Shadow of a Broken Man

'Can you think of any reason why somebody might be killed because he was connected with E.S.P.?'

James's face broke into a broad grin. 'Sure. I'm threatened all the time-mostly by clergymen and physicists.'

I thought of Abu and couldn't even work up a smile. 'I'm talking about power. Could a man do something with E.S.P. that could cause others to want to kill him?'

'That's a heavy question. Are you putting me on?'

'No, Dr. James. I'm serious.'

'I can see that,' he said soberly. 'No, I can't think of anything like that. In fact, I almost wish the people in this country would take it that seriously. The Russians are far ahead of us in the field.'

I leaned forward. 'They are?'

'Yes. Of course, their government puts tremendous amounts of money into research. They're reported to have a woman with telekinetic ability.'

The second subject that Arthur Morton had apparently been interested in. 'What can you tell me about that?'

'Telekinesis is the ability to move objects through the power of thought.' I must have looked skeptical. James cleared his throat and rapped his knuckles on the desk. 'I've seen films of a Russian woman who seems able to move objects by willing it. Of course, films can be faked, but I don't think these were. First, the Russians don't really have a motive. Second, if they were going to fake something like that, they might as well have her move a suitcase or something big, not pins and matchsticks. She moves the objects by concentrating and passing her hands over them.'

'To what purpose?'

He shrugged. 'No purpose; except that if it's true, I think it's pretty fantastic. Don't you? Mind over matter. Imagine man's potential if it can be shown that he can move objects simply by focusing mental energy.'

'I think we have more pressing problems.'

'No argument there. Would you like to see our facilities?'

'Yes, I'd like that very much.'

James came around from behind his desk and held the door open for me; he was a proud father about to show off his baby. I followed him around the complex and tried to look interested and nod at the right times. But my mind wandered as I tried to connect what I'd seen and heard to my knowledge of Victor Rafferty and the dead men around him.

I was going to need a break; there weren't many more places to visit or people to talk to.

It was a few minutes after five when I landed at LaGuardia, just in time for the evening rush-hour traffic. I sat in the back seat of a cab and stewed. I was tired; ready for a stiff drink or three, dinner, and bed.

It was six fifteen by the time I arrived in Manhattan. My mood had abruptly changed: I was suddenly cold and panicky, pent in by the traffic, the noise, and the realization that there was a maniac in the city who would kill me if he found out I was alive. The apartment now seemed too much like a prison or a trap, and I no longer wanted to go home.

I instructed the cab driver to take me downtown to the medical building where Arthur Morton had had offices. I didn't have hopes of finding anyone still there, but checking the building directory for Mary Llewellyn's name would give me something to do. Hers was the last name I had: the last link in a chain that seemed to be made out of air.

The medical building looked deserted, except for a single guard at the doors who was absorbed in the Final Edition of the New York Post. He looked up as I entered, then stuck his nose back into his paper. I walked to the directory at the opposite end of the lobby.

Dr. Mary Llewellyn, Clinical Psychologist, was listed. Fifth floor. I decided to see if she was working late. I took the self-service elevator to the fifth floor, made my way around a cleaning lady, and found Mary Llewellyn's office at the end of the corridor. The light was on inside the office. I knocked, then pushed on the translucent glass door.

A woman in her late thirties looked up from a paper- strewn desk. Mary Llewellyn was attractive in a prissy way. Her blond hair was drawn back in a severe bun. Her eyes were a cold sea-green and seemed to form a barrier between herself and the rest of the world. She looked like a career woman who had lost herself in her work and had no desire to find her way back again.

'Dr. Llewellyn?'

'Yes?' Her tone was frosty.

'Bob Frederickson.'

She ignored the hand I offered. 'I believe I've heard of you. What can I do for you, Mr. Frederickson?'

'I'm a private investigator. I've been hired by a private party to investigate the murder of one of your colleagues.'

A tapered, well-manicured hand shot to her mouth. 'Someone I know has been murdered?'

'This murder took place five years ago.'

The hand slowly dropped into her lap. 'You're talking about Arthur,' she whispered.

'That's right, ma'am. I'd like to ask you a few questions.'

'I'm glad someone's finally getting around to looking into it,' she said in a voice that seemed burdened with a weight from the past. 'It's disgraceful the way nothing was ever done.'

'It's hard to catch a murderer when you can't find the motive,' I said, watching her hands as they reached out and seized the edge of the desk. 'Maybe he surprised a couple of burglars.'

'These were no ordinary burglars,' she said with feeling.

'Why do you say that?'

I watched a veil drop over her eyes as she suddenly became very wary. 'Whom did you say you were working for?'

'I didn't say, Dr. Llewellyn. My client prefers to remain anonymous. What do you suppose the burglars wanted in Dr. Morton's office?'

'I don't think I can be of any help to you, Mr. Frederickson,' she said in a formal tone. She jammed her papers into a slim briefcase and shut it, then rose and glared at me. 'I can't remember any of the details. How in the world should I know what the burglars were after?'

'They were after the records of a very famous patient. Now, you and Dr. Morton collaborated on at least one occasion concerning Victor Rafferty. I thought you might know what Dr. Morton was doing in his office at that hour of the morning.'

'I said I can't remember any of the details,' she said curtly. 'And whoever told you that we collaborated on the case of Victor Rafferty is either mistaken or a liar.'

She came around from behind her desk and held out her free arm as if to sweep me out of the office with her.

'You forgot to turn off the lights,' I said.

She quickly turned off the desk lamp. 'I really must be going,' she said icily.

'You did collaborate on Victor Rafferty's case, didn't you?' Even in the dim light from the hallway I could see her jaws clench.

'What do you really want, Mr. Frederickson?'

'To learn all I can about Victor Rafferty.'

'I don't know anything about Victor Rafferty,' she said in a voice barely above a whisper.

'I think you're one of the very few people who do, Dr. Llewellyn. It's a secret that could cost you your life. There are some very nasty people asking questions now about Victor Rafferty. You're lucky they didn't get to you before me. They're not very polite. If you'll tell me what I want to know, it could save lives.'

'I can't talk to you,' she said in a strangled whisper. 'Please!'

'Why not?'

'I just can't talk about it!'

'Was Rafferty a telepath?'