The Clairvoyant Countess (23 page)

“Wig?” said Madame Karitska quickly.

“It was about a week ago,” explained Deirdre. “I had a Saturday-morning appointment with Miss Heyer, nine o’clock, and the door to her office was open so I walked in and Miss Heyer was standing with her back to me looking out the window. On Saturdays, you see, she often came in wearing blue jeans—it was on weekdays she always wore suits and stuff—so I really thought it was Miss Heyer. Then she turned around and it was Carol, wearing a blond wig. She looked so much like Miss Heyer I couldn’t believe my eyes.”

“Wig,” repeated Pruden, and for the first time felt that kindling of excitement that came to him when a piece of unexpected information gave a new dimension to a case. “Go on.”

“Carol laughed and said she was playing a joke on Miss Heyer. She pulled off the wig and put it in a little box and told me not to tell or I’d spoil things. Then she went out.”

“What did you think of Carol?” asked Madame Karitska softly.

Deirdre considered this a moment before saying earnestly, “Nice, but really heavy dependency needs. We played ping-pong a lot but if any man came along
she’d switch right away and put on a big act. Very juvenile,” Deirdre explained scornfully. “You’d never guess she was twenty, she was more like sixteen or seventeen inside, and Tommy wasn’t good enough for her at
all,
but she wanted somebody and it didn’t matter much who.”

“Thanks, Deirdre,” Pruden said. “Thanks very much.” When she had gone he looked at Madame Karitska and nodded. “I think I’ve got enough to order an exhumation now. I think it’s time we find out once and for all who’s buried in Jan Heyer’s grave.”

In the morning the Saturday edition of the Trafton
Times
carried the photographs of Jan Heyer and Carol Grahn with the caption:
HAS ANYONE SEEN THESE WOMEN SINCE TUESDAY
? As usual the newspaper had no sooner reached the stands than the telephone calls began, all of them needing to be sifted, tirelessly examined for the single piece of information that might yield a clue or a motive to this possible confusion of identities, and then at eleven o’clock Detective-Sergeant Michelangelo walked into Pruden’s office and handed him a motive on a silver platter.

He said, “I don’t know if you remember me, Lieutenant, I worked out of the Dell precinct and I recently handled all your inquiries about John Tortorelli?”

“Of course,” said Pruden, shaking his hand. “What can I do for you, Sergeant?”

Michelangelo began talking, and before he had even finished his story Pruden interrupted him to call Madame Karitska, ordered a patrol car sent for her, and asked the Chief and Swope to come to his office. They were waiting for him when Michelangelo left, and
Pruden, ushering the three into his office, understood that his moment of truth had arrived. Swope had met Madame Karitska at the hospital, had in fact held several conversations with her on the subject of psychic phenomena, but the Chief knew nothing about her. The Chief was also a man who demanded proofs of every fact presented to him and barely tolerated intuition; the introduction of a psychic into the case could prove stormy.

He said bluntly, “Madame Karitska is a clairvoyant who’s helped me on a number of cases. I called her in because she was the first—in fact the
only
—person to believe that Jan Heyer may still be alive.”

The Chief blinked. He gave Madame Karitska a startled glance but made no comment, only saying impatiently, “We won’t know until after the exhumation whether Miss Heyer’s alive. I take it you’ve discovered something new since last night?”

“A motive,” said Pruden, holding up a photograph. “A reason why Carol Grahn could have masqueraded as Jan Heyer. Sergeant Michelangelo brought this to my office a few minutes ago. You know we’ve had a communication lag because of the teletype strike, but this is a blown-up photo of the young woman who robbed the Trafton National Bank on Tuesday morning. At 9
A.M.
,” he emphasized, and placed the photograph on the desk in front of them.

Madame Karitska examined it first before handing it to the Chief. “A surprisingly clear photograph,” she said.

Pruden nodded. “Obviously an amateur or she would have known where the bank’s surveillance camera was concealed.”

The Chief said, “It looks a hell of a lot like the Grahn girl. Damn it, it
is
the Grahn girl.”

“I think so too,” said Pruden. “What’s more, Tommy Brudenhall’s police record came in after I talked to you last night. He was convicted of armed robbery of a bank. If you put the two facts together—”

Swope whistled. “It makes a picture, Lieutenant.”

“Okay, how do you figure it?” the Chief demanded.

Pruden said quietly, “I’ve begun to think Madame Karitska’s right, and that Carol Grahn was driving the Heyer car when it crashed on Tuesday. Everyone at the settlement house knew about Miss Heyer’s upcoming trip abroad. It was her first, and she was excited. Maybe Carol commented to Tommy that some people had all the luck, and it gave Tommy the idea, or perhaps they’d been planning a bank job to get their hands on some money and here was the perfect getaway scheme: Carol, with the same height and build as Jan Heyer, same shape of face, same high cheekbones. The difference in hair could be easily solved by a blond wig and she’d look enough like Jan Heyer to get through passport controls. They’d split the money before she left—they netted sixty thousand dollars in the robbery—and Tommy would join her in another country later.

“Jan Heyer’s plane was due to leave at 12:30
P.M.
,” he continued. “I think they planned the robbery for 9
A.M.
, with Tommy outside in a car, and I’d guess that by then they’d already hijacked Jan Heyer’s car and luggage, and probably Jan Heyer as well. After the bank holdup Carol changed into Miss Heyer’s clothes and set out for the airport in her car, with her luggage, passport, wallet, and other identification.”

“And was killed,” concluded Swope.

They were silent and then the Chief said, “In that case where is Jan Heyer?”

Pruden said grimly, “My guess is that she was stashed away somewhere on Monday night by Tommy and Carol, and now only Tommy Brudenhall knows where she is, and if he buys newspapers he may be in California by this time.”

“Good Lord,” said the Chief. “And no way to find her?”

“I think,” Madame Karitska said calmly, “that I may be of some help to you here.”

Until now the Chief had successfully avoided acknowledging her presence; grudgingly he turned to look at her, saying coldly, “Oh?”

“I dreamed of Jan Heyer again last night,” she said, addressing herself to Pruden exclusively. “She was in a small room, this time with no windows, the walls of rough board, and in the room there was a broken-down bed to which she was handcuffed. There were burlap sacks in one corner, and on the wall a yellowed picture of your President Roosevelt. She was quite alone.

“I want to say at once,” she added firmly, “that this was no ordinary dream. Jan Heyer’s grandparents mentioned to me that Jan possessed ‘second sight,’ which is an old-fashioned expression meaning that a person has psychic capabilities or,” she said with a thoughtful glance at the Chief, “some degree of clairvoyance. I believe that in both my dreams—last night’s in particular—I was in telepathic communication with Miss Heyer.”

The Chief began to look distinctly uneasy. Pruden, with a glance at him, grinned and said, “Try to keep in
mind, Chief, that it’s Madame Karitska who’s insisted all along that Jan Heyer wasn’t killed.”

“I’ll try but it’s not easy,” growled the Chief.

Swope, less traumatized by this jump into the unknown, said, “But Trafton’s a large city; that room you described could be anywhere.”

“It might be possible,” suggested Madame Karitska, “to establish more closely the area in which she’s been hidden. I feel that Jan Heyer must have some experience in telepathic sending, or that this very charged emotional situation—her desperation, perhaps—has brought it to her. It is a situation very unusual, this, but it has great potential. Obviously she is a sender. Whether she can also receive telepathically, I do not know.”

“You make it sound like two-way radio,” said the Chief accusingly.

She smiled. “I only wish it were so easy! If you would like me to attempt some communication as an experiment, I would suggest calling in Mr. Faber-Jones and Gavin O’Connell to help.”

“What else would you need?” asked Swope curiously.

“A room in which we could sit very quietly, preferably in the dark, and become receptive to what she may be projecting. But I am thinking also that it might be possible, with the three of us working, to send her the impression that we are listening, and ask her if she can in any way project a picture of where she is. This will take time. It will also be very tiring, but the three of us can work in shifts.”

“Weird,” said the Chief flatly, and then, “Any chance of this working?”

“You might consider the alternatives,” Pruden
pointed out. “At the moment they register zero.”

“True,” the Chief said, turning thoughtful, and they waited, watching him. He said at last, “All right, we’ll try it, we’ve nothing to lose but our reputations. Pruden, get the lady what she needs.” He rose, looked down at Madame Karitska, started to speak, and then thought better of it and walked out.

Because it was Saturday, Gavin was summoned from St. Bonaventure’s without the necessity for taxing explanations. Mr. Faber-Jones was discovered at home lunching, and agreed to collect Gavin on his way to headquarters. They arrived, curious and interested.

“This is the girl,” Madame Karitska said, showing them the photograph in the
Times
after she had explained the circumstances. “She probably has no idea that she’s believed dead, but she would know she is missing and that her grandparents would be worried. I think she has been trying very hard to reassure them telepathically, but with no success. Or perhaps,” said Madame Karitska thoughtfully, “she did meet with some success, because they felt uneasy enough to think of a seance. Through them she was, in a sense, introduced to me.”

“And walked into your dreams,” Gavin said, nodding.

“Yes, but it is relatively easy to receive telepathic communication in dreams; it happens frequently to most people without their realizing it. What we must attempt here is a deliberate communication in a waking state.”

“How?” asked Gavin eagerly.

“It would be not so different from your turning of
the pages in a book, Gavin … To send a message, at least. You would empty the mind of thought and bring attention—attention like a laser beam—on any message we send to Miss Heyer. To receive a message telepathically requires a technique similar to meditation: an emptying of the mind, stillness, and total passiveness. Also patience,” she added wryly.

Faber-Jones looked doubtful. “Are you sure you want me? I’m so damned new at this and frankly it still strikes me as ridiculous, even though I’ve felt these things happen.”

“My friend, we need your confidence and your strength,” she said warmly. “Please, do not be doubtful. I suggest we start by projecting a picture of ourselves seated in those three chairs, waiting to learn where she is. If she can just
feel
our attention, it may give her support.”

“I’m ready,” Gavin told her.

Faber-Jones nodded.

“Good,” said Madame Karitska. “I think we do this as a team for fifteen minutes—perhaps a small light under the clock will not distract us—and then you, Gavin, take a break for fifteen minutes, then Faber-Jones will rest, after which I will take fifteen minutes. Is this agreeable?”

Pruden found a small desk lamp in a nearby office and set it up in a corner. The overhead lights were turned off, the one window shuttered and the telephone disconnected. He left them in semidarkness, seated quietly in a row in the center of the room, and just to be certain they wouldn’t be interrupted he posted Benson down the hall to guard the room from intruders. He noticed as he left that it was just one o’clock.

By two o’clock there had been one hundred and twenty telephone calls in answer to the photographs in the
Times,
and every available policeman was at work checking out the leads. Making it even more intricate was the fact that Tommy Brudenhall’s description had been included in the
Times
article; Pruden divided his men into three groups. In the meantime the exhumation had taken place and Jan Heyer’s dental charts were being traced. Her dentist turned out to be a Daniel Murk, D.D.S., with a Broad Street address. It was difficult finding him, but by half past two it was determined without any further doubt that the girl killed in the accident was not Jan Heyer. A man was detailed to notify the elder Heyers of this, and Pruden made his way up to the third floor to see if anything was happening there. He found Gavin sipping a glass of milk in the hall with Benson. “Well?” he asked somewhat curtly, the incongruity and the hopelessness of this sweeping over him.

“Nothing
really,
” Gavin said. “We’re going to stop sending and begin receiving when I go back. We’re all getting awfully tired.”

“What do you mean, nothing
really?
”

“Jonesy had the feeling once—it scared him, though, and he panicked—of making contact with something. Or somebody, I mean. It’s too bad he panicked, although I guess I would have too,” Gavin said modestly. “He said it was like walking into somebody’s mind for a second. It must have been spooky.”

Pruden said curiously, “Did he think it was hers?”

Gavin sighed. “He hopes not. He said there was an awful kind of despair—hopelessness, actually—and a
physical sensation of cold and thirst. It wasn’t so good.”

“Cold,” repeated Pruden and then he said, “Oh God, the cold, I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I’d better go in now,” said Gavin and handing his empty glass to Benson he tiptoed back inside.

At three o’clock the owner of a delicatessen on River Avenue called in to report that a young man resembling Tommy Brudenhall had bought five sandwiches at his shop on Tuesday night. His description of the young man matched Tommy closely enough to be promising, and Pruden ordered patrolmen to concentrate on River Avenue and begin checking out buildings in that area. At best it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack: the area was honeycombed with old warehouses, two freight stations, wharves, and abandoned buildings.