The Black Door (3 page)

“But you, in the meantime, had become a celebrity. An overnight celebrity.”

I nodded. It was now almost eleven. But I didn’t care. I would sit there as long as Kanter would sit. My story wasn’t finished.

“You were written up in
Time,”
he continued, amused now.

I nodded.

“And
Newsweek.”

I nodded.

“And you got an offer to come to the
Sentinel
as their resident clairvoyant.”

I must have groaned.

“You’ve been ballyhooed. Romanced. Your picture has been displayed on the
Sentinel’s
newspaper racks and also on both sides of their trucks.”

I didn’t reply.

“And the San Francisco Police Department, to a man, hates you. They think you’re a charlatan. Or, worse, a publicity seeker, finding fame at the expense of hard-working, harassed, underpaid cops.”

I looked at him. “They’re not the only ones. There’re agnostics everywhere.”

“I know,” he said thoughtfully. “But at least now I can see the problem. Maybe you should buy a full-page ad and explain your position. A full-page ad in the
Dispatch,
for instance.”

I managed a smile. A waitress began pointedly clearing the table, but Kanter ignored her.

“You once mentioned other experiences with clairvoyance. What were they?”

“Well, the first really specific experience came when I was twelve. We’d gone on a weekend camping trip, my parents, myself and my brother and sister. My brother was fourteen, and my sister was eight. The second day, the three of us kids were playing in a small river near our campsite. My brother and I had made a raft out of logs, and were very much occupied with the project even though my parents had told us, specifically, to keep an eye on Kathy. Suddenly we realized she was missing. And, in that same instant, I realized that I was running as fast as I could—away from my brother, and upstream. I—I’ll never forget the next few seconds as long as I live. There was a turn in the river, maybe fifty yards upstream, and that’s where I was heading. When I got there and could look around a projection in the riverbank, I saw Kathy floating face down in the water. It was the—the most terrible—” I shook my head.

“Was she all right?”

I nodded. “Thanks to my brother, she was all right. He knew artificial respiration.”

Kanter exhaled. “A happy ending.”

“Yes.” I paused, collecting myself. Whenever I told the story, I inevitably felt drained. The image of Kathy floating face down often troubled my sleep.

“What were the other experiences?”

I shrugged. “They weren’t as dramatic to me as finding Kathy. One concerned a suicide. My father owned a hardware store, right here in San Francisco. He still owns it, in fact. Well, one Saturday I was working in the store. I was maybe fifteen at the time. A man came in the store and bought a quart of turpentine. I’d never seen him before; as far as I know, he was a perfect stranger. But, just as I took his money, I had this—this terribly clear vision of the man lying dead in a pool of his own blood. He—somehow I knew he’d killed himself. And—” I cleared my throat. “And sure enough, that night he committed suicide.”

“Are you sure it was the same man?”

“Positive. My parents knew him, as it turned out. They knew he’d been in the store during the afternoon. They even knew what he’d bought; they’d heard from his wife.”

“Did you tell your parents about the vision?”

I shook my head. “No, I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Why not?”

“I was ashamed. Frightened, almost. No one likes to feel that he’s different; not really. Besides, I was always very close to my father. And Dad, for some reason, always poked fun at gypsies, and fortunetelling, and séances. He’s the kind of man who normally doesn’t make fun of people or their beliefs. But, for some reason, he was down on mysticism. He dislikes any kind of superstition, and he thinks the two go together. Which, of course, they often do.”

“How’s he feel about your, ah, current exploits?”

“We very seldom talk about it. I’m afraid Dad thinks it’s all a publicity gimmick.”

“It should’ve made a believer of him, though, when you found your sister.”

“No, it didn’t. Because, even then—even at that first experience—my instinct was to conceal it. I was ashamed, as I said. It’s something I still feel. Intellectually, everything I’ve ever learned or believed contradicts ESP. But it just happens to me. I’m stuck with it.”

“These, ah, visions,” Kanter said slowly, “seem to be concerned with tragedy.”

“That’s quite common in ESP. One theory is that everyone, clairvoyant or not, is constantly receiving impressions at the subconscious level, but that only the strongest impressions penetrate up through the consciousness. Clairvoyants, according to some authorities, simply have a clearer channel to their subconscious.”

“Is that your theory?”

I shrugged. It was quarter to twelve. Time to be going.

“I don’t have a theory,” I answered. “I just sit there and watch it happen. Regretfully, some of the time. As I’ve said.”

“I see what you mean.” Kanter picked up his check and prepared to propel himself to his feet.

“Well, I’ll have to do a little thinking about all this. Maybe I’ll modify my agnosticism. In the meantime, good luck with the Detective Bureau and all the other nonbelievers. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need it.”

“You’re probably right,” I agreed ruefully.

“And I still stick to what I said—your only solution is to pick a convenient murder and solve it. You need leverage, my boy. And you’re only going to get it with results.”

I smiled, repeating wryly, “A convenient murder. That’s something we usually have—a convenient murder.”

T
WO DAYS LATER, A
twenty-year-old girl was found murdered in a thirty-seven-year-old man’s apartment.

I was in the press room at headquarters when the story broke. I was drinking an early morning cup of coffee with Jim Campion, of the
Courier.
A tall, hatchet-faced detective named Micheletti lounged into the press room and stood leaning against the agelessly stained oak door frame.

“You the only members of the press around?” he asked, sucking at his teeth.

We were both regarding him very attentively. It was a story. Slowly, still with his eyes on Micheletti, Campion placed his coffee cup on the table. Just as automatically, I did the same. We both reached for our raincoats and hats. I glanced at the rain-streaked window and sighed.

“Something?” Campion asked, rising to his feet.

“A homicide.”

“Where?” I slipped into my raincoat.

“North Beach. Union Street just up from Grant.”

“Who?” Campion asked.

Micheletti consulted a slip of paper he held in his hand. “A man and a girl. David Pastor is the man, and the girl’s name is Robert—” Micheletti paused, frowning irritably down at the paper. “That can’t be right.”

“What can’t be right?” We began advancing on the detective, who still stood blocking the doorway.

“It must be
Roberta.
Yeah, Roberta Grinnel. That’s the girl.”

“G-r-i-n-n-e-l?” Campion asked.

“Right,” Micheletti answered laconically, turning now to depart. But, remembering something, he turned back.

“You see any of the rest of your guys, you tell them. Understand?” He fixed us with his flat, official stare.

Nodding, we edged past him, making for the phones. As I dialed, waited, and then gave the initial facts to the city desk, I watched Micheletti leaning heavily against a coffee machine as he waited for his cup to fill. I’d heard that Micheletti had a vicious temper. I wondered where he found the energy.

“You want a photographer?” the desk asked.

“Probably.” I shrugged at the phone. “After all, it’s a double-header.”

“Right.” The desk hung up.

I waited for Campion to finish his similar chore, and we walked together down the broad, littered steps of downtown police headquarters. We kept our cars in the same parking lot, a block and a half away. Campion, tall and rangy, was setting a brisk pace, and within the first few strides I found myself almost trotting beside him. Campion was one of those deceptively awkward-looking men who actually covered the ground with surprising speed. His usually breezy manner was also deceptive, concealing an agile mind, capable of considerable subtlety.

“They’re dead,” I said. “They’ll keep.”

Frowning to himself, Campion didn’t answer.

“What’re you thinking about?” I asked.

“He said Robert Grinnel. I was just wondering—” He chewed at his lip, staring off down the street.

Robert Grinnel: a familiar name. A political figure. Radical right wing. A wealthy industrialist.

Roberta Grinnel …

“Does he have a daughter?” I asked. By now, I was panting. Campion seemed to be increasing the pace.

“I’m pretty sure he does. In fact—” Again his voice trailed off.

“In fact
what?”
As the crime reporters for San Francisco’s two rival morning papers, Campion and I had arrived at a close, if informal working agreement during the six weeks of my hectic tenure. Without once mentioning the harassment I’d been getting from the Detective Bureau, Campion had stepped good-naturedly forward to show me the ropes. Whenever possible, I reciprocated. So now I was slightly irked at his reticence, not to mention the pace he was setting.

“What’re you getting at?” I asked.

“Well, about six months ago we did a feature piece on Bransten College, and among other things we inventoried some of the famous sons and daughters they’ve got out there. And, if I’m not mistaken, Robert Grinnel’s daughter is a student. Not only that, but I’m pretty sure her name is Roberta. The reason I remember, he’s got a son going to Bransten, too, and his name is Robert. Bobby for short.”

“Are they twins?”

“No. She’s a couple of years older.”

“Then why name them Robert and Roberta, I wonder?”

Campion smiled his familiar, quick, ironic smile. “It’s the monogramed cuff link syndrome. If you’re an egotist, you surround yourself with yourself.”

“I’d think of him as a paranoiac, more than an egotist.”

“Why do you say that?”

I shrugged. “Those Fascist-type right-wingers think everyone’s out to get them. Paranoiacs
and
egotists, I suppose.” Then I gasped for breath.

He shrugged in return, as together we dismissed the lunatic political fringe. Now we were turning into the parking lot. Gratefully, I slackened my pace as I made for my own car.

“See you at the scene,” I said.

“Right.” Campion got in his car and immediately began grinding the starter. Shaking the light rain from my coat and tossing my hat in the back seat, I started my own engine. As I pulled out of line, I saw Campion getting out of his car and waving to me. I stopped, and he got in the passenger’s seat.

“The damn thing won’t start.” He slammed the door.

“It’s the rain.” I turned into the street, gathering speed. “Maybe you should wipe off the ignition wires.”

Smiling, Campion stretched. “And miss a big story? I’d rather ride with the opposition.”

For several moments we drove in silence. The intersection of Union and Grant was perhaps ten minutes away. Soon, we would know.

Finally Campion said, “This could be a homicide that will sell a few papers.”

“You may be right.”

“What’s she doing in North Beach, though? Making the beatnik scene?”

“Other people live in North Beach besides beatniks. In fact, I understand the beatniks are all moving down to West Venice, because so many people are going to North Beach to look at the beatniks.”

“I wonder who this David Pastor is?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Neither did I.”

I blew the horn at an erratic Chevrolet. “Is Bransten College that very small, very exclusive, very secluded place out near the park? With all the trees around it?”

“That’s right. They only have about three hundred students. But someone estimated there’re a hundred millionaire’s families represented in the student body.”

“Is it a country club school?”

Decisively, Campion shook his head. “Anything but. Those kids work like dogs. And if they don’t get the grades, they’re out on their elegant little posteriors. With dispatch. Not only that, but the place has a reputation for liberalism bordering on Marxism, the result being that Moneybags Daddy pays an exorbitant tab to have his child educated into thinking he’s a nasty, capitalistic villain who should share the wealth, instead of indulging the whims of his loving children.”

I smiled, turning into Union Street. Campion rearranged his long legs under the dashboard and refolded his long arms.

“I’d like to know,” he mused, “just how many Roberta Grinnels there are in a city the size of San Francisco. I’ll bet, at the most, there aren’t more than two. And, therefore, there’s a fifty-fifty chance she’s
the
Roberta Grinnel. Also, Micheletti said ‘girl,’ not ‘woman.’ That shortens the odds.”

“Why don’t you just give your brain a rest? In a few minutes, we’ll know.”

“You clairvoyants are all the same—intellectual conservationists.”

I braked for an amber light, pointedly not replying. Campion had never ragged me about ESP. I wanted to keep it that way.

But he was already changing the subject.

“The other significant thing about Bransten College,” he was saying, “is that, in addition to its reputation for Marxism, it also enjoys a considerable reputation as a hotbed of free love.”

“Oh?” I accelerated away from the traffic light. Only a few blocks remained. “Free love?” I was beginning to wonder whether we’d be the first newsmen at the scene, and whether Micheletti had called the radio stations.

“Right, free love. We demonstrate this point to the newspaper reading public by pointing out that, at Bransten, the students can come and go as they like. No hours. No housemothers. Nothing.”

“That doesn’t seem to go with a strict academic program. I’d think that—” Ahead was the Grant Avenue intersection. Union Street had been cordoned off, and a uniformed officer was waving us aside. I slowed the car, flipping down the visor, with its Press Car sign. The officer motioned me to a convenient fire hydrant. As we got out, I was conscious of the scene’s heightened tempo. There was more of everything—more policemen, more detectives, more cars and more lab men. This was no ordinary crime.