The Clairvoyant Countess (7 page)

Very sweetly she said, “Oh, thank you!” and firmly held his elbow to arrest the movement of necklaces to pocket. “Thank you so much,” she said, forcing his arm into the air, where the necklaces dangled conspicuously. “I can see them so much better now.”

She was aware of the young man’s blind and frustrated fury, his catch of breath, and she was aware too of the floor detective’s presence beside them. She continued to speak, saying thoughtfully, “Which do you think, Miroslav? The sapphires are lovely but a little too—shall we say, too baroque in that setting? The semiprecious stones are—” She paused and said to the store detective, “I beg your pardon, am I in your way?”

“He was stealing those,” the man said accusingly.

The boy whirled, his anger turning to fear as he saw the man. A dark flush colored his cheeks. When he had finished looking at the store detective he turned back to Madame Karitska, his eyes baffled.

“I’ll have to ask you both to come to my office,” said the man.

Madame Karitska stood her ground. With equal coldness she said, “With or without the necklaces? If you think that Miroslav was planning to steal them, will you not count them, please? Here,” she said contemptuously, drawing the necklaces from the young man’s grasp. “Here, I insist that you count them. I shall not move. No, I will not, until you have made certain they are all
here.
”

The detective gestured to the salesgirl. “The clerk will count them,” he said stiffly, and handed them over to her. “My office, please.”

“Look,” said the young man awkwardly.

“Sssh,” said Madame Karitska coldly, and preceded him to the office, where the detective asked for their names and addresses.

“John Painter,” said the young man in a dispirited voice.

The store detective glanced up at Madame Karitska sharply. “You implied that you were shopping with him and yet you definitely called him by another name. And it wasn’t John.”

“No,” said Madame Karitska calmly, “I called him Miroslav. I know his parents, and when they emigrated they Americanized their names, but actually he is Miroslav Khudoznik. Khudoznik is the Russian word for painter.”

The young man stared at her in astonishment and
then had the good sense to wipe all expression from his face except for the faint trace of a grin that proved more difficult to erase.

“And your name?”

Madame Karitska gave it to him squarely. “The Countess Marina Elena Provovnitchek Gaylord Von Domm Karitska.”

His eyes narrowed. “May I see some identification?”

Madame Karitska handed him her library card, her social security card, and her card of membership in the Balalaika Society.

“This address,” he said, pointing to it. It was obvious that it subtracted a great deal from any impression a countess could make.

“Does my address or my integrity matter the more to you?” she asked coolly. “Ah, you want perhaps a voucher? Detective-Lieutenant Pruden of the Forty-first Precinct might be so kind as to speak for me.”

For just a moment the detective’s face looked human. He said dryly, picking up the telephone, “I only hope to God you didn’t meet him professionally.”

“But I did,” Madame Karitska assured him blandly.

Half an hour later Madame Karitska and John Painter were allowed to leave the store, the young man having volunteered to have his pockets searched, and Lieutenant Pruden apparently having verified Madame Karitska’s respectability. The store detective remained baffled but impotent.

“I think we do not speak, please, until we get outside,” Madame Karitska told the young man firmly.

“What the hell, I
was
stealing those necklaces,” he insisted upon blurting out.

“I know that,” she said calmly. “It was as obvious to me as it was to him.”

“Then why are you bailing me out?”

“Bailing?” asked Madame Karitska, frowning. “Helping me.”

“I liked your emanations,” she explained to him.

He abruptly stopped, looking thoroughly alarmed. “My
what?
” he demanded in a shocked voice.

“Don’t be narrow-minded,” she told him scornfully. “I meant psychic emanations. Vibrations,” she added impatiently. “Did you think I was purchasing your soul? Come and have a cup of coffee in this shop and tell me why you must steal six necklaces worth twenty-five dollars each when you have never stolen before in your life.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” he asked belligerently.

“I feel very impatient with you,” she told him. “I have not bought the silks I came to buy, I have had to make up stories about you, and now you ask me how I know you have never stolen before. Have you?”

“No.”

“Then why do you ask? That table over there looks pleasant.”

They seated themselves in the coffee shop and Madame Karitska ordered coffee and buns for two. “Now—speak.”

“I could just walk out and leave.”

She looked at him. “Very true, and very childish. Why don’t you?”

His eyes glinted appreciatively. “So I won’t. Okay, I wanted to get my guitar out of hock.”

“Hock,” she repeated. “What is this word?”

“Pawnshop. My guitar’s in the pawnshop.”

Madame Karitska brightened; this she knew about. “Go on.”

He shrugged. “I write songs. I had to pawn my guitar so I could stay home a few weeks and finish writing this new one. I wanted to finish it,” he added defiantly.

“And did you?”

“Yeah, but now the rent’s overdue, and I got a chance to play with a group tomorrow and pick up some bread—”

“Bread?”

“Cash. And I got no guitar and I’m flat.”

“Please speak English.”

He looked at her and grinned. “You think
you
speak it? Okay—sorry—I’m broke. No food money. No rent money. And now this chance to make a few bucks—dollars, I mean—and I’m trapped. So I thought—hell, all that jewelry. People with money to buy necklaces—well, I mean, what do they know or care about somebody like me?” He shrugged. “So okay, I turned criminal.”

“Yes you did,” she said calmly, “and one minute more and you would have lost your guitar, your freedom, and your job tomorrow night playing. My dear Mr.—”

“Khudoznik, wasn’t it?” he said with his quick smile.

“Painter will do. I have known a few thieves in my day, and very clever ones, but you do not have either the nerve or the imagination for it. Look at you,” she pointed out. “In a store like Banmaker’s you must
have been under scrutiny from the moment you entered.”

He said dryly, “Buy me a suit and I’ll go back and try again.”

“Would you?” asked Madame Karitska coldly.

His face closed stubbornly.

Madame Karitska studied him a moment and then stood up. “Stay here,” she said flatly. “I wish to call someone who might be interested in your situation.”

She was gone for nearly ten minutes but when she returned the young man was still there. “You are to come to this address at seven o’clock this evening,” she said, handing him a slip of paper. “If you come and met this gentleman—who is a man who may help you—you will perhaps have an opportunity to get your guitar back. I can promise nothing; it’s up to you.” She removed a bill from her wallet. “Get a shave and something to eat and wash your face.”

He looked at her. “That goes with the deal?”

“Yes,” she told him. “Do you think you can manage this?”

He thought about it and then grinned. “Well—not
comfortably.
”

She nodded. “Then good-by until seven.”

“Oh by the way,” he said.

She turned.

He appeared to be struggling with something trapped in his throat; it turned out to be a word. “Thanks,” he said.

Mr. Faber-Jones arrived five minutes before the hour, breathless and a little indignant. “This is insane,” he said. “I don’t know why I agreed to come. You’ve
shortened my cocktail hour, delayed my dinner, and why do you live on such an appalling street? Who
is
this young man, anyway?”

Madame Karitska beamed at him. “I am indeed happy to see you again. You are still clairvoyant?”

He looked pained. “Please.”

“Then you are still hoping it will go away?”

“Yes—and doing my best to drink away its departure. Now who
is
this chap?”

Madame Karitska lifted her voice. “Mr. Painter?” she called, and explained, “He arrived ten minutes ago. I sent him to the bathroom to wash his face. A clean shirt he managed—a tie, even—but not the clean face.”

“Good Lord,” said Faber-Jones weakly, and sat down.

The bathroom door swung open and Painter walked into the living room in his same ancient jeans but wearing a blazing pink shirt and purple tie. Madame Karitska looked with interest at Faber-Jones and was not disappointed: a look of absolute horror crossed his face. “Good God,” he gasped.

“Mr. Faber-Jones—Mr. Painter,” said Madame Karitska, amused and alert. To Faber-Jones she added, “I want you to look at him clairvoyantly, I want to see what you come up with.”

“Must I?”

“I think so, yes.”

“But he’s wearing sneakers,” groaned Faber-Jones.

“So he is, but I doubt that his psyche is wearing them,” she said firmly. “Will you or won’t you?”

“Will he what?” demanded Painter angrily.

“Look inside of you with a sixth sense.”

“God,” said Painter, looking from one to the other, “you’re both kooks.”

“I happen to be thinking the same of you,” Faber-Jones told him indignantly. “All right, all right,” he agreed testily. “Everybody be quiet and let me concentrate.” He closed his eyes for a long moment and then opened them and narrowed them at Painter. He said in a startled voice, “Well, well!”

“Yes,” said Madame Karitska. “His very soul has music. He is born to create it.”

“
I
saw a gold phonograph record,” admitted Faber-Jones.

“Oh?” said Madame Karitska. “But the situation is this: he has completed a song and his guitar is in hock—in the pawnshop, that is. He needs bread.”

Faber-Jones drew out his wallet.

“I was thinking rather of your forming a record company,” said Madame Karitska blandly.

“A what?” gasped Faber-Jones.

She shrugged. “Why not? This would be very good for both of you. Your own business is not going so well, and could be in serious trouble shortly, yet at the moment you have enough money to invest—”

Faber-Jones swallowed hard. “How do
you
know my business has been meeting with reverses?”

“How indeed?” said Madame Karitska, amused. “Come now, Mr. Faber-Jones, you have been a stockbroker who invests in new things, is this not right? And here is a talented young man who has written a fine song? Have you a copy?” she asked Painter.

He said uneasily, “It doesn’t sound like anything much without my guitar.”

“There, you see?” said Faber-Jones.

“Sing it then,” said Madame Karitska.

He shook his head. “I can’t sing without my guitar.”

“Then let us read it,” suggested Madame Karitska, and took the sheet of paper from him. “I’ll read it aloud but of course it won’t be the same.”

She read:

There was silence and then Faber-Jones cried agonizingly, “It doesn’t even rhyme!”

Madame Karitska was looking at young Painter with interest.

“And yet,” Faber-Jones added in a puzzled voice, “it does have something. The thing is, what?”

“It’s subliminal, no doubt,” said Madame Karitska. “The subconscious is aware of many more things than we allow ourselves to know. You are intrigued enough to take the chance?”

Faber-Jones sighed. “I suppose so.” He hesitated. “I don’t doubt what I saw, it’s just my getting connected with—I mean, he wears
sneakers.
”

“Be patient,” said Madame Karitska sympathetically. “And
now
I believe you may get out your wallet, my friend, so that Mr. Painter can rescue his guitar. You were born under the sign of Pisces, were you not? Perhaps you can call your new company Pisces Recordings.”

“Hey, not bad,” said Painter.

Faber-Jones, counting out bills, only winced. “There,” he said, giving them to John Painter. “Get your guitar and we’ll see what should happen next.” He glanced at Madame Karitska reproachfully and added, “You’ll understand if I leave now, I hope? I’m expected at home for dinner and I’ll be late even if I catch a taxi at your door.” He hesitated and then, turning to Painter, said, “I can drop you off somewhere if you’d like. I’ll give you my business address too, and we can work out an appointment tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Painter, looking dazzled, and then with a grin at Madame Karitska he added, “sir,” and gave her a humorous little salute as he turned to follow Faber-Jones.