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r r
For now she knew the truth or rather, truth had one of two faces,
and both were masks of terror.
Either she was insane&
& or she was surrounded, in her own house, by vicious and insane
enemies.
Chapter Seven
It was already greying toward dusk when James Melford said good
night to his secretary, took his fur cap from the rack, and let himself
out the front door of Blackcock Books. Going down in the elevator, he
thought with some relief that Cannon's controversial book his most
controversial book, he amended, for Jock's earlier books had raised
some controversy, mostly as to whether Blackcock Books should have
gone into this field of publishing at all was now safely in the hands of
a copy editor and that extra copies were in the office safe and in his
briefcase. Short of an all-out attack on copy editor, office, and
possibly the printer, the unknown factors who were trying to prevent
the publication of the book might just as well stop wasting their
breath.
He felt a sort of euphoria. If the unknowns, whoever or whatever they
might be, had sent MacLaren to his office to find out how he was
standing up under their war of nerves, he flattered himself that he'd
sent MacLaren away unsatisfied. By now it was a personal contest
between himself and these lunatics, and he wasn't going to let them
get any satisfaction.
He paused on the way out of the building, then crossed the street,
went into the public library, and stopped to consult the telephone
books for the five boroughs.
He already knew that Manhattan would yield nothing; the Bronx and
Staten Island were equally barren of Walters in the family of Mansell.
The Queens phone book listed a Walter M. Mansell, but when Jamie
stepped into a pay phone booth, dialed the number, and asked if a
Father Mansell lived there, the childish voice that answered said
"What?" so blankly that Jamie said hastily, "Sorry, wrong number,"
and hung up in confusion. An unfrocked priest might conceivably
marry but would hardly have young children he had heard a
background of childish voices playing some noisy game old enough
to answer the telephone.
He was about to leave the booth in disgust when he remembered that
there was one borough remaining. The Brooklyn phone book yielded
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a Walter Mansell, and when he dialed the number, a strong bass voice
answered. "Yes?"
Jamie found himself momentarily speechless. Now that he had
probably chased Father Mansell to earth he didn't know what to say to
him. Finally he said, stumbling a little, "I I beg your pardon, I am not
sure I have the right Mansell. Is this the Walter Mansell who used"
Oh God, he thought, I can't ,say "who used to be a priest "
"who used to know John Cannon, the writer?"
The bass voice sounded faintly puzzled. "Why, yes, I know Cannon.
What can I do for you?"
"It's a little complicated," Jamie said slowly. "I take it you know that
Cannon is dead?"
Now there was no mistaking the shock and horror in Mansell's voice.
"Dead? No, I when did this happen? When was he killed?"
"Killed." It flashed through Jamie's mind that if he put it this way,
Mansell had almost been expecting the news. Surely the normal
question on hearing of a death was "How did he die?" Jamie said, on a
quick impulse, "Yes, they got him."
"Filthy devils!" Mansell said sharply. "But who are you?"
Jamie explained, adding, "Jock said your name just a short while
before he died. It was a heart attack evidently."
Mansell's voice sounded cautious now. "But you said they got him."
Jamie made up his mind. "I think I have to talk to you, F er Mr.
Mansell. When could I see you?"
"I suppose I must go to Cannon's funeral," said the stranger in a
hesitant voice. "I don't know. I would rather not have you come here.
If you are who you seem to be, you'll know why. Where are you calling
from?"
"I'm at the public library, as a matter of fact."
"In Manhattan? Well, look. Suppose I meet you there. I can hop on a
subway and be there in twenty minutes," Mansell said. "I don't wear a
Roman collar anymore; I suppose you know. How will I recognize
you?"
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r r
Jamie chuckled. "I'm damned if I'll go out and get a white carnation
for my buttonhole at this hour. I'm carrying a briefcase and wearing a
fur cap."
The bass voice snorted a little. "I'll find you somehow."
Jamie went into the reading room and spent fifteen minutes looking
through an issue of Time magazine, several weeks old, without paying
much attention to it. Somewhere in the back of the book a word jarred
his senses, and he read with some attention the account of a self-
styled minister of something calling itself the First Satanic Church of
America who had performed a black nuptial mass for a couple of
crazies in California. The bride had worn crimson, the altar had been
a naked woman, and the minister had delivered a homily on how
Satanism was really the religion of enjoying life, as witnessed by the
fact that their altar was not a dead stone and puritanical clothing, but
naked and alive. Jamie shook his head a little. A week ago he would
have had nothing but laughter at the thought of such nonsensical
friskiness; now he wondered if this lighthearted jollification was the
work of the naive who had read too many books or whether it
masked something more sinister. After all, if you wanted to be free to
do the devil's work in peace, wouldn't it be best to have people
laughing at Satanism as nonsense for people with more tune and
money than brains?
With a start he realized that it was time to meet Mansell.
He went out into the lobby and watched people coming and going. It
was quite dark now, and in the square before the library, crowds of
men, women, and children, laden with Christmas-shopping packages,
hurried here and there on obvious errands. Teen-age boys and girls,
in school uniforms and laden with books, went up the library steps,
and other groups came down. Across the street in front of a large
department store, a Salvation Army worker monotonously jangled a
bell.
Jamie had not been waiting more than seven or eight minutes when a
large burly man came slowly up the steps and directly to where he was
standing.
"Melford?" he asked. "I'm Mansell. We can't talk in the library. Where
can we go?"
"There's a Child's across the street," Jamie said. "We can get a drink
there if you like."
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r r
"Just coffee for me, thanks," the man said. "Yes, I suppose that will do
as well as anything else." He was tall and burly, with heavy jowls
shadowed with dark stubble and dark eyes, rather small. For all his
size there was something about him that made Jamie think
incongruously of a bird, and then he realized what it was: the small,
continuous, almost imperceptible head and eye movements, as if
Mansell were looking all round him at once, all the time.
"Shall we go? No, wait a minute." The big man drew suddenly back
into the shadow of the vestibule, almost colliding with someone
coming out. Jamie looked round curiously and Mansell said, "No, I
guess it's all right. I thought I saw " He broke off and, jerking his
head toward Jamie to follow, plunged into the crowded intersection.
Jamie, following as best he could at Mansell's heels, thought, with
irritation, that this newcomer was as crazy as everyone else he'd met
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