Hard Case Crime: Shooting Star & Spiderweb (25 page)

“This is an amusement park, my friend. People come here to find what they want out of life—entertainment. They put their pennies into the peepshow slots because they want to do so. They know they’re being swindled and they love it. They love the lies, the phoniness, the cheats. They know the freak shows are fakes. They know the spielers are conning them about stepping up and winning the electric clocks. They don’t believe in our friend seero the mystic, but they pay their money and go inside because they want to be fooled.

“It’s not a new concept. Your showman, Barnum, said it long ago—and it was known and spoken of in ancient Egypt. But it is a truth that survives, for the desire for self-delusion never dies.

“People long for escape. Some of them pay their pennies to find it here. Others are able and willing to pay fortunes for something a little more convincing. For the sort of escape we will give them. These are the ones we shall rule. The seekers.”

“Suckers,” I said.

“The seeker is always a sucker,” said Professor Hermann.

I showed up at the Professor’s office the next morning. Somehow I’d never pictured him in a downtown office. But there was the sign on the door in neat, discreet lettering:

O
TTO
H
ERMANN
, P
H.
D.

P
SYCHOLOGICAL
C
ONSULTANT

The waiting room was cool and dark, well-furnished without the flash of Larry Rickert’s fake modern layout. The receptionist’s desk stood right out in the open. Behind it sat a plump, middle-aged brunette wearing a loose white smock and a tight red smile. She smiled up at me and her words filtered through a thick accent.

“You would be Mr. Haines?”

“I would.”

“The Professor is expecting you. Please to enter.”

I pleased to enter. Bookcases lined the walls of the private office. There was a red leather couch in the corner and a row of filing cabinets beside it. The Professor sat in a chair at the side of his desk. He was wearing the same black suit, or a reasonable facsimile. When I entered, he reached for the intercom.

“Miss Bauer—I do not wish to be disturbed.”

He glanced at his watch. Then his gaze ricocheted to me.

“You are late.”

“Sorry. I overslept. Yesterday took a lot out of me, I guess.”

“You are rested now?”

I nodded.

“Good. Then we can proceed to business.” He opened a drawer of his desk and drew out a thick sheaf of legal-bond typing paper.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Your book, of course. The one you wrote.”

I stared at the title page and read:

Y - O - U

by

Judson Roberts

“Take it and read it,” he said. “Memorize it. After all, you’re Judson Roberts, you know.”

“I didn’t know.” I riffled the pages and sat back. “What’s it all about?”

“Did you ever read Dale Carnegie? Walter Pitkin? Stuart Chase? They’re all in here. And Doctor Frank Crane and Elbert Hubbard, too. Also Madame Blavatsky, Mrs. Eddy, and a little bit of Thorstein Veblen. And of course, Herr Freud and Jung, and Aldous Huxley and Philip Wylie and Ouspensky and Spengler. A little bit of everyone. But with revisions and improvements, of course.”

“Did you actually write it?”

“No. Rogers wrote it. You remember, the little man with the mustache, at the seance. He has talent, when controlled. I commissioned him to start the book a year ago, when I began to plan all this.”

“What’s the point?”

“Perfectly obvious. Now that I’ve found my Judson Roberts, the book will be published. I can arrange for printing and for distribution. Rogers can set up a direct-mail campaign and we will sell it ourselves. It’s good for ten, twenty years. A small, steady income—though that’s not important in itself. But a published book is needed to establish Judson Roberts as an authority. That is most desirable. By the way, I’ve already sent your name in for a course and a diploma.”

“Diploma?”

“You’re going to be a Doctor of Psychology, just as I am. There’s a correspondence school in the East. Fifty dollars gets you a degree, and no questions asked. What are you grinning about?”

“It just struck me funny. All of a sudden I’m a Doctor of Psychology and the author of a book.”

“There’s nothing funny about that. It’s window dressing. And speaking of window dressing—”

The Professor rose and surveyed me critically. “Watch your posture. Your shoulders aren’t squared, you have a tendency to slouch. And you slump when you sit in a chair. We’ll correct that. You’ll need a wardrobe, of course, but that will come later. Hold your head a trifle higher and emphasize your height. You gain a certain advantage when people have to look up to you during a conversation. You might experiment with a different hairstyle. Those sideburns are all right for a cheap salesman, but I want more dignity. But enough of that for now. We have other work to do.”

“Such as?”

“Reading your book.”

I picked up the manuscript. “I’ll run through it this evening,” I promised.

The Professor shook his head. “Only the beginning. You’ll read it tonight and then you’ll read it again. And again. The content is the key to our whole system. It must be correlated with your other reading. For the next three months you’re going to sit in that apartment of yours and read. I’ll see that you eat, meanwhile.”

“Sounds pretty soft.”

“It won’t be. You’re going to study and sweat. I’ll quiz you. You’ll take tests. By the time I’m done, you’ll be able to hold your own conversationally with any occultist, real or phony, and sound convincing.”

“Okay. You’re the Professor.”

“And you’re Judson Roberts.”

That’s how it started. I walked into the office as plain Eddie Haines and I walked out as Judson Roberts, with my book under my arm.

Judson Roberts took his book home and studied it. Then he studied the basic, selected writings of Freud, Adler, Jung, Brill, Moll and Stekel. He subscribed to psychiatric journals.

He read Swedenborg and
Isis Unveiled.
He read Frazer in bed, Charles Fort at the lunch counter, Briffault in the bathroom. He waded through it all, good and bad alike—Lully, Flammarion, Tyndall, Toynbee, Nietzsche.

At first I couldn’t make sense out of it all. Nothing seemed related. But gradually Judson Roberts made sense of it. For as I read, Judson Roberts took shape. He was born out of the books, weaned on the Professor’s nightly question sessions. Judson Roberts learned to discourse on affects and autistic phenomena. He could give a Rorschach test. He could explain the symbolic derivatives of a matriarchic culture pattern and analyze the inherent masochism of Kafka’s works. Roberts could improvise a relationship between the Sung Dynasty, Appolonius of Tyana, and enuresis.

It takes a few minutes to write down, but it took months of doing. Eight hours of reading a day, seven days a week, plus two or three hours of talk—questions and answers. But wading through theories and ideas, I began to understand people a little better. Motivation and compulsion and compensation. Sublimation and projection.

Meanwhile the Professor kept educating me on the practical level. He took me around to astrologers, palmists, phrenologists, spiritualists—men like Jake on the midway and top operators working out of mansions in the hills north of Hollywood. I saw how they worked, who they worked on. I learned that suckers are all alike, and the methods of handling them basically the same.

And through it all, he kept after me with questions. One afternoon towards the end of the third month, for example: “What are the twelve divisions of normal interest?” droned Professor Hermann.

“Time, personal magnetism, sex and marriage, investments, friends, obstacles, enemies, health, money trouble, changes and trips, surprises, and warnings.”

“What is yoga?”

“Yoga means unity, right action. Yoga is practiced by a Guru, or teacher, and a Chela, or pupil. There are five divisions of yoga.”

“Name them.”

“Raja-Yoga, the development of consciousness. Jnana-Yoga, or knowledge. Karma-Yoga, right action, and Bhakti-Yoga, right religious action. Then Hatha-Yoga, or power over the bodily functions. Govern your body and you govern the universe through Asana, the system of bodily posture, breath control, and the control of the circulation and nervous system.”

“Good enough. Now, define Turiya, Dharma, kalpa, mantavaras. And recite the laws of Manu.”

“Hey, take it easy!” I stood up. “You’ve got me so full of that stuff, it’s coming out of my ears.”

“I know. But there’s no time to waste. We must be ready to act soon.”

“I’m ready now. Ready for Utter-McKinley’s enbalming staff. Have a heart, Professor, I’m only human.”

“You must be more than human for this job. You might apply some of the principles of Hatha-Yoga for exercise.”

“I don’t need exercise. I need a rest, a chance to get out of this damned hot apartment. I haven’t had a drink for months, haven’t seen anybody to talk to but you.”

“That was our bargain.”

“Our bargain was for me to make a million dollars, to have anything I wanted. And what do I get? A little cigarette money and enough studying to kill Einstein. Look—I’m not Judson Roberts all the time, you know. I like a little fun once in a while.”

“So.” The Professor’s fingers caressed the nakedness of his skull. “How would you like to go to a party tonight?”

“What kind of a party—another seance in Pasadena?”

“No. I’m talking about the real thing. As a matter of fact, you’re invited to attend. She’s been inviting you for weeks, but I didn’t tell you.”

“She?”

“Lorna Lewis. She has inquired about you frequently. Yes, maybe that would work out—if you’re interested.”

“Count me in. I’ll be there with bells on.”

“No bells. You’ll be there in a nice, conservative gray Palm Beach suit. You’ll behave yourself and do the job I’ve laid out for you.”

“But—”

“You’ll do one thing and one only. Be nice to Lorna Lewis.”

“That,” I said, “is just ginger-peachy. I might even teach her a few yoga positions.”

I sat on the sofa at Lorna Lewis’ party and played footsie with myself. When I got tired of that, I just watched the crowd.

The movie bunch is peculiar. There are sets, cliques and a definite pecking-order here. The $500 per week mob doesn’t mix with stock contract players. The $1000 up-and-coming gang has nothing to do with the $3000 celebrities. Producers, writers and directors spend most of their time with the agents and the money men, if possible.

This happened to be the $500 crowd, with a sprinkling of $1000 eager beavers. I could figure that out after a little observation. Everybody was in there with the good old college try—a bunch of former extras who were now extroverts. The clothing was flashy, the conversation loud and brassy.

Lorna Lewis herself was a typical specimen. It was obvious that she had come to Hollywood via the contest-winner route. Probably she had talent, too—if not necessarily the kind that displays itself before a camera. But her language was coarse, her geniality forced.

I watched her race around the big living room and the miniature bar out on the terrace, displaying the incredible whiteness of those famous legs through a slitted black skirt. She was high on excitement, not alcohol.

I sat on the sofa and the sports jackets wove a pattern of tartan and checks before my eyes. I monitored a parade of sandals, moccasins, brogues. I eyed elkskin and surveyed suede.

The Professor had planted me here half an hour ago and then wandered away, after acknowledging a nod from our hostess. I was a little disappointed with that nod. I hadn’t really expected Lorna Lewis to throw herself into my arms and nibble my ears, but even so her cool reception didn’t sit well with me after all the buildup. So when the Professor vanished, I sat and fidgeted. All I’d gotten from that greeting was a distinct letdown.

Plump little Miss Bauer from the Professor’s office had been on hand, too, at first. It was she who had identified the stocky, freckled, curly-haired man who dug his fingers possessively into Lorna’s forearm.

“Mike Drayton. Is her husband.”

“Husband? Didn’t know she was married.”

“Yes. He is a professional player.”

“Playboy?”

“No, player. Of hockey.”

“Oh, sure. I remember now.” Lorna Lewis had talked about “Mike” to the Professor in the car, the night of the rigged-up seance. She had some problem with him. Well, he looked like a problem to me. If we tangled, I’d be a dead duck.

But now it appeared I’d never reach the tangling stage. Lorna was flitting around, greeting leisure jackets and evening wraps, offering glasses to Aloha shirts and gabardine slacks at the bar, being kittenish with a tall red-faced man who was obviously a producer and obviously aware of it.

Mike Drayton, the husband, had disappeared. So had Miss Bauer and the Professor. I caught one glimpse of him as I went to refill my highball glass; he was stalking Lorna Lewis on the terrace. Maybe he’d steer her over to me.

The highballs were good. After my long layoff, the second drink took hold. I had a third, but I was too nervous to enjoy it. What was I doing here? Obviously the Professor had a plan—he always had a plan. But what was it?

A trio of Filipinos wandered around making noises on mandolins and ukeleles—very corny. But most of the guests seemed to be far past the third drink and they shouted requests. A small group gathered around a blonde who kicked off her shoes for a hula. Another group sat on the stairs and talked shop. Through an archway I saw a fringe of bald, partially bald and gray heads huddled over a card table.

It looked too typical, too pat and according-to-formula for me. Too much like the Hollywood party you read about. I don’t know what I’d been expecting—certainly anything but this. And on top of it, I was all alone, ignored. I sat off in a corner with no Lorna Lewis to finger the lapels of my Palm Beach suit.

I thought I’d better get drunk in a hurry and forget it. I thought I might as well get out of here. I thought...