‘What sort of day have you had?’ Mathias asked him.
‘Considering I spent most of it in a library, not very inspiring,’ the writer told him.
‘More research?’
Blake nodded.
‘Still trying to unlock the secrets of the mind?’ the psychic chuckled.
Blake ignored the remark.
‘Why did you ask me to come to this party with you tonight?’ he enquired.
Mathias shrugged.
‘You and I have become friends over the past six days and I thought you might enjoy it.’ He smiled. ‘You might, you know.’
‘Are any of the guests clients of yours?’ Blake wanted to know.
‘Some of them have, from time to time, sought my help if that’s what you mean.’
‘In what ways?’
is it important?’
‘I’m just curious.’
‘You’re curious about a lot of things, David,’ the psychic said and looked out of the side window. Blake studied his profile for a moment then he too turned his attention to the busy street. On either side of them skyscrapers rose like concrete geysers spewed forth from the ground, black shapes surrounded by the dark sky. Many were invisible but for the odd lights which shone in some of their windows. It looked as if someone had taken hundreds of stars and hurled them at the gloomy monoliths.
Multi-coloured neon signs burned above shops and cinemas, theatres and clubs, as if millions of glow worms had been sealed inside the glass prison of a bulb. The city that never slept was preparing for another night of insomnia.
i asked you before why it was so important to you to discover the extent of my powers,1 Mathias said, interrupting the relative silence which had descended.
‘And I told you it was because I don’t like mysteries,’ Blake told him. ‘I’ve never yet run into anything that’s beaten me.’ There was a firm, almost harsh, resolution in the writer’s voice.
Even in the gloom of the Cadillac’s interior the psychic’s icy blue eyes sparkled challengingly.
‘There are some things …’
Blake cut him short.
‘… which it’s better not to know.’
Both men laughed.
‘Well, reeling off the world’s worst cliches isn’t going to stop me either,’
the Englishman chuckled. A minute or two passed, then, his tone more sombre, Blake continued:
‘This power, this manipulation of another person’s Astral personality, if you do possess such abilities would you ever consider using them as a weapon?’
Mathias looked genuinely puzzled.
‘I don’t follow,’ he said.
‘If you can control someone else’s mind and actions then there’s no limit to what you can do. To what you can make others do.’
The cadillac was beginning to slow up. Ahead Toni Landers’ house was a blaze of light.
“Do you think I haven’t thought of that?’ said Mathias, smiling.
The chauffeur brought the cadillac to a halt behind a bright red Porsche then clambered out and held open the door for Mathias. Blake didn’t wait for the same treatment, he stepped out of the other side, tugging once again at his bow-tie as he did so.
The tarmac driveway which swung in a crescent before Toni Landers’ house looked more like a car showroom. Blake counted five Cadillacs, a couple of Transams, the Porsche and a silver Plymouth Fury as he and the psychic walked towards the porch.
The house itself was a three storey affair, flanked on two sides by trees, beneath which were carefully tended flower beds. Strings of light bulbs had been hung from the house to the tree branches and it seemed as if a light glowed in every single window of the building. The house looked like a beacon amidst the darkness. It was set slightly on a hill, the nearest neighbour being about five hundred yards away. Even from outside Blake could hear music and, as the door was opened, it seemed to sweep over him like a wave, mingling with the sea of conversation.
A maid took Mathias and Blake through into a spacious sitting room which looked slightly smaller than a ballroom. A staircase rose in a spiral from the centre of the room, leading up to the first floor landing where Blake could see people standing in groups or in couples chatting amiably. Two huge chandeliers hung from the ceiling like clusters of diamonds. But, for all the apparent pomp and grandeur, the house had a homely feel to it. There was a piano in one corner of the room and five or six people were gathered around it. Blake noticed that one of them, a man about his own age, was playing softly, quite oblivious to the sound coming from the Hi-Fi. The writer recognized him as the lead singer with the band currently topping the American charts. He spotted three or four well-known actors and actresses, and a film director he’d seen once or twice on TV.
Toni Landers was standing by the large open fireplace, a glass of champagne cradled in her hand. She was talking to a distinguished looking grey-haired man in his fifties who was perpetually pulling at the end of his nose, doubtless in an effort to disguise the fact he was trying to see even further down the front of her dress than the plunging neckline allowed.
Blake had seen her before but never this close and she was even more beautiful than he had first thought. She was not a tall woman, barely five-six with the benefit of long stiletto heels. She wore a black dress slashed to the thigh which, each time she moved, allowed him a glimpse of her smoothly curved legs. A shock of red hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the light every so often to glisten like rust-coloured silk. She wore a black choker around her throat, a single diamond set in its centre.
‘Our hostess,’ said Mathias, nodding in her direction. He took a glass of champagne from the tray offered to him by a tubby waitress and Blake did likewise.
It was as he sipped his drink that Blake noticed eyes were beginning to turn in the direction of Mathias. In his white suit, the psychic was even more prominent, but Blake had the feeling that if he’d turned up in a worn-out sports jacket the effect would have been the same. A young woman approached
him.
‘You’re Jonathan Mathias aren’t you?’ she said, the words sounding more like a statement than a question.
‘Yes,” he answered, shaking her hand gently.
He introduced Blake who noticed that the girl seemed somewhat preoccupied. She smiled perfunctorily at the writer then turned back to Mathias, pausing to look at him as if he were a piece of precious metal before returning to the group from which she had emerged.
A man approached and shook hands with the psychic. Blake observed that same look of reverence on his face as had been on the girl’s. He too smiled thinly at the writer then wandered away as if in some kind of daze. Blake looked on with mild amusement as this happened half a dozen times. With people constantly approaching Mathias, Blake felt rather like a dog waiting at its master’s table for any scraps to fall. When a girl in a royal blue trouser suit spoke to him he was so surprised he hadn’t time to answer before she walked away.
Blake took another glass of champagne when the tray came round. It wasn’t that he particularly liked the bloody stuff, but at least it was better than standing there with his hands in his pockets looking like Mathias’ bodyguard instead of a guest.
‘They obviously know you,’ he said to the psychic as the last of his admirers left them. Blake drained what was left in his glass and put the empty receptacle down on a nearby table. God, what he wouldn’t give for a pint. Even a can of luke-warm lager would have been respite enough from the endless flow of champagne.
‘I’ve never met any of those people before, David,’ said Mathias, sipping at his own drink.
‘They know you by reputation then,’ Blake insisted.
‘People are fascinated by what they don’t understand.’ Those ice-blue eyes sparkled. ‘And they can never hope to understand me.’
