stewart to the party, didn't you?"
He nodded.
"Well, thanks again, Mr. Hannibal."
"It's quite all right, Mr. Scott."
I went out of his office and down to my car. Obviously my next move was to talk again with Ann. I hated to talk so soon after Jay's death to those who'd been close to him, but it had to be done.
I wished, though, that my reason for going to see Ann were a different one.
Chapter Ten
AFTER LUNCH I headed for Jay's house. I started to pull in to the curb, but changed my mind. Another car was in the driveway at the side of the big house, and I didn't want company when I made my call. These were the hours when Gladys and Ann were entitled to privacy, and I didn't feel happy about coming here in the first place. But murder changes a lot of things.
I drove around the block, then parked where I could watch the front of the house. Ten minutes went by; then Robert Hannibal came out carrying a briefcase and walked, looking like a cross between a basketball center and a football tackle, to his car. He backed out of the driveway and drove away from me toward town.
I sat in the Buick for another five minutes trying to make something out of that, and wishing Hannibal weren't the family lawyer so I could make more out of it. Then I drove down and parked in front of the house, walked up to the door and rang the bell.
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