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Jake shrugged and ran a hand through his thick blond hair. "His contract was up; he decided he wanted to leave so that he could sign up with a guy by the name of Sandor Peth. What the hell? Harley wanted to leave, it was his right."

"Peth's name was dog shit when I was here. Why would Davidson want to leave the people who'd taken him to the top in order to sign with a creepy second-rater like Peth?"

Jake shook his head. "It's tough to figure, isn't it? Peth is a creep, and a rip-off artist. It looks like Harley went straight downhill after signing with him."

"He may have started sliding slightly before that."

"I don't follow you."

"I think he got involved with some nasty people who specialize in giving bad advice. I was hoping you might know something about it."

Jake stared into space for a few moments, then ground out his cigar and popped a mint into his mouth. "Well, Harley had an absolutely enormous ego-occupational requirement, you know. He was easily influenced by anybody who knew how to play up to that ego. That's about all I can say."

"Jake, it's important for me to find out who greased the skids under that kid-if that's what happened. It could tie in with a case I'm working on."

Jake nodded thoughtfully and began drumming his fingers on the cluttered desk top. I was beginning to worry about the flashing buttons on his telephone console; Jake obviously wasn't. "Harley was getting pretty deeply involved in the occult a few months before he left," Jake said at last. "Could that be any help?"

"It certainly could," I said, feeling my blood pressure go up a few notches. My face felt hot. "The problem is that an interest in the occult wouldn't make him any different from ninety percent of the other people in the business, right?"

"Sure; it's the Age of Aquarius, you know. But Harley had gone past the point of comparing sun signs at cocktail parties. At the beginning he seemed to be on an astrology and palmistry trip. He was really manic about it, you know?" Jake clucked his tongue disapprovingly. "Then, I think he got into witchcraft. He didn't talk so much after that."

"And then he left you to sign with Sandor Peth. You think Peth's a witch?"

Jake's laugh was high-pitched, boyish. "Peth's a son-of-a-bitch, for sure, but I don't know anything about his being a witch." He shook his head, laughed once more, then grew serious. "Peth personally insures the lives of everyone in his stable. I'll bet that shmuck is going to make a bundle off Harley's death."

"Did Davidson ever mention the name John Krowl?"

"Christ, yes," Jake said with an expansive wave of his hand. "Harley was one of Krowl's favored clients-and very proud of the fact. That's a status symbol in this town." He suddenly rose and walked quickly to a filing cabinet near his desk. "I just remembered: Harley left something here that might interest you," he continued, opening a sliding metal drawer and quickly riffling through a bank of files. "It was during his manic phase that I told you about. He brought me in a copy of a horoscope he'd had done. He was really riding high at that time, and something about the horoscope amused him. He said it was terrible."

Jake found what he was looking for, drew it out of the file and handed it to me. The paper was heavy bond. In the center were two concentric circles divided into twelve sections by intersecting lines. Each section was filled with what I assumed were astrological symbols. They were meaningless to me. The margins of the paper were filled with more symbols-also meaningless. What did mean something to me was the heavy, block-print handwriting; I'd seen it before.

The signature at the bottom of the page read Jones.

"Can you make a copy of this for me, Jake?" I asked tightly.

"Keep that," the agent said. "I don't want it. I wouldn't even have it around if I weren't such a compulsive filer." He grinned sardonically. "I guess Harley was right; his horoscope wasn't so good after all."

"Definitely not," I said, pocketing the paper. "Thanks, Jake."

"Hey, sweetheart, I hope you're going home to bed."

"I have miles to go before I sleep." I was trying to be funny. I promptly banged into the doorjamb and ricocheted out into the hallway.

It was after six, but Madeline Jones often worked evenings in her lab and I thought I might reach her there. I used a pay phone in the lobby of the MGM Building to call her. The phone rang eight times before Mary Szell, Mad's assistant, answered.

"Hello?"

"Mary, is Mad there?"

"Who's this?"

"Mongo."

"Mongo? I didn't recognize your voice. Do you have a cold?"

"Something like that. Is Mad around?"

"You haven't heard?"

"Heard what, Mary?"

"Mad's in the hospital. She's had a nervous breakdown. She collapsed here yesterday afternoon."

A hot flush started somewhere between my shoulder blades, flashed down my spine, then turned icy. I shivered spasmodically. Everyone was full of surprises.

Someone was banging a gong; I listened hard and it turned out to be Mary's voice calling my name.

"All right, Mary," I said. "Thank you."

After hanging up, I sagged against the side of the telephone booth and tried to think. Mad had lied to me about not being in touch with Bobby Weiss, and I wondered why. I was probably the last person in the world she'd want to talk to at the moment, regardless of the reason. On the other hand, Kathy Marlowe was suffering from something a lot worse than nervous collapse, and I had absolutely no time to be considerate.

I shook off my chill, put another dime in the slot and called the Medical Center. The reception desk informed me that Madeline Jones was seeing visitors, and gave me her room number. My watch read six fifteen, which left me an hour and forty-five minutes before visiting hours were over. I didn't feel strong enough to walk out the door, but I managed. On the way out I caught a reflected glimpse of myself in a wall of polished marble, and immediately understood why everyone was asking about my health; if not for the fact that I was the only dwarf in the lobby, I wouldn't have recognized myself. I was going to have to do something about my light-headedness; nausea or no, I had to try to eat something and hope that it stayed down.

There was a good seafood restaurant down the block. I went in and immediately made my way to the men's room in the back. I filled the washbasin with cold water and used my good hand to splash my face and neck. I began to feel better. Now all I had to do was manage to keep something in my stomach.

I sat at a corner table, ordered some fish chowder and broiled shrimp. The food tasted good; I probably could have eaten more, but I thought it was a good idea to wait and see how that settled. I finished off with a cup of black coffee, then went out into the street and hailed a cab; I didn't think I could handle a car.

Fifteen minutes later I was at the Medical Center, visitor's card in hand, on my way up to Madeline's room on the second floor. It occurred to me that I was spending so much time at the hospital it would save time if I simply opened up an office in the basement.

Madeline was propped up in the bed, reading a magazine. She looked pale and drawn-older. She was wearing a quilted pink robe with a white-and-pink floral design. The robe looked strange on her, dowdy and unbecoming. I was used to the more severe, tailored look that shaved years off her. There was a vase filled with yellow roses on the night table next to her bed.

Madeline glanced up as I entered. "Mongo!" she cried, startled.

I went over to the side of the bed and kissed her on the cheek. "Hello, babe. How you doing?"

She smiled shyly, self-consciously patted her silver hair, which was hanging loose around her shoulders. Her blue eyes looked watery and tired. "Oh, I feel so silly being here."