Better Dead (34 page)

I smiled. “Well, that's what I'm here to find out. If you're willing. I'm operating as an outside, impartial party, since everyone else involved in evaluating Dr. Olson so far has been a friend or a coworker or both.”

“I'm afraid I fall into that latter category, Mr. Heller.” Now he seemed more at ease—he'd bought into my little trick. “Grab a chair, why don't you? I'll just sit here at Dorothy's desk.”

But before he settled in, he went over, opened the door onto the hall and looked down right, and left, then locked it with a key. I pulled a straight-back chair over from under the Houdini poster and sat opposite him, where he was leaning back, lighting up a Philip Morris. The smell of cigarette smoke was strong in the office, unless that was the residue of some trick he was working up in the room behind him.

“You have a very impressive collection,” I said, indicating the posters and crammed bookcases.

“Thanks, but those are just the tip of the iceberg.” The resonant baritone of a veteran stage performer came through even in conversation. “I estimate I have thirty-thousand–some volumes on magic, and the largest collection of priceless magician posters in the world. Not to mention the props I've gathered from the biggest names in the profession. I started out as a lad, you know, with Houdini.”

“That's very impressive,” I said, meaning it. The “lad” was currently in his mid-fifties at least. “I hope you'll be able to get back to performing soon.”

He exhaled smoke. “I will, when I've completed this current project. You're aware of that project, I assume?”

“Yes,” I said. “Not in any detail, of course.”

And now I had to run a bluff—based on who this man was and what the CIA might want with him. If I was wrong, I'd be out on my ass. If he called his handler, I might star in my own vanishing act.

“Just that it's obvious,” I said, with a shrug, “that someone with your close-up magic skills would be ideal to help train agents to spike drinks and food and so on, without detection.”

He nodded as casually as if I'd just complimented his handling of Chinese linking rings. “I admit it's proving a more difficult task than I anticipated, getting this all down into a sort of ‘how to' book, making sure my techniques can be learned by an average person without exceptional manual dexterity.”

I half-smiled. “Not just anybody has hands that are quicker than the eye.”

“Yes, and there's so much more to it than that.” He exhaled more smoke as if summoning a curtain to hide behind. “There's the psychological background of deception—setting the stage you might say, understanding who your ‘audience' is. Distracting the subject's attention. And naturally we're dealing with small objects—paper matches, coins, stamps, a woman's compact—all used to deliver powders and liquids.”

Nodding matter-of-factly, I said, “And those powders and liquids are drugs or chemical or biological agents?”

“Correct.” He gestured with a fluid hand. “All this requires tiny pills, squirting gadgets, and concealed needles … and of course, the day before yesterday, when Frank Olson was here, I went over all of that with him.”

Doing my best to stay a step ahead, I said, “Well, of course, because so many of the things Dr. Olson and his staff are developing require the kind of … delivery system … that you can contrive for him.”

The smoke came out his nose this time, dragon-style. “Exactly. But I wasn't prepared for the shape Frank was in … and I have to say I object to not having been
alerted
to his condition, because I would have treated the situation with rather more care.”

“What situation? What condition?”

His eyes tightened. “Well … you notice I refer to Dr. Olson as ‘Frank.' That's because we've become friends over these last four or five months. We've met a number of times, both here in this office and at Camp Detrick. Of course, in those earlier meetings Frank took the lead.”

I made a leap: “Because he was coming to you with the chemical and biological agents that required your expertise in delivery.”

He sighed smoke, shook his head gently. “Yes, and perhaps it was all abstract to Frank, when we were talking biology and chemistry. But when I showed him various devices I'd come up with, things as simple as a pencil, it must have suddenly seemed terribly concrete to him.”

“A pencil?”

He nodded, picking up a pencil from the desk and gesturing with it, as if it were an under-size wand. “You just remove the rubber eraser, hollow out the shaft a little, shave down the eraser, reinsert it, and
voilà,
you have a hiding place for loose solids.”

“Loose solids?”

Another nod. “Chemicals in granular form, like salt … although we're obviously not talking about salt here. To disseminate the substance, you simply remove the eraser as if you're uncorking a vial.”

“To slip it in a drink, for example.”

“Yes, or food.” He tossed the pencil back onto the desk. “For disseminating liquids, there's polyethylene tubing that can go up a sleeve, and, well … so many devices, so many methods. Simple but effective.”

I leaned forward. “So when Dr. Lashbrook and Colonel Ruwet brought Frank around, you showed him what you've worked up for him lately.”

“Correct. You see, right from the start, Frank and I really hit it off—he's a dyed-in-the-wool practical joker, you know, and usually when we get together, I give him some nice gags that he can play on his coworkers. Such a great smile, such a great laugh, that man. But this time … very different.”

“How so?”

He gestured with the cigarette in hand and drew a smoky figure eight. “Well, when I told Frank I wanted to show him some of the new delivery systems, I asked Lashbrook and Ruwet to wait out here in the outer office. Frank and I went into my private area, which is as much a workshop as an office, and I showed him the gimmicks I'd devised.”

“And Frank didn't react with his usual enthusiasm?”

The magician's eyebrows rose above his glasses, then descended. “Probably poor judgment on my part. There's a hell of a difference between some practical jokes to pull on your pals at work, and administering a dangerous drug to some unsuspecting party.”

“How exactly did Frank react to these new toys?”

His eyes flared. “He got agitated. Worked up. He said to me, whispering, ‘What's behind this? Give me the lowdown.' I didn't understand what he meant and said so. He grabbed my sleeve. ‘Are they checking me for security? Do they want you to see if I'm a security risk?'”

“And what did you say?”

He held his left hand up in “stop” fashion. “That I knew nothing about it. That I was just a contract employee doing specific tasks, like writing my manual for them, and contriving the devices I was showing him. He grabbed my arm harder and said, ‘They're all in a plot to get me. Are you part of it, too?' I said I knew nothing of any such plot! He seemed on the verge of tears. He asked, ‘Why don't they just let me disappear?' I said nobody could disappear. When people disappear on stage, I reminded him, it's just an illusion. A trick. And he said I was wrong. That the people he works for could make
anybody
vanish.”

He put out his cigarette. Fingered a new one out of the Philip Morris deck, thumbnailed a kitchen match to flame, and lit up.

I asked, “Did Frank stay agitated?”

“No. I was able to calm him down, rather quickly, and I took him back out here where the other two were waiting. Frank was sitting where you are, with the other two in chairs just behind him on either side. Lashbrook noted that Frank seemed awfully tense, and suggested I hypnotize him, to relax him.”

“I don't remember you using hypnosis in your act.”

He shook his head emphatically. “I don't. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Still, while I'm no expert, I'm generally able to hypnotize most subjects. But Frank said adamantly ‘No,' refusing to let me try, and rushed out. Ruwet followed on his heels.”

“Not Lashbrook?”

“He followed shortly, but first he paused to give me a check he'd brought for me—for travel expenses to a hypnosis seminar next month, ironically enough. In Chicago.”

Ironically enough.

I said, just a throwaway, “I'm surprised Dr. Gottlieb didn't attend this meeting.”

He shrugged, released another cloud of smoke. “Well, of course, that wasn't necessary, since Lashbrook is Sidney's deputy. His eyes and ears, you know. Anyway, I don't believe Sidney was in the city on Wednesday.”

“Sidney, huh? Sounds like you and Dr. Gottlieb are friends, too.”

His eyes lighted up. “Well,
friendly
certainly. I find him a
fascinating
character—the way he's overcome his stutter, largely, and of course his enormous intellect. He's a kind of spymaster, isn't he? And yet such a kind, humane individual.”

Offhandedly, I said, “I've never met him. As I say, I've been brought in from the outside for a fresh read on Dr. Olson's status. But I admit I haven't heard anybody accuse Sidney Gottlieb of being ‘humane.'”

Mulholland's smile was almost dreamy behind the wall of smoke. “Well, he's a Buddhist, for one thing. Lives with his wife in a log cabin on a fifteen-acre farm outside D.C., where they raise goats and grow Christmas trees—they sell them right there, on a roadside stand … busy time of year for him and his wife. They drink only goat's milk and make their own cheese.”

Wait a minute—was he trying to hypnotize
me
?

I asked, fairly numbly, “Are we talking about the same Dr. Sidney Gottlieb?”

“Oh, yes. He's a scientist and a humanist, but he's also a patriot who is willing to do the tough things for his country.”

Like spike the drinks of colleagues with LSD-25. “I'd like to talk to him about Frank Olson. You wouldn't happen to know where exactly that log cabin of his is?”

The horsey face lit up, smoke drifting out of his smile. “I do, but as it happens, he
is
in town right now. I spoke to him earlier today. I didn't ask him where he was staying, but I can almost guarantee you that you can find him this evening at the Village Barn.”

I frowned. “In Greenwich Village? That cornball country joint?”

Mulholland nodded. “Yes. Sidney is a great enthusiast of square dancing, and any weekend night he's in town, he can be found there.”

“For the square dancing?”

“That's right. That's the kind of man he is. Born with a club foot, but he dances the night away.”

*   *   *

Convincing Bettie Page to go out dancing was not a difficult chore. What had to be negotiated was what kind.

“The country swing,” I said, “I'm fine with. We can go out and cut a helluva rug. But for me, square dancing is strictly a spectator sport.”

We were in my room at the Waldorf. She was getting dressed to go out, and the stage she was at—black bra, sheer black panties, garter belt with sheer black nylons—made negotiations touch and go.

“Oh, sugah, it's fun as a hayride,” she said, all that black hair fluffy around her pink shoulders. “Ah can give you all the basics and you'll be just fine. Why, ah been square dancin' since ah was—”

“Please don't say ‘knee-high to a grasshopper,'” I said. “I don't think I could stand it.”

“Ah was gonna say ‘frog,' if that helps.”

She shimmied herself into a sheathlike pale yellow dress. I'm sure I've seen more remarkable sights, but I can't think of one.

I unpopped my eyes and asked, “You really think you can square dance in that?”

“No. We're gonna stop by mah apartment and ah'll put on somethin' more appropriate to the occasion. Are you gonna wear that suit, honey? Ah mean, it's nice but maybe a sports jacket—”

“Have to,” I said. “It's the only one I have along that's cut to conceal this.” I opened the suit coat to show her the nine-millimeter in the shoulder harness.

She came over and put her hand somewhere interesting. “Never show a Southern gal your gun, honey, unless you mean it.”

“Stop it,” I said, grinning. “I have serious business to do tonight, and you can help out by being my date. If I go single, I'll have women all over me.”

“That's some big ego you got there, honey,” she said, grinning back, working her hand.

“No, it's that the Barn is famous as a pickup joint. Stop that.”

She stepped back and raised the yellow dress over the black nylons and I was done for.

We had just finished—she was still leaning over the foot of the bed with that glorious bottom in the air—when the phone rang. I checked my watch—ten-fifteen. Sitting on the edge of the bed with my pants still around my ankles, I answered it on the fifth ring.

“Mr. Heller,” Alice Olson said, “Nate. I have good news.”

I'd spoken to her earlier this evening, giving her a somewhat laundered report on my visits with Abramson and Mulholland, including that I'd delivered a kind of ultimatum—that if she didn't hear from Frank before midnight, I would go to the authorities.

Well, she'd heard from him, just fifteen minutes ago.

“Frank sounded good,” she said, upbeat for the first time. “He said he felt much better. He said everything is going to be fine.”

“That's wonderful to hear, Alice. Did he say when you'd see him next?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “He wasn't sure exactly when, but … tomorrow.”

“Anything else?”

She laughed a little. Actually laughed. “Just that he had to wash his socks out in the sink.”

“That sounds pretty normal to me. What hotel is he at, did he say?”

“Yes. He's back at the Statler. He's in Room 1018a.”

I jotted that down. “Should I go over there now…?”