Lizard Men of Los Angeles | Page 2

himself with brandy while Cairo drank strong tea. Mrs. Lockhart, who had changed into a low-cut black evening dress, had declined refreshment.
"The Great Beast?" Cairo asked, startled. "He's involved in this?"
"I'm afraid he may have corrupted my daughter. And I believe the creatures that have been following me--you saw one of them tonight--may be his minions. So you do know of him?"
"We have had...encounters," Mrs. Lockhart said. "He's here in Los Angeles?"
"He's staying in Pasadena, in the home of a businessman rumored to have Satanic allegiances. From there Crowley is able to make acquaintances in the film industry. Or rather, to speak frankly, to prey upon members of that profession. Spending their money on drugs and liquor, using their homes for unspeakable acts--I hope my candor doesn't offend you, sir."
"No," Cairo said. "I rely on it. And this man Crowley is worse than you imagine. How did your daughter come in contact with him?"
"She's a film actress. She uses a stage name, Veronica Fleming. Perhaps you've heard of her?" The last was said with unmistakable pride. He offered Cairo a framed color photograph from the mantle that showed a beautiful woman with luminous eyes and lustrous dark red hair falling past her shoulders.
"She was a child actress," Cairo said. "Now playing ingenue roles."
Rosenberg nodded. "She first met Crowley through her producer. I believe it's been less than a month. She began to attend parties at the mansion where Crowley's staying. Then, three days ago, she disappeared. I fear that even if she hasn't been physically harmed, her reputation may have been so damaged by her association with this...Great Beast, as you call him, that her ingenue days may be finished."
"You were right to come to us," Cairo said. "Crowley is reputed to be past his prime, but he is still one of the most dangerous men alive. As he becomes more debauched and decadent, in fact, it becomes ever more dangerous to trifle with him." He got to his feet and adjusted the cuffs of his jacket. "If you have an address for him, in fact, we'll be on our way."
"My chauffeur will drive you," Rosenberg said. "Make whatever use of him you require." He looked at his pocket watch. "However, it's nearly midnight. Surely..."
"Crowley will be awake," Cairo assured him. "Hesitation at this point could be fatal."
"Besides," Mrs. Lockhart added, "our vaudeville troupe has an engagement in San Diego in less than 24 hours."
*
The house had been designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, its long, shingled walls blending almost invisibly with the heavily landscaped grounds, its roof beams extending beyond the structure like a draftsman's energetic pencil lines. Every light in the mansion burned brightly and the driveway was filled with cars.
"Such physical beauty," Cairo remarked, "so full of corruption."
"I trust you're not waxing metaphorical," Mrs. Lockhart said. "You know how I feel about that."
They walked up the curving driveway together and Cairo tried the massive teak door. It was securely locked and bolted. Cairo paused momentarily to pick the locks, then led them through a long entry hall into a scene of utter debauchery.
Perhaps two dozen men, women, and children sprawled in various postures throughout the large, oak-paneled room. None of them was Victoria Fleming. Few were fully dressed; some were bound with scarves or leather. They were grouped, for the most part, in twos and threes, with most of the possible combinations of gender represented. A blazing fire kept the room uncomfortably warm. On low tables throughout lay syringes, liquor bottles, and untidy heaps of white powders.
A low divan in the center of the room held a tall, sturdily-built man in his fifties, his head shaved, his thick jowls sagging with mindless pleasure. He was completely naked.
"Crowley!" Cairo shouted.
The bald man's eyes slowly opened and focused upon Cairo. "You!" he cried. His stare exuded malevolence. "How dare you confront me here?"
Mrs. Lockhart turned to Cairo. "If everything is under control here, I'll just have a look at the rest of the house."
Without looking away from Crowley, Cairo nodded. "Excellent suggestion."
"What are you doing here, Cairo?" Crowley bellowed, slowly rising to a sitting position, but making no attempt to cover himself. "You and that bloodless imitation of a woman? What do you want from me?"
"Information, merely," Cairo said. "I'm looking for a woman named Veronica Fleming. She might also call herself Vera Rosenberg. We have reason to believe you might know her."
"Or have knowledge of her?" Crowley smiled. "In the so-called Biblical sense, perhaps? Do not waste my time, Cairo. There are so many women. Sometimes they are masked or blindfolded, and I never even see their faces, let alone learn their names. They are all one to me. Merely vessels for the transmission of magickal power."
"It's not your childish blasphemy that I object to," Cairo observed evenly. "Nor