The Girl In The Glass Part 18

"That's not going to look good for us, is it?" I said.

"Not if Barnes gets on the blower to his cronies and tells them we failed at what we have advertised as our expertise. No, that's going to be a direct hit on our business. Barnes probably knows every wealthy truebeliever on the Gold Coast of the North Sh.o.r.e. We may have to relocate. I've always thought Hollywood might be a good venue for us. Movie stars seem as if they'd be easy marks."

"I suppose this is a lesson in taking jobs for free," I said.

Sch.e.l.l shrugged, "Not the greatest policy, but we're still the richer for it."

"In what way?"

"You've found Isabel, and I've found Morgan. Money is not the only manifestation of good fortune." There was something definitely wrong with Sch.e.l.l. It wasn't the sodden depression of a few weeks earlier, before the Parks seance, but this optimism was completely unexpected. Was Sch.e.l.l becoming a romantic? I found it nearly as disturbing as the more mordant condition that preceded it. I mulled it over for a few minutes and was about to mention it to him, when he pulled up to the address Stintson had given him.

Stintson was a vital-looking older gentleman, who sat ramrod straight in his chair as he poured us coffee at his kitchen table. He had about him a kind of energy and a can-do att.i.tude that, frankly, I found wearying. It was a certainty he'd been up at sunrise thinking intricate thoughts. Still, he was not at all averse to speaking with us as long as the conversation didn't flag. When I asked him to pose for a photo, he became exasperated at what he considered to be a waste of time.

"We wanted to find out about the ERO," said Sch.e.l.l, beginning the interview. I took out my pad and pen and began scribbling.

"Yes," he said. "I understand."

"Have you worked there long?"

"Well, Mr. Sch.e.l.l, I don't spend much time there anymore. I still have a membership, so to speak, but...my interest has cooled over the years."

"Why's that?"

Stintson winced. "I found I was working at cross-purposes with the leaders of the organization. You see, many of us who worked there hoped that our research would eventually lead to cures for inherited maladies. But as time went by I began to realize that the intended mission, of those who were supporting it that is, was to disenfranchise, to persecute, to play G.o.d play G.o.d instead of help people. I still believe the research could lead somewhere positive, but not now, not in this climate." instead of help people. I still believe the research could lead somewhere positive, but not now, not in this climate."

"Doesn't it all just fit into Darwinian theory?" asked Sch.e.l.l. "Survival of the fittest?"

"Yes," said Stintson. "But who or what is the fittest? It's Nature's purview to make that selection. There are so many factors, both seen and unseen, that go into that selection; it's not humanity's job. Some of my colleagues there bring an almost religious zeal to it, definitely a subjective zeal. They never consider the fact that what might seem to them to be aberrant may, in the larger scheme of things, be the next rung on the evolutionary ladder-a solution of survival for our species."

Sch.e.l.l nodded, and I could tell he was truly contemplating the doctor's comments and how they fit with his worldview of marks and cons, predators and prey.

I could see Stintson was getting a little restless, so I put my hand on Sch.e.l.l's arm to draw his attention.

"The photo," I said.

"Oh, yes," he said and held up the photograph from Parks's place. "Does this look familiar to you, doctor?" asked Sch.e.l.l, laying the picture on the table so that the professor could study it. He took a look at it and smiled. "Probably one of the informal gatherings at ERO," he said. "That's me, looking somewhat younger, right there," he said, pointing. I looked and it was true-a more youthful Stintson, darker hair, fewer wrinkles, stared up at us from the static tableau.

"How about this gentleman?" asked Sch.e.l.l, pointing.

"That, I believe, is Mr. Parks. He was a contributor to the cause. A wealthy man, who, if I'm not mistaken, recently met with a grisly end."

"You don't say," said Sch.e.l.l.

I saw a look of suspicion flash across Stintson's face, but Sch.e.l.l obviously noted it also and pushed on.

"And did you know this fellow, Greaves, here?" he asked.

Stintson bent forward to get a better look. "I know him, but his name isn't Greaves."

"What?" asked Sch.e.l.l. "I was told he was a Doctor Greaves."

"Why exactly are you asking these questions?" asked Stintson, suddenly cold. "I don't think I'll be answering any more."

"We're simply curious," said Sch.e.l.l.

"A chimpanzee is curious, a cat is curious," said Stintson. "What are you after?" He pushed back from the table and began to stand up, no doubt to show us the door.

"Have you heard the name Charlotte Barnes?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

Stintson stopped midway in his ascent and returned to his seat. "The girl who was found murdered," he said. All of his good humor had vanished.

"Yes," said Sch.e.l.l. "We're investigating her death, and I think this fellow either knows something or was involved in some way. Now you don't have to help us, but an innocent man, or a man innocent of this particular crime, is going to take the rap for it and that girl's murder will have gone unavenged."

"You're not with the Times Times, I take it. Are you police?" he asked. "Federal agents?" He looked at me as if the thought of me working for the government would be a bizarre revelation indeed.

"We're working for Barnes, and I can a.s.sure you we're the furthest thing from police as one can get," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Can you prove it?" asked Stintson. "Say I call Barnes?"

"Barnes won't admit that we're working for him. He's promised me that. We've told him we're spiritual mediums. He thinks we're communicating with the dead to find out who killed his daughter. Actually we're con men, but I swear we aren't taking any money from him."

"That sounds fairly preposterous," said Stintson.

"Do you have a deck of cards?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

Stintson went to a drawer in the kitchen and brought forth a deck of cards. Sch.e.l.l had them out of the pack and was putting them through their paces in a flash. Stintson smiled as he watched the incredible display. When Sch.e.l.l was finished with the cards he set them down, waved his left hand in the air, and a monarch b.u.t.terfly appeared above the table. "Lean over here and shake hands with me," he said to the doctor. Stintson warily did as he was asked. They gripped hands briefly and then the old man pulled away.

"As I said," said Sch.e.l.l, "we're not cops." He pointed with his left index finger at his right wrist, where Stintson's watch now resided.

The doctor's eyes focused, he looked down at his wrist, and broke out laughing. "Okay," he said. "I'm convinced you're not federal agents. That's what I was worried about."

"Why would you worry about that?" I asked.

"The man you pointed to isn't named Greaves. His real name is Fenton Agarias, and one thing I know about him is he has mysterious connections to some very powerful people, some wealthy, some in the government."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about him?" said Sch.e.l.l.

"He's mad," said Stintson.

BLOOD.

You mean like frothing at the mouth?" asked Sch.e.l.l. "When I met him, he didn't seem any worse than a crank." "No, no," said Stintson. "I'm talking about the work he was doing at the ERO. Agarias was sold-lock, stock, and barrel-on the whole concept of thinning the unsavory elements unsavory elements from the country's breeding stock. A true zealot. We tried to force him out of the organization, because his practices were so blatantly immoral. He was doing some experiment that involved the interbreeding of fraternal twins. He'd found these test subjects somewhere in Pennsylvania-second-generation twins, born of an incestuous union between twins. We believed that he either paid or coerced this particular pair to mate. I never found out for sure, but it was rumored that this union resulted in yet another pair of twins-also fraternal, brother and sister, whom he'd adopted. I had a hard time believing it, for even though there is always a certain percentage of a chance that twins will result from a pregnancy, the chances that it would occur in this same family seemed infinitesimal." from the country's breeding stock. A true zealot. We tried to force him out of the organization, because his practices were so blatantly immoral. He was doing some experiment that involved the interbreeding of fraternal twins. He'd found these test subjects somewhere in Pennsylvania-second-generation twins, born of an incestuous union between twins. We believed that he either paid or coerced this particular pair to mate. I never found out for sure, but it was rumored that this union resulted in yet another pair of twins-also fraternal, brother and sister, whom he'd adopted. I had a hard time believing it, for even though there is always a certain percentage of a chance that twins will result from a pregnancy, the chances that it would occur in this same family seemed infinitesimal."

"So you and some of the others questioned him?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

"We went above his head, to our boss, Davenport, and told him we wanted Agarias out. They either wouldn't or couldn't relieve him of his position, but soon after he got a grant, private money, and a lot of it, to build a facility elsewhere, all on his own, and continue his research."

"When was this?" I asked.

Stintson thought for a moment. "About...1918 perhaps, maybe even earlier. I've seen him since then, but he doesn't speak to me. He's been at the ERO on occasion, for instance the gathering in that photo. He still has an office there, and I heard that he also opened a private medical practice, catering to wealthy families here on the North Sh.o.r.e, although I doubt he needs the money. I don't know anything more about his present circ.u.mstances."

"Can you tell us anything more about the research he was doing?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

"His specialty was hematology. That I remember. He had an insane notion that racial difference was found in the blood, which has no scientific basis. It's like something out of the Old Testament. Unfortunately, the people supporting him also cull their science from the Bible.

"One other thing, and this will explain to you why I was so cautious. One of my ERO colleagues insisted on investigating Agarias on his own. He wound up dead. Shot through the back of the head while kneeling on his living room floor. Coincidence? Maybe. Then again, maybe not."

"An execution," said Sch.e.l.l.

"The police report called it a robbery, but according to his daughter, nothing was missing from the house. After that, no one asked about Agarias any further."

"How do I find out more about Agarias without getting shot in the back of the head?" asked Sch.e.l.l.

"I wouldn't confront him," said Stintson. "But you might take a look through his office. He still has one at the ERO."

"Locked up, I imagine," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Are you a con man, or are you a con man?" said Stintson.

We eventually said our good-byes to Stintson after getting a hand-drawn map from him depicting the layout of the ERO, in particular the location of Agarias's office and the security guard's station. His parting remark was a plea not to ever mention that he spoke to us. On the drive home, Sch.e.l.l admitted to me that things had finally broken open in his mind and were beginning to become clear to him. He wasn't quite ready to share his theory, but he predicted that after our trip to the Eugenics Record Office and a look at Agarias's papers, if we should find them, we'd know the full story.

"In a few hours we've gone from abandoning this goose chase to being on the verge of solving the whole thing," I said.

Sch.e.l.l smiled, ruefully it seemed. "Remember you were saying I never made mistakes? Well I was completely wrong about Greaves/Agarias. He seems to be the guy, though, or at least a part of it, I'm sure of that," he said.

"I see the connection between him and what the coroner told us about the death of Charlotte Barnes. Blood and transfusion," I said. "But why was Parks murdered? I don't get that."

"Think about when it happened," said Sch.e.l.l. "Directly following Charlotte Barnes's funeral. I'm betting Agarias, in his guise of Doctor Greaves, showed up at the funeral or the wake or both. Parks probably recognized him, tried to remember where he'd seen him before, and eventually put it together. That's why he had the photograph on his desk. As a friend of Barnes, perhaps he wanted to figure out what kind of scam Agarias was pulling, using an a.s.sumed name. Parks might have remembered that some of the other researchers had wanted to drum Agarias out of the ERO."

"So they killed him and two of his employees?" I asked.

"Agarias is covering his trail. Like Stintson said, the guy's a lunatic. And if what I'm thinking about the rest of it is even close to true, we're going to see that he's crazier than we could ever imagine." When we reached the house, before getting out of the car, Sch.e.l.l put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Listen, I'll fill Antony in, but don't say anything to Morgan or Isabel about what we learned." I nodded.

For the rest of the day, Sch.e.l.l was very quiet. He told me he was planning how we would gain access to Agarias's ERO office the following day, but I could tell there was something else on his mind as well. Isabel and I packed a lunch and took a walk through the trees to sit by the sound. The day was very cold, threatening a first snow, but we huddled together against the wind and watched the choppy water. In the course of our conversation she admitted to me that as soon as things blew over and Sch.e.l.l thought it was safe for her to leave the house, she would find a way to go back to Mexico.

"Come with me," she said.

I'd had a feeling that things would come to this, but I wanted to put off thinking about it as long as possible. If she went away and I didn't go with her, I knew I would never see her again. But if I left Antony and Sch.e.l.l and the promise of college behind, I would be writing off that part of my life. All I said to her was, "When you're ready to go, tell me." She smiled and said nothing more about it, and I wasn't sure if she thought I was promising I'd follow or if she knew I couldn't decide, but I didn't have the courage to contemplate the choice any further.

Back at the house, we found Antony sitting at the kitchen table, cleaning the Mauser. He was bent over the gun, whistling, amid all manner of rods, brushes, and solvents laid out.

"I haven't cleaned this d.a.m.n thing in years," he said, "and it's not in bad shape-a little copper fouling, that's about it."

"Are you getting an itchy trigger finger?" I asked.

"Not me," he said. "This is by order of the boss."

"Is he expecting gunplay?"

"Beats me," said Antony. "I just clean the gun, drive the car, get strangled by the bad guys, and make the dinners around here." He started whistling again and went back to his work. Sch.e.l.l and Morgan only appeared at dinnertime. I didn't inquire what they'd been up to all afternoon. During the meal, Isabel asked Sch.e.l.l when he thought it would be safe for her to leave the house.

"Give it a few more days," said Sch.e.l.l. "Where are you thinking of going?"

"Mexico," she said.

"I'll give you some money," he said.

"I couldn't take your money," she told him.

"Well, it's going to take you a long time to walk there," he said.

"Take his money," said Antony. "I would."

"We could drive you over to Jersey and put you on a bus," Sch.e.l.l said. "Once you get to Mexico, send the dough back to me if you want, or not. I don't care."

"Why not a train?" asked Morgan.

"More people traveling on trains read newspapers than people on the bus," said Sch.e.l.l.

"Don't sweat it, hon," Antony said to Isabel. "It's going to work out." I quickly changed the conversation to the upcoming presidential election, which was only weeks away. With the exception of Antony expressing his hopes for the repeal of Prohibition, the topic soon died from overall disinterest, but it was enough to divert the discussion away from Isabel's departure. Later that night, once Isabel was asleep, I went in search of Sch.e.l.l. I wanted to talk to him about my possibly leaving. Luckily, he'd not gone to bed but was sitting on the couch in the Bugatorium. Morgan, stretched out next to him, had fallen asleep with her head resting on a pillow propped against his thigh. As I entered the room, he looked over at me, and I said, "Sorry," and began to leave, but he waved me back. I walked over and sat down across from him.

Before I could speak, he whispered to me, "I've been meaning to talk to you." I was going to tell him the same, but his expression was one of perplexity, as if he'd made himself weary from too much thought.

"What is it?" I asked.

"I've been thinking about the b.u.t.terflies," he said.

"That's not exactly unusual," I said, smiling.

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I think once this present group dies out in a few weeks, I'll discontinue the Bugatorium."

"Why?"

"Recent developments have left me with a bad taste for the idea of breeding in any capacity. It's never struck me before, but now the whole thing"-here he lifted his hands in the air, the same motion he used to release b.u.t.terflies during the seances-"seems to me wrought with vanity; the most self-serving affectation."

"But the study of b.u.t.terflies excited you," I said.

"I think I conned myself into the excitement."

"I always enjoyed them," I said.

"Did I ever tell you how I got started?"