14

Jean-Pierre, in his ample, cluttered workshop, was restoring a gramophone of the 1920s for someone with more money than sense, when a tall black young man came to the glass door and rang. Jean-Pierre sometimes kept this door locked even when he was inside, with the shutters up; the area was a rough one.

Jean-Pierre opened the door to this decidedly tranquil customer.

“We’ve been on the phone,” said the man in English. “I’m Dr. Karl K. Jacobs, patient of Dr. Hildegard Wolf.”

“Come in.”

“You rang me up.”

“Yes, I know. You said you were fed up with Hildegard; something like that. Have you any news of her?” Jean-Pierre moved a pile of old magazines and catalogs off a chair, and pushed it with a foot towards Dr. Jacobs. “Sit down.” He himself sat opposite on a rickety work stool.

“I had enough,” said Jacobs. “She was always talking about herself, enquiring about the voodoo cults of the Congo, the medicine men. I had enough interrogation. The concierge at the rue du Dragon told me where your shop is.”

“Enough, but you’ve come for more?” said Jean-Pierre.

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Where she is,” said Karl Jacobs. “I was recommended to consult her but all she has done is consult me. Then—off.”

“That’s her way.”

“She not only consults, she insults. She wants to needle me, reminding me always of my background as she thinks it is. I come from the center of Africa but I haven’t just walked out of the jungle. What about the voodoos, the witch doctors? she wanted to know. How should I know about the medicine men, all those frauds? I am a qualified M.D.”

“Where do you work?” said Jean-Pierre.

“I’m at a private nursing home north of Versailles, I live near the Marais. I get in and out by autobus, sometimes I use the Metro and change. What have I got to do with jungle magic and blood rites?”

“Blood rites?”

“Yes, blood is important in these activities. Why does she worry me?”

“That’s something between you and her,” said Jean-Pierre. “I can offer you a cup of instant coffee or a glass of wine.”

“Wine.”

“I know,” said Jean-Pierre as he poured two glasses of red wine, “that Hildegard is interested in superstitions.”

“Yes, but why should she be interested at my expense? I paid her for those sessions. I have my own problems.”

“Psychiatrists have their methods, you know,” said Jean-Pierre.

“But I paid her for her advice.”

“Women are expensive,” said Jean-Pierre. “Look—I’m trying to trace her whereabouts, I don’t deny. Do you have any clue where she might be?”

“London.”

“Why do you say London?”

“It’s where I’d go if I wanted to hide.”

“How do you know she wants to hide?”

Karl Jacobs was neatly dressed in a dark business suit, a blue shirt with a white collar, and a gray striped tie with dark-blue dots. He sat with his long legs stretched forth. An effortlessly athletic man. Jean-Pierre repeated his question, “Why should she hide?”

“Her interest in voodoo, in blood cults and fraudulent mystifications, was very genuine. I think it was probably personal. She could be connected with someone like that.”

“Do you know anything, Dr. Jacobs, about these practices?”

“Call me Karl. My name is Karl Kanzia Jacobs. My father was a judge, he’s dead. My mother is alive. She is a very important citizen of Kanzia.”

“And Kanzia is where?”

“It’s an independent entity of central Africa, slightly north of the Equator.”

“But certainly they wouldn’t have any witchery and magic there, I imagine,” ventured Jean-Pierre.

“Oh, indirectly, I know something. My grandfather Delihu is still a paramount head man. My uncle was a voodoo chap, he died. He was definitely what you would call in your terms a witch doctor. He performed great good, especially with rites and totems and herbs and of course the terror of beliefs. Beliefs are essential. I can confirm as a medical man that these witch men can cure, but there is also a lot of mumbo-jumbo, like you say. It’s a question of cutting a fine line, Jean-Pierre, and Dr. Wolf was interested in that aspect, the question of responsibility on the part of the self-styled healer. Myself, I feel it is a treachery to scientific practices to agree with her. And yet . . . She said, if a cure is effected does it matter whether or not there was an actual miracle to cause it? Why should the healer be prosecuted, or at least blamed, if in fact he heals? She put that very question to me. I told her no. I told her there should be no blame, but all this was at the expense of my pocket. I paid for those sessions.”

“Perhaps I can reimburse you on her behalf?”

“Certainly not.”

“But surely,” said Jean-Pierre, “it is always worthwhile conversing with Hildegard? If it isn’t, what are you doing here?”

“She is very fascinating,” said Karl Jacobs, gloomily.

Jean-Pierre asked if they might keep in touch, and assured Karl that once Hildegard returned, as surely she would, he would see to it that she would give him the full sessions he was due. “If you have any other brainwaves or intuitions about where she has gone,” said Jean-Pierre, “call me at once. I intend to have her back. She’s my girlfriend and my life companion for more than five years and I can’t live without her. London might well be the place. I’ll work on that.”

When Karl had gone, Jean-Pierre took out of his pocket a sheet of paper on which he had made notes of all the replies to his enquiries of Hildegard’s patients. He scribbled the word “promising” beside the name of Dr. Karl K. Jacobs. Then he studied the list again. Only one name, of course, was equally promising: that of Mrs. William Hane-Busby.

Madrid—the Paradiso—He had already called there without success.

Seelach Gasthof—There were so many guest houses which could fit that description. However, none of them had yielded Hildegard. Then London. “London is where I’d hide,” Jacobs had said with a quite definite tone. “London at Queen’s Gate . . .” Mrs. Hane-Busby had mused.

Jean-Pierre decided to hunt up in the directories all the hotels and boarding houses at Queen’s Gate, London. It was only five-thirty in the afternoon, but he shut up shop.