them in our future work. For example, consider their interest in astrology. I can name you dozens of stars, producers, executives who won’t make a move unless the signs are right.
“I always think of one top name out here—she’s been in pictures ever since the original Lassie was a pup— who lives according to a carefully plotted horoscope based on her date of birth. The only thing is, as she gets older she keeps moving her birthdate forward. She’s changed her age four times now, and each time she gets a new astrologer and a new horoscope. But she won’t so much as sleep with an assistant producer without consulting the stars.”
The car climbed a hill. Poinsettias pressed myriad bleeding mouths to a garden wall.
“About this Lorna Lewis,” I said. “Is she gone on astrology too?”
Professor Hermann shook his head. “No. Spiritualism.”
I blinked and sat up. “Mean to tell me that’s what you have in mind for us—some kind of spook racket?”
“Far from it. My dear boy, don’t underestimate me. You and I are above such vulgar fakery. Our paths lead to higher things. But we’ll speak of all that at another time. Right now your cue is to observe—and be silent.”
We entered the driveway on a hillside. Past the palm-bordered path rose a rambling neo-Spanish
Professor Hermann led me to the door. The usual buzzer produced the usual chimes. We waited until the door opened.
“Come in,” said a voice. I recognized it immediately. I recognized the black jungle of curls, the almost Negroid lips, the slim sweep of the perfectly proportioned legs. Lorna Lewis, in person.
“Be with you in a minute.” She waved us to a love seat in the hall alcove and then dashed up the stairs, treating us to a profile and rear view of one of the finest pairs of peach-colored slacks I’d ever seen.
“Don’t stare!” hissed the Professor. “And from now on, remember, take your cues from me.” He produced his monocle and bent forward to polish it with a handkerchief as though it were a rare scientific lens.
“Remember, now, not a word. Let me do the talking.”
“But—”
She was running down the stairs again, still wearing the peach-colored slacks and a green blouse. I hadn’t appreciated the blouse before, but it was even better than the slacks.
“Ready? Let’s go, then. Our appointment’s for nine-thirty and we mustn’t be late.” Suddenly she seemed to notice me. She paused and blinked rapidly, just to show me she could do it without knocking any of the mascara off her eyelashes. “Who’s he?” she asked.
“Miss Lewis, this is Judson Roberts.”
This was me, apparently. I rose and started to open my mouth, but the Professor coughed.
“Mr. Roberts cannot answer you. He is committed to silence until midnight.”
This time her blink was genuine. “Oh—a vow or something?”
“Certainly not, my dear child! Mr. Roberts is no fake mystic. He’s a scientist. As such, he is engaged in an experiment of psychological conditioning. He has just arrived from the University of Lima and plans to collaborate with me in my work. I’d like to have him tell you about it some time— I’m sure you would be interested.”
“I know I will.” She gave me a long look and I found out she could do other tricks with her eyes besides the blinking act.
“I’ve invited Mr. Roberts to accompany us as an observer this evening.” The Professor hesitated. “If you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine with me. But I don’t know if Mrs. Hubbard will approve. I hear she’s very particular about strangers.”
“More than likely.” The Professor led us outside and slid behind the wheel of the car. Lorna Lewis followed and I edged into the front seat beside her. The peach-colored slacks pressed against my thigh. I pressed back. Maybe I wasn’t allowed to talk, but I managed to make an impression.
The Professor was doing most of the talking as he nosed the Jaguar south, then east. “Your Mrs. Hubbard probably doesn’t care for outsiders a bit. I wouldn’t, either, if I was working a nice soft racket—preying on motion picture people with phony spiritualism.”
Lorna Lewis tossed her head. Jungle-storm.
“You’ll see! Mrs. Hubbard is different. She doesn’t try to fool anyone with tricks or hocus-pocus.”
“No ectoplasm or apparitions? What about rope escapes and raps? Does she produce apports?”
“You’re making fun of me.” Her fingers caressed a silver cigarette case. “Mr. Roberts?”
“Mr. Roberts does not smoke,” snapped the Professor.
That was news to me. I wondered if I also did not drink. Probably I fasted a lot, too. Certainly I had nothing to do with women. Eyeing Lorna Lewis, I decided
“My dear Miss Lewis,” purred the Professor, “I am by nature a skeptic and by profession a psychologist. As such I have devoted much time to the investigation of so-called psychic phenomena. I am sorry to report that I have never seen a genuine medium.”
“But Mrs. Hubbard doesn’t put on a show,” the girl protested. “Why, I’ve only been there once before, and it was just like sitting down for a visit. The lights were on and everything. But the things she told me, the things she knew about me, it was simply uncanny!
“She knew my name—my real name, that is—and my age, and where I lived, and who my folks were, and what my next picture would be and who would direct it. She even told me I’d get Lester Vance opposite me, and I didn’t hear about it from the studio until three days later!”
The Professor chuckled. “You’re in pictures, my child. Such information is virtually public property.”
“But my real name, and my real age—”
“It’s all listed somewhere. Your birth certificate is surely available by mail. And certainly an unscrupulous woman would be willing to spend a few dollars on investigation. She probably has a line into the studio, paying someone to feed her advance tips on activities. She hopes to make you a regular client and attract others. Didn’t you say your hairdresser told you to go there in the first place? It’s all very obvious.”
I realized, suddenly, that he was talking to me more than he was to her—trying to tell me the angles. I listened carefully.
“If you are gullible enough, I predict that sooner or later your little ten-dollar readings won’t satisfy Mrs. Hubbard. She’ll give you some good advice about the future, and some even more intimate information about yourself; feed it to you bit by bit, just to keep you coming back for more. Sooner or later she will find out that you too have mystic powers, that you’re clairvoyant, clairaudient, a natural medium. She’ll give you slate-writing and then the old psychic force routine.”
“Psychic force?”
“Moving inanimate objects without touching them. Waving her hand over fruit, walnuts, coins. They’ll obey her, move and follow her hand. Psychic force. I’ll show you how it’s done, sometime.”
“Tell me.”
“Simple. She wears a magnetized ring. There’s another magnet planted inside the walnut or fruit or fake coin. Naturally, it moves. By varying the weight of the object she can produce anything from a stir to a jump. It sounds simple and stupid and obvious, but wait until she gives you the buildup—in the dim, quiet room with her voice pitched low and the spirits abroad.”
Lorna Lewis shook her head. “Mrs. Hubbard isn’t like that at all. You’ll see.”
“Very well. But remember, I’m here to protect you. Just introduce us as friends. I promise not to interfere in any way, but I want to observe what happens.”
“That’s right, Professor,” said Lorna Lewis, with the roguish smile that endeared her to millions. “Just hold your water.”
We turned into a street that looked like the butt-end of Tobacco Road. Lawns of brown weeds and sand, withered palmettoes decorated by the dogs, houses sagging behind rusted iron fences.
It was a hot night. On paint-peeled porches, unlovely women rocked and fanned futilely. Towheaded brats peered from behind phlegm-green window shades. Street lights lent a wavering distortion to the flight of myriad flies, but did nothing to cut the stench of shrivelled vegetation, rotting wood, sweat, garbage, and the frying odor of food.
