"No, thank you," said Smith, swallowing hard.
"Very low in calories."
"I'm sure," he said.
"Hilary won't work for anyone who eats meat."
"The housekeeper?"
"Isn't she a dream?" Mrs. Cunningham rhapsodized. "So Waspy. Nothing ethnic about her at all. Of course, she doesn't do much work. It would ruin her clothes."
"Mrs. Cunningham, I'm looking for A. H. Baynes," Smith said.
She rolled her eyes. "Please don't mention that name around here."
"Why not?"
"As acting chairperson of the Neighborhood Betterment Committee, I have forbidden it."
"You mean, because Mrs. Baynes is deceased?" Smith asked.
"Gawd, no. Dying was the first decent thing Evelyn's done in months. Too bad she had to take the Palmers with her. They were a good element."
"What about Mrs. Baynes?" Smith persisted.
"Dead in Paris."
"Before Paris," Smith said.
"Well, there was that awful business that ruined them in the neighborhood," she said.
"What was that? It's for the good of the country."
"In that case . . ." she said. She leaned forward. "They went to live in some religious commune." She stood back, eyes gleaming, hands on hips. "Can you believe it? I mean, it's not like throwing a party for revolutionaries. That's a statement. What sort of statement can religion make? They're not even doing that in Southern California."
"Was this commune in the neighborhood?" Smith asked.
"I should hope not. Episcopalians don't have communes. My church doesn't even have services. But that's what it was all about. The Bayneses were talking about communes in the neighborhood. Well, the last thing we wanted was some hairy old thing from China or someplace having religious sex orgies on our lawn. So we told the Bayneses we didn't approve."
"Have you seen Mr. Baynes recently?"
"Not a glimpse. Not even at the funeral. But then, he was always a strange one. He didn't even like racquetball."
"Do you know where this commune is that they joined?"
"No, I don't," she said. "And if you find out, don't bother to tell me. I want to think only beautiful thoughts."
Smith was sitting in his chair, pondering his next move, when a buzzing sound came from inside the attache case on the front seat. He opened the case and lifted the miniature telephone built into it.
"Yes," he said.
"It's ... Remo."
"Where are you?" said Smith. Remo sounded strange, hurt.
"New Orleans . . . don't know the street . . . a motel. . . ."
"Remo." The voice was a command. "Stay on the line."
"It wants me. I can't stay," Remo said.
"Pull yourself together."
"Too late.... I have to go ... have to-"
There was a sound as Remo dropped the telephone. Smith heard the receiver banging against the wall as it hung on its cord.
He called Remo's name several times, then punched a message into a secondary unit in the attache case, directing the Folcroft computers to trace the call on his telephone.
Remo started for the door of the room. He tried to stop, and at the last minute darted into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.
But he could still smell the scent. It wanted him. He tried to block out the smell. He took the yellow towel from the sink and tried to jam it under the door, but the smell persisted, filling his nostrils and his mind. He held the towel over his face, but it didn't stop the smell.
When he could resist no more, he stood and jammed the yellow towel into his pocket, pulled open the door, and walked toward the door to the hall.
A terrible sadness whistled through him like wind in a storm as he opened the grimy door to the room. From his pocket he pulled the piece of yellow chalk that he had used to mark his way from Denver. He would not need it anymore.
It was near, and his next stop would be with It.
He tossed the chalk to the floor. On the other side of the room, the telephone swung rhythmically from its cord.
Chapter Eighteen
Across the alleyway, Ban Sar Din could hear the ashram filling up. He rose from his brocade-covered water bed and stretched.
This was the day.
It was the first gathering of the Thuggees since A. H. Baynes had sent them all off to Paris aboard Air Europa, and he, Ban Sar Din, was now ready to speak to them.
He would tell them that their ways were in error. He would tell them that it was wrong to permit outsiders in the ashram. He would tell them that the true nourishment of the soul depended upon a true spiritual leader and that their leader should be treated with courtesy and respect. He would tell them that belief in Kali was the key to eternal happiness.
Ban Sar Din would tell them all that. He would speak and the faithful would listen, and then he would again take his rightful place as the head of the cult of Kali.
He walked across the alley, past his Porsche, through the heavy steel-reinforced door, and strode deliberately into the ashram. The roar of the devotees resounded in his ears.
He paused and saw at the foot of the statue four large woven baskets. Around the baskets were scores of yellow rumals, each of them twisted and soiled with use.
"Kill," the devotees shouted when they saw him, "Kill for the love of Kali."
Ban Sar Din stepped onto the dais in front of the statue and held his arms up high. "Listen, listen!" he shouted. But the crowd was still in a frenzy.
"I want to tell you, as your Holy One, that it is wrong what you do." His voice cracked from the strain and he looked around the room, waiting for an incense pot to come flying toward his skull. When he was not assaulted, he went on: "Kali does not wish you to kill so much. Kali does not want numbers of deaths; Kali wants the right deaths. Especially since the deaths make the front pages of the newspapers full every day. Soon the wrath of the authorities will be upon us."
The crowd was still chanting. Some of the members stepped forward, and Ban Sar Din flinched, but they merely went to the large baskets in front of the statue and removed the covers.
"I am your Holy One," Ban Sar Din shouted, "and you must listen to me."
The crowd quieted.
Ban Sar Din's eye caught a glimmer of blue-white coming from the baskets. They were filled with jewels. The jewels were lying on beds of green American cash.
"Yes, Holy One," Holly Rodan said. "We listen to your wisdom."
"Well, uh ... " Ban Sar Din picked up a diamond pendant. Five carats total weight, he estimated.
"Speak, O Holy One." The room reverberated with the chant.
There were about a half-dozen good sapphires.
"I ... um . . ." Rubies, he thought, digging into the baskets. The price of rubies was skyrocketing. A two-carat ruby was often worth more, than a two-carat diamond.
"I...um.."
"I think I can speak for the Holy One," said A. H. Baynes, stepping forward from behind the partition that separated the public part of the ashram from his office. His thumbs were hooked into his suspenders and he was grinning broadly, his teeth showing. It was his sincere grin.
"What old Sardine means is, golly, you're a swell hunch of kids."
The throng cheered.
"And don't think the little lady with the arms doesn't appreciate it."
"Hail, Chief Phansigar."
"Kill for Kali."
"Why, just the other day, I was telling Old Sardine here-" A. H. Baynes began, but he was interrupted. Holly Rodan screamed. Every face turned toward her.
"He's here. He has come."
Ban Sar Din pocketed a half-dozen of the biggest jewels in case someone bad had come. "Who?" he shouted. "Where?"
"There," Holly shouted. "He has come. Kali's lover. He has come."
"Oh, him," said Ban Sar Din, but he looked to the back of the ashram, even as he filled his other pocket with more jewels and cash.
In the doorway stood a tall thin young man wearing a black T-shirt. His wrists were large. His face was haggard and his eyes held a look of helpless despair. If someone had asked him who he was, he would have answered that his name used to be Remo Williams.