"And you haven't seen any reports?"
"No. As a matter of fact, I think Jordon is stalling."
"Why stall after agreeing to participate in the project in the first place?"
"I don't know, Mongo. He may have had second thoughts after the murder; or maybe he's simply afraid his colleagues will laugh at him."
Maybe. It still seemed to me like a curious shift in attitude. One thing was certain: I'd dearly love to see the list of patients who had been referred to Esteban. The list might contain the name of someone who'd had a motive to kill Samuels and try to pin it on Esteban Morales.
"What else can you tell me about Samuels and Jordon?" I asked. "You said they were partners?"
"Yes," Janet said thoughtfully. "They were also very much involved in the modern, big-business aspect of medicine. Dr. Jordon, of course, still is. It's what a lot of doctors are doing these days: labs, ancillary patient centers, private hospitals-that sort of thing. Jordon's skills seem to be more in the area of administration, frankly." She paused, nervously smoothed back a loose strand of gray hair. "Now that I think about it, I guess Dr. Jordon would be about the last person I'd have expected to be interested in psychic healing. Anyway, there were rumors to the effect that they were going public in a few months."
"Physicians go public?"
"Sure. They build up a network of the types of facilities I mentioned, incorporate, then sell stock."
"How did the two of them get along?"
"Who knows?" Janet said distantly. "I assume they got on about as well as most business partners. They had quite different personalities, though."
"How so?"
"Samuels was the older of the two men by quite a few years. He was a much more experienced doctor, and I suspect he was attracted to Dr. Jordon in the first place because of Jordon's business acumen and administrative skills. Samuels was a good doctor, but he was. . well, brooding. Absolutely no sense of humor. Jordon has a lighter side. Obviously, he was also the more adventurous of the two."
I gave it some thought, then said, "Adventurous or not, it still strikes me as odd that Jordon-from the way you describe him-would want to take the time to work with Esteban. He sounds like a man with a lot of irons in the fire."
"Oh, he certainly is that. I really can't explain Dr. Jordon's enthusiasm-and, as I told you, Samuels was opposed to their involvement in the project from the beginning. Dr. Samuels told me he didn't want to waste his time on what he considered superstitious nonsense. But then, when Dr. Jordon persuaded his partner to participate, I wasn't about to question the motives of either man." She hesitated, then added, "I do think Dr. Samuels' negative attitude finally affected Esteban."
"Why do you say that?"
"I'm. . really not sure; it's just a suspicion. Toward the end of our work here, something was destroying Esteban's concentration-or whatever it is that he needs to do what he does. He wasn't getting the same results with the enzymes that he was getting earlier, and I was never able to find out why. I asked Esteban about it, but he made it clear that he didn't want to discuss the matter." She paused and looked at me for a long time with her moist, violet eyes. "Mongo," she continued at last, "Esteban is probably the gentlest, most loving person I've ever met-except for you. Thank you so very, very much for agreeing to help."
The tremor in Janet's voice and the tears in her eyes embarrassed me. I responded with something inane and inappropriate about recommending me to her main department head, then hurriedly left.
It was four o'clock. To that point it had been what could be described as a depressing day. I seriously considered repairing to the local pub, but was afraid I'd succumb to temptation and get gloriously drunk; with two decidedly oddball cases to juggle, I thought it might be a good idea to stay sober. I went home.
I perked up when I saw the little girl waiting for me outside my apartment. Kathy Marlowe was a small friend of mine from 4D, down the hall. Frank Marlowe, her father, was a man who'd become rich churning out hundreds of pulp novels under a dozen different pseudonyms.
Marlowe was a rather strange man, even for a writer. Brooding, almost totally self-absorbed, he was a hard man to get to know, even by New York standards, and I'd always respected his privacy. Still, the fact that I was a real-life private investigator seemed to fascinate him, and we'd managed to have a few discussions. He'd once announced, only half joking, that I'd inspired him to create a new series of paperback novels featuring a dwarf private detective. I'd heartily discouraged the idea, assuring him that no one would believe it. During the course of those few conversations, I'd come to perceive Marlowe as a complex man with complex ambitions that went far beyond anything that appeared in the simply written, fast-paced entertainments that seemed to pop out of his typewriter once every three or four weeks. He was divorced from his wife, but Kathy visited him every summer. The child and I had become fast friends.
Kathy, with her fine blond hair, dressed in a frilly white dress and holding a bright red patent leather purse that perfectly complemented her blue eyes, looked positively beatific. I laughed to myself as I recalled that it had taken me two of her seven years to convince her that I wasn't a potential playmate.
"Kathy, Kathy, Kathy!" I shouted, picking her up and setting her down in a manner usually guaranteed to produce Instant Giggle. "How's my girl today?"
"Hello, Mr. Mongo," she said very seriously.
"Why the good clothes? You look beautiful, but I almost didn't recognize you without dirt on your nose."
Kathy still didn't smile. "I've been waiting for you, Mr. Mongo, because I want to ask you something. I went to a birthday party, but I left early so I could meet you. My daddy's at a meeting with his editor. I was afraid I wouldn't see you before he came home."
Now tears came, welling slowly in her eyes like dew on the most delicate blue flowers. I gently brushed the tears away, suddenly realizing that this was no child's game. "What do you want to ask me, Kathy?" I said, gently kissing her on the forehead.
The child sniffled, then regained control of herself in a manner that reminded me of someone much older. "My daddy says you sometimes help people for money."
"That's right, sweetheart. How can I help you?"
"I want you to get my daddy's book of shadows back," she said, her words coming in a rush. "I heard Daddy say he thinks either Daniel or Esobus took it, and I know he's real worried. He always talks to himself when he's upset. I want him to be happy like he used to be." She sniffled again, blew her tiny nose on a tissue she'd retrieved from her red purse. When she looked at me again, her eyes seemed very large. "But you mustn't tell Daddy, Mr. Mongo," she continued in a small, frightened voice held together by determination. "He'd be awful mad at me if he knew I told anyone. But I can tell from what he says that he just has to get his book of shadows back, or something terrible will happen."
"Kathy," I said, cupping my hand under her chin, "slow down and tell me what a 'book of shadows' is. Who are Daniel and Esobus?"
But Kathy wasn't listening; she was sobbing, fumbling in her small purse. "I. . I've got money for you," she stammered between sobs. "I've been saving my milk money."
Before I could say anything, the little girl had taken out a child's handful of nickels, dimes and pennies and pressed them into my palm. I started to give the money back, then hesitated when I heard footsteps come up behind me.
"Kathy," a thin, nasal voice said. "What are you doing here?"
The girl gave me an anguished look that was an unmistakable plea to keep her secret. Then she quickly brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and smiled up at the person standing behind me.