Poisons Unknown (3 page)

He got a pretty good idea.

T
HE
E
YE
A
LMIGHTY
T
ABERNACLE
was four miles from downtown New Orleans, just across the line in San Vincente Parish. Gabby nosed the big convertible past the row of ramshackle frame buildings that clustered on the parish line, and headed for the open country beyond. After a few minutes’ drive, she swung the big convertible off the state road onto a macadam road that wandered back through a clump of trees.

After a moment, the car’s headlights picked up the boarded-up windows of an old paint-peeled white house.

“You sure this is the place, Gabby?” Liddell grunted.

“What do you want, neon lights and a brass band?” The blonde guided the big car around the building and stopped in a weed-choked parking-space in the back. There were a dozen or more other cars huddled there in the darkness. Gabby cut her motor and lights. She snapped on her dash light, consulted a tiny baguette on her wrist.

“Pretty nearly on the head. Eight fifty-five. Let’s go.”

They walked over to a door set in the rear of the building and knocked. The door creaked open, spilled a long yellow triangle of light that seemed to spread across the yard toward the cars.

“Gabby?” A girl asked in a low voice.

“Yeah.”

They stepped in through the door, shut it behind them. The girl was small, mousy. Her eyes seemed to pop as she studied Liddell; her upper teeth were painfully prominent. She pushed a wisp of mousy hair out of her face, tucked it untidily into place behind her ear. She was dressed in a flowing white gown that reached to the floor.

“Be careful, will you, Gabby?” she pleaded. “If Wanda ever found out I passed you through, she’d give me a hard time.”

Gabby nodded. “We’ll be careful, Angie.” She motioned for Liddell to follow her, led the way through what was obviously once a big kitchen, now unused, dust-ridden. As they crossed the butler’s pantry, Liddell became aware of a dull, monotonous beat that made the old place vibrate.

From the pantry, a long corridor ran to the front of the house where a heavy, black-velvet drape sealed off the parlor beyond. In the corridor the monotonous beat was identifiable as the pounding of a drum.

Gabby stopped Liddell at the drape with a tug on the arm. “Just melt into the back of the crowd,” she cautioned. “Nobody’ll notice.”

She pushed back the curtain; they slid through. As they entered the room beyond, the wild beat of the music poured over them, enveloped them with almost physical force.

The ceiling and the floor to the room above had been torn out making the room huge, two-storied. Heavy drapes covered the walls from floor to ceiling, and on the floor a thick pile rug completed the soundproofing.

At the far end of the room there was a small dais; over it a tremendous eye had been painted in luminous paint. It seemed to glare down with personal malice, follow their every move.

The room was bathed in a dim light that transformed the faces of the people scattered around it into leering gargoyles. There was no furniture, but men and women of all ages were draped on cushions scattered around the floor. No one even looked up as Liddell and Gabby entered and found some space in the corner of the room.

Soon a cleverly disguised door to the left of the dais opened; two young
café-au-lait
colored girls came out, their heads wrapped up in the traditional
tignon
.

They spread a small tablecloth in the center of the room and placed lighted tallow candles at the corners of it. As a centerpiece, they put down a shallow woven basket filled with herbs, and scattered little white beans and corn around the basket.

An old Negro stood in the corner, astride a cylinder made of staves hooped with brass and headed with sheepskin. With two sticks he started up the monotonous deep-throated beat they had noticed in the corridor. Keeping time with him, another Negro was sawing away at a two-stringed fiddle. It had a long neck, a body about three inches in diameter that was covered with a brightly mottled snakeskin. The third member of this primitive orchestra twirled a long calabash, made of a native gourd filled with pebbles.

The door alongside the dais opened again, and a tall woman came out. She wore a long scarlet robe; her black hair cascaded down over her shoulders. She walked with a peculiar gliding motion, ascended the dais, started to chant a wild sort of ritual song.

“That’s Wanda,” Gabby whispered.

Liddell nodded, keeping his eyes on the scarlet-robed woman. As she sang, she seemed to grow in stature; her eyes began to roll in wild frenzy. Her head started to bob in time with the chant and the primitive wail of the two-stringed fiddle.

The others in the room took up the beat, started to sway in unison, keep time with their hands and feet. One by one they picked up the chant, their bodies swaying in time to the weird and savagely monotonous rhythm of the gourd and drum.

The woman in the scarlet gown increased the tempo; the room became charged with electricity. Suddenly, one of the women let out a little scream, jumped to the middle of the floor, started to twist and dance with wild abandon. One of the young colored girls joined her on the floor, started to parade around with a strangely stamping motion. The beat deepened in intensity.

As the girl in the
tignon
passed the tablecloth, she grabbed the candles and marched with them in her hands. The white woman followed her. Soon others got up, joined the march around the room.

As the young Negro girl reached the dais, the woman in the scarlet robe gave her a drink out of a gourd. She swallowed some, spat the rest in a mist, holding the candles so as to catch the vapor. The alcohol blazed up in a blinding flare. There was a roar from all parts of the room.

Others jumped to their feet, commenced to move in a circle. The woman on the dais continued to increase the tempo and handed the gourd to each of the dancers as they passed.

The posturing and contortions became more and more abandoned as the dancers circled the tablecloth. From time to time they would reach over, pick up the herbs from the basket or a handful of the white beans or corn, and chew on them.

A young woman sprang from the line of marchers and jumped on the cloth in the center of the floor. Her body started to undulate from shoulders to hips to ankles. The beat of the drum, the scream of the fiddle swelled in volume; her motions became more and more abandoned. Wildly, she tore at her clothes, ripped them from her body. She danced wildly, her hair flying, her body undulating and throbbing in time with the music. Her motions became more and more frantic until suddenly, with a wild scream, she collapsed in a heap on the floor and lay there.

That was a signal for the whole line of marchers to take up her dance. The drumbeat speeded up in intensity; the motions of the dancers kept time. The women tore at their clothes, and entirely nude, went on dancing.

Suddenly, the candles went out, the dim light that bathed the room faded. Only a spotlight picked out the woman in the scarlet gown on the dais. Her eyes were closed; she seemed in a trance.

“Now what?” Liddell whispered.

“You let your conscience be your guide. We’d better get out of here while the lights are out.” Gabby’s voice sounded shaken, and her hand was damp to the touch.

Liddell followed her to the heavy curtain that sealed off the room, slid through. They traversed the corridor and slipped out the back door.

The warm night air seemed chilly after the superheated atmosphere of the orgy they had just left. They crossed to the Caddy. Gabby started it, eased it around the house, and headed for the road.

“Well, what do you think about it?” she asked finally.

Liddell wiped his upper lip with the side of his hand. “It’s not exactly a way to grow old gracefully, is it?” He deflected the wind stream and leaned back, letting the cool breeze blow the bad taste from his mouth. “How long does it go on?”

“Maybe an hour.” She guided the big car back to the state road. “Now what?”

“Is there a place around here where we can kill an hour or so? Maybe have a drink?”

“I think there’s a roadhouse up the road. Just inside the parish line.” She headed for it, eyeing Liddell curiously. “What’s perking on the inside of that skull of yours?”

Liddell shrugged. “I figure on going back to the temple after the party’s over. I’ve got a yen to have a little talk with that black-haired babe that did the chanting.”

“Wanda? Quite a hunk of woman, eh?”

“Quite a hunk.” Liddell nodded and lapsed into silence.

A few minutes’ drive brought them to a large rambling roadhouse set back off the main road. A flickering neon that dyed the branches of the trees and the surrounding lawn red identified it as “The Hideaway.” Gabby pulled the Caddy into a pebbled parking-space and led the way in.

They found a booth near the back of the bar and squeezed in.

A bored-looking waitress shuffled over, dropped menus in front of them, but didn’t seem terribly disconcerted when they told her they just wanted a drink. After she had shuffled back in the direction of the bar, Liddell dumped a pack of cigarettes on the table.

“Ever join in that May dance they do, Gabby?” He hung a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

The girl selected a cigarette, bent forward, accepted a a light. “Once, just for kicks.” She took a deep drag, let the ‘smoke dribble from her nostrils. “It really gets into your blood. It took days before I could even see straight.”

Liddell nodded. “What’s in the gourd she gives you to drink?”

“Some kind of wine. It’s sweet-tasting, plenty strong.”

Liddell grunted. “Probably spiked with hashish. That gang back there’s higher than the Empire State Building.” He leaned back, let the waitress slide two glasses and two shots in front of them, and waited until she had left. “I don’t know where the payoff is yet, but it looks to me as if the Eye Almighty is just a fancy dope drop.”

Gabby made a
moue
, studying the carmined end of her cigarette with distaste. “Seems like an awfully complicated way to sell dope. Why go to all that trouble when an addict will save you the trouble by looking you up?”

“What better way to make new customers?”

Gabby considered it. “You think that’s what’s behind the Eye Almighty?” She shrugged. “Funny nobody has blown a whistle on them. You don’t become an addict just by using the stuff once.”

Liddell tasted his drink and approved. “How do you figure the candles being put out after the wild dancing?”

Gabby grinned. “Maybe in deference to the tender sensibilities of any members who aren’t high, they figure the scene should be blacked out to give the others time to get their breath back.”

“Ever hear of a snooperscope, Gabby?”

The blonde scowled, shook her head. “What is it?”

“They developed it during the last war. It’s used for observations in the dark. Uses infrared.” He took a deep drag on the cigarette, blew the smoke in twin streams from his nostrils. “Anybody in that room with a snooperscope could see everything that was going on as clearly as if the lights were on.”

“I’ll bet he was blushing.”

“No, but tomorrow some of those people probably will be. You can also use infrared to take flashlight pictures or even movies in the pitch-dark. And the flash never shows!”

Gabby’s mouth formed a perfect O of awakening. “I see what you mean. That’s the reason there’s no kickback on the orgies and the reason they keep coming back until they’re hooked?”

Liddell nodded, scowling at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “You said it was pretty hard to get into the temple?”

Gabby nodded. “Plenty hard. It’s more exclusive than most clubs.” She chewed on the end of a lacquered fingernail. “You think Alfred is already dead? One of his flock that he’s been shaking down maybe?”

“It could be, but I doubt it, Gabby.” Liddell shook his head. “Anybody weak enough to get sucked into a setup like that is usually too weak to blast his way out. He’s usually more prone to buy his way out.” He drained his glass and signaled for a refill.

“You think Wanda knows anything?” Gabby asked.

Liddell shrugged. “She must have some idea of whether he has any enemies or not. When you work as closely with somebody as she’s been working with Alfred, you have a pretty good idea of what cooks.”

“Maybe.”

“Another thing. So far as I can see, nobody has a picture of this character or any way to identify him. She may be able to help in that department, too.” He took a last deep drag on his butt and chain-lit a fresh one from it. “You’ve seen him. What’s he look like?”

Gabby pursed her lips. “He’s hard to describe.”

“Tall?”

“Fairly tall.”

Liddell sighed. “How tall? Taller than I am?”

Gabby cocked her head, studied Liddell’s heavy-set shoulders, the thick, gray-flecked hair, and made a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. He always wore a white gown. Makes it hard to tell.”

“All right. Skip his height. What would you say he weighed?”

She shook her head. “I don’t have any idea.”

“See what I mean? Go on, describe the rest of him.”

Gabby screwed up her forehead and grimaced in concentration. “He was bald, wore a heavy black beard, black-rimmed glasses.” She racked her brain and finally shook her head. “That’s all I can remember about him,” she confessed.

Liddell grunted. “That makes it a snap. All I have to do is look for a guy who might be shorter or taller than I am. He could weigh anywhere from a hundred to two hundred pounds, he has a beard he could shave off, a bald head he could cover, and horn-rimmed glasses that could be changed into steel-rimmed glasses just by walking into an optometrist’s. Yes, sir. Finding him should be a breeze!”

A
T
12:25, J
OHNNY
L
IDDELL
climbed the rickety front steps of the Eye Almighty Temple. There was no sign of life anywhere in the building. He rapped on the door with the old-fashioned brass knocker.

After a moment, the door opened a patch. The painfully prominent front teeth of Angie Martinez gleamed in the half-light. She stared at him as if she had never seen him before, and seemed to have difficulty focusing her eyes on his face.

“The services are over.” Her voice was low, melodious.

“I want to talk to Sister Wanda. About Brother Alfred.”

The girl frowned as if she were trying to remember something important. She shook her head mechanically. “Brother Alfred has been taken from us.”

“I have come to bring him back. I must see Sister Wanda.”

The girl wrestled with it, then opened the door wider. “I will tell her.” She pointed to the entrance to the parlor. “You will wait in there.” When she left, Liddell had the illusion that she melted into the gloom of the lower hall.

The parlor was empty. There was no sign of the orgy that he had witnessed there less than two hours before. The Eye continued to glare down at him with disconcertingly direct gaze.

He was mentally debating the advisability of smoking in the Presence, when he became aware of a subtle rustling sound. The woman in the scarlet robe materialized in the gloom next to the dais. She walked up to him with the peculiar gliding motion he had noticed earlier, and stopped in front of him.

“I am Sister Wanda. You wished to see me?” She had a deep, richly liquid voice. From close her face was startlingly beautiful. Her eyes were almond-shaped and green, but the pupils were so dilated they seemed black. Her hair was thick, blue black, cascading over her shoulders. Her mouth was full, sensuous, her nose thin, patrician. She wore no make-up, and her skin was the color of old ivory.

Liddell nodded. “About Brother Alfred.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Are you from the police?”

Liddell shook his head. “My name’s Liddell. I’m a private investigator. I’ve been hired to help find the missing man.”

“By whom?”

“I’m not at liberty to divulge my client, unfortunately.”

The woman’s lips straightened out to a thin line. “Why should you expect me to help you if you won’t answer my questions?”

Liddell shrugged. “Because I thought you were interested in seeing Brother Alfred returned unharmed. Of course, if you’re not—”

“What do you want to know?”

“Couldn’t we talk in private?”

“We are alone. There is no one in the temple but Martinez. She won’t disturb us.” She followed his gaze to the Eye, made a production of facing it, bowing reverently. “You need fear no intrusion from the Almighty Eye, Mr.—”

“Liddell. Johnny Liddell.” He pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “There must be some place we can talk that’s a little less like Union Station?”

Sister Wanda pursed her lips. “Brother Alfred’s study, perhaps. Will you please follow me?” She turned, made her obeisance to the Eye, led the way to the door set in the wall next to the dais. The room beyond was a barely furnished cell, containing an old unpainted desk, several chairs, and a bookcase piled with books. Two candles set on either end of the desk provided the illumination, spilling a flickering light into all but the corners of the room.

The woman took the chair behind the desk and folded her hands in her lap. “We won’t be interrupted here.”

Liddell pulled up a wooden armchair and dropped into it. “Okay to smoke?”

The woman behind the desk nodded but shook her head when he held the pack out to her. She watched him narrowly as he hung one from the corner of his mouth, scratched a match, lit it. “What is it you want to know?”

“You’ve been with him long?”

The woman’s eyes glowed in the candlelight. She shrugged. “Five years. Since the temple was opened.”

“What about before he opened the temple? What did he do? Where did he come from?”

“Why should that concern you, Mr. Liddell?” Her voice was cold.

Liddell shrugged. “Maybe his disappearance stems out of something in his past. Somebody or something he was running away from.”

“Brother Alfred did not run away from things.”

“Then you think it was abduction?”

The woman nodded sharply. “He never would have left his work of his own free will.”

Liddell smoked for a second, studying the woman’s face. It told him nothing.

“Who would want him abducted?”

“The underworld.”

“That covers a lot of our population. Anybody in particular in the underworld?”

“A man named Kirk. He runs most of the underworld in this state. Brother Alfred had devoted himself to destroying Kirk and what he stood for.”

“That could get to be fatal,” Liddell conceded.

“Anything else?”

Liddell snapped his fingers. “I almost forgot. A picture. I don’t even know what he looked like.”

“There is no picture. In this sect, we do not succumb to such petty vanities.”

“That makes it tough,” Liddell sighed, blew a stream of feathery gray smoke at the ceiling, and watched it swirl. “Can you think of any other reason why he might disappear? A personal reason? A woman, perhaps?”

The woman’s face became a dull red with anger. “You are insulting. You had better leave now. The way you talk, I get the idea you’re more interested in finding some explanation for his disappearance than in finding him.”

Liddell shrugged, dropped his cigarette to the floor, and ground it out. “Sorry if I hurt your feelings. In this racket you’ve got to explore every possibility.” He pulled himself to his feet. “In other words, you have nothing to add, no suggestions?”

The woman shook her head coldly.

Liddell tugged a notebook and fountain pen from his breast pocket, made a few notes. “I won’t bother you again.” He flipped the notebook shut, started to recap the pen. His fingernail caught the refill level, shot a stream of ink out over his hand.

“Clumsy of me,” he growled. “Any place I can wash it off?”

The woman snorted her annoyance, then shrugged. “There’s a washroom over there.” She watched him walk to the door and close it.

Once in the washroom, he worked fast. He turned on the water in the tap, opened the medicine closet. There was the usual assortment of bottles and tubes, shaving accessories, no comb or brush.

In the corner was a glass. Liddell placed his fingers on the inside of the glass, spread them open, and lifted it. Then, taking his pocket handkerchief, he wrapped it carefully. He stuck the glass in the crown of his hat and held it secure with one finger. After he’d washed the ink off, he returned to the study.

The woman greeted him with a frosty smile. “I hope there’s nothing else?”

Liddell shook his head. “If anything occurs to you that you think I should know, I’m staying at the Delcort in the Vieux Carré.”

The smile was still pasted on the woman’s lips. It didn’t reach her eyes. “I don’t think there’ll be any reason for me to get in touch with you.” She turned on her heel and led the way to the door. She waited until he had stepped out onto the stoop, then slammed the door behind him. As he walked down the steps, he could hear the chains being put into place.

The Hotel Delcort was an old, weather-beaten, stone building that lay snuggled in a row of similarly weather-beaten stone buildings a few blocks uptown from the Old Absinthe House on Bourbon Street. Hand-hammered wrought-iron grilles decorated the small balconies outside each room with a delicate embroidery. A small metal plaque next to the doorway dispelled any possible doubts as to its character by labeling it clearly as a hotel.

A threadbare and faded carpet ran the length of the lobby that had long since given up any pretense of serving a useful purpose. The chairs were rickety, unsafe, uninviting. The imitation rubber plants were grimed with dust.

A dispirited-looking clerk presided over the desk. As Johnny Liddell walked in, the clerk raised rheumy eyes and worked on an urbane smile that missed by a mile. He dry-washed his hands, lifted his eyebrows politely as Liddell stopped.

“I’m Liddell. A boy registered me in this afternoon.”

The clerk consulted the register nearsightedly, nodded. “You’re in three-fifteen, Mr. Liddell.”

“Any messages for me?”

The clerk felt in the pigeonhole numbered 315, turned, managed to look very sad, and shook his head. “No messages.”

Liddell nodded, walked down to the iron-grille elevator at the far end of the lobby, and rode to the third floor.

Once in his room, he removed the glass from his handkerchief, breathed on the glass, and held it up to the light. He grunted with satisfaction at the prints that showed up. From his valise he took a roll of transparent tape, a bottle of black powder, and three strips of celluloid.

He dusted the glass with the black powder, examined the prints that showed up critically, and selected the best three. Then, holding the transparent tape taut, he pressed it down over one of the powdered fingerprints. He lifted the tape cautiously, cut it near the roll, transferred it to one of the celluloid strips. He took it to the window, examined the lifted fingerprint, and was satisfied. He repeated the process with two other prints, then replaced powder, tape, and the celluloid strips in his valise.

Back at the table, he picked up the glass and was about to rewrap it in his handkerchief when he heard a slight noise outside his window. He swung around and dropped to one knee.

Behind the curtain, he could make out the dim outline of a man’s figure. There was a smash of glass, then two shots that came so close together they sounded like one. Liddell could see them chew bits out of the table near his head. He dove behind the dresser, reached for the bottom drawer where he’d parked his .45, and dragged it out.

Liddell hugged the dresser for a moment, then stuck a cautious eye around the side. The man on the balcony threw two more shots and two holes appeared in the wall over Liddell’s head as if by magic. He pulled back, blasted the only light fixture in the room off the wall, throwing the room into darkness.

Then snaking his arm around the dresser, he squeezed the trigger twice and winced at the heavy roar of the .45. Somewhere a woman screamed in shrill French; there was the pounding of running feet. There was no return fire from outside the window.

Liddell waited for a ten-second count, crept from behind the dresser, flattened himself on the floor. There was no sign of anybody on the balcony. Cautiously, .45 shoved out in front of him, finger taut on the trigger, he inched toward the window.

The balcony was empty. Liddell threw up the sash, leaned out. Through the ornamental grillwork, he caught sight of a figure with its leg thrown over the far end balcony. He fired at him, the slug screamed wildly as it ricocheted off the metal of the grille.

The man with the gun swung around the last fan-shaped guard screen and reached the end of the balcony. He raised his hand. There was a vicious spit; his hand seemed to belch orange flame. It spat twice more. Once it gouged a piece of concrete from the wall close enough to Liddell’s head to sting him with the splinters.

He pulled his head in, rushed for the door, flung it open, and slammed into a big man coming in. The man dug the muzzle of a .38 into Liddell’s midsection. “All right, Jesse James. Drop the artillery,” he ordered.

“Get out of my way, I’m—”

The man’s voice was hard, low. “Drop it or I’ll drop you.”

Liddell shrugged, dropped the .45, watched the big man kick it into the darkness of the room. “He’s going to get away,” he growled.

“Maybe. But you’re not. Inside.” He slid his hand along the wall until he encountered the overhead switch, flicked it. Nothing happened.

“I had to blast it,” Liddell told him. “I was a sitting duck in a lighted room.”

“There’s a lamp on the dresser. Try it—but don’t try anything else,” the big man told him. “You won’t be a sitting duck—you’ll be a dead duck if you do.”

Liddell walked over to the dresser and snapped on the lamp, spilling a yellow light into the room. Outside in the corridor, heads started to pop cautiously from half-open doors, ready to be jerked back if the shooting started again. At the far end of the hall, some of the hardier souls came out of their rooms and huddled in groups, staring down to where the big man kept his gun trained.

The man with the gun stared around Liddell’s wrecked room, whistled. “Been having quite a ball. Fireworks and all. A little early for the Mardi Gras, isn’t it?”

“You the house dick?” Liddell wanted to know.

“That’s me, McGinnis. Who’re you?”

“Liddell. Look, Mac, do you have to hold that gun on me? It makes me nervous looking into that end of a heater.”

“Lucky thing for you it’s you that’s nervous, not me. When I get nervous, I start shooting.”

“You’d be making a big mistake. This is my room—”

“If I make a mistake, I’ll apologize. You usually go around with a gun in your fist?”

Liddell grunted. “I’m a private detective. I’m down here on a case.”

The house man nodded amiably. “Been doing some target practice, no doubt?”

“I didn’t shoot the room up,” Liddell told him patiently. “Some guy out on the balcony tried to pot me. I got to the window just as he hit the end of the balcony. I thought I could head him off if I got to the stairs fast enough.”

Down the hall, the elevator clanged to a stop. The doors slammed open, and the desk clerk bustled up the corridor, face white. “What’s going on up here, Mac?” he asked the house detective.

The house man didn’t take his eyes off Liddell. “Know this guy?”

The clerk peered around the big man’s shoulder, saw Liddell, and nodded. “He’s a guest. This is his room.” He started dry-washing his hands agitatedly. “I’m terribly sorry about this, Mr. Liddell. Mac didn’t know you. He—”

McGinnis shrugged and stuck his .38 back in its holster. “Sorry, mister,” he told Liddell. “Can’t take any chances, you know.”

“What happened, Mr. Liddell?” The room clerk turned watery eyes on the private detective.