Eight

Jenny Arliss said the two missing hypnotists, Hughes Goodison, 32, and his sister, Pauline, 27, had wandered into the hypnotist’s trade by accident.

“Their fascination with it began at a drinks party,” she said. “Hughes was twenty-five then, a bookkeeper, and Pauline was five years younger and a clerk-typist. They shared a flat in Hammersmith left to them by their parents who’d died the year before of food poisoning while on holiday in Malta.”

“Botulism,” Glimm said. “Somebody forgot to boil the milk.” Artie Wu made a careful note on his pad that read, “Cigars.”

“It was at this party,” Arliss said, “that an amateur hypnotist was putting people into trances and suggesting they do silly things such as barking like a dog, crowing like a rooster or meowing like a cat. Silly harmless nonsense.”

“That fascinated them?” Durant said.

“Of course not. What did fascinate them was that they themselves were such easy subjects. The amateur hypnotist told them he’d never worked with anyone more susceptible.”

“You can’t hypnotize anyone who doesn’t wanta be,” said Glimm, looking at Wu, as if expecting him to make another note. Wu obliged by writing another reminder, “Call Booth in Manila.”

Jenny Arliss said that brother and sister were so intrigued by their brush with hypnotism that Hughes Goodison bought a book on the subject. “It was one of those oversimplified popularizations, something like, ‘How to Hypnotize and Amaze Your Friends.’ They practiced on each other first, then on their chums, and discovered they were really quite good at it. They even laid on a study course and began reading books by recognized authorities such as, well, Estabrook was one, then there were Moodie and Gilla and Fromm and, let me think, Shor.”

“Some memory, huh?” Glimm asked.

“Remarkable,” Durant said.

It was just after the Goodisons began their course of study, Arliss said, that Hughes began looking into ways he and his sister could become certified hypnotists and discovered the requirements were surprisingly lax. He also learned of schools of hypnotism where the course lasted only forty hours — followed by sixteen hours of supervised practice. He and his sister could even attend classes at night and, once all courses were completed, hang out their shingle as certified hypnotists.

“And that’s exactly what they did,” Arliss said.

“Tell ’em about their gimmick,” Glimm said.

She nodded. “Right. Their gimmick, as Mr. Glimm calls it, was to open a lose-weight, stop-smoking clinic — except they didn’t call it a clinic. They called it a workshop and their success rate was about what it is for most such places — anywhere from fifteen to twenty percent, if that. But one boasts about successes, not failures, and Hughes and Pauline were quite good at self-promotion. They worked up a fairly witty lecture-cum-demonstration, wisely keeping it to fifteen minutes, and offered it free to civic and professional groups that met weekly or monthly. They sprinkled their act — I suppose I should call it that — with generous dollops of psychobabble and lots of audience participation. Pauline was especially clever at choosing those in the audience who were most easily hypnotized.”

“Real operators, huh?” Glimm said.

“But so far very small-time,” Durant said.

“Just wait.”

“Opportunity knocked or banged on their door,” Arliss said, “when a woman detective, who happened to be a heavy smoker, attended one of the professional women’s meetings, although I don’t remember which one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Glimm said.

“The detective signed up for the Goodison’s stop-smoking program and even joked that if they didn’t make her stop smoking, she’d arrest them for fraud. But after only two sessions she did stop smoking, apparently forever.”

“Why apparently?” Wu asked.

“Because I haven’t seen her in several months. The detective was working on a rape case when she met the Goodisons. The victim was a seven-year-old girl who suffered traumatic memory loss and couldn’t or wouldn’t say who’d attacked her, although the detective had begun to suspect Uncle Ned.”

Arliss poured herself some Evian water, sipped it and said, “The detective and the Goodisons were chums by then and she asked them if they’d done much work with children. They said children were often the most receptive subjects — which obviously didn’t answer the question. The detective then asked if they’d be willing to hypnotize a seven-year-old rape victim suffering from traumatic memory loss. This time Pauline admitted they’d never done anything quite like that but very much wanted to cooperate with the police in any way they could.”

“You’re putting in too much detail,” Glimm said.

“I like detail,” Wu said, smiling encouragingly at Arliss.

She had another sip of Evian water. “The detective had by now struck up a kind of silent rapport with the seven-year-old girl, who hadn’t said a word since her rape. But sometimes she’d nod or shake her head to the detective’s questions, which is more than she’d do for her parents or anyone else. So after getting the parents’ permission the detective explained everything to the child, then went to her masters and told them what she had in mind. After a certain amount of bureaucratic bump and shuffle, it was decided to give the Goodisons a try, providing a doctor was present.”

“I thought the Metro cops had their own hypnotists,” Durant said.

“They do,” Arliss said. “But they’re all male coppers. In any event, Pauline — with brother Hughes as backup — hypnotized the child, who regained both speech and memory and promptly named her dad as the rapist.”

“Well, now,” said Wu because Jenny Arliss had paused, as if expecting comment or exclamation.

“Then what?” Durant said.

“Then the story was leaked by someone,” she said. “The police still don’t know who, but I always suspected Hughes. The tabloids had a perfectly marvelous time. Hypnotized Tot Says Daddy Raped Me. Stuff like that. The tot’s name was never mentioned, nor were the names of her parents — until much later. But the names of Hughes and Pauline were all over the papers and that’s when I swooped in and gathered them up.”

“When did all this happen?” Wu said. “A couple of years ago?”

“Just about. Since then, the Goodisons have opened four more lose-weight, stop-smoking workshops, the police’ve consulted them repeatedly and they’ve given ever so many interviews and made any number of television appearances.”

“You’re what — their agent?” Durant asked.

“No. Help! signed them solely for foreign representation on a just-in-case basis. That’s how we sign all our clients. We neither charge them a fee nor take a percentage of their gross because the employer always pays our fee.”

“Which is how much?” Wu asked.

“Twenty-five percent on top of what our client gets,” Glimm said.

“Sounds profitable,” Wu said, opened a beer, poured himself a glass, had two swallows and said, “I’d like to hear about California now — and how the Goodisons went missing.”

“Okay,” Glimm said. “But first I wanta mention a couple of names because, if you recognize them, it’ll save a hell of a lot of time and explanation. The names are Ione Gamble and William A. C. Rice the Fourth. Ring any bells?”

Durant said, “Jilted Actress Slays Billionaire, Cops Claim.”

“What about you?” Glimm said to Wu. “You up on it?”

“I’ve kept abreast,” Wu said. “It would’ve been difficult not to.”

“Then you know she claims she got drunk and blacked out and can’t remember anything. You know about that, right?”

“We know,” Durant said.

“You know about her auditions?”

“For what?” Wu said.

“For criminal defense lawyers,” Glimm said. “She flew ’em in from all over, guys with big reputations. Then she picks one from Washington, D.C., who she says is the smartest man she ever met and I’ve gotta agree with her there. She picked Howard Mott. Know him?”

Wu looked at Durant, then said, “I don’t think we’ve ever actually met, have we?”

“No,” Durant said. “We haven’t.”

“But you know who he is?” Glimm said.

Wu nodded.

“Well, Mott and I’ve done business before so I wasn’t all that surprised when I got a call from him. I was in Frankfurt and he was in L.A. Santa Monica, anyway. He tells me he’s representing Ione Gamble and wants me to tell him about Hughes and Pauline Goodison. So I tell him to call Jenny here in London — or I’ll have her call him. Mott says he’s in a hurry, so I give him her number and he calls her. She’ll tell you what happened then.”

Durant and Wu looked at Jenny Arliss. She stared at Wu first, then shifted her gaze to Durant and said, “Mr. Mott rang and grilled me for thirty minutes or more about the Goodisons. I gave him some telephone numbers to call, including several at the Metropolitan Police. Two hours later he rang back and said he’d like to employ or retain the Goodisons to help Ione Gamble recover her memory. I was curious as to why he’d pick them when southern California is brimming over with all sorts of hypnotherapists, reputable and otherwise. So I asked him.”

“What did he say?” Durant asked.

She looked away for a moment to stare at the portrait of Agnes Wu and the two sets of twins. She then looked back at Durant and said, “Mr. Mott wanted to engage a hypnotist — in this case, a pair of them — whose discretion would be guaranteed. He then asked if Help! would guarantee the Goodisons’ silence or discretion, whatever. I told him of course — that we guarantee the discretion of all our specialists. We then settled on a fee and—”

Durant interrupted. “What do you mean ‘guarantee’?”

“She means we’ll indemnify any loss Ione Gamble takes because of the Goodisons,” Glimm said. “Which could be a great big bundle.” He paused to stare at Wu. “That’s why I want ’em found.”

After nodding pleasantly, Wu looked at Jenny Arliss and said, “You were talking about their fee.”

She said, “I rang Hughes and asked whether he and Pauline would fly to Los Angeles and hypnotize Ione Gamble for one hundred thousand dollars plus expenses. He almost went into a fit but accepted, of course, and they left the next day.”

“Then what?” Wu asked.

“A week later I had a call from Mr. Mott, who said the Goodisons had had three sessions with Ione Gamble. After the third session, they rang Mr. Mott at two in the morning to report a serious problem, but refused to discuss it over the phone. Mott told them not to stir, that he was coming right over. He was in a Santa Monica hotel and they were in the Bel-Air Hotel. I understand it usually takes twenty or twenty-five minutes to get from one to the other. Mr. Mott made it in less than twenty. But the Goodisons had already vanished.”

“Have they been heard from since?” Wu asked.

“Mott got a call from the brother,” Glimm said. “He said it was nothing but gibberish.”

“So what’s worrying you — blackmail?” Durant said.

“Exactly,” Glimm said.

“There’s no proof of it,” Wu said.

“Yet,” said Glimm. “Look,” he continued. “Maybe they’re blackmailers or maybe they aren’t. Or maybe they’ve been kidnapped and somebody else is the blackmailer. I could maybe this and maybe that the rest of the afternoon. But maybes aren’t answers, are they?”

“If it is blackmail,” Wu said, “who pays — you or Gamble?”

“I do,”

“You could wiggle out of it,” Durant said.

“Sure,” said Glimm, “but the word’d get around, wouldn’t it? I’d lose all my clients and spend the rest of my life kicking myself because I didn’t fork over a lousy million bucks. And when I wasn’t kicking myself, I’d be talking to lawyers about how to wiggle out of the ten or fifteen million Ione Gamble’s suing me for. But I don’t wanta do any of that, which is why I’m hiring you guys.”

“To find the Goodisons,” Wu said.

Glimm nodded vigorously. “Dead, alive or in between.”

“What’s Howard Mott think?” Durant said.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Glimm said. “What matters is what I think. Mott’s her defense lawyer. He’s paid to think she’s innocent. I don’t care if she is or isn’t. What I care about is finding the Goodisons. And as far as I’m concerned, guessing time’s over. I want you guys out in California and I want you to either find them or find out what happened to them. You do that and maybe I can salvage something.”

“Then I suggest we talk money,” Wu said.

“Go ahead. Talk.”

“You pay all expenses.”

“If itemized.”

“Some will be. Some won’t be.”

Glimm thought about Wu’s assertion, then nodded and said, “So far, so good.”

“Our fee is seven hundred and fifty thousand, regardless of outcome,” Durant said. “We want two hundred and fifty thousand now, the same amount two weeks from today and the balance when it’s over. If your outfit emerges from this without stain, we want a guaranteed bonus of another two hundred and fifty thousand.”

“Dollars or pounds?” Glimm asked.

“Dollars.”

“The bonus would jack it up to an even million. But I never paid a bonus in my life and I’m not gonna start with you two. I pay my help well, but if they don’t deliver, they’re out. The same goes for you. I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty thousand now, two hundred and fifty thousand two weeks from now and, if I get out stain-free, you get the other two hundred and fifty thousand. If I come out dirty, you’re cut off at five hundred thousand — plus that twenty-five-thousand-quid advance. That’s the end of the dickering. Yes or no?”

“I think yes,” Wu said. Durant only nodded.

Glimm looked at Jenny Arliss. “Cut ’em a check for the two-fifty.”

“We’re leaving for California tomorrow, so we’d like it this afternoon,” Wu said.

Arliss glanced at her watch. “Then you and I had best share a cab to my office.” She pushed back her chair and rose.

Artie Wu, again beaming, also rose and walked swiftly around the table to help Arliss into her coat.

“That woman detective,” Durant said to Arliss. “How do I get in touch with her?”

She finished buttoning the coat before she replied. “Why would you want to do that?”

“She might know something useful about the Goodisons.”

“She won’t talk to you.”

“Why not?”

Jenny Arliss started to reply, changed her mind, picked up a yellow pencil from the table, wrote something on one of the pads, ripped off the sheet, handed it to Durant and said, “Find out for yourself.”

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