“And his death brought matters to a head.” Simon nodded. “Ash Gregory began to realize that his daughter had to be removed from the commune. She wasn’t a goddess—only a child. He and Martha must have argued about it driving up yesterday. She got him to stop the car—perhaps by pretending to see Lilith in the woods—and then stabbed him to death. She had to keep the child at all costs, to raise her as a daughter of nature.”
“And you knew it was Martha all along?”
“The way you described the event to me, only her voice on the intercom could have affected Harvey Cross so quickly. And doesn’t it seem reasonable that if Gregory was the child’s father, then the mother—and Gregory’s killer—who was driving up with him from New York might be someone who worked with him during the week?”
“I can’t believe the coincidence that brought Cross to the same publisher where they worked,” I said. It was early evening now, and the lights of Manhattan were coming into view across the Hudson.
“Oh, it was no coincidence, my friend. Harvey Cross was lured to your office by the same conscious urge that brought Martha Scane and Ash Gregory there as employees in the first place. Don’t you see it yet? These seven people believed in the old Roman and Greek gods. They established their commune in a place called Olympus and took the names of mythical creatures. It was not coincidence but a logical choice that brought them to a publisher named Neptune Books.”
THE WITCH OF PARK AVENUE
IT WAS A JUNIOR PARTNER at the law firm of Nevins & Scott who first contacted Simon Ark regarding the unlikely affair of Maud Slumber, the millionaire witch. Simon was speaking on “Religion and the Decline of Magic” at a workshop on the Middle Ages being conducted at a university in The Bronx, and this had brought him more than the accustomed amount of notice in the press.
“What am I to do, my friend?” he asked me over lunch at a Bavarian cafe on the, west side of Manhattan. “I give a simple, straightforward interview to the afternoon paper and now I have requests like this one.”
“What do they want you to do with this millionaire witch?” I asked. “Marry her?”
“Heaven forbid! Will you come with me to the lawyer’s office?”
“I suppose I could.” There were things to be done back at the office, but nothing that others couldn’t handle for a few hours. And my curiosity was aroused.
So after lunch we took a taxi down to the Wall Street suite of Nevins & Scott and were ushered promptly into the office of Greg Hopkins, the junior partner who’d contacted Simon. “It’s a pleasure,” he said, rising to shake hands. I guessed his age to be around thirty, though a bushy mustache the same shade of red as his hair made it difficult to estimate exactly. His blue eyes were clear and honest, and I imagined him to be quite effective in a courtroom.
“You must understand,” Simon told him, “that I’m not a private-inquiry agent. I can answer your questions about witchcraft but that is all. If you have a problem with this woman—”
“Oh, we have a problem with her all right. At least I do. Maud Slumber is seventy-eight years old and her estate is the largest one I handle. Frankly, I wouldn’t want to offend her—it wouldn’t be good for me or for the firm.”
“You said on the telephone she’s a millionaire.”
“That’s not violating any confidences. She donated a new wing to a New England medical school last year and she’s talked publicly about establishing a foundation to handle the estate after she dies. About the only thing she doesn’t mention in public is the fact that she’s been a practicing witch for most of her life.”
“How do you know that?” Simon Ark asked.
“Because she told me, in this very office. We got into a discussion about a year ago on how she managed to acquire her wealth. It seems it came mainly through large bequests from distant relatives and friends. That’s when she told me she’d hexed them, that she was a witch.”
“You couldn’t have believed her,” I said.
“Not at first, certainly. But Maud Slumber is an enigmatic woman. I came to realize that whether or not she really is a witch, she believes herself to be one.”
“Sometimes believing is all that’s necessary,” Simon murmured. He was staring hard at the young lawyer. “Tell me, Mr. Hopkins—other than her persuasive conversation, has this woman demonstrated any evidence of witchcraft?”
“Well,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully, “there was the matter of her husband.”
“You hadn’t mentioned she was married.”
“And I didn’t believe her to be when I first acquired her as a client. She’d been with one of the older members of the firm who passed away and his clients were divided among several junior partners. The file listed her as unmarried and I never questioned her about it, but some months back she telephoned me one afternoon, quite agitated. It seems her former husband was back in town, demanding money from her. I learned they’d been divorced about twenty years earlier, before she came into most of her money. He was a few years younger than Maud, still in his early seventies, and quite spry.”
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Lyle Caser, but I’m afraid he’s no longer with us.” Hopkins hesitated, as if wishing he didn’t have to tell us the rest of it. “She put a hex on him and he died.” He showed us a photo of a bald man with glasses.
Simon leaned forward in his chair. “How did he die?”
“He fell through a plate-glass window in a department store. Apparently he had a seizure of some sort, but it was the glass that killed him. A sliver of it cut his throat.”
“And Maud Slumber took credit for this?”
The young lawyer nodded. “She claims—But it’s all nonsense, of course. It’s not even worth repeating.”
“And yet you’re troubled enough to have summoned me.”
Hopkins took a deep breath. “Attorneys have a certain responsibility for their clients—at least the responsibility to see that they don’t break the law or harm anyone. Lyle Caser is dead, but he has a brother named Eric who’s still very much alive. I’m afraid Maud Slumber might—might harm him next.”
“Is this a matter for the police?”
“It’s not a matter for the police or private detectives or anyone like that, Mr. Ark. Frankly, I was at my wits’ end when I saw the notice of your appearance at the university. Maybe, just maybe, you could talk to her before anything else happens.”
Because I knew Simon would never ask it, I interrupted with a practical question. “Is your firm offering to hire Mr. Ark as a consultant in this matter?”
“You must realize this isn’t the sort of service that can be rebilled to the client. But the firm is willing to pay for any reasonable expenses, and for your time, of course. Could you call on Maud Slumber and persuade her to drop this foolishness?”
“By foolishness you mean her threat to put a hex on Eric Caser?”
“Yes,” he answered quietly. “She’s convinced the brother’s reappeared to get her money. I suggested she simply disinherit them, but instead she’s doing this.”
“Threatening to kill Eric like she killed her ex-husband?”
“Yes.”
Simon Ark stood up. “I’ll be happy to talk with her. Please arrange for an appointment as soon as possible.”
The appointment was for the following afternoon and I arranged to accompany Simon. The idea of meeting a millionaire witch who lived in a luxury Park Avenue condominium attracted me as much as it did Simon, and as we arrived by taxi I asked, “Do you think she’s really a witch?”
“Greg Hopkins thinks she is—he thinks she can kill people by hexing them. When one is dealing with witchcraft appearances can often become reality.”
“You mean that a person can fall through a plate-glass window simply because he believes his ex-wife has willed his death?”
“Something like that. In the Australian bush, where witchcraft of a sort is still practiced among the aborigines, the practice of pointing a bone at one�
�s enemies has been known to cause their illness and death. But it only happens if the victim knows the bone has been pointed, if his imagination can be set to work to such an extent as to bring about a physical illness.”
We passed through the revolving door of the building into a stark chrome-and-glass lobby where a security guard waited to ask our business. “And you think something like that has happened here?” I asked.
“We shall see, my friend,” Simon replied. He gave the man the name of Maud Slumber and we waited to be announced.
Her door on the twenty-second floor was opened by a uniformed maid who greeted us with a French accent. She left us in a plush living room where gold-flecked wallpaper matched the golden threads of the furniture, momentarily distracting me from the breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline to the south.
Then we were joined by Maud Slumber herself. She was a large woman, who moved to her chair with a sort of rolling motion. White-haired, wrinkled, showing the obvious signs of her seventy-eight years, her eyes were still alert and calculating as she faced us. “My lawyer sent you,” she said, not bothering with introductions. “For what purpose?”
Simon cleared his throat. “My name is Simon Ark. I am a researcher into matters—”
“I know who you are. The Satan-hunter. The scourge of necromancy. The undying detective. What do you want of me?”
“Merely a conversation. I do not come to burn you at the stake or to test you with torture. You have said you are a witch and I accept that.”
She bowed slightly, regaining something of her lost composure. “I have no caldron and no broomstick, Mr. Ark. I am not a threat to anyone.”
“Young Greg Hopkins seems to think you may have been responsible in some manner for the death of your former husband.”
She turned in her chair and issued orders to the maid. “Marie, bring us some tea.” Then she returned to the conversation with Simon. “I trust tea is satisfactory. Now, Mr. Ark, in the matter of Lyle Caser, his death was tragic—but not unexpected by me.”
“You had placed a hex or spell on him?”
She acknowledged that. “Not to kill him, but to drive him away. He and his brother had come back after all these years simply to see what they could get out of me. I sent someone to talk to them, but it did no good.”
“So you killed your former husband.”
“That’s a harsh word, don’t you think? I created an atmosphere in which he would be uncomfortable. If it caused his death I am sorry.”
“And now Eric?” Simon asked with a slight smile.
“They were always very close. They’re French, raised in Paris by a French father and an American mother. They moved here before the war and Lyle and I were married for about twenty years. I was not as wealthy then, but I was generous to them both. After the divorce they went away, and now they’re back. Since Lyle’s death a few weeks ago Eric has taken an apartment in Greenwich Village.”
“How did you acquire your wealth?” Simon asked her. “If you have no objection to my curiosity.”
“Not at all. I imagine Hopkins has told you already anyway. I have had a great many friends over the years and as they died their money has come to me.”
“Through your powers as a witch?”
“If you will.” Before she could say more, Marie entered with the tea on a silver tray. The old woman fell silent while we were served, and I took the opportunity to study Marie herself. She was a classic dark-haired beauty, with pale skin that made a vivid contrast to the blood-red lipstick she wore. “That will be all,” Maud Slumber told her when tea had been served, and our conversation did not resume until the maid had retreated to the kitchen.
“Is she French too?” Simon asked.
“Marie? Yes. I watch my words around her. Lyle recommended her to me when my former maid left last year and I’ve always had a nagging suspicion she was sent to spy for him.”
“But Lyle is dead now,” Simon reminded her.
“His brother Eric is alive. Sometimes I think they’re more alike than twins.”
“Which is why you’ve put a hex on him as well?”
“I’m an old lady and witchcraft is a hobby to me. Perhaps Lyle would have died anyway. His time had come.”
“Then you’re not threatening Eric?”
“What gave you that idea?”
“Your attorney.”
“He talks too—” The lobby buzzer interrupted her. “Marie, see who that is!” she called.
The maid reappeared to answer the buzzer and listened to the crackling intercom. “It’s Doctor Langstrom, madam.”
“Oh, have him come up,” she said. Then, to Simon: “I’m sorry, but my doctor is here. Perhaps we can talk again sometime—about a mutual acquaintance.”
Simon lifted himself to his feet. “And who might that be?”
“Why, Satan, of course.”
From the kitchen came the sound of shattering glass. I made a move toward the closed door through which Marie had just disappeared. She came back through it, her chalk-white face without expression. “I’m deeply sorry, madam,” she said. “I broke one of the water glasses.”
Doctor Langstrom arrived before Maud Slumber could vent whatever anger she might have about the broken glass. Once the doctor was admitted she dismissed the maid and introduced us. Langstrom, a tall slender man with grey hair and a mustache, extended a bony hand. “Simon Ark. I’ve heard your name—aren’t you lecturing up at my alma mater this week?”
They fell into a brief, friendly conversation while I edged toward the door. Presently Simon lumbered along after me.
“Interesting,” he said when we were in the elevator.
“Who—Maud Slumber or the doctor?”
“Neither one,” he replied enigmatically. “The maid.”
“You mean she broke the glass when Satan was mentioned.”
“It would seem she’d be accustomed to her mistress’s behavior.”
We were leaving the building by way of the revolving door, having passed the uniformed security man, when Simon’s attention was attracted by a bald man with thick glasses who was approaching the building with a purposeful stride.
“Pardon me, sir,” Simon said, intercepting him on the sidewalk. “Would you happen to be Mr. Eric Caser?”
“Yes,” the man replied. “Do we know one another?” He spoke with a decided French accent.
“We have never met,” Simon replied, “but I came here because of you—and your brother.”
“My brother is dead.”
“I know that. An attorney, Gregory Hopkins, believes your life may be in danger too.”
“From that witch’s hex?” Caser snorted. “I have my own amulet against hexes.” He started to push past us.
“Don’t try to see her now,” Simon warned.
Eric Caser turned to stare at him. “The thing which killed my brother will not harm me,” he said. He entered the revolving door and started through.
“How did you know that was Eric Caser?” I asked Simon, but before he could answer something strange happened.
Caser, pushing through the revolving door, had somehow become stuck.
We heard him cry, or mutter in anger, and try to force the glass door inward. But something had jammed it, and even as we went to help from outside the security guard was walking toward it from the lobby.
Something seemed to frighten Caser and he turned away from the guard toward us, trying to push his way out again. When he saw it was useless he pounded on the glass, sheer panic washing over his face.
“Don’t break the glass!” Simon shouted, perhaps remembering how Caser’s brother had died. “Don’t panic! We’ll have you free in a minute!”
But then a shudder seemed to run through the imprisoned man’s body. He clawed at his breast pocket and pulled out a black marking pen.
And as we watched, helpless, he printed a single jagged word on the glass in front of his face.
Then, his mouth working soundlessly, he droppe
d the pen and slid into a heap inside the jammed revolving door. The word he had printed on the glass was MARIE.
“He’s dead,” Simon said when the security guard had finally freed the jammed door. Then he told the man, “Phone upstairs to the Slumber apartment and get Dr. Langstrom down here.”
“What killed him?” I asked.
“I don’t know. It could have been his heart. He’s no youngster.”
I was staring at the glass of the revolving door and the word Caser had left there. “He didn’t think it was his heart, Simon. He thought he was being murdered. He left us a dying message naming his killer.”
But Simon ignored that for the moment. Dr. Langstrom had come down in answer to the summons and was kneeling beside the body. He tore open Caser’s shirt and listened to his heart. “This man is dead,” he confirmed.
“Do you know him, Doctor?” Simon asked.
“I’ve never seen him before, at least to my knowledge. Who is he?”
“Eric Caser, the brother of Maud Slumber’s former husband.”
“He was coming to see her?”
“I assume so.”
Langstrom loosened more of Caser’s clothes and tried to pump a spark of life into him but without success. An ambulance and police car arrived on the scene. As the body was being taken away I noticed the security guard fussing with the revolving door and polishing the glass. “What happened to the word that was written there?” I asked him.
He looked blank. “What word? I didn’t notice any word—just some dirty smudges.” He was a dark-haired man in his thirties who looked as if he might have been a boxer once.
“What’s your name?”
“Vic Tannet. What’s it to you?”
“Are you employed by the building management?”
“Of course. Do you think I do this for my health?”
“What seems to be the trouble?” Simon asked, coming over to join us.
“He wiped off the word Caser wrote,” I said.
“No matter. We saw what it said.”
“But—”
Quests of Simon Ark Page 21