Glamour Doom

Chapter 1.

In the silent house, the telephone’s sudden jangle was like an alarm bell warning of imminent disaster. James Durham flinched. A seventy-three-year-old bachelor, hollow-eyed and frail, he stared uncertainly at the open dresser drawer in front of him while listening to three more rings before at last turning and shuffling out of the bedroom. The old man wore only a pair of blue flannel pajama pants. On his exposed belly pale flesh hung in wrinkled folds. Down the long dim corridor he went, his bare feet rhythmically slapping the uncarpeted floor.

At its end Durham threw a light toggle illuminating the big parlor beyond, which, because it contained little in the way of furniture, had a melancholy plundered aspect. The clamorous telephone lay on a wicker table only a step inside the door.

Picking it up, he took two short raspy breaths and whispered hesitantly, Hello?

James, your express letter arrived today, a woman's voice said. Didn’t I tell you not to bother me? I’m surprised at your behaviour, surprised and disappointed. In any case, the answer is still no.

Durham’s features sagged. You can’t mean that, dear. We were such close friends. Please...please reconsider, he begged humbly. The problem is based on a misunderstanding. I never asked a favor of you. Indeed, I acceded to your every…

The caller cut him off imperiously. How can you be so lacking in courage? People of your generation – aren't they supposed to be strong and stoic? Well, it doesn’t matter. My decisions are always irrevocable. Whether you like it or not, you have to die. Do you hear me, James? Die...die.

For God’s sake, don’t say that, please, he exclaimed. How did I offend you? It’s too cruel – the entire business. After all, my health is deteriorating. I have only a little time left – a few months, a year at most – according to the doctor. Why can’t you let nature take its course? I...I complied with all your wishes. If only we could meet somewhere and talk, I'm sure...

The phone clicked in his ear. Durham ceased speaking, gulped and sighed. He leaned on the rickety table as if to keep from falling, shook his head and returned the receiver to its cradle. From one rheumy eye a tear welled, rolled down his puckered face and came to rest on his bristly chin, and a minute or two passed before he straightened up again. Switching the light off he shambled back to his bedchamber, carefully locking the door behind him.

In this room the only furnishings were a battered dresser and an ancient double bed that looked as if it had spent years in a cellar or attic. Above the bed’s oaken headboard a brass crucifix depended from a nail. Darkly outlined patches on other parts of the floral-papered walls showed where furniture had once stood and pictures once hung.

Durham went to the dresser, took out the matching pajama top and slowly pushed the drawer shut, an action that produced a murmurous creak that to him closely mimicked the voice on the phone saying, Die, die.

What can I do? the old bachelor asked softly. What can I do?

From outside the house a new noise broke the stillness – an eerie yowl. He listened, frowning – and it occurred again, this time louder and more protracted. Dropping the pajama top on the floor, Durham tottered to the bay window and with a shaky hand raised the shade. Above the roofs of Beacon Street brownstones a full moon shone in a near-cloudless sky, and by its comprehensive glare he saw a large black tomcat prowling in the shadowy yard below.

As though it had been awaiting his appearance, the feline stopped its pacing, gazed up at the window and uttered two long drawn out wails. Durham shuddered. In his agitated state what he heard was not caterwauling, but human speech enunciating English syllables.

Die, die, the ill-omened creature called out to him.

Yanking the shade down, he turned away from the window and staggered back into the room. The drawstring of his flannel pants came undone during this short journey and the pants slid to his ankles, nearly tripping him up. The distraught man stepped out of them, hurried to the head of the bed and snatched the brass crucifix off the wall.

My God, he said in an anguished voice, and, half-blinded by tears, lurched into the open clothes closet.

There, amidst shoes and garments, he crouched on the floor in quaking fear. Time and again James Durham kissed the cross and muttered fervent supplications while peering fixedly at the band of saffron light that shone through the gaping door.

Within minutes he stopped praying and began to twitch and convulse. His mouth fell open, his eyes rolled halfway up into his head. A strange expiratory grunt erupted from deep within his naked body, and his thin, spittle-wet lips gradually assumed a cyanic blue coloring, even as the rest of his face grew gray and puffy.

But mercifully these violent spasms lasted only a short while, and once they ended the terrified old man lay perfectly still.

Chapter 2.

On the threshold of her office, as she was seeing him out, Vilma said, My paralegal swears the paper trail, such as it is, doesn’t lead anywhere, Humphrey. Just to more dead ends. Smiling, she took his hand in hers. Poor dear – it must be an awful shock. Who can blame you for being bitterly disappointed? Your uncle flipped his wig, evidently.

I still can't understand it, Flanagan said. Didn't any of the neighbors notice the stuff being carried away?

Yeah, one dumb-ass lady next door saw a van there, but she didn't pay any attention. 'I always mind my own business,' she told us. Vilma rolled her gray eyes. Those large moving companies we checked? No help at all. There are hordes of shady fly-by-night outfits in that trade, though. We even called the Salvation Army, Morgan Memorial, St. Vincent DePaul, the Big Sisters. Drew more blanks. Nobody made a pickup at your uncle’s address.

She was a self-assured, willowy young woman with the finely-shaped features of a Thomas Lawrence English aristocrat. On the partially-open frosted-glass door behind her honey-blonde head, black-and-gold letters spelled out the words:

VILMA D. KARR

ATTORNEY AT LAW

Flanagan nodded, released her hand, buttoned his topcoat and muttered an obscenity.

The winsome lawyer slipped her arm around his waist. Hey, hire a private detective. I know several good ones, she advised him. What do you say we discuss the matter Friday night at my place? Around seven would be great. Come over after work. We’ll gorge ourselves on lobster and lubricity. That ought to cheer you up.

Vilma, I'd love to – only it’s impossible at the moment. You know how things are with me and Alicia. I have to account for every minute of the day and night. She’s obsessed. Thinks I spend all my time in bed with other women.

Ah, yes. Never should have married, sweetheart – not a hot guy like you, said Vilma. It’s too late now, alas. You’ll just have to be philosophical and sweat it out, till things run their inexorable course.

Philosophical? Yeah, right. Philosophy can defeat past misfortunes and future misfortunes, but present misfortunes defeat philosophy.

That’s clever, Humph. Did you make it up yourself?

Christ, no. A Frenchman named La Rochefoucauld did. He’s famous for his cynical epigrams.

Ah, those Frenchies. They’re something, aren’t they? Well, I’ll keep in touch, said Vilma, giving his buttock a gentle squeeze.

Losing that inheritance – it’s a catastrophe, Flanagan said, as if to himself.

And with his chin on his broad chest and his hands deep in his topcoat pockets, he walked dejectedly towards the bank of elevators.

The next day, Vilma Karr telephoned and gave him the name of a relatively inexpensive private detective, Bruno Nagel, whom he hired. This man diligently conducted an investigation, but though he uncovered a good deal of information about the old bachelor, Nagel was unable to find any of the missing property or any motives for his peculiar behavior. In the end, all Flanagan could do was settle the detective’s bill, and hope that eventually something would turn up to solve the puzzle.

Five months later he was still hoping. Then, one morning while he was sitting at his desk in his Newbury Street antique shop comparing the hefty totals of his most pressing debts with the anemic balance in his bank account, Bruno Nagel called him. The story he had to tell was long-winded, but interesting.

Chapter 3.

I been following this crooked salesman for the MultiPow Company, the private detective declared. "Yesterday we went to Portland, Maine and back – a nine-hour tailing job – but it was worth the trouble, because with my binoculars I observed the thief peddle a diesel generator to a roadside garage near Saco. If my client, Mr. Gilberti, hadn't ordered me to keep my distance from the guy I might have even snapped a few nice incriminating photos of the whole transaction – of Martin Kroon unloading the crate right from his Dodge Ramcharger.

Mr.Gilberti, MultiPow's owner, is afraid of his salesman – says he's a real nutter who collects machine guns, shoots at targets out in the woods and belongs to a right-wing militia. 'I never should have hired such a person,' he told me, 'but I needed a smooth closer and Kroon can sell anything.'

What has all this got to do with me? Flanagan asked.

Okay, Okay – listen. said Nagel. Later on after I got back to Boston, I had to give a speech at a meeting of the New England Chapter of the Mystery Writers of America because a former client of mine conned me into doing it. I only had time to wash my face before dashing out of the apartment again.

As it was he arrived a little late, the detective went on to explain, but everybody there was understanding and the whole event went off much better than he anticipated. Given the celebrity treatment and several stiff whiskies, Bruno Nagel soon felt at ease among the amiable authors. And the dinner they served him wasn’t bad, either – grilled sirloin steak, potatoes au gratin, asparagus, Waldorf salad. He cleaned his plate, while the plump lady novelist sitting next to him dutifully kept his wine glass topped up.

So when I delivered my speech I was feeling pretty good – confident enough to address a joint session of Congress, he said, chuckling. And I did all right too, Mr. Flanagan – held that audience spellbound for a full hour, treated them to detailed descriptions of my more sensational cases, along with a lecture on electronic gadgetry – debugging tools, satellite positioning devices and ways to mine the various internet databases for personal information. Of course, I hadda make everything sound easier than it really is, but since the data's gonna be used in works of fiction I figured it didn’t matter. A few confidential revelations concerning digital spy photography impressed the writers, also. They were amazed at how swift CD pictures could be transmitted over networks to police cars and security firms, and how easy it was to index them and match faces and files with rogues gallery records. Nagel paused to take a breath before going on. At the end I fielded questions about missing persons, pretexting, testifying in court and covert surveillance, and explained the difference between a plant and a tail. One novelist was anxious to hear about automobile tracking, so I had to describe what I did when subjects sped up or slowed down, ran red lights, drove into dead-end streets, rounded corners and doubled back, U-turned in the middle of the block, etcetera. Yeah, my entire spiel went down real well. I'm starting to think maybe I should give more lectures, for a fee – at social clubs, town meetings, gatherings of concerned citizens.

Bruno, I still don't understand why I should be...

Listen, listen, Nagel said. Afterwards I mingled with the crowd, glad-handing people for a half-hour before rejoining my chubby dinner companion in an alcove. The two of us had a long conversation about famous Boston homicides. Then, out of the blue, this woman casually mentions James Durham's death in his Berkeley Street brownstone. Naturally that caught my attention, seeing as I worked on the case for you earlier in the year, and I'm still bugged about not finding Durham’s property – an estate, worth in excess of a million dollars.

Ah-ha. What did the mystery writer have to say about my uncle? Flanagan asked impatiently.

"Well, I tried to pump her, but she got kinda coy – like she didn't want to give away secrets. Maybe I sounded a little too eager. Claimed she never knew him that well – that she happened to meet him a couple of times at the Psychic Occult Research Society. The newspaper account of the manner in which he died is what caught her attention. 'Imagine the scene – a naked old man crumpled up in a corner of a dark closet, a brass crucifix in his trembling hands,' she said, getting all excited. 'What savage demon pursued him? What diabolical horror was he hiding from? It’s so dramatic, don’t you think? That's why I feel compelled to recreate the whole episode in my next novel. As for Mr. James Durham himself, he and I seldom spoke. They say he was a bachelor.'

Well, I added a coupla ounces of gin to her glass from a bottle of Gordon’s sitting on the table there, hoping she'd open up and tell me more, but then she changed the subject to the Boston Strangler and how she didn't believe DeSalvo was the guy, and pretty soon another lady author homed in on the conversation, a tall lady who looked like a teacher I used to have in grade school, and that terminated the interview.

He belonged to an occult society? Flanagan asked. That doesn't sound like Uncle James.

Yeah. Spooky, ain't it? Maybe the old gink took his dough with him, said the detective, laughing again. If you want, I'll call the lady-writer, ask her a few questions and drop by your shop tomorrow.

All right, Bruno. See what you can find.

Chapter 4.

Nagel came the next afternoon, sat down in a heavily carved Gothic chair with his scarred briefcase in his lap, and said, Always had a strong intuition we’d solve this one. Near as I can figure, the writer thinks Durham saw the devil and died of fright. Nice woman, only she belts gin-and-ginger-ale like a hobo who just crawled out of Death Valley on the Fourth of July. Fairfield Street in the Back Bay is where that Psychic Occult Research Society is located, a nice substantial building only a few blocks from where your uncle lived. Could be he got involved with these wackos and made them a generous donation of everything he owned. Or maybe an unscrupulous fortune teller ripped him off, leaving you without a legacy to stand on. Happens. Show me a psychic and I'll show you a scam.

The old buzzard must have lost his mind, Flanagan said, as he rearranged four cut-glass bowls on a mock Georgian credenza.

Everybody’s got their weakness, said Nagel, a well-built individual who wore thick-lensed eyeglasses, a plaid shirt, red necktie and a snug gray suit that needed pressing. Listen, I ought to go over to the next meeting of the club...snoop around a little. Should be some big-mouth there who’ll dish the dirt about Durham. I can use the gin-and-ginger-ale lady to...

Not a good idea, Bruno.

Why?

She’ll tell all the members who you are – that you're a professional investigator. What's the mystery writer's name?

Cecily Claudine.

Flanagan looked surprised. Fancy that. I have a friend who's chummy with Cecily Claudine. Made me read a novel of hers once – innocent damsels in distress rubbish. Reaching around Nagel's balding head, he straightened a small Hudson River school painting in an ornate frame that hung crookedly on the wall. "Be much better if I went to visit these crackpots. My friend can provide me with an introduction to Cecily.

Easiest thing in the world. This could be the break we’ve been waiting for. What else did you find out, Bruno?"

The detective shrugged his shoulders, fished a black notebook from the depths of his briefcase and opened it. I called up, spoke with a woman who gave me a hard time. Really didn’t want to discuss the Society. I got the basic facts, though, he said. The weekly meetings are on Wednesday nights. They don't do séances or satanic rituals or crystal ball readings. It's sort of like what they call a soirée – a chance for mediums, clairvoyants, Wiccans, devil worshipers and so on to shoot the breeze and trade trade-secrets.

Wiccans? Pagan witches – right?

Yeah. I never heard of Wiccans before, but she explained them to me. The impression I got is that these freaks are into lots of crazy stuff. But when I asked her about human sacrifices, the lady hung up on me.

The antique dealer laughed. Okay, Bruno, he said, as a well-dressed woman entered the shop and began to browse. I’ll phone my friend and arrange to go this coming Wednesday. Then I’ll get back to you.

Afterwards he worried that the private detective’s new lead might prove to be as useless as all the others. Nevertheless Flanagan decided any lead was worth looking into with so much at stake. And it amused him to learn that a hardheaded, tight-fisted character like his Uncle James had gotten himself mixed up with a bunch of ethereal, addle-brained spiritualists.

Chapter 5.

Over his lifetime James Durham had acquired a pile of money by importing silk, satin and other costly fabrics and selling them to Boston’s fashionable dressmakers. But he and his only sister – Humphrey's now-dead mother – had never been close. Once a year the nephew would reluctantly pay a visit to the old man's dismal house where he would eat a bland vegetarian dinner, and then drink endless cups of strong Assam tea in the musty parlor. And, since family history was invariably the subject of their tedious conversation, Humphrey spent most of those evenings glancing at the banjo clock on the wall, vainly willing its delicate hands to quicken their plodding progress.

So