There was no answer. I tried again several times, with the same result. No sounds from within either. It seemed likely that these were his living quarters and that the fourth floor, with the possibility of a skylight, held his studio. So I turned away and took the final flight.
I reached the top and saw that one of the four doors there was slightly ajar. I halted and listened for a moment. From beyond it came faint sounds of movement. I advanced and gave it a few knocks. I heard a sudden intake of breath from somewhere inside. I pushed on the door.
He stood about twenty feet away beneath a large skylight and he had turned to face me-a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark beard and eyes. He held a brush in his left hand and a palette in his right. He wore a paint-smeared apron over his Levi’s and had on a plaid sport shirt. The easel at his back held the outlines of what could be a madonna and child. There were a great many other canvases about, all of them facing the walls or covered.
“Hello,” I said. “You are Victor Melman?”
He nodded, neither smiling nor frowning, placed his palette on a nearby table, his brush into a jar of solvent. He picked up a damp-looking cloth then and wiped his hands with it.
“And yourself ?” he asked, tossing the cloth aside and facing me again.
“Merle Corey. You knew Julia Barnes.”
“I don’t deny it,” he said. “Your use of the past tense would seem to indicate-“
“She’s dead all right. I want to talk to you about it.”
“All right,” he said, untying his apron. “Let’s go downstairs then. No place to sit up here.”
He hung the apron upon a nail near the door and stepped outside. I followed him. He turned back and locked the studio before proceeding down the stairs. His movements were smooth, almost graceful. I could hear the rain on the roof.
He used the same key to unlock the dark door on the third floor. He drew the door open and stood aside, gesturing for me to enter. I did, traversing a hallway that led past a kitchen, its counters covered with empty bottles, stacks of dishes, pizza cartons. Bursting bags of trash leaned against cupboards; the floor looked sticky here and there and the place smelled like a spice factory next door to a slaughterhouse.
The living room, which I came to next, .was large, with a comfortable-looking pair of black sofas, facing each other across a battlefield of Oriental carpets and miscellaneous tables, each of which bore several overflowing ashtrays. There was a beautiful concert-sized piano in the far corner, before a wall covered with heavy red drapery. There were numerous low bookcases filled with occult materials, stacks of magazines beside them, atop them, and alongside a few easy chairs. What could be the corner of a pentacle protruded slightly from beneath the largest rug. The stale smells of incense and pot lingered in patches. To my right, there was an archway leading to another room, a closed door to my left. Paintings of a semireligious nature-which I took to be his work-were hung on several of the walls. There was a Chagall-like quality to them. Quite good.
“Have a seat.”
He gestured toward an easy chair and I took it. “Care for a beer?”
“Thank you, no.”
He seated himself on the nearer sofa, clasped his hands, and stared at me.
“What happened?” he asked.
I stared back at him.
“Julia Barnes got interested in occult systems,” I said. “She came to you to learn more about them. She died this morning under very unusual circumstances.”
The left corner of his mouth twitched slightly. He made no other movement.
“Yes, she was interested in such matters,” he said. “She came to me for instruction and I provided it.”
“I want to know why she died.” He continued to stare.
“Her time was up,” he said. “It happens to everybody, in the long run.”
“She was killed by an animal that should not exist here. Do you know anything about it?”
“The universe is a stranger place than most of us can imagine.”