She nodded.
‘There are two books so called. One written in 1833 by Charles Nodler. The other by George du Maurier in 1895. I would imagine it is du Maurier’s book that you are interested in. It has to do with mesmerism.’
I stared at her, startled.
‘Your memory is fantastic!’
She laughed.
‘Not fantastic. I had an inquiry for the book a couple of weeks ago. I looked it up. You are having the benefit of my research.’
‘Have you a copy?’
‘Gracious no, Mr. Burden. We do have some of the English classics such as Dickens and Scott, but not du Maurier who is never asked for these days.’
‘And yet you have two inquiries within two weeks?’
‘That is true. A coincidence. I doubt if I could get a copy now unless I tried in England.’
I was disappointed.
‘Did you read it?’ I asked.
‘I have read most of the English classics, Mr. Burden.’
‘I believe a character called Svengali appears in the book?’
‘Indeed, yes. He played an important role in the plot. I think it is fair to say that it was because of this character the book became quite a sensation.’
‘In what way? Could you give me an idea of the plot?’
‘Very briefly, Svengali, a Hungarian musician, meets a young girl. Trilby, who is struggling to make a living. She is represented as being remarkably beautiful with a perfect figure and, if I remember rightly, an angelic disposition. Svengali is a hypnotist. Under his hypnotic influence, he teaches Trilby to sing. She has no voice nor technique, but so powerful is his influence that she becomes, overnight, the finest singer that ever lived. Royalty, Emperors and dukes flock to hear her and Svengali becomes immensely rich. Then, one night, when she was singing in London before a distinguished audience, Svengali, sitting in a stage box dies of a heart attack. Without his hypnotic influence Trilby loses her voice and eventually dies of starvation. That is the story, Mr. Burden.’ She smiled. ‘It is melodrama, of course, but enormously popular at the time. I doubt if you would have the patience to read the book itself. It is over long for modern tastes.’
I had listened to what she had told me with intense interest.
‘Would it be impertinent to ask who the other inquirer was?’
‘I can’t tell you. I have never seen her before. She was very elegantly dressed and quite beautiful dark with large blue eyes. I was a little worried about her. She seemed so tense and anxious.’
Val!
‘Well, thank you.’ I said and got to my feet. ‘I am most grateful.’
As I walked back to my car, I looked at my watch. The time was 19.45. There was no point returning home and then driving to West Palm Beach. I still had some thinking to do. I got in my car and drove to a nearby Howard Johnson restaurant. Finding a corner table away from the noisy tourists, I ordered a club sandwich, then shut myself in a telephone booth. I called Rhoda.
‘Honey, I’m going to be late.’ I said when she came on the line. ‘I won’t be back until ten. Don’t wait supper.’
‘Is this going to happen every night?’ Rhoda demanded crossly.
‘I hope not. How have things been with you?’
‘The usual. Are you still mad at me?’
‘I told you to forget it. I’ve forgotten it.’ My mind was miles away from this flat conversation.
‘Well at least I apologised. I think you could apologise too. My face still hurts.’
‘I apologise.’
A pause, then she said, ‘Well, I’ll go down and get something to eat. I’m hungry.’
‘Yes, do that. See you, honey,’ and I hung up.
What a conversation! I thought as I made my way back to my table.
The club sandwich was waiting for me. While I ate, I thought of what I was going to say to Dr. Rappach.
West Street, West Palm Beach was on the fringe of the Harlem quarter. It was a long, narrow street lined on either side by dilapidated clapboard bungalows with tiny weed choked gardens, protected by rotting wooden fences.
Puerto Ricans, Spaniards and a few black families sat on verandas or on the kerb talking, playing cards, dozing. Some of the women nursed babies.
As I drove down the street, looking for No. 1141, I was aware of curious eyes, hostile eyes and indifferent eyes watching me.
I found the bungalow at the far end of the street. For a long moment I remained in the car, staring at the wooden plaque on which the number was painted, unable to believe that this was the residence of Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist. The building was secured by rusty cables against hurricanes. There was a water tank on a brick foundation with a leaky pipe leading into the bungalow. The clapboard had once been white but was now a dirty grey. The path, through a tangle of weeds that led to the front door was littered with scraps of paper and fruit peel blown in from the street. Dirty net curtains screened the dusty windows. One wooden shutter sagged on a broken hinge.
Could this possibly be the home of Dr. Rappach?
Leaving the car, I eased open the wooden gate, walked up the path, up three steps and on to the stoop that creaked under my weight. The front door had long lost its paint. Three deep slits in the wood would let in the wind and the rain. There was no bell, no knocker, so I rapped with my knuckles. As I stood in the humid heat, I was aware that I was being stared at. I glanced over my shoulder. The bungalows opposite all had verandas on which sat an assortment of young, elderly and old black people. They were like statues carved out of ebony, motionless with curiosity.
The door opened and a man stood before me: tall, lean with a mane of white hair, coarse Negro features, a white pitted leathery skin. He was old. At a guess eighty-five or six. He held himself very upright as if to challenge his age. As I looked at him, I became aware of the compelling power in his piercing black eyes.
‘Mr. Fellows?’ I recognised the thick, deep voice.
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘You are Dr. Rappach?’
‘Yes. Come in. I see my children out there are wondering who you are. They have little to live for except to be curious.’
He led me into a dusty, untidy room with a desk, a chair behind the desk, a lot of books, a settee and a wooden kitchen chair facing the desk.
‘This, Mr. Fellows, is my consulting room,’ he said, moving around the desk. ‘Take the settee. I won’t ask you to use the hard chair. That is for my patients.’ He sat down behind the desk and put his old, blue veined hands on the desktop while he surveyed me.
Feeling slightly bewildered, I sat down on the settee that creaked and I had to shift as a broken spring dug into me. Could this old man. half white, half black, living in this poverty possibly be a friend of the elegant Vernon Dyer? Could he possibly be a neurologist?
‘I see you are puzzled Mr. Fellows. That is understandable. Let me explain,’ he said. ‘If I didn’t live in these conditions my children wouldn’t come to me. By coming to me they imagine they are doing me a favour. As they need my help it is a satisfactory arrangement. I charge them 25 cents a visit.’ He smiled, showing his big yellow teeth. ‘I have retired from active practice. At one time I had my own clinic. Now I am old, now I have enough money to take care of my modest needs. I live in this pigsty to take care of the many sick and troubled people who live around me. It is not entirely selfless. I regard it as my insurance for an afterlife.’
I relaxed.
‘All honour to you, doctor,’ I said. ‘My congratulations.’
‘That is something I don’t need.’ He looked at the cheap watch on his thin wrist. ‘I can give you twenty minutes, Mr. Tellows. What can I do for you?’
While at the restaurant I had prepared my story. I was confident he would accept it.
‘As I explained over the telephone, I am developing a plot for a novel,’ I said. ‘The situation is this: a man, call him Dokes, has hypnotic powers. He works in nightclubs. A girl, call her Mary, comes with a party to the nightclub for an evening of fun. Urged on by her friends, she allows herself to be hypnotised. She does the usual silly things a hypnotist entertainer makes his subject do. Dokes is a sensualist. The girl attracts him physically and he is determined to seduce her. I won’t bother you with the buildup Doctor. It is enough to say Dokes finds out where Mary lives, breaks into her apartment and because he has already hypnotised her, he has only to snap his fingers to put her in a trance. While in this trance, he rapes her. On waking the following morning, she has no recollection of what has happened. From then on, when in the mood, Dokes visits and rapes her. That is part of my plot. Before I develop it, I want to know if it is feasible.’