Shooting Star / Spiderweb

  Killings. That wasn’t a good word to use or think about. I was just a stooge. Professor Hermann had me where he wanted me, and I’d never get out. I couldn’t save Caldwell from whatever fate the Professor had planned. I couldn’t save myself.

  But I could have another drink...

  “Good evening.”

  The Professor had come in quietly, using his own key. He stood in the doorway and stared.

  “Come in, sit down,” I said. “I didn’t expect you.”

  “That is obvious.”

  “You mean the whiskey? I was just having a nightcap.”

  He sat down at the table and crossed his arms. The sleeves made a black X on the table. X marks the spot. Black suit again. All that money coming in and he still dressed in the same clothing. Like a minister. Or an undertaker...

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “Not a thing. Should there be?”

  “Rogers tells me you do a lot of this lately in the evening.”

  Rogers was a little rat. I raised my glass and drank to holes in his cheese. “Not so much. Besides, what else is there for me to do?”

  “You might keep up your studies. There is no end to learning, you know.”

  “I’m doing all right. The money’s coming in, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I really cannot complain on that score.”

  “Then I’m entitled to my own way of amusing myself.”

  “Amusing yourself.” The Professor ran a hand across his gleaming skull. I thought of a janitor waxing a dance floor. That was better than thinking about gleaming skulls.

  He stared at me across the table. “So you are still interested in amusement, eh? That’s the end-all and be-all of your existence, amusement. Your sole purpose in living is to justify and pay for amusement, as you call it. In other words, you have the philosophy of a garage mechanic.”

  “That would pretty accurately describe my income and status, too.”

  “You’re dissatisfied?”

  “What a marvelous analysis,” I said.

  “But when you think of where you were just seven months ago—”

  “I’d rather think about the big promises you made to me. Fame, fortune, anything I wanted. You remember?”

  “Yes. Those things will come, if you desire them. Although I had hoped that through your study, you might have developed a genuine interest in metaphysics. Then you and I could have gone on to the next phase together. But I misjudged you, I see. You want, as you term it, amusement.”

  “Let’s just call it more money and be done with it. You’ll never get to me with any nonsense about ‘spiritual riches,’ if that’s what you had in mind.”

  “I’ve trained you too well, I see. You’re always sure of an ulterior motive, aren’t you?”

  I sighed. “I’m not sure of anything anymore,” I told him. “Except this.”

  I reached for the bottle and he took it away.

  “That’s out.”

  “Look, now—”

  “Would a guarantee of five hundred a week help to keep you on the wagon?”

  “Yes, but—we’re not doing that well.”

  “What about your friend Mr. Caldwell? He’ll be ready for the next move, soon.”

  I straightened up. “That’s right. And I wanted to talk to you about that. You know, I’m really helping him.”

  “Of course you are.”

  “He wants to sell his stock. That will bring in about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Excellent. We have uses for that amount.”

  “He plans to invest in real estate.”

  “Good. Let him plan. His plans will soon change.”

  “Look, now, Professor. I’ve got another angle. Maybe we won’t have to touch him at all.”

  “What’s that?”

  I talked fast, and as I talked it made sense. “Why not let him take his money and go? He’s a new man, he deserves a new start. We don’t need his savings. Not with my angle, not with what I know.”

  “I’m listening,” said the Professor.

  So I told him what Caldwell had said about his company, about what would happen if he dumped his stock and Imperial took over.

  “Do you understand now?” I asked. “I’ll get him to sell his stock. His broker is—”

  “I know,” said the Professor. Of course he would know. I realized he had all the details checked.

  “Anyhow, the minute he sells, that’s your cue. Get all the cash you can lay your hands on and buy Imperial. They’ll take over and their stock will rise, probably split and rise again. Why, you can make as much or more than you would from Caldwell, and do it legitimately—no danger of a kickback or trouble. Caldwell’s happy and you’re happy. Could there be any better deal?”

  “It’s worth considering.” The Professor rose. “I’ll think about it and let you know. Meanwhile, keep Caldwell dangling a few days more.”

  I faced him. “This is important,” I said. “I’d like to see things work out without Caldwell getting hurt.”

  “I’ll worry about that angle.”

  “But he’s going into real estate,” I continued. “And he’ll cut me in. We can make still more if we let him lead us to profitable deals—”

  “I told you I’d decide.” The Professor smiled. “But that isn’t the big thing, right now. I came to tell you you’re going on the air.”

  “Radio?”

  “Fifteen minutes, twice a week. To sell the book, sell your name. I’m having Rogers check on time and costs. Then we might consider an expansion program—train a few assistants for you and sell consultation over the air. How does that sound to you? Five hundred a week and your own radio show—is it a bargain?”

  I hesitated.

  “Remember, you handle your affairs, and I’ll make the decisions. About Caldwell and all the others. Agreed?”

  I took a deep breath because there was nothing else to do. I said, “Yes,” because there was nothing else to say.

  The Professor nodded. He didn’t shake hands. He never shook hands. Somehow, that suited me. He had hands like fat, blind white spiders...

  “I’ll say goodnight,” he told me. “I’ve got another appointment this evening. Get in touch with me tomorrow and I’ll let you know about Caldwell.”

  He left us alone, then, and there we sat: the bottle and I. I looked at it.

  “Did you hear what he said?” I asked. “Five hundred a week. And I’m going on the radio! That’s a laugh. I came out here to go on the air, but Rickert said I wasn’t good enough. And now—”

  The bottle didn’t answer me.

  Thirteen

  Two days later, Caldwell sold his stock.

  The evening after the sale, I went into a little bar off the Strip to meet the Professor. I slid into a booth and ordered club soda, straight.

  Then I waited. Waited and worried. The Professor was late. Probably cooking up something for Caldwell—cooking up a scheme with Doc Sylvestro, Jake, and Rogers. Hush-hush stuff.

  Everything the Professor did was hush stuff. I began to wonder about that.

  Professor Hermann was a type. A West Coast type. More specifically, a Southern California type. He wouldn’t flourish in another climate.

  But this was a land of Messiahs and miracles, of Peter the Hermit and Isaiah the Evangelist; a land where red flowers and green skyscrapers sprang up overnight. A land of fabulous fertility, luxuriant lushness.

  The rod smote the rock and gold gushed forth in ’49. The rod waved as a magic wand and lo, there was Hollywood. The rod smote the rock again, and oil spewed fortunes to the skies. The rod pointed and there was real estate, and aircraft factories, and an entire civilization that bought cars from Madman Harry, cracked up, and was buried at Forest Lawn. At night, the flying red horse heralded the Apocalypse in advertising from a dirigible. The searchlights stabbed at heaven to proclaim the presence of a new fruit stand.

  No wonder the Professor was accepted here! Even I had accepted him,
done his bidding. And now, my life was in his hands.

  Yet I knew surprisingly little about him. A little fat bald-headed German refugee who wore black in a land of light, a man who climbed the rungs to money and power, who delighted in dominating. Maybe I’d better use the Judson Roberts technique and analyze him. “It’s a hard job,” I told the bottle. “A hard job, trying to psychoanalyze the Devil.”

  “What you need is a drink,” the bottle said.

  I blinked, then realized the words hadn’t come from the bottle. They were spoken by Ellen Post.

  She had just come in, and she stood opposite me, at the bar. I looked at her a long time, because I wanted to look at her more than anything in the world. I studied her oval face. That exotic effect was caused by a double-fold of the upper eyelids. A simple explanation made by the practiced observation of Judson Roberts, but it didn’t keep Eddie Haines from admiring her features.

  Right now I felt more like Eddie Haines than I had in a long, long time.

  “Your order?”

  I looked at the waiter. I looked at her. Then, “Two apricot brandies.”

  She slid into the booth across from me and she smiled. Judson Roberts could have analyzed that smile before you could say “Mona Lisa”—but I wasn’t Judson Roberts tonight. She smiled, and that was enough for me.

  “So you remembered.”

  “Like an elephant. A pink one.” I took another look at her. She was taller than I remembered her to be, and her voice was softer.

  “What brings you here?” I asked.

  “My convertible.”

  “Nuts.”

  “Why Doctor Roberts, what you said!”

  “I mean it. Let’s not be smart tonight. I want to know all about you. I’ve been wondering. Who you are, where you live, why we hit it off so miserably after such a brave beginning.”

  The drinks arrived. She stared at her glass as though she was looking into the Grand Canyon. When she spoke, her voice was almost a whisper.

  “We were both upset, I guess. About the party, and Mike’s death—everything. We should have seen each other. I know that now.”

  “What have you been doing?”

  “Not drinking, mostly. For quite a while. I went down to the beach and took some more lessons.”

  “What kind of lessons?”

  “Voice. But I didn’t stick at it this time, either. I’m just not good enough. As with everything else, I’m a might-be. That’s not even as good as a has-been. Apparently my only talent is for liquor.”

  “So you’re starting again?”

  “Yes and no. I haven’t gone out for months. This was just an impulse.” I watched her pick up the drink. Apricot brandy, apricot lips. She swallowed, made a face.

  “Brrr!”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “What else is there?”

  “You were going to tell me about yourself,” I said, patiently. “About the house you live in, the clothes you buy, the things you like to eat. How you wore your hair when you were a little girl. Do you like fireplaces? And sunsets? And does your nose get red when you have a cold?”

  “Really, I’d like to, but I have to run along now.” She rose.

  “Sit down.”

  “Say you really mean it, don’t you?” She sat down again and waited.

  “Why do you always run away when somebody asks you about yourself?”

  “That’s my business.”

  “You told me once that drinking was your business. Is it a part of the running away, too?”

  “Good old Doctor Roberts! Do you think, in your benevolent, homespun way, that you’re going to help me? I’ve heard that line before, too.”

  “All right, so it’s a line,” I said. “I can’t help you. Nobody can help you. You help yourself. Either that, or you keep on drinking. And in two hours you’ll be up at the bar, telling everything you wouldn’t tell to me. Spilling drinks and intimacies in front of the bartender. He’ll help you.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “You know something? I like you when you get mad. You drop that phony front, then. I made a mistake when I walked out on you. We could have had a lot of fun together.”

  “Sure,” I nodded. “A lot of nice clean drunken fun. We’re adults, aren’t we? We know what we want. A great big bottle and a chance to suck on it. A chance to drool our way back to infancy. Babies don’t know what they’re doing, they’re not responsible if they go to bed with each other and make messes. Yes, we could have had a lot of fun. And I’m damned glad we didn’t.”

  “So am I.”

  She leaned forward. I smelled apricots. The suntan had ripened her.

  “Another drink?”

  “No. Let’s talk. If you’ve been trying to scare me off drinking, you’ve succeeded.”

  “Good. Try and pretend I’m God for a change.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Your God is the bartender. The bartender is always God, or haven’t you noticed?”

  “I hadn’t, but go on. You will, anyway.”

  “Drinkers are all alike. They go to the bartender for peace, for release. They tell him their troubles in confessional. Like God he dispenses wisdom, judgment, guidance. He rules supreme in his own world. He is quick to punish the transgressor. He can also reward with his favor—or with free drinks. He is omniscient and all-powerful. He knows everything about everybody within the microcosmic universe of the tavern. He is the source of solace and consolation. And he is worshiped in libations, with sacramental wine that produces divine intoxication. He is also, I might add, the father-image. Or more exactly, an idealization of the father. The infantile regressions of the dipsomaniac fit into this pattern of unconscious symbolism.”

  “Funny you should say that. I never drank until Dad was killed.”

  “And after he died, you kept away from men.”

  “That’s right.” She looked at her glass. “He was one swell guy. Drank a lot himself, though. Geoffrey Post—industrial designer. You recall the name? He got into plane building in the thirties. That’s how he died, piloting one of his own planes. Cracked up.”

  “So you cracked up. No mother, and the father-image. He drank, so you drank. You couldn’t have anything to do with men, either, because of the part he played in your psychic fantasy. You drank and were attracted to men, but that made you feel guilty, so you drank again. And—”

  “Wait a minute. I’m not crazy.”

  “They call it dipsomania, you know. And rightly so. Most psychotic states are rooted in some sexual aberration.”

  “Why do you drink, then? Are you in love with your mother?”

  “I’m an orphan.” I grinned. “But seriously, doesn’t it make some kind of sense to you?”

  She nodded. The empty glass between her fingers nodded with her.

  “I guess it does. I was beginning to figure some of those things out for myself. We were always together, Dad and I, traveling around and never stopping long enough in one place to make real friends. When I was eighteen he’d take me dancing, we went to parties together. Strangers took us for—” she bit her lip “—lovers.”

  “They were right in a way, weren’t they?”

  “Yes. Although neither of us was conscious of those feelings. It wasn’t until after Dad died that it hit me. Then I went to pieces, and now I’m trying to put those pieces back together.”

  “You can’t do it alone very easily. You’ll need help.”

  “Are you suggesting professional treatment?”

  “Non-professional. Please, Ellen. I want to help you.”

  “But you said you had to go your way alone. That there wasn’t room for anyone else in your life.”

  “That’s all changed now. It has to be. You trust me, don’t you?”

  “We’ll see. I want to think things over, first.” She rose, and this time there was no dissuading her.

  “When will I see you again? I don’t even have your address.”

  “I’ll call you. At your office
.”

  “Goodnight, Ellen.”

  “Goodnight—Judd.”

  And she left, taking the light with her, leaving the shadows and the empty glass.

  I shook my head, raised it in response to a sudden sound.

  “That girl, who is she?”

  The Professor shot up out of a trapdoor or appeared in a burst of flame.

  “Her name’s Ellen Post. We saw her at the Lorna Lewis party.”

  “That’s right. She was attracted to you, I remember. Have you seen much of her since?”

  “This is the first time since the inquest, and our meeting was accidental. But I hope to be seeing more of her.”

  “Good. She may be useful.”

  “Useful?”

  The Professor slid into the booth, removed his hat, and gave me a glimpse of how his skull looked under dim blue neon lighting.

  “I’ve checked on her. Something Lorna Lewis let drop one day aroused my interest. She’s Geoffrey Post’s daughter, isn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well-fixed?”

  “I don’t know.” I was wary. “She probably has a small income from the estate.”

  “That doesn’t matter. But she’s the niece of Leland Post—his only niece. He takes an interest in her, and it helps. Leland Post is a state senator, with ambitions and connections. He’d do a lot, out of love for her and self-interest, to keep her from getting mixed up in any scandal.”

  I leaned forward. “Now wait a minute. If you think—”

  “Please. Restrain yourself and hear me out. Leland Post is owned by one of the oil syndicates from Long Beach. He’s going to make a bid for Congress next year. Right now he’s very much in the public eye.”

  “Hold it, Professor. I’ve got a—a personal interest in this girl. No funny business.”

  Those eyes, those unblinking eyes, burned up at me. They burned a hole through the upholstery behind my head. But I met the gaze.

  “Very well,” he said, softly. “It was only a thought. Nothing important. We’ll abandon that gambit, as long as you have a personal interest.”

  We talked of other things, then. I learned that the radio program would be ready in a month or so, as soon as Rogers could do the scripts. We discussed current cases, current sales figures. And, inevitably, we discussed Caldwell.