Lady Sativa (16 page)

“Not the real werewolf,” Orient reminded her, “the other werewolf.”

There was a long pause before she spoke again and when she did her voice was subdued. “Owen, I’m sure Anthony Bestman has something to do with these murders.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know,” he said wearily.

“Well I do!” Sybelle snapped with an air of sudden decision. “The very
first
thing we should do is talk to Anthony and find out what he blows about all this.”

Orient watched her as she dialed the telephone. He tried to rally his will against the sucking hopelessness that was draining his energy, but one thing weighed down his efforts—the reality that he was infected with the disease of the beast.

“Oh good. Thank
you
very much,” Sybelle was saying. She put the receiver down and smiled. “Mission accomplished. He’s staying at the Delmonico. His secretary said he had a
business
meeting.” She lowered her voice as if the fact had great significance. “He’s been there all weekend.”

Orient didn’t answer.

“Well,” she said impatiently, “are you ready?”

He looked up. “Ready for what?”

“To go see Anthony Bestman, of course.” She pulled her fur coat over her shoulders. “Have you got a better idea?”

Orient didn’t, and as he maneuvered the Rolls through v the traffic he brooded about his inability to muster some kind of resistance to the sickness secreted in his cells.

“Don’t worry, darling,” Sybelle murmured. “I’m determined to help you get to the bottom of this.”

“I guess we should decide what we’re going to say to him.” He tried to sound hopeful. “It’ll go smoother if we’re prepared.”

“If I know Anthony,” she mused, “the only way to deal with him is to call his bluff. Suppose we tell him we’re going to the police?”

“Could work,” he said. But as he drove down the wide stretch of Park Avenue the chrome-and-glass buildings yawned over him like the smooth sides of an exitless pit.

He let Sybelle out in front of the hotel then drove around the block until he found a parking space. He walked back to the hotel slowly, letting the chill breeze revive his sluggish awareness. When he came to the entrance, he stopped and took a deep breath before going through the revolving door.

As he entered, he saw Sybelle standing next to the elevator, talking excitedly to three men. When he saw who they were he froze and his thoughts started whirling in disorder. People and objects were suddenly suspended in position, giving the narrow lobby the elongated perspectives of a dream.

Anthony Bestman was glowering at Sybelle, stabbing the space between them with short, vicious jabs of his cigar while Count Germaine and Maxwell Andersen looked on.

11

“Over here Owen,” Sybelle called out across the lobby.

Orient moved awkwardly to join her, the spinning confusion making it impossible to focus his thoughts.

“You too, Orient,” Anthony Bestman snarled when he reached the elevator. “Don’t you think you’ve gotten away with a thing. I’m not finished with you yet, either. You drew fifty thousand dollars from my brother’s estate under false pretenses.”

“Dr. Orient cashed the check he received from SEE in good faith.” Count Germaine’s melodious voice was calm, but his triangular face was lined with barely repressed anger. “You can sue to break Carl’s will if you wish; however, there’s nothing you can do against any of us.”

Bestman jammed his cigar between his teeth and picked up the suitcase at his side. “I’ll see you in court Germaine and I promise you SEE won’t get another cent of my brother’s money.”

“Perhaps.” Germaine smiled slightly and bowed. “Thank you very much for your invitation. I found our little talk most enlightening.”

“You must come to London to see my home,” Maxwell added, his mouth curved in a mocking pout. “The chess set Carl left me looks smashing in my study. They tell me it’s worth thousands.”

Bestman’s eyes narrowed. As he turned to leave, he hesitated and looked at Sybelle. “And I don’t want you hounding me any longer, you blasted busybody. If you want to go to the police, then go to them and be damned.” He pushed past her and headed for the door, moving quickly for a man of his bulk.

“Well, she sniffed, looking uncertainly at Germaine, “the nerve of that man.”

The tall count smiled. “He’s quite stubborn. Vicious, really.”

“He’s a stuffed fool,” Maxwell said, yawning. He looked at Orient and his lips curled unpleasantly under his reflecting sunglasses. “And how are you, doctor?”

Orient was too preoccupied to notice the jibe. He stared at the boy’s pudgy face, trying to sort out his scattered thoughts. “I’m fine, Maxwell,” he murmured. “What are you doing in New York? I thought you were all in London, running an experiment.”

Germaine glanced at Maxwell and then fixed his eyes on Orient’s face. The sharp angle of his eyebrows gave his steely eyes a penetrating case. “Anthony got in touch with me in London,” he explained smoothly. “While Lily, Maxwell, and I were preparing the experiment. Bestman insisted it was crucial But when we arrived, we found that Anthony was trying to blackmail us. He claimed he could have Carl’s will judged worthless by reason of insanity. He wanted us to take a cash settlement.” He inclined his head toward MaxwelL “But my young friend here offered some choice suggestions as to the best way of disposing of Anthony’s offer.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Sybelle protested. “How could you come to New York and
not
let me know? But now that you’re here you can help us investigate poor Daniel’s death.”

Germaine shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry. We only have a few hours. It’s imperative that we return to London tonight. I really don’t know how we can do anything concerning Daniel’s death. We’ll have to let the police handle it until our work in London is finished.”

As he spoke, Orient felt a flood of disappointment wash over his confusion. Lily could have taken the opportunity to come see him while Germaine and Maxwell were occupied with Bestman. Then he remembered something else.

“Surely, you didn’t leave Lily alone during the lunar phase,” he said.

Again Germaine glanced at Maxwell. “She’s quite all right,” he said curtly.

‘Can’t you spend a few hours?” Sybelle pleaded. “I’m sure we can clear Hannah’s name.”

“Sorry old dear,” Maxwell grunted. “Plane leaves in a couple of hours.”

“I’ll take you to the airport,” Orient offered. He needed more time with them. Perhaps they knew some small detail that could untangle the jumble of questions knotting his brain.

But as the long car glided swiftly along the parkway it was Sybelle who did most of the talking. She chattered nervously, jumping from topic to topic in a vain attempt to stimulate conversation.

Germaine and Maxwell sat impassively in the back seat, answering her remarks in monosyllables; Orient kept silent as he drove, his depression becoming deeper as they neared the airport and he realized that the two men couldn’t or wouldn’t communicate anything that could help him.

“Don’t you see that if the police were wrong about Hannah that means the real killer is still loose,” Sybelle was saying. “We should all try to do something.”

“You must remember there’s also a very good chance that the two murders were quite unrelated,” Germaine reminded. “But I promise you that I’ll look into it next month, when our work has been completed.”

“Tell you what Sybelle,” Maxwell offered. “We’ll bottle the formula Carl left us and corner the werewolf patent-medicine market.”

His comment snapped across Orient’s gloom. “You have a good memory, Maxwell,” he said casually. “Do you remember the exact ingredients in the rhyme?”

“Thinking of starting a business?”

“I can remember part of it,” Orient continued, ignoring the dig. “Something like... to soothe the poor soul who bears the mark of the beast... take the mold of wheat and yeast... add the beautiful bitch....”

“Add
mandrake,
wolfbane and poppy pitch,” Maxwell corrected. “And an equal part of the beautiful bitch, Indian rope to complete the feast. Remember ten measures of that which the beast loves best, from one who loves him more than all the rest,” he concluded in a bored voice. “It does have a certain romantic flavor, but of course it’s completely ridiculous.”

“Ever try to figure out what it means?”

“Of course not. What nonsense,” Maxwell scoffed. “Why on earth should I waste my time?”

Orient looked up and caught Sybelle staring at him, an expression of pity and surprise on her face. “Oh, do give me your number in London, Maxwell,” she said quickly. “I want to know where to reach you. Poor Daniel’s murder has made me a nervous wreck.

“I can understand,” Germaine said. “It was a great shock to us when we read the newspapers. I had known Daniel for twenty years.”

Orient saw the approaching overpass and decided to be more blunt. “Were you and Bestman talking business all night?”

“We arrived in New York yesterday at six,” Germaine said evenly, as if he was prepared for the question. “We were in conference with Anthony until nine. He lost his temper at the end of dinner and we didn’t see him until this morning.”

“Left
us
with the check,” Maxwell put in.

“He called us in the morning and tried to discuss the matter of Carl’s estate again, but it was no use.”

“There you see!” Sybelle cried. “That means Anthony could have killed Daniel and come back to the hotel without anyone knowing.”

“Quite difficult to prove,” Germaine observed gravely.

Orient didn’t say anything, but he couldn’t shake the nagging doubts. He could sense a vibration of agreement between Maxwell and Germaine, as if they had rehearsed what they would say if questioned.

The drive back from the airport was long, slow, and choked with traffic. Both Orient and Sybelle stared silently through the windshield, lost in their private thoughts.

Orient’s doubts and confusion merged to form a roaring waterfall that crashed against his reason. All he could understand was that Germaine and Maxwell were in New York when Hazer was killed. They had just as much opportunity. He wondered why Lily hadn’t come to see rum. He tried to reassure himself with the reminder that she was probably too sensitive to travel during the moon phase. It occurred to him again that Germaine was conducting an occult rite as part of his experiment. But then the confusion crumbled the fragile calculations of his mind.

He knew that none of it made any difference.

In four weeks, the agony would come again and he wouldn’t be able to resist the tantalizing lust for raw flesh.

Hours later, when he fell asleep, the confusion and despair continued to pursue him... in his dreams he was still lost... running mindlessly through the shadows... his heaving lungs stuffed with a nameless, unseen dread of the relentless footsteps behind him….

12

Sordi was a worried man.

He was certain Dr. Orient was sick. Ever since he’d come back from Sweden he’d been increasingly nervous, uncommunicative, and depressed. His weight, never excessive, had dropped alarmingly and he moved around the house like a skeletal, melancholy ghost.

He sighed and continued sorting the blood samples Orient had given him to prepare. The doctor should take a vacation, at least get out more with friends. The only person he saw lately was Sybelle. The two of them stayed locked in the studio for hours at a time, working on their experiment.

Even Sybelle had changed. He’d always known her to be gregarious, even exuberant, but in the past weeks her manner had become distant. Perhaps she’d come down with the same sickness as the doctor. He shook his head. And neither of them would drop a hint about what they were up to in the studio. Both of them were as evasive as spies, as if they shared a guilty secret of some kind.

He sighed again and put the slides under the lens of the microscope. It made him sad to think that they wouldn’t take him into their confidence. He wondered if it had anything to do with the murders Sybelle had told him about. He shivered and hoped the doctor wasn’t mixed up in something dangerous.

When he’d finished preparing the samples, he put everything away and pushed the speak button on the intercom. “Doctor?”

“Yes?” Orient’s voice sounded hollow through the small speaker.

“Samples are ready.”

“Good. Bring what you have to the studio.”

Sordi picked up the Plexiglas tray containing the slides of blood samples and headed for the stairs, still brooding. The doctor hadn’t even told him why he wanted the samples prepared. It was almost insulting. For a second, he considered handing in his resignation, but he quickly brushed the impulse aside. If the doctor wanted it this way there must be a good reason for it, he decided. He’d stick it out for a while longer and see. And then, if it became necessary to quit, he’d ask the doctor point-blank what the hell was going on.

When he entered the studio, he saw Sybelle and Orient huddling over a pile of papers on the desk. “Uh, here are the slides,” he said softly. He placed the tray on a shelf. “Anybody want anything? Coffee?”