Kaleidoscope
psychometry: the divination of facts concerning an object or its owner through contact with or to the object
clairvoyance: the ability to perceive matter beyond the range of ordinary perception
—Webster's New Collegiate Dictionary, 1963-1973
1
Madame Karitska, leaving the shabby brownstone on Eighth Street
, gave only a cursory glance at the sign in the first-floor window that read MADAME KARITSKA, READINGS. It was ironic, she thought as she stepped into the bright noon sunshine, how a talent that had earned her whippings as a child, and for which she had never before accepted money, had led her so firmly to this street a year ago, and to this brownstone, to place the sign in the window that at last admitted her gift of clairvoyance.
On the other hand, her life had always been filled with surprises, and among them, here in Trafton, was her blossoming friendship with Detective Lieutenant Pruden, whose suspicions and skepticism had long since been obliterated by the help she'd been able to offer him in his work. The shoddiness of the neighborhood neither bothered nor depressed her; after all, she had known poverty in Kabul, and wealth in Antwerp, and poverty again in America, and in spite of Eighth Street
's flirting with decay it no longer seemed to deter her clients, which amused her. She was becoming known.
At the moment, however, she was between appointments and free to venture uptown for a few purchases, and she was in no hurry; she walked slowly, drinking in the sounds and colors along the way as if they were intoxicating, as for her they were. Reaching Tenth Street
she saw that the warmth of the sun had brought Sreja Zagredi out of his secondhand furniture store to sit in the sun, and she greeted him cordially.
His eyes brightened. "Ah, Madame Karitska, you have the step of a young girl!"
"And you the heart of a brigand," she told him. "How is my rug today?"
"Still here," he told her, pointing to it displayed in the window. "I have a very good offer for it the other day, from a man uptown who appreciates the finest of old rugs, I assure you."
"Nonsense," said Madame Karitska crisply, "it's a poor copy of an Oriental rug, and shabby as well."
"Shabby! A good rug ages like wine," he told her indignantly. "You want garish colors, God forbid? A hundred dollars is still my price, but only for you."
Madame Karitska smiled. "The colors were garish," she pointed out amiably, "but you've had it hanging in the sun all winter, spring and summer to fade it. My offer remains eighty-five dollars."
"Eighty-five!" He pulled at his considerable hair in anguish. "What a fool you make of me to tell this stranger from uptown I save it for a friend! With five children to feed you speak starvation to me, Madame Karitska."
She observed him critically. "Scarcely starving. I think you could lose at least twenty pounds, Mr. Zagredi, if you cut down on the bnnza and the raki."
"This is a rug worth at least one hundred fifty uptown!"
Madame Karitska shrugged. "Then take it uptown, Mr. Zagredi."
He blew through his mustache and eyed her shrewdly. "For you I have already come down to one hundred."
"And for you I have already gone up to eighty-five," she reminded him.
They eyed each other appreciatively, and he laughed. "There is no one like you anymore, Madame Karitska; you know how to haggle like in the old country and it does my heart good. Like the knife—sharp!"
"Very sharp, yes," she told him cheerfully. "In the meantime it is good to see you, and say hello to your wife for me, Mr. Zagredi."
"Come for a dinner of mâmâligâ," he called after her. "Come soon—you are the only one who can put sense into my son's head about school."
"I will," she promised, smiling, and they parted with perfect understanding, their minds pleasantly exercised and soothed by the exchange.
Reaching the subway station at Eleventh Street
she paid her fare and was pleased to find a seat available. In the moment before the doors slammed shut, two men entered the car, one of them young, with a hard, suntanned face that almost matched the color of his trench coat, and who took a seat some distance away. The other, older man wore a dark, somewhat shabby suit and carried a small attaché case, and he sat down opposite her; glancing at him she gave a start, for she recognized him. Leaning forward she was about to call across the aisle to him when he lifted his head and looked directly at her and then through her, with not a trace of expression on his face.
At once Madame Karitska covered her movement by leaning down and retying a shoelace. When she straightened again she studied the man briefly and glanced away, but she was alert now, and thoughtful.
The train stopped at the next station and the man opposite her half rose, as if to leave, and then sank back. When he did this Madame Karitska noticed that farther down the car the man in the trench coat also made a move to leave and then aborted it. Seeing this she returned her glance to the impassive face across the aisle, and this time he met her gaze, and without expression they gazed at each other for a long moment.
At Fifteenth Street
her friend in the shabby suit stood up, carrying his attaché case, and walked to the door to stand beside it as the train swayed to a halt. He was followed by the young man in the trench coat, but Madame Karitska saw him adroitly step aside to allow a woman to precede him, which placed him next to the younger man instead of in front of him. The doors slid open; the man with the attaché case walked out, hesitated and then stopped, allowing others to swarm past him.
Just as the doors began to close behind him he turned, looked back at Madame Karitska, and lifting his arm he threw his attaché case to her; she caught it in her lap just as the doors slammed shut. The last she saw of its owner he was hurrying toward the stairs to the street while the man in the trench coat stared back into the car, mouth slightly open, his eyes fixed on Madame Karitska. As the train picked up speed he turned and ran after the older man.
No one in the subway car appeared startled that Madame Karitska had been tossed a small attaché case by an apparent stranger. At the next station she left the train, and once above ground she signaled a cruising taxi: this was one time, she felt, when it was expedient not to be walking the streets, for unless Georges Verlag had changed his occupation since she had known him in Europe, he had just tossed her an attaché case filled with diamonds.
Ten minutes later she regained her apartment and drew a sigh of relief. Placing the attaché case on her square coffee table she examined its several locks and nodded, reasonably sure now that Georges was still a diamond salesman, and that the case contained a delivery of jewels worth a hundred thousand dollars, if not more. Georges had always been one of the best, as well as a good friend of her late husband, who had been a diamond merchant, and they had frequently entertained Georges in their Antwerp home. It had been a long time ago, but since she herself was now in America was it really so surprising that Georges, too, was here?
She thought a moment and then went to the phone and dialed police headquarters, asking for Lieutenant Pruden.
"He's out," said the desk sergeant. "Is this Madame Karitska?"
"Ah, Margolies," she said, "what a good ear you have for voices. Yes, would you ask him to call me, please, when he returns? It's quite important."
"Righto," said Margolies. "Your ESP working again? He's out on a hit-and-run case, but— Hold on, he's just walked in."
A second later Pruden was greeting her warmly.
"Something has happened," she said calmly, "so that I wonder if you could stop in here today at your convenience. I would have gone directly to the precinct if I could have been sure you were in, but—"
"That bad?" he said lightly. 'Actually I can come right now, I'm leaving in a minute and will b
e passing your street. Serious?" he added in a lower voice.
"Not precisely a criminal matter—not yet," she explained.
"Be there in five minutes," he said, and hung up.
In precisely five minutes a police car drew up to her building and Pruden was at her door. Entering her apartment he gave a quick glance around the room and then a look at her face as she brought out the tray of Turkish coffee and placed it on the table. "Thank you for stopping, this won't take long," she told him.
His level brows lifted over his slate gray eyes. "I thought at the very least you were being held captive here. Margolies said it was important?"
She nodded. "I think so," and pouring out the lavalike brew she handed him a cup and began describing to him her experience on the subway train. "You see," she explained, "when Georges first moved to go—and then didn't—he was very definitely showing me that he was being followed. When he did leave at the next stop"—from beneath the table she drew out the attaché case and handed it to Pruden—"he threw this to me just as the doors closed behind him."
He looked at it, frowning. "Nothing too unusual about it. You say you recognized this man?"
"His name is Georges Verlag," she told him, "and I believe you will find at least a hundred thousand dollars' worth of diamonds in this case."
His brows shot skyward again.
"No, I'm not being clairvoyant now," she said, smiling. "Georges I knew in Europe. You may recall that I was married once to a diamond merchant in Antwerp. Georges was a young diamond salesman then, and I have few doubts that he still is. This is how diamonds are often carried for delivery."
"This casually?"
"Oh yes," she said, "but you mustn't think there is anything casual about their travel arrangements. Diamond salesmen have to be very clever and very, very cautious, never staying at the same hotel twice, often making a reservation at one place and then going to another, never announcing where or when or how. They would equal in deception any CIA agents."
"I've never known either," Pruden said, his eyes on the case. "I do see that it has three locks and is made of steel. You realize that if these are diamonds, then your friend placed you in some danger by tossing the case to you?"
"The danger is negligible," she told him with a shrug. "How could that man in the trench coat learn who I am?"
Pruden said dryly, "By catching up with your friend Verlag and insisting, not too gently, that he identify you."
She nodded, smiling. "I did hope that might not occur to you. There is, however, no certainty that Georges knows my present name, since it was Von Domm at that period in my life."
Pruden grinned at her. "If I've finally gotten it all straight I am speaking to—let's see—the Countess Marina Elena Provotchnichet Gaylord Von Domm Karitska?"
"You say it very musically," she told him.
"But I still don't like any of this. Who does Verlag work for, do you know?"
She shook her head. "I've no idea, but there used to be only two very large dealers in this country: Winston and the Zale Corporation. And I should like you please to take them away with you and place them somewhere very safe."
He nodded. "Of course, but we'll have to open the case to verify its contents, you know. The chief wouldn't care to tuck away an attaché case full of hashish or cocaine. Look, you're sure about this? Your friend Verlag could be on your doorstep in an hour or two wanting this back, you know."
"I would be most happy if Georges does appear on my doorstep inside of the hour," she told him, "for I am more than a little worried about him; I did not at all like the look of the man following him. But if Georges should arrive, he will have to visit headquarters for his case, for I refuse to keep anything of value on Eighth Street
."
Pruden nodded and put down his cup of coffee. "I'll leave you with a receipt for one leather-covered steel attaché case with three locks and a scar on one corner, presumably the property of one Georges Verlag, and in turn you'll let me know the minute you hear from him."
"Agreed," she told him.
With a glance at his watch he nodded. "I'll just have time to drop this off at the station, I'm due to interview the parents of a young girl killed by a hit-and-run driver over in Ardsley, her funeral only three days ago."
"So young! Poor child!"
He turned at the door to give her a thoughtful glance. "Poor child, yes, but something. . ." He frowned.
"Yes?"
"Something about it troubles me and I don't know what. Do you suppose . . ." He reached into his pocket. "I'm to deliver this gold cross to her parents, found by the Ardsley police on the street, after—well, it was there when the ambulance came. They've washed the blood from it. Do you suppose you'd have time to .., to ... I could return it to them tomorrow or by mail."
"Of course," she told him. "There'll be time for that after my next appointment—to see what impressions I can receive?"
He placed the gold cross with its torn thread of a necklace on her table. "Thanks," he said, and hurried out, leaving Madame Karitska to turn her attention to devising a message for Georges Verlag, and with haste, since her two o'clock appointment loomed.
With a pen she scribbled a few lines on paper, crossed them out, and then clarified them until she had reached a message too oblique to enlighten anyone but Georges—if, of course, he read the newspaper personals: G, she wrote, and in block letters, ¡N MEMORY OF ANTWERP TRY KAR1TSKA, NOT M. VON D." She then phoned the classified section of the newspaper and asked that it be inserted in tomorrow's edition, and for three more days, and after writing out a check she mailed this at the corner postbox. When this had been done she cleared the coffee table of cups and carried them into her tiny kitchen, where a tajine was simmering on the stove. She had time only to stir it when her two o'clock appointment knocked at the door. She opened it to a young woman with an anxious face, who simply stared at her, apparently not expecting a tall, distinguished-looking woman with oddly hooded eyes and a kind smile.
The girl promptly burst into tears.
"Oh my dear, you are much too young to cry," said Madame Karitska gently. "Do come inside." For her, she decided, a cup of rich cocoa with a fillip of whipped cream. "You shall have some hot chocolate, which will make you feel better," and drawing her inside she returned to her kitchen. When she entered the living room again, tray in hand, the girl was seated on the couch, staring at the wall of books, at the intricately carved Chinese coffee table, and at the sun streaming through the window.
She blurted out, "My name's Betsy Oliver," and then— again startled—she added, "I didn't expect you to look so .., so ... I thought you'd look more like a gypsy fortune-teller."
"Life is hill of disappointments, is it not," said Madame Karitska humorously, and leaning across the table handed her the cup of steaming cocoa. "You are feeling better now?"
The girl nodded, and Madame Karitska gave her a brief but thorough glance, noting the anxiety in her eyes and the air of helplessness she projected. But although the helplessness might be real to her, thought Madame Karitska, it was either self-imposed or imposed by others, for she was not the little brown wren that she believed herself, dressed as she was in colorless clothes. Her face was too strong, and her jaw too firm.
"It's my husband," Betsy Oliver said, and reaching into her purse she brought out a large signet ring. "Mona told me you hold things—"
"Psychometry, yes," said Madame Karitska.
"Mona's the friend who recommended you. So I brought Alpha's ring. My husband's. He thinks he mislaid it, but.. ." She flushed. "I'll tell him tonight I found it behind the sofa cushions or somewhere."
"An interesting name, Alpha," said Madame Karitska.
"Well, actually it's Arthur," the girl said with a vague motion of her hand. "We've been married seven years, but lately—well, he's joined this group a year ago and they gave him that name, you see. 1 guess he likes it, so he's kept it."
"Alpha," mused Madame Karitska. "A religious group?"
"Perhaps a cult?" suggested Madame Karitska.
Tears came again to the girl's eyes. "Whatever it is I can't understand how it changed him. We can't go to the movies anymore, or play card games, and he used to love playing cards and movies."
"Does the group have a name?"
She nodded. "Guardians of Eden. They have a big place out in the Edgerton section—an estate, he says—and now. . , now he wants us to go—all of us, me and our daughter, she's five—wants us to go there to live." Tears were running down her cheeks now. "He's out almost every night and—" She burst into tears. "I'm scared."
"Yes," said Madame Karitska. "Yes, you would be. May I have something of yours to hold?"
"Mine! But it's Arthur—I mean Alpha—I hoped you could explain."
"In a moment, yes," she assured her. "But it helps me to know you as well."
With some effort the girl removed the ring on her left hand with its tiny diamond, then brought out a handkerchief and blew her nose.
Closing her eyes Madame Karitska stilled her mind and opened herself to the vibrations and feelings that the ring had accumulated from its years of being worn. She rejected the negatives one by one—the emanations of dreariness and monotony and routine—and was surprised and pleased to reach below these to something so promising. "I wonder," she said, opening her eyes, "if you realize you have a very real talent in art. Do you sketch? Paint?"
The girl turned scarlet. "Oh, Alpha doesn't allow—" Sha stopped, flustered yet looking pleased. "Do you really think I have talent for it?"
Madame Karitska nodded. "You do sketch, then."
Looking frightened, and then defiant, the girl brought from her purse a small sheet of paper. "1 burn them usually but I can't stop, it's what keeps me going. It doesn't look like much," she said, and handed it across the table.
Madame Karitska looked at it, and to her surprise tears rose in her eyes. It was a simple line drawing of a child's face, very free, very spontaneous and fresh, the nose, brows, and lips only suggested, the eyes luminous and wondering. "Oh my dear," she said, deeply touched.