The Clairvoyant Countess (10 page)

“Can you speak?” she asked softly.

He groaned. “
Si
—go away.” He snatched his hand away from hers and turned his face to the wall.

“He sure has the look of death on him,” said Kane in a low voice. “It’s uncanny.”

“Yes? Well, we shall see,” she said, and walked over to the bureau to glance at the many objects abandoned there. One in particular drew her attention; a black candle shaped like a man, six inches high and standing upright in a saucer. Several broken matches lay beside it. She picked up the saucer and thoughtfully examined the candle, then put it down and glanced at an elaborately framed photograph of a beautiful girl. An inscription in the corner read, “All my love, Maria.”

She nodded. “We can go now,” she said.

“Already?” Kane was startled. “I thought—well, frankly the lieutenant made it sound as if you could cure Luis.”

Madame Karitska was amused. “I only diagnose, I cannot cure.”

“Well, then,” said Kane, brightening, “what did you decide about Luis?”

“That this is a case for Lieutenant Pruden and that we should call him at once,” she told him crisply. “This
man is being murdered, and the lieutenant handles homicides, does he not?”

“What do you mean, he’s being murdered?” demanded Pruden, climbing out of a patrol car in front of Mrs. Malone’s boardinghouse. “A man decides he wants to die it’s suicide, not murder.”

“When you have finished losing your temper,” said Madame Karitska calmly, “I will explain to you why Luis Mendez is not committing suicide. In the meantime let us walk to the Botanica around the corner and see what we can do to save his life.”

“You might call a doctor first,” he said irritably, falling into step beside her.

“A doctor cannot possibly help him,” she told him. “This is
espiritismo.
Here we are,” she added, turning the corner, and came to a stop in front of LeCruz’ West Indies Botanica.

“This place?” protested Pruden. On display in the window were statues of Buddha, of the Virgin Mary, and of figures he’d never seen before, some of them grotesque, some of them appealing; holy medals lying in nests of velvet, herb-burners fashioned of pottery, and plastic bottles advertised as ritual lotions. Madame Karitska opened the door, a bell jangled, and a gnarled little man with white hair and heavily pouched eyes glanced up from the counter. “Ah, Madame Karitska,” he said, brightening. “How nice to see you again.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Madame Karitska told him warmly, shaking his hand. “You are well? Your family is well?”

“We are all well, Madame Karitska. And you?”

“In need of help, Mr. LeCruz. I know you have
several spiritists among your clientele and we urgently need the best. Can you recommend one?”

Mr. LeCruz’ glance moved to Pruden and rested on him doubtfully. “For me to recommend—I am not sure this is wise.”

“I can vouch for Mr. Pruden,” she said with a smile. “He is no believer but I am educating him, Mr. LeCruz.”

He nodded. “Okay then.” He was thoughtful a moment, then brought out paper and pencil. “I give you two names with addresses.”

With a nod toward the shelves Pruden said, “What’s all this—uh—merchandise?”

“I’ll show you,” Madame Karitska said, and taking his arm guided him along the counter. “Here you see candles: red ones to attract a loved one, blue candles for healing, yellow and white when communication with the dead is wished. And here is a black Chango candle,” she added, picking one up. She handed it to Pruden and he stared blankly at the shape of a male figure about six inches tall. “It’s burned when one hopes for the death of an enemy,” she told him, and added casually, “I have been told Luis Mendez has no enemies, but there is a black Chango candle like this on the bureau in his room.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” protested Pruden.

She went on, ignoring the slant of his brows. “Here you see black rag dolls with gold-plated needles—oh dear, eight dollars now, the price is going up. As you probably know, the needles are struck into the dolls to cause pain to enemies. And here are herbs, a very fine selection, each for different purposes, and although Mr. LeCruz disapproves of black magic he is a man who
also likes to pay his bills and so you find here vials of snake oil, graveyard dust, and bats’ blood.”

Pruden groaned. “Please. I was back at headquarters making out reports, and you pulled me away for this? I thought—”

“Ah, Mr. LeCruz is waiting for us,” she said, interrupting him, and moved toward him with a smile.

“I’ve given you two names,” Mr. LeCruz told her in a low voice. “Each from different cults. Both are fine, I hear, and give good results.”

“Results are what we need. Thank you, Mr. LeCruz,” she said, and to Pruden, “Shall we go now? I’ll explain outside what I discovered and then you can go back to your reports at headquarters.”

“While you go to Third Street?” he said, glancing at the addresses on the sheet of paper. “Not on your life, I’m going with you. People like you get mugged on Third Street.”

“If you go with me you will have to forget that you are a policeman,” she told him sternly. “You’re not dressed as one, so if you’ll not speak like one or act like one—”

“Why?”

“Because there will be nothing rational about this, my dear Lieutenant, but then there is so much in life that isn’t. The important thing—of the highest order—is to save Mendez’ life. Then you must proceed as with any attempted murder, and discover who wishes the Mendez brothers dead.”

“And the weapon?” he asked, amused.

“The mind.”

“I don’t think you can convict anyone on that,” he told her dryly.

“Exactly,” she said in her clear crisp voice. “Which makes it very clever, do you not think so? The perfect crime.”

He’d not thought of it in this light. “You really think that?” he said, his brows slanting. “Of course if it could be done, if it were possible—”

“My dear Lieutenant,” she told him with a smile, “voodoo is a religion older than Christianity. You have seen far too many Hollywood movies, I think. It is as old as astronomy, and uses astronomy in its beliefs and its gods, and it has many similarities to Christianity. It is a complex, ancient, and very structured religion, with formal rites and ceremonies, a culture as well as a religion. Don’t, as John Painter would say, knock it.”

“Obviously I mustn’t,” he said meekly.

They entered Third Street, a desolate street with windows broken in many of its buildings. A few black children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk stopped and stared at them; an old man sitting on a step in the sun bowed a grayed head to them as they passed. Farther along the street rock-and-roll music poured from a delicatessen around which at least a dozen young men idled.

“Here is number 180,” said Madame Karitska, and they confronted high narrow steps to an open door, beyond which rose a second flight to the floor above. “She is called Madame Souffrant.”

“Madame, eh?” said Pruden with a grin.

A cardboard sign just inside the door bore the name, with a purple arrow pointing to the second floor. They climbed rickety stairs and knocked at a door. A stately West Indian woman, her skin the color of café crème, answered their knock.

Madame Karitska said briskly, “A man is dying on Fifth Street; he’s possessed and needs a spiritist. He has said he will die Monday morning.”

“And this is Saturday noon,” the woman said, nodding. “What cult?”

“I don’t know but he came here from Puerto Rico two years ago. Mr. LeCruz gave us your name and that of a Miss Loaquin. Do you think you can help him?”

“Come in,” said Madame Souffrant.

They entered a room with floors that slanted alarmingly but the room itself was clean to the point of sterility; the linoleum rug shone with polish, the long couch along the wall was covered with transparent plastic and plastic roses bloomed everywhere. “Sit down,” said Madame Souffrant. “I think you need look no further, but I’ll go back with you first and see the man to be certain.”

“You can arrange the ritual for today, perhaps?” asked Madame Karitska.

“It can be done.” The woman peered into the kitchen, spoke to someone, and closed the door. “My cat,” she explained, and picking up a small suitcase resembling a doctor’s bag she gestured to them to precede her, and locked the door behind her.

Pruden, with the feeling that none of this could be real, escorted them back to Fifth Street.

“You will come in?” asked Madame Karitska at the steps of Mrs. Malone’s boardinghouse.

Pruden shook his head. “You said it’s impossible to question Luis Mendez so I’ll make a few inquiries of his girl friend instead. But only,” he added pointedly, “if you continue to insist this is murder.”

She regarded him with sympathy but with some impatience as well. “I insist, yes.”

Pruden found Luis’ girl friend at the Grecian Beauty Shoppe on Seventh Street. Maria Ardizzone was her name, with a very lovely Italian face to go with it, curly hair down to her shoulders and liquid black eyes. She was plump and would run to fat in a few years, but there was poise and ambition here, he thought, as he watched her take command of the interview with the ease of a girl who knew what she wanted. What she wanted, apparently, was Luis Mendez and a number of small Mendezes, and what she most admired about Luis was his ambition and his drive.

“But his sickness I do not understand,” she said, faltering for the first time. “I do not understand this at all. The men in my family, they get the flu, they break an arm, they keep working. Luis, he just lies down. It is not
like
Luis; he works hard, he has built a good business.”

“Doing what?” asked Pruden.

“They own—owned—two Jack Frost ice-cream trucks.”

“Ice-cream trucks,” repeated Pruden, frowning.

Maria nodded, her long rippling black hair nodding with her. “They scrimp, they save, they buy one truck. That was when I first met Luis. The truck they buy from Mr. Materas, the distributor, and Luis he drove it while Arturo took any job he could get to save up and buy the second one. Luis, he made three hundred dollars a day and do you think he would spend a nickel on himself? No, every penny went to buy the second truck free and clear. One must admire a man
like that, Lieutenant,” she said frankly.

“Yes indeed,” murmured Pruden.

“I help them with the books,” she added proudly. “April to October they sold the ice cream, and last year Arturo, he made fifteen thousand dollars for the year and Luis—my Luis, he made eighteen thousand dollars.”

“That’s a good living on Fifth Street,” put in Pruden.

She nodded. “Yes, this is very good. Luis was happy, he felt good, and then Arturo died and—” She shook her head, her luminous eyes turning into wells of sadness. “Since then everything has been bad,” she said simply. “Now Luis says he too must die.”

“ ‘Must?’ ” quoted Pruden.

“That is how he said it. It is strange, isn’t it?”

“Surely something must have happened to make him say that. Did anything discourage him?”

“Nothing, I tell you.”

“No enemies?”

Her eyes blazed. “Luis? Luis had only
friends.
”

Pruden tried a new tack. “Was there anything unusual, then, no matter how small or unimportant, that happened about that time?”

She hesitated, and he thought her eyes flickered before she shook her head. “There was nothing.”

He nodded. “Then I won’t keep you from your customers any longer, Miss Ardizzone, but I may come back to ask you a few more questions.”

“Please—any time,” she told him. “Anything that will help Luis. I would give my life for Luis,” she said fiercely. “You believe he can be helped?”

“I know someone who thinks so.”

“Then I will light candles for them,” she said. “For
them as well as Luis. I will kiss their hands and their feet.”

“Yes,” said Pruden, blinking at her passion. He tried to picture Madame Karitska’s reaction to having her hands and feet kissed, and he left before a smile could reach his lips. He didn’t return to Fifth Street, however; he went back to headquarters to see Donnelly, who had a memory like a computer bank.

“Don, I want you to tell me about ice-cream trucks.”

“They sell ice cream,” Donnelly pointed out sourly.

Pruden ignored this. “I’m up against a dead man and one dying man who have no enemies but happen to own and drive ice-cream trucks. It’s the only lead I’ve got at the moment. Look, a few years ago there was some trouble, wasn’t there? Muscle stuff?”

Donnelly nodded. “You bet your sweet life there was. It was over in the Dell section two years ago. Parts stolen, one driver kidnapped, ten trucks blown up. A real war over the territory.”

“Who won?”

“
They
did, we think. Suddenly all the trouble stopped and nobody would talk.”

“And who’s ‘they?’ ”

Donnelly regarded him laconically. “ ‘They’ are not us, Lieutenant.”

Pruden nodded. “How do I find out all the routes in the city, and who has what territory?”

“You dig,” said Donnelly, giving him a faintly sympathetic smile, “and if you find yourself up against the same people who made trouble two years ago you be damned sure to carry your gun.”

This was not reassuring but on the other hand it seemed infinitely remote as a possibility. Pruden returned
to his office and began digging for facts, his work made easier by Maria Ardizzone’s mention of the name Materas. He found it in the yellow pages: Joseph and Alice Materas, Jack Frost Ice Cream distributors, warehouse at 100 First Street, offices at 105 First Street. He was about to call them when the telephone rang at his desk: it was Madame Karitska.

“I am glad to find you,” she told him. “Madame Souffrant is just beginning the voodoo ceremony and I have gained permission to watch, and for you also. This is very unusual. If you are to become Commissar of Police one day—”

He grinned. “If? I thought you were sure.”

“—then this would be very good for you to see,” she concluded. “We have taken Luis Mendez by taxi to 110 Third Street, to a building just behind Madame Souffrant’s apartment house at 108.”

Pruden considered the Materas, and he considered the voodoo ceremony, and he realized that knowing Madame Karitska was having its effect upon him: he really was curious. “I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he told her, and hung up.