“Probably Burne’s got that staged inside.”
But quite to the contrary, the reception rooms of 666 Hell Gate were a delightful surprise. They were styled in the Quaker and Shaker tradition: random-width pine plank floors, sawbuck tables, Moravian armchairs, grandfather clocks, walnut ladderbacks, painted dower chests, pewter, Steigel glass, silver Argand lamps, beautifully framed Colonial Primitives.
“All this barn needs is hex signs,” Shima muttered enviously. It was quite obvious that the quack, Salem Burne, lived even far more luxuriously than the distinguished Blaise Shima, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.
“Our afternoon ritual has just begun,” the attendant murmured, “but you may enter. You will find unoccupied couches.”
He slid a silent panel aside and the two entered what seemed to be an enormous grey velour womb without any discernible walls or ceiling. There were velour couches scattered around in the smoldering darkness with vague forms reclining on them.
“Is it group therapy?” Gretchen whispered.
There were dancers in the center of the womb, dozens of them, nude and painted luminously into vampires, ghouls, cacodemons, succubi, harpies, ogresses, satyrs, furies. They wore confusing contrasting masks, front and back. They glowed, writhed, entwined, and contorted to the music.
Shima sniffed. “By God!” he whispered, “He’s composed a scent symphony with the Odophone scale I gave him.”
They tiptoed through darkness to a vacant couch and sat to watch and listen and sense.
The nebulous shape of the psychomancer moved silently from couch to couch. Sometimes he bent, sometimes sat, sometimes knelt; always he murmured to the reclining figures. He was a solemn version of the traditional property man in the traditional Japanese theater who moves around onstage, dressed in black, and is presumed to be and accepted as invisible. He came at last to the couch where Gretchen and Shima were seated.
“Dr. Shima, what a pleasant surprise,” Burne said softly. “And this, to be sure, must be my exalted colleague, Gretchen Nunn. Overwhelmed to meet you at last, madame.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burne. Or should it be ‘doctor’?”
“Never in the presence of the genuine Dr. Shima. I know my place. And how do you like your Odophone music, Dr. Shima?”
“I’m really impressed, Burne. It blends beautifully with the ballet and orchestral music. How do your patients respond?”
“Completely, as you can see. Their barriers are broken down. They run on and on about the witchcraft of scent, dance, and music while their bodies speak volumes. I can’t thank you enough, doctor.”
“You’re welcome, I assure you. I never dreamed that that notion would turn out so well.”
“Thank you. Forgive me if I seem to rush you, but my ritual patients are waiting. You and madame are telling me, without words, that something extremely urgent brings you here.” Burne shot a look at Gretchen. “The fugue?”
She returned his look. “Yes and no. I’m sorry, but we must reserve that.”
“Understood, Miz Nunn, but as a friendly colleague, I must warn you that your somatic speech is telling me that it’s something deadly.”
“It is.”
“Then?”
“Blaise will tell you.”
“Mr. Burne,” Shima began carefully, “it’s been necessary for us to track down a rare-earth metal called Promethium. Omni-Chem reported to me that they alone handle it and have made only one sale; to Rubor Tumor, a retailer in Canker Alley in the Guff. Rubor Tumor prescription profile records reported only one sale of Promethium chloride—to you.”
“Quite true. And?”
“How and why do you use it?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t!”
“Not at all.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“It was bought for a patient at her request.”
“Her? She? A woman?” Gretchen exclaimed.
“Most of my patients are women, Miz Nunn.”
Shima continued to press. “She requested the Promethium specifically?”
“Not at all. She asked me to compound a novel, exotic, and malevolent incense which, when burned, would exude a diabolical odor. I did my best to oblige a regular and most profitable client—I’m always direct and honest with you, doctor—and concocted a disgusting gallimaufry which Rubor Tumor filled for me. I threw in a score of outlandish chemicals which I found in the books, including Promethium chloride.”
“And gave it to her?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Burne, I hate to ask this but I’m forced to—”
“Please, doctor,” Burne interrupted. “You and Miz Nunn are telling me in no uncertain manner that you’re facing a crisis. Certainly I must break with ethics for the sake of colleagues. All I ask is that you pledge not to reveal the source of your information.”
“It’s pledged for both of us,” Gretchen said.
“And above all, not to Subadar Ind’dni.”
Gretchen and Shima stared.
“How the devil—” Gretchen burst out and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Burne smiled at her. “Someday, madame, I may teach you the subtleties of somatic speech.” Then he gave Shima an odd look. “The patient is Ildefonsa Lafferty. She is listed in the Guff directory.”
Shima gasped. Gretchen searched his face for a long moment while he fought for composure. “It’s nothing… Nothing at all,” he stammered, fully aware that he was deceiving neither of them. “I… It’s simply that I was wondering how to—How to ask Mr. Burne how he—How he pays Rubor Tumor. There aren’t any shillings these days.”
“With frozen CO2 slugs,” Burne smiled. “It’s all right, doctor. I will never reveal Ildefonsa Lafferty’s confidences. You may tell Miz Nunn as much or as little as you both think best.”
10
“You’ll have to tackle her alone, Gretch. I won’t see her. I don’t dare.”
They were pacing the Guff’s “Strøget,” the long, exclusive shopping boulevard which was sternly protected by private police. All traffic except pedestrians was prohibited. Only shoppers with Class A identification were admitted.
Shima was deeply disturbed. Gretchen was trying to soothe him and satisfy her curiosity at the same time.
“Now what’s all this, baby? You had a thing with Ildefonsa Lafferty. Yes?”
“The Girl from Ipanema. Two years ago.”
“Does Ipanema signify anything?”
“That was a pop tune centuries ago about this girl on the beach who never looked at the guy who loved her. Lovely tune.”
“Was Ildefonsa lovely?”
“I thought so.”
“Then why the crise de nerfs? You’ve had go-rounds with loads of women.”
“Before I met you, and not all that many.”
“D’you feel the same about the others? Won’t. Don’t dare.”
“I can’t even remember their names.”
“Then what’s so special about Ms. Lafferty?”
“She murdered me.”
“Was it love?”
“For me, yes.”
“And still is?”
“I’m still dying, if that’s love.”
“Love shouldn’t kill.”
There was a long pause while they strolled, threading their way through the crowds of shoppers. Suddenly Shima began murmuring in a low voice with his head averted, as though making a shameful confession, “When I was a kid in Johnstown, P.A., back in the forties, I—”
“Johnstown! The forties? That was the time of their fifth flood.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m telling you. My Grandfather—I called him Grandy—decided he wouldn’t live long enough to see how I’d turn out, so he invented a fiendish forecast of my future.”
“What?”
“He gave me a fifty-franc gold piece.”
“Franc?”
“Uh-huh. Grandy was the French side of the family. Back then the fifty-franc gold piece was the equivalent of… oh… maybe a hundred of today’s computer credits. A fortune for a kid.”