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  "Yes?" I tried to smile pleasantly. "Mr. Trammel?"

  She nibbled on her lip, then lowered her voice. "He knows things . . . things ordinary people don't."

  "He does?" I waited for more, but that was all she cared to say. I didn't like a bit of it, either. It looked as though, if I started talking to people Felicity knew, trying to hunt her down, I'd run into little but Trammelites. That could make this a tougher job than it should have been. If I banged up against a flock of Trammel's peculiar followers, anything might happen; it was even possible that their leader himself might have a stroke. I lit a cigarette, and the hell with Mrs. Gifford, while I thought a while about what this might have to do with Felicity and my search for her.

  In and around L.A., there are more crackpots per square mile than in any other place you can name. We've got literally hundreds of cults—everything from John Believer's World Security Party, with its devilishly clever slogan, "Everybody Is Something," to Zoomites, complete with Head Zoom—and of all the cults, Arthur Trammel's is the biggest, best known, and most profitable. He'd been in operation only about two years, but in that short time his followers had grown from a handful to tentfuls—partly because he'd gathered around him half a dozen sharp characters who helped him run the operation and who, with Trammel, were called the Guardians, but mainly because he was such a smooth-voiced, brainy con man.

  I hated Arthur Trammel. I hated his ugly face, his ugly mind, and practically everything he stood for or against or even near. He was a self-appointed and self-satisfied censor who could dream up more sins to stamp out than you could shake a naughty finger at. You know the type, one of those joyless sonsofbitches who'll make you do what they think is good for you if it kills you. I'd known enough about the guy to hate him even before I'd met him, but meeting him was the clincher.

  A few months back he'd come to my office and tried to hire me. He wanted me to find a library; the Guardians' entire collection of pornography had been stolen. Trammel told me the library was maintained only as, in his own words, "a standard with which current filth in bookstores and on newsstands" could be compared. Which explained, he said, why they wanted it back; their standard was gone. Also, he told me solemnly, there was a danger that the books might fall into the wrong hands.

  I laughed till I damn near slid off my chair, then told Trammel I wouldn't look for his library, wouldn't throw him a cork if he were sinking in a sewer, and that I hoped he fell down the stairs when he left my office, which he was about to do, and which he did. I hadn't seen him since. I didn't really want to.

  But I said to Mrs. Gifford, "I might want to talk with Mr. Trammel. Can you think of anything else that might help me?" There was a long ash on my cigarette, so I flipped it into my coat pocket.

  Mrs. Gifford gave me a couple of snapshots of her daughter and made a list for me including names of Felicity's girlfriends, her school address, and her teachers. It was a long list; maybe Felicity's friends were all girls, but she had a lot of them.

  Almost as an afterthought, I told Mrs. Gifford my usual fee for a day's work, and she nearly sprang off the couch. There is no point in describing what followed, but I got the impression this flabby bag had expected to hire me for a nickel a day, or else assumed—logically enough, after twenty years of it—that the government would pay for everything out of taxes. One of the more coherent things she cried was "I got nothing but the alimony," after which we settled my fee. She could pay me "a hundred dollars at the uppermost," and I told her that was dandy, and left. By that time, all I wanted was to get out of there.

  My black Caddy convertible was parked at the curb, gleaming. It purred softly as I drove away. The sky was still blue, the air fresh and clear, and it was another lousy day.

  Chapter Three

  An hour later I was in my office in downtown L.A. and had most of my lines out. I'd checked with Missing Persons, hospitals, bus and train stations, made a lot of phone calls. I'd phoned most of the people whose names Mrs. Gifford had listed for me, and learned quite a bit more about Felicity—but without getting even a hint of what might have happened to her, where she might be, or why she was missing.

  Before that hour was up I had a couple of other guys working on the case for me—which bright idea was probably going to cost me at least the hundred bucks I was supposed to get for this job. It didn't make good sense, not only because that's no way to run a business, but because I hadn't even met Felicity. I was getting worried about the little gal, though.

  Maybe the difference this time was Mrs. Gifford herself; maybe it was seeing that portrait of Felicity when I'd expected someone quite different. But I think mainly it was the way people spoke of her. Everybody I'd talked to on the phone obviously liked her; not one had anything bad to say about her, and most expressed quick concern at the thought that something might have happened to her.

  Some of their remarks had made my mental image of Felicity more vivid, too, and I could almost imagine her rapid walk, her soft, quiet voice in conversation. I knew that she always had a scrubbed-clean look, was even-tempered and quick to smile, bit her nails, sang almost nightly in the Trammelite choir. She was brainy, too, up at the top of her class, according to a teacher I'd talked to. I'd got an overall impression of a sweet, quiet little gal, somewhat shy, keeping pretty much to herself except for her activity in the Trammelite group, which seemed to be her one big interest. I couldn't help wondering what kind of girl she must be that so many people would, without a single exception, speak so well of her.

  There were a few people on Mrs. Gifford's list whom I hadn't called. I wanted to talk to some of Felicity's friends in person, so I locked the office and took off. The next hour or so, unfortunately, taught me more about Trammelites and their leader than about Felicity.

  In the various L.A. cults, I'd seen practically every type of humanity imaginable, and some of them even looked normal, but there was almost always something unhinged somewhere, or they wouldn't have been cultists. Practically none of the groups I'd been up against before was like any other, but they'd all had one thing in common: They were all against sin, and none of them could define it. Naturally, they had their own sect's definition and, naturally, it disagreed with everybody else's. Most of them could beat their wives on Friday, make love to the chickens on Saturday, but be right up front on Sunday, singing "Open the Gates and Let Me In."

  The Trammelites weren't an exception. I had guessed that from the tone of several phone conversations, but it was more obvious out among them. Many were pleasant, some were even enjoyable, but they were still Trammelites, and it showed. Mary Lewis was one of the milder examples.

  She was a tall, slim girl about Felicity's age, with black hair pulled tight behind her head, and thin, unpainted lips. I sat in the living room with her and Mrs. Lewis, who watched me closely. Mary was saying, "I just can't understand it. I wondered why she didn't call me last night. Golly, I hope nothing's wrong."

  "Did she say she'd call you?"

  "Well, no, I just thought we'd be at the meeting together. We both sing in the choral group. When she wasn't there, I wondered why she hadn't called me. I thought she was maybe sick, is all. Golly."

  "You didn't phone her last night?" She shook her head and I said, "Somebody did. Felicity wrote some names on a pad by the phone. Birch and Ivy—an intersection near her home—and the name Dixon. You have any idea what that would mean?"

  Mary shook her head again, eyes worried.

  "She act any different lately? Seem the same as always to you?"

  "Just the same. She wouldn't say anything if she was dying, anyway. She's like that. But I didn't notice . . ." Mary paused momentarily, then went on: "I did see her going to the Healing Room the first of last week. I'd forgotten. She was going home with me after the meeting, but then she said she couldn't. I just happened to see her going in there. Golly."

  "The what room? The Healing Room? What's that?"

  Mary smiled thinly. "I keep forgetting you aren't a Trammelite, Mr. Sc
ott." She sounded sorry for me. "The All-High receives there any of us in need of help or advice. He is always available to any of us, and no problem is too small. He is such a good man, a wise man."

  Her voice had dropped lower, become more hushed as she spoke of the All-High, and she sounded now almost like a missionary reading the Bible to a happily naked heathen. She went on reverently for a few more sentences, and at the first pause I broke in.

  "The All-High, I take it, is Trammel?"

  "Mr. Trammel, of course."

  Of course. I knew already that Trammel held some kind of nightly confessional, but this was the first mention of any Healing Room—and the first time I'd heard him called the All-High. A few others had spoken of the bum as the Master, however. He was in solid with his flock.

  I asked Mary, "What kind of advice or help could Felicity have needed from—from the All-High?"

  "I don't know. She didn't say anything to me."

  I got up, thanked them, and left. Mrs. Lewis said good-by, which was the only thing she'd said to me after hello. She'd kept a very beady eye on me, though, while I talked to her daughter.

  I made a few more fast calls, then rang the bell where one Betha Green lived. Betha was a surprise. It had got so I could anticipate what Trammelites would look like and how they'd be dressed. So far they'd all been so drab in appearance, somber, sad-looking, that you'd think the Master had just kicked the bucket.

  Betha Green, though, looked pretty good. She wore an orange sweater that, for a Trammelite, was a sin, plus a pair of brown slacks, and was barefoot. I guessed she was seventeen or eighteen, and she wasn't a bad-looking gal.

  When I introduced myself and told her I wanted to talk about Felicity, she smiled and said, "How is she? I haven't seen her for a couple of weeks. Ashamed of myself, really." She sat in a wooden chair on the porch and motioned me to another.

  "I was hoping you had seen her," I said. "She left her house sometime last night. Hasn't been back."

  Surprise grew into shock on her face. "Are you serious?" I nodded and Betha said anxiously, "Oh, I hope she isn't hurt."

  "I haven't any idea where she is or what's happened. That's what I'm trying to find out. I hoped you might give me some help."

  "How funny! I wish I could help. I really do."

  The conversation finally came around to Trammelism and I said, "I understand that the All-High has a Healing Room where—"

  She laughed in an odd way. "You mean Trammel?"

  "Yeah." This one was really a surprise. I'd even fallen into the habit of referring to the boss as the All-High myself; when I didn't, or neglected the "Mr." before his name, terrible things happened to Trammelite faces. I said, still being careful, "Everyone calls him either that or the Master, so—"

  "Oh, that's a lot of baloney."

  "Balo— Aren't you a Trammelite, Miss Green?"

  "I used to be, but I stopped going. I got tired of it."

  "Oh?" I thought she might go on, and I tried to get more out of her on that subject, but she had dropped it. I said, "You know Felicity pretty well, don't you?"

  "Uh-huh. We've been friends for years. I haven't seen her so much the last few months, but that's just because I stopped going to meetings."

  "Can you think of any reason at all why she might have run away from home?"

  "Uh-uh. I don't think she'd run away, though," she said quietly. "It just wouldn't be like her, no matter what."

  "How do you mean?"

  "You'd have to know her. That would hurt her mother, and she wouldn't hurt anybody for a million dollars."

  "Funny, though. She must have left her room by herself. No telling what might have happened to her then, but leaving the house must have been her own idea."

  "I just can't believe it."

  "That reminds me." I told her about last night's call and Betha said she hadn't phoned. "She wrote down the name Dixon. Nobody seems—"

  I stopped. We were both sitting in the wooden chairs and Betha had one hand resting on the edge of the seat, fingers curled loosely around it. She was looking toward the street so only part of her profile was visible, but her hand gripped the seat convulsively. Her knuckles turned white.

  She didn't turn her head or speak, so I said, "What does that name mean to you?"

  "Nothing. Should it?" Her voice was controlled, but her hand was still squeezed tight against the wood.

  "Look at me a minute."

  She turned toward me. Her face seemed a little paler, but otherwise she appeared normal, the same as before. I said, "That sort of jarred you, didn't it?"

  She smiled and her hand relaxed. "What do you mean?"

  "When I said Dixon. You got all wound up."

  She laughed. "That's silly. I don't know what you mean."

  That was her story and she stuck to it for the rest of our conversation. Maybe I was wrong; I didn't think so. I got up and said, "Thanks. If you think of anything that might help me—help Felicity, that is—call me, huh? I'm in the book."

  "I will. Honestly, I will."

  Arthur Trammel's stamping grounds, where he stamped out sin, were several miles north of L.A., almost to the town of Raleigh. I headed north. For the first time in my life, I was looking forward to seeing Trammel. I'd now talked to everybody on my list, all the routine was done, and from here on in, my search for Felicity would boil down to tedious legwork, or waiting to see if one of the lines I'd put out paid off—unless Trammel could give me some kind of lead.

  There seemed a pretty good chance that he might be able to. During the morning, I'd been talking almost exclusively to his followers. Careful as I'd been to try sounding neutral when I spoke of him, my contempt must have coated my voice a few times, and I consequently got several very dirty looks. I now knew for sure that Arthur Trammel, to his flock, was hallelujah in three dimensions, about sixteen feet tall, and each inch irresistible. He was the Trammelites' friend, father, confidant, and wailing wall, a kind of cross between the father confessor and amateur psychoanalyst. The consensus had been that if anybody could help me, it would be the All-High. I hoped that was true. Mary Lewis had told me Felicity had gone to Trammel's confessional. And I figured that if Felicity had been in any kind of trouble, been worried or upset, she might have confided in Trammel or asked his help, as so many others had. It didn't seem likely that she'd have gone to her mother.

  I drove onto the Trammelite grounds about noon. Ordinarily Trammel might have been difficult to locate, since he was often making speeches, meeting with committees, drawing up resolutions, and so on. But every Sunday noon he met here at headquarters with the other Guardians and they all spent an hour or so figuring out how to save the world from flaming hell. I parked my Cad in a big lot with three other Cads, a Packard, and a Buick, thinking that if the prospect of looking upon Trammel alone was unpalatable, all seven Guardians at once would be unhealthy.

  Of the group, I'd met only Trammel, but I knew the names and appearances of the others from their frequent pictures and pronunciamentos in the local press. Those pronunciamentos made it clear that all seven felt that the difference between men and women should be a secret. Their current campaign—there was always a current campaign—was plastered over the papers and was directed, as usual, against what they called "filth." To me it was merely further proof that the Guardians wanted a return to those good old days when women covered up everything except their instincts; it was, basically, a frantic protest against "cleavage."

  The Guardians would be meeting in the tent, but since this was my first visit to Trammelism's center, I looked around before getting out of the Cad. This was a pleasant location, surrounded by trees growing on low hills. The tent itself, as big as a Ringling Brothers job, was ahead of me and on my right. Directly behind it was a small cliff, rising only slightly higher than the tent's top, and a big cave was being blasted and dug into its face. Work had been in progress for the last month and a half-dozen men were back there now, around a puffing steam shovel. This operation, the Guar
dians declared, was destined to become Trammelism's "Eternal House." From the cliff's solid rock would be blasted a big room, in which Arthur Trammel would hold forth on special occasions, and which would "last through the ages." I told you they were crazy.

  A fit's throw beyond the cliff and farther left, almost directly opposite my Cad, was a low, black building called the Truth Room. A few yards farther away was a small frame house where Trammel himself lived. I got out of the car and walked on green grass beneath flowing pepper trees to the tent. It was gloomy inside, but at the far end a light was burning, illuminating a wide raised platform or stage on which, at night, Trammel would stand and speak. On stage now was a big rectangular table around which the seven Guardians were grouped. Walking down one of the two aisles between rows of wooden seats, I could hear Trammel's melodious, beautifully modulated voice, a surprisingly lovely voice for so unlovely a bastard.

  When I got closer, I noticed that an outsider was present, since eight people were seated around the table. Trammel was standing, addressing the others—until I walked up on the stage and he saw me.

  He was saying, ". . . as our survey has indicated. Therefore, I am sure we all agree that it is our duty, yes, our— Sheldon Scott!"

  "Good morning, Mr. Trammel. Sorry to burst in, but I need some information."

  "What are you doing here, you—"

  "If you've got a minute, I'd appreciate a little help. It's important." While he glared at me, taking his time about answering, I noticed that he was still nauseating in appearance.

  There was no doubt about it, only one Trammel existed in all the world. It wasn't just his ugliness that set him apart from other men, but his particular ugliness. It was almost as though you were looking not at his face but at what he was thinking. Just under six feet tall, spike-thin, with small round eyes that seemed perpetually widened in surprise under monstrously bushy black brows, and dressed always in black, he looked like an undertaker who had embalmed himself by mistake.