Margaret Buckley looked upon Vargas with the rapt gaze of a supplicant in the presence of a saint. Dr. Cobb was also a true believer, judging from the look of eager anticipation he wore. The blond Mrs. Cobb seemed to find the medium fascinating as well, but the glint in her eye was much more predatory than devout. Buckley appeared ill at ease, as if he wished the evening’s business was already finished; he kept casting glances at Quincannon which the detective studiously ignored.
Vargas asked Quincannon and Sabina if they would care for a refreshment, coffee, tea, perhaps a glass of sherry. They both declined. This seemed to relieve Buckley; he asked Vargas, “Isn’t it about time to begin the séance?”
“Soon, Mr. Buckley. The spirits must not be hurried.”
“Are they friendly tonight?” Mrs. Buckley asked. “Can you tell, dear Professor Vargas?”
“The auras are uncertain. I perceive antagonistic waves among the benign.”
“Oh, Professor!”
“Do not fear,” Vargas said. “Even if a malevolent spirit should cross the border, no harm will come to you or to any of us. Angkar will protect us.”
“But will my Bernice’s spirit be allowed through if there is a malevolent force present?”
Vargas patted her arm reassuringly. “It is my belief that she will, though I cannot be certain until the veil has been lifted. Have faith, dear Mrs. Buckley.”
Sabina asked him, “Isn’t there anything you can do to prevent a malevolent spirit from crossing over?”
“Alas, no. I am merely a teacher of the light and truth of theocratic unity, merely an operator between the Beyond and this mortal sphere.”
Merely a purveyor of pap, Quincannon thought.
Grace Cobb touched Vargas’s sleeve; her fingers lingered almost caressingly. “We have faith in you, Professor.”
“In Angkar, dear lady,” Vargas told her, but his fingers caressed hers in return and the look he bestowed upon her had a smoldering quality — the same sort of cat-at-cream look, Quincannon thought, that Sabina had accused him earlier of directing at her. “Place your faith in Angkar and the spirit world.”
Quincannon asked him, “Angkar is your spirit guide and guardian angel?”
“Yes. He lived more than a thousand years past and his spirit has ascended to one of the highest planes in the After-world.”
“A Hindu, was he?”
Vargas seemed mildly offended. “Not at all, my dear sir. Angkar was an Egyptian nobleman in the court of Nebuchadnezzar.”
Quincannon managed to refrain from pointing out that Nebuchadnezzar was not an Egyptian but the king of Babylon and conqueror of Jerusalem some six centuries B.C. Not that any real harm would have been done if he had mentioned the fact; Vargas would have covered by claiming he had meant Nefertiti or some such. None of the others, except Sabina perhaps, seemed to notice the error.
Sabina said, “Those rings are most impressive, Professor. Are they Egyptian?”
“This one is.” Vargas presented his left hand. “An Egyptian Signet and Seal Talisman Ring, made from virgin gold. It preserves its wearer against ill luck and wicked influences.” He offered his right hand. “This is the Ring of King Solomon. Its Chaldaic inscription stands as a reminder to the wearer that no matter what his troubles may be, they shall soon be gone. The inscription here translates as ‘This shall also pass.’ ”
“Oh, Professor Vargas,” Mrs. Buckley gushed, “you’re so knowledgeable, so wise in so many ways.”
Quincannon’s dinner stirred ominously under his breastbone.
He was spared further discomfort, at least for the present, by the entrance of the psychic assistant, Annabelle. She announced, “All is in readiness, Professor,” and without waiting for a response, glided out again.
“Good ladies and gentlemen,” Vargas said, “before we enter the spirit room may I accept your most kind and welcome donations to the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses, so that we may continue in our humble efforts to bring the psychic and material planes into closer harmony?”
Quincannon paid for himself and Sabina — the outrageous “New Ones” donation of fifty dollars each. If he had not been assured of reimbursement from their client, he would have been much more grudging than he was in handing over the greenbacks. Buckley was tight-lipped as he paid, and sweat oiled his neck and the lower of his two chins; the look he gave Quincannon was a mute plea not to botch the job he and Sabina had been hired to do. Only Dr. Cobb ponied up with what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm.
The medium casually dropped the wad of bills onto a table, as if money mattered not in the slightest to him personally, and led them out of the parlor, down the gloomy hallway, and then into a large chamber at the rear. The “spirit room” contained quite a few more accoutrements than the parlor, of greater variety and a more unusual nature. The floor was covered by a thick Oriental carpet of dark blue and black design. Curtains made of the same ebon material as the professor’s and Annabelle’s robes blotted the windows, and the gaslight had been turned low enough so that shadows crouched in all four corners. The overheated air was permeated with the smell of incense; Quincannon, who hated the stuff, immediately began to breathe through his mouth. The incense came from a burner on the mantel of a small fireplace — a horsey-looking bronze monstrosity with tusks as well as equine teeth and a shaggy mane and beard.
The room’s centerpiece was an oval, highly polished table around which six straight-backed chairs were arranged; a seventh chair, larger than the others, with a high seat and arms raised on a level with that of the tabletop, was placed at the head. Along the walls were a short, narrow sideboard of Oriental design, made of teak, with an intricately inlayed center top; a tall-backed rococo love seat; and an alabaster pedestal atop which sat a hideous bronze statue of an Egyptian male in full headdress, a representation, evidently, of the mythical Angkar. In the middle of the table was a clear-glass jar, a tiny silver bell suspended inside. On the sideboard were a silver tray containing several bottles of various sizes and shapes, a tambourine, and a stack of children’s school slates with black wooden frames. Propped against the wall nearby was an ordinary-looking three-stringed guitar. And on the high seat of the armchair lay a coil of sturdy rope Quincannon estimated as some three yards in length.
When the sitters were all inside and loosely grouped near the table, Vargas closed the door, produced a large brass key from a pocket in his robe, and proceeded with a flourish to turn the key in the latch. After which he brought the key to the sideboard and set it beside the tray in plain sight. While this was being done, Quincannon eased over in front of the door and tested it behind his back to determine if it was in fact locked. It was.
Still at the sideboard, Vargas announced that before they formed the “mystic circle” two final preparations were necessary. Would one of the good believers be so kind as to assist him in the first of these? Quincannon stepped forward just ahead of Dr. Cobb.
The medium said, “Mr. Quinn, will you kindly examine each of the slates you see before you and tell us if they are as they seem — ordinary writing slates?”
Quincannon examined them more carefully than any of the devotees would have. “Quite ordinary,” he said.
“Select two, if you please, write your name on each with this slate pencil, and then place them together and tie them securely with your handkerchief.”