An Affair Of Sorcerers

humor. Jordon has a lighter side. Obviously, he was also the more adventurous of the two.'

I gave it some thought, then said, 'Adventurous or not, it still strikes me as odd that Jordon-from the way you describe him-would want to take the time to work with Esteban. He sounds like a man with a lot of irons in the fire.'

'Oh, he certainly is that. I really can't explain Dr. Jordon's enthusiasm-and, as I told you, Samuels was opposed to their involvement in the project from the beginning. Dr. Samuels told me he didn't want to waste his time on what he considered superstitious nonsense. But then, when Dr. Jordon persuaded his partner to participate, I wasn't about to question the motives of either man.' She hesitated, then added, 'I do think Dr. Samuels' negative attitude finally affected Esteban.'

'Why do you say that?'

'I'm. . really not sure; it's just a suspicion. Toward the end of our work here, something was destroying Esteban's concentration-or whatever it is that he needs to do what he does. He wasn't getting the same results with the enzymes that he was getting earlier, and I was never able to find out why. I asked Esteban about it, but he made it clear that he didn't want to discuss the matter.' She paused and looked at me for a long time with her moist, violet eyes. 'Mongo,' she continued at last, 'Esteban is probably the gentlest, most loving person I've ever met-except for you. Thank you so very, very much for agreeing to help.'

The tremor in Janet's voice and the tears in her eyes embarrassed me. I responded with something inane and inappropriate about recommending me to her main department head, then hurriedly left.

It was four o'clock. To that point it had been what could be described as a depressing day. I seriously considered repairing to the local pub, but was afraid I'd succumb to temptation and get gloriously drunk; with two decidedly oddball cases to juggle, I thought it might be a good idea to stay sober. I went home.

I perked up when I saw the little girl waiting for me outside my apartment. Kathy Marlowe was a small friend of mine from 4D, down the hall. Frank Marlowe, her father, was a man who'd become rich churning out hundreds of pulp novels under a dozen different pseudonyms.

Marlowe was a rather strange man, even for a writer. Brooding, almost totally self-absorbed, he was a hard man to get to know, even by New York standards, and I'd always respected his privacy. Still, the fact that I was a real-life private investigator seemed to fascinate him, and we'd managed to have a few discussions. He'd once announced, only half joking, that I'd inspired him to create a new series of paperback novels featuring a dwarf private detective. I'd heartily discouraged the idea, assuring him that no one would believe it. During the course of those few conversations, I'd come to perceive Marlowe as a complex man with complex ambitions that went far beyond anything that appeared in the simply written, fast-paced entertainments that seemed to pop out of his typewriter once every three or four weeks. He was divorced from his wife, but Kathy visited him every summer. The child and I had become fast friends.

Kathy, with her fine blond hair, dressed in a frilly white dress and holding a bright red patent leather purse that perfectly complemented her blue eyes, looked positively beatific. I laughed to myself as I recalled that it had taken me two of her seven years to convince her that I wasn't a potential playmate.

'Kathy, Kathy, Kathy!' I shouted, picking her up and setting her down in a manner usually guaranteed to produce Instant Giggle. 'How's my girl today?'

'Hello, Mr. Mongo,' she said very seriously.

'Why the good clothes? You look beautiful, but I almost didn't recognize you without dirt on your nose.'

Kathy still didn't smile. 'I've been waiting for you, Mr. Mongo, because I want to ask you something. I went to a birthday party, but I left early so I could meet you. My daddy's at a meeting with his editor. I was afraid I wouldn't see you before he came home.'

Now tears came, welling slowly in her eyes like dew on the most delicate blue flowers. I gently brushed the tears away, suddenly realizing that this was no child's game. 'What do you want to ask me, Kathy?' I said, gently kissing her on the forehead.

The child sniffled, then regained control of herself in a manner that reminded me of someone much older. 'My daddy says you sometimes help people for money.'

'That's right, sweetheart. How can I help you?'

'I want you to get my daddy's book of shadows back,' she said, her words coming in a rush. 'I heard Daddy say he thinks either Daniel or Esobus took it, and I know he's real worried. He always talks to himself when he's upset. I want him to be happy like he used to be.' She sniffled again, blew her tiny nose on a tissue she'd retrieved from her red purse. When she looked at me again, her eyes seemed very large. 'But you mustn't tell Daddy, Mr. Mongo,' she continued in a small, frightened voice held together by determination. 'He'd be awful mad at me if he knew I told anyone. But I can tell from what he says that he just has to get his book of shadows back, or something terrible will happen.'

'Kathy,' I said, cupping my hand under her chin, 'slow down and tell me what a 'book of shadows' is. Who are Daniel and Esobus?'

But Kathy wasn't listening; she was sobbing, fumbling in her small purse. 'I. . I've got money for you,' she stammered between sobs. 'I've been saving my milk money.'

Before I could say anything, the little girl had taken out a child's handful of nickels, dimes and pennies and pressed them into my palm. I started to give the money back, then hesitated when I heard footsteps come up behind me.

'Kathy,' a thin, nasal voice said. 'What are you doing here?'

The girl gave me an anguished look that was an unmistakable plea to keep her secret. Then she quickly brushed away her tears with the back of her hand and smiled up at the person standing behind me.

'Hi, Daddy! I fell and hurt myself. Mr. Mongo was trying to make me feel better.'

I turned to face Frank Marlowe. He seemed much paler and thinner than when I'd last seen him, but I decided that could be my imagination; Marlowe had never looked that healthy to begin with. A tall man in his mid- thirties, he had a high, domed forehead which accentuated the dark, sunken hollows of his eye sockets. He looked like a man who was slowly caving in under some invisible but inexorable pressure.

'Hello, Mongo,' Marlowe said warily.

'Hi, Frank,' I said, absently slipping the coins Kathy had given me into my pocket and shaking the hand that was extended to me. 'Good to see you.'

'Thanks for taking care of Kathy.' Marlowe looked down at his daughter and smiled warmly. 'You all right now, kitten?'

Kathy nodded her head. Her milk money felt heavy in my pocket, and I felt foolish. By the time I realized that I probably had no right to help a seven-year-old keep secrets from her father, Frank Marlowe had taken his daughter's hand and was leading her off down the corridor toward their own apartment. Kathy looked back at me once, quickly, and the intensity of the plea in her face startled me.

When they were gone, I took the money Kathy had given me out of my pocket and counted it. There was fifty-seven cents. I went into my apartment, dropped the coins into a large ashtray on my coffee table and poured myself a stiff Scotch. I immediately downed that and poured another. I wanted nothing so much as to go back and start this particular Friday all over again.

Chapter 4

It was Saturday morning, but I had the feeling that someone had a strong urge to get in touch with me; and my home telephone was unlisted, the number given to friends only. Deciding that it was best to get what I assumed would be the most disagreeable part of the day out of the way first, I went downtown to my university office to give Vincent Smathers a shot at me. It didn't take the Nobel laureate long to get there; I was only halfway through coffee and a bagel when he burst into the office.

The photographs I'd seen of him didn't do justice to his solid, athletic build. He was, according to his university biography, fifty-four years old, but he looked younger. His brown hair was thinning on top, long and wavy at the sides and back. His eyes were his most striking feature-a cold emerald green. The left eye was slightly cast, making it difficult to meet his gaze. At the moment, his face was the color of chalk. Dr. Vincent Smathers was a