The Clairvoyant Countess Read Free

Swope replied in the affirmative he approached it with interest. It was a small student desk with a typewriter stand at right angles to it, and a stack of good bond paperbeside it, all of it inscribed with the name of Ebbets Publishing Company. The two drawers he pulled open showed nothing of particular interest: writing paper, canceled checks, colored pencils, four six-by-eight reproductions of Van Gogh paintings, a paperback Bartlett’s Quotations, one earring, a swizzle stick, a guidebook to the city. All of these would be examined later, slowly and patiently. The top of the desk was more communicative: there were bills and an engagement calendar with loose-leaf pages.
    He turned the pages of the latter curiously, noting the number of empty pages. Those carrying inscriptions were meager: lunch with Ginny, a hairdresser appointment, reminder of a book due at the library, lunch with Ethel, hairdresser appointment … this seemed to be the shape of Alison Bartlett’s life: neat, organized, and empty. Ten days ago, however, she had jotted down the words “Ask for tomorrow off,” and with interest he turned the page. This time the sheet held a name and an address: Karitska, 11 Eighth Street.
    It was something, anyway. He copied the address into his memo pad and tucked it away in his pocket. The phone rang and Swope wrapped a handkerchief around the receiver before plucking it from the cradle. He said, “The super says there are three news reporters waiting downstairs. Impatiently.”
    “They’re going to love this one,” Pruden said dryly.
    “You can say that again.” Swope’s voice was savage. “It’ll scare the daylights out of every young girl living alone in Trafton. Killer loose. Mad killer?”
    “That,” said Pruden, “is up to us to find out.” He turned and looked again at the small dead face as thebody was placed on the stretcher. In death it was almost but not quite nondescript. He wondered what the sterile pages of that engagement calendar concealed: an affair, blackmail, drugs, abortionists, or just one more lonely victim of the big city? He knew that before the case was finished he would come to know Alison Bartlett better than her friends and even her parents had known her.
    It was midafternoon before Pruden zeroed in on the notation in the engagement calendar. Swope was still at work canvassing the neighborhood to find anyone who might have seen the murderer on the fire escape, or suspicious strangers entering the building. So far nothing had turned up. The afternoon paper was on the street, carrying Alison Bartlett’s high-school graduation picture on its front page, and a headline that read GIRL BUTCHERED IN APARTMENT. By this time Pruden knew a little more about Alison Bartlett but not as much as he’d expected. One of the few things he did know, however, was that she didn’t belong on Eighth Street, and he was curious. It was a cloudy, oppressive afternoon, and the brief thunderstorm at noon had accomplished nothing for the neighborhood except to blow over a few garbage pails, which did not improve the appearance of a block that hovered precariously on the edge of being a slum. Number 11 had a bright yellow door; to the left of the door, on the first floor, hung a sign:
Madame Karitska, Readings.
    What the hell—
readings?
thought Pruden, and rang the bell. When no one answered he opened the unlocked front door, walked into the hall, and knockedon the first door to the left. He thought this added a new dimension to Alison Bartlett; her coming here was the first untidy note that appeared to have entered her immaculate life.
    The door opened, and Pruden found himself surprised. The woman facing him was tall, in her mid-forties, and dressed in a well-cut tweed pants suit. Good bones, was his first clinical impression; dark hair parted in the center, pulled severely back into a knot, and a face strong enough to survive the severity. Her eyes were striking, deeply set and lidded but oddly