"Where is he now?"
"He's back out. . hunting."
"When did he leave?"
"I don't know; I've lost track of time." She put her cheek against my hand, gently kissed my bandaged thumb. "You have to rest, Robert. You should see what you look like. You're killing yourself."
"I'll take it easy, April, but I've got to get back out on the streets. If I don't, getting Esteban down here will be a wasted exercise. Maybe we've got a little more time now, but not much." I gently pulled my hand away and looked at my watch. It was almost five, and the sand in Greene's original twelve-hour estimate was running out. "I've got to go. I'll be in touch."
Janet was waiting for me out in the corridor. "Thanks, love," I said to her. "You came through with flying colors. I can imagine the talking you had to do. I owe you a big one."
"Mongo!" she called after me as I headed for the elevator. "Where are you going?"
"Hunting."
It was five thirty by the time I got to the William Morris Agency offices in the MGM building on Avenue of the Americas. Despite the late hour, I was fairly certain Jake Stein would still be at his desk, talking on the phone to Los Angeles: such is the life of a high-powered talent agent.
The receptionist buzzed Jake, and a minute later I was on my way past a sliding glass partition into the honeycomb of inner offices of the largest talent agency in the world; William Morris, with its worldwide network of offices, represented about half of all the name actors, writers, directors and singers in the world. They'd represented me during my later years with the Statler Brothers Circus. Now I wanted to talk to Jake about Bobby Weiss.
Jake was twenty-eight; with a full head of bushy blond hair, he looked younger. When I walked into his office he was talking up some kind of deal into a telephone receiver that was part of a ten-button console; five of the ten buttons were lighted and flashing. He hung up, swung around in his swivel chair, saw me and grinned broadly. His grin faded as he rose and looked me up and down.
"Hello, sweetheart," Jake said. "For Christ's sake, what's the matter with you? You look like the lead in a cancelled pilot."
"Overwork. You know how it is with us hotshot private eyes. Don't you watch television?"
"No shit, Mongo; you look terrible."
"I'm all right," I said, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you, Jake."
"Likewise." He drew a long, thin cheroot from a plastic container in the pocket of his double-breasted sport jacket. He lighted the cigar and waved smoke away from his milky blue eyes. "You want a drink? I've got some Chivas in the drawer."
"Yeah. . uh, on second thought, no thanks." I had no idea how Scotch and antirabies serum would mix, and it didn't seem like a good time to experiment; the way I felt, I'd probably come down with instant bubonic plague. "I want to talk to you about Harley Davidson."
"Davidson? Christ, I haven't seen anything on him in six months. He left us, you know. What do you hear?"
"He's dead. I found his body. ."I had to stop and think; time was collapsing in on itself, and it seemed inconceivable to me that only a few hours had passed since I'd walked into Bobby's rotting apartment. "I found his body this morning."
"God damn," Jake said thoughtfully, shaking his head. He took a deep drag on his cheroot, breathed out the smoke with his words. "I'm really sorry to hear that. I liked that kid. What happened to him?"
"He killed himself. In slow motion."
"Drugs," Jake said, nodding. "I heard things, but I hoped they weren't true." Eight of the ten buttons were flashing now. Jake glanced at the console unconcernedly, looked back at me. "Poor son-of-a-bitch," he continued quietly. "The air's thin up there where he was, and it's stone fucking cold."
"He seemed fine while he was with you, Jake; top of the charts, and a network show in the offing. And he looked healthy enough in his pictures. What happened between the two of you?"
Jake shrugged and ran a hand through his thick blond hair. "His contract was up; he decided he wanted to leave so that he could sign up with a guy by the name of Sandor Peth. What the hell? Harley wanted to leave, it was his right."
"Peth's name was dog shit when I was here. Why would Davidson want to leave the people who'd taken him to the top in order to sign with a creepy second-rater like Peth?"
Jake shook his head. "It's tough to figure, isn't it? Peth is a creep, and a rip-off artist. It looks like Harley went straight downhill after signing with him."
"He may have started sliding slightly before that."
"I don't follow you."
"I think he got involved with some nasty people who specialize in giving bad advice. I was hoping you might know something about it."
Jake stared into space for a few moments, then ground out his cigar and popped a mint into his mouth. "Well, Harley had an absolutely enormous ego-occupational requirement, you know. He was easily influenced by anybody who knew how to play up to that ego. That's about all I can say."
"Jake, it's important for me to find out who greased the skids under that kid-if that's what happened. It could tie in with a case I'm working on."
Jake nodded thoughtfully and began drumming his fingers on the cluttered desk top. I was beginning to worry about the flashing buttons on his telephone console; Jake obviously wasn't. "Harley was getting pretty deeply involved in the occult a few months before he left," Jake said at last. "Could that be any help?"
"It certainly could," I said, feeling my blood pressure go up a few notches. My face felt hot. "The problem is that an interest in the occult wouldn't make him any different from ninety percent of the other people in the business, right?"
"Sure; it's the Age of Aquarius, you know. But Harley had gone past the point of comparing sun signs at cocktail parties. At the beginning he seemed to be on an astrology and palmistry trip. He was really manic about it, you know?" Jake clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Then, I think he got into witchcraft. He didn't talk so much after that."
"And then he left you to sign with Sandor Peth. You think Peth's a witch?"
Jake's laugh was high-pitched, boyish. "Peth's a son-of-a-bitch, for sure, but I don't know anything about his being a witch." He shook his head, laughed once more, then grew serious. "Peth personally insures the lives of everyone in his stable. I'll bet that shmuck is going to make a bundle off Harley's death."
"Did Davidson ever mention the name John Krowl?"
"Christ, yes," Jake said with an expansive wave of his hand. "Harley was one of Krowl's favored clients-and very proud of the fact. That's a status symbol in this town." He suddenly rose and walked quickly to a filing cabinet near his desk. "I just remembered: Harley left something here that might interest you," he continued, opening a sliding metal drawer and quickly riffling through a bank of files. "It was during his manic phase that I told you about. He brought me in a copy of a horoscope he'd had done. He was really riding high at that time, and something about the horoscope amused him. He said it was terrible."
Jake found what he was looking for, drew it out of the file and handed it to me. The paper was heavy bond. In the center were two concentric circles divided into twelve sections by intersecting lines. Each section was filled with what I assumed were astrological symbols. They were meaningless to me. The margins of the paper were filled with more symbols-also meaningless. What did mean something to me was the heavy, block-print handwriting; I'd seen it before.
The signature at the bottom of the page read Jones.
"Can you make a copy of this for me, Jake?" I asked tightly.
"Keep that," the agent said. "I don't want it. I wouldn't even have it around if I weren't such a compulsive filer." He grinned sardonically. "I guess Harley was right; his horoscope wasn't so good after all."
"Definitely not," I said, pocketing the paper. "Thanks, Jake."
"Hey, sweetheart, I hope you're going home to bed."
"I have miles to go before I sleep." I was trying to be funny. I promptly banged into the doorjamb and ricocheted out into the hallway.<
br />
It was after six, but Madeline Jones often worked evenings in her lab and I thought I might reach her there. I used a pay phone in the lobby of the MGM Building to call her. The phone rang eight times before Mary Szell, Mad's assistant, answered.
"Hello?"
"Mary, is Mad there?"
"Who's this?"
"Mongo."
"Mongo? I didn't recognize your voice. Do you have a cold?"
"Something like that. Is Mad around?"
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what, Mary?"
"Mad's in the hospital. She's had a nervous breakdown. She collapsed here yesterday afternoon."
A hot flush started somewhere between my shoulder blades, flashed down my spine, then turned icy. I shivered spasmodically. Everyone was full of surprises.
Someone was banging a gong; I listened hard and it turned out to be Mary's voice calling my name.
"All right, Mary," I said. "Thank you."
After hanging up, I sagged against the side of the telephone booth and tried to think. Mad had lied to me about not being in touch with Bobby Weiss, and I wondered why. I was probably the last person in the world she'd want to talk to at the moment, regardless of the reason. On the other hand, Kathy Marlowe was suffering from something a lot worse than nervous collapse, and I had absolutely no time to be considerate.
I shook off my chill, put another dime in the slot and called the Medical Center. The reception desk informed me that Madeline Jones was seeing visitors, and gave me her room number. My watch read six fifteen, which left me an hour and forty-five minutes before visiting hours were over. I didn't feel strong enough to walk out the door, but I managed. On the way out I caught a reflected glimpse of myself in a wall of polished marble, and immediately understood why everyone was asking about my health; if not for the fact that I was the only dwarf in the lobby, I wouldn't have recognized myself. I was going to have to do something about my light-headedness; nausea or no, I had to try to eat something and hope that it stayed down.
There was a good seafood restaurant down the block. I went in and immediately made my way to the men's room in the back. I filled the washbasin with cold water and used my good hand to splash my face and neck. I began to feel better. Now all I had to do was manage to keep something in my stomach.
I sat at a corner table, ordered some fish chowder and broiled shrimp. The food tasted good; I probably could have eaten more, but I thought it was a good idea to wait and see how that settled. I finished off with a cup of black coffee, then went out into the street and hailed a cab; I didn't think I could handle a car.
Fifteen minutes later I was at the Medical Center, visitor's card in hand, on my way up to Madeline's room on the second floor. It occurred to me that I was spending so much time at the hospital it would save time if I simply opened up an office in the basement.
Madeline was propped up in the bed, reading a magazine. She looked pale and drawn-older. She was wearing a quilted pink robe with a white-and-pink floral design. The robe looked strange on her, dowdy and unbecoming. I was used to the more severe, tailored look that shaved years off her. There was a vase filled with yellow roses on the night table next to her bed.
Madeline glanced up as I entered. "Mongo!" she cried, startled.
I went over to the side of the bed and kissed her on the cheek. "Hello, babe. How you doing?"
She smiled shyly, self-consciously patted her silver hair, which was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her blue eyes looked watery and tired. "Oh, I feel so silly being here."
"What's the matter, if it's not impolite to ask?"
"Just nervous exhaustion," Madeline said, a slight tremor in her voice. "Things. . just started to catch up with me. I. . well, I just passed out in the lab. God, I do feel silly. I'll be out tomorrow."
"To rest, I trust."
She nodded. For the first time, she looked directly into my eyes. "You look like you need a-" She suddenly gasped and put a hand to her mouth. "The little girl! How is the little girl?"
"She's still dying, Mad; I'm still working on it, and I'm still short on time. Now it may be down to a matter of hours-or even minutes. At the moment, I'm scraping the bottom of the miracle barrel with a psychic healer who's trying to keep her alive long enough for someone to find out what's wrong with her."
"You shouldn't have taken the time to come and see me," she said hoarsely.
I took a deep breath and started to reach inside my jacket pocket for the horoscope Jake had given me. Mad suddenly reached out and grasped my hand. '"What happened to your thumb?"
"It was gnawed on by a rabid bat."
Mad's eyes widened. "You're joking!"
"Nope. It just happened to be winging its way around my bedroom in the middle of the night. I have a strong suspicion that it didn't mosey in by itself. I don't suppose any of your mysterious friends keep rabid bats around the house, do they?"
Madeline looked at me a long time. I watched in horrified fascination as her face suddenly fell apart and she started to giggle in a high-pitched, girlish voice that frightened me. Then, without warning, the giggles abruptly turned to racking sobs. She turned her face away and buried it in the pillow. Uncertain of what to do, I tentatively reached out and touched her shoulder. Gradually her sobbing eased. She groped toward her nightstand and found a Kleenex. She wiped her eyes, then blew her nose.
"I'm sorry, Mongo," Mad said in a harsh, strained voice. "I guess you can see why I'm here."
"Hey, babe, I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. "I shouldn't be here asking you questions. I wouldn't be bothering you if I wasn't running out of time."
"I know," she said quietly. "And your question was perfectly reasonable. For the past few years I have been spending a lot of time with some very strange people. It's-" She started to sob again, but quickly brought herself under control. "It can be so evil."
"Is that why you're here, Mad? Did this occult business finally get to you?"
I thought she took a long time to answer. Finally she lifted her eyes again and looked directly into mine. "I don't know, Mongo; I honestly don't know. I am a scientist, and most of my scientific colleagues consider-or would consider, if they knew about it-my interest in the occult idiotic. After a while, I suppose, the internal pressure starts to build. You begin to doubt, to wonder just what it is you're doing. You start thinking that maybe it is all superstition, and that you're a fool."
It was time. I cleared my throat, said, "You seem to have been right on target with at least one of your astrology clients."
Something like a shadow muddied the surface of her pale blue eyes. "What do you mean?" Mad asked breathlessly.
I removed the horoscope from my pocket and handed it to her. Mad glanced at the paper and grew even paler. She slowly crushed the paper in her fist and screwed her eyes shut. Tears oozed from beneath her lids, slowly trickled down her cheeks like tiny, transparent slugs. "Where did you get this?"
"Bobby's agent," I said, touching her arm again. "Believe me, Mad; I wouldn't be asking you about this if it weren't for the child."
Madeline slowly opened her eyes and stared at me. "What does this horoscope have to do with the little girl?" she asked in a strangled whisper.
"Bobby's dead from an overdose of drugs. I found him this morning. He'd been going downhill for months, and it very much looks like he was involved with Esobus. He was definitely into witchcraft, and he had a book of shadows that mentioned Esobus' name. Bobby may have killed himself, but I'm certain someone gave him a good push to get started."
Madeline swallowed hard. "And, of course, you want to know why I lied to you about not being in contact with Bobby since he left the university." It wasn't a question.
"I want to know anything you can tell me-anything you may have left out the last time we talked that might lead me to Esobus. If you're frightened, I understand; I've seen enough of the wreckage Esobus leaves in his wake to understand why people are afraid of him. I'll keep anything you tell me in absolute c
onfidence."
She bit her lower lip and slowly shook her head. "I really don't know any more than I've already told you, Mongo. I was ashamed to tell you about. . this. I knew what had been happening to Bobby since I cast that horoscope. I guess I was afraid you'd think. . I was the one who'd given him a push. I just wasn't thinking clearly."
I grunted noncommittally. "It looks like Bobby created a self-fulfilling prophecy from that piece of paper you gave him."
Madeline shook her head again, this time more vehemently. "No, Mongo. The trend was there right from the beginning, exactly as I interpreted it. Please believe me; I saw how his life was about to change, and I hoped the horoscope would serve as a warning to alter his living patterns." She passed a trembling hand over her eyes. "Bobby didn't take it seriously."
"Can you interpret that horoscope for me exactly as you did for him?"
Madeline hesitated, then finally nodded. She slowly smoothed out the crumpled paper. "The inner circle is the natal horoscope," she said wearily. "It represents the positions of the sun, moon and planets at the time of Bobby's birth. It shows a strong talent in art or music, with the talent used in a superficial, popular vein. The chart indicates considerable success."
Again she swallowed hard. I poured her a glass of water from a covered carafe on the nightstand. She drank it down, smiled shyly. Her eyes seemed clearer. "The outer circle is a synthesis," she continued in a stronger voice. "It's the horoscope projected up to the time when Bobby came to see me, and extrapolated into the future. Saturn-an evil, tearing influence-is in the worst possible conjunction with the other planets. There's a bad grouping in Scorpio-the sign of the occult. And there are a number of other afflictions indicated, including a bad conjunction in what we call the 'house of the secret enemy.' Bobby had reached a critical, very dangerous crossroads in his life. That's what … I told him."
She took a deep, shuddering breath, then carefully folded the paper into a small square and dropped it on the nightstand. "It was accurate," she whispered. "Deadly accurate."
"Mad," I asked quietly, "how did Bobby find out that you were an astrologer?" "John Krowl recommended me to him. Bobby had become one of John's clients."
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