Джеймс Чейз - Believe This... You’ll Believe Anything

‘Well, of course, she is a little out of practice,’ I said. ‘That’s to be expected after a six year layoff.’

‘Is she being efficient?’

‘She doesn’t have to be efficient. That is my prerogative, Mr. Vidal.’

He laughed.

‘A tactful man. The doctor tells me she should stay in bed for a few days. Get yourself a secretary Burden. My wife will soon get tired of office routine. I know women. They like to talk about work, but when it comes to the crunch they start throwing faints.’

I was now hating him so violently that if he had been in the office I would have struck him.

‘I’ll do that Mr. Vidal,’ I said.

‘I want an efficient service Burden. See to it,’ and he hung up.

As I replaced the receiver, I looked at the briefs still to be done. There was no time now to think about what had happened, what Dyer had said. I had to get these briefs cleared.

I called the Employment agency and asked them to send me a top class secretary on a temporary basis.

‘This is an emergency,’ I said. ‘Put her in a taxi and get her to me as quickly as you can.’

When I mentioned Henry Vidal’s name, the woman in charge said a girl would be with me in half an hour.

‘I’ll send you Connie Hagen. She is exceptionally good. Will you need her long?’

‘A week, maybe two weeks. I’m not sure.’

‘All right, Mr. Burden. She’ll be along.’ She then asked, ‘Did that boy show up... the messenger you wanted?’

I had forgotten about him.

‘Not yet.’

‘He’ll be along any moment. I told him to have his lunch first.’

Within ten minutes, the boy arrived. His name was Ray Potter, a gangling, long haired, amiable type who seemed painfully anxious to please.

I explained about how to obtain visas, gave him the passports and the addresses of the various consulates and sent him on his way.

I then got down to the briefs. What with telexing and telephoning and checking my reference books, I had no time to think of Val.

Connie Hagen arrived. She was around eighteen or twenty years of age, and the fattest girl I have yet seen which is saying something in this county of grossly fat women. Her round face revealed efficiency, humour and kindness. I liked her on sight. As with most fat girls, she wore skin tight trousers and a blouse that scarcely held under the pressure of her enormous breasts.

I gave her three schedules to type. The moment her fat little fingers dropped on to the keyboard, I knew I had found the support I needed.

The three schedules were finished in a quarter of an hour. A quick look at them showed perfect typing. I then gave her a list of flights to book and left her to it.

We worked at top pressure until 17.45. Potter returned with the visas. I gave him four of the schedules to deliver to various hotels, assuring him he wouldn’t have to work this hard tomorrow.

‘I don’t mind work, Mr. Burden,’ he said, grinning. ‘I just want to earn what I’m being paid.’

When he had gone. Connie opened her handbag and took from it a paper sack.

‘Like a bite, Mr. Burden?’ she asked. ‘I always like a little bite before supper. Liver sausage on rye.’

‘No, thanks. We’re nearly through.’ I looked with unbelieving eyes at my now empty desk top.

She took a big bite out of the sandwich, munched and nodded her satisfaction.

‘I can’t get over me working for Mr. Vidal,’ she exclaimed. ‘Gosh! And in this marvellous house! Won’t I bend my boyfriend’s cars tonight! I’ll have you know Mr. Burden, it is a real privilege to work for Mr. Vidal.’

This remark turned my mood sour. Up to now. I had been too occupied with Val and Vidal had gone out of my mind.

‘Well, let’s finish,’ I said curtly. ‘It’s getting on for six.’

At 18.10. I had cleared the last schedule. Connie, still rating, put the cover on the I.B.M.

‘What time tomorrow, Mr. Burden?’

‘Nine o’clock, please.’

‘I’ll be here. Nightie-night,’ and away she went, swinging her massive hips, as light as a thistledown on her fat little feet, apparently without a care in the world.

There was no rush for me to get home. I had warned Rhoda that I might be late. I had much thinking to do and concentration would be impossible with her fussing around.

I sat at my desk. I first thought of what Dyer had said.

Was it possible that Vidal was taking advantage of Val under hypnotism and was having intercourse with her without her knowledge? The thought turned me hot with frustrated rage.

Could any man be so despicable? I remembered what she had told me: He is evil! He is a devil! If he was doing this evil thing, how could I protect her? Should I warn her? After more thought, I decided it would be cruel to do so without having a solution to offer. Had she not said she was no longer a free agent and was completely in his power and that his will had conquered hers? Now that I had more insight of what could be happening, it seemed to me she wouldn’t have made such an admission unless it was true.

There is nothing you can do, she had said. There is nothing anyone can do.

I refused to accept such a defeatist attitude. I was determined somehow to help her, but I did realise how dangerous it was for me to meddle with this power Vidal appeared to have. In my ignorance I could do harm as I had done in this irresponsible finger snapping episode.

First, then I told myself, I must find out more about hypnotism. I must consult an expert, but who? I thought of Dyer’s friend, Dr. Rappach. I hesitated. Doctors were not supposed to talk about their patients, yet this doctor had told Dyer about the man who had hypnotised his wife. I wouldn’t want it to get back to Dyer that I had been making inquiries. I felt sure the doctor hadn’t mentioned names. If I approached him tactfully it should be safe enough. I reached for the telephone book. There he was: Dr. Hugo Rappach, Neurologist. 1141 West Street. West Palm Beach

Not the best district to live in. West Palm Beach was the suburb of Palm Beach where the workers lived and where there was a large Harlem quarter.

I dialled his number.

‘This is Doctor Rappach.’ A thick, deep voice that gave me an impression of age.

‘My name is George Fellows, doctor,’ I said. The phony name belonged to one of the V.I.P.s for whom I had provided tickets. ‘I would like to consult you on the subject of hypnotism. Could you give me an appointment, please?’

There was a pause.

‘Have you been recommended to me, Mr. Fellows?’

‘Your name cropped up at a party I was attending. Someone said you used hypnotism sometimes on your patients.’

‘Was it someone I know?’ The voice was polite but perhaps now a little cautious.

‘I forget his name, doctor: short, thickset, balding. You know how it is at a party.’ I forced a little laugh. ‘Names come, names go.’

‘And you are interested in hypnotism. May I ask why?’

I trotted out the hairy excuse so often used.

‘I’m writing a novel, doctor, and I want my facts right. Naturally, I would pay your usual consulting fee.’

‘I am very busy, Mr. Fellows...’ A pause. We both breathed at each other over the line. ‘However, I could find time to see you if nine o’clock would be convenient.’

‘21.00, tonight?’

‘Yes’

‘That’s fine, doctor. I’ll be along.’

We both hung up.

I went back to my thinking.

Twice during our talks together Val had mentioned Trilby and Svengali. She had said: I was a Trilby to his Svengali.

Who was Trilby? Who was Svengali? Wasn’t there once a classical novel called Trilby? I had vaguely heard of it, but had never read it. Could this book give me a clue?