I hunted up Owen Fitzstephan’s number, called it, and heard his drawled: “Hello.”
“You’d better get busy on your book-borrowing if any good’s to come of it,” I said.
“Why? Are things taking place?”
“Things are.”
“Such as?” he asked.
“This and that, but it’s no time for anybody who wants to poke his nose into the Leggett mysteries to be dillydallying with pieces about unconscious minds.”
“Right,” he said: “I’m off to the front now.”
Eric Collinson had come in while I was talking to the novelist.
“Come on,” I said, leading the way out towards the elevators. “This might not be a false alarm.”
“Where are we going?” he asked impatiently. “Have you found her? Is she all right?”
I replied to the only one of his questions that I had the answer to by giving him the Pacific Avenue address Mickey had given me. It meant something to Collinson. He said: “That’s Joseph’s place.”
We were in the elevator with half a dozen other people. I held my response down to a “Yeah?”
He had a Chrysler roadster parked around the corner. We got into it and began bucking traffic and traffic signals towards Pacific Avenue.
I asked: “Who is Joseph?”
“Another cult. He’s the head of it. He calls his place the Temple of the Holy Grail. It’s the fashionable one just now. You know how they come and go in California. I don’t like having Gabrielle there, if that’s where she is—though—I don’t know—they may be all right. He’s one of Mr. Leggett’s queer friends. Do you know that she’s there?”
“Maybe. Is she a member of the cult?”
“She goes there, yes. I’ve been there with her.”
“What sort of a layout is it?”
“Oh, it seems to be all right,” he said somewhat reluctantly. “The right sort of people: Mrs. Payson Laurence, and the Ralph Colemans, and Mrs. Livingston Rodman, people like that. And the Haldorns—that’s Joseph and his wife Aaronia—seem to be quite all right, but—but I don’t like the idea of Gabrielle going there like this.” He missed the end of a cable car with the Chrysler’s right wheel. “I don’t think it’s good for her to come too much under their influence.”
“You’ve been there; what is their brand of hocus-pocus?” I asked.
“It isn’t hocus-pocus, really,” he replied, wrinkling his forehead. “I don’t know very much about their creed, or anything like that, but I’ve been to their services with Gabrielle, and they’re quite as dignified, as beautiful even, as either Episcopalian or Catholic services. You mustn’t think that this is the Holy Roller or House of David sort of thing. It isn’t at all. Whatever it is, it is quite first-rate. The Haldorns are people of—of—well, more culture than I.”
“Then what’s the matter with them?”
He shook his head gloomily. “I honestly don’t know that anything is. I don’t like it. I don’t like having Gabrielle go off like this without letting anybody know where she’s gone. Do you think her parents knew where she had gone?”
“No.”
“I don’t think so either,” he said.
From the street the Temple of the Holy Grail looked like what it had originally been, a six-story yellow brick apartment building. There was nothing about its exterior to show that it wasn’t still that. I made Collinson drive past it to the corner where Mickey Linehan was leaning his lopsided bulk against a stone wall. He came to the car as it stopped at the curb.
“The dark meat left ten minutes ago,” he reported, “with Dick behind her. Nobody else that looks like anybody you listed has been out.”
“Camp here in the car and watch the door,” I told him. “We’re going in,” I said to Collinson. “Let me do most of the talking.”
When we reached the Temple door I had to caution him: “Try not breathing so hard. Everything will probably be oke.”
I rang the bell. The door was opened immediately by a broad-shouldered, meaty woman of some year close to fifty. She was a good three inches taller than my five feet six. Flesh hung in little bags on her face, but there was neither softness nor looseness in her eyes and mouth. Her long upper lip had been shaved. She was dressed in black, black clothes that covered her from chin and earlobes to within less than an inch of the floor.
“We want to see Miss Leggett,” I said.
She pretended she hadn’t understood me.
“We want to see Miss Leggett,” I repeated, “Miss Gabrielle Leggett.”
“I don’t know.” Her voice was bass. “But come in.”
She took us not very cheerfully into a small, dimly lighted reception room to one side of the foyer, told us to wait there, and went away.
“Who’s the village-blacksmith?” I asked Collinson.
He said he didn’t know her. He fidgeted around the room. I sat down. Drawn blinds let in too little light for me to make out much of the room, but the rug was soft and thick, and what I could see of the furniture leaned towards luxury rather than severity.
Except for Collinson’s fidgeting, no sound came from anywhere in the building. I looked at the open door and saw that we were being examined. A small boy of twelve or thirteen stood there staring at us with big dark eyes that seemed to have lights of their own in the semidarkness.
I said: “Hello, son.”
Collinson jumped around at the sound of my voice.
The boy said nothing. He stared at me for at least another minute with the blank, unblinking, embarrassing stare that only children can manage completely, then turned his back on me and walked away, making no more noise going than he had made coming.
“Who’s that?” I asked Collinson.
“It must be the Haldorns’ son Manuel. I’ve never seen him before.”
Collinson walked up and down. I sat and watched the door. Presently a woman, walking silently on the thick carpet, appeared there and came into the reception room. She was tall, graceful; and her dark eyes seemed to have lights of their own, like the boy’s. That was all I could see clearly then.
I stood up.
She addressed Collinson: “How
