Dagger of Flesh (7 page)

"One last thing, Mr. Borden. Would you briefly describe your demonstration that evening?"

He nodded. "Certainly. I gave the gathering—eight people—a short lecture on fundamentals. That is, some pretrance instruction. Then after a few demonstrations I attempted group hypnosis."

I interrupted, "In other words, you tried to hypnotize all of them at once?" He nodded, and I asked, "What if all eight of them went into trance?"

He smiled. "That would never happen with such a group, Mr. Scott. But I was able to induce deep trance in three of those present, utilizing Andrew Salter's 'feedback' technique in which the subject is asked to describe how he feels and those sensations are fed back to him, so to speak, at the next attempt. Incidentally, I consider that a most important step forward." He squinted at the floor. "Let's see, those three were Mr. and Mrs. Weather and another woman with an odd name. Lovely girl."

"Ayla Veichek?"

"Yes, that's it. At any rate I conditioned those three to instantaneous hypnosis, then awakened them all and demonstrated with only one at a time. That was so the other seven persons present might observe the trance phenomena."

"Just a minute, please, Mr. Borden. What do you mean by instantaneous hypnosis?"

"A common procedure. Once a subject is in deep trance he may be given the suggestion that later he will go instantly to sleep when a certain sign is made or a certain word or phrase is spoken. For example. Subject A is hypnotized. He is then told that he will later go into a deep, sound sleep when I snap my fingers and say, 'Go to sleep.' Then he is awakened, and when I snap my fingers and say 'Go to sleep,' he immediately does so."

I shook my head. "You mean you could go to Mr. or Mrs. Weather, or Ayla Veichek, right now and put them to sleep?"

"Not at all. I told you, Mr. Scott, that before I left the Weathers' I removed all suggestions. Remember, there were five people there who were never at any time hypnotized. Five besides me. Now I'd have to begin all over again, with their consent."

"Uh-huh." I ran over it in my mind, then I said, "Well, thanks for the dope, Mr. Borden. That's about what I wanted." I glanced at my watch. It was sixteen minutes after nine p.m. I looked at Borden again, thinking of the strange power he'd had, for a while, over those three people at the party. I still wondered about Jay's parrot.

I said, "The more I learn of hypnotism the more interesting it gets. Just tell people to go to sleep and, bang, off they go."

He laughed. "It's not as simple as that, Mr. Scott. There are several methods ..." He paused, frowning slightly. "Well, for example," he said, and left the sentence unfinished.

Then he walked to a corner of the room and pulled a table away from the wall. On it was a large portable record player and another gadget like nothing I'd seen before. It was a cardboard disk about six inches wide, with a black spot in the middle and alternate black and white strips curving from the center to the outer edge of the disk. The strips began almost as pinpoint lines at the center, then widened to about half an inch at the disk's edge.

Borden flipped a switch on the player and said, pointing to the black and white disk, "There are many methods of fixing attention in order to aid the induction of hypnosis—crystal balls, a spot on the wall, a bright object—but I've found this very effective." He flipped another switch and the disk began to revolve, the lines blending into each other, the spiral almost forcing my eyes to the black center.

"You'll note," Border said in a pleasant, conversational tone, "that there is a definite fascination about that disk as it revolves. I often use this to focus the attention of the subject and to aid in reducing sensory impressions. Then, add some soothing, pleasant music in the background, and the effect is intensified."

He turned a dial and pulsing music swelled from the record player. It was definitely relaxing.

"You can see how this helps," Borden said. "The eyes are centered on the disk and the music provides a soothing counterpoint to my voice. It relaxes you, relaxes you completely."

He was right about that. The spinning disk and the music combined had a definite hypnotic quality even without Borden's voice thrown in. And his voice seemed to add to the soothing, relaxing effect. He was still speaking, and suddenly it seemed to me that his voice changed slightly, became more resonant and took on a deeper, richer tone.

He said, "Your arms are very, very heavy; your legs are very, very heavy," and his voice was powerful and deep.

And I could feel it. I could feel a heaviness in my arms and legs that hadn't been there before. I could—What the hell was going on here? I shook my head rapidly from side to side, got my hands on the arms of the chair and pushed myself to my feet.

"Very damned interesting," I said.

He smiled. "Indeed it is, Mr. Scott. You can see there's much more to hypnosis than merely telling people to go to sleep."

He turned off the switches and the music stopped abruptly. The circle of cardboard slowed and stopped.

I wanted to get the hell out of here. "I'll see you again," I said, and went to the door.

"By all means. I'm quite interested in this parrot you mentioned." He walked to the door with me and as I left he said, "Incidentally, Mr. Scott, I think you'd make an excellent hypnotic subject, yourself. Well, let me know what happens, if you will."

"Sure," I said, and the door closed behind me.

I walked out to the street and climbed into the Buick. On an impulse I looked at my watch. Only twenty-one past nine, and it had been sixteen past when I'd glanced at it before. I laughed at myself, thinking that I was working myself into a fine state of jittery nerves, but still feeling a little relieved that I could account for all the time I'd spent in Borden's apartment.

It was still early. I decided to make one more call, then head for home. I looked at the list Ann had written for me. I hadn't talked to Ann's Arthur, or Jay's lawyer Robert Hannibal, or Miss Stewart. Nor had I seen Peter Sault or Ayla Veichek, who sounded more interesting. Particularly Ayla. Ann Weather had left me in a damned shaky state, and no matter what Ayla looked like, she was a woman.

Then I noticed something about the addresses that made both Peter and Ayla even more interesting. Peter Sault lived at 1458 Marathon Street, Apartment Seven. Ayla Veichek lived at 1458 Marathon Street, Apartment Eight.

I headed for Marathon Street.

There was light inside, slipping under the door of Apartment Seven as I knocked. In a moment I heard footsteps and a tall, thin man in his late twenties with a smudge of paint on his chin and a long paint brush in his hand opened the door.

"Hi," he said cheerfully. "Come on in. Watch your step."

I went inside, watching my step, and avoided tramping on one knee-length boot by stepping on a book next to it. I managed the hazards and stopped in the middle of the room. The place wasn't very tidy, but if he didn't mind, neither did I.

"I'm Peter Sault," he said. "Who're you?"

"Shell Scott, Mr. Sault." I let him look at my license. "I'm a private detective."

He grinned, showing even white teeth. "No kidding? What's up?"

"Just checking on a party you and Ayla Veichek went to last Saturday at Jay Weather's place."

"Oh, yeah." He grinned. "A real ball, that one." Then he sobered and frowned. "Why you checking on that? Something happen?"

"Uh-uh. Nothing very important, anyway. I just wanted to talk to some of the people who were there so I can find out what went on."

A door behind him opened and a tall, black-haired woman stepped into the room. She looked mean. Her hair was pulled tightly away from her forehead and tied in back, flowing down over her shoulders. She had a thin black robe around her and she was as Ann had described her—voluptuous-looking and somewhat delicious. Ann had been right about something else too—I would call her sexy. She had long, long, red fingernails, her mouth was the color of blood, and black eyebrows slanted up from the bridge of her nose like wings, and that wasn't all that slanted up.

She said, "Hello. Party?"

Peter said, "No party, Ayla. Not yet, anyway. This is Shell Scott, a private detective. Wants some dope on the voodoo ball."

She glanced at me, didn't say anything, then walked to an upholstered chair in the corner of the room and plopped down into it, throwing her legs up over one chair arm. She was awfully careless with those long, shapely legs. There didn't appear to be anything under the robe except Ayla.

I told them why I was here and we spent ten minutes batting the party around, with nothing developing that I didn't already know. And they both looked blank when I talked about parrots. They backed up everything Joseph Borden had told me. I was ready to leave when I remembered Ann's telling me about Peter's oils. I casually mentioned "dabbling."

Peter's face brightened. "That right? Well, come on in back—I'm just finishing up a job. Might interest you."

I went back into the studio with him, both of us preceded by Ayla, who preceded beautifully. I was getting pretty sure that she wore nothing at all under the robe. It hugged her waist, clung to the curve of her hips, the firm flesh moving easily under the thin cloth as she walked.

There was a big canvas on an easel in the middle of the room. Beyond it was a low, cloth-draped divan. Ayla walked to the divan and leaned back against it, holding her robe loosely closed. Well, nearly closed. I pulled my eyes away and looked at the canvas.

It was nothing. Nothing to me, anyway. It was colorful as hell and there were curves and mounds and blotches on the canvas, but it fooled me.

Peter looked at me anxiously and said, "Like it?"

I chewed my lip. This was obviously "modern" art. Symphony to a Humbug, maybe. Or Dawn Over a Critic. But I didn't know quite what I was supposed to say without lying.

I said, "Hmmm. Well, indeed."

"Of course there's still a bit to be done before one can really get the message. It's my latest—Diana After the Hunt, I call it. I honestly don't believe I could have got the same effect with any other model. Only Ayla could have provided the essential inspiration, drama, fire ..."

"Ayla?" I looked at the variegated canvas. "This is Ayla?"

Peter Sault frowned at me. I was a clod.

"Of course," he said brusquely. "It's quite obvious. You see—" he jabbed at the canvas with his brush—"the motif—" He broke off again and turned to the mean-looking gal. "Ayla."

She nodded and shrugged her shoulders, letting go of the robe. It parted in front of her. I had been right; she was wearing nothing else. With apparently complete unconcern she placed her hands at the top of the robe and pulled it back off her shoulders. It could actually have taken only a second or two, but to me the act of disrobing seemed to take a long time, as if every movement was performed with exaggerated, provocative slowness.

The cloth slithered over her shoulders and down her back, baring the bold, high breasts. Ayla seemed almost unaware of her now nearly complete nudity, but her large dark eyes were fixed on me. She held the robe momentarily gathered at her waist, covering only the outer curve of her hips and the outside edge of each thigh; and standing like that with her black brows slanting upward, the full breasts thrusting forward, her legs parted slightly and her skin a startling white contrasting with the black cloth, she looked almost obscenely naked. She made me think for that moment of a hot, lusty woman who would enjoy herself in hell.

The robe dropped to the floor. Ayla turned, stepped to the divan and leaned back over it with her arms stretched above her head. She raised her right leg and pressed it against the cloth beneath her, then lay motionless.

Peter was talking, but I barely heard him. He said something about "... chiaroscuro ... symbolic elements ... tonal exigency" and many other incomprehensible things, but I was looking at Ayla. As far as I was concerned, she was the only work of art in the room, and she had all the necessary elements, symbolic and otherwise.

Peter didn't remove his attention from the canvas for a moment, but kept on jabbering. With my eyes on Ayla, I made comments of almost wild approval at appropriate intervals, and Ayla turned her head and looked at me, smiling wickedly.

Peter started to turn toward me and I looked at him for a change. He grinned happily. "Thanks," he said. "You can see how it'll be when it's finished."

"Yes, indeed," I said. "I sure can."

Peter turned back to his canvas and started working on it. As far as I could tell, there was no more he could do to it, but he kept dabbing here and there. I stood quite still. There were really no more questions I cared to ask Peter, but I'd thought of one or two I wanted to ask Ayla.

Suddenly Peter cried, "Where in hell is that chrome yellow?"

It startled me. "What?"

"The chrome yellow. That will do it!" He was fumbling through a large box of crumpled paint tubes. "Ayla, where in hell is that chrome yellow?"

She shrugged. Then she propped herself up on one elbow. Her long hair fell down in waves over one white shoulder.

"Damn," Peter said, and he charged out of the room. From out front somewhere came the sound of a door being slammed.

Ayla looked at me.

After a few seconds I said, "Where'd he go?"

"Probably out to the garage. He has paints and things out there."

"Oh. Just to the garage."

She smiled. If that wasn't a wicked smile it would do until the devil himself came along. But it was a beautiful wicked smile.

"Mr. Scott," she said.

"Yes?"

"Come over here."

Her voice was a throbbing contralto. It was deep and soft, like darkness, like blackness; it was like the blackness of her hair and brows and eyes. I walked to the divan.

"Sit down," she said.

I sat near her and she said, "Look at me."

The words surprised me. I'd expected her to say something else. "What?" I said. Unconsciously I had been holding my breath.

"Look at me, Mr. Scott. Just look at me. Do you mind?" She spoke very slowly, almost lazily.