The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Welcome to Empire City, the city that never sleeps. It’s afraid to.

Okay, maybe that’s a little strong. But in this city, you never know what you’ll wake up to. It’s been that way since at least ’34, when Omniman showed up. It didn’t take long for other super-types to start coming out of the woodwork, some of them heroes like him but way too many more of them crooks. And that’s not even counting the mad scientists, robots, aliens, et cetera, et cetera.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Mac Shawn, private dick. Private investigator, if you want to get fancy, but I don’t usually move in fancy circles. And I don’t usually handle stuff like what I just mentioned. That’s a little out of my league. Getting into it is a good way for a regular human being to get killed. Or worse.

Anyway, like I was saying, I don’t usually deal with the super types. But sometimes you don’t know what you’re dealing with until too late. Then you’ve just got to keep moving and hope you make it through.

It’s a hot summer morning in August of ’47 when this dame walks in. She’s pretty, red-headed with her hair in curls, built, on the right side of thirty and wearing an outfit that didn’t come from any department store that’d let a guy like me inside, complete with shades with what looked like tiny diamonds in the frames. Everything about her spells money.

Now dames like her don’t come to gumshoes like me. Not unless they’re desperate, and maybe want a guy who’s desperate enough for customers that he’ll take on a case he really shouldn’t. Desperate enough, and stupid enough.

Yeah. Desperate and stupid, that was me. But hey, how was I to know what I was getting into, when as it turned out the client—of course I took the case, or I wouldn’t be telling this story—didn’t know? And I needed the money: two months behind on the rent for a rathole office with a bathroom down the hall, three on a one-room apartment, same deal with the bathroom, eating takeout twice a day because I couldn’t afford three meals.

So anyway. I offer the dame a chair, and she sits, and for a minute or so that’s all she does, just sits there, fiddling nervously with her handbag. Finally I clear my throat and ask politely, “How can I help you, miss?”

She doesn’t answer right away, and I’m getting kind of impatient by the time she gets around to it: “Mr. Shawn, I’m here about my father.”

“Go on,” I encourage her. She’s finally talking, I think. Let’s keep it going.

“My name is Beryl Comstock,” she says. Light begins to dawn; the Comstocks are one of the founding families of Empire City, going back to before the War of Independence when it was called—I think; it’s been a long time since grade school history class—Millerstown. Today they’re one of the richest families in the country, and Bartholomew Comstock IV runs their business empire from right here in Empire. Or he used to, anyway; he had a heart attack in ’45 and doesn’t come in to his downtown office much anymore. I don’t know who’s really in charge and I don’t really care. Later it’ll turn out I should have. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

So anyway, introductions out of the way, we get down to business. I reach for the tape recorder to my right. “Do you mind if I tape this?” She shakes her head and I press the “on” button.

“You know my father’s been ill,” Miss Comstock explains. “He mostly doesn’t leave the house, and he—I should say Mr. Kendall, Arthur Kendall, Father’s executive vice president, has been doing most of the day-to-day work of managing his companies. Mr. Kendall’s a family friend; he met Father when they were in school together.”

Well, that’s one question answered. Or so I think then. I nod politely.

“Anyway, when Father got sick, he went through several sets of nurses, first at the hospital and then at home.” She drew a breath. “Then, about three months ago, a new pair came in.

“I didn’t like them. They seemed to have been picked for their looks more than anything else. Here, I’ve got pictures of them; they’re copies of the ones from their application.” She hands over a couple of photos. Looking them over, I see what she means. “Oh, they knew what they were doing: they made sure Father took his medicine, ate regularly, went to the doctor when he was supposed to, everything like that. But . . .”

“Yes? But?” Now, I think, we’re getting somewhere.

“But I started to notice them hovering over him,” she goes on. “They didn’t seem to want anybody else to see him any more than they could help. And I started to notice that he was, well, giving them things, or anyway giving them money to buy things, jewelry and new shoes and so on.”

So far she hasn’t said anything that would explain why she came to see me. Who cares if the old goat was paying for a couple of young girls’ clothes? It could be a lot worse, But she continues: “Then last week he left the house for the first time since they came, and of course they went with him. That wasn’t a problem; after all, they were supposed to be taking care of him, and he isn’t well enough to go anywhere on his own. But they went right to the bank and he signed papers putting their names on all his accounts.”

I raise an eyebrow. Things are getting interesting; I’m starting to see why she’d want to hire an investigator.

“Did he hire the nurses himself?” I catch myself. “No, of course not, not if he can’t get out of the house without help. Unless he had a nursing service?”

“No—no, he didn’t,” Ms. Comstock says. “He asked Mr. Kendall to do it.”

Ah, yes, I think. The plot thickens. If this Kendall hired the nurses, maybe Step Two would be for them to transfer control of the money to him.

But that doesn’t make sense. From what Miss Comstock was saying, this Kendall guy was already running the family business. If he wanted to steal from it, why would he need to hire a couple of broads to do it for him? He’d have plenty of other ways to do it. And why have them get their names put on the accounts instead of his? Something isn’t adding up. I need to talk to Mr. Bartholomew Comstock, face to face.

I agree to take the case and name my price: a hundred a day, plus expenses. It’s a little steep for a guy like me, but I figure Miss Comstock can afford it. She doesn’t even blink; she hands over six hundred as a retainer without saying another word and leaves the office. I speak into the recorder, saying I’m going out to see Mr. Comstock. Then push the on/off button on my recorder again to shut it off.

It’s four-thirty by the time I get to Mr. Comstock’s place. Mansion, really: a big white house, three stories, veranda with Greek columns (I have no idea what style), neatly manicured hedges, the works. The gate out front is locked, a fancy electric lock; there’s a buzzer mounted on it, and a speaker. I get out of my car and press the button.

“Who is it?” a man’s voice says. Not Mr. Comstock, I don’t think; it’s a younger-sounding voice.

“Macadam Shawn,” I answer. I hate that name—I’d rather have a regular first name, not one that sounds like it belongs to a butler—but it’s mine. “Mr. Comstock’s daughter sent me. I need to speak to Mr. Comstock.”

Young-voice leaves me cooling my heels. For two or three minutes. Then I hear a buzz, the gates swing open and the guy’s voice says, “Come in.” I get back in the car and drive through, then park in front of this two-car garage. I get up, walk up the steps to the front door and use the brass knocker, knocking three times.

Again I wait. Not so long this time. The door opens; I see a guy in a classy doorman’s outfit, and beyond him a luxurious hallway, with a spiral staircase and doorways leading off right and left. “Come in,” the doorman says. “Mr. Comstock will be with you directly.”

After a minute or so, he is. Two broads in starched white nurses’ uniforms are with him; one is pushing him in a wheelchair, while the other is off to the right and a little behind. Wheelchair girl has light-blonde hair; the other one, following along a little to the right, is a honey blonde. Apart from that, they might as well be twins: long legs, big tits—I can’t help noticing that both girls’ blouses are open enough to show a generous amount of cleavage—and pretty faces with big, innocent-looking blue eyes. The pictures Miss Comstock showed me didn’t do them justice; they look even better up close and in living color. I’m thinking the old boy’s got incentive not to get well in a hurry. I keep the thought to myself.

“Good morning,” Mr. Comstock says. “I understand you’ve asked to see me.”

“Yes, sir,” I come back. “Your daughter asked me to. It seems she’s worried about you.”

Comstock blows out air dismissively. “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m in very capable hands here.”

“Just the same,” I answer, “I think I should speak with you. She’s paying me, after all, and I like to give my customers value for their money. Not doing that is bad for business.”

Comstock frowns, then nods. “All right.” He looks around toward the broad pushing his chair and says, “Wheel me into the parlor, Celia, that’s right.” She does, pushing his chair through the right-hand doorway into a big room filled with antique furniture and lit by a chandelier.

“Now,” the old guy asks, “just what was it you wanted to ask me about? Out with it; I don’t have all day.”

“I’d like to talk to you alone, if you don’t mind.” Since it’s the girls and their influence over him I want to talk about, I don’t want them hovering around. I can talk with them later, away from Comstock, if I have to. That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Comstock isn’t having any. “Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of my nurses. If I didn’t trust them completely, they wouldn’t be here.”

I don’t say that that’s exactly the problem, but I can see that peeling him away from them isn’t going to be easy. Still, I have to try. I open my mouth to insist.

Wheelchair girl—Celia—lets go of the chair and comes around in front of Comstock, looks me in the eye and says, “It’s all right if we stay, Mr. Shawn, isn’t it? We won’t get in your way.”

“You can stay,” I hear myself agreeing. “You won’t get in my way.” What had I been worried about, anyway? I ask myself. They’re just a couple of pretty girls. Very pretty girls. And just like that, I’ve lost the initiative. It doesn’t bother me, though—which ought to bother me.

“Why don’t we sit down and get comfortable?” Celia suggests. I nod. She wheels Comstock to a position facing a big soft couch and motions me to sit on the couch. I sit. It’s comfortable. She sits on it too, closer to me than I’m usually comfortable having a woman sit, at least when there’re other people in the room. Honey blonde, whose name I still don’t know, sits down in a plush chair next to my end of the couch. I look at her, then at Celia, and raise an eyebrow.

Celia takes the hint. “Oh!” she comes out. “How rude of me! This is my sister, Ophelia.” Celia and Ophelia, I think to myself. Oh, brother. “We’re twins,” Celia goes on. “Just not identical.”

I nod. That explains the names anyway. Sort of. But wasn’t I supposed to be doing something? Oh, yeah; asking old Bart Comstock about his, ahem, relationship with these broads.

“Don’t worry about not asking about me before,” dark-blonde—Ophelia, I remind myself—says, derailing my train of thought. “People have a way of forgetting me, next to my sister.” The girls trade a look and smile, like they’re sharing some private joke.

“I don’t see why,” I blurt out. “You’re just as pretty as her.” Did I actually say that out loud? I can’t believe how out of control things are getting. And I’m still not talking to old Bart, who’s just sitting there in his wheelchair, quiet as a turnip. You’d never guess he was the same guy who met me at the door.

“Is he all right?” I ask. “He’s gone awfully quiet.”

“He’s fine,” Celia assured me. “Just a little tired. You don’t need to worry about him.”

And she’s right, I tell myself. Old man Comstock is fine, just a little tired. I don’t need to worry about him.

Looking back, I should have been worried by then about how I didn’t think about what the blonde was saying but just kept following along. But at the time, everything she said seemed to make perfect sense. I didn’t need to think about it.

“Why don’t we have a little drink?” Celia suggests. “All four of us. You’d like a drink now, wouldn’t you, Mr. Shawn?”

“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I’d like a drink. Thanks.” I hadn’t really wanted one, but suddenly a good stiff one seems like a good idea. It doesn’t occur to me that drinking with people I was supposed to be investigating maybe isn’t smart.

“Mr. Comstock, sir,” Ophelia pipes up, “you’d like one too, wouldn’t you?”

The old man suddenly comes to life. “Yes, of course, Ophelia. You know what I favor.”

I see my opening and take it. Or try to, anyway. “Mr. Comstock,” I begin.

Celia interrupts me. “Let’s have our drinks first. There’ll be plenty of time for questions later.” She smiles at me and nods at her sister.

Suddenly I’ve got a drink in my hand, and so does everybody else, including old Bart. Ophelia’s is in her left hand; her elbow’s propped on the couch cushions. Her right hand’s just pulling away from my forehead. What the hell—? I think. A few minutes must have passed, but I don’t remember a thing. I start to say something.

Celia’s been watching me. “You look worried, Mr. Shawn,” she observes. “There’s nothing to worry about here. Let’s just have our drinks now, why don’t we?”

I stop worrying and take a slug of my drink. It goes down smooth. Still watching me, Celia nods and smiles at her sister again. I still remember there’s a gap in my memory, but it doesn’t seem important anymore. I put it out of my mind.

So we finish our drinks. I look toward old man Comstock and start to ask him about who recommended these girls to him. Celia interrupts: “How about another drink, Mr. Shawn?”

“No, thanks,” I respond. She’s stalling, I realize.

“Please?” she wheedles. “Please? One more won’t hurt.” I weaken. “Pleeease?”

I give in. Soon we’ve all got fresh drinks. Those go down fast. Celia talks me into another drink. I notice vaguely that this time the blondes don’t finish theirs, but it doesn’t seem important; by now I’m pleasantly buzzed. Relaxed. I forget about talking to Comstock and take another drink.

Some time later—I’m not exactly sure how long—I’m sitting at the dining room table with the girls and Mr. Comstock. Celia’s persuaded me that after the drinks I’ve had I really shouldn’t leave without eating something. It seems reasonable—but then, everything Celia says seems reasonable, if not right away then after she’s pushed it a little. That ought to bother me, but it doesn’t.

We eat, roast chicken, mashed potatoes and mixed vegetables—plainer than I’d have figured for a rich guy, but maybe his digestion can’t handle anything fancier. And anyway, it’s a nice meal.

The drinks are starting to wear off by the time we finish. I get up and say, “Look, this has been nice and all, but I really need to talk to Mr. Comstock.”

The girls look at each other. “All right, Mr. Shawn,” Celia says. “Let’s all of us go back into the parlor. You can talk to him there.”

But I don’t. I sit down on the couch and instead of sitting where they had before, the girls snuggle up on either side of me. I squirm. Things are getting a little too friendly, and I don’t want to be distracted, which it’s pretty obvious is what they’re trying to do. They’re good at it.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Shawn?” Celia coos. “Don’t you like us?”

I turn toward her and hear myself say, “Of course I like you. Both of you. You’re both really pretty. Really sexy.” I can’t believe I let myself say that.

“Ooh, thank you, Mr. Shawn,” Ophelia coos. “What was your first name again? Mac something? Can I call you Mac?” Flustered, I nod.

“Then I will too,” Celia announces. “How about another drink or two?”

I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. I’m supposed to be—I have to think a second to remember—interviewing old man Comstock. I start to protest.

“Oh, pleeease?” the blondes wheedle in unison. They take hold of my arms and lean in, pressing their breasts against me from both sides. I grin a little, enjoying the free feel, and nod my head. Ophelia reaches up with her free hand and strokes my hair a little.

Another gap in my memory. Next thing I know, just like before, we all have drinks in our hands. I knock mine back and it’s gone. The girls sip theirs more slowly. Old man Comstock doesn’t touch his; he looks like he’s falling asleep.

“You really think we’re sexy?” Celia asks, smiling.

“Yeah,” I agree, grinning. “It’s not every day I meet a couple of dames like you, especially on a case.” Beryl Comstock hadn’t been half bad either, but I’ve still got sense enough not to say that.

The girls both smile at me. Celia purrs, “We have room, Mr. Shawn, if you’d like to stay the night.”

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t, I tell myself. But I can feel myself giving in. It’s the drinks. I should’ve known better. It’s not the drinks, or not just the drinks, but I don’t figure that out till later.

I try to fight my way back to common sense. I wasn’t here for a hot night with two blonde babes, after all. I was supposed to be interviewing Mr. Comstock. Assuming I can; he looks to be dozing off.

“Mr. Comstock,” I come out with, not yelling but louder than normal, hoping to get his attention. It doesn’t work.

Celia looks at me. “He’s falling asleep,” she observes. “It’s past his bedtime. Wait here; I’ll put him to bed and come back, and then we can decide whether you want to sleep over.” Despite myself, I grin. I have the feeling that if I stay, I won’t be getting much sleep. The idea doesn’t seem half bad. Celia wheels old Comstock away and I pass the time chatting with Ophelia. It occurs to me that maybe Comstock going beddy-bye for the night means I’ve spent way too much time here and still haven’t talked with him.

I should go home, I think. This’s been a bust. I briefly picture the blondes’ maracas and grin again. Or busts. There’s no point in kidding myself. I’m going to stay, and the hell with it. Maybe I can finally have that chat with Comstock in the morning.

So after maybe fifteen minutes, Celia comes back. She asks, “So have you decided, Mr. Shayne? About staying over with us, I mean?” The blondes look at each other as though they already know what I’m going to say. Looking back on it, I’m sure they did. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

“Sure, I’ll stay,” I answer, trying not to leer and maybe not a hundred percent succeeding. I forget all about Comstock. Right now, my mind is on other things.

The girls flank me, each taking one of my hands, and lead me out of the room and down the hall. The doorway’s wide enough to let us all pass side by side, and so is the hall. The door at the end isn’t, though. Ophelia opens it and we go through, Celia leading. By now it’s obvious that she’s the boss of the two of them.

The room very obviously belongs to the girls and offers fresh proof, as if I needed any, that they have old man Comstock by the balls. It’s dominated by a big double bed. Left of the bed, there’s a small nightstand, and beyond it, maybe ten feet away, is the far wall, with a big picture window facing out toward a manicured lawn; to the right, a floor lamp with a fancy wreathed base. There’s a big cabinet-style television set across the room from the foot of the bed; it’s one of the newer ones, with a rounded rectangular screen instead of a porthole-style round one. Next to it is another cabinet, the kind that holds both a radio and a record player with drawers underneath to store records. Next to that is an open clothes closet; women’s clothing, including both nurses’ outfits and regular street clothes. A row of pairs of impractical but sexy-looking shoes across the bottom. There are a couple of drawers underneath where I suppose the girls put their, ah, delicates.

The girls let go of me. Ophelia walks over to the record-player cabinet, reaches into one of the drawers and pulls ot a record. I can’t see what it is. The girls wink at each other, and Ophelia opens the cabinet lid and puts on the record. Brassy, thumping music like you’d hear at a strip club fills the room.

And sure enough, the blondes start to peel, slithering across the floor as they bump, grind and shake their gorgeous boobs at me. This is definitely not what I expected when I came out to the house, but at the moment I don’t care. I can’t tear my eyes away, and I don’t want to. I’m sweating and breathing hard and I can feel my pants tenting in front.

Before I know it they’re down to bras, tiny panties, stockings and heels. I’m practically coming in my pants. They glide on over to me and two pairs of knowing hands start undressing me. I help them, moving as though I were their helpless puppet. Which, again looking back, I suppose I was just then.

Later on, I don’t remember what came next; the next thing I’m aware of, we’re all stark naked and the girls are pulling me down onto the bed. I don’t resist. By now, I can’t even think of stopping—I can’t think much at all.

Then we get down to business.

The girls take turns, one of them holding back while the other writhes against me, pulling me into her and arching her back to mash her funbags against my face. I can’t breathe, I can’t see anything but brilliant flashes and spirals of light behind my tightly-shut eyelids or hear anything but cries of pleasure, male and female both. I don’t think; I’m a robot of flesh, and loving it. I come, and come again, and again. . . .

Finally it’s done. I’m too pooped to do anything more, and the girls seem to know it. I don’t even try to open my eyes. I have the foggy thought that after all that they must be tired too. Then everything goes black.

I open my eyes. It’s morning, and for a moment I don’t know where I am, except that it’s not my apartment. Then memory floods back and I sit bolt upright. What was I thinking last night? I ask myself. Unfortunately, the answer seems pretty obvious: I hadn’t been thinking much, at least not with the right head.

The girls are already awake. I’m just pulling on my right shoe when Celia appears with a tray from which the smells of eggs, bacon and coffee waft pleasantly to my nose. She sets the tray down carefully on the bed next to me. “Here,” she says, “Ophelia and I thought you’d probably be hungry this morning after”—she giggles—“last night.”

Yeah, last night. And she’s right: I’m starving. I can use the coffee, too, even though I seem to have lucked out on the hangover front. Maybe I burned it off, I think, grinning. I wolf down the eggs and bacon and toss down the coffee in a couple of gulps while the blonde watches me.

I get up. “That was good,” I say. “Thanks.” I suddenly recall what I’d come out here to do in the first place. “Is Mr. Comstock up yet? I really do need to talk to him.”

“Of course you do,” Celia purrs. “He should be up soon. He needs his breakfast, after all, and of course his morning medicine. Why don’t we go into the sitting room and wait? Ophelia will bring him after he’s up and shaved and everything.”

That seems like a good idea. Naturally. Or maybe supernaturally, I’ll tell myself later—but I’m getting ahead of myself again.

So I go into the living room with Celia and sit down to wait. Eventually Ophelia wheels Comstock in. I ask, “When does he eat? For that matter, when did you?”

Celia laughs. “Mr. Comstock will eat a little later. He has to eat on a special schedule on account of his medicine; we have to give it to him at particular times each day. And we already ate”—she giggles—“just before we brought you your breakfast.”

So I’m going to have to wait again. It’s pretty obvious the girls are still stalling me, but I can’t seem to make myself care. I’m putty in their hands, though I was a lot harder than that last night.

We make small talk for a while. Finally I start getting impatient.

“Listen,” I say, “enough’s enough. It’s been nice visiting with you, especially”—I can’t help grinning—“last night, but I came here to talk to Mr. Comstock.” With an effort, I make myself sound stern. “I need to see him now. Go get him. If he doesn’t like it, I’ll apologize.”

“All right,” Celia sighs. She gets up and disappears. Presently she comes back with the old boy in his wheelchair. He’s still in his pajamas, with a robe over them and slippers on his feet. He looks more than half asleep.

“I’m afraid he won’t be able to talk with you very much,” Celia says. “It looks as though he’s having one of his bad days today. I just thought you should see for yourself.”

I have my suspicions, but how do I know? She could be telling the truth—or she could have doped him to the eyeballs with whatever they’ve been giving him before wheeling him out. I open my mouth to say something and Ophelia lays her hand on my arm and suddenly I forget what I was about to say.

“Maybe you should come back tomorrow,” Celia suggests. “He might be feeling better then.” I know I should put my foot down, but Celia looks pleadingly into my eyes and I just can’t. I manage to look away from her and down at Comstock, and he does look pretty out of things.

Celia pipes up again: “I have an idea,” she says. “Why don’t I call you tomorrow if it looks as though he’s up to being interviewed.” She looks into my eyes again.

I nod and hear myself say, “Sounds like a plan. That way I don’t have to waste a trip if he’s not in shape to talk.” It doesn’t occur to me that this is another stall, one the girls can keep going basically as long as they want.

“Good,” Celia says, smiling. “You should probably get back to your office, then.” Her smile broadens. “In fact, why don’t you show us where you work? Ophelia and I can ride with you in your car and catch a cab back.”

I don’t see anything wrong with her idea. Naturally. Everything she says make sense.

I nod. This way I get to enjoy the company of two great-looking girls a little while longer, and no harm done.

So we drive back to my office. I park my car in the usual spot and ask the girls, “You sure you want to see my office?”

“Please, please,” the two of them chorus. I nod and open the car door for them.

We go into the building and up the stairs to the office. I unlock the door and usher Celia and Ophelia inside. I step in and close the door behind me, wishing I’d cleaned the place up before I went out to old man Comstock’s place.

The girls don’t seem to mind, though. Celia smiles. Ophelia claps her hands and says, “It’s just like in a detective movie!”

Celia laughs. “It sure is, Fee.” I need a moment to realize that’s a nickname for her sister. “Too bad we can’t stay longer. Ophelia?”

“Awww,” Ophelia protests. “Do I have to? He’s cute!” I have no idea what she’s talking about. She brushes my forehead with her right hand.

I blink. I’m standing in the middle of my office, but I don’t remember getting up. The last thing I do remember is pushing the button on my recorder to turn it off.

I look at the wall clock and blink again. What the hell? I think. The clock says just before noon. I’d finished up with Miss Comstock about a quarter after three. I know I haven’t traveled in time; even in this city that doesn’t happen, at least not to guys like me. Something’s wrong.

I go outside and head for the nearest newsstand, where I take a quick look at the paper. It’s tomorrow’s—or what I would have sworn would be tomorrow’s. I’ve lost practically a whole day.

I shake my head. The last time I had a blackout anywhere near as bad as this was V-J Day, when I went out and got hammered like who knows how many other guys, and gals too. But I don’t have a hangover. I’m hungry enough to eat lunch, but no more than that—I must have eaten, but I don’t remember that any more than I do anything else.

I rack my brains. What had I been about to do before . . . well, after my interview with Miss Comstock?

My eye falls on the tape recorder on my desk. Maybe, I think, there’s something there that will clear things up. I sit down and turn the machine on. The message light is on and blinking, meaning something’s been recorded that I haven’t played back yet. I push the “back” button and hear the tape rewinding.

It stops at the beginning of the unplayed message. I push the “play” button and hear the start of my interview with Beryl Comstock. This isn’t what I need; I fast-forward to the end of the recording, then rewind a little. I overshoot to Miss Comstock’s parting words, then play forward, Sure enough, I hear myself, saying I’m going out to Mr. Comstock’s place to have a chat with him.

And that’s that. I have no idea whether I actually went out there or not. If I did, I have no idea what I did when I got there. But at least it’s something.

I’m heading for the door to drive out there again when I get a funny feeling. There’s something not right about the way my memory cuts out conveniently right when I start out to see Comstock and cuts back in only when I’m back in the office after losing most of a day. Something not natural. What if it happens again? What if something, or someone, makes it happen again?

Just about anywhere else, that thought might not have occurred to me. But this is Empire City. There’s more than one character in town who can play games with a guy’s head. I sit back down and think.

I can rule out the heavy hitters, like Ecdysia and Dr. Mind. They go after bigger targets than some old guy with money. But who does that leave? There’s a bunch of B-listers in town.

I think of Comstock’s nurses. I don’t recognize them from anywhere, but that doesn’t prove anything—I can’t even keep track of all the big-timers, let alone the small fry. But there’s one place I might be able to find out about them if they’re what I’m starting to think they are. I get up, put my hat back on and head for the door again, pausing just long enough to pick up the photos of the girls Miss Comstock had left for me and tuck them into a pocket. I’ll be needing them.

The library’s a great place to look up information, but first you have to know where to look. Newspaper archives are out; there’s no way to search them, at least not fast enough to help. I have to go through the stacks and see what I can find. Not for the first time, I wish there were some sort of machine that could do it for me.

At least there’s a section—somebody with a cockeyed sense of humor had numbered it 666—on the supers. I find a promising-looking book and settle down to read.

And there it is, in the Villains section under “mind control.” There are a lot of entries, but I recognize what I’m looking for right off. Two blonde sisters, Persuasia and Amnesia. I take out the photos of Comstock’s nurses and sure enough, there they are.

I think about it. Persuasia’s moniker is obviously taken from “persuasion,” and her picture matches up with Celia’s. According to the book, she can talk a guy—or a dame, although the girls seem to like going after guys better—into just about anything, no matter how stupid it is, or believe just about anything at least for a little while. She can walk into a bank, ask a teller to let her speak to the manager and then get him to give her a “loan” in cash on the spot. She can’t make him forget about it afterwards, but that’s where Amnesia—Ophelia—comes in: all she has to do is touch him and the next thing you know, the two of them are walking out the door with the money and he’s none the wiser. The poor sap doesn’t even remember meeting them. They’re in the wind before anybody has a clue what’s happened. The girls’ only weakness is that they have to be up close and personal with their victims: Persuasia has hook at him to speak directly to him—apparently it won’t work over the phone—while Amnesia has to actually touch him.

Things are starting to make sense. I did go out to Comstock’s place, but once I got there Persuasia hit me with her whammy and talked me into doing God knows what—though looking at the girls’ pictures, a couple of possibilities come to mind and I can’t help grinning. The next morning, they came with me back to the office—more of Persuasia’s well, persuasion, I’m sure—and once we got here Amnesia tagged me out and, probably as soon as they shut the door behind them on their way out, I came out of it with no clue.

How’s a guy supposed to handle that? I can’t go back to Comstock’s; the girls would just have their way with me again, whatever they wanted, and leave me with an even bigger hole in my memory, covering both visits and maybe even Beryl Comstock’s hiring me. I suddenly realize that maybe that’s why her father’s money man Kendall put the girls’ name on Comstock’s account instead of his; Persuasia—Celia—talked him into it with some line of malarkey that seemed perfectly reasonable to him at the time even though he normally wouldn’t have bought a word of it. If Amnesia—Ophelia—worked on him after that, he might not even know he’d done it.

I get up and leave the library. I didn’t have a hangover when I came to in the office, but my head is sure pounding now. Now that I know what’s going on, I know I can’t handle it by myself.

I’m going to need help.