short woman wearing more colors than a chemical bonfire sat on a footstool and pruned fingernails. Every time I heard her clippers snick together, the muscles in my back jumped and hunched.
“What’s the Eighth Dwarf doing here?” Annabelle Winston demanded, without turning to face us. She’d turned away when she saw Schultz. Schultz wasted an amber grin on her hair. “And what gives you the idea he’s finished?”
“For Christ’s sake, shut up,” I said. It got her attention. She even turned her head to face me.
“You don’t want to make that a habit,” she said. “Or is it our intention to get out of line?”
“You want your money back?”
“Can you get that, please?” She waved a hand at the phone. Two gold bracelets rattled against a Vacheron- Constantine watch, making a sound that Scrooge McDuck could have heard six blocks away.
“Oh, sure,” I said. I picked up the receiver and said, “Miss Winston will call you back. She’s being landscaped.” I hung up and pulled out the plug.
“Do I want the money back?” she said reflectively. “What would I do with it?”
“How would I know? Get your elbows pumiced.”
“Well,” she said, completely unruffled, “I think at this point that I’m entitled to know what I’m buying.” She withdrew a hand from the manicurist’s grasp, shifted beneath the sheet, and rested her chin on her hand. Deprived of a focal point, the manicurist gazed into the middle distance.
“At the moment, you’re buying Dr. Norbert Schultz,” I said. “Dr. Schultz. Miss Annabelle Winston.”
“We’ve met,” Annabelle Winston said, “and it hasn’t been an impressive experience.”
“Boy, oh boy,” Schultz said, “I’m sorry about that.”
“With all due respect,” Annabelle Winston said, “what I’m asking is why you’ve brought him here. And why in the world I should pay for him.”
“He’s here,” I said, “because I know who the Incinerator is and because I’ve been to his apartment-by his invitation-and because I don’t know what to do about it. Dr. Schultz is my alternative to a real cop.”
“And a real psychologist, too,” Annabelle Winston said. “Two alternatives for the price of one genuine item.” Then her eyes widened and she said “Cigarette” to the woman working on her back. “You saw him?” she demanded. “What do you mean, you saw him?”
“I didn’t say I’d seen him,” I said. “By which I mean I have seen him, but not recently.”
Annabelle Winston held up a slender hand, ignoring the fact that the sheet had slipped from her shoulder, and a cigarette was placed between her fingers. She never took her eyes off me. The manicurist, glad to have something to do, grabbed a lighter, and Annabelle Winston inhaled. Schultz, following her movements as though from a great distance, took out a new pack of Dunhills and pried one loose. The two of them lit up almost simultaneously, from opposite ends of the room.
“I told you,” Annabelle Winston said, looking away from me and seeing him exhale, but she didn’t finish her sentence. Schultz gave her a broad holiday smile and pointed his cigarette at the one in her own hand.
“So get cancer, Doctor,” she said dismissively. “But my question still stands. Or, rather, questions. What do you mean, you’ve seen him but you haven’t seen him? What do you mean, you know who he is?”
“Wait a minute,” I said, feeling as though everything was moving too fast for me.
“Fine,” Annabelle Winston said. “I’ll get dressed.” The manicurist and the masseuse were tipped and dismissed, and Annabelle Winston exited the room wrapped demurely in the sheet and reentered seconds later in the inevitable silk. Then the two of them, Schultz and Annabelle Winston, smoked furiously while I told them about Wilton Hoxley and explained my reasoning about the crossword puzzle in the Incinerator’s apartment, and Schultz said, “Hmmm,” several times in the best psychologist’s manner. By the time I was finished, I had swallowed two of Annabelle’s cigarettes in an effort to keep myself awake, and Schultz had seated himself uncomfortably on the corner of a fake Empire desk, his feet dangling. His feet, I saw with some dismay, were clad in a pair of white patent-leather loafers of the type affected by retired Beverly Hills gentlemen who may once have had something to do with show business.
“Did he change his name legally?” Schultz snapped authoritatively. It was a new tone from him, at least in Annabelle Winston’s presence.
“That’s an interesting question,” I said, trying to blink the fatigue away, “and I don’t know the answer to it.”
“Why’s it so interesting?” Annabelle Winston asked.
“Because he’d have to give a permanent address,” Schultz said. “A name change takes a while.”
“My father’s name change took months,” Annabelle Winston said.
“Months,” Schultz said, working at not gloating. “In California, it can take years. Remember H. L. Mencken. The continent slopes down to the west, and everything that’s loose eventually rolls to California. We’re careful about name changes.”
“Can you check it for me?” I asked Schultz.
“Without the cops knowing?”
“That depends,” I said, “on what we come up with. And on what happens after we come up with it.”
“Only the first name?” Schultz said, pulling out a pad. “He keep Hoxley, or did he change both of them?”
“He changed the first to Festus,” I said again, “or maybe Hephaestus, I don’t know. He kept Hoxley. He’s Hoxley in the phone book,”
“Hah,” Schultz said.
“Why ‘hah’?” Annabelle Winston asked Schultz, in spite of herself.
“Hephaestus. Blacksmith of the gods,” Schultz said happily. “Keeper of the flame, et cetera. Not a name, I’d say, chosen at random.”
“I’m still not exactly sure that I care what you’d say,” Annabelle Winston said, presumably to make up for her lapse.
“Listen,” I said. “Maybe I should try Esperanto. We need help. This guy is playing me like a fish, letting me out and then reeling me in again whenever he feels like it. He’s a trickster. Dr. Schultz is a psychologist who specializes in people who murder for fun. I’ve got a promise of legal secrecy from him because I’m his patient. You’re paying his hourly rate. Whatever you think about his nicotine addiction, he’s on our side now.”
I picked up another of Annabelle Winston’s cigarettes and flicked her 24-karat Bic. “Since the police double- crossed me, I’ve played it Hoxley’s way,” I said. “I went on TV. I did my best to make him sound like the greatest genius since Giotto. I delivered a heartfelt message. In response, he booby-trapped my house. I’ve been playing by his rules, and all I’ve gotten is an eighty-octane mattress. So what am I supposed to do now?”
“Who’s this girl you’re protecting?” Annabelle Winston asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Annabelle Winston shrugged an economical quarter-inch. “Just asking.”
“Not relevant,” I said. “Here’s what’s relevant. Once I figured out who he is, I went to a place he’d already guessed I’d go and found out he’d left a message for me. The message directed me to his apartment, where I found some stuff that seems to say he’s finished.”
“People like this don’t just fold their tents and get a job selling shoes,” Annabelle Winston said.
“The Zodiac quit,” Schultz said. “Emil Kemper quit. They fulfilled their mission, whatever it was, and just stopped. We never would have caught Kemper if he hadn’t phoned in a confession and waited in the phone booth until the police arrived.”
“Mission?” I asked.
“In the classic sense of the word,” Schultz said, billowing smoke. “These people have a mission. God speaks to them. Angels sit on their shoulders to help them pick out the next one. When the score is even, whatever score, they quit.” He was gaining confidence from the sound of his own voice. “Who knows what the score is? One life for every slap they suffered as a kid. One for every man their mother slept with while the kid listened through the wall. One for every book in the Old Testament. You mean, what’s the math? We’re talking about people who see patterns in the way leaves cluster on trees. He could be killing one person for every stop sign he passed walking home from sixth grade.”
“But you don’t believe that,” I said.
Schultz licked his thumb and applied saliva to a tear in his cigarette. “No,” he said, “I don’t. I think it has something to do with his mother and father. Jesus, look at the Hephaestus bit.” He grasped the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, looking like an imitation Russian in a B-movie of the forties, and puffed. “Born lame, booted
