The house at 3601 Turk Street was a modest affair, its slender front yard enclosed by a black iron picket fence. Rented, not purchased, Sabina judged from the TO LET sign on the gate of one of its similar neighbors. No electrical power lines serviced it; Professor A. Vargas, particularly if he were a clever swindler, would have been careful to select a home that had not been wired for electricity. The sometimes spectral trembles produced by gas flame would be much more suited to his purpose.
On the gate here was a discreet bronze sign whose raised letters gleamed faintly in the cold morning sunshine. The wording was the same as that on the card Winthrop Buckley had shown her: UNIFIED COLLEGE OF THE ATTUNED IMPULSES, PROF. A. VARGAS, SPIRIT MEDIUM AND COUNSELOR.
She adjusted her plain black suit jacket, straightened the black lace-trimmed hat perched atop her dark hair which she’d pinned back into a bun — an effective mourning outfit missing only a veil she had decided was unnecessary. Then she climbed the short flight of stairs to the front door, twisted the bell handle.
Several seconds passed before the door opened. The small woman who stood facing her was also a study in black: coal-black eyes, straight ebon hair (dyed?) wound in a coronet above a high forehead, a sleek satin dress that had a sheen like polished onyx. Very pale skin gave her an appropriately ghostly aspect, enhanced by a white amulet embossed with some sort of cabalistic design nestled between ample breasts. For all of that, she was attractive in a severe fashion. Annabelle, surely, minus the cowled robe she apparently wore only at séances. If she did in fact live here with Vargas, she was likely his wife or mistress as well as his assistant. Seeking communion with the Afterworld, Sabina thought cynically, did not preclude indulging in the pleasures of the earthly sphere.
The ebon eyes took her measure. Not quite calculatingly, though the gaze did not miss the fact that her mourning outfit had come from a quality apparel shop. “Yes?”
Sabina had adopted a somewhat nervous, timid expression. She cleared her throat before she said, “I’ve come seeking an audience with Professor Vargas. I understand he has the power to communicate with those who have passed over.”
“There is someone in the spirit world you wish to speak to?” The woman’s voice was low-pitched, almost sepulchral.
“My brother. He died quite suddenly last week, you see, and I... well, I would very much like to communicate with him if at all possible.”
“Your name?”
“Mrs. Dorothy Milford.”
“I am Annabelle, Professor Vargas’s psychic assistant. Enter and follow me, please.”
Sabina trailed her down a murky hallway into a somewhat more brightly lighted parlor. Annabelle relieved her of her wrap, which she hung on a coat tree. “I will see if the professor is finished with his morning meditation,” she said then. The satin dress rustled as she left the room through a wide black curtain at the far end.
Sabina remained standing, looking around the parlor. This was not where the séances were held, evidently. The only mediumistic trapping in the otherwise conventionally furnished room was the black curtain, which bore a larger version of the same “magic” symbol as that on the woman’s amulet. Both curtain and symbol, Sabina noted, were somewhat similar to those that adorned Madame Louella’s fortune-telling parlor.
Her wait was of less than five minutes’ duration. The curtain parted again and Annabelle stepped through. “Professor Vargas has consented to grant you an audience, Mrs. Milford. A donation of ten dollars to the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses is customary for each private sitting.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Shall I pay now?”
“After your consultation. Follow me, please.”
Annabelle conducted her through the curtain, down another gloomy hallway, and through yet another curtain into a semidarkened room strongly scented with incense. Sabina, who hated the stuff, immediately began to breathe through her mouth. The only light came from two sources: a pair of white candles in pewter holders on the mantelpiece above a small fireplace — wisps of smoke emanated from the incense burner set between them — and a circular, glass-topped table in the middle of the room. The glass was opaque, and it was lighted within in some sort of phosphorescent manner; its glow and that of the flickering candles had the intended eerie effect in the shadowed surroundings. A high-backed, thronelike chair was placed on one side of the table, a pair of smaller armchairs arranged opposite. Cabalistically imprinted black drapes covered two walls; the other two, papered above dark wainscoting, were bare.
Annabelle announced to the man standing next to the chair, “Mrs. Dorothy Milford,” and took her leave in a satiny whisper.
The man stepped forward, his hand extended. He, too, was dressed all in black except for a dark blue shirt and a twin of Annabelle’s white amulet. Winthrop Buckley had referred to him as imposing, a description that Sabina, who was seldom impressed by physical stature, had to admit was apt. Tall, well built, with a mane of black hair and a vaguely Mephistophelean countenance. The only false note was his curled black mustache. It was no doubt meant to enhance his image, but it reminded her of the sort villains in stage melodramas wore. She hoped he wouldn’t twirl the ends of his; she would be hard-pressed not to laugh if he did.
“Good morning, Mrs. Milford,” he said in rich stentorian tones. The touch of his hand was light, almost feathery. It seemed to Sabina that he maintained the contact somewhat longer than necessary.
“Thank you for seeing me, Professor Vargas.”
“I am always happy to serve one who believes in the spirit world. You are a sincere believer, I trust?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Splendid. New friends are always welcome at the Unified College of the Attuned Impulses. How did you learn of us?”
“From Mr. Winthrop Buckley.”
“Ah. Mr. Buckley’s wife is a particularly ardent devotee.”
“Yes, he told me.”
“Have you consulted a spirit counselor before?”
“No. Only a clairvoyant on occasion.”
Vargas nodded, smiling as he moved one of the smaller chairs close to the table across from the high-backed one. He held it for Sabina until she was seated, then moved around opposite. The seat on his chair was set slightly higher, so that when he perched he gave the oracular effect of looking down at her from a height.
Before he could speak, Sabina said, “I understand you have been in San Francisco only a short time, Professor. Did you establish the Unified College elsewhere?”
“Yes. Many years ago.”
“May I ask where?”
“In the East.”
“Chicago? New York?”
“I have shared my gift of spirit counseling with many believers in many locales,” Vargas said glibly and evasively. He leaned forward, the light illuminating his dark features and giving his eyes a hypnotic shine. “Now then, shall we begin?”
“By all means,” Sabina said. More questions would only make him suspicious.
“My assistant informed me that you seek to communicate with a loved one who has recently crossed the Rubicon.”
“My brother Gregory. There are certain... pressing questions he left unanswered.”
“The nature of those questions?”
“They regard our family finances. Investments... stocks, bonds, and the like.”
Was that a glint of avarice in Vargas’s penetrating gaze? It was difficult to be sure in the eerie table glow. “You are now in charge of these investments?” he asked.
Sabina said, “Yes, with the aid of our attorneys. But Gregory made all the decisions, you see, very profitable ones, and I don’t wish to carry on with anything he might not approve of.”
“Ah, I see.”
“It is possible for you to summon him?”
“All things are possible in the realm of the spirit world. But it is not I who may summon him, but Angkar. I am merely a teacher of the light and truth of theocratic unity, merely a humbly blessed operator between the Beyond and this mortal sphere.”
“Angkar?”
“My spirit guide. He lived more than a thousand years past and his spirit has ascended to one of the highest planes in the Afterworld.”
“A Hindu, was he?”
“No, an Egyptian nobleman in the court of Nebuchadnezzar.”
That statement was the first bit of proof that Professor A. Vargas was a charlatan, and a less than thorough one in his researches. For Nebuchadnezzar had not been an Egyptian, Sabina knew from her world history lessons as a girl, but the king of Babylon and conqueror of Jerusalem some six centuries B.C. She refrained from mentioning the fact, of course, though if she had, Vargas no doubt would have covered his mistake by claiming he’d meant Nefertiti or some such.
He placed both hands on the table in such a way that enormous rings on each of the middle fingers glittered in the light. They were of intricate design and bore hieroglyphics similar to those on the amulets. Sabina had the impression that he had displayed them deliberately for her inspection.
She said obligingly, “Are your rings Egyptian, Professor?”
“This one is.” Vargas lifted his left hand. “An Egyptian signet and seal talisman ring, made from virgin gold.” He presented 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.’”
“Yes, as my brother’s troubles have,” Sabina said in feigned consternation. “How long will it take for Angkar to summon him?”
“That is a question I cannot answer at this time, Mrs. Milford. I must first have more information about your dear departed brother. Then in order to connect with the discarnate, I must place myself in a metagnomic trance and seek to inform Angkar of your desire to speak with Gregory’s astral spirit.”
My, my, Sabina thought wryly. Metagnomic trance. Another mistake, though most of Vargas’s disciples would have been too captivated by his facile patter to have realized it. Metagnomy was not a type of trance, but a form of clairvoyance in which a sensitive supposedly could see the future while mesmerized. His research had been shoddy indeed.
She said, “I understand you will be conducting a séance here on Saturday night. Would it be possible for me to attend?”
“Certainly. I advise that you do.”
“Then it’s possible that you... I mean Angkar can summon Gregory’s spirit at the sitting?”
“Possible, yes, if Gregory is among our many friends on the astral plane and your impulses are properly attuned so that a zone beyond spatial and temporal laws may be entered and a rapport thus established. But I cannot promise that contact will be made so quickly. That is Angkar’s province, not mine.”
“I feel that my impulses are already attuned with Gregory’s. We were very close, you see.”
“I have no doubt,” Vargas said. “But that may not be the case now that Gregory’s spirit resides in the Afterworld. The ways of spirit life are not those of earth life. We cannot truly understand the discarnate, for only small portions of the Great Mystery are revealed to mortals through the powerful presence of spirit guides such as Angkar.”
More gobbledygook designed to fool the gullible. “How do I properly attune my impulses?”
“With my guidance. May I have your hand, please?”
“My hand?”
“As a sensitive, I am often able to determine the strength of one’s impulses by means of spiritual contact.”
Sabina let him take her hand again. He held it for a moment, then very gently began to stroke it, first the backs of her fingers, then her palm. His touch was light, caressing, all the while his gaze holding hers.
Spiritual contact, my eye! This definitely was not impersonal hand-holding; it was intimate and subtly sexual, as if he were testing her willingness to respond. A. Vargas was after more than just money from attractive female acolytes, by heaven — a rake as well as a fake.
She didn’t let him get away with it for long. She withdrew her hand and said coolly, “And are my impulses strong, Professor?”
“They are,” he said through one of his unctuous smiles. “Quite strong, indeed. However, inasmuch as Saturday’s séance will be your first, I suggest one or two additional audiences in order for me to do everything in my power to prepare you.”
And attempt to seduce me if you think I might be willing.
“Is that agreeable, Mrs. Milford?”
“Oh, yes,” she lied.
“You understand that it may take several sittings before Gregory is summoned and you are able to speak with him?”
“As many as necessary,” she lied again.
“Splendid.” Vargas once more leaned forward into the light, his gaze still fixed unblinkingly on hers. “Now please be so kind as to tell me about your brother and his earthly activities.”
Sabina had prepared a detailed family and business history, which she proceeded to unroll. Vargas asked several questions, not a few of them designed to elicit information about the wealth of the alleged Milford clan. The only truism was the name of the “family attorney,” Archibald Maguire, who was in fact a prominent San Francisco lawyer. Maguire was counsel for cousin Callie and her husband, Hugh French, as well as Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. He had been amenable to assisting her and John in the course of their investigations in the past (for a fee, of course), and so she would arrange with him to corroborate her fabricated story about the Milfords in the event Vargas should decide to check up on it.
When the professor had gleaned all the data she was willing to provide, he commenced his “preparations.” These were necessary, he said, not only to properly attune her impulses, but to guard against “malevolent forces” that sought to prevent communication with friendly spirits. The process consisted of a great deal of additional mumbo-jumbo about theocratic unity between the living and the dead and the nature of the astral plane so far as he claimed knowledge of it. Sabina pretended to listen attentively and to agree to everything he told her to do, except for acceding to another attempt to fondle her hand. That she firmly resisted.
Predictably the initial sitting concluded with Vargas urging once again that she come twice more before Saturday’s séance. If he were successful in summoning Angkar, which of course he would be, he would tell her at their next meeting, and continue with her preparations according to the spirit guide’s instructions. Her role as eager and submissive believer demanded consent; she must do nothing that might plant even a tiny worm of suspicion in Vargas’s mind. But the prospect of two more visits to this dark, incense-laden room, and of having to continue to fend off his subtle advances while listening to his glib nonsense, was unpleasant in the extreme.
Vargas used some sort of hidden device to summon Annabelle, for she appeared abruptly through the curtain. Another too lengthy handshake and a silent bow ended the audience. Annabelle conducted her back to the parlor, where Sabina handed the woman a ten-dollar gold piece without being asked. She was then shown to the front door. All very swiftly and smoothly done, the result no doubt of long practice.
Outside, she drew several deep breaths of cold, fresh air. That helped rid her nostrils of the incense residue. But she continued to sniff its lingering smoky odor on her clothing on the streetcar ride downtown.