In the car, he recorded the address. But instead of driving off, he sat a long time and considered what he should do next.
They had not bothered him since that night in Baron Igescu'shouse, so whyshould he bother them?
They were murderers, torturers, abductors. He knew this with thecertaintyof personal experience. Yet he could not prove what he knew. And ifhe told exactly what had happened, he would be committed to a mentalinstitution. Moreover, he could not blame the authorities for putting him away.
There were times when he could not believe his own vivid memories. Even the most piercing, of when he had flushed the complete skin of Doloresdel Osorojo, eyes and all, down the toilet, was beginning to seem unbelievable.
The mind accepted certain forms and categories, and hisexperiences in thatenormous old house in northern Beverly Hills were outside theaccepted. And soit had been natural that his mind should be trying to bury theseforms and categories. Shove them down, choke them off in the dusty dusky cellarof the unconscious.
He could just go home to his place in Topanga Canyon and forgetall about this, or try to.
He groaned. He was hooked and couldn't fight loose.
If he had not seen Vivienne, he might have continued to ignorehis desires to take up the trail once more. But the sight of her had gotten himas eager asan old bloodhound that whiffs fox on the wind from the hills.
He drove away and did not stop until he pulled into a SantaMonica service station. There was a public phone booth here, which he used to callthe Los Angeles Police Department. His friend, Sergeant Furr, finallyanswered. Childe asked him to check out the license number of the Rolls. Furr said he would call him back within a few minutes. Three minutes later, the phone in the booth rang.
"Hal? I got it for you. The Rolls belongs to a Mrs. Vivienne--V-I-V-I-E-N-N-E--Mabcrough. I don't know how you pronouncethat last name. M-A-B-C-R-O-U-G-H. Mabcrow, Mabcruff?"
"Mabcrow," Childe said. The address was that of the house where the Rolls was parked. Childe thanked Furr and hung up. Vivienne was confident that he
would not bother her anymore. She had not changed her name. Evidently shebelieved that he had had such a scare thrown into him, he would under no circumstances come near her or her kind--whatever that was.
He trudged through the rain and got into the car and drove slowlyand carefully back to the house in which Vivienne Macbcrough lived. Itwas nightfallnow, and the streets of Beverly Hills in the downtown district werelittle rivers, curb-to-curb and overflowing. Although this was a Thursdaynight, therewere very few pedestrians out. The usual bumper-to-bumper traffic wasmissing. Not half a dozen cars were in sight within the distance of threeblocks in anydirection. Santa Monica Boulevard traffic was heavier, because itserved as a main avenue for those on their way to Westwood or West Los Angeles orSanta Monica on one side of the street, and on their way to Los Angeles, orparts ofBeverly Hills, on the other.
The headlights looked like the eyes of diluvian monsters burningwith a fever to get on the Ark. A car had stalled as it was halfway throughmaking aleft turn from Santa Monica onto Beverly Drive, and the monsters wereblaring orhooting at it. Childe nudged his car through the intersection, takingtwo changes of light to do so because cars in the lanes at right anglesinsisted on coming through instead of waiting so that the intersection could becleared.
When he got through, he proceeded up Beverly Drive at abouttwenty miles anhour but slowed to fifteen after several blocks. The water was so high that hewas afraid of drowning out his motor, and his brakes were gettingwet. He keptapplying a little pressure intermittently to the pedal in order tokeep thebrakes dry, but he did not think he was having much success. Fourcars went byhim, passing from behind or going the other way, and these traveledso fast theythrew water all over his car. He wanted to stick his head out of the window and curse at them for their stupidity and general swinishness, but he didnot care to be drenched by the next car.
He parked half a block down from the Mabcrough residence. Hourspassed. He was impatient at first, and then the habits of years of sitting andwaitingwhile he was a private eye locked into his nervous system. He pisseda couple oftimes into a device much like airplane pilots use. He munched on somecrackers and a stick of beef jerky and drank coffee from a canteen. Midnightcame, andhis patience was beginning to thin out against the grindstone oftime.
Then the chauffeur came out from behind the house, got into theRolls, anddrove off. Childe could see the dark figure, outlined by the lightsfrom within the house. He wore a slicker and a shiny transparent covering overhis cap. Asthe car went by, Childe hunkered down behind the wheel. He waiteduntil it was a block away and then swung out to follow it without turning his lightson immediately. The rain had not ceased, and the streets were evendeeper in water.
The Rolls picked up Vivienne and her escort at the club and thenwent back towards the mansion. Childe had hoped it would; he did not feel liketrailingher from one spot to another. The Rolls stopped before the big porchto let its passengers off, and they went into the house. The chauffeur drove thecar away, presumably to the side entrance and into the garage behind the house.
Childe had gotten out of the car by then and walked down alongthe side of the house. He saw the lights in the story above the garage come on. The chauffeur, he hoped, lived there.
He went to the side door, which was surrounded by dense shrubberyand a wall behind him. The people next door could not see him, and anybodypassing by onthe street would not be likely to see him.
The door opened after a few minutes of trying a number of keys. He shot his flashlight around, looking for evidences of a burglar alarm and couldnot find any. He went on slowly into the house, ready to run if a dog gavewarning. Therewas no sound except for the chiming of a big grandfather clock on thesecond floor.
A moment later, he was crouched outside the partly opened door ofVivienne's bedroom.
CHAPTER 22
The room was very large. There was a single light on from thelamp on thefloor. Its base was at least four feet high and was some red-shotquartz-likestone sculptured into two naked nymphs--or female satyrs--back to back. The shade looked like thin parchment or skin. Childe, seeing this, waschilled through as if a huge icicle had been shoved up his anus all the wayto his hindbrain.
There were paintings in red, blue, and purple on the lampshade, outlines of semihuman figures writhing in flames.
The walls were covered with what looked like heavy quiltwork. This had three figures, repeated over and over. There was a satyr standing on a lowstone on one hoof, the other slightly raised. His back was arched and his armsand head were raised while he blew a syrinx. A nymph was crouched before himsucking onhis enormous purple penis. Behind her was a half-human, half-snakecreature. Its lower part was that of a gargantuan python with white and purplemarkings, andthe upper part was a woman's from the belly button up. She had fulland well-shaped breasts with spearpoint scarlet nipples, a lovely three- cornered face and long silver hair. Her slender fingers were spreading theegg-shapedbuttocks of the nymph, who was bent over, and a long forked tonguewas issuingfrom the snake-woman's mouth and just about to enter the anus or thevagina ofthe nymph.
Beyond the lamp was a tremendous twelve-postered bed with acrimson many-tasseled canopy. On it were Vivienne and the man, both naked.
She was on her back and he was on top with her legs over hisshoulders. He was just about to insert his cock.
Childe watched. He expected either something strange coming fromthe man or something strange, but not unfamiliar, from the woman.