Carol O’Connell: The Man Who Lied To Women

‘Talk to him, Mallory,’ said Effrim Wilde, who knew better than to presume he might call her Kathy or Kathleen on only a few years’ acquaintance, or even ten.

The long slants of her eyes were only half open as she turned her face to Effrim. ‘I hope the kid isn’t possessed by the devil,’ she said. She glanced at Charles. ‘I really hate that.’

Charles Butler smiled broadly. Effrim Wilde smiled not at all.

Effrim was a rounded silhouette in the soft diffusion of light from the wide center window. Dwarfed by the tall triptych of arched glass panes, he might have been taken for an altar boy, and not a man in his middle fifties. The aging cherub face was crowned by wavy hair, more salt than pepper now.

‘Charles, it’s a fascinating problem.’

‘Nothing fascinating about it,’ said Charles. ‘It’s garden variety fraud.’

Charles coveted Effrim’s pug nose, for his own was constantly reminding him of its size and length. Charles could look nowhere without looking over it, or trying to see around it, or noting the shadow it cast on every wall. He was not a handsome man; he knew that. And he had long ago come to terms with the realization that strangers took him for an asylum escapee, perhaps because of the large egg-shaped eyes and the undersized blue marbles that rolled around the vast white surfaces, giving him the look of having been taken by surprise.

‘Give it up, Effrim. I’m not dealing with that kind of nonsense,’ he said, rising from a Queen Anne chair and inadvertently looming over the smaller man. At six-four, Charles’s looming was unavoidable.

‘It isn’t nonsense, Charles. I have the data – ’

‘The Russian or the Chinese? Never mind. I’m not terribly impressed with either. Those experiments have never been duplicated to my satisfaction. I’m not buying it. Why don’t you fob the case off on Malakhai?’

‘Malakhai, the debunker? I thought he was dead.’

‘No, he’s in retirement now, but I don’t think a small boy will cause him any undue exertion. He won’t charge you much for fifteen minutes’ work.’ Charles turned to Mallory. ‘Malakhai is an old friend of the family. He toured Europe with Cousin Max when he was a practicing magician. This was all a bit before your time.’

‘Charles, I’m not concerned about the expense,’ said Effrim.

‘Good, not that he needs the money. Shall I call him?’

‘Absolutely not. Every case he ever worked on became a sideshow. What we want here is discretion. We’re talking about a little boy, a very troubled little boy.’

‘Are we?’ Charles rose on the balls of bis feet, smiling pleasantly. ‘I thought you were sucking up to the boy’s father because he controls a grant committee. It is that time of year, isn’t it, when the think tank passes the hat? I only deal with legitimate gifts, measurable gifts.’

‘Levitating objects? That’s not a gift?’ Effrim’s eyes rounded in mock incredulity that Charles would not see things his way. But then, Charles saw Effrim’s every expression as a mockery of honest sentiment.

‘Effrim, you know the boy is a fraud. He’s not levitating anything. And it’s no good appealing to Mallory. She’s not overly sentimental about small children, little old ladies or dogs. Nor does she believe that inanimate objects can fly without a physical activator. And the proper term is psychokinesis?’

‘Well, you would know the technical jargon better than I,’ said Effrim, waving his hand in the expansive gesture of concession. ‘I stand corrected. Thank you.’

‘And if the boy levitates food, it’s called a food fight.’

‘Thank you, Charles.’

Now Charles watched the mechanics of Effrim’s small smile, the downcast eyes, the aggrieved sigh for those who were not yet enlightened, and he knew his old friend was regrouping for another assault.

‘This child has been through a terrible emotional ordeal,’ said Effrim in the tone of Brothers and, sisters, let us pray. ‘His mother died when he was only nine years old. And fourteen months later, his first stepmother died.’

‘No good, Effrim. Psychokinesis is not my field.’

Effrim rolled his eyes up in the manner of the insipid-saint school of fourteenth-century painting. ‘Your field is discovering new gifts and finding applications for them, is it not? This child is in the gifted category in other areas, you know. His IQ is somewhere between yours and mine. And there’s some urgency to this. His new stepmother is badly frightened. It seems he’s been applying his gift in a rather terrifying way.’

One long and slender arm, led by five red fingernails, stretched across the back of the couch as Mallory was roused from lethargy. ‘So, the new stepmother is the target?’

Charles watched Effrim mentally stepping back to reappraise Mallory as a possible ally, estimating the location of her buttons, what pressure to push them with, and which buttons to avoid. This was Effrim’s special gift, his art.

‘I do hope not,’ said Effrim with exquisite insincerity. ‘He’s been moving sharp objects around.’

Charles filled Mallory’s empty glass with dry sherry. A look passed between them, and in that look, a small conversation took place in which he begged her not to encourage Effrim.

He next offered the decanter to his good friend of many years, whom he would not trust with the silver. ‘Effrim, if you believe the boy is in trauma, wouldn’t it be better to refer him to a psychiatrist?’

‘Probably not,’ said Mallory, answering for Effrim. ‘How many shrinks fall into the genius category? If it’s fraud and the boy is that bright, he could put it by the average peabrain.’

Charles looked her way, his smile dipping down on one side to say, I begged you not to do that.

She was avoiding his eyes and further ocular conversation. He found it interesting that she would take Effrim’s part when she was so suspicious of the man. She’d had a good instinct there.

‘How did the mother and first stepmother die?’ she asked Effrim.

So it was only the body count that interested Mallory. He should have guessed that. She was bored with the partnership. When her suspension was over, he would lose her to Special Crimes Section. He had nothing to offer her, no dead bodies, no puzzles quite so interesting as murder.

Effrim was looking into his glass, reading his next line in the sherry. ‘It was tragic, really tragic. The boy’s natural mother died of a heart attack. Odd because she was so young at the time, only twenty-eight.’ He looked up to gauge the effect of the hook on Mallory, but her face was devoid of emotional cues. He stared into her eyes for too long and became unsettled by them. Turning back to his glass, he spoke to the sherry. ‘And then his first stepmother committed suicide… She didn’t leave a note.’

Mallory lifted her chin slightly. Her eyes were all the way open now.

Charles stared at the ceiling. Oh, good job, Effrim .

‘That’s quite a run of bad luck in one family,’ said Charles.

‘Only for the women,’ said Mallory. ‘We’ll take it.’

She didn’t look to Charles for confirmation, not that he minded. It might keep her from cutting the cord of Mallory and Butler, Ltd for a while, but the break was inevitable. NYPD was unlikely to allow her to moonlight any longer. There must be limits to what she could get away with.

Effrim was edging toward the door.

Right, Effrim. Best to hit and run.

‘I’ll send over a check for the retainer,’ Effrim said. And then for his most stunning trick, the wide Cheshire smile lingered on after the door was closed behind him.

Mallory was rising off the couch, running shoes lighting on the floor at the edge of the carpet. ‘I’ll chase down the life insurance angle.’