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CHAPTER 8
The drive out was pleasant. He saw only ten cars moving on thestreets; twowere police. The black-and-whites, red lights flashing but sirensquiet, racedpast him.
Childe went west on Santa Monica Boulevard, turned right atRexford Drive, and began the safari through the ever wealthier and more exclusivehouses and mansions (northward was the hierarchical goal). He went up ColdwaterCanyon andinto the hills, which are labeled on the map as the Santa MonicaMountains. He swung left onto Mariconado Lane, drove for a mile and a half on thenarrow, winding, macadam road, almost solidly walled with great oaks, firs, and highthick bushes and hedges, turned right on Daimon Drive, drove for amile pastseveral high-walled estates, and came finally to Igescu's (if Heepishhad givenhim correct directions).
At the end of the high brick mortared-with-white wall, threehundred yardspast the gateway, the road ended. There were no walls to keep anybodyfrom walking past the end of the drive. Whoever owned the land next to theBaron's felt no need for enforcing privacy. Childe drove to the end of thepavement, andafter some maneuvering, turned the car around. He left it with itsrear againsta bush and facing down the road. After locking the doors, he put anextra key inthe earth under a bush (always prepare for emergencies) and thenwalked to the gateway.
The wall was ten feet high and topped by iron spikes betweenwhich were from four to six strands of barbed wire. The gateway was a single heavyiron grill-work which swung out when electrically actuated. He could seeno keyholes. A tongue of metal must insert into a slot in a metal fitting in theside of the gateway. The grill-work was painted dull black and separated intoeight squaresby thick iron bars. Each square held a sheet of iron formed into theprofile ofa griffin with the wings of a bat. This was a grade-B movie touch, but, ofcourse, only coincidence. The bat wings probably had some heraldicsignificance.
A metal box six feet up on the right post could be a voicetransceiver. Beyond the gate was a narrow tar-topped road which curved anddisappeared intothe thick woods. The only sign of life was a listless black squirrel, (The radiohad reported that all wild land birds had fled the area.)
Childe walked into the woods at the end of the road, He ignoredthe TRESPASSERS WILL BE VIGOROUSLY PROSECUTED sign--he liked theVIGOROUSLY--to walk along the wall. The going was not easy, The bushes and thorns seemeddetermined to hold him back. He shoved against them and wriggled a few time: andthen the wall curved to the right and went up a steel hill. Panting, hescrambled up onall fours to the top. He wondered if he were that much out of shapeor if the smog had cut down his ability to take in enough oxygen.
The wall still barred his way. After resting, he climbed a bigoak. Near the top, he looked around, but he could see only more trees beyond thewall. No branches offered passage over the walls.
He climbed down slowly and carefully. When he was a child, he hadat times thought that he might prefer to be Tarzan instead of Sherlock Holmes. He had grown up to be neither, but he was much closer to Holmes than toTarzan. He wouldn't even make a good Jane. Sweat ran down his face and soakedhis undershirt below the armpits. His pants were torn in two places, asmall scratch on the back of his left hand was bleeding, his hands were sore on thepalms anddirty all over, and his shoes were badly scuffed. The sun, insympatheticaltitude with his spirits, was low. It was just about to touch theridge of thewestern hills he could see through a break. He would have to go backnow and conduct a tour of the wall some other time--if ever. To run and bumble throughthe woods in the dark would be more than exasperating.
He hastened back to the car, tearing a button off his shirt thistime, andgot to it just at dusk. The silence was like that in a deep cave. Nobirds twittered or chirped. Even the buzz and hum of insects were absent. Perhaps thesmog had killed them off. Or, at least, thi
He got into the car behind the wheel, remembered that he had lefta key inthe dirt under a bush, started to get out to retrieve it, thenthought better ofit, and closed the door again. He drummed his fingers, wished he hadnot quitsmoking, and chewed some gum. He almost turned the radio on butdecided that, inthis stillness, its sound would go too far.
The suncast fell away from the sky at last. The darkness aroundhim became thicker, as if it were the sediment of night. The glow thrown by themillion lights of the city and reflected back onto the earth was missingtonight. Therewere no clouds to act as mirrors, and the surrounding hills and treesbarred the horizon-shine. Stars began to thrust through the black. After awhile, thealmost full moon, edged in black, like a card a
Childe waited. He got out after a while and went to the gate andlooked through, but he could not even see a faint nimbus which might haverevealed that, somewhere in that dense blackness, was a large house with manylights and at least two people. He returned to the car, sat for perhaps fifteenminutes longer, and then reached for the ignition key. His hand stopped aninch from the key.
He heard a sound which turned his scalp cold.
He had hunted enough in Montana and the Yukon to recognize thesound. It was the howling of wolves. It rose from somewhere in the trees behind thewalls of Igescu's estate.
CHAPTER 9
He was tired when he returned to his apartment. It was only ten
p.m. but he had been through much. Besides, the poisoned air had burned away hisvitality. The respite of the breeze had not helped much. The air was stilldead, and itseemed to him that it was getting gray again. That must be one of thetricks his imagination was playing him, because there were not enough cars onthe streets to account for another build-up of smog. He called the LAPD and asked for Sergeant Bruin. He did notexpect Bruin tobe there, but he was lucky. Bruin had much to say about his troubleswith traffic that day. Not to mention that his wife had suddenly decidedto get outof town. For Christ's sake! The smog was gone! For a while, anyway. No tellingwhat would happen if this crazy weather continued. He had to get tobed now, because tomorrow looked even worse. Not the traffic. Most of the refugees shouldbe past the state line by now. But they'd be back. That wasn't whatwas worryinghim. The crazy weather and the smog, the sudden departure of thesmog, rather, had resulted in a soaring upward of murders and suicides. He'd talkto Childe tomorrow, if he had time.
"You sound as if you're out on your feet, Bruin," Childe said. "Don't youwant to hear about what I've been doing on the Colben case?"
"You found out anything definite?" Bruin said. "I'm on to something. I got a hunch..." "A hunch! A hunch! For God's sake, Childe, I'm tired! See you!" The phone clicked. Childe cursed, but after a while he had to admit that Bruin's
reaction was justified. He decided to go to bed. He checked his automatic-answerdevice. There was one call. At 9:45, just before he had gotten home. MagdaHolyani hadphoned to inform him that Mr. Igescu had changed his mind and wouldgrant him aninterview. He should call back if he got in before ten. If he didn't, he was not to phone until after three the following afternoon.